Playful Philosophy and Serious Sophistry: A Reading of Plato’s "Euthydemus" 3110368099, 9783110368093

Table of contents :
Preface
Contents
Introduction
1. Playful Philosophy: The Protreptic Scenes
1.1 The First Protreptic
1.1.1 The Initial List of Goods
1.1.2 The Argument on Good Fortune
1.1.3 Using the Goods
1.1.4 Using the Goods Rightly
1.1.5 Knowledge / Wisdom
1.1.6 Appendix: Conventional Goods as Potential Evils
1.1.7 The Relation between Virtue and Knowledge
1.1.8 Providers of Wisdom
1.1.9 Evaluation of the Argument: The Relation between Wisdom and Happiness
1.1.10 Socrates the “Sophist”: Similarities between the Socratic and Eristic Method
1.1.11 Conclusion: The Aim of the First Protreptic
1.2 The Second Protreptic
1.2.1 Redefining Knowledge: Production and Use
1.2.2 Which Form of Knowledge?
1.2.3 Crito’s Intervention
1.2.4 The Art of Politics
1.2.5 A Note on Socrates’ Method
1.2.6 Conclusion
2. Serious Sophistry: The Eristic Scenes
2.1 The Individual Scenes
2.1.1 The First Eristic Scene
2.1.2 The Second Eristic Scene
2.1.3 The Third Eristic Scene
2.2 The Three Eristic Scenes as a Continuum
2.2.1 Forms and Recollection in the Third Eristic Scene
2.2.2 The Continuum
2.2.3 Two Eristic Assumptions
2.2.4 Back to the Continuum
3. Conflating Philosophy and Sophistry: The Framing Scenes
3.1 Introductory Framing Scene
3.2 Interruption
3.3 Final Framing Scene
3.3.1 Socrates’ Speech of Praise
3.3.2 Crito as a Student
3.3.3 Crito and Socrates
3.3.4 Conclusion: The Contribution of the Final Scene
4. Reversals: Laughter, Play, and Seriousness
4.1 The Primary Theme of Laughter
4.2 The Secondary Theme of Play and Seriousness
4.3 The Return of the Primary Theme of Laughter
4.4 The Theme of Laughter in the Framing Scenes
4.5 Summary and Interpretation
Conclusion: Overall Interpretation
Appendix: The Structure of the Euthydemus
Works Cited
Index of Proper Names
Greek Works Cited
General Index

Citation preview

Georgia Sermamoglou-Soulmaidi Playful Philosophy and Serious Sophistry

Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte

Herausgegeben von Heinz-Günther Nesselrath, Peter Scholz und Otto Zwierlein

Band 115

Georgia Sermamoglou-Soulmaidi

Playful Philosophy and Serious Sophistry A Reading of Plato’s Euthydemus

DE GRUYTER

ISBN 978-3-11-036809-3 e-ISBN 978-3-11-036587-0 ISSN 1862-1112 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2014 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Printing and binding: Strauss GmbH, Mörlenbach ♾ Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

Το Nikolaos S. Tolias

Preface This book is a substantially revised version of my doctoral dissertation, which was submitted to the Department of Classics of the University of Virginia in April 2012. My dissertation supervisor, Jenny Strauss Clay, read through numerous drafts, always raising questions that pushed my arguments a step further. For her incisive reading, as well as for her continuous support throughout my years in Virginia, I am most grateful. I would also like to thank the members of my dissertation committee: Daniel Devereux was a most kind and encouraging reader, whose knowledge of Plato is so profound that I am truly thankful for the opportunity to have worked with him. David Kovacs read my work with meticulous care, and the final part of my fourth chapter is the direct result of a question that he raised after reading my first draft. Finally, Coulter George was a very thorough reader and exceptionally generous with his time. Special thanks must go to Diskin Clay, Spyridon Rangos, and Voula Tsouna for sending me their feedback on parts of my first two chapters, and to Mary Margaret McCabe for kindly sharing with me a draft of a chapter from her forthcoming book on the Euthydemus. I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Christos Tsagalis, who has provided me with invaluable guidance and support since my undergraduate years. He has set a model for what a dedicated scholar and an inspiring teacher ought to be. In my time in Virginia I also benefited from discussions with Stacie Thyrion and Douglass Reed. Courtney Evans spent endless hours thinking through the Euthydemus with me, and dealt with all things practical while I was in Athens; but, most importantly, he has honored me with his friendship. Finally, I wish to thank the editors of the series “Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte” for accepting my manuscript for publication, and especially Heinz-Günther Nesselrath and Otto Zwierlein for sending me their comments, as well as Katharina Legutke and Katja Brockmann at De Gruyter. Georgia Sermamoglou-Soulmaidi Athens, January 2014

Contents Introduction

1

9 Playful Philosophy: The Protreptic Scenes 10 The First Protreptic 11 The Initial List of Goods 14 The Argument on Good Fortune Using the Goods 21 Using the Goods Rightly 23 26 Knowledge / Wisdom Appendix: Conventional Goods as Potential Evils 26 28 The Relation between Virtue and Knowledge 35 Providers of Wisdom Evaluation of the Argument: The Relation between Wisdom and 36 Happiness .. Socrates the “Sophist”: Similarities between the Socratic 44 and Eristic Method .. Conclusion: The Aim of the First Protreptic 47 48 . The Second Protreptic .. Redefining Knowledge: Production and Use 48 .. Which Form of Knowledge? 51 56 .. Crito’s Intervention 57 .. The Art of Politics 64 .. A Note on Socrates’ Method .. Conclusion 65  . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

 . .. .. .. . .. .. .. ..

Serious Sophistry: The Eristic Scenes 67 The Individual Scenes 68 68 The First Eristic Scene The Second Eristic Scene 72 88 The Third Eristic Scene 103 The Three Eristic Scenes as a Continuum Forms and Recollection in the Third Eristic Scene The Continuum 105 Two Eristic Assumptions 110 119 Back to the Continuum

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Contents

 . . . .. .. .. ..

Conflating Philosophy and Sophistry: The Framing Scenes Introductory Framing Scene 125 134 Interruption 136 Final Framing Scene Socrates’ Speech of Praise 136 137 Crito as a Student Crito and Socrates 138 152 Conclusion: The Contribution of the Final Scene

 . . . . .

Reversals: Laughter, Play, and Seriousness 155 156 The Primary Theme of Laughter The Secondary Theme of Play and Seriousness The Return of the Primary Theme of Laughter The Theme of Laughter in the Framing Scenes Summary and Interpretation 185

Conclusion: Overall Interpretation

188

Appendix: The Structure of the Euthydemus Works Cited

192

Index of Proper Names Greek Works Cited General Index

200 201

202

191

163 173 182

125

Introduction The aim of this book is to provide an analysis of Plato’s Euthydemus as a unified piece of literature, taking into account both its dramatic and its philosophical aspects. On the whole, the dialogue is one of the least studied of Plato’s works, and the authors of the few book-length studies often feel the need to account for this lack of interest. Except for the sections of the dialogue in which Socrates presents an argument on the pursuit of eudaimonia, the work seems to have been largely ignored by philosophers because it includes little in terms of positive Platonic doctrine. Classicists, moreover, have ignored it almost completely, though its literary merits are quite substantial. Thus the Euthydemus has become a bit of a stepchild of the Platonic corpus. Contemporary students of philosophy often study Plato’s arguments in their abstraction from the surrounding dialogue within which they are couched, and frequently compare them with similarly abstracted arguments from other dialogues. Classicists, on the other hand, come to Plato primarily to study the drama, dealing with the arguments almost in passing. There are, of course, exceptions, and the number of scholars sensitive to both aspects of the dialogues is increasing. But the old tendency is still prevalent, and it is no coincidence. In fact it seems to be a direct result of the way in which scholars are trained. Philosophers are not trained to analyze literary texts; moreover, they do not study Greek epic or comedy, for example, though both inform Plato’s work too heavily to be bypassed. Classicists, on the other hand, are not trained to undertake the rigorous logical analysis that substantial portions of the Platonic works require; moreover, they tend to read primarily works of indisputably great literary merits like the Symposium or the Phaedrus. So it seems that our academic training, due to its division into separate fields with separate methodologies, gives us insufficient tools to work with Plato – and this is reflected in the scholarship. Academia is divided in a way that can hardly do justice to the founder of the Academy. Since I am part of this academic tradition, my training as a classicist rather than a philosopher will become amply clear. But the Platonic corpus calls for an interdisciplinary approach, and paying too little attention to the arguments is just as problematic as paying too little attention to the drama and the unity of each dialogue. The present discussion of the Euthydemus attempts to do justice to both. Hence it runs the risk of being received with hesitation by classicists, who will find much here that will seem out of place in a purely literary analysis; it runs the further risk of being received with skepticism by philosophers, who will find much that goes against standard views and methods in Platonic interpretation. But it seems to me that the combined efforts of our two fields are nec-

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Introduction

essary for a proper understanding of the Platonic texts. So I look at the Euthydemus as a piece of literature, studying its characters, themes, and language side by side with its philosophical argument. Such a literary consideration not only enhances, but is critical to an understanding of the philosophical import of the work. While this approach can prove useful for the interpretation of any Platonic dialogue, I hold it to be particularly illuminating in the case of the Euthydemus. There is little in this dialogue that constitutes “philosophical doctrine,” as expressed by Socrates, so that an approach focusing solely on its arguments would leave us with much of the text in need of further interpretation. The detailed description of the setting of the dialogue, the long framing scenes between Socrates and Crito, the extensive characterization of the interlocutors and the multiple references to their actions or reactions all point to the need for a literary reading in tandem with a philosophical one. A dramatic approach can offer reasons why the work progresses in the way that it does, shifting between different interlocutors, and interpret actions or comments which, though apparently not directly related to the philosophical argumentation, are included in the work for a reason. A better understanding of the context in which the arguments are situated contributes to our understanding of the arguments themselves; literary and philosophical analysis in fact go hand in hand to offer an interpretation of the work as a whole. The problem of Platonic interpretation arises from the fact that the dialogues are complex, in the sense that they are neither pure philosophy systematically expounded in the form of treatises, nor purely literary works, like 5th-century tragedies or comedies. Their complexity is also due to the fact that they include a lot of ambiguity, gaps in the argumentation, and contradictions that become clear when certain arguments in one dialogue are read side by side with similar ones in another. So the very nature of the dialogues calls for a methodological approach different from the one we use to interpret philosophy after Plato. But scholars have tended to approach Plato with a view to the identification of a systematic doctrine, as in fact became central in scholarly debates of the 19th and 20th century. Schleiermacher claimed that a system existed in Plato, and Zeller sought to identify it.¹ The geneticists, endorsing the stylometric analyses of the Platonic texts, argued for a development in Plato’s thought that was leading towards a system.² But Shorey rejected the idea of a rigid system, arguing that unity was

 Schleiermacher (1836) 5 – 19; Zeller (1844– 52) 562– 569.  See, for example, Hermann (1839).

Introduction

3

to be found in a general, less strictly defined Platonic worldview.³ The esoterists sought to identify a system not in the Platonic writings but in the oral tradition about Plato, as it is preserved for us in Aristotle and other writers. Tigerstedt’s critical survey of the trends in Platonic interpretation pointed out flaws in earlier approaches and suggested that, instead of a dogma, what we find in Plato is an inquiry.⁴ Most recently Bowen has argued that Platonic philosophy is in fact a method intended to make the reader a philosopher by engaging him in thinking about certain philosophical issues.⁵ It is unclear whether he thinks that Plato also held certain firm beliefs, for his purpose is to shift the focus from the author to the text and the reader. Roochnik’s criticism of Irwin in the same volume indicates that he too, like Bowen, is in favor of an approach to Plato which interprets the arguments in light of the context in which they are situated rather than in isolation.⁶ Roochnik, in other words, calls for a return to the approach initiated by Strauss, in which careful attention is paid to the dramatic action of the dialogues.⁷ Strauss’ adoption of the dramatic approach to Plato has found a number of followers in the past couple of decades. Klein (1965), Hyland (1981), Rosen (1983), Burger (1984), Stokes (1986), Desjardins (1988), Arieti (1991)⁸, Halperin (1992), Clay (2000), Capra (2001), Weiss (1998; 2001), Blondell (2002), Penner and Rowe (2005), Rowe (2007)⁹, Bensen Cain (2007), McCabe (2008), Zuckert (2009)¹⁰ and others have voiced concerns about the purely analytical approach to Plato, or have themselves opted for an analysis of the dialogues which takes into account both philosophical and dramatic elements. Capra’s analysis of the Protagoras, for example, focuses more on the drama than the philosophy; Weiss’s interpretation of the Meno strikes, I think, a good balance between the two; Penner and Rowe’s examination of the Lysis deals with the drama but pays closer attention to the arguments. But despite their varying degrees of incorporating both argument and drama into the interpretation of a single dialogue, such works provide examples of the approach I had in mind in setting out to interpret the Euthydemus.

 Shorey (1903).  Tigerstedt (1977).  Bowen (1988).  Roochnik (1988) criticizes Irwin’s approach in Irwin (1977).  See Strauss (1964) 50 – 62.  Arieti in fact takes the drama to be more important than the philosophical arguments in Plato.  Similar views are expressed in Rowe (1993).  Zuckert (2009) 6 – 7.

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Introduction

My specific interest has not been to identify what Plato held to be true,¹¹ or if he put forth a specific doctrine, but to understand what the text of Plato as we have it is saying or implying. In the course of my analysis I have worked on a number of assumptions. First, I have not attempted to establish consistency in the views presented by Socrates across a number of dialogues. Instead I have tried to stay as close to the text as possible, so that if Socrates appears to present a view in the Euthydemus that is inconsistent with views he clearly endorses in other dialogues – and even if those other dialogues are commonly thought to belong together with the Euthydemus in the same group – I have nevertheless accepted the inconsistency and tried to account for it in its context, rather than explain it away. Consequently, I have been careful in the use of other dialogues employed to illuminate the Euthydemus. If they provide parallels to reinforce views already found in the Euthydemus, I cite them as appropriate. If, however, there are passages in other dialogues that contradict views expressed in the Euthydemus, I do not attempt to provide a reading that makes the views consistent. I take it, instead, that each dialogue must be read and understood in its own right before it is compared with others.¹² Consistency need not be assumed in principle or forced on the texts. Moreover, I have been careful with the application of the so-called “principle of charity.” If Socrates appears to commit a fallacy, I have assumed that he does not need to be shown to be doing otherwise. Dramatic or even philosophical purposes may be served through the employment of such fallacies.¹³ The view that the character Socrates will not have employed fallacious arguments is an assumption on the part of the interpreter which runs the risk of misreading the text. With these views as my starting points, I have attempted to offer a reading of the Euthydemus as a whole and in its own right. It is of course impossible to study the Platonic dialogues in complete isolation, for it is equally impossible to deny the connections between them. But it is beyond the scope of this work

 I in fact agree with Strauss (1964) 50 – 51 that this is hardly possible, given the dialogic form of the Platonic works and the use of irony; cf. Strauss (2001) 5.  Cf. Blondell (2002) 6 on the “hermeneutic primacy of the individual work,” which is however also examined subsequently in its larger context.  Cf. Frede (1992), who argues that the arguments put forth in the Platonic dialogues need not be endorsed by their author [cf. Blondell (2002) 18 – 21], and that the very use of the dialogue form is in fact intended to undermine the direct attribution of specific views to Plato [cf. Blondell (2002) 39]; for an interesting discussion of the use of dialogue by other philosophers see Beversluis (2000) 21– 26.

Introduction

5

to examine in full certain philosophical issues that come up in this dialogue by studying those other dialogues in which they resurface. Other Platonic works are cited and discussed only when this is thought crucial for an understanding of the Euthydemus. *** The dialogue is structured as follows: there is an opening and a closing scene, which I call the framing scenes; in these Socrates engages in conversation with his friend Crito. Embedded in this framing dialogue is a series of five scenes, which I call the internal dialogue; in this section Socrates reports the conversation he held the day before in the Lyceum with the young Cleinias, his lover Ctesippus, and two brothers, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, who claimed to teach virtue. The five scenes of the internal dialogue show the following structure: A B A B A. The “A-scenes” are those in which the sophists take the lead and address different interlocutors at different times. The “B-scenes” are those in which Socrates takes over and discusses with Cleinias. The second “B-scene” includes an intervention by Crito, through which the framing dialogue returns to interrupt the embedded one. The “A-scenes” I call “eristic” because the sophists practice the art of eristic within them. The “B-scenes” I call “protreptic” because, taken together, they constitute a protreptic, or exhortation, to wisdom and virtue. My analysis of the Euthydemus does not follow the order of the scenes as they appear in the text. Instead, it groups together the scenes that thematically belong together. This has the advantage of facilitating the discussion of connections between the scenes that might otherwise go unnoticed. First, the protreptic scenes inevitably form a continuum: they present the internal audience and the reader with a single argument, and the second protreptic scene explicitly claims to pick up from where the first one left off. Next, the eristic scenes might initially appear disconnected, but I argue for underlying connections between them in the relevant chapter; I therefore study them together to facilitate the grasping of these connections. Finally, the framing scenes too, when taken together, show how the relation between Socrates and Crito evolves in the course of the dialogue. Chapter 1 discusses the two protreptic scenes of the Euthydemus. In the first scene Socrates sets out to determine how an individual may reach happiness. His argument is commonly understood to suggest that eudaimonia is attained through the wise use of assets, i. e. that both wisdom and assets are necessary. I argue instead that Socrates maintains that wisdom alone is sufficient for happiness. This view has been proposed before, but it has been defended in a different way. Socrates adds that wisdom is attained through philosophy, and so he implies that philosophy alone can lead to happiness. In the course of the argu-

6

Introduction

ment, an interesting view of the relation between wisdom and the virtues is proposed, which has been largely ignored in the scholarship. I argue that, contrary to what is commonly assumed, the first protreptic does not understand virtue as identical to knowledge or wisdom. In the second protreptic scene Socrates attempts to identify the sort of wisdom or knowledge that leads to happiness. Based on the first protreptic, this must also be the object of philosophy. This form of knowledge is understood as an art combining production and use; but the concept of production is complex: it initially involves the production of the materials intended for use, but subsequently refers to the production of a secondary product, after the materials necessary for it have been used. The secondary product is not identified, but the scene ends with hints that it will itself be a form of knowledge capable of making people virtuous. Socrates appears side-tracked in this second protreptic: while initially seeking the specific form of knowledge that leads to happiness, he ends in aporia because he fails to determine not that specific form of knowledge, but its product. I argue that the scene in fact implies that philosophy is the provider of that sort of knowledge (or wisdom) which transforms value-neutral properties of the soul into actual virtues, and politics undertakes to transmit that same virtue-related knowledge to others. In the course of the examination of the arguments I pay careful attention to the language Socrates employs, showing how his occasional expression of hesitation, the use of narrative pauses, and other dramatic aspects of the dialogue are in fact significant for the way the argument itself is to be interpreted. But my discussion of the structure of the scenes or of character depiction is more limited, because the protreptic scenes themselves are not as rich in dramatic action as the eristic ones. Part of the argument of this chapter is that Socrates’ use of fallacy brings him and his method alarmingly close to that of the sophists. This is not something to be downplayed but to be acknowledged, since it alerts the reader to both the similarities and the differences between the two parties. Flawed arguments put in the mouth of Socrates point to certain similarities between him and the sophists, which are responsible for the conflation between them in certain people’s minds. With varying degrees of explicitness, both parties essentially propose to educate the young by imparting virtue. And while the Socratic method aims at a much higher purpose than mere verbal combat, there are still points of contact between Socrates and the sophists. Put a different way, Socratic philosophy can combine playfulness with seriousness. Chapter 2 turns to the eristic scenes. First, I study each scene in its own right; I analyze their individual structures, and the way in which the structural pattern develops from one scene to the next. I show that the first eristic scene

Introduction

7

uses doubling as a structuring principle, which is retained in the second but abandoned in the third in favor of greater structural complexity. At the same time, I illustrate the techniques employed by the sophists, such as the use of questions in the form of binary oppositions, the latching on to the words of an interlocutor, and the addition or removal of a qualifier. Further, I combine an analysis of the sophistic arguments and their problems with the interpretation of the characterization provided by the narrator of the sophists and their interlocutors. At the end of the chapter I turn from the discussion of each individual scene to a reading of the three scenes as a continuum. I argue that, despite the fact that the sophistic arguments verge toward the ridiculous, they can be read with a view to the philosophical matters that underlie them, such as knowledge or being, and then the three scenes appear to tell a continuous story. Moreover, I show that the so-called “fallacy of the excluded middle” lies at the heart of the eristic strategy in the Euthydemus – but is also a common Socratic strategy in the early dialogues. Hence, I argue, the attentive reader is invited to take note of yet another similarity between Socrates and the sophists. Seen in this light, not only does philosophy appear playful, but eristic too, in a sense, appears to be quite serious: for, unbeknownst to the sophists themselves, their discourse raises issues examined rather seriously in other Platonic dialogues. Chapter 3 is a discussion of the framing scenes of the dialogue and also of the part of the second protreptic scene in which the situation of the framing dialogue appears afresh. My main focus here is on the relationship between Socrates and Crito. I argue that each man appears disingenuous to and withholds information from the other. A puzzle is set up for the reader, who is called upon to interpret the ambiguity of their relationship. I propose that Socrates is ironic to Crito in an attempt to engage him actively in the effort to distinguish between eristic and philosophy; moreover, the fact that Crito, a close friend and longtime associate of Socrates, fails to grasp the distinction illustrates the danger that practitioners of philosophy run of being grossly misunderstood. The parallels between the Euthydemus and Aristophanes’ Clouds underscore the danger involved in persistent misconceptions about the true nature of philosophy. In the later part of the chapter I argue that Crito’s unnamed man, generally agreed to be Isocrates, is not out of place in this dialogue, because his introduction provides an example of a man who committed the very mistake that the Euthydemus seeks to correct: he used the term “philosophy” to refer to two practices – his own art of persuasion and the art of eristic – that are radically different from what the Platonic works suggest that their author understood under it. At the end of the dialogue the question is left open: what is properly to be identified as philosophy?

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Introduction

Chapter 4 argues that two interconnected motifs run through the Euthydemus, bringing the individual scenes together. These are the motifs of laughter on the one hand, play and seriousness on the other. I first show that references to both take place at structurally significant moments in the dialogue. I then argue that there is a reversal in each motif, in the sense that the laughing or playful group of the early part of the dialogue, the eristics and their followers, is replaced by the opposite group, the Socratics, in the later part. I propose an explanation for this reversal, and then discuss the final occurrence of laughter in the Euthydemus at some length. I conclude by arguing that the motifs highlight and give an implicit response to a central question of the dialogue, which is of great philosophical import: in what way are philosophy and eristic serious or playful, and, in the final analysis, is philosophy, properly defined, worthy of ridicule? The conclusion ties the individual chapters together to suggest an answer to this core question: what is the Euthydemus finally about? It seems like a joke, but it is a rather long one. If Plato simply wished to give his readers a good laugh, he could have done so in a much more succinct way. Laughter itself is not innocent in the Euthydemus, and Plato’s philosophical comedy has rather serious implications. The joke turns out to be no joke at all, but a matter of life and death.

1 Playful Philosophy: The Protreptic Scenes¹⁴ The internal dialogue of the Euthydemus can be divided into five scenes, in which the sophists and Socrates alternate in questioning an interlocutor. The scenes in which the sophists are center-stage, as it were, I call “eristic,” while the ones in which Socrates takes over “protreptic.”¹⁵ So the internal dialogue takes the following form: First Eristic Scene, First Protreptic Scene, Second Eristic Scene, Second Protreptic Scene, Third Eristic Scene. The five-part structure and the alternation between scenes of different sorts clearly recall the structure of a drama – specifically, of tragedy – in which dialogic and choral episodes alternate.¹⁶ But the structure of a tragedy is surprising for a dialogue typically understood as comic; why should a comedy be molded into the formal shape of a tragedy? One of the main aims of this book is to show that the tension between the serious and the comic is at the very heart of the Euthydemus – and this accounts also for the structure of the work. But things are not as simple as one might originally think: it is not the case that the protreptic scenes are straightforwardly serious and the eristic comic; in fact I aim to show that the Euthydemus lies in the borderland between tragedy and comedy in the same way that the sophists, but also Socrates, are presented as both serious (or tragic) and playful (or comic) characters.¹⁷

 For the text of the Euthydemus I have used Burnet’s critical edition. All translations are my own.  In so doing I am adopting the terminology employed by Chance (1992) and others. The eristic scenes are identified as such because Socrates attributes “eristic wisdom” to the brothers (272b9 – 10). The protreptic scenes are so called because they are meant to serve as models for the sophists in their attempt to convince Cleinias of the importance of philosophy and virtue (275a5 – 6). Jordan (1986) provides a useful discussion of four ancient protreptics and subsequently addresses the question whether one may speak of a protreptic genre; he notes that, aside from the existence of protreptics not only to philosophy but also to other things, such as music, there is great variety even within the more limited group of philosophic protreptic; it thus seems that there were no established features characteristic of a ‘protreptic genre,’ to which authors of protreptics felt obliged to adhere. For a discussion of the protreptic function not only of the explicit parainesis but also of the elenchus see Gaiser (1959) 28 – 32.  See Palpacelli (2009) 239 – 246; the observation can be traced at least as far back as Gifford (1905) 10. Now if Plato is writing a drama, he may appear inconsistent, given his criticism of the genre in other dialogues. But I agree with Halliwell (1992) 63 – 64 that drama can prove beneficial “provided it portrays what is morally fine.”  There is a similar combination of tragic and comic elements in the Symposium; see Bacon (1959); for a more recent discussion see Wardy (2002) 18 – 36.

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1 Playful Philosophy: The Protreptic Scenes

In this chapter I look at the two protreptic scenes, which together form an exhortation to wisdom and virtue. I provide a close reading of both, followed by an evaluation of the arguments. I argue that Socrates employs a number of fallacies, which contribute to his depiction as a potentially playful character. It is my methodological principle, in other words, that Socrates may use fallacy, which need not be explained away, but examined and interpreted in its dramatic context. Moreover, drama and argument are read together throughout. The two protreptic scenes are much less rich in dramatic action and characterization than the three eristic scenes discussed in the next chapter; unlike those, the protreptics proceed in a sober and quiet manner. But there is still reason to discuss why this particular argument is directed at this particular addressee, or why the second protreptic is interrupted by the intervention of Crito.

1.1 The First Protreptic In the first protreptic Socrates sets out to prove to Cleinias what the sophists failed to prove in the immediately preceding eristic scene: that one ought to engage in philosophy and care for virtue (275a6; cf. 278d2– 3). For this purpose he puts forth the following argument: (a) everyone wishes to prosper (εὖ πράττειν) (b) in order to prosper, one needs good things (ἀγαθά) (c) good fortune (εὐτυχία) is not one of these good things, because wisdom (σοφία, 279d6)¹⁸ suffices to guarantee it (d) the (remaining) good things must be beneficial (e) in order for them to be beneficial, one has to use them (f) in fact, one has to use them rightly

 When the same claim is repeated at 281b3, the term “knowledge” is used instead of “wisdom,” following up on the earlier uses of this term (281a3, 281a5, 281b2) in the examples Socrates employed to illustrate the point that knowledge guarantees correct use of assets. But notice that we return to “wisdom” at 281b6. In fact knowledge is of something specific, whereas wisdom need not be; the second term is often much broader in scope, indeed all-encompassing. The definition of σοφία in the LSJ includes both specific skill, as in a particular craft, and wisdom. It seems that Socrates uses the two terms interchangeably here, as in other dialogues. In the Theaetetus he gives the following brief argument to support the view that wisdom and knowledge are identical: one becomes wiser through wisdom; men are wise about the things they know; so wisdom and knowledge must be the same (145d7– e7). For a brief discussion of this passage and further cases listed in which Socrates equates wisdom to knowledge see Sedley (2004) 19.

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(g) in order to know how to use them rightly, one needs knowledge (ἐπιστήμη) (h) so the things initially identified as good now prove to be not good in themselves, but only when they are guided by knowledge; when guided by ignorance they are evils (i) only knowledge is good in itself; the initial goods are reduced to mere assets (j) since knowledge provides good fortune and the correct use of assets, one should try to become as wise as possible (k) to become wise, one needs philosophy In what follows I draw out the implications of the argument outlined above. I show that there are a number of flaws in it, which have been regularly downplayed or fully ignored in scholarship on the Euthydemus. I then propose a way in which the relation between wisdom and virtue and between wisdom and happiness should be understood in the present dialogue. Finally, I argue that the employment of fallacy in the protreptic serves the purpose of highlighting not only the differences,¹⁹ but also certain similarities between the Socratic and the eristic methods: Socrates too can be playful in a way that is dangerously reminiscent of the “play” of the two brothers.

1.1.1 The Initial List of Goods The argument begins with Socrates and Cleinias agreeing that everyone wants to fare well or be happy (εὖ πράττειν, 278e6).²⁰ To achieve this, people need certain good things (279a2– 3). It thus appears necessary to determine what these good things are. Socrates makes a number of suggestions, and a list of good things is compiled. The things he chooses to propose fall under four general categories. The first involves material goods, such as wealth (279a7). The second includes bodily goods, such as health and beauty (279a8 – b1). The third consists of social

 For an analysis of the differences between the two methods see, for example, Scolnicov (1981), Murray (1994), Benson (2000) 85 – 90. Further, for a discussion of the differences in purpose, but also certain similarities in method between the two see Zeppi (1969) lxiii-lxxi; but Zeppi (pp. lxxi-lxxix) views the fact that the protreptics of the Euthydemus end in aporia – and are therefore, like the arguments of the sophists, not constructive in any way – as indicative of Plato’s criticism of his teacher. For a list of similarities between the Socratic and the eristic methods see Scolnicov (2013) 71– 74.  On Socrates’ eudaimonism see Vlastos (1991) 203; cf. Irwin (1995) 52– 55. For a different view, see Devereux (2008) 158 n. 26; 161 n. 31.

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goods: noble birth, power, and honors (279b2– 3). The final category is that of the virtues, or moral goods: temperance, justice, and courage (279b5).²¹ Evidence from other Platonic dialogues suggests that the things here identified as good are only conventionally so. In the Gorgias, for example, Callicles advocates that, according to nature, it is more shameful to suffer injustice than to commit it. In this context he adds that philosophy harms people when practiced at an advanced age, and directly accuses Socrates of showing no proper care for what actually matters in life: ᾿Aμελεῖς, ὦ Σώκρατες, ὧν δεῖ σε ἐπιμελεῖσθαι (Gorg. 485e6 – 7). Callicles’ apotreptic echoes Socrates’ protreptic to philosophy in the Euthydemus, where he urges the sophists to convince the young Cleinias “that it is necessary to philosophize and attend to virtue” (ὡς χρὴ φιλοσοφεῖν καὶ ἀρετῆς ἐπιμελεῖσθαι, Euthyd. 275a6). According to Callicles, philosophy puts a man at risk of losing his property and civic rights (Gorg. 486b4– c2). Wealth and civic rights, i. e. what men like Callicles consider most worth pursuing in life, are represented on Socrates’ list under the categories of material and social goods. But these are explicitly rejected by Socrates in the Gorgias: at 513e5 – 514a3 the philosopher argues for the priority of virtue, while money and any form of power are considered of no benefit.²² Similarly at Gorg. 523c5 – 6 Socrates begins a λόγος about the way judgment is passed on the dead in the underworld. In the reign of Cronos, he says, those reaching the realm of the dead were not judged properly, because judgment was passed on them while still alive; hence their beauty, noble birth, and wealth influenced the judges, until Zeus diagnosed the problem and changed the policy (cf. ἠμφιεσμένοι εἰσὶ σώματά τε καλὰ καὶ γένη καὶ πλούτους, “they are clothed in beautiful bodies and families and wealth,” Gorg. 523c5 – 6). In this brief list of things influencing the judges of the underworld we find examples of bodily, social, and material goods, which correspond to the first three categories of good things in the Euthydemus. Yet as we approach the end of the Gorgias, Socrates explicitly rejects these “honors of the many” (526d5 – 6), placing one’s individual goodness above everything else; virtue is all that matters. So the Platonic reader familiar with other dialogues may at least suspect that the initial list of good things of the Euthydemus is used by Socrates only as a working hypothesis likely to be rejected as the dialogue progresses. The protreptic of the Euthydemus is, in a sense, an example of elenchus in the manner of the

 Lesses (2000) notes the conspicuous absence of friendship from the list. His effort to reinstate it, however, relies too heavily on inferences based on other dialogues; but, as a matter of fact, the Euthydemus has nothing at all to say about friendship in its relation to happiness.  Cf. also Apology 30a – b, where Socrates speaks of his repeated attempts to convince his fellow citizens to care not for their bodies or for wealth, but for their souls and virtue.

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early Socratic dialogues: Cleinias supplies answers to Socrates’ questions which initially appear reasonable but are subsequently put under philosophic scrutiny.²³ The original admissions will be shown to be inconsistent with views agreed upon as the argument progresses. The language Socrates uses in the case of the first three categories of good things indicates that these appear to everyone to be obviously good; note πᾶς γὰρ ἂν ἡμῖν εἴποι (“for anyone would tell us” 279a7), and δῆλά ἐστιν ἀγαθὰ ὄντα (“are clearly good” 279b3). But when it comes to the virtues, Socrates becomes much more cautious, asking his interlocutor: πρὸς Διός, ὦ Κλεινία, ἡγῇ σύ, ἐὰν ταῦτα τιθῶμεν ὡς ἀγαθά, ὀρθῶς ἡμᾶς θήσειν, ἢ ἐὰν μή; ἴσως γὰρ ἄν τις ἡμῖν ἀμφισβητήσειεν· σοὶ δὲ πῶς δοκεῖ; (“By Zeus, Cleinias, do you think we will regard them correctly if we regard them as good things, or if we do not? For perhaps one might doubt us. But how does it seem to you?” 279b5 – 8). Socrates tests the waters, seeking to determine Cleinias’ predisposition toward the virtues, while at the same time Plato provides a careful characterization of the young man. Not everyone would immediately grant that the virtues are good; there are, in fact, Socratic interlocutors in other dialogues who, more or less explicitly, reject the value of certain virtues, with Callicles in the Gorgias and Thrasymachus in the Republic being among the most outspoken. Thus Socrates sets out to determine where Cleinias stands. If he is willing to grant that the virtues are good things, then he is likely to be convinced by the protreptic; his predisposition toward virtue will work in the philosopher’s favor. As soon as the young man acknowledges that the virtues are to be regarded as good things, Socrates gets the green light to proceed with his argument. So he asks Cleinias what he thinks about wisdom, in fact expressing the same hesitation as he did for the virtues. But Cleinias grants that wisdom too is a good thing, and at this point the preliminary stage of the argument is concluded. Wisdom is deliberately reserved for the climactic position on the list, since it is that whose importance Socrates will single out in the remainder of the argument. When the list appears completed, Socrates asks Cleinias if there might be some good thing they have forgotten to include. The young man cannot think of anything. But Socrates unexpectedly claims that they have forgotten the greatest of goods (τὸ μέγιστον τῶν ἀγαθῶν, 279c6), emphatically adding that it is something which everyone, even the most common people, regard as such (ὃ πάντες φασί, καὶ οἱ πάνυ φαῦλοι, μέγιστον τῶν ἀγαθῶν εἶναι, 279c7– 8): good

 Cf. Hinrichs (1951).

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fortune.²⁴ We thus revert to Socrates’ earlier approach: he no longer asks Cleinias with hesitation if he thinks the suggestion is valid, as he did in the case of the virtues and wisdom, but instead presents it as a widely held view, as he did in the case of the first three categories of good things. The philosopher will target the common view on good fortune first, before returning to attack equally widely held views about other categories of goods. The pattern is clear: what he originally presents as obvious he will reject, while what he presents as doubtful he will forcefully espouse. An element of the Socratic method is illustrated here: the philosopher does not give out much information at the outset.²⁵ Instead he withholds it, attempting to elicit Cleinias’ own views. Whether he shares them or not remains unclear for the moment. Socrates’ aim is not to disclose what he truly believes, but to determine first, and then examine, what Cleinias, and with him the average Athenian, does.

1.1.2 The Argument on Good Fortune Socrates now begins to dismantle the edifice he set up in the first part of his protreptic by introducing an argument which undermines his last claim about the role of good fortune in the pursuit of happiness²⁶: is εὐτυχία truly necessary for the person wishing to be happy, and should it therefore be included in the list of good things? Socrates will argue that it should not, because wisdom suffices to provide it. The claim is far from obvious, and yet it is presented as such. When we think of a wise man, we do not necessarily also consider him fortunate; but Socrates suggests that everyone should laugh at him and Cleinias for failing to notice the practical equivalence of good fortune and wisdom, and thereby proposing

 Socrates’ comment can be understood as ironic here: it really does not amount to much if, of all people, the meanest, commonest, or most thoughtless (all definitions of φαῦλος in the LSJ) hold good fortune to be the greatest good. When Socrates says that “even such people” recognize its prime importance, as if they were the ones to be taken into account above all else, he undermines his own statement. But there is yet another possibility: while the mean and thoughtless might not agree that the virtues are good, they do agree that good fortune is, and the general agreement over the value of the latter testifies to its goodness.  Cf. Szlezák (1999) 12– 17; for this practice specifically attested in the Euthydemus see Szlezák (2000) 340; for the same practice in a different context see Hawtrey (1981) 122.  The actual term eudaimonia appears for the first time at 280b6 along with eu prattein, with which it is used interchangeably from that point on (cf. 280b7, 280c6, 280d3, etc.). I translate eudaimonia as ‘happiness’ for convenience, but see Mikalson (2010) 7– 8.

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to add to the list of good things something that has already been included in it under a different name.²⁷ Notice Socrates’ method: we first saw him listing things conventionally held to be good without hesitation; when it later came to things like virtue and wisdom, he appeared more cautious. It would only seem natural, then, that he show a fair amount of hesitation now, before making a rather controversial claim about good fortune. Instead, he presents it as so obvious that it should raise the laughter of the sophists, adding that even a child would know it is true, and blaming Cleinias’ young age for his apparent ignorance (279d1– 8). Why has Socrates changed tactics? It was useful for him to show hesitation when examining whether Cleinias possessed the appropriate predisposition to accept a protreptic speech; but once this has been established, it is no longer advisable to express doubt in attempting to construct a protreptic speech. The phase of the argument identified as the working hypothesis has been concluded upon completion of the list of good things, and the remaining argument, starting with the section on good fortune, aims to discredit precisely these originally proposed views. Whereas in the case of the first three categories of good things also presented as obvious Socrates supplied no argument, he now offers one²⁸: (1) In successful flute-playing (περὶ αὐλημάτων εὐπραγίαν, 279e1), the flute-players are the most fortunate. (2) In (successful) writing and reading, the grammarians are the most fortunate. (3) In sea dangers the wise pilots are the most fortunate. (4) A soldier partakes in danger and fortune (τύχη) more willingly (ἥδιον, 279e7) with a wise rather than with an ignorant general. (5) A sick man is willingly (ἡδέως, 280a2) in danger with a wise rather than with an ignorant doctor. (6) So it is more fortunate to act (εὐτυχέστερον … πράττειν, 280a4– 5) under the guidance of a wise rather than an ignorant person. (7) So wisdom always makes people fortunate (εὐτυχεῖν ποιεῖ, 280a6). For wisdom does not lead to mistakes, or it would not be wisdom.

 The original thesis of the argument, at least at the face of it, is that good fortune is identical to wisdom (279d6). But this is later transformed into the thesis that wisdom provides good fortune (280a6; cf. 281b2– 3, where knowledge is said to provide good fortune). On this see Reeve (1989) 137– 138; cf. McPherran (2005) 53 – 54.  Clearly, the earlier views were not backed by argument because they represented the common opinion of the average Athenian. The present view, on the other hand, is followed by argument because it is very much the opposite of that.

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The argument begins with the term εὐπραγία, which is employed to describe success in a proposed activity: in successful flute-playing, we are told, the experts in it are the most fortunate. ²⁹ The way Socrates phrases his first premise inseparably links the knowledge/wisdom of the expert to success and good fortune, though no justification is offered for this connection. The problem lies in the assumption that, thanks to the expertise, good fortune and success will necessarily follow. Further, the use of the term εὐπραγία suggests an obvious connection to εὖ πράττειν, employed at the very beginning of the protreptic, when Socrates had suggested that all men want to prosper (278e3). So a direct link is established between success in a particular task (e. g. flute-playing) and the likelihood of the expert in it to achieve happiness. εὖ πράττειν and the noun derived from it seem to be used in two different senses, but Socrates is not explicit about it. Unless happiness is to be understood only in terms of success,³⁰ this is an instance of Socratic use of verbal ambiguity.³¹

 Tarrant (1995) 15 – 17 argues that in this passage εὐτυχία means “success” rather than “good fortune,” and that, when the term is understood in this way, the argument appears sound; in his words, “There is nothing contentious, unreasonable, or non-serious about Euthydemus 279c280a” (p. 17); cf. Tarrant (2003) 21 for the same view. Yet if the term is taken to mean “success,” a number of difficulties arise: first, what does εὐπραγία mean? Despite the fact that it picks up on the earlier εὖ πράττειν, it cannot simply mean “happiness,” because then the first premise of the argument will run “in achieving happiness with regard to flute-playing the flute-players are the most successful,” but happiness in flute-playing makes little sense. εὐπραγία must mean “success,” and so, following Tarrant, the first premise will run “in successful flute-playing, the flute-players are the most successful.” This seems problematic, because two distinct terms in the Greek (εὐτυχία, εὐπραγία) are equated, and the statement sounds tautologous. Moreover, it is clear that when Socrates introduces εὐτυχία as an obvious – and in fact the greatest – good, he clearly means it in the sense of “good fortune.” So even if it could be shown that the argument is sound when εὐτυχία is understood as “success,” Socrates would still be trading on the ambiguity of the term. Reshotko (2006) 142– 148 does allow that Socrates here uses the term in two different senses, but she favors “success” in her final interpretation of the argument (p. 148): “We are left with the statement that those who are wise are more successful than those who are not” (my emphasis). I argue below that Socrates in fact makes a much stronger claim than this one.  Dimas (2002) argues that Socrates conceives of happiness in terms of success. For his Socrates “what makes us happy is simply doing the right thing and in the right way in all our actions” (p. 21). He admits, however, that the Euthydemus does not make clear whether the psychological aspect of happiness, rather than mere success in one’s endeavors, is included in Socrates’ concept of it (pp. 21– 22). So he suggests that “the proper deployment of one’s practical reason could be thought plausibly to be the source of supreme contentment, subtle perhaps, but sufficient to ease the worry that this view is too offensive to common sense” (p. 22).  Cf. Bensen Cain (2007) 72– 74, who admits the ambiguity, and also cites examples of its employment in other dialogues.

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In premise 2 the term εὐπραγία is understood. Premises 1 and 2 in fact make the same point: in two specific, well-defined tasks, the people bringing the best results because of their expertise are said to be the most fortunate, but no justification is given as to why expertise and good fortune must go together. In reality expertise could justify the success (up to a certain point), but not necessarily the good fortune of the agent. In essence, it is the possession of a craft which is said to guarantee good fortune. But how are we to understand that a person is most fortunate when in possession of a skill? When someone knows something, as a flute-player knows flute-playing, or a grammarian reading and writing, he is certainly likely to bring about good results (εὐπραγία); but this is arbitrarily taken to mean that such experts will also be most fortunate in successful flute-playing, reading, or writing. Is it actually true that an expert in something is in a position always to bring about the best results, regardless of fortune? Consider this example: a man experienced in running is more likely to prove to be the best in a competition with inexperienced runners. But is he in a position completely to eliminate the role of fortune? One can imagine a situation in which, during the competition, a rock falls off a mountain and hits the expert runner on the leg. In this case he will fail to be the most successful among his competitors, despite his knowledge; fortune can still affect the outcome of his endeavors.³² But Socrates makes no mention of such possibilities. While he could have argued that knowledge makes it more likely for its possessor to be successful in his undertakings, he rather pushes for the complete elimination of the role of fortune; the experts are described as εὐτυχέστατοι. The first two premises already take as a given what Socrates in fact ought to prove, that success in something solely depends on expert knowledge and not on fortune. Socrates simply mentions a few particular cases in which he assumes that expertise leads to good fortune and success, presents them as premises, and then draws a general conclusion. The argument is an example of the fallacy known as petitio principii, or “begging the question.”

 Note, however, that the factor influencing the outcome of the race is not related to running itself. As far as running alone is concerned, and with all external factors potentially influencing it aside, wisdom will bring about success. If the runner also had wisdom concerning mountain rocks, he could prevent the accident and turn out to be successful. So in a state of perfect wisdom all possible factors could be taken into account and success guaranteed. Yet to prove that absolute wisdom would ensure absolute good fortune one would need to make the further assumption that knowledge of all factors will be accompanied by the power or ability to control them.

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With premise 3 the argument changes slightly. First, the idea of danger is introduced; sea dangers, battles, and diseases – the objects of premises 3 through 5 – all involve high risk, and therefore fortune is likely to play a greater role in them than in flute-playing, reading or writing. But yet another new element is introduced by this premise: it is no longer simply the expert who is said to be the most fortunate in successfully accomplishing a task within his field, but the wise expert. This could suggest that there are different levels of knowledge among the experts; some sea pilots are better than others, even though all of them are sea pilots. Socrates goes on to contrast two specific cases. In premise 4 the wise expert is juxtaposed to the ignorant one. This juxtaposition recalls the practice of the sophists who in the immediately preceding first eristic scene admitted of only two possible cognitive statuses: full knowledge or complete ignorance. They started out by asking Cleinias whether the wise or the ignorant man learns, not taking into account that people are often in a state between complete ignorance and absolute knowledge. For example they may have some basic knowledge of mathematics and then build on it. The same assumption underlies the question of the second set of arguments in that scene: the sophists ask whether a man learns what he knows or what he does not know. In reality a man may know, for example, some mathematics, but need not be the absolute expert in it; so when he is in the process of learning, he in one sense learns what he already knows, but in another what he does not know, i. e. things with which he was previously unfamiliar, yet pertaining to the same field of knowledge. Socrates appears to argue here in a way that is reminiscent of his eristic opponents.³³ In premises 4 and 5 there is yet another shift in the argument. Socrates no longer talks about the man in possession of knowledge (such as the flute-player, the grammarian, or the sea pilot) but another man entrusting himself to the expert on account of his knowledge. So in premise 4 the soldier entrusts himself to a wise general, and he does this more willingly than if he had entrusted himself to an ignorant one. Similarly, in premise 5, the patient entrusts himself to a wise doctor, and he does this (simply) willingly, which he would not do if he had entrusted himself to an ignorant doctor. It follows from these last two premises that one person may not be able to guarantee his own good fortune, but may have to rely on the guidance of someone else who possesses knowledge. I shall call the former the follower, the latter

 Diotima identifies a similar flaw in Socrates’ reasoning in the Symposium (201e – 202a), pointing out to him that there are indeed intermediate states between beauty and ugliness, or wisdom and ignorance. I return to this point in the following chapter.

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the expert. It may be inferred that the relation between them in the pursuit of happiness, as envisioned by Socrates, is one of interdependence. Yet there is no explicit reference to the good fortune of the follower. Instead, reference is made to the fact that he will be content to submit himself to the expert; notice the terms ἥδιον / ἡδέως employed here for the first time. The implication seems to be that he cannot be the most fortunate, for this state of absolute good fortune is reserved only for the possessor of knowledge. But the follower should at least submit himself more willingly to the guidance of a wise expert, and apparently enjoy more good fortune than he would otherwise. Is this actually true? Consider the case of a sick man who has entrusted himself to a wise doctor. He will be willing to be treated by such a doctor, who is indeed more likely to be successful compared to an ignorant one. But how does the doctor’s knowledge actually relate to good fortune? A great earthquake could take place exactly at the moment that the wise doctor is operating on his patient. It is thus conceivable that the wise doctor might be prevented from successfully treating the patient through a chance event over which he has no control. In other words, the wisdom of the doctor may prove insufficient to eliminate the role of fortune. Wisdom is indeed more likely than ignorance to lead the expert and his follower to success; but fortune can still influence the outcome. Socrates’ conclusion follows [cf. (6) above]: one has better fortune (εὐτυχέστερον … πράττειν, 280a4– 5) under the guidance of a wise rather than an ignorant expert. Through a process of epagoge, the expert in a particular branch of knowledge, as described in the premises, is now replaced by the expert (or wise man) without qualification. An even more general concluding statement follows in (7): Ἡ σοφία ἄρα πανταχοῦ εὐτυχεῖν ποιεῖ τοὺς ἀνθρώπους. οὐ γὰρ δήπου ἁμαρτάνοι γ’ ἄν ποτέ τι σοφία, ἀλλ’ ἀνάγκη ὀρθῶς πράττειν καὶ τυγχάνειν· ἦ γὰρ ἂν οὐκέτι σοφία εἴη (“so in every case wisdom makes people fortunate. For wisdom surely would never err in any respect, but will necessarily act correctly and reach the goal; otherwise it would no longer be wisdom,” 280a6 – 8). Thus far things had been stated in relative terms: wisdom was said to guarantee more fortune than ignorance would. But (7) transforms a relative claim to an absolute one: wisdom does not simply guarantee better fortune (which could amount to “less bad fortune”), but good fortune in general. Perfect wisdom is indeed error-free. But given the human limitations, it is also unattainable. Moreover, even in an ideal situation in which one would have absolute knowledge, one would still lack the ability to control every single factor likely to thwart one’s efforts. Lack of error, then, does not guarantee success except to the extent that the wise agent deals with things within his control,

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while fortune determines those factors which lie precisely beyond it.³⁴ While wisdom can eliminate a fair number of factors likely to prevent one from being successful in his endeavors, a stroke of bad luck can still render him unable to achieve success in every case (πανταχοῦ, 280a6), and the wise man remains liable to the whims of fortune. Yet Socrates clearly wants to deny unpredictability.³⁵ He takes an extreme view on the relation between wisdom and good fortune, seeking to present the pursuit of happiness as lying entirely within control of the individual. Notice that the conflation between the two senses of εὖ πράττειν allows for further confusion: success in an endeavor depends on fortune, while happiness need not. For example a student who fails a test will not be considered successful in this particular task, but he may still be able to preserve the same levels of happiness as he would if he had passed.³⁶ Had the argument been made only in relative terms (“the wise man is more likely to succeed than the ignorant”), it would be sound. But Socrates pushes for the extreme view, both at 280a6, discussed above, and when he restates his conclusion at 281b2– 3: οὐ μόνον ἄρα εὐτυχίαν ἀλλὰ καὶ εὐπραγίαν, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἡ ἐπι-

 Cf. Irwin (1995) 55 – 56. For McPherran (2005), there are things lying beyond control of the individual, but in Socrates’ view these are not determined by pure luck but by divine providence. Although his argument is attractive, he does not account for his assumption that, for Socrates, τύχη and the divine are equated. On p. 50 he cites evidence from the framing dialogue of the Euthydemus to suggest that fortune is introduced already there, before the fortune argument, and is meant to inform our reading of that. But in fact all the passages he mentions speak of the divine and of god-sent things without ever equating them to fortune.  Jones (2010) 76 understands Socrates’ claim in a different way: “wisdom is good fortune in the sense that it provides whatever good fortune is possible given the circumstances.” Jones reaches this conclusion by arguing that εὐτυχία cannot mean good fortune in a sense that includes things beyond control of the individual, for (a) Socrates’ argument on good fortune is placed within a protreptic, which is meant by definition to urge someone to pursue a certain goal, yet nothing beyond one’s control can be actively pursued (pp. 70 – 71); (b) if εὐτυχία means good luck also in the case of things beyond one’s control, then it is a strange claim, with which Socrates and Cleinias would not so readily agree (p. 75). But both of these points fail to pay due attention to the literary aspect of the dialogue. First, the aim of persuasion may still be achieved by means of bad arguments, and Cleinias is still urged to pursue wisdom when he is shown that it will guarantee good fortune, even when the latter claim is not true. Second, the fact that Socrates and Cleinias readily agree that wisdom guarantees good fortune is no proof that the claim must be true; it may well be a literary device meant to suggest something about Socrates’ method and Cleinias’ low resistance to intellectual manipulation.  Interestingly, if we understand εὖ πράττειν in the sense of happiness rather than success, Socrates’ point matches the conclusions of modern psychology: according to Haidt (2006) ch. 7, people are able to adapt to unfavorable circumstances even after severe strokes of bad luck, always returning to their average levels of happiness. So the influence of fortune on overall happiness is thought to be minimal, if not practically eliminated.

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στήμη παρέχει τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἐν πάσῃ κτήσει τε καὶ πράξει (“so knowledge, it seems, provides people not only with good fortune but also with success in every possession and action”). The philosopher is explicit: when one possesses wisdom, there is no need for good fortune.³⁷ However, Socrates shows awareness of the fact that he is pushing the argument too far. At 280b1– 3 he on the one hand advocates the extreme position that good fortune is completely unnecessary for happiness when wisdom is present, but on the other hints at the fact that the argument he has provided is inadequate to prove his claim:³⁸ συνωμολογησάμεθα τελευτῶντες οὐκ οἶδ’ ὅπως ἐν κεφαλαίῳ οὕτω τοῦτο ἔχειν, σοφίας παρούσης, ᾧ ἂν παρῇ,³⁹ μηδὲν προσδεῖσθαι εὐτυχίας. (“We agreed at the end somehow that on the whole things are this way, that when wisdom is present, to whomever it might be present, there is no need for good fortune”). The implications of this statement are discussed in the penultimate section of my analysis of the first protreptic.

1.1.3 Using the Goods So far it has been established in the eyes of Cleinias that good fortune is not necessary for happiness, because wisdom suffices to provide it. Socrates now returns to the initial argumentative thread and summarizes: happiness requires the possession of good things (280b5 – 6); this is the first time in the protreptic that Socrates uses the term εὐδαιμονεῖν to refer to happiness, employing it side by side with εὖ πράττειν, the phrase consistently used for the same purpose so far. Socrates and Cleinias have already identified the good things necessary for happiness. If the original claim (at 279a2– 3; cf. 280b5 – 6), according to which happiness arose from the mere possession of goods, were to hold, then the way to achieve it would have already been identified. But Socrates now changes his original position, arguing that the good things listed result in happiness only when people draw some benefit from them; and if they must be used in order to

 Brickhouse and Smith (1994) 134 appear not to take this argument into account when they argue that “though virtue is not sufficient for happiness, it does provide its possessor the ability to transform all potential (dependent) goods into actual goods. It cannot by itself ensure happiness, for catastrophes can befall even the virtuous person, so as to prevent him or her from being able to make this transformation” (my emphasis). This interpretation is inconsistent with what I take Socrates to claim in the present argument.  Cf. Erler (1987) 224– 225; Russell (2005) 42.  In defense of an alternative reading of the text here see Hawtrey (1977).

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be beneficial, it is reasonable to ask whether the sorts of good things already listed can actually be used.⁴⁰ Consider the material goods first. Can they be used, and is their use necessary for benefiting from them? A person possessing a car, for example, needs to drive it in order to benefit from it by not having to walk home from work in the middle of a cold, rainy day. If he did not drive it, he would draw no obvious benefit from the mere possession of it. Socrates’ claim about use applies well to material goods. Now consider the bodily goods which follow on Socrates’ list, such as health and beauty. Can and must they be used in order to be beneficial? There is no obvious way in which one can use health, for example, unless we understand it in a loose sense, referring to the healthy body. That can be used to allow one to be functional in everyday life. But the mere possession of a healthy body seems beneficial in itself; even without use, its healthy condition benefits one through, say, the absence of pain following disease. Yet in this context health is apparently viewed differently, as something which must be used if one is to draw any benefit from it. The social goods follow on the list. Can one use his noble birth, power, or honors in pursuing happiness? Again use needs to be understood loosely: one could use his noble birth and power in the city to achieve a personal goal, for example, though this kind of use is quite different from the physical use of a material good. Are social goods beneficial when not used, or is their use necessary? One could argue that the mere possession of power suffices to provide the individual with a sense of self-accomplishment, but even that can be understood as use in a loose sense. Next on the list Socrates has mentioned temperance, justice, and courage. It seems that such virtues indeed become beneficial when the individual acts in accordance with them, and so their use can be understood to consist in virtuous action.⁴¹ Finally wisdom is beneficial when one uses it to direct his actions, while it is unclear how its mere possession could actually benefit the wise per-

 For Brickhouse and Smith (2000) wisdom – which they treat as identical to virtue – not only guarantees the proper use of things, thereby making them good, but also produces good things; this interpretation, which I find unlikely at least in the case of the first protreptic of the Euthydemus, is defended primarily in order to establish consistency with Apology 30a7– b4.  On the role of the goods in increasing activity in the agent see Dimas (2002) 15 – 17; his argument can be used in support of Brickhouse and Smith (1994) 105, who understand Socratic happiness to consist in virtuous activity.

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son. Again, the use is obviously not physical, but consists in the application of knowledge in guiding the activity of the wise agent.⁴² So, all good things listed in the first section of the protreptic can be understood as requiring use in order to prove beneficial. Notice, however, that the examples Socrates employs to illustrate his point involve only material goods (280c1– d7): food, drink, or a craftsman’s necessaries. The same is true of his summary reference to the categories of good things when these examples are concluded, in which he mentions wealth “and all the good things of which we were just now speaking” (280d2). In this way he conveniently avoids discussing in detail non-material goods, which fit less comfortably with the idea of use. Such details are deemed unnecessary because, in introducing the need for use of the goods, Socrates merely wants to make the further point, as will soon become clear, that the conventional goods are not good in themselves. In this way he can discredit them in the same way that he discredited good fortune just above.

1.1.4 Using the Goods Rightly Once Socrates has established the need to use the good things, he qualifies: such things must be used rightly. What “rightly” means does not get sufficiently explained in the present dialogue.⁴³ But let us again examine whether right and wrong use are applicable to all the categories of good things listed in the beginning of the argument. Material goods such as a carpenter’s tools can be used rightly, say, to produce a good, functional table, or wrongly to produce a bad, dysfunctional one. How health and other bodily goods can be used rightly or wrongly is less clear. Presumably right and wrong use are determined by their products, as was the case with material goods. So if the product of the use of a healthy body is good, then the use is right, otherwise wrong. Similarly in the case of social goods the implication must be that they can be used rightly to bring about something good, or wrongly to bring about something bad. In all cases the right use of a thing seems to be determined by its outcome, or product, and the fact

 It seems that the Greek χράομαι itself does not indicate strictly the conscious manipulation of an instrument to perform a particular function, but can also convey the concept of use more loosely in the sense of “having dealings with,” “administering,” “treating” etc. On the non-literal use of the term in the Euthydemus see also Russell (2005) 28 – 29.  Cf. Roochnik (1990 – 91), who finds this premise particularly problematic.

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that this is the criterion for right use employed in the second protreptic supports this interpretation.⁴⁴ If the effort to accommodate Socrates’ claim about the right use of the first three categories of good things can prove successful, the issue becomes more complex when we turn to the virtues. What does it mean to use temperance, justice, or courage rightly? Earlier we assumed that the use of a given virtue consists in action in accordance with it. But how can virtues be used wrongly, i. e. how can virtuous actions be their bad products? If one possesses justice as a character quality, he will act justly, and this seems to be the only possible (and right) use of the virtue in his possession. One explanation might be to assume that, in the context of a protreptic argument, Socrates is expressing not his own view but a commonly held one about the possibility of misusing the virtues. Consider the following example: a criminal may lack justice but still be thought to possess courage, which he may then use to accomplish more successfully his evil projects. In this case courage will be used wrongly, i. e. for the wrong reasons.⁴⁵ Yet we have already seen (and we will see further below) that Socrates presents conventional views about the goods in this argument only to discredit them later. The fact that the possibility of misusing the virtues is never corrected in the course of the argument suggests that a different explanation may be called for. Consider this possibility: the virtues may be regarded as such only when guided by wisdom, otherwise they are properly described not as actual virtues, but as inferior forms of them. Support for such an interpretation comes from the Meno, where Socrates presents an argument about the relation between virtue and knowledge that bears significant similarities to the present one in the Euthydemus. In that dialogue, Socrates and Meno start out by seeking a definition of virtue, but they end in puzzlement; thereupon Meno asks how it is ever possible for one to determine what he is looking for or that he has found it, if he does not know anything about the object of his search; in response Socrates, posing questions to Meno’s slave-boy, demonstrates that even if one does not have full knowledge of something, a process of question and answer helps him recollect and reach the correct conclusion; so even if Socrates and Meno do not know already what virtue consists in, they can start from the working hypothesis that it is a form of knowledge, and therefore teachable.  Cf. 292a7– 12 on the product of an art being useful because it produces something good.  A view of this sort is presented at Protag. 349d, where Protagoras argues that it is possible for a man to lack justice, piety, temperance and knowledge but still be courageous. Socrates goes on to doubt this view, showing that what Protagoras terms courage is in fact mere boldness.

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To explore this hypothesis, the following argument is presented: conventional goods are sometimes beneficial, sometimes harmful, depending on the way in which they are used; similarly, goods of the soul may turn out to be harmful if used without sense (νοῦς). In this context Socrates cites the example of courage: when not guided by sense, it is merely a sort of boldness which proves harmful (Meno 88b3 – c3). So the properties of the soul must be guided by wisdom rather than folly to prove beneficial. The overall significance of this argument of the Meno for the Euthydemus I return to discuss below, once the analysis of the argument of the first protreptic is completed. But for my present purposes it suffices to show how the Meno may provide an explanation for the claim of the Euthydemus that the virtues can be used both rightly and wrongly: in the Meno courage, when it is understood as a sort of boldness, is said to be beneficial or harmful, depending on whether wisdom guides it or not (88b3 – c4). But the virtues are said to be always beneficial (87d8 – e4). Then the implication must be that courage only counts as a virtue if it is boldness led by wisdom, otherwise it does not; boldness is a quality of the soul potentially beneficial or harmful, which may only count as a virtue when guided by wisdom. Note that the Meno does not call courage a virtue, but lists it among other qualities of the soul (88a6 – b1), which are neither beneficial nor harmful in and of themselves (88c6 – 7); similarly the Euthydemus refrains from using the general term “virtue” to describe qualities such as courage (279b4– 7; cf. 281c6 – 7). So then the accounts of the Euthydemus and the Meno are consistent in this respect: in both the so-called virtues are not virtues in the proper sense, i. e. good and beneficial, unless guided by wisdom. When not guided by wisdom, properties of the soul like courage (properly called “boldness” in this case) may indeed be misused. Immediately after making the claim about the right use of one’s good things, Socrates adds that not using them rightly is bad, while not using them at all is indifferent. For example, if a carpenter possesses tools and uses them wrongly, he may cut himself; if he does not use them at all, he will not draw benefit from the use by producing a table, but he will at least not harm himself. So no use indeed proves to be neither good nor bad. Similarly in the cases of bodily and social goods we saw that right use amounted to the production of something good, while wrong use consisted in the production of something bad. In these cases too, therefore, it is reasonable that no use whatsoever will prove to be neither good nor bad. Finally in the case of the virtues rash action as the inferior form of a truly courageous action, for example, is viewed as worse than no action. What the inferior form of virtues other than courage might be is not indicated here.

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1.1.5 Knowledge / Wisdom The right use of good things requires ἐπιστήμη. So, Socrates concludes, knowledge of the proper use of one’s goods is necessary for one’s success or happiness (εὐπραγία, 281b2– 4). Since no good things can be beneficial without knowledge of their proper use (281b5 – 6), wisdom, originally included among the good things, is now – clearly because of its relation to knowledge – set apart from them and regarded as the condition on which the goodness of the remaining “goods” depends in order for them to be beneficial. Socrates discredits the general view that one needs many good things to be happy, and argues instead that none of the things conventionally regarded as good deserves to be called that without the presence of wisdom. The non-material goods did not fit well with the idea of correct use, but the introduction of the very concept of use was necessary to allow Socrates to bring in and emphasize the central role of wisdom in the pursuit of happiness.

1.1.6 Appendix: Conventional Goods as Potential Evils At least one of the two points Socrates set out to prove has been shown to be true: it has been demonstrated that philosophy, or the love of wisdom, is a worthwhile pursuit. Now Socrates poses a new question: is it better for someone to own many things and do many things when lacking intelligence, or to have few things and do few things but have intelligence?⁴⁶ In response to this, Socrates presents the following argument: (a) A man doing fewer things makes fewer mistakes. (b) A man making fewer mistakes is less unsuccessful. (c) A man who is less unsuccessful is less miserable. A man possessing few things and doing few things (i. e. using his few things on few occasions) is indeed likely to make few mistakes; he has few opportunities to err, whereas the possibility of error would be higher if he possessed many things and engaged in many activities. What is left unspoken, however, is that the same person has equally few opportunities to act correctly and be successful. Socrates

 Socrates shifts from “wisdom” to the newly introduced term νοῦς or “intelligence.” This term is used in the context of essentially the same argument in the Meno (see, e. g., 88b5); for a discussion of the connection, see below.

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does not take into account that minimal activity reduces the possibility not only of error and wretchedness, but also of correct action, success, and happiness. In other words, a person can be unsuccessful both when he errs and when he does nothing to succeed. But an unwise man would still be better off with few assets, since many would cause him greater harm. Now a man less unsuccessful is indeed less miserable. But the problem of premise (a) also applies here: is one more unsuccessful when he makes few mistakes, or when he does nothing which would offer him the possibility of succeeding? Socrates’ answer would be that to err is worse than to refrain from any sort of action, since using one’s assets wrongly was earlier (280e5 – 281a1) said to be worse than not using them at all. Upon conclusion of the argument Socrates lists examples of cases in which a person has and does few things: a poor man, a sick one, a man without honors, a coward, an idle one, a slow one, and finally one who does not see or hear well. This list initially follows the order in which good things are mentioned in the beginning of the protreptic: the poor man corresponds to the first category of material goods, since it is wealth which he lacks; similarly the sick man corresponds to the category of bodily goods which had come second; the man without honors corresponds to the social goods; and the coward to the virtues. By this point Socrates has already given an example of each category of things earlier considered good and has rejected them, finding their opposites preferable in the case that wisdom is lacking. He continues with three more examples – the idle, the slow, and the physically impaired – which appear merely to elaborate on the point already made without following a specific order. This new list of conventionally bad things here presented as preferable to conventionally good ones serves to discredit the value of the previously listed goods by presenting even their opposites as better than those. The earlier goods are now viewed merely as conditional goods, therefore not good just by themselves, but only if guided by wisdom, and potentially worse than things commonly regarded as evil.⁴⁷ The fact that wisdom is necessary for happiness had already been sufficiently proved when Socrates showed that it alone was in a position to direct the right use of good things. Then what does this appendix accomplish? Socrates clearly wants to do more in this protreptic than simply prove that wisdom is necessary for happiness; he wants to devalue the things commonly held to be good, just as he rejected good fortune before. This final argument illustrates the danger involved in possessing assets without wisdom, which not only guarantees happi-

 Cf. Ferejohn (1984) 110; Reshotko (2006) 100 – 101 terms them “neither-good-nor-bad” and defends their actually being so.

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ness but also saves from wretchedness. The conventional goods, on the other hand, are not only inferior to wisdom, but in fact harmful without it.

1.1.7 The Relation between Virtue and Knowledge Socrates is now in a position to generalize: all things previously identified as good can no longer be viewed as such in themselves (αὐτά γε καθ’ αὑτά, 281d4– 5). If they are guided by ignorance, they are worse evils than the evils opposite to them: ἐὰν μὲν αὐτῶν ἡγῆται ἀμαθία, μείζω κακὰ εἶναι τῶν ἐναντίων, ὅσῳ δυνατώτερα ὑπηρετεῖν τῷ ἡγουμένῳ κακῷ ὄντι (“if ignorance guides them, they are worse evils than their opposites, to the extent that they are more capable of serving their leader who is bad” 281d6 – 7). So, for example, wealth will be worse than poverty if guided by ignorance, health worse than disease, and so on. The phrase κακῷ ὄντι slips into the argument almost imperceptibly. Who is the leader here, and why is he/it said to be bad? The participle ἡγουμένῳ, with which κακῷ agrees, refers back to the verb of the conditional clause; so the bad leader must be ignorance itself, or the ignorant agent. Dimas argues for ignorance, but ἡγουμένῳ is not in the feminine to match the noun ἀμαθία.⁴⁸ So I am inclined to assume that Socrates here speaks of the agent. He first identifies him as ignorant, and then adds without further ado that he is also evil. On this reading of the text, a man lacking knowledge is bad, and it is better for him not to possess many assets, because they will in fact turn out to be major evils for him. The phrase appears to equate ignorance to evil (or vice), and so wisdom to virtue. Yet the relation of wisdom to virtue is a complicated issue in the Euthydemus. If the ignorant person is viewed as morally bad, there are two possible explanations. It is either assumed that virtue (as a whole) is a form of knowledge, so that when someone lacks it, he must by definition also lack virtue and therefore be bad; or virtue depends on knowledge, so that when someone lacks it, he cannot possess virtue either. In other words, the relation between virtue and knowledge need not be one of identity, but of necessity. One can acquire virtue if and only if one possesses wisdom; or wisdom is a necessary condition for virtue. A number of Platonic dialogues, the so-called “Socratic” ones, suggest that virtue is a form of knowledge.⁴⁹ For this reason scholars quite commonly assume  Cf. Dimas (2002) 17.  For Socrates’ intellectualist approach to the virtues and the related question of the Unity of the Virtues see, for example, Irwin (1995) 38 – 44; Devereux (2008) 140 and 150 n. 14 with further bibliography.

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that this is the case also in the Euthydemus. ⁵⁰ Often no further argument in support of this view is presented except that this is the standard way in which the relation between virtue and knowledge is understood in the early dialogues.⁵¹ Compare Annas: “Strictly speaking, the Euthydemus passage is not about virtue, but about knowledge or wisdom. However, it has never been in doubt that the wisdom being considered here is to be identified with virtue as Socrates understands it. This is made clear in any case by Meno 87c – 89a, where virtue is identified with knowledge.”⁵² I argue instead that, in the present dialogue, the relationship between wisdom and virtue is different, i. e. that wisdom is necessary for but not identical with virtue, and that evidence for this is interspersed throughout the early part of the Euthydemus. ⁵³ First, at 275a6, the purpose of the conversation with the sophists is determined: Cleinias is to be persuaded to philosophize (i. e. to pursue wisdom)

 Wilamowitz (1919) 237, Guthrie (1975) 280, Strauss (1983) 72, Vlastos (1991) 216, Annas (1993), Brickhouse and Smith (1994), Reshotko (2001) 326 – 32, Dimas (2002) 2– 3, and Devereux (2008) 156 all assume or argue for the identity thesis. Schleiermacher (1836) 221 views the identity thesis as equivalent to the one I argue for, since he first suggests that “the search … after wisdom and the diligent endeavour to attain virtue are laid down as identical” but then speaks of “virtue and statesmanship which proceed from wisdom” (my emphasis). Sprague (1962) 12 takes no clear position on the matter, though she appears inclined to adopt the identity thesis. Ferejohn (1984) and Irwin (1995) 60 distinguish between wisdom and virtue. Brickhouse and Smith (2010) 173 still hold the identity view (cf. n. 20, where they point to their discussion of the unity of the virtues).  The assumption that what is true of the early dialogues must be true of the Euthydemus is itself problematic, given that it is by no means clear whether this dialogue too belongs to the early period; Annas (1993) 62 mentions the possibility that it may be written after the Republic, and McCabe (2002a) argues extensively for this dating of the dialogue. Moreover, Brandwood (1990) 252 notes that in the Euthydemus there are stylistic features suggesting proximity to the later works of Plato. Note also that even Penner, who argues for the identity of the virtues on the grounds that they all consist in knowledge of good and evil, explicitly denies that his interpretation applies to the Euthydemus; see Penner (1999) 84 with his n. 11. Ausland (2000) argues against the emphasis on chronology in general; his argument relies heavily on the point that certain themes recurrent in Plato (such as the teachability of virtue), on which scholars rely to establish the relative chronology of the dialogues, are in fact literary topoi found also outside Plato; but this does not seem to me to exclude the possibility that allusions to such themes in a given dialogue might encourage the reader to see connections with other dialogues, where the same issues are treated more extensively; and in certain cases this parallel reading might allow one to conclude also about the chronological priority of one to another.  Annas (1993) 53 – 54, n. 1.  Devereux (2008) 159 argues that already in the Gorgias we find positive evidence that virtue and wisdom are no longer understood as identical; but he adds that the Euthydemus differs from the Gorgias in this respect.

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and to care for virtue. Wisdom and virtue are here juxtaposed and identified as two distinct elements; the task assigned to the sophists is twofold. In the second occurrence of the terms at 278d2– 3 the initial goal of the discussion is repeated; once again wisdom and virtue are presented as distinct from each other, and the sophists are asked to prove that Cleinias ought to show proper care for both. The proof, we are told, ought to follow the example of Socrates, who thereupon begins his protreptic with the same two goals in mind. Next, the virtues are included in the initial list of good things as separate from wisdom. But if the goods on this list are soon to be discredited, why are the virtues included among them? It must be because they too, like the conventional goods, are viewed as conditioned upon wisdom. The list of conventional evils forming part of the final argument of the protreptic supports this position; it too includes references to the virtues through their opposites (cf. 281c6 – 7), and shows that their goodness depends on wisdom.⁵⁴ The protreptic ends with the conclusion that wisdom is the only good in and of itself, that is, the only unconditional good⁵⁵; conventional goods have the potential to be truly good, but become so only when wisdom guides them. While Socrates sets out to discuss virtue and wisdom in his protreptic, he reaches a conclusion regarding wisdom only. Why does virtue completely fall out of the picture? We will see that, despite its dependence on wisdom, virtue has a special role to play in the pursuit of happiness, which is simply reserved for the second protreptic. In the first protreptic it is only hinted at in the phrase κακῷ ὄντι discussed above.

 It need not be significant that in the list of conventional evils only cowardice is mentioned as preferable to courage, whereas the question about temperance receives no response from Cleinias, and justice, earlier included in the list of conventional goods, is now completely omitted. The present list is much more concise than the initial one: there, multiple examples were given to illustrate sufficiently what types of things one would include in each category, whereas here the categories are already established and there is no need for many examples. Moreover, it is not only the category of the virtues which is represented by fewer examples; under the category of social goods on the first list three of them are mentioned, whereas only one appears on the second list. But perhaps it is telling that courage is the one virtue singled out, and not justice or temperance. It is this same virtue which is singled out in the Meno, as I have already discussed. While courage can be described as boldness guided by wisdom, it is harder to identify (and name) an inferior form of justice or temperance, which may or may not be guided by wisdom and therefore prove beneficial or harmful respectively; in other words, it seems difficult to explain how justice or temperance can be guided by folly and therefore be put to wrong use, and the omission of their opposites on the second list perhaps suggests that Plato is aware of the difficulty.  For a distinction between three types of goods see Republic 2. 357b4– d3.

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The main argument of the first protreptic shows the dependence of the conventional goods on wisdom, and the virtues, clearly included among those, must also depend on it. Thus the virtues are not identical to wisdom, i. e. they are not forms of knowledge themselves, but knowledge is the necessary prerequisite for their existence. One final point needs to be made. The question whether virtue is teachable is raised very early in the dialogue, at 274e2 – 3, as a Socratic followup on the claim of the brothers that they teach it. This is clearly an allusion to the discussion of the teachability of virtue in the Protagoras and the Meno.⁵⁶ This complex issue is quickly brushed aside by the sophists (274d7– e7). But the question returns, this time addressed to Cleinias, and in an altered version: at 282c1– 8, upon conclusion of the first protreptic, Socrates asks the young man whether wisdom is teachable. So the central question is no longer whether virtue is teachable, but whether wisdom is, since the latter is the basis on which virtue and all other conventional goods depend. Indeed it seems reasonable that wisdom, consisting in knowledge, should be teachable; this is taken for granted in the Protagoras and the Meno, where showing that virtue consists in knowledge would suffice to prove its teachability (Protag. 361b5 – 7; Meno 87c5 – 6). It will be useful to examine a parallel argument on the relation between virtue and knowledge in the Meno (87c11– 89a4). The inquiry is on the nature of virtue: is it knowledge or something other than knowledge? Socrates and Meno both agree that virtue is a good thing; if it can be shown that there are good things which are separate from knowledge, then virtue need not be a form of knowledge; otherwise, virtue must be a form of knowledge. This is the working hypothesis with which the inquiry begins. Of course the working hypothesis itself is problematic: if something requires knowledge in order to become good, it follows that knowledge will be part of that good thing, but not necessarily the whole of it. So if virtue is good, and  The question is left open at the end of the Protagoras, with Socrates and Protagoras agreeing to address it again in the future (361e5 – 6); but Socrates’ concluding thesis is that virtue is a form of knowledge, and therefore teachable. The assumption that if virtue is a form of knowledge then it must be teachable also launches the inquiry into the relation between virtue and knowledge in the Meno (87c1– 6). For a general introduction to the issue of the teachability of virtue see Devereux (2008) 141– 144, who argues that Socrates must have held that the kind of virtue the sophists claimed to teach, i. e. success in the political arena, was in fact not teachable, while moral virtue probably was; however, indications in the Hippias Minor suggest that Socrates himself had doubts that virtue was a skill, and therefore teachable in the way that skills normally are. The questions raised by the Hippias Minor were initially pointed out by Gomperz (1905) 296.

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nothing good comes without knowledge, then virtue must involve knowledge, but it does not need to be identical with it. With this in mind, let us return to the argument. Men become good through virtue. What is good is beneficial, so, it should follow, good men are beneficial. Assuming that what makes one beneficial is itself beneficial, Socrates has Meno agree that virtue is beneficial. Now this admission opens the way for the two men to explore beneficial things. Socrates gives a short list, in which he includes health, strength, beauty, and wealth; compare the material and bodily goods of the Euthydemus list. But, he adds, these beneficial things can occasionally prove harmful. They prove beneficial when guided by right use, but harmful when guided by wrong use. The same applies to the properties of the soul (τὰ κατὰ τὴν ψυχήν, 88a6), of which six are mentioned. Among them three of the cardinal virtues are listed: temperance, justice, and courage, in this order (88a7); in Euthyd. 279b5 the exact same virtues are mentioned in the exact same order. Socrates picks courage as an example to illustrate his point. He says, when courage is not φρόνησις (hence identifying courage with a form of knowledge, 88b3 – 4), it is some sort of boldness. Now boldness without νοῦς (88b5) is harmful, whereas with νοῦς it is beneficial. Notice that the word νοῦς occurs also in the Euthydemus (281b7, 281b8), in fact marking a shift in the terms used in that dialogue to denote what was earlier, and will also be later, identified as knowledge or wisdom.⁵⁷ This shift is surprising, as it appears only within that section of the Euthydemus argument in which the same point is made as in the Meno, namely that which turns from the discussion of correct use of “goods” to their potential for evil, or being harmful. It is also precisely in this context that the word φρόνησις appears for the first time, coupled with σοφία, in the Euthydemus, it being the word of preference throughout in the parallel argument of the Meno. In fact the two occurrences of the term φρόνησις in the Euthydemus (281a6, 281d8) mark off, as it were, the same section as that in which νοῦς was used, placed at the beginning and end of that part of the protreptic argument which I earlier called the “appendix.” The verbal echoing underlines the intimate connection between the two dialogues; Plato does not simply construct a similar argument in two different dialogues, but also alerts the reader to their simi-

 Wisdom: 279c1, 279d6, 280a6, 280a7, 280b2 // 281b6, 281d8, 281e4, 282b3, 282c1, 282c8; knowledge: 281a3, 281a5, 281a6 – 7, 281b2 // 282a4. I use // to distinguish between the occurrences of each term before and after the section in which νοῦς appears (twice). It must be clear that the first protreptic is consistent in its use of the terms σοφία and ἐπιστήμη, so that the change to νοῦς is certainly noteworthy.

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larities. It must be the Euthydemus that looks back to the Meno and not the other way around, because it is the terminology of the former that changes to match the dialogue which must have come before it.⁵⁸ The Meno argument proceeds as follows: (1) courage is one of the properties of the soul; (2) courage is beneficial, when guided by wisdom, or harmful, when guided by ignorance; (3) virtue is one of the properties of the soul; (4) virtue is beneficial. It would follow that, because of (3) and (4), virtue must be guided by wisdom. ⁵⁹ Instead, Socrates concludes that virtue must be φρόνησις. As in the working hypothesis, so too in this final section of the argument the conclusion does not follow from the premises. What the premises do suggest is that φρόνησις is necessary for virtue, but whether it is also sufficient for or indeed identical to virtue is by no means proved. Socrates seems to be aware of this difficulty for, at the end of his argument, he adds almost as a passing reference, not even hinted at as a possibility before, that virtue consists in φρόνησις either in whole or in part. Throughout, the argument was building up toward the full identification of virtue with knowledge, but right at its end the conclusion is twisted, leaving the question open whether some non-intellectual element is in-

 There are further reasons to suppose that the Euthydemus is later than the Meno: as discussed in my next chapter on the eristic scenes, there are many references to the theory of recollection in the Euthydemus, which would make no sense if the theory had not been introduced before – and that theory is introduced in the Meno for the first time. Moreover, the Euthydemus does not clarify how a virtue might be used in the wrong way; if the Meno had already been written, it would make sense for Plato not to repeat what had already been explained in the earlier dialogue. This second point is of course weaker than the first one, because Plato could be explaining an earlier ambiguity in a later dialogue, i. e. the ambiguity of the Euthydemus in the Meno. But when the former argument (about recollection) is taken into account, the latter explanation also appears more plausible. Soreth (1955) argues for the chronological priority of the Euthydemus over the Meno on the grounds that the latter introduces a distinction between wisdom and correct opinion which is not attested in the former; if the Euthydemus were later than the Meno, Soreth explains, it would not suggest that wisdom alone guarantees correct use of assets, for correct opinion could do the same, according to the Meno. Yet drawing the distinction between wisdom and correct opinion afresh in the Euthydemus may have seemed beyond the scope of this dialogue.  Cf. Meno 88c6 – d1: ἐπειδήπερ πάντα τὰ κατὰ τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτὰ μὲν καθ’ αὑτὰ οὔτε ὠφέλιμα οὔτε βλαβερά ἐστιν, προσγενομένης δὲ φρονήσεως ἢ ἀφροσύνης βλαβερά τε καὶ ὠφέλιμα γίγνεται. It is clear in this passage that φρόνησις is understood as being added (προσγενομένης) to the properties of the soul to make them beneficial. So this premise clearly implies that φρόνησις is an additional element turning the potential virtue into an actual one – or, at most, a part of that virtue, but certainly not the whole of it.

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deed part of virtue. ⁶⁰ Recall that we noted the employment of the same technique – of Socrates’ undermining his own argument – at the end of the good fortune argument of the Euthydemus. The first protreptic of the Euthydemus essentially repeats and expands the Meno argument.⁶¹ It does not draw an explicit conclusion on the relation between virtue and knowledge, yet it allows for such a conclusion to be inferred. The concept of use of the virtues, as of the other goods, is essentially the understanding of virtue of the Republic, in which it does not consist solely in knowl Scott (2006) 146 – 149 notes the problem of identifying virtue with knowledge on the basis of this argument, though he resists the conclusion that Socrates vacillates between two ways of understanding the relation between virtue and knowledge: “once we withdraw the assumption that virtue must be sufficient for producing benefit, we can set the whole argument in a much better light. This is not to return to the interpretation that sees knowledge as a mere part of virtue. It is the whole of virtue. What that interpretation saw as the other parts, e. g. daring and endurance, are not causes of benefit but conditions. Hence they cannot count as parts of virtue itself ” (p. 149). Yet he too admits that the account of virtue in the Meno is rather close to the concept of virtue in the Republic (p. 150). Cf. also p. 152: “It is striking that Plato should consider it worth having Socrates develop a line of thought that was later to be espoused in the Republic. Perhaps he was already tempted to move in that direction while writing the Meno.”  McCabe (2002b) 366 – 386 discusses the two arguments at length. She suggests that in the Meno Socrates takes a consequentialist view of wisdom, which he reassesses in the Euthydemus. In other words in the Meno the value of wisdom is derived from its good results, and Socrates appears to be a consequentialist because he attributes value to wisdom on the basis of its consequences; in the Euthydemus, by contrast, wisdom is presented as valuable in itself, not because of its consequences. This conclusion McCabe draws from the section which I have called the “appendix”; she grants that the remaining of the argument points to the same view of wisdom that we find in the Meno, but she argues that, through the “appendix,” the Euthydemus poses a question about which things are truly good, and so “attacks the consequentialist view that our ends can easily be specified. As a result it shifts our attention to the deeper – metaphysical – question: ‘what is the source of value?’” (p. 379). But even if the source of value becomes the focus here, that value is still determined by the end results. And even if there is a difficulty in specifying the ends in the Euthydemus, wisdom still derives its value and desirability from its good consequences. For McCabe the Meno distinguishes between extrinsic value (e. g. health has extrinsic value because something else is presupposed for its value) and instrumental value (e. g. wisdom has instrumental value because it depends on its good products for its value), whereas the Euthydemus distinguishes between extrinsic value (e. g. health has extrinsic value because it requires wisdom) and intrinsic (e. g. wisdom has intrinsic value because it does not require anything else). But does this difference deny consequentialism in the Euthydemus? The focus in each dialogue might be different: in the Meno the value of wisdom depends on its results, in the Euthydemus on its independence from anything else that makes it good before it can produce good results. But in the Euthydemus too the results of wisdom give it its value: as we will see, it is necessary and sufficient for happiness.

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edge, but also involves non-cognitive elements. The acquisition of virtue is a lifelong process, requiring habituation through education, which is meant to help the individual adhere to the orders of the rational part of the soul against the opposing forces of the appetites.

1.1.8 Providers of Wisdom Sandwiched between the conclusion that wisdom ought to be sought and the question of its teachability, we find Socrates’ list of potential candidates from whom the young Cleinias should expect assistance in his pursuit of wisdom. First comes his father, whose mention is clearly important also for Crito, himself a father, who, at the end of the dialogue, will express his interest in the education of his son. So the protreptic works on two levels: as an encouragement both of the young to seek wisdom and of the old to care for providing it. The fact that wisdom is here prioritized over money (282a7– 8) is echoed by Crito’s speech at the end of the dialogue, where he lists the things he has already provided for his children: good birth and wealth, but, as of yet, not education (306d6 – e3). The items on Crito’s list recall the conventional goods of the first protreptic, showing that even he, Socrates’ long-term associate, only remembers the importance of education every time he happens to be around Socrates (ἐγὼ μὲν οὖν ὅταν σοὶ συγγένωμαι, οὕτω διατίθεμαι…, 306d6 – 7), but otherwise, for the most part, neglects it. The first protreptic aims to show that the majority of the Athenians, like Crito, have their priorities wrong. But Cleinias is also to seek wisdom from guardians, friends, and especially lovers. This again points to Ctesippus, who will soon take over the argument (in the second eristic scene), proposing to defend himself against Dionysodorus’ accusations and emphasizing precisely his love for Cleinias. Yet his involvement in the discussion is not only a defense but, primarily, a demonstration of his own intellectual abilities, and therefore of his suitability as a lover. This is an instance of the familiar concept of homoerotic love between an older and a younger man as an educational process, played out regularly in the Platonic corpus.⁶² Consider, for example, the Alcibiades, in which Socrates comes back after a certain lapse of time to associate with Alcibiades exactly when the latter has reached

 Note, however, that Ctesippus cannot be much older than Cleinias; Socrates describes him too as νεανίσκος (273a7; cf. νέος, 273b1), and later suggests that he is not all that wise either (cf. 297d1– 2). Hence the implication may be that, if a lover’s duty is to impart wisdom, Ctesippus may not be the best candidate for Cleinias’ favors; in the course of the dialogue Ctesippus will show himself to be clever, but perhaps not wise.

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the prime of his youth – the crucial turning point into manhood, a time when education becomes exceptionally important, before the young man embarks on his active involvement in the city. It is the same turning point in Cleinias’ own life which has originated the conversation of the Euthydemus; and the same applies to Crito’s son Critoboulos.

1.1.9 Evaluation of the Argument: The Relation between Wisdom and Happiness The argument of the first protreptic may be summarized as follows: (a) We all wish to be happy (278e3 – 279a1). (b) Happiness comes through conventional goods and wisdom (279a1– c2). (c) Good fortune is unnecessary for happiness because it is provided by wisdom (279c2– 280b3). (d) But conventional goods depend on wisdom; without it, they prove to be evils (280b3 – 281e5). (e) So knowledge, the only unconditional good, can make people happy (282a1– c1). (f) Because of (a) and (e), we should all try to be as wise as possible and seek those who can transmit their wisdom. (g) Wisdom is teachable (282c1– 8). (h) [It is implied that wisdom (σοφία) comes through philosophy (φιλοσοφία)]. (i) So it is necessary to practice philosophy (282c8 – d3, cf. 275a6).⁶³ The second protreptic will attempt to identify the kind of knowledge leading to happiness; for the present we are told that happiness comes from wisdom in general. The hotly debated issue in the scholarship is whether for Socrates the conventional goods also play a part in individual happiness, or whether wisdom alone suffices to guarantee it. In other words, do we need knowledge as an unconditional good and assets as conditional goods in order to be happy, or do we need knowledge only, with the conditional goods completely dismissed? I will argue for the second interpretation.

 The Gorgias provides a parallel for the view that happiness is achieved through philosophy: at 500b – c Socrates introduces a contrast between the kind of life which Callicles advocates, practicing rhetoric, and another which Socrates finds preferable, practicing philosophy. A long section follows, in which the different aims of the two are explained. At 507c – e Socrates draws the conclusion that the virtuous life makes a man good and therefore happy. The implication, then, is that the philosophical life aims at virtue and therefore happiness.

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When Socrates gets Cleinias’ agreement that wisdom is teachable, he gives his very final conclusion to the entire protreptic: νῦν οὖν ἐπειδή σοι καὶ διδακτὸν δοκεῖ καὶ μόνον τῶν ὄντων εὐδαίμονα καὶ εὐτυχῆ ποιεῖν τὸν ἄνθρωπον, ἄλλο τι ἢ φαίης ἂν ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι φιλοσοφεῖν καὶ αὐτὸς ἐν νῷ ἔχεις αὐτὸ ποιεῖν; (“so now, since it appears to you to be teachable and the only thing that makes a man happy and fortunate, would you not say that it is necessary to practice philosophy, and that you yourself intend to do the same?” 282c8 – d2). The conclusion is, I think, quite explicit. It was argued earlier that wisdom suffices to make one fortunate; what is now added is that it suffices to make one happy; it alone of all things that exist is said to be able to do that.⁶⁴ Primarily on the basis of this statement I argue that Socrates adopts the extreme view on the relation between wisdom and happiness at the end of his protreptic: one does not need good fortune, nor any other good except wisdom – and so philosophy – in order to be happy. This is the great advertisement of philosophy in the Euthydemus, a dialogue apt for this purpose, since it sets the art of dialectic against the pseudo-art of the sophists. There is further evidence in the text to support this interpretation. After Socrates discredits good fortune – first by equating it to wisdom, then by arguing that wisdom provides it – he discredits the conventional goods as well, and in fact precisely in the same manner: both good fortune itself and the goodness of the assets are provided by wisdom. So a tendency develops, which points toward the extreme view on the relation between wisdom and happiness. Scholars tend to point out the difficulties of the argument on good fortune, but do not account for its inclusion in the protreptic. Yet there must be a reason why an obviously flawed argument is deemed worthy of forming a central part of Socrates’ discussion with Cleinias. It is nothing less than good fortune, after all, that is discredited, whose contribution to happiness is said to be generally agreed upon. So, what the many regard as the most important good is discredited first; then come the assets conventionally held to be good, which are first reduced to mere dependent goods, then to potential evils, and eventually set completely aside.

 Scholars inclined to read Socrates’ argument as consistent might take its conclusion to mean that wisdom is the only thing that can make one happy – but not on its own. Any other combination of assets will fail to make one happy, unless wisdom (and wisdom alone) is included. Yet it seems rather difficult to read the Greek in a way that would not mean what it seems to state pretty obviously: that wisdom alone makes one happy. This is indeed a bold conclusion, which does not follow from the premises, but it should not completely surprise us; see the discussion below.

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It is clear that Socrates aims to minimize the significance of things conventionally considered good, and instead to emphasize the importance of wisdom or knowledge. So a pattern develops in the course of the argument, which reaches its climax right before the end of the first protreptic, with the claim that wisdom is not only necessary for happiness – as the argument was suggesting up to that point – but also sufficient. In place of what the average Athenian considered crucial for his happiness Socrates places a single independent good: wisdom. The claim is revolutionary. It is also rather fitting for his interlocutor. Cleinias is not a chance addressee for this particular protreptic. He is a member of one of the most wealthy and prominent – but also most controversial – Athenian families, a cousin of the notorious Alcibiades⁶⁵; he is also exceptionally handsome (271b1– 5), followed by a host of admirers (273a6– 7). So he possesses the material, social, and bodily goods the average Athenian considered of foremost importance in the pursuit of his happiness. Socrates has then chosen to deliver a protreptic likely to prove useful to this particular interlocutor, for it is a speech in which all the goods the young man already possesses are discredited, while the ones he is likely to lack are exalted. Given Cleinias’ circumstances, it is perhaps necessary for Socrates to supply even a radical argument, which will alert the fortunate heir of the prestigious family to the fact that, if he is to achieve happiness, the goods already in his possession will not suffice. Moreover, Cleinias is likely to need such guidance rather urgently. Although his family was distinguished, it was quite doubtful that it was also able to promote the young man’s moral development. Much like Cleinias’ cousin Alcibiades, his father Axiochus had been accused of impiety because of his involvement in the profanation of the mysteries in 415. He had gone into exile, and had had his property confiscated in 414/3, while Cleinias was still a mere youth.⁶⁶ The parallel set up between him and Critoboulos in the beginning of the dialogue hints at a contrast: while the father of the latter, Crito, is present to show concern for his son, the one of the former – even in the case that he was already back from exile⁶⁷ – is certainly less likely to show proper care for the moral education of his son.

 See Nails (2002) 12 for a stemma of the family of Alcibiades (III) and Cleinias; both men are grandsons of Alcibiades (II), but from different fathers.  See Nails (2002) 63; 100.  The details of Axiochus’ return to Athens are uncertain.

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But how exactly is one to achieve happiness? Interpretations of the way Socrates understands the relation between wisdom⁶⁸ and happiness abound: for Brickhouse and Smith wisdom is neither necessary nor sufficient for happiness;⁶⁹ for Ferejohn⁷⁰, Santas (following Ferejohn)⁷¹, Reshotko⁷²,

 I use the term “wisdom” throughout for reasons of consistency, but read “virtue” for those scholars who hold that in the Euthydemus too, as in the early dialogues, Socrates views virtue as identical to wisdom.  Brickhouse and Smith (1994) 103 – 136 argue that virtue, understood as a condition of the soul, is neither sufficient for happiness nor even necessary. My initial difficulty with their interpretation arises from the fact that they treat virtue and wisdom as identical; I have argued against this view in the previous section of this chapter. Further, on the basis of Crito 47e3 – 5 and Gorgias 512a2– b2, they argue that virtue cannot be sufficient for happiness (p. 115). In the Crito we read that life with a diseased body is not worth living, from which Brickhouse and Smith conclude that health at least will be necessary for happiness, and therefore virtue/wisdom will not be sufficient. But whereas in the relevant passage of the Euthydemus there is an entire argument on the role of wisdom, we find no such thing in the Crito, where the statement relating to health and disease is made almost in passing, and while making a completely different point. So even if we were to expect consistency between the two dialogues, and therefore attempt to interpret the one in light of the other, the Crito in particular would not do for this purpose. The Gorgias passage suffers from the same problem: it comes from Socrates’ address to Callicles, in which the philosopher explains why rhetoricians should not take on airs, since their work is not all that much more important than, say, that of sea pilots, who save men from potentially perishing at sea. Yet they do not grow arrogant, knowing that they might allow men to go on living who, say, suffer from chronic diseases and are therefore wretched. Brickhouse and Smith conclude that if disease makes one wretched, health will be necessary for happiness. But again, the context is crucial, and should not be disregarded. Socrates is making an entirely different point in the Gorgias; his reference to disease is again made in passing, and for a different purpose. References of this sort I find unsuitable for enhancing our understanding of the Euthydemus. In their most recent work [see Brickhouse and Smith (2010)] they still reject the view that wisdom is sufficient for happiness – in fact, that virtue is sufficient, since they equate that to wisdom (p. 183).  Ferejohn (1984) 111– 112 argues that wisdom and assets are both necessary for happiness: “wisdom is consistently presented as an “exploitative” form of knowledge whose function is to put other things to correct use. On this understanding, however, wisdom would be every bit as useless without things to direct and deploy as they would be without the benefit of its guidance.” Ferejohn is right in pointing out that it is not reasonable to exclude the assets, because without them there would be nothing to which wisdom could be applied. But even if Socrates appears inconsistent, one needs to examine only what is said, and not what ought to be said. Socrates can use fallacy, and it is the work of interpretation to explain what reasons Plato might have for putting it in the mouth of his character in each particular context.  Santas (1993) 46.  Reshotko (2001) 330 – 331, cf. 333. She does not discuss 282c8 – d2, but argues only on the basis of the argument that comes before this unexpected conclusion. So Reshotko argues what is indeed reasonable on the basis only of the first part of the argument on the role of the condi-

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and Parry ⁷³ it is necessary but not sufficient; for Vlastos it is necessary and sufficient, but conditional goods may “enhance happiness in some small degree”⁷⁴; finally, for Irwin⁷⁵ and Annas⁷⁶ it is both necessary and sufficient. Difficulty aris-

tional goods, i. e. that they too must contribute to happiness, which is the ultimate good; cf. Reshotko (2006) 122– 124; 128. But the conclusion of the argument must also be accounted for. In her later work [Reshotko (2006) 122 – 124] she continues to hold that the conditional goods are necessary for happiness, but that virtue – which she equates to wisdom – is not (pp. 135 – 155). In fact she argues that the questions regarding the necessity and sufficiency of virtue for happiness are irrelevant to Socrates’ claims; for the exercise of virtue simply increases the likelihood of reaching happiness, without guaranteeing it, in the same way that a child’s parents might choose to treat its illness regardless of whether the treatment will guarantee its health or not (p. 139). On p. 149 she does discuss the passage which I take to be the strongest indication for the sufficiency thesis, but quickly brushes it aside by arguing that “there is no reason to read this [i. e. Euthyd. 282c8 – d1] as anything other than a strong causal claim.” In other words, in her view, when Socrates says “wisdom is the only thing that makes one happy” he need not mean anything more than that “wisdom is the only thing that increases one’s chances of becoming happy.” But if Reshotko sees no reason why the sentence must suggest sufficiency, she also does not suggest any reason why it should not – and her reading of the sentence is not the obvious one.  Parry (2003).  Vlastos (1991) 216, cf. his n. 64: “A virtuous person would be happy, regardless of possession of non-moral goods, but happier with than without one or more of them” (his emphasis). It is beyond the scope of my work to examine the views of Socrates across dialogues; but at least for the Euthydemus Vlastos’ general claim about the role of the conditional goods does not apply. In his discussion of Apology 29e5 – 30a2 he concludes that Socrates “is not saying that the nonmoral goods he has been talking about (money, reputation, prestige) have no value at all, but that their value is vastly inferior to that of the most precious thing in life, perfection of soul” (p. 220). But in the Euthydemus Socrates does in fact claim that the non-moral goods (and the socalled virtues too, when not guided by wisdom) are of uncertain value, and potentially evil.  Cf. Irwin (1995) 56 – 60 , and esp. p. 57: “The argument is meant to secure Socrates’ previous claim that wisdom is necessary and sufficient for happiness, for it claims to show that wisdom is the only good, and it has been agreed that happiness requires all the appropriate goods. Socrates makes this clear in his summary of his argument (282a1– 7), and he goes on to claim that we should pursue wisdom to the exclusion of any other recognized good because ‘it is the only thing that makes a human being happy and fortunate’ (282c9 – d1).” Unlike Irwin, I believe that the statement that wisdom is the only good does not yet make the extreme claim it appears to, but actually does mean that wisdom is the only unconditional good. The sharp move is made at the very end of the protreptic, when, postponed for quite a few lines (282a7– c8), the final conclusion is stated. When the listener/reader has almost forgotten what was claimed before, the extreme view on the role of wisdom and the assets is suddenly adopted and presented as proven.  Annas (1993). Wisdom (for Annas identical to virtue) is both necessary and sufficient because, in her view, virtue is described as the only good (and not the only good in itself); so she argues against Vlastos, who rejects that this view anticipates the later Stoic one. Cf. Annas (1999)

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es from the fact that some of these scholars seek to establish consistency across dialogues. So they attempt to show how the claims of the Euthydemus with regard to wisdom/virtue should be interpreted in the light of other Platonic works. In interpreting the Euthydemus, however, the relation between wisdom and happiness that Socrates adopts in this particular dialogue and the way it fits into the specific context in which the protreptic is situated must remain primary.⁷⁷ It is argued here that the Socrates of the Euthydemus takes wisdom (not virtue) to be both necessary and sufficient for happiness. This view has been put forth before, but it has been defended on different grounds: Annas (1993) and Irwin (1995) take wisdom to be the only good, rather than the only unconditional good. I have already suggested a different interpretation, i. e. that Socrates shifts from a mild to an extreme view on happiness. While he starts out by proposing that one needs conventionally good things and good fortune to be happy, he soon sets good fortune aside, and subsequently also the conventional goods. The main argument used by those who oppose the sufficiency thesis is that the good things of the initial list are merely reduced to conditional goods, but not completely dismissed. These scholars fail to pay sufficient attention to the final conclusion of the protreptic discussed above (282c9 – d1). Before this conclusion is reached, Socrates indeed points in the direction of necessity but not sufficiency. At the end of the protreptic, however, he claims to have convinced Cleinias of the sufficiency thesis as well. In other words, I believe that Socrates does not remain consistent throughout the protreptic. While he initially appears to get Cleinias to agree that conventional goods and wisdom guarantee happiness, he subsequently tries to downplay the role of the so-called goods and then, almost imperceptibly, dismisses them completely. Instead of explaining away the difficulty, I think it is safer to admit and try to account for the inconsistency:⁷⁸ Socrates intentionally misleads Cleinias by hav-

40 – 44. For a discussion of the implications of Annas’ interpretation of the protreptics for Socratic dialectic in general see Gill (2000).  Jones (2010) 85 – 88 focuses solely on the Euthydemus to argue against the sufficiency thesis. His main objection to it is that virtue (which he equates to wisdom) is not able to produce some of the things which Socrates recognizes as good, e. g. health. But, as I have argued, these are merely conventional goods, and Socrates only opens his protreptic by listing them in order to reject them in the course of the argument. It is essential for the interpretation of the protreptic that not everything Socrates says be taken at face value until it has been thoroughly examined in the larger context. Moreover, Jones does not mention at all the final section 282c – d, on which my understanding of the protreptic rests heavily.  The underlying assumption of my interpretation here, and indeed of the one I employ throughout my discussion of the Euthydemus, is that Plato can put in the mouth of Socrates

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ing him agree that wisdom is not only necessary for happiness but also sufficient. He has already shown a sign of awareness that he is misleading the young man upon conclusion of the good fortune argument, when he stated that agreement was reached “in some way or another” (280b1– 3); the same is true here, though the deception remains unspoken. A protreptic is meant to persuade, and this it does. Even if the means by which persuasion is achieved are fallacious, the end is reached: Cleinias is convinced that he ought to practice philosophy. The view that none of the conventional goods is necessary for happiness is not unique to the Euthydemus; in fact it is quite close to a view expressed in the Gorgias. At 470d – e Socrates and Polus are discussing Archelaus, the ruler of Macedonia. According to Polus, Archelaus is a prime example of a happy man, despite the fact that he commits injustice. Socrates expresses doubts

flawed arguments, to which it is not advisable to apply the principle of charity. Instead, one ought to account for the existence of such arguments by exploring their function in the given context in which they are situated. For a similar approach to the Symposium and Gorgias, see Landy (2007). With regard to the Gorgias he concludes (p. 91): “The holes in Socrates’ logic are so numerous, so broad, and so manifest that it is a wonder anyone ever took him for the mouthpiece of a brilliant and original thinker. An unprejudiced reader should, it seems to me, react either by considering Plato a blundering fool (on the assumption that he stands firmly behind his character) or by regarding him as an exceptionally sophisticated literary craftsman (on the assumption that he does not).” I fully agree with Landy’s emphasis on the clear distinction to be drawn between the character Socrates and the author Plato; the latter may well assign to the former unsound arguments, and for a reason. See also Weiss (2001) 10 – 11, who states it as her basic assumption in interpreting the Meno that the character Socrates is able to deceive: “the crucial difference between him and the sophists lies in the motive behind their tactics – not in their tactics” (p. 11). In this chapter I aim to show that the same holds true of the Euthydemus. Jackson (1990) 386 – 388 strongly resists the idea that Socrates could be deceitful, even to the sophists. But, it seems to me, neither of the passages he cites (p. 386) in support of his view actually commits Socrates to the complete avoidance of deception. In the first one, Euthydemus 303d2– 5, Socrates argues that the sophists’ arguments are appealing only to a few, whereas most people would find them shameful. But this statement does not specify what makes them shameful. The sophistic arguments do not simply use fallacy in the process of establishing a certain view; they use fallacy constantly, without aiming to defend any particular views that the sophists actually hold – and this seems more likely to be what Socrates declares as shameful. The second passage, Gorgias 458a1– b1, confirms that Socrates seeks to determine the truth, but as the final product of his search. The means to that end need not be as transparent, though, and Socrates makes no such commitment. While Jackson p. 387 equates the use of sophistic tactics with ‘disregard for truthfulness,’ I take it that fallacy may be employed in the process of reaching a conclusion that Socrates holds to be true. See McCabe (2000) 25 – 32 for a discussion of the role of sincerity in Socratic elenchus – with the emphasis being on the sincerity of the interlocutor rather than the questioner.

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about this, whereupon Polus retorts that, for Socrates, perhaps not even the great king of Persia might be considered happy. Socrates indeed argues that the happiness of these men, or of any other man for that matter, is impossible to determine, unless one knows how they stand with respect to education and justice. Utterly puzzled, Polus asks: “What then? Does the whole of happiness amount to this?” (470e8). Socrates’ response is most explicit: “Yes, at least as I say, Polus; for the admirable and good man and woman I assert to be happy, whereas the unjust and evil are wretched” (470e9 – 11). At least in this instance, then, Socrates clearly claims that virtue is perfectly sufficient for happiness: nothing else whatsoever is necessary. The claim of the Gorgias should be just as surprising as that of the Euthydemus, in which wisdom, rather than virtue, is said to suffice for happiness. In other words, if one refuses to admit that the Euthydemus takes this extreme view on the relation between wisdom and happiness, one would also need to account for the equally extreme, and rather explicit, claim of the Gorgias. Now the question might arise as to how we are to read the two claims together. Whether we are entitled to do so at all is doubtful, for it presupposes that one assumes that a fully consistent theory underlies the dialogues. But even if the requirement for consistency across dialogues had to be met, nothing would prevent us from interpreting the Euthydemus in the way that I propose, because the two claims are not mutually exclusive: in the Euthydemus, wisdom is sufficient for happiness; in the Gorgias, virtue is sufficient for happiness; and wisdom still need not be identical to virtue, since the same result, happiness, can be produced from two different sufficient conditions. But the Euthydemus suggests that wisdom is also necessary for happiness. How can both wisdom be necessary and virtue sufficient for happiness? The precise relation between virtue and happiness is left unclear in the Euthydemus. When Socrates comes back to virtue at the end of the second protreptic, he hints at it as the product of knowledge (by then treated as an art) – but how exactly it relates to happiness is not made explicit. Indeed if wisdom is sufficient for happiness and wisdom is different from virtue, virtue does not appear to be necessary for happiness in the Euthydemus. Moreover, the very final conclusion of the first protreptic implies that wisdom is not only sufficient, but also necessary, since it is said to be the only thing that can make one happy (282c8 – d2). If, then, wisdom is both necessary and sufficient, virtue can only be part of the equation leading to happiness if it is a necessary by-product of wisdom, i. e. if virtue and wisdom are inseparable – and indeed the end of the second protreptic seems to point in that direction. The reasons why the two cannot be identical, however, at least in the present dialogue, have already been presented. The path

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to happiness is thus as follows: wisdom is necessary and sufficient, because it turns the properties of the soul into actual virtues; for it ensures the right use of these properties. Man therefore becomes virtuous, and this is the only necessary and sufficient condition for his happiness. A good man is a happy man, regardless of the assets in his possession, the healthy condition of his body, his noble family and the respect he enjoys in the city, or the complete lack thereof. Moreover, what else might be necessary for virtue, other than wisdom, is also not indicated. In other words, knowledge is necessary for virtue, but is it also sufficient? This question is not answered in the first protreptic, because the focus shifts to the relation between wisdom and happiness. But a relationship of dependence rather than identity between virtue and knowledge leaves room enough for the appetites, whose existence is already acknowledged in a dialogue as early as, say, the Protagoras, and whose influence on virtuous action is described in the Republic. ⁷⁹

1.1.10 Socrates the “Sophist”: Similarities between the Socratic and Eristic Method Irwin argues that in the first protreptic Socrates presents arguments full of gaps because his views on virtue and happiness must have seemed so self-evident to him that he did not see the need to justify them further.⁸⁰ In other words, Irwin’s Socrates does not use fallacy, but merely neglects to go into great detail in proving points which he regards as obvious. In my analysis above I tried to show that what Socrates presents as obvious need not in fact be so, that he even occasionally expresses doubts about the soundness of his arguments, and that he omits to elaborate on precisely those points where it would be problematic for him to do so. The cumulative evidence of these indications, then, calls for a different interpretation. Roochnik thinks that Socrates’ argument does not prove conclusively what it purports to show, but is still effective in convincing Cleinias and anyone else with the same predisposition toward wisdom.⁸¹ This again seems to offer only a partial solution to the problem of why a protreptic should rely on a bad argument. Even if Cleinias is convinced, not every reader will be. In the final analysis, why should Socrates be interested in convincing only those who will not scruti Here I am following Devereux (1995), who emphasizes that the existence of internal conflict within the individual and of forces opposing his better judgment is fully admitted by Socrates.  Irwin (1995) 63.  Roochnik (1990 – 91) 213; cf. Roochnik (1996) 173.

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nize his arguments in search of the truth, but have already decided for themselves that they agree with him in principle? I would like to suggest that Plato sets out to accomplish more by putting in the mouth of Socrates an argument which is not simply logically unsound but in fact sophistic in a number of ways. The argument begins with a verbal ambiguity quite similar to those employed by the sophists in the first eristic scene.⁸² It was shown in the relevant section above that εὖ πράττειν was used in two different senses, without any distinction drawn between them.⁸³ Similarly, εὐτυχία was used in two senses, which

 Guthrie (1975) 275 acknowledges the existence of Socratic equivocations in other dialogues but not in the Euthydemus. For a full acknowledgement of Socrates’ use of fallacy see Klosko (1987), Heitsch (1994), Gonzalez (1998) 102– 104, Beversluis (2000); see also Bensen Cain (2007) 33 – 37, where she argues that Socrates employs ambiguity and other forms of fallacy to serve dramatic purposes as well as to involve his readers in active engagement with the dialogues. Her view is then illustrated in Chapters 3 and 4, and it fully supports my interpretative approach to the Euthydemus. Cf. her conclusion, p. 111: “It seems that the less satisfied one is with the apparently unsuccessful results of SM [sc. the Socratic Method], the more inclined one may be to look for other ways to account for the use of fallacy and other distasteful conduct on the part of Socrates. There are at least two ways to go: one is to think that Plato not only recognized the flaws and implicitly criticized SM, but that he abandoned it, or transformed it into the philosophically promising methods of hypothesis and division which have new metaphysical and epistemological groundings. Another way to go is to take the drama of the dialogues as relevant to Plato’s motivations, and study the dramatic cues for an explanation in terms of his artistic and pedagogical purposes. Hopefully, by now, it is clear that I favor the second approach.” For the deliberate employment of a fallacious Socratic argument in the Theaetetus, understood as an attempt on Plato’s part to get his reader to engage actively with the text and think about views more fully developed in the Sophist, see Burnyeat (2002) 43 – 50. For fallacy specifically in the Euthydemus see Sprague (1962) 1– 33, who, however, only discusses fallacy in the eristic scenes, while she does not mention any problems whatsoever in the arguments of the Socratic scenes; even the inconsistency in certain terms employed by Socrates in the first protreptic she interprets as an indication of his interest in the things themselves rather than the words used to describe them, and so as a distinguishing feature between him and the sophists (p. 10). Stewart (1977) argues that Plato lacks a firm grasp on the exact workings of fallacy. In response, Sprague (1977) suggests that Plato was simply not interested in the types of classification with which Aristotle engaged; but the fact that he did not classify and expound fallacies in the form of a treatise does not mean that he was not fully aware of them. Plato simply chose a different vehicle to carry out his philosophic inquiry. Her analysis finds me very much in agreement. Note, however, that Sprague plays down the difficulties of the protreptics themselves, arguing that Socrates is just a little “sloppy” (p. 60); cf. Klosko (1987) 623, who does not ever mention the possibility of fallacious arguments targeted at Cleinias. The reasons for this “sloppiness” I attempt to identify in the present section, arguing that it isn’t sloppiness at all.  For a use of εὖ πράττειν in the sense of “doing what is appropriate in each case” and its subsequent connection with “happiness” cf. Gorg. 507b8 – c5.

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were purposefully conflated.⁸⁴ Then the whole argument on good fortune proved flawed because it begged the question. Also, Socrates brought about slight changes as he proceeded from one premise to the next, which escaped Cleinias’ attention, but significantly altered the argument. For example he replaced his reference to an expert by one to a wise expert, and then juxtaposed the latter to the ignorant one. This juxtaposition overlooked the many intermediate stages of the learning experience, and seemed to grant that a completely ignorant expert can exist. This practice recalls sophistic techniques, as will become clear in the following chapter. Yet it is necessary to take into account that by the end of the protreptic Socrates tells Cleinias that everyone should try to become as wise as possible – which allows for the existence of those intermediate stages in learning which the good fortune argument seems to deny. So is Socrates truly sophistic? It seems that he is willing to use clearly sophistic techniques, such as verbal ambiguity, to reach a certain goal, but his method is constructive – as opposed to that of the sophists in our dialogue, which has clearly been destructive. To the extent that such techniques are useful for convincing a young man to live a philosophical life, their employment appears legitimate.⁸⁵ Further interaction with Socrates would enable Cleinias to distinguish between linguistic tricks and sound argumentation, but at this early stage it suffices to convince him to engage in further philosophical inquiry. More sophistic elements can be identified in the protreptic. The use of εὐτυχέστερον … πράττειν at the conclusion of the good fortune argument (280a4– 5) took the place of the common idiom εὖ πράττειν, so that the original “faring well” was replaced by “faring with better fortune.” Moreover, the distinction drawn between conditional and unconditional goods followed from the premises, but the complete rejection of the former in favor of the latter did not; after all, without goods to which wisdom could be applied, its function would be unclear. In other words, if wisdom is originally defined as the wise use of assets, but then the assets are discredited, then what should wisdom guide the use of? There is one possibility, though it is never spelled out: if the virtues are properties of the soul guided by wisdom, then they are always inherent in the individual. Even in the case that all the conventional goods are lacking, wisdom may still be applied to these psychic properties and make a man virtuous.  McPherran (2005) 52 also points out the equivocation, arguing that this is Socrates’ way of forcing the reader to think hard on the precise definition of good fortune, a way of engaging him with the text.  Cf. Weiss (2000) 70 – 75.

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It remains the case, however, that Socrates uses an argument that is flawed at multiple levels. What is the purpose of his doing so, especially when Plato occasionally shows him aware of it (cf. 280b1– 3)? In other words, why should Socrates be presented as playful? The whole purpose of the Euthydemus is to juxtapose two competing approaches to moral education. Naturally, the differences between the sophists and Socrates become apparent. But the attentive reader is invited to see also certain similarities between the two parties. Both can deliberately mislead their interlocutor; both can use controversial techniques, such as verbal ambiguity and gradual alteration of the premises – and it is the employment of such techniques that Socrates identifies as play in his critique of the brothers.⁸⁶ The distinguishing element between the two, however, lies in the purpose each party aims to achieve. While the sophists seek to prove victorious over their interlocutor merely for the sake of that victory, by crushing and reducing him to silence, Socrates does not take pride in a victory but encourages his interlocutor to live a philosophical life. The employment of controversial techniques is for the sophists a key to their own success. But for Socrates it is the key to the intellectual development of interlocutors who may initially be convinced by problematic arguments. Finally, Plato’s reader is invited to take up the challenge of thinking harder, and on his own, about the issues raised by the discussion. In this way, the dialogue between Socrates and his interlocutors also involves the reader as both observer and participant.

1.1.11 Conclusion: The Aim of the First Protreptic Socrates’ original aim was to show that philosophy is a worthwhile pursuit. To do this, it would suffice to show that the acquisition of knowledge – the object of philosophy (φιλο-σοφία) – is worthwhile. It would therefore be enough to prove that knowledge contributes to happiness, or that it is necessary – though not necessarily sufficient – for happiness. Socrates, in other words, does not need to show that good fortune is completely unnecessary for happiness (since it is provided by wisdom), nor that the conventional goods are equally unnecessary. Then why does he attempt to do so? He clearly wants to make the strong claim that, against the widely held view on the importance of good fortune and other assets, absolutely none of these is necessary for the student of philosophy. The practice of philosophy itself is presented as the single way to happiness. This is an especially important conclusion for the young, handsome

 On this see Chapter 4.

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and wealthy Cleinias, who is likely to value the assets in his possession much more highly than the acquisition of knowledge. Cleinias himself does not notice the flaws in the Socratic argumentation – and this too indicates that he has much benefit to draw from further association with the appropriate teachers.

1.2 The Second Protreptic In the second protreptic Socrates sets out to identify the kind of knowledge that is the object of philosophy. But, as the discussion progresses, he seems to get carried away in a completely different direction, and ends up seeking the product of the art of politics. Also, he starts out by seeking an art leading to happiness, but ends up identifying an art which makes people good. In between he examines a series of arts, or technai, likely to meet the criteria he has established for the form of knowledge he originally sought. Although he comes closest to identifying the sought-after art as politics, even that is eventually rejected because Socrates and his interlocutors fail to determine the product of the art: if it is to be good, it ought to be knowledge – but knowledge of what? Socrates seems to have come back to the question with which the second protreptic began: philosophy involved knowledge – but of what? In what follows I attempt to disentangle the thorny parts of this rather complex scene, paying attention to both the argument and the dramatic context. I argue that the scene only ostensibly ends in aporia, but in fact entails hints for overcoming the puzzlement. I also examine Socrates’ method, and argue that his principal aim is to establish a particular kind of relationship between philosophy and politics: philosophy provides the knowledge necessary for the acquisition of virtue and therefore happiness, and politics is responsible for transmitting that knowledge. What we find here implicitly we find in the Republic explicitly.

1.2.1 Redefining Knowledge: Production and Use In the beginning of the scene Socrates reminds Cleinias where they left off before: they agreed that one ought to practice philosophy, which Socrates now defines as the acquisition of knowledge (288d8). In the first protreptic, wisdom, presumably the state achieved through an accumulation of knowledge,⁸⁷ was

 Even if the terms “wisdom” and “knowledge” are used interchangeably in Plato, it is still noteworthy that the switch back to “knowledge” in the beginning of this protreptic seems fitting,

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presented as necessary and sufficient for happiness. Philosophy, then, as the sole path to wisdom, also appeared to be the single way to happiness. But what does this wisdom consist in? In the second protreptic Socrates essentially sets out to determine the object of philosophy. As defined in the initial stage of the previous protreptic scene (i. e. before the conditional goods are completely rejected), the wisdom leading to happiness should consist in the acquired knowledge of the proper use of assets: if one has a car, wisdom will provide him with the knowledge of how to drive it and so draw benefit from it; if one has a healthy body, it will ensure that he use it for a good purpose, etc.⁸⁸ But, understood in this way, the knowledge required for happiness appears endless, and so impossible to obtain; complete happiness, then, would be equally impossible to achieve. Moreover, by the end of the first protreptic, the conditional goods are completely removed from the equation leading to happiness, so that wisdom no longer has anything specific to which it could be applied.⁸⁹ So in the present scene Socrates narrows down his expectations, as it were, looking for a particular kind of knowledge, possessed by a single art, capable of leading to happiness. In addition, Socrates will need to determine the new objects to which wisdom will be applied. Note, however, that the change in the nature of the knowledge sought remains unspoken. We noted above that, in seeking to determine the kind of knowledge that leads to happiness, Socrates at the same time attempts to determine the object of philosophy. What kind of knowledge exactly does philosophy transmit? Since the assets have been dismissed, it cannot be the knowledge of their proper use that is sought here; and so philosophy cannot be the love of wisdom in the sense of the knowledge presupposed by the common productive crafts. It is wisdom understood in a different way, which Socrates now attempts to specify.

because it facilitates the subsequent transition to “craft” in a way that “wisdom” would not: it should be more natural for a speaker of Greek to assume that some specific kind of knowledge, rather than wisdom in general, is the epistemic background of a craft, and so he would more easily accept the substitution of τέχνη for ἐπιστήμη rather than σοφία.  The first protreptic speaks generally of knowledge of use which allows one to draw benefit from his possessions. But it does not specify whether this is the technical knowledge of, say, how to drive a car, or the knowledge of when to drive it, i. e. for a good purpose (e. g. not when it facilitates the escape of a robber) – though the latter explanation seemed necessary for the right use of non-material goods to become comprehensible. It is precisely this question which the second protreptic sets out to address, but it does not, because it shifts to a different one concerning the product of the use.  Conditional goods are mentioned here in the example about gold, but, as we will see, this is only done to allow for the introduction of the concept of production.

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Whatever it might be, he says, it ought to be beneficial (288e1– 2). But in what respect would it benefit us? If the conditional goods had not been completely rejected, this knowledge would indicate their proper use, which would then guarantee our happiness, and so prove beneficial. But since the assets have been abandoned, Socrates needs to provide a means of producing the things to which knowledge will now be applied. For this reason he adds the knowledge of production to the happiness equation. To accomplish that he begins with an example: it would not benefit us to be able to identify where the most gold is mined on earth; for even if we were to acquire it all, or turn stones to gold, our knowledge would be worth nothing, since we would not know how to use what we had acquired. This much is in accordance with the conclusions of the first protreptic: the possession of conditional goods does not suffice, precisely because these are conditioned upon knowledge of their right use in order to be considered truly good. But a new element is introduced: Socrates no longer talks about mere possession (or use) of assets, but about the knowledge enabling one to identify or produce them (cf. finding gold or producing it by turning stones into it, respectively). Socrates asks Cleinias if he remembers these things (289a3 – 4, cf. 289b2– 3), thereby creating an appearance of continuity between the first and the second protreptic. But in fact new elements have been introduced in the latter scene, which significantly alter the conclusions of the former. Socrates argues that no form of knowledge can be beneficial which makes something but does not know how to use it. The knowledge of using things it does not itself produce should still be a good candidate for the type of knowledge leading to happiness, since what mattered up to now was knowing how to use one’s possessions, not how to produce them. But Socrates here focuses solely on the knowledge of making certain things, emphasizing that this should be combined with the knowledge of using them. All the productive arts, it seems to follow, are not beneficial, because they produce things which they do not necessarily know how to put to proper use. This new understanding of knowledge is introduced slyly: ποιεῖν is used for the first time at 289a1 in the specific context of turning stones to gold, which is mentioned as a mere addition to the primary example of identifying gold deposits. But what is said there for a specific case and almost in passing is repeated at 289a6 with regard to knowledge in general. It is then taken to an extreme at 289b1 with the example of knowing how to produce immortality: even that, we are told, would be an unwanted product, if one did not know how to use it. So what was introduced as a passing reference becomes a crucial first point

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in Socrates’ argumentation in the second protreptic: he and Cleinias need to identify a kind of knowledge of both production and use (289b4– 6).⁹⁰ With the introduction of the idea of production the way is opened for Socrates to view the knowledge for which he was searching as an art with a specific product; soon enough he will substitute τέχνη for ἐπιστήμη (289c1).⁹¹ Now the products of this art are treated in the exact same way that the conditional goods were in the first protreptic: it was not enough simply to possess them, but one also had to use them rightly; the same is now applied to the products of knowledge, which must be produced and used rightly. Socrates is trying to deal with the difficulty arising from his complete rejection of the conditional goods, which he now seeks to replace with the products of an art as of yet unspecified. So there is a major difference between the kinds of knowledge sought in each protreptic scene: the first is knowledge of the proper use of conditional goods, the second knowledge of production of something and then proper use of that. We will see that soon production itself will fall out of the picture, as Socrates will focus on use understood in a very different way: it will involve a process of determining the goodness of the products of all the other arts.

1.2.2 Which Form of Knowledge? Since knowledge has been redefined, Socrates and Cleinias need to determine some form of it that meets the new requirements. The art of making lyres is presented as a counter-example, because in it production is separated from use: the maker of lyres is not the same as their player. In reality, it is not inconceivable for a maker of lyres also to know how to play them; in fact some knowledge of playing might be necessary, for example for tuning. But Socrates focuses on the fact that the art of making itself is different from that of playing, the one not necessarily presupposing the other. The same problems apply to the arts of making the

 Production and use are joined together also in Rep. 10. 601d – e, where Socrates points out that the user of a product knows better how it is supposed to work, and so he is responsible for telling the maker how to make it.  The general view seems to be that, while Aristotle drew a distinction between wisdom and craft, Socrates did not. For Aristotle, wisdom is concerned with action but not production; on this see Irwin (1995) 70 – 72. See also Woodruff (1990) 66 and 68 for the view that the terms episteme and techne can be used interchangeably in early Plato; cf. Festugière (1973) 39. See Annas (1995) for a discussion of the concept of virtue as a skill; see also Roochnik (1996) who, in his introduction, gives a good overview of the current debate on the role of techne in Plato.

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cithara or the flute.⁹² Thus far Socrates has supplied Cleinias with a thought-pattern, which he can employ as he considers the following suggestions: (a) Speeches Socrates asks whether the art of composing speeches might be the one leading to eudaimonia. Cleinias is ready by now to follow Socrates’ example: by no means, he answers, for the makers of speeches do not know how to use them. Again, this is not entirely true, for there are speech-writers who occasionally use their speeches in court.⁹³ But the crucial question is why Socrates and Cleinias should have it be so. What purpose does it serve to present the art of speech-writing as failing to meet the criteria for the form of knowledge we are seeking? I return to this question in a moment. Socrates approves of Cleinias’ answer. Yet he hastens to add that he was expecting to find the art they were looking for “somewhere around here” (289d10). For speech-makers are considered most wise, he says, and their art itself is held in very high regard; it is an art of charming judges, members of the assembly, etc. (289e1– 290a4). Speech-writing presupposes the art of rhetoric, whose practitioners were great antagonists of Socrates – and Plato – in the project of educating young Athenians. It thus seems fitting for the philosopher to discuss this art extensively in the second protreptic, where, as argued above, he has set out to define the object of philosophy. This Socrates does by a process of elimination, marking off its boundaries, juxtaposing it to and distinguishing it from its closest competitors.⁹⁴ The reference to the art of speech-writing is appropriate for yet another reason: it applies well to the sophists of the present dialogue. Euthydemus and Dionysodorus had started out as speech-writers before advancing, so to speak, to the teaching of virtue: at 272a1– 4 we are told that they prepare men for the battles of the law-courts and teach them how to compose speeches appropriate for them. This is repeated at 273c7– 9. So the target of this section is not only the compet-

 Notice that in this example we shift from ἐπιστήμη (289c1) to τέχνη (289c2). Socrates assumes that the knowledge he seeks will have some systematic form and a specific product.  Cf. Hawtrey (1981) 123.  Such a process is followed also in the Statesman, where the method of division is applied in order to distinguish the kingly art from other arts cooperating with it or claiming a share in it; the art of the sophists is singled out as such a case. Compare also the Gorgias, where philosophy, openly criticized by Callicles as dangerous for men past their early youth (484c4– 486d1), is juxtaposed to rhetoric; the latter Socrates defines as an empirical practice, rather than a real art, because it pretends to be what in fact it is not, i. e. a branch of the political art (463a – 465e).

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itors of philosophy in general, but also the very men now present before Socrates, with whom he competes over the soul of Cleinias.⁹⁵ Socrates brings this particular art to the foreground precisely so that he might emphatically reject it. The dramatic purpose served by redefining the sought-after knowledge so as to include both production and use now becomes clear: this change allows Socrates to discredit rhetoric by showing how it fails to meet the criteria he has established for the art leading to eudaimonia. The art of speech-writing is shown to be an inferior form of art, unable to guarantee happiness. But would anyone claim that speech-writing leads to happiness? Apparently so, for Socrates emphasizes the power of speech to influence courts of law and the popular assembly, and so he must be pointing to those alleged teachers of rhetoric who promised Athenian youths a successful future. But for Socrates this sort of success does not bring about happiness.⁹⁶ (b) Generalship Socrates now makes a new suggestion: could it be that the art of the general is the one leading to eudaimonia? Cleinias quickly rejects this art too, for, while generals take people captive – which is apparently viewed as equivalent to producing something – they do not use them but hand them over to the politicians instead. The art of the general is subsequently presented as only one branch of the much broader art of hunting⁹⁷: actual hunters and fishermen hand over their ‘products’ to the cook for use; virtual hunters like the geometers, astronomers, and arithmeticians to the dialecticians; and generals to the politicians. Hunters in general are incapable of using their products, whereas Socrates and Cleinias are looking for an art which knows how to use what it possesses “by either producing or catching it” (290d5 – 6). With this last phrase Cleinias redefines the form of knowledge sought. Production may now be seen more loosely as a form of catching, or locating, the object to which knowledge will be applied.⁹⁸ Notice that while it is Cleinias, and not Socrates, who is responsible for the change in the way the sought-after knowledge is to be understood, Crito’s up A further significance of this section is discussed in my analysis of the final framing scene of the dialogue, in which the art of speech-writing comes up again; see Chapter 3.  One may compare the Gorgias, where, in his discussion with Callicles, Socrates proposes the life of the philosopher as preferable to the life of the man skilled in rhetoric, arguing that the former leads to eudaimonia.  Cf. the Statesman, where the art of the statesman is seen as a branch of the art of herdsmen.  It must be noted that in the initial example about gold, the case was one of finding or “catching,” not producing. But since then, and up until this point in the protreptic, the emphasis has been solely on producing (musical instruments, speeches). This is the first time we return to the original, looser understanding of production.

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coming intervention will hint that Socrates is in fact putting his own words into the mouth of the young man; this is discussed further below. The mention of the general is fitting because he conveniently leads on to the politician, whom Socrates will need for the final part of his protreptic. Moreover his art, like the art of speech-writing, applies well to Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, who are associated first with fighting in general (271d1– 3), and then with the art of generalship in particular (273c4– 8). What remains to be accounted for is why the general is paralleled to “hunters,” and especially to that particular category of geometers, astronomers, and arithmeticians. If all that was to be shown were that the art of generalship is inadequate for the procurement of happiness, it would have sufficed to say that the generals do not use the ‘products’ of their art. But the hunting parallels are introduced first to knock out one more competitor to the philosophic throne, as it were, and second to draw a distinction between arts of different kinds. The first of these competitors are the sophists. The generals are here described as hunters of men, much in the same way that in the Sophist the sophists are. There the example of the angler serves to illustrate the method of division into classes by which a definition is reached; then in 221c6 – 223b6 this method is applied in seeking a definition of the sophist, who is said to bear significant similarities to the angler. Both practice a form of hunting (cf. Sophist 221d13), except the sophist is defined as a hunter of men. The Euthydemus is probably an earlier work than the Sophist; but the idea of the sophists as hunters of men need not be new to the later dialogue. In fact the general, defined as a hunter of men, easily brings to mind those other “hunters,” Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, who fit both descriptions: they are former hunters of men in battle, and they have been recently practicing the new type of hunting typical of the sophists. Next come the scientists, if one may employ this term to refer summarily to the geometers, astronomers, and arithmeticians of whom Cleinias speaks. These are not typical Platonic targets;⁹⁹ but their mention helps draw a useful distinction between inferior and superior forms of arts, the former producing what is necessary for the latter.¹⁰⁰ These sciences are discredited because they hand over their products to the dialecticians for use (290b10 – c6).¹⁰¹ This is reminis-

 Skouteropoulos (1987) argues that the target here is mathematics as practiced by sophists, as opposed to that practiced by philosophers, assuming some difference between the two.  Sprague (1976) 50 – 52 terms these first- and second-order arts.  Erler (1987) 235 – 236 argues that dialectic fits well Socrates’ criteria for an art that both produces something and uses its product: it identifies the appropriate souls and knows how to make them happy.

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cent of Republic 7, where the study of arithmetic, geometry, solid geometry, astronomy and harmony is presented as a preparatory stage for the higher pursuit of dialectic.¹⁰² A further allusion to that work arises from the fact that the arts of politics and dialectic are here placed on the same level, as arts to which other arts hand over their products for use. A link is thus established between the statesman and the philosopher by their joint placement at a level higher than ordinary arts.¹⁰³ Moreover, in the beginning of the section on the art of politics, which is soon to follow, the kingly and the political art are treated as the same, which seems unnecessary unless one sees it as an allusion to the philosopherking of the Republic. It is worth noting that, throughout, this has been Cleinias’ argument. In response to the young man’s growing eloquence, Socrates becomes all the more laudatory: when the conversation is resumed in the beginning of the second protreptic, Socrates addresses him with the simple ὦ Κλεινία (288d5); as soon as the first stage of the argument is completed and agreement is reached on the form of knowledge sought as that combining production and use, Socrates calls him ὦ καλὲ παῖ (289b5);¹⁰⁴ the next time Cleinias is directly addressed is also the last one in the scene, and indeed in the entire dialogue. This takes place during the examination of the art of the general, when Cleinias offers the impressive explanation that makes Crito raise an eyebrow. Socrates’ address to the young man now reaches its peak of praise: ὦ κάλλιστε καὶ σοφώτατε Κλεινία (290c7). After that, Crito takes over. Clearly, the direct addresses are not interspersed in the discussion at random, but function as structural pointers, marking significant moments. Crito’s intervention raises the question that is inevitably formulating in the mind of the Platonic reader as the second protreptic scene proceeds: if Cleinias could not have made such tremendous progress so quickly, could Socrates be making it all up? The excessive praise of the young man seems intended to

 Cf. Hawtrey (1978) and (1981) 127– 128; Narcy (1984) 146 – 147.  There is a similar distinction between superordinate and subordinate forms of arts in Gorgias 517c7– 518a5. Palpacelli (2009) 160 mentions the useful parallel of the Statesman, where the military art and the art of rhetoric are described as cooperative with the art of ruling. The connection between these three arts, as illustrated there, helps explain why the same three are singled out in the present dialogue.  Dickey (1996) 75 – 76 notes that the vocative παῖ is commonly used in Plato and elsewhere to address not only children but also young men. Far from being derogatory in sense, the address expresses the affection of the speaker toward the addressee, but also indicates a particular relation between them in which the speaker is superior (in age, wisdom, etc.) and the addressee inferior. This account fits well the situation in the Euthydemus, in which the old Socrates is showing caring affection for the young Cleinias.

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alert the reader to Socrates’ irony – an irony directed at none other than Crito. The philosopher is clearly being playful.

1.2.3 Crito’s Intervention Three types of arts have been examined so far as potential candidates leading to happiness and have been subsequently rejected for failing to use their products. Notice the transition from inanimate products (instruments, speeches) to animate ones (human captives). This change allows for the possibility that the product to be used by the sought-after art be a living being. We would expect Socrates to tell us where he and Cleinias turned next in their search for the art leading to happiness, but instead Crito intervenes. His intervention brings forcefully back to mind that this conversation is in its entirety narrated to him. This is a rare moment for a Platonic dialogue; such interruptions of the ‘dramatic illusion’ are infrequent, and, when they occur, they mark important moments in a discussion.¹⁰⁵ Why, then, should this particular moment in the protreptic be underlined? The crucial words “dialectician” and “politician” have just been introduced and, after the interruption, Socrates will elaborate precisely on the relation between their respective arts. The moment is marked before we proceed to the conclusion of the argument, which will imply that no art other than the art of politics ensures people’s happiness. So continuity is interrupted right before we move on to the crucial moment of establishing a relation between philosophy and politics, and once everything competing with these two arts has been separated off. There is a climactic movement from speech-writing and fighting or hunting, all of which the sophists are able to practice, to the great art of politics, which is intrinsically connected to philosophy, and from which the two brothers are kept firmly away. Hence Crito’s interruption serves as the “dividing line” between arts accessible to them and arts reserved only for those with the proper – philosophical – training. So far I have suggested a reason why Crito interrupts here, in this particular moment in the dialogue. But one also needs to explain why he interrupts in the way that he does. Why does he doubt that Cleinias could have made the thoughtful observations Socrates attributes to him? And if Cleinias was indeed not in a position to make them, why does Socrates, at least initially, attribute them to him? Further, what does the interruption suggest about the relationship between Socrates and Crito? These questions are central to the interpretation of the dia-

 Cf. Erler (1987) 236.

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logue as a whole, but they require extensive treatment. They are therefore addressed separately in Chapter 3, which treats the relation between the characters Socrates and Crito. In what follows I return to discuss the remainder of the argument.

1.2.4 The Art of Politics Crito eventually asks if Socrates and Cleinias managed to find the art they were looking for. Socrates presents it as though much intervened which he now skips over, and many suggestions about possible arts were made (291b2 – 4); but the final point he and Cleinias are said to have reached is very close to where they had left off right before Crito intervened. The final art they examined was that of politics, which has already been introduced immediately before the interlude. Socrates says that at that point he and Cleinias felt they had fallen into a labyrinth; thinking at first that they were close to the end of their inquiry, they eventually came to realize that they still needed to determine just as much as in the beginning of their conversation (291b7– c2). The significance of this sense of entrapment in a “labyrinth” will be discussed shortly. From now on Crito becomes Socrates’ interlocutor, essentially taking the place of Cleinias. The transition from the youth to the old man, which will be noticed also in the eristic scenes, takes place here too.¹⁰⁶ Socrates tells Crito that, first, he and Cleinias assumed that the art of politics was the same as the art of the king. This kingly/political art knows how to use what other arts produce, and so, Socrates says, it appeared to be the art they were seeking (291c7– 9). The original criterion for the sought-after art was that it know both how to produce something and use it. But the idea of production was broad enough to include finding, rather than making, what it would later use; gold deposits could be identified, rather than produced, and then used. Similarly the art of politics can have handed over to it, rather than itself produce, what it will subsequently use; the emphasis is eventually laid on the use of the ‘raw materials’ of the art, no matter how these are acquired.

 Such changes in interlocutors are not rare in other dialogues. For example the young Charmides is succeeded by the more mature Critias in the Charmides. But the opposite is also possible, with the young Polemarchus taking the place of his father Cephalus in Republic 1. What is significant for our purposes is the pattern observed in the Euthydemus in particular, i. e. a transition from young to old, which creates the expectation that more thoughtful discussion will follow.

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So what does the art of politics use? It can no longer be conventional goods like those listed early in the first protreptic, for they have been completely put aside by the end of that scene. Instead, the “goods” here are men; it is they who will be “used.” Remember that men were also the objects of production and use in the final example (of the general) before Crito’s intervention. So a new suggestion is on the table as to the type of knowledge ensuring happiness. Crito asks how it was evaluated; instead of responding, Socrates gets him involved in the search (291d5). If politics is the art to which all others hand over their products for use, it meets the requirements for a happiness-producing art because it knows how to use things. But the question still remains: what does this art of politics consist in, i. e. what kind of knowledge do statesmen possess, which allows them to “use” the men over whom they rule? This question is not posed again at the moment, even though it was the one which marked the transition from the first to the second protreptic. But it is precisely this question which will return at the end of this scene, thereby completing the aforementioned sense of a labyrinthine inquiry. For the present, a new question is introduced, which complicates things further: what does politics itself produce after the use of the products of other arts? Socrates gives the following examples to illustrate his point: medicine rules over certain things to produce health, and agriculture to produce food; what does the kingly art, itself ruling over certain things, produce?¹⁰⁷ The triple repetition of the phrase πάντων ἄρχουσα … ὧν ἄρχει (291e5; 291e8 – 292a1; 292a4) emphasizes that each art presupposes a specific kind of knowledge, concerning specific things. The art we are looking for must use some material which it either itself produces or acquires (and it may itself be the product of some other art, so let us call it product A) in order to make product B. So the new question raised is what this product B might be. In other words, if each art has a product as a result of its use of other products, politics too must have one.¹⁰⁸ According to the first protreptic, product B (i. e. the benefit of the art using product A of some other art correctly) would be happiness. But here for the first time there is the implication that politics has some other product, while happiness falls into the background.

 The emphasis on the product of an art is attested, for example, also in the Gorgias, where Socrates insists that Gorgias determine the product of the art of rhetoric, which he claims to teach (see Gorg. 451d – 452e).  This is only possible because politics is viewed no longer as mere knowledge but as knowledge put to use for a specific purpose, i. e. art.

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In the beginning of the second protreptic we were looking for an art that would produce and use something. So the political art would presumably produce (in fact, have produced for her/ handed over to her) people (say, product A), whom it would “use” to produce something further. If politics produces product B which is not happiness, then we need to determine what that product B might be, which will then presumably lead to happiness. Socrates wants to create ‘space’, as it were, for a product of the art of politics that precedes happiness. But Crito cannot determine what the political art might produce. He grants that, since the art must be beneficial, its product must be good (292a8 – 12). Exactly the same process was followed in the first protreptic with regard to the conventional goods; whatever they might be, they needed to be beneficial (cf. 280b7– 8). In the second protreptic Socrates essentially repeats the process he followed in the first one, and so inevitably reaches the same conclusion. In the first protreptic it was argued that only knowledge is good (292b1– 2), so if the product of the political art is to be good, it too must be knowledge.¹⁰⁹ Clearly, according to the first protreptic, knowledge is the only independent good. But other things can also become good when guided by it. So the political art could still use the knowledge it essentially consists in to produce something other than itself, which would still be good. Yet in Socrates’ conception of politics, the art ought to produce no conditional goods whatsoever, as it is supposed to do in ordinary cities, but the single unconditional good, which the citizens will then presumably use as a guiding principle to reach happiness.¹¹⁰ This is in perfect agreement with the extreme conclusion of the first protreptic: the complete rejection of all conditional goods there is mirrored by the acknowledgement of knowledge as the only possible good product of the art of politics here. If, then, politics provides knowledge, it makes people wise (292b7– 8). But this was earlier said to be the job of philosophy: at the end of the first protreptic we concluded that people needed knowledge and therefore had to be made wise (282a1– 6), which had then sufficed to prove that they had to practice philosophy (282c8 – d2). It follows that if the political art has to make the citizens wise and

 Those arguing that the conditional goods are still part of the equation leading to happiness in the first protreptic would need to grant that knowledge, the only unconditional good, as the epistemic background of the politician and his art, would enable people to use their conditional goods correctly; so the politician would supply them with the means to live a happy life by teaching them how to use their assets. But in fact the second protreptic takes us far away from such a conclusion, thus lending further support to my view that the conditional goods are completely rejected when it comes to the pursuit of happiness the way Socrates conceives of it.  Cf. Parry (2003) 17, who discusses the difficulties of requiring an independent good to be the product of the political art.

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transmit knowledge (292b7– 8), it has to accomplish the very same task as philosophy. In a sense, philosophy and politics are equated – or are they? The assumption that wisdom is provided by philosophy seems to be qualified in the second protreptic, as Socrates and Cleinias essentially seek the particular sort of wisdom that philosophy provides. And if philosophy provides the knowledge that politics transmits, the same individual could be first a philosopher, in acquiring the knowledge, and then a politician in transmitting it. At 292c5 Socrates suddenly suggests that the kingly art makes people not only wise but also good. Thus the product of the political art becomes twofold, consisting in wisdom and virtue. For the first time, then, virtue, left out of the picture since the first protreptic, returns, and it is identified as the product of the art that leads to happiness. Now the question arises as to what kind of knowledge is to be transmitted (292c7). The object of the inquiry is identified as the knowledge “by which we will make other people good” i. e. the knowledge by which people other than the statesman himself will become good (292d5 – 6). The knowledge or wisdom which he will transmit must then produce virtue; the relation between the two appears to be not one of identity, but of dependence: the one (virtue) results from the other (wisdom), which is the same type of relation between the two as the one we observed in the first protreptic. Now if the art of politics presupposes the knowledge that makes people wise and therefore good, it presupposes philosophy. A similar view is expressed in Gorgias 514b – e, where Socrates emphasizes to Callicles that, before a man can embark on a public career (δημοσιεύειν, 514e7), he must acquire knowledge and experience in the private sphere (514e3 – 9). The preparatory stage requires that a man have a teacher to teach him the art and a worthwhile product to which he can point as proof of his having acquired the knowledge. Once he is past that stage, he may begin transmitting his knowledge to others. It will be useful to consider how the art of politics itself is understood in the Gorgias, for there are some striking similarities between that dialogue and the Euthydemus. Toward the end of his discussion with Callicles (Gorg. 506c5 – 508c3), Socrates argues that a properly ordered soul is good; a man with such a soul is temperate, just, pious, and brave, and these qualities ensure his happiness. Socrates then takes it to be the duty of political men to make the citizens good by producing order in their souls; on this criterion he proclaims himself to be one of the few, if not the only man in Athens attempting to practice the true art of politics (Gorg. 521d6 – e2). So the aim of politics is to produce virtue in the souls of the citizens – and this account parallels the one hinted at in the end of the second protreptic of the Euthydemus, where virtue is the implied product of the art of politics. Philosophy, then, will provide the wisdom necessary for the transformation of the properties of one’s soul into actual virtues; once this has

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been achieved, one may engage in politics, aiming to transmit to others this particular form of knowledge that relates to the virtues. Let us sum up. Socrates and Cleinias were originally expected to search for a form of knowledge enabling its possessor to use certain things conventionally held to be good. But since the conventional goods were abandoned, they searched for a form of knowledge/art that used its own products or the products of other arts. The art of politics seemed to meet these requirements because of its use of the products of other arts. But that use itself demanded a product, which proved hard to identify. Socrates and Crito eventually concluded that people (apparently conceived of as the products of other arts, handed over to politics) would be used by the political art in order to be made wise and good. So the product of the political art appears to be wisdom and virtue in the souls of others. It was thought that the art of politics had to produce not dependent goods, but the single independent good that is wisdom. This seems reasonable: if it is to be the art leading to happiness, it needs to be able to provide the independent good that makes other things good. But, as a matter of fact, not much new has been said since the first protreptic, and this creates the sense of a labyrinthine inquiry (291b7); Socrates’ present conclusion is in fact quite similar to the conclusion of the first protreptic scene: that all we need is knowledge – but now the subject-matter of that knowledge has still not been determined. Progress has only been made in two respects: the art most likely to provide the knowledge has been identified, as well as the things (or rather, people) to which it will be applied. While in the first protreptic we were looking for the knowledge of using the dependent goods, a view much closer to the common opinion, in the second we find ourselves searching for the art of producing the independent good, in fact the knowledge/art that gives knowledge to others. This naturally brings us back to philosophy, an art providing its practitioners with no dependent goods, but with the only independent one. At an initial stage, philosophy provides the knowledge which functions as the necessary background for politics. We then switch from knowledge to an art because politics involves application of the knowledge in real life, as well as a product of that application. The initial philosopher becomes a politician by transmitting his knowledge to others, so that the product of the political art is the possession of knowledge by the citizens. Since they are said to be made not only wise but also good, the implication must be that the knowledge with which they are provided is the kind of knowledge necessary for them to become virtuous. The only thing missing from the argument is the identification of the particular sort of knowledge necessary for virtue. The implication that virtue is a product of wisdom fulfils the second of the two tasks originally assigned to the sophists and subsequently undertaken by

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Socrates himself: to make the young Cleinias care for virtue. Notice that a transition is made at the end of the second protreptic from making people wise to making them good. A moment ago (292c4– 5) wisdom and virtue were linked, but by the end of the scene (292c7, 292d5 – 6) it appears that wisdom is only the means to the end that is virtue. Moreover, the end-goal that was happiness is now completely out of sight, with virtue having taken its place. There is no further indication in the dialogue as to what the relation between virtue and happiness might be. But, given that the protreptics started with a search for the means leading to happiness and ended with the means leading to virtue, with any references to happiness left aside, it is rather tempting to assume that a state of virtue will either be identical to a state of happiness, or will have happiness as its necessary product.¹¹¹ Socrates suggests that neither he and Cleinias, nor he and Crito managed to find the knowledge they were seeking. So he asked the sophists to identify it. They of course failed to do so, and the central question of the dialogue was left open: what kind of knowledge makes one happy? Is it the same as the knowledge that makes one good? Because the knowledge originally sought was conceived of as a techne, the discussion was in fact sidetracked toward seeking the product of that techne, rather than the knowledge which the art itself consisted in. The purpose of shifting to a techne seems to be that Socrates can now connect philosophy and politics, both of which involve the same sort of knowledge. In the end of the second protreptic the question as to the nature of that knowledge recurs in a pressing way. Is there an answer to be found?¹¹² There seems to me to be no answer in the Euthydemus. But the picture painted here points to the Republic. ¹¹³ There too knowledge is acquired by those who

 Cf. Gorg. 470e, where Socrates claims that a good man is a happy man; hence virtue must necessarily be identical to or produce happiness.  Sprague (1976) 52 notes that the aporia arises from the fact that Socrates views the knowledge leading to happiness as an art with a product of the same sort as the products of ordinary arts. Erler (1987) 213 – 256 undertakes to illustrate the meaning of aporiai in Plato, but he skips over this central one in the Euthydemus, focusing instead on certain sophisms of the eristic scenes, which he interprets as allusions to Platonic doctrine. Bruell (1999) 71 suggests that the aporia of the Euthydemus was necessary; otherwise Socrates would have supplied to the sophists exactly the material they needed to show that they possessed the wisdom which they claimed to possess. He adds (pp. 72– 73) that Socrates and Cleinias “were unable to find the knowledge necessary for happiness, because they were unable to distinguish between the aim of politics or of the kingly art, on the one hand, and that of philosophy on the other (292b1– d9; compare 306a4– b3).”  Devereux (2008) 156 – 161 points out that in the Gorgias we may find an answer to the question of what the product of the political art is. In that dialogue it is said to be virtue,

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practice philosophy and gain access to the Forms. It is then passed on to other people (or brought back down into the cave, as it were) by the earlier philosophers in their new role as politicians. The very division of the Socratic argument of the Euthydemus into two halves, one dealing with philosophy, the other with politics, illustrates the twofold role of the philosopher-king of the Republic. In this context, the identification of politics with the kingly art in the Euthydemus becomes comprehensible. The philosopher-king is to practice philosophy first, and though his ascent to the Forms would be enough to provide him with eudaimonia, he must be forced to transmit his knowledge to those left back in the cave. He is compelled to engage in politics, so that others might be able to follow his path.¹¹⁴ His art consists in the transmission of his own knowledge, and its product is indeed distinct from the art itself: the knowledge that he possesses leads to the knowledge possessed by others. Think of a teacher of Latin as a parallel: he possesses knowledge of the language, and passes on that same knowledge to others. This does not suggest that his art lacks a product.¹¹⁵ What form of knowledge, then, is the politician responsible for transmitting? Socrates hints at the end of the Euthydemus that this knowledge is somehow related to virtue; it seems that it makes people good. Reading the Republic into the Euthydemus, one may conclude that the knowledge to be transmitted is that of

understood as the proper ordering of the parts of the soul. This suggestion provides a satisfactory explanation for the fact that Socrates unexpectedly adds toward the end of his argument in the second protreptic of the Euthydemus that politics will have to make people not only wise but also good.  Philosophy and politics are tied together also in the Gorgias, where the philosopher Socrates claims to be the only man practicing the true art of statesmanship (521d6 – 8).  Annas (1993) 58 – 65 explains that the concept of virtue as a skill, valued for its product, is incompatible with the view that virtue is the only good, for the product of virtue as a skill could not be also a good. The fact that Annas speaks of virtue rather than wisdom does not significantly alter the point she is making: if wisdom is a skill with a product, and wisdom is the only good, then the product of wisdom cannot be good; cf. Gonzalez (1998) 114. But there is a relatively easy solution to this problem: the product can be the same as the knowledge entailed in the art itself, except that it is possessed first by the philosopher/politician, and then by other people to whom he transmits his knowledge. So there is a way to understand Socrates’ point as less problematic than he makes it sound. But why does Plato choose to shift from knowledge to art, thereby making it possible for the problem to arise? Is he pointing out a problem in conceiving of wisdom as an art? It seems to me that he simply intends to emphasize that the possession of knowledge by the individual is not enough; it needs to be passed on, and so a transition needs to be made from philosophy to politics. It is the same transition that is required in the Republic.

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the Form of the Good.¹¹⁶ Philosophy will be the tool employed by the politicians first in acquiring that knowledge for themselves and subsequently in guiding others to it. So the product of the art is good for the individual, for he or she becomes good, and also for others, for they are also shown the way toward the acquisition of virtue. Even though the dialogue appears to end in aporia, a way out of the puzzle is available: a relation of dependence between philosophy and politics is established, which points to the Republic, in which an answer to the aporia may be found. Philosophy provides the wisdom, understood as the epistemic background necessary for the transition to virtue; politics then disseminates the knowledge possessed by the individual – the philosopher in his new role as king, as it were – in order to lead to the virtue (and happiness?) of others. This is Socrates’ answer, although he withholds the details that would illustrate and reinforce his view. The Euthydemus is indeed a protreptic to wisdom and virtue, but it is confined to useful hints. It is, after all, a protreptic, and not the complete teaching. For a fuller picture, the Platonic reader is urged to read on.¹¹⁷

1.2.5 A Note on Socrates’ Method In my analysis of the first protreptic I argued that Socrates made extensive use of eristic techniques. The analysis of the second protreptic points in the same direction. The misleading elements in the Socratic argumentation in the present scene can be summed up as follows: first, knowledge is redefined as no longer the use

 Others have made this suggestion, but as a passing reference, without offering reasons why the Euthydemus and the Republic are to be connected: see Shorey (1933) 164; Festugière (1973) 31; Guthrie (1975) 281; Hawtrey (1981) 119; Erler (1987) 237; Kahn (1996) 209 and 325. Parry (2003) 26 elaborates: “In the first protreptic interlude, wisdom is an individual virtue whereby one manages his own assets; it confers an individual good. Then it becomes the craft of ruling over an entire city; thus, it confers good on others. Yet it seems to keep the promise of conferring individual good; Socrates and Cleinias continue to seek the individual good which wisdom confers….The solution would be to have a ruling craft which both confers a good for others and confers a good on the individual. One way to realize the solution is to make ruling in the city analogous to ruling in the soul. What was missing in the Euthydemus was the means to realize the analogy. What is needed is for the soul to have parts, one of which is fit to rule and the others to obey – i. e. parts analogous to the parts of the city. In the Euthydemus, of course, we find no such moral psychology.” The opposite view has also been put forth; McCabe (2002) argues that, instead of looking forward to the Republic, the Euthydemus looks back at it and criticizes its concept of the “rule of reason” as not intrinsically good.  I thus find myself in agreement with Kahn’s (1996) subtle interpretation of the aporia of the Euthydemus as an opportunity “to make the interlocutor ready and eager to learn” (p. 324). Cf. Taylor (1926) 99.

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of assets but the production of a certain product (or the acquisition of the product of some other art) and the subsequent use of that; second, the examples used to illustrate the point that certain arts do not combine production and use are not always apposite; for example there are speech-writers who also deliver their speeches¹¹⁸; third, with the introduction of politics, the idea of production falls completely out of sight; fourth, when looking for the product of the art of politics (the product now being understood quite differently from the way it was in the production and use argument), the self-evident suggestion that happiness might be that product is not at all considered; finally, the secondary product is expected to be an unconditional good on the assumption that conditional goods will not do. Precisely this assumption generates the infinite regress: if the sought-after knowledge or art must produce an unconditional good, it must produce itself. This is presented as problematic, but need not be so: it is in fact desirable that the knowledge producing virtue be passed on from one individual to another and then another, so that all can be made virtuous. The accumulation of tricky moves in the argument of this scene suggests that, once again, Socrates is willing to manipulate the conversation in order to have Cleinias, or even Crito, accept positions that have not been fully argued or satisfactorily proven. But this is perhaps the role of a protreptic to philosophy: to provide reasons why one should pursue it, without spelling out all the answers. Cleinias has a lot to learn, and philosophy takes time; it suffices at this stage to convince him to invest it. In other words, it suffices to convince him (and the reader) of the importance of knowledge both for his own sake and for the sake of the pursuit of a political career. The relevant knowledge is said to be the one pertaining to the virtues – and this sort of knowledge is discussed in a wealth of other dialogues.

1.2.6 Conclusion When Socrates begins his second protreptic, he presents it as an illustration of his method, and of a generally serious approach, which he encourages the “playful” sophists to adopt (288c5 – d4). In this way he juxtaposes his method to that of the sophists, presenting his own as superior. Similarly, interpreters of the dialogue tend to conclude that the Euthydemus as a whole aims to illustrate the dif-

 Such craftsmen may be understood as practicing two distinct arts, e. g. one that involves writing speeches and another that involves delivering them.

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ferences in method between Socrates and his eristic opponents.¹¹⁹ In this chapter I have argued that, apart from these differences, there are also significant similarities between the two approaches, which are prominent enough to deserve attention; Plato seems to have wanted his reader to notice them. Moreover, in choosing the particular topic that he does for the demonstration of his method, Socrates points to the similarities and differences not only in method, but in the very objects and purposes of the two competing arts. The dialogue begins with Crito repeatedly asking what the sophists teach, i. e. what the object of their art is (271c1; 272d5 – 6). In the course of the dialogue, the question develops to include not only what the sophists teach, but also what the philosophers do. The second half of the question is implicit in the search for the particular kind of wisdom that philosophy provides. Eventually, both the object of eristic and the object of philosophy evade the reader. But useful hints are supplied to illustrate both. Eristic, confined to a contest of words, has no specific subject-matter, while philosophy aims at providing a particular kind of knowledge related to virtue. Moreover, philosophy is presented as the single path to happiness. Since everyone wants to be happy, as Socrates and Cleinias assume in the beginning of the first protreptic, all should practice philosophy. But does philosophizing mean acquiring any and every kind of knowledge? Socrates sets out to determine a unifying piece of knowledge which alone is necessary for the procurement of happiness. He fails to do so, but the reader of Plato can find it in the Republic, to which the Euthydemus points in a number of ways. The Euthydemus is an elaborate advertisement of philosophy, emphasizing its crucial role in politics and the happy life. The method employed by the art itself is occasionally not so sharply distinguished from that of its eristic competitors, but the knowledge it eventually provides is both necessary and sufficient for the achievement of eudaimonia. Clearly, the purpose it serves is much higher than the mere verbal victory over a chance eristic opponent.

 See, for example, Sprague (1962) 3 – 4, or Chance (1992) 19 – 21, who characteristically calls the eristic scenes “apotreptic” in terms of method and the Socratic ones “protreptic.”

2 Serious Sophistry: The Eristic Scenes Scholars have so far examined the structure of the Euthydemus only at a macrolevel. When they turn to each individual scene, they no longer study their respective structures, but only the quality of the arguments found in each of them.¹²⁰ What I propose to do in this chapter is, first, to study the structure of the eristic scenes at a micro-level, i. e. within each individual eristic scene, and to show that patterns emerge which have philosophical significance; second, I look at the dramatic aspects of the scenes, showing how they enhance the meaning of the arguments. For it is my view that arguments cannot be examined in isolation, without taking the dramatic structure into account. In the first part of this chapter I examine each individual scene in its own right. In the second part I argue that the three eristic scenes, taken together, can be read as a continuum which runs parallel to and, in a sense, “converses” with the two protreptic scenes. The order in which the arguments are presented is meaningful, for it allows the author to show more than what his characters say. Both the eristic and the protreptic scenes lay special emphasis on the question of the object of the knowledge that leads to happiness, and both implicitly identify it with the Forms; so the recurrent allusions to Forms and Recollection in the third eristic scene are explained in light of the answer to this central question. The sophists appear to be rather serious in this final scene, in the sense that they inadvertently make claims which allude to Platonic theories; and while the sophists of course do not mean their claims seriously, Plato would have meant the views they allude to rather seriously. Further, it is shown that, in the course of their argumentation, the two brothers consistently commit the same fallacy: they assume the existence of opposites between which no middle ground is allowed. The exclusion of this middle has significant implications, which are illuminated by reference to passages in the Symposium, Republic, Sophist, and Philebus. These middle and late dialogues inform our understanding of the eristic practice in the Euthydemus. But in many early dialogues Socrates commits the very same fallacy; in fact in one instance he is shown to do so also in the Euthydemus. Now if he too seems to ignore the middle between opposites in questions or propositions that essentially mislead his interlocutors, we are faced with yet another similarity between Socrates and the sophists. As in the previous chapter, so too in this one, Socrates is shown to be playful in a way reminiscent of his opponents.

 See, for example, Keulen (1971), Chance (1992), Palpacelli (2009).

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2.1 The Individual Scenes 2.1.1 The First Eristic Scene Toward the end of the opening scene of the Euthydemus Socrates assigns the sophists their initial task: τουτονὶ τὸν νεανίσκον πείσατον ὡς χρὴ φιλοσοφεῖν καὶ ἀρετῆς ἐπιμελεῖσθαι (275a5 – 6). The two brothers are asked to convince the young Cleinias to philosophize and cultivate virtue. So in the first eristic scene, which follows immediately, the reader expects the sophists to demonstrate the efficacy of their teaching method by proving to Cleinias that philosophy and virtue are worthwhile pursuits. The scene is divided into four sections. In the first one (275d2– 276b5), Euthydemus addresses Cleinias. The question he puts to the young man is whether the wise or the ignorant are the μανθάνοντες. Cleinias responds that it is the wise, and he is refuted, as Euthydemus forces him to admit that the μανθάνοντες are the ignorant. In the second section (276b6 – 276c7), Dionysodorus takes over. He demonstrates to Cleinias that the exact opposite of what Euthydemus had demonstrated is actually true; the wise, not the ignorant, are the μανθάνοντες. So far Euthydemus and Dionysodorus have alternated in the role of the questioner. They have both posed the same question. Moreover, the arguments of both are based on the double meaning of μανθάνω.¹²¹ Euthydemus takes the verb to mean “to learn,” and so it appears reasonable that the ignorant learn. But Dionysodorus takes it to mean “to understand,” and therefore it is again reasonable that the wise understand.¹²²

 Praechter (1932) 130 points out the double meaning of the adjectives σοφοί / ἀμαθεῖς, and assumes that Plato is aware of both equivocations. Keulen (1971) 15 – 16 notes that “fast alle Begriffe, die von den Sophisten in ihrer Argumentation verwendet werden, sind doppeldeutig.” Following him, Hawtrey (1981) 58 – 59 lists a number of other possible ways of understanding this argument, but concludes that the most likely interpretation of the passage is reached when we understand μανθάνειν as “equivocal” and σοφοί / ἀμαθεῖς as “univocal.” Surprisingly, Keulen p. 24 outright denies the existence of an equivocal μανθάνω in the first pair of arguments. But since Socrates points out the double meaning of the verb rather than the adjectives (277e5 – 278a7), I consider that the primary basis of the argument, leaving aside the question whether Plato was aware of the other equivocation too.  Note that the entire first eristic scene employs forms of μανθάνω only in the present stem, so that the puzzle in meaning does not originate from changes of aspect (with the aorist stem meaning “to understand” and the present “to learn”). Now Chance (1992) 31 argues, I think convincingly, that the success of the sophistic arguments relies not on the employment of a single linguistic trick, or “the use of a single equivocal term” but on “an entire network of

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Cleinias’ first response, according to which the wise are the μανθάνοντες, is refuted by Euthydemus; yet it proves to be correct when Dionysodorus takes over, since the latter argues for the same position that Cleinias initially adopted. In refuting Cleinias, then, Dionysodorus essentially refutes Euthydemus. Already the first set of arguments makes clear that there is no definitive answer to which the sophists aspire. Their sole interest is in refutation, rather than the pursuit of truth, and this exactly corresponds to what Socrates says of them to Crito in the opening scene of the dialogue (cf. 272a8 – b1). Euthydemus has presented a particular case in which the verb μανθάνω refers to individuals still in the process of learning, i. e. students who do not yet know the material they are being taught; Dionysodorus presents an alternative case in which the same verb refers to children grasping what the teacher of grammar teaches by dictation. The truth conveyed by language appears relative, since it is presented as depending on the differing circumstances, when in fact the problem lies in the ambiguity of the language itself. In the third section (276d1– 277b1) Euthydemus poses a new question: Πότερον γὰρ οἱ μανθάνοντες μανθάνουσιν ἃ ἐπίστανται ἢ ἃ μὴ ἐπίστανται; (276d7– 8). The same linguistic trick as before applies here. If μανθάνω is taken to mean “to learn,” then the question becomes “do those learning learn what they know or what they don’t know?” and the reasonable answer is that they learn what they don’t know. But if the same verb is taken to mean “to understand,” then the question acquires a rather different meaning: “Do those who understand understand what they know or what they don’t know?” Then the reasonable answer is that they understand what they know. In the first section of this scene Euthydemus had adopted the first meaning of μανθάνω. But in the third he opts for the second meaning. When Cleinias responds that people learn what they don’t know, obviously taking μανθάνω to mean “to learn,” as his present interlocutor had done before, Euthydemus refutes him by arguing that one who doesn’t know letters “οὐ μανθάνει,” i. e. argumentative techniques.” Cf. also pp. 47– 8: “In this first eristic display Plato has pictured for us the abuse of ambiguity. But a fact that never escaped him is that these first two sophisms illustrate considerably more than just the ambiguous use of terms. They contain a host of other perplexities as well, not the least of which are the psychological riddles involved in any account of learning and knowing; and such knots cannot be unraveled simply by making a few verbal distinctions.” Although I agree with Chance, I am here primarily interested in that aspect of the tricks that is recurrent in the arguments, namely the double meaning of certain key words. Hence I omit full reference to all other techniques employed to make the arguments “work.” My primary purpose is not to examine the validity of the arguments in isolation (which has been done by Chance) but the structure of the scenes in which we find them, and the relation between the dramatic and philosophic content of those scenes.

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does not understand, what another person dictates to him.¹²³ So he concludes that those understanding understand what they know. In the fourth section (277b3 – 277c7) Dionysodorus takes μανθάνω to mean “to learn,” i. e. he adopts the opposite meaning of the one he had adopted in the second section.¹²⁴ So he reaches a conclusion opposite to the one Euthydemus reached just before, in section three: those learning learn what they don’t know.¹²⁵ Once again, Cleinias’ original answer proves to be correct in the different circumstances that the second of his interlocutors presents, and so while the young man remains consistent, the brothers refute one another. Note the dramatic context in which the first set of arguments is situated. Of the two brothers, Euthydemus takes the lead. He asks both questions, while Dionysodorus takes the supporting role of providing an alternative response to the one Euthydemus originally supplies. As soon as Euthydemus asks the first question, Cleinias, blushing, looks at Socrates for support; Socrates provides it, but it becomes amply clear even before the young man utters a word that he will prove no match for the brothers. Dionysodorus, smiling, announces to Socrates that he will not escape refutation, regardless of his answer. Both parties, the questioners and the answerer alike, refer back to Socrates, who has set the rules and initiated the performance. Socrates qua narrator explains that he did not have time to warn Cleinias to beware, for the young man rushed to give a response to Euthydemus’ first question. The terms in which the beginning of the conversation is described suggest that Cleinias is sent to do battle rather than to discuss: he must show courage (275d7– e1) and caution (276a1) in conversing with the brothers, both of which

 Hawtrey (1981) 60 objects to the meaning of ἀποστοματίζειν suggested in the LSJ, arguing that the word most likely means “to recite from memory,” rather than “to dictate.”  Keulen (1971) 16 also points out the double meaning of γράμματα, understood as either “letters” or “written text.”  Keulen (1971) 25 – 40 and, with him, Hawtrey (1981) 65 – 66 believe that already in this early part of the dialogue there is an allusion to the theory of recollection. For example Hawtrey p. 66 argues that “there is a sense … in which Euthydemus and Dionysodorus are expressing what Plato firmly believed, and the reader familiar with the Meno will pick this up: one learns (in the sense of acquiring knowledge) neither what one knows already nor what one is entirely ignorant of, but what one may recollect from prenatal experience.” For the same view see Keulen, esp. p. 35. I am willing to accept that Plato’s answer to the questions raised by the sophists in the first eristic scene of the Euthydemus is to be found in the Meno. But I am disinclined to accept any – overt or covert – allusion to that dialogue at this point in the Euthydemus. There is nothing in the words of the sophists here that directly alludes to the views on anamnesis expounded by Socrates in other dialogues. In fact, as I will argue, such allusions are reserved for the final eristic scene of the Euthydemus.

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would obviously be unnecessary for a student in his interaction with potential teachers. Moreover, by the end of the first section, Cleinias barely manages to take a breath before Dionysodorus takes over, as if beaten in a physical conflict. The battle implications square well with the identification of the brothers as fighters in the immediately preceding framing scene (cf. 271c7– 272b1), where μάχη and its cognates recur a number of times. It becomes clear right from the start that the two sophists will fail to offer a protreptic, in which both they and their interlocutors would proceed in the same direction; rather, they already engage in an agon, in which they proceed each time in whichever direction is opposite to that of their interlocutor.¹²⁶ The second set of questions appears to build on the first one, since the μανθάνοντες of the first set are part of the question of the second one: Πότερον γὰρ οἱ μανθάνοντες μανθάνουσιν ἃ ἐπίστανται ἢ ἃ μὴ ἐπίστανται; In other words, this new question includes within itself the term which the sophists allegedly aimed to define in the preceding set of arguments, so that an appearance of continuity arises. But in fact the term was earlier left unclear. The sophists ask questions about knowledge and its acquisition, which seem relevant to the task assigned to them by Socrates, but which utterly fail to build up toward a meaningful protreptic. Dionysodorus whispers to Socrates a second time, revealing that the second set of arguments will resemble the first one. From the point of view of structure, he does so at the same moment as before, i. e. once the question has been posed, but no answer has yet been given. This time, however, he adds the generalizing statement that all sophistic questions are of this sort: ἄφυκτα (“inescapable,” 276e5). After expounding the theory, he puts it to practice: when Euthydemus completes his refutation in the third section, he takes over the argument “as if it were a ball” to be aimed at Cleinias (277b4– 5). The implication is again that a competitive game takes place before the eyes of the audience. And when Euthydemus prepares for a third round of fighting (cf. πάλαισμα, 277d1), Socrates intervenes “to give [Cleinias] a rest” (277d3). The fight has been exhausting, so Cleinias takes a time out and Socrates enters the ring.

 Whittington (2008) 1– 5 and passim pushes his interpretation of the aggressive attitude of the brothers a little too far by claiming that a parallelism is intended by Plato between the sophists’ method and Athens itself as a city valuing competition and violence. Even if the spirit of competition may be viewed as typically Athenian – or Greek, no direct link is established or even hinted at in the text between that and the practice of the eristic couple, so that Whittington’s main interpretative axis seems to be superimposed on the Euthydemus rather than elicited from it.

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Let us sum up: there are two pairs of arguments in the first eristic scene, both concerned with learning. A pair of sophists poses a pair of questions in alternation; the word μανθάνω, used in both questions, has a pair of possible meanings; and each of the two questions posed by the sophists itself includes a double, or a binary opposition, in the sense that there are only two possible answers to it, one opposite to the other (wise/ignorant, what one knows/what one does not know). It seems not far-fetched to add that even the double intervention of Dionysodorus in the scene, each time alerting Socrates to the fact that there is a trick in the argument, is pointed (275e3 – 6, 276d9 – e7).¹²⁷ The whole process is described in terms of fighting, with the brothers in the role of aggressors, and Cleinias mounting a flimsy defense. Though the eristic display was supposed to aim at persuasion, this learning experiment cannot have convinced the young man of anything except the inability to reach any sort of positive truth.

2.1.2 The Second Eristic Scene The new task assigned to the sophists at the end of the first protreptic scene allows them an option. They may continue to convince Cleinias of the same thing that Socrates did in the immediately preceding protreptic scene, i. e. that one must practice φιλοσοφία, since σοφία is the only thing that can make one happy and fortunate (cf. 282c8 – d1); alternatively, they may determine whether the young man needs to acquire every form of knowledge in order to be a happy and good man, or a single form, and which one (282d4– e6). The first part of this task actually repeats the first part of the task initially assigned to the sophists at the end of the introductory scene of the dialogue, which was to convince Cleinias that it is necessary to philosophize (275a5 – 6). That task had been twofold (pursuing philosophy and caring for virtue), and the sophists had been asked to convince Cleinias of both. The second task is again twofold, but the sophists are given an option as to which part they wish to fulfill.

 Levenson (1999) 59 – 65 also notes the emphasis on the double, but only in the first eristic scene; we will see that this emphasis actually persists in the second. Further, his explanation of the doubling as an “echo effect” characteristic of the Dionysiac experience might initially seem plausible, but his interpretation of the entire dialogue as an instance of initiation in the rites of the Corybantes relies on some extremely speculative arguments and almost entirely free associations between texts which lack any inherent connection between them (see especially Chapters Six and Seven, which include his analysis of the second and third eristic scenes respectively).

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If they choose to accomplish the first part, they will be doing what Socrates just did, for at the end of the first protreptic scene he proved to Cleinias that it is necessary for the man who wants to be happy to practice philosophy. If on the other hand they choose to determine which kind of knowledge he should seek, they will be following up on the first protreptic (cf. 282e1), because at the end of that discussion Socrates left precisely this question in need of an answer. It thus becomes clear that Socrates tries to establish continuity in the discussion, while the sophists have so far provided a fragmented series of arguments only seemingly relevant to the task assigned them. It is also worthy of note that the assignment of twofold tasks is persistent, which contributes to the impression gained from the first eristic scene that the idea of the double is crucial to the dialogue. The second eristic scene is divided into eight sections. It is thus twice as long as the first one, which had only four.¹²⁸ In response to Socrates’ request that the sophists convince Cleinias to become wise and good (cf. 282e5 – 6, 283a4), Dionysodorus, rather than Euthydemus, takes the lead. But instead of addressing the young man, he addresses Socrates and the members of his group, so to speak, by questioning their intentions: is their wish that Cleinias become wise meant in earnest? A number of differences between the present eristic scene and the first one are already evident. The addressee has changed, and the earlier type of questions based on binary oppositions has been left aside. Instead, a new method is employed, which will remain predominant throughout this scene (and the next), and of which the fifth section (283b4– 283d8) is the first instance: the sophists will repeatedly latch on to the words of their interlocutor to formulate an argument based on them. This technique reveals the lack of specific direction in the sophistic argumentation: far from presenting arguments appropriate for convincing Cleinias of particular views, the sophists are content to formulate arguments out of any chance comment made by their interlocutors. So Dionysodorus claims that wanting Cleinias to become wise is equivalent to wanting him dead. Here too, as in all four sections of the previous eristic scene, a linguistic trick is employed. The verb ἔστιν is typically followed by a predicate, which, however, may often be omitted. Dionysodorus exploits this possibility, claiming that “wanting Cleinias to be wise” is equivalent to “wanting him not to be what he is”; for Socrates, responding on Cleinias’ behalf, has granted that the young man would not be so arrogant as to claim that he is wise. Dionysodorus then assumes that he must be ignorant. Τhe binary opposi-

 I have numbered the sections of the present scene in a continuous way, starting with section five, in order to avoid confusion between the first section of the present scene and what I called the first section in the preceding eristic scene.

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tion σοφός / ἀμαθής of the first eristic scene returns, this time not discussed in general but applied specifically to Cleinias. By removing the predicate “what he is,” Dionysodorus is able to claim that the Socratics “want Cleinias not to be,” and then interprets that as “not to exist.”¹²⁹ At this point Ctesippus reacts fiercely against the sophist. He violently bursts into the conversation to tell him that he is lying. Such an outburst is consistent with the Socratic characterization of Ctesippus as insolent (ὑβριστής, 273a8) upon his first mention in the dialogue. Socrates singles him out among the group of lovers following Cleinias upon his entrance to the Lyceum, and a little later (274b6 – c6) notes his effort to stand in full view of his beloved. Given how fond of the young man Ctesippus is, Dionysodorus’ suggestion that those who allegedly care for Cleinias in fact wish to ruin him inevitably provokes his reaction. Yet his affection for Cleinias is portrayed in an exaggerated way, which contributes to the comic quality of the dialogue. So the fifth section is transitional: it leads the way toward Ctesippus’ active involvement in the dialogue; Ctesippus in fact becomes the primary interlocutor of the sophists in the second eristic scene, taking over from Cleinias, whom we left dumbfounded at the end of the first one. But the opening section of the scene also introduces the theme of being through the employment of the verb “to be.” This verb and its cognates are used in three of the four eristic arguments of the scene,¹³⁰ thereby raising the question of being – a question central among philosophers in general, and for Plato in particular, as parts of the Theaetetus and the central digression of the Sophist reveal. In brief, the question is this: how should one conceive of being? Is it one, as Parmenides held, or is it infinitely many, as the relativists, like Protagoras, believed? Moreover, what is nonbeing? Is it the contrary of being, and so nothing at all, as the sophists claim in our dialogue? And if non-being (or “what is not”) is nothing, then how could one speak of it?¹³¹ Would speaking of nothing mean that one does not speak at all? Sophists like our two brothers seem to have exploited the linguistic ambiguity of the verb “to be” to create serious puzzles. While an explicit resolu Burnyeat (2002) 63 makes the nice observation that the discussion about the “death” of Cleinias brings to mind the passage in the Phaedo in which Socrates maintains that the philosopher in fact practices dying throughout life: “there is a deeper Platonic sense in which to be changed from ignorance to wisdom is to become dead: dead to this world and its bodily concerns.”  I am here counting only the arguments of the second eristic scene which are put forth by the sophists, and not their refutations by Socrates or the introductory argument of Dionysodorus; cf. the schema of the structure below.  Denyer (1991) 24– 43 provides a useful list of thinkers earlier than or roughly contemporary with Plato, who held that it was impossible to speak of “what is not.”

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tion of these puzzles is reserved for the Sophist, the questions are clearly raised here. Before I turn to an examination of the specific arguments in the Euthydemus it will be useful to point out the difficulties arising from the ambiguity of the verb “to be.” The verb admits of at least four senses. The following examples should illustrate them: Socrates is (existential); Socrates is musical (predicative); That my car is blue is the case (veridical); That is Socrates (identity).¹³² It will be shown that the sophists shift without warning from one use of “to be” to another, as they did in the case of μανθάνω in the first eristic scene.

 I take it that the existential use of “to be” is employed in the Euthydemus; for the same view see, for example, Hawtrey (1981) 95. The question whether Plato sees a semantic distinction between the verb “to be” in its complete use (without a predicate) and its incomplete one (followed by a predicate) is hotly debated. Owen (1970) acknowledges that Plato was generally aware of an existential use (p. 438), but he rejects the view that this was implied in the central arguments of the Sophist. Instead, the arguments can and should be understood as relying only on a “connective use, distributed between identity and predication” (p. 443). Against the view that Plato draws a distinction in the Sophist between different senses of ‘to be’ see also Denyer (1991) 130 – 135. [This view seems to me hard to maintain: in the Sophist the Eleatic Stranger sets out to show the problem inherent in the assumption that “what is not” is equivalent to “nothing” (i.e. something that does not exist) (cf. 237b – c); from his exposition it becomes clear that he understands the Parmenidean claims as existential (244b – 245d); the same is true of his examination of other theories, all of which make claims about being in the sense of existence; so it would be rather odd to provide an answer to the puzzle which excludes any reference to existence. Indeed when the Stranger emphasizes at 257c – 258d that “not-beautiful” contrasts being with being, he does seem to be underlining a distinction between existential claims (which he presents as irrelevant) and predicative; a distinction is inevitably implied between the Parmenidean understanding of non-being and the Stranger’s own understanding of it.] Brown (1986) takes a middle way between those who argue that Plato drew a distinstion between existential and predicative uses and those who deny it by arguing that, in fact, there is continuity between the two senses. But to prove her point she relies only on examples drawn from the English language, when examples of Greek usage would have been much more useful to make a convincing case (see esp. pp. 458 – 462). Now, Brown (1994) takes the argument of the end of Republic 5 to suggest that Plato (as Parmenides before him) failed to notice the difference between the existential and predicative uses of the verb, thereby assuming that if “X is F”, then “X is”; on this assumption, Socrates claims in that argument that (1) the object of knowledge is “what is,” because what is not cannot be known (complete use of “to be”); (2) the object of opinion is “what is and is not” (incomplete use of “to be,” followed by predicates). So, for Brown (1994), the confusion in Rep. 5 arises from the fact that Plato – and with him the average Greek – was not aware of the difference between the complete and incomplete uses of the verb, which were inextricably related in his mind [cf. Kahn (1966)]; that distinction is drawn in the Sophist, but not used further in the course of the arguments there, because Plato continues to hold that one may infer the complete use from the incomplete one.

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Let us, then, return to the arguments. In the sixth section (283e7– 284b2) Euthydemus comes to the fore, introducing a new round of questioning. Since Ctesippus has just accused Dionysodorus of lying, the sophist asks whether such a thing is possible. This is no longer a disjunctive question in the manner of those posed in the first eristic scene. But it is the second instance of latching on to the chance comment of an interlocutor and formulating a thesis based on it. Moreover, as Chance points out, the brothers now grant their interlocutor the thesis that appears in agreement with common sense (e. g. that lying is not impossible), and themselves defend the opposite one.¹³³ Yet the question posed here still admits of only two possible answers, yes or no, and there is still a contrast between two opposite theses (“lying is possible” vs. “lying is impossible”). Ctesippus starts from the assumption that lying is possible. Euthydemus gets him to agree that, in lying, one speaks of a particular thing (Ἓν … τῶν ὄντων, 284a3), i. e. that specific one of all the things that are, about which he speaks. Since it is said to be one of the things that are, speaking of it amounts to speaking of something that is. But speaking of what is, Euthydemus adds, means saying true things; he evidently takes “what is” to mean “what is the case.” In this final step the sophist shifts from “things that are” in the sense of things that exist in the world to “things that are” in the sense that they are true. The participle of εἰμί, just like the third person singular ἐστί in the fifth section, is ambiguous. So a person saying Ἓν … τῶν ὄντων may be speaking either about one of the things that exist, or about one of the things that are true.¹³⁴ Now a lie may be a false statement making reference to things that exist, without corresponding to the reality of a particular situation. I can say, for example, that “my car is blue” and refer to things that exist, i. e. cars and the color blue, but it may still not be the case that my own car has that color. In other words, a statement can be

 Chance (1992) 80.  Kahn (1966) argues that the semantic distinction between the existential and the predicative “to be” is almost a new one in the 19th century, explicitly stated by John Stuart Mill; the existential sense of the verb should not be assumed for ancient Greek, where the primary senses are the predicative and the veridical. But I agree with Hawtrey (1981) 98 that Kahn’s suggestion cannot apply here. Cf. Zeppi (1969) xxvii – xxix, who also explains the linguistic ambiguity on which the arguments of the second and part of the third eristic scenes rely as the result of a confusion between two senses of “to be”; this is then used as an argument in favor of the seriousness of the eristic scenes of the Euthydemus, which he interprets as intended to criticize primarily Eleatic views (pp. xxxi – xli).

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made about things that exist, and yet not be true.¹³⁵ Euthydemus merely exploits a linguistic ambiguity.¹³⁶ In the seventh section (284b3 – 284c6) the interlocutors are again Euthydemus and Ctesippus, as in the sixth, and Euthydemus argues for the same thesis as before, that it is impossible to lie. Ctesippus was not in a position to pinpoint the fallacy in the argument of the sixth section, but he nevertheless stated upon its conclusion that he remained unconvinced; in that respect his involvement in the discussion with the sophists constitutes progress in comparison with the young and timid Cleinias. The technique of latching on is employed here too: Ctesippus had insisted at the end of the previous section that ὁ ταῦτα λέγων … οὐ τὰ ὄντα λέγει (284b1– 2), and Euthydemus introduces his new argument by asking: Τὰ δὲ μὴ ὄντα … ἄλλο τι ἢ οὐκ ἔστιν; (284b3 – 4). So in the seventh section Euthydemus offers a second argument in defense of the same thesis: the things that are not are not anywhere, and no one could produce such things; but the public orators do something and produce something, i. e. speaking; speaking, then, must be a thing that is; so when one speaks, one speaks of something that is – and is true. The same linguistic trick is employed here as in the previous section: at the very end of the argument the sophist shifts the meaning of the phrase τὰ ὄντα from “things that exist,” like speeches, to “things that are true.” Of course, insofar as speech is the product of rhetoric, it exists, but its content need not be true. It seems significant that the particular argument Euthydemus chooses to make in defense of the impossibility of lying concerns public orators. Rhetoric, and its specific branch of speech-writing, is singled out not only here, but also in the protreptic scene to follow, and further in the final framing scene of

 Scolnicov (2000) introduces a useful distinction between statement and utterance; while the former does not take into account a speaker, but only names an object or a state of affairs, the latter does take into account the presence of a speaker, who may name correctly or falsely. And he goes on to explain (p. 117): “On Euthydemus and Dionysodorus’ theory of language, nothing intervenes between the name and its reference. By contrast, the triadic model of language puts great emphasis on the speaker, without whom naming (in the material world) could not take place.”  This issue comes up again in Theaetetus 188c10 – 189b9, where Socrates draws an analogy between judging and seeing, hearing, or touching: in all the cases of sense-perception mentioned, a man perceives something that is; by analogy, a man will judge something that is; a man judging what is not judges nothing, and so does not judge at all, Socrates continues; judging falsely, then, must be different from judging what is not, since the latter amounts to not judging at all. Burnyeat (2002) argues persuasively that the confusion in this argument does not imply that Plato is unaware of the problem; he just lays out the puzzle to provoke the active engagement of the reader with the text; cf. Burnyeat (1990) 77– 81.

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the dialogue.¹³⁷ Euthydemus essentially claims that all public orators speak the truth, and so denies the existence of deception in the public sphere. The sixth and seventh sections are tied together into a pair. In both the questioner is Euthydemus and the answerer Ctesippus. Also in both, the matter at hand is whether one can lie. The same trick is employed in both, based on the ambiguity of the same phrase (τὸ ὄν/ τὰ ὄντα). Euthydemus originally concludes that one who speaks can only tell the truth, and subsequently that no one can tell lies, hence Dionysodorus must be speaking the truth. So the conclusion is the same, but the way of arguing for it is in the former case affirmative, in the second negative. Ctesippus is still puzzled. Once again failing to grasp the linguistic ambiguity, he grants that Dionysodorus speaks τὰ ὄντα but not “as they are” (τὰ ὄντα μὲν τρόπον τινὰ λέγει, οὐ μέντοι ὥς γε ἔχει, 284c7– 8). In so doing he provides the segue, for in the eighth section (284c9 – 285a1) Dionysodorus asks whether there are certain people that say things as they are (εἰσὶν γάρ τινες οἳ λέγουσι τὰ πράγματα ὡς ἔχει; 284c9 – d1). The technique of latching on, which he introduced in section five and Euthydemus adopted in six and seven, is here employed afresh. Ctesippus responds that good men who speak the truth say things as they are (ὡς ἔχει); he agrees that good things are in a good condition (εὖ ἔχει) and bad things in a bad one (κακῶς ἔχει); so good men speak of bad things as they are, i. e. badly. The argument is never concluded, because Euthydemus intervenes to ask an additional question, intended to distort the meaning of the claim that good people speak of things as they are. The claim properly means that good people tell the truth about things, and not that they say things in the manner that these things are. So if something is hot, “saying things as they are” properly means saying that the thing is hot, and not saying something in a hot way. But this is the direction in which Euthydemus wants to take the argument, relying on the double meaning of the phrase λέγειν τὰ πράγματα ὡς ἔχει. Euthydemus intervenes because Ctesippus has just implied in his address to Dionysodorus that the sophist runs the risk of being regarded as evil. Once again, Ctesippus seems to have earned the characterization of ὑβριστής which Socrates attached to him in the opening scene (273a8); he does not hesitate to speak his mind, however much that might provoke the sophists.

 These occurrences are discussed in the relevant chapters.

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Euthydemus’ intervention implies abuse of Ctesippus, who shows clear signs of irritation and is subsequently himself accused of being abusive.¹³⁸ Socrates intervenes to calm things down, urging Ctesippus to allow the sophists to “ruin” Cleinias if they wish, provided that they lead him to virtue. Note that the philosopher here plays along with the sophists, since he appears willing to stretch the meaning of ἐξολλύναι, redefining it to mean “to change someone.” Socrates is then himself willing to be “ruined” by the sophists so long as they make him a good man. Along the same lines, Ctesippus offers himself to be “skinned,” provided that the process aims at virtue. This whole passage¹³⁹ (285a2 – c6) constitutes a narrative pause, which serves to highlight a shift in the argumentation: there is a transition here from a series of arguments designed to show the impossibility of false statement to a new one intended to prove the impossibility of contradiction. Ctesippus argues that he merely contradicts Dionysodorus, rather than being abusive. The sophist uses this as a transition to a new claim, and the technique of latching on is repeated: in the ninth section (285c7– 286b6) he manages to convince Ctesippus that contradicting is impossible. He first gets him to agree that there is an appropriate description for everything that is, as it is. No one speaks of what is not, according to the preceding arguments (of sections six and seven), so only speaking of what is needs to be considered in the case of contradiction. Now, when two people give the description proper to a thing, they must say the same things; if neither gives that proper description, neither speaks of the thing in question; finally, if one gives the proper description and the other does not, they necessarily speak of two different things. In none of these cases does contradiction arise. Dionysodorus uses as a premise for the present argument the conclusion of the sixth and seventh sections, and an impression of continuity arises. A syntactical transposition brings about the change in meaning: τοῦ αὐτοῦ πράγματος λόγον λέγοντες (speaking about the same thing) is replaced by τὸν τοῦ πράγματος λόγον λέγειν (giving the description of the thing), and the way is now open for the sophist to claim that there is a single appropriate way of speaking about

 Chance (1992) 94 points out that we have come full-circle back to the beginning: we started with an accusation of Dionysodorus which offended Ctesippus, and now end with an accusation of Ctesippus which offends Dionysodorus.  Chance (1992) 95 ff. calls it an “interlude.”

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each thing (ὁ τοῦ πράγματος λόγος). It is on this false assumption that the argument relies.¹⁴⁰ The eighth and ninth sections constitute yet another pair, since in both Dionysodorus is the primary questioner and Ctesippus the answerer. The fact that we have two sections in which Dionysodorus takes the role of the questioner repeats the structure of sections six and seven, in both of which Euthydemus held that role. So the structure of the first eristic scene, in which a single argument by one sophist was followed by another single argument by the other, is here doubled: we have a single questioner providing two arguments before the other takes over. Ctesippus, the aggressive but unsuccessful interlocutor of the sophists for the last four sections, is reduced to silence by the end of section nine. In the tenth section (286c5 – 286e7), Socrates picks up the thread of the argument. What does this change of interlocutor contribute to the scene? It serves to juxtapose the approaches of the two men. Ctesippus is passionate; he wants to defend himself in the eyes of his beloved, but his aggression is not taking him very far. Socrates, on the other hand, is composed, dispassionate; his refutations are sharp – and even witty – while not openly provoking the sophists. Hence they prove more effective. Socrates takes the sophistic claim of the impossibility of false statement as a working hypothesis and draws out its consequences to show that, even if it defeats the interlocutors, it eventually proves self-defeating.¹⁴¹ Note that the term Socrates employs to comment on the sophistic argument comes from the field of physical fighting. The argument is said to “overturn” opposing views; ἀνατρέπων (286c4) preserves the metaphor employed to describe the sophists in the beginning of the dialogue by using language appropriate for pancratiasts and their opponents. In conversing with Cleinias, Socrates used protreptic speech; but with the sophist Dionysodorus he uses the method of refutation familiar from the early Socratic dialogues: he grants the initial statements of his interlocutor and then shows them to be inconsistent with what he subsequently agrees to. Essentially, this is the method that the sophists themselves have been using throughout the eristic scenes, and it is reasonable to assume that for this reason Socrates is primarily assigned protreptic arguments rather than refutations in the Euthy-

 Hawtrey (1981) 106 – 107 explains the argument on the basis of the double meaning of Dionysodorus’ question. Ctesippus understands it to mean “as they are, or as they are not?” whereas Dionysodorus implies “that they are, or that they are not?”  Socrates makes the same point in his summary speech of “praise” at the end of the dialogue: see 303e1– 4.

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demus. In a dialogue concerned with drawing a distinction between eristic and dialectic, refutation is reserved for the opponents who claim to possess knowledge; potential students, on the other hand, are only exhorted. So the sophists have claimed that lying, or making false statements, is impossible; Dionysodorus now adds that holding false beliefs is impossible;¹⁴² and, on the assumption that the latter amounts to being ignorant, ignorance is impossible. The dichotomy between wisdom and ignorance, central to the first eristic scene and picked up in the first protreptic, now resurfaces.¹⁴³ At the moment that Dionysodorus claims that no one is ignorant Socrates pauses to ask him whether he truly believes what he claims (286d11– 13): Λόγου ἕνεκα, ὦ Διονυσόδωρε, λέγεις τὸν λόγον, ἵνα δὴ ἄτοπον λέγῃς, ἢ ὡς ἀληθῶς δοκεῖ σοι οὐδεὶς εἶναι ἀμαθὴς ἀνθρώπων; The question directly echoes Dionysodorus’ similar question at the beginning of the scene, when he had asked Socrates whether he truly wished Cleinias to be made wise (283b4– 7): Εἰπέ μοι, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατές τε καὶ ὑμεῖς οἱ ἄλλοι, ὅσοι φατὲ ἐπιθυμεῖν τόνδε τὸν νεανίσκον σοφὸν γενέσθαι, πότερον παίζετε ταῦτα λέγοντες ἢ ὡς ἀληθῶς ἐπιθυμεῖτε καὶ σπουδάζετε; Socrates had criticized the sophists for playing, Dionysodorus had turned the criticism against the Socratics, and now Socrates presents the sophist with the same criticism, only phrased in a different way (λόγου ἕνεκα … λέγεις τὸν λόγον). The verbal correspondence, marked by the recurrence of a disjunctive question and the repetition of ὡς ἀληθῶς, underlines the similarity. But the difference is crucial: when Dionysodorus asks if Socrates means his wish in earnest, Socrates reaffirms it; when Socrates asks the same of Dionysodorus, the sophist does not stick to his claims, but challenges Socrates to refute him (286e1). A major difference between the two is highlighted here. Moreover, the sophist had earlier claimed that wanting Cleinias to be wise amounted to wanting him dead; the same sophist now claims that no one is ignorant, so everyone, including Cleinias, must be wise. The similarity between the two passages is structurally significant: it marks the shift from a set of sections in which the sophists engaged in argument with Ctesippus to a new set in which Socrates takes over; once again, argument and drama go hand in hand. When Socrates asks Dionysodorus if he is serious in his claim that ignorance is impossible, the sophist challenges him to prove him wrong. But how could Socrates prove anyone wrong, if lying, understood as speaking what is false, is impossible? This is the inconvenient position Dionysodorus would be forced to admit, had Euthydemus not jumped in to correct him. Socrates reveals the in-

 On the connection between false statement and false belief see Denyer (1999) 18 – 19.  Why this is important is explained in section 2.2 of this chapter.

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consistencies in the sophists’ claims, but also the problems inherent in the main claim of this scene, i. e. the impossibility of false statement. In the tenth section he comes alarmingly close to a refutation of Dionysodorus and at the same time of the Euthydemian claims of sections six and seven. In the following, eleventh section (287a1– b1) Socrates turns to refute Euthydemus. If speaking falsely, holding false beliefs, and being ignorant are impossible, then erring must be too; but if this is the case, then what is the need for teachers like the two brothers? Socrates points to a contradiction between the sophists’ original claim to teach virtue and their present claim that no one errs. Just as Euthydemus earlier jumped into the discussion to save Dionysodorus, the latter now intervenes to check what seems to be an inevitable refutation. He upbraids Socrates for still remembering what the sophists had originally claimed,¹⁴⁴ and therefore vocalizes what has so far been shown only implicitly by the technique of latching on: that there is no consistency in the views held by the brothers, nor any direction toward a specific goal.¹⁴⁵ Yet it seems reasonable that a protreptic argument should both be consistent and have a goal. In the twelfth section (287b6 – 288b2) Socrates asks Dionysodorus to clarify what he means when saying that the philosopher “will have nothing to say against” the present claims of the sophists: τί σοι ἄλλο νοεῖ τοῦτο τὸ ῥῆμα; (287c1– 2). If Dionysodorus were to answer, he would have to admit that he meant that Socrates would not be able to refute him; this he was almost forced to admit in the tenth section, and for that reason Euthydemus had intervened. To avoid the same inconvenient admission Dionysodorus latches on to Socrates’ phrase νοεῖ τὸ ῥῆμα. He attempts to prove that νοεῖν is a function only of living beings, so one that a word cannot perform. But the verb can mean both “to think, to have the power of reasoning” and “to mean something.”¹⁴⁶ Of course a word is incapable of thinking, but it can still mean something. Socrates readily offers his final refutation. If the phrasing of his question is right, then Dionysodorus’ objection is not valid. If his phrasing is wrong, then he  Hawtrey (1981) 114 suggests that Dionysodorus’ question about whether Socrates still remembers what the brothers claimed in the beginning of their discussion, i. e. that they teach virtue, might be – though probably isn’t – a hint at the Platonic theory of recollection. But Chance (1992) 103 seems to assume that there is indeed an allusion to the theory here. It seems to me that any casual reference to remembering need not be an allusion to Platonic theory. The fact that Socrates still remembers what the sophists had originally claimed is simply indicative of his care for consistency and their complete disregard of it. But there is nothing further in the text to hint at the theory of recollection, as there will be later, in the third eristic scene.  For the sophists’ emphasis on the present and their attitude toward time in general see Mesch (2000).  See LSJ s.v. νοέω II and IV.

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has made a mistake; but the sophists have claimed (in section ten) that erring is impossible, since it has been agreed to be a necessary consequence of the impossibility of lying. In either case the sophists have been refuted, and on this note the second eristic scene comes to an end. The Socratic refutations of the sophists are “framed” by the same statement: at 286c3 – 4, upon the silencing of Ctesippus and before Socrates’ first refutation, the philosopher comments that the sophistic arguments on the impossibility of contradiction were already employed by the followers of Protagoras and even earlier sophists, and then adds that such arguments “overturn” others but eventually also themselves.¹⁴⁷ Then the refutations follow. Upon their conclusion, Socrates returns to his initial point: at 288a2– 7, having already shown how the arguments are self-defeating, he remarks that not even these sophists, active presumably a long time after Protagoras, have managed to avoid self-defeat. While Cleinias utterly failed to argue against the sophists, and Ctesippus, though intuitively aware of the difficulties inherent in the sophistic claims, also failed to demonstrate why they could not stand, Socrates delivers a series of refutations in his very first direct confrontation with the brothers. It will be useful to compare the respective structures of the first two eristic scenes: First Eristic Scene

Second Eristic Scene

1) Euthydemus – Cleinias 2) Dionysodorus – Cleinias

5) (Dionysodorus – Socrates) 6) Euthydemus – Ctesippus 7) Euthydemus – Ctesippus

3) Euthydemus – Cleinias 4) Dionysodorus – Cleinias

8) Dionysodorus – Ctesippus 9) Dionysodorus – Ctesippus 10) Socratic Refutation #1, of Dionysodorus 11) Socratic Refutation #2, of Euthydemus 12) (Dionysodorus – Socrates) Refutation #3

While in the first eristic scene the sophists take turns as questioners, with Euthydemus being the first to pose a question each time, in the second the pattern is varied. Instead of a single argument by a single sophist, we have two arguments by the one, followed by two by the other. Moreover, both arguments by Euthydemus aim at proving the same point, and they both employ a linguistic trick based on the ambiguity in meaning of a form of εἰμί. So the idea of the double predominant in the first eristic scene is here retained. The two subsequent arguments by

 For an interpretation of the Euthydemus as the locus of a caricature version of Protagorean teaching see Bucellato (1952).

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Dionysodorus aim at proving two different things, but they can still be viewed as a pair, not only because they are put forth by the same sophist but also because they both intend to prove the impossibility of something taken to be true by Ctesippus. In every single argument presented by the sophists the technique of latching on is employed. Next, Socrates begins to be actively involved in the conversation. Almost entirely absent from the first eristic scene, he now offers a series of three refutations to a pair of sophists who have each put forth a pair of arguments. But the final section twelve structurally corresponds to the initial section five: the same two interlocutors engage in verbal contest, providing a framework for three pairs of arguments. The twelfth section differs from the preceding two Socratic refutations: even though it ends up as a refutation itself, it is initiated by Dionysodorus, while the previous two refutations were specifically intended as such (cf. 286c3 – 4, 286e10 – 287a1) and initiated by Socrates. Moreover, while in the tenth and eleventh sections Socrates did not draw out the full implications of his criticism, the final one is explicit. No reaction on the part of the sophists is recorded: Socrates has the final word. The schema should make clear that the first and second eristic scenes originally balance each other quite smoothly: in sections six through nine, i. e. the first four of the second eristic scene – not taking into account the transitional section five – the primary interlocutor of the sophists remains the same, Ctesippus, and he engages in exactly the same number of arguments as Cleinias. But the second eristic scene shows an increase in length: once Ctesippus is reduced to silence, three refutations of the sophists by Socrates follow. In addition to the increase in the number of sections, the double intervention of Socrates in sections eight and nine – first to calm down Ctesippus, then to comment that the impossibility of contradicting is a claim familiar from Protagoras – is indicative of this general tendency. The whole dialogue in fact seems to be structured as a crescendo, with the eristic scenes becoming progressively longer and culminating in the last one, which, as we will see, is the longest, involves a greater variety of topics, and presents the reader with some of the most absurd sophistic claims. While in the first eristic scene a single sophist questions a single interlocutor without interruption by a third speaker, things change in the second one. Euthydemus and Socrates intervene in sections eight and nine, in which Dionysodorus had started out as the main questioner. In section ten, Euthydemus nervously jumps in to save his brother from being refuted by Socrates, and in section eleven Dionysodorus does the same. Also, in sections six and seven, Euthydemus gives two proofs of the same thesis; absolute balance would require that Dionysodorus also argue for a single thesis in his own pair of arguments that follows. But in fact he first gives an incomplete proof of one point and then a full proof of

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a different one. So, while the structural pattern of the first eristic scene was remarkably neat, that neatness is here disrupted. Far from constituting a complete breakdown in the balanced structure, all this is still suggestive of a certain change in the dialogue. In the first scene the sophistic show meets with complete success, at least on a superficial level; Cleinias is speechless by its end, without having even attempted to cast a single blow against the two brothers. The balanced structure, which includes no interruptions and unexpected changes in interlocutors, seems to reflect the fact that initially the eristic victory over Cleinias is unquestioned. But the second scene starts out with the forceful expression of disbelief on the part of Ctesippus. There is already, then, a crack in the originally invincible image of the sophists. The disruptions in the structure and the breakdown of the symmetry that become evident in the rest of the scene are indications of a certain nervousness on the part of the sophists, who impatiently interrupt each other and leave their arguments incomplete. The brothers are losing ground, and this is artfully portrayed also at the level of structure. The silencing of Ctesippus (286b7) does not mark the end of the scene, which instead ends with the essential silencing of the sophists themselves. Ctesippus remains silent throughout Socrates’ active involvement in the discussion, only to speak up again when Dionysodorus has been defeated at the end of the scene. There he returns briefly to share in Socrates’ success. As soon as the philosopher tells the sophists that their arguments not only defeat others but prove self-defeating, he jumps in to add: Θαυμάσιά γε λέγετ’ … ὦ ἄνδρες Θούριοι εἴτε Χῖοι εἴθ’ ὁπόθεν καὶ ὅπῃ χαίρετον ὀνομαζόμενοι· ὡς οὐδὲν ὑμῖν μέλει τοῦ παραληρεῖν (288a8 – b2). This intervention of an interlocutor formerly reduced to silence at the moment of another interlocutor’s victory over the sophists is mirrored later in the dialogue when, in the third eristic scene, Cleinias also joins Ctesippus in laughing at the defeated Dionysodorus (300d5 – 6). *** In laying out the structure of the first two eristic scenes I have tried to show that great emphasis is laid on doubles.¹⁴⁸ What is the significance of the emerging patterns? This recurrence of the double is employed to illustrate the very essence of the sophistic practice. There is non-Platonic evidence that the sophists pro-

 In my discussion of the Euthydemus I identify the double as characteristic of the sophists; but for Socrates understood as essentially a “double character” in other Platonic dialogues, combining high and low elements, or the philosophic and the comic, see Beltrametti (2000) 225 – 226.

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fessed to teach their students how to argue both sides of an argument:¹⁴⁹ one of the two surviving examples of sophistic works, the Δισσοὶ Λόγοι – a short work written in Doric and dated to the 4th century BC – illustrates this practice by providing arguments for both ethical relativism and its opposite, ethical absolutism.¹⁵⁰ The danger Socrates saw in the sophistic teaching was that it denied the existence of absolute truth. Everything depended on one’s perspective, or, as Protagoras put it, “man was the measure of all things.” Through the structure of the eristic scenes Plato illustrates the duality characteristic of the sophistic argumentation, and juxtaposes to it the Socratic pursuit of the single question. This is why the protreptics show a continuous line of argument, rather than the fragmented image that emerges from the analysis of the eristic scenes. The duality – and duplicity – of the sophists is already emphasized in the opening scene of the dialogue. Notice the way Crito asks Socrates about the conversation he had the previous day at the Lyceum (271a1– 5): Τίς ἦν, ὦ Σώκρατες, ᾧ χθὲς ἐν Λυκείῳ διελέγου; ἦ πολὺς ὑμᾶς ὄχλος περιειστήκει, ὥστ’ ἔγωγε βουλόμενος ἀκούειν προσελθὼν οὐδὲν οἷός τ’ ἦ ἀκοῦσαι σαφές· ὑπερκύψας μέντοι κατεῖδον, καί μοι ἔδοξεν εἶναι ξένος τις ᾧ διελέγου. Τίς ἦν; Who was it, Socrates, with whom you were holding a conversation yesterday at the Lyceum? Indeed a great multitude of people was standing around you, so that I was not able to hear anything clearly, even though I came close, wishing to hear. Yet leaning forward from above I took a look, and it seemed to me that the person with whom you were holding a conversation was a foreign man. Who was it?

Crito is very eager to know who Socrates’ interlocutor was (hence the repetition of τίς), and clearly has the impression that it was a single individual. But Socrates is careful to point out that the sophists were two: Πότερον καὶ ἐρωτᾷς, ὦ Κρίτων; οὐ γὰρ εἷς ἀλλὰ δύ’ ἤστην (271a6 – 7). Now Crito’s misunderstanding seems too pointed and is placed in too emphatic a position – the very beginning of the

 Much of our evidence for the sophistic practices comes from Plato; but he clearly intended to discredit the men whom he regarded as his opponents. How reliable, then, is his portrayal of them? For a recent study of the sophists as presented in the Platonic dialogues and non-Platonic sources, see Tell (2011). For discussions of the sophistic movement in general see De Romilly (1992), Dillon and Gergel (2003), Gomperz (1965), Kerferd (1981), McCoy (2008), O’Grady (2008), Rankin (1983), Sprague (2001), Waterfield (2000); for a recent defense of the sophists, not all of whom share the eristic tactics of the brothers of the Euthydemus, see Tindale (2010).  For a discussion of the Δισσοὶ Λόγοι see O’Grady (2008) 138 – 151.

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dialogue – to have been included just casually. In fact it serves the very purpose of highlighting the existence of two interlocutors, whose method of argumentation will then be shown to correspond to their number. The sophists are two, and the views they defend are also two, one opposed to the other. If Plato merely wanted to demonstrate the fallacies inherent in the eristic method, he could have achieved it by employing a single sophist as the main interlocutor of Socrates, just as he does in the Protagoras, the Hippias Major, etc. But a duet serves his dramatic purpose better. It enables him to exploit the possibilities created by a pair of “actors” whose role is roughly the same, thus illustrating the duality so characteristic of actual sophistic practice.¹⁵¹ The connection between the two is of course underlined by the fact that they are presented not merely as two sophists working together, but as brothers: that too reinforces the bond, the inextricability of the one from the other. But then, why is the dialogue not named after them both? It becomes clear as the dialogue progresses that Dionysodorus is inferior to Euthydemus.¹⁵² He repeatedly makes mistakes which his brother rushes to correct, both in the second eristic scene and, as we will see, also in the third. In that final scene Dionysodorus will blush out of embarrassment, in the same way that Cleinias does in the first eristic scene. Dionysodorus is a necessary complement to Euthydemian practice; but Euthydemus remains the primary initiator, and so he gives his name to the dialogue.¹⁵³

 Hösle (2004) 252– 253 also notes the emphasis on duality in the Euthydemus, though he relies on the existence of a pair of sophists and the use of the dual form alone to prove his point. We have seen in the analysis of the individual eristic scenes that this point may be reinforced substantially by noting the existence of pairs of arguments, pairs of contrary terms, pairs of possible meanings of a given term, etc. Hösle’s explanation for the emphasis on the double is also different (pp. 267– 275): subscribing to Szlezák’s view that the Euthydemus points to Plato’s “unwritten doctrines,” he argues that the two sophists function as the anti-philosophers, reflecting, as it were, the role of the philosopher in the reverse; the hidden meaning behind their arguments points to the hidden meanings behind philosophical discourse, i. e. the “unwritten doctrines”; more specifically, the emphasis on duality in the Euthydemus points to the notions of unity and duality which were central to these doctrines, under the influence of the Pythagorean Philolaus. On Philolaus see Barnes (1982) 297– 311.  Post (1926) argues that our Dionysodorus is to be identified with the orator Lysias, and Euthydemus with Lysias’ brother of the same name; the Euthydemus then becomes a “satire against Lysias” (p. 30). The claim rests on rather thin ground, not least because Euthydemus, not Dionysodorus, is the leading sophist in our dialogue. Of course a number of other objections can be added: why would Lysias and his brother be presented as sophists of the eristic kind? Why does Crito claim not to know them? Why are they from Chios? etc.  Hüffmeier (2000) lists a number of reasons for naming the dialogue Euthydemus, such as that, of the two brothers, Euthydemus is mentioned first in the dialogue; that Crito will not have

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2.1.3 The Third Eristic Scene The third eristic scene does not show the same care for patterning that was observed in the preceding two. Rather, it moves relatively loosely from one thematic section to the next, without any particular emphasis on the double as a structuring principle.¹⁵⁴ The individual sections, discussed below, grow progressively shorter, and deal with a variety of topics that appear unrelated at first glance. In what follows I analyze these sections, and then argue that, despite the structural looseness, there is a thematic connection that ties the scene together and also with the previous two, so that all three scenes may be interpreted as “telling a single story.” My aim is to show that the order in which the eristic scenes unfold is meaningful, with the first scene essentially posing a twofold question, and the second and third offering a response to that question. The task assigned by Socrates at the end of his second protreptic is that the sophists either prove the same point as he did, that one ought to philosophize, or identify the kind of knowledge that leads to happiness (282d4– e4).¹⁵⁵ This is no longer a twofold task, since the brothers are now given an option; but it preserves the sense of continuity that the philosopher had tried to establish before, as it essentially repeats his request made at the end of the first protreptic (275a5 – 6). It is just that the two brothers are no longer expected to accomplish both tasks; one will suffice. So Euthydemus takes the lead and responds. For the first time in the dialogue, he too gives his interlocutor an option: does Socrates want Euthydemus to teach him the knowledge he seeks, or to show that he already has it? In so doing, he mimics Socrates’ behavior. Socrates wonders if it is within the sophist’s power to show such a thing, at the same time addressing him as “blessed” (293b3). The use of μακάριος here is pointed. The same term is used in the second protreptic to indicate the person

been able to see or hear Dionysodorus; that Dionysodorus is seated on Socrates’ left, rather than his right; that Euthydemus takes the lead in the first eristic scene; etc. But Dionysodorus’ intellectual inferiority, as demonstrated repeatedly in the course of the eristic arguments, seems to me a more crucial reason why Euthydemus is singled out as the one after whom the dialogue is named.  I have therefore abandoned the method of numbering individual arguments, which I instead treat in thematic groups.  In fact the actual term for happiness, eudaimonia, does not recur. This seems relevant to the fact that happiness falls out of the picture by the end of the second protreptic, as the emphasis shifts to virtue. Similarly, then, the form of knowledge to be identified by the sophists aims at “a good life,” rather than a happy one (cf. 293a5 – 6). Might that suggest something about the nature of a happy life? Cf. Chapter 1, in which I argue for the view that, in the Euthydemus, virtue is sufficient for happiness; so a happy life will be a virtuous one.

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that becomes happy as a result of the practice of the sought-after art (cf. 290d7). So when Euthydemus claims to be able to show that Socrates possesses that art, Socrates immediately – and ironically – attributes to him its results: if the sophist can show that Socrates possesses the art, he must know it himself, and so he must be blessed and happy. (i) The Claim of Omniscience (293b1– 297b8) Socrates opts for the possession of the knowledge, rather than its acquisition, for, he claims, he is an old man already. In so doing he returns to the motif of his old age: in the introductory scene Crito had suggested that perhaps his friend was too old to become a student of the sophists; in response, Socrates had emphasized that the sophists themselves had learnt in their old age. So the man who has all along claimed that he wants to learn by becoming a student is now told that he has nothing to learn, for he already knows everything. The inevitable implication that, in that case, the sophists have nothing to teach him is left unspoken. Euthydemus sets out to prove his claim: if Socrates knows certain things, as he admits that he does, then he is ἐπιστήμων; he also grants that one of the things that are cannot be both x and not x; so if Socrates is ἐπιστήμων, he cannot also be ἀνεπιστήμων (i. e. not ἐπιστήμων). This is how the sophist wants the argument to run, in order to show that, by virtue of Socrates’ being ἐπιστήμων, he must also possess the ἐπιστήμη in question. Socrates attempts to qualify his responses multiple times: he only knows certain things, so he cannot be called ἐπιστήμων in an unqualified sense. Euthydemus resists the qualification. In the end Socrates makes the argument himself: his knowing one thing makes him know everything. Socrates has clearly picked up on the technique of the sophists, which he is now able to imitate, but Euthydemus merely comments that Socrates is refuting himself! The reader may recall that refutation was taken to be impossible in the second eristic scene – and it was precisely Euthydemus who was denying its possibility in an effort to rescue Dionysodorus. Once again, the inconsistency in the sophistic views is apparent. Moreover, refutation is not really applicable here, since Socrates did not start out with a thesis which Euthydemus would prove wrong; instead Euthydemus started out with the clear intention to prove a thesis of his own. It is evident then that, for the sophists, any sort of positive proof soon degenerates into conflict. The main technique of the second eristic scene, employed in every single one of the brothers’ arguments, was that of latching on to the final words of the interlocutor and making an argument out of them. This method will continue to be employed in the present scene, though, technically, the first section is not

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an instance of it, as it necessarily follows from the task assigned by Socrates. However, another element will prove characteristic of the third scene: the sophistic arguments will rely on the addition or removal of a qualifier, and the first instance of this method is found right at the start: Socrates is described as a knower, but the sophists do not allow that the object of his knowledge be specified; on this condition they can prove that their claim of omniscience holds. Socrates questions the claim, asking the sophists whether they happen to know certain things but not others. Taking over from Euthydemus, Dionysodorus claims that not only Socrates, but indeed the sophists too, and the rest of the world know everything. He gives no new proof, but simply repeats Euthydemus’, now applying it not specifically to Socrates but to everyone. The claim of universal omniscience¹⁵⁶ is the boldest so far made by the brothers in the dialogue, preparing the way for a series of absurd arguments. It is at this point that Socrates for the first time “acknowledges” the serious attitude of the sophists¹⁵⁷ – and, immediately thereafter, he fires questions at them. He lists a number of arts and other pieces of knowledge, all of which the sophists claim to possess. Ctesippus, silent during the latter part of the second eristic scene and the beginning of the third, now returns to the foreground, also asking the brothers to prove that they truly know what they claim to know: could one of them tell how many teeth the other has? The sophists merely continue to claim knowledge of everything, and Ctesippus continues to ask questions, “even the most shameful ones” (294d4), which the narrator chooses to omit. But at the end even Socrates asks if Dionysodorus knows how to dance. This long section is not tightly knit in the manner of the arguments of the previous two eristic scenes. Both sophists engage in argument at the same time, rather than alternating, and they receive responses or provocations from two interlocutors. Socrates’ repeated use of the dual in this scene¹⁵⁸ emphasizes the fact that, unlike the earlier scenes, the present one involves two men almost

 I have here adopted Chance’s terminology [see Chance (1992) 137 ff.].  Cf. Chapter 4.  The dual is used for the first time in this scene at 293e5 – 6: Euthydemus has claimed omniscience for Socrates, who now turns to question the claim, addressing not the sophist who put forth the argument, but both of them at once. This is a wholly new practice, and it persists: when Dionysodorus responds to the question, Socrates again does not address him specifically, but insists on using the dual (293e8, 294a1; cf.294b2– 3, 294b6). Ctesippus adopts this practice, addressing both sophists at 294c1– 2 ff.; cf. Socrates again: 294e6 ff. After Ctesippus’ intervention Socrates engages in another argument with Euthydemus alone, but upon its completion he again turns to involve Dionysodorus in the discussion and employs the dual (296d7– 8). The dual is of course used extensively elsewhere in the dialogue, but for reasons other than the present one, i. e. not in order to engage both brothers in discussion at the same time.

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merged into one and arguing simultaneously. Socrates and Ctesippus are clearly making fun of the sophists. Their long series of questions constitutes a narrative pause, as the scene lingers on the point of universal omniscience – a point which renders the alleged teachers useless. Socrates encourages the sophists to make a yet more extravagant claim by asking whether they have only come to know things now, or have always known them. He then follows up with another question, which prods them to claim that they have known everything since the moment of their birth. The sophists do not resist either claim. Next, Euthydemus attempts to prove that what the brothers claim for themselves is also true of Socrates. The sophist first makes him admit that he “always knows by means of something.” Socrates asks if Euthydemus means the soul. But the sophist allows no side-steps from the path set by his own questions. Socrates is only permitted to answer, but not to ask for clarification. It suffices if he responds on the basis of whatever he might take his interlocutor to mean. At this point Socrates qua narrator comments that Euthydemus treats him like his prey; in the role of the hunter, the sophist uses words as his nets. This hunting metaphor is significant, because it is used extensively also in the Sophist, a dialogue with which the Euthydemus shows further connections.¹⁵⁹ But in that dialogue the situation is reversed, with the sophist in the role of the hunted rather than the hunter. Instead of laying traps, he is himself trapped and his trickeries exposed, so that he may not use them to deceive in the future. The hunters of the sort that we find in the Euthydemus are hunted down in the Sophist, and appropriately so, since some of the puzzles employed by the brothers in the former dialogue are resolved in the latter.¹⁶⁰ Socrates eventually yields to Euthydemus’ commands, and another round of questioning begins. The sophist asks if Socrates knows by means of something. Socrates answers yes – by means of the soul. Having just given the impression that he would play along with the sophists, he returns to his initial claim, like the buffoon in a comedy, who is chastised, appears to learn his lesson, and then commits the same error all over again; Socrates does not appear willing to “learn” the eristic method. Euthydemus of course objects afresh: Socrates

 Compare, for example, the connection between the Sophist and the second Socratic scene, as discussed in Chapter 1. Note, however, that while the hunting metaphor is quite predominant in the Sophist, it is attested also in numerous other dialogues, discussed in Classen (1960); the hunt typically represents the laborious search for knowledge and truth that lies at the heart of Platonic thought (pp. 53 – 54). A useful survey in the first half of the book illustrates that the use of the metaphor is traditional, attested from Homer onwards.  On this see my analysis of the second eristic scene above.

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was earlier not allowed to ask clarifying questions, and he is now prevented from giving full answers. The conversation with the sophist is a one-way street, and the philosopher must conform: so Socrates grants that he knows by means of that by which he knows. Euthydemus, satisfied, moves on to the next question: does he always know by means of that thing? Socrates is again cautious: when he knows, he always knows by means of that thing. Euthydemus intends to shift the claim from “always knowing by means of something” to “always knowing,” by removing two qualifications: first, the means by which one knows; second, the specific cases in which one does know. Socrates voices his concern about the insertion of this “always” in the argument – and he playfully but explicitly indicates the sorts of deceptive techniques employed by sophists of the Euthydemian sort. The final qualifier to be removed follows: Socrates says that he always knows all the things he knows by means of that same thing, but Euthydemus insists on Socrates’ phrasing his claim as always knowing all things; he then rushes to conclude that Socrates has admitted to know always and everything – unqualifiedly.¹⁶¹ Thus Socrates is supposedly shown to have always known everything – even before he was born (296d1– 3). Though left unspoken, the same refutation applies here as the one made by Socrates at the end of the second eristic scene: what is the point of having teachers like the sophists when everyone always knows everything? Any further discussion seems pointless, and the dialogue could easily end here. Socrates sets out to disprove the sophistic claim of omniscience, taking it as a working hypothesis that eventually leads to inconvenient conclusions. If Socrates knows everything, does he know that good men are unjust? Euthydemus responds that Socrates knows – that good men are not unjust. Socrates of course repeats his actual question and Dionysodorus intervenes to respond that Socrates has not learnt that anywhere. But if he hasn’t, then he does not know it, so he is ἀνεπιστήμων, and the sophistic claim of omniscience is shattered. As in the second eristic scene (286e1– 6), here too Dionysodorus seems to make the sorts of mistakes that ruin the argument. Compared to his brother, he appears not to have mastered the eristic technique fully, and Euthydemus chastises him. But if he needs to do that, then it follows that Dionysodorus does not know everything either.  Rather than focusing on the removal of qualifications, Hawtrey (1981) 149 explains the argument on the basis of the double meaning of ἀεί, which may be taken to mean either “always” or “on each relevant occasion” (his translation). On this passage see also O’Sullivan (1979).

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When Socrates asks Euthydemus if he no longer thinks that his omniscient brother knows everything, Dionysodorus seizes the opportunity to return to a technique familiar from the second eristic scene: he latches on to Socrates’ mention of “brother” to ask if he is indeed Euthydemus’ brother. Socrates takes this as an attempt on Dionysodorus’ part to derail the argument which has been left unfinished. In accusing Socrates of avoiding to respond, Dionysodorus projects onto him what he himself is doing. The brothers’ impatience is expressed by their interventions in each other’s arguments, and the impression of nervousness already gained in the second eristic scene is here intensified. It is suggestive of the gradually more uncomfortable position in which they find themselves, as their inconsistencies become more apparent to their progressively more thoughtful and outspoken interlocutors. Socrates yields again, attributing his inability to respond to his being a single man engaged in discussion with two interlocutors of superior abilities. Ctesippus had participated in the discussion briefly, but Socrates seems not to have found his intervention very helpful: at the end of this long section on omniscience he compares himself to Heracles, helped by Iolaus in his fight against the Hydra and the Crab, but points out that, should his own helper intervene, he would not make a significant contribution. Socrates’ metaphorical identification of himself with Heracles, Ctesippus with Iolaus, Euthydemus with the Hydra, and Dionysodorus with her assistant, the Crab, serves to mark an important break in the scene, which takes place at 297d2.¹⁶² The section leading up to the narrative pause (293a – 297d) is concerned with knowing, while the following (297d – 299a) discusses family relations. I will propose a reason why a break is appropriate at this point once the following sections have been considered and a sense of the scene as a whole has been acquired. (ii) Nephews, Brothers, Fathers, Mothers (297d3 – 298e10) Since Socrates has just talked about Heracles and Iolaus, Dionysodorus grasps the opportunity to ask whether the latter is Heracles’ or Socrates’ nephew; the technique of latching on to the interlocutor’s chance statements is back in place. Socrates naturally explains that Iolaus cannot be his own nephew, because Patrocles, Socrates’ brother, was not Iolaus’ father. When he adds that Patrocles was his (Socrates’) half-brother, Dionysodorus claims that Patrocles both is and is not a brother. Finally, when Socrates explains that Patrocles is his broth For de Vries (1972) 51 Iolaus is not meant to be identified with Ctesippus or anyone else present, but with an imaginary, potential helper of Socrates. Yet this seems unlikely, given the importance of Ctesippus in the scene as indeed a less than helpful (from a philosophical perspective) helper of Socrates.

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er by a different father, Chaeredemus, Dionysodorus rushes to add that the latter both is and is not a father. And if Sophroniscus is not a father, being other than the father (of Socrates’ half-brother), Socrates turns out, for the sophists, to be fatherless. It is time for Ctesippus to intervene. His intervention has been anticipated in the narrative pause that led into the present sophistic argument. Socrates’ reference to the help he might expect from his “Iolaus” (297d1– 2) has laid the groundwork for Ctesippus’ return, which will allow the reader to juxtapose afresh the methods of the two men. We saw that in the second eristic scene Ctesippus’ aggressive attitude did not get him very far; he was soon reduced to silence by the two brothers, and the more self-restrained Socrates had had to take over. But Ctesippus appears radically different in the present scene. He begins his spectacular come-back in the dialogue by asking whether Euthydemus’ father is other than his own. The sophist responds that his father is not only Ctesippus’ but everyone’s father, since a father cannot both be and not be a father. Ctesippus draws out the implications of this claim, forcing the sophist to accept that his father must also be the father of horses, his mother a mother of sea-urchins, and he the brother of a hoard of other animals. Note that the claim that Euthydemus’ father is everyone’s father entails the element of universality predominant in the claims of omniscience of the first section of the scene. The theme of fatherhood is retained in Dionysodorus’ claim that Ctesippus’ father is his dog, and by hitting it, he hits his father.¹⁶³

 Rappe (2000) suggests, in my view unconvincingly, that fatherhood should be understood here as pointing to “philosophical succession” (p. 284) and that the Euthydemus more broadly “opens up a conversation about the philosophical lineage of the Socratic movement” (p. 285). She takes the reference to a “father of dogs” as an allusion to Antisthenes, and then traces additional material in the Euthydemus which she associates with him and the Cynics more broadly. For example she cites the fact that Heracles was a “Cynic icon,” picked up by Socrates in his metaphorical identification with the hero in our dialogue. But are Heracles’ associations merely Cynic? Moreover, what does the association between the Platonic Socrates and a Cynic icon suggest? Rappe’s conclusion (pp. 301– 2) seems to focus on one main point: that the Platonic presentation of Socrates is pluralistic – so Socrates is potentially presented as an Antisthenes? But the arguments against contradiction in the second eristic scene, which she also identifies as Antisthenean in origin, are put forth by the sophists rather than Socrates. Does that mean that the sophists too represent Cynic views? Even if one were to grant that there are protoCynic views in the Euthydemus, it would still be unclear how they connect and what their function is in the dialogue. Rappe does not answer these questions except by suggesting that the Platonic Socrates need not be consistent and systematic, though still pursuing the question of self-knowledge. Yet this seems an insufficient answer to the question of the potential presence of Antisthenean material in the Euthydemus.

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There is a clear allusion here to Aristophanes’ Clouds. Toward the end of that comedy, the son of Strepsiades, influenced by the teaching of the “sophist” Socrates, beats his father. Similarly here Ctesippus, who has just shown the first signs of his feigned “conversion” to eristic, is said by Dionysodorus to beat his father. In the Clouds, Phidippides shows the effects of Socrates’ sophistic teaching; the Euthydemus, on the other hand, reveals who the real sophists are.¹⁶⁴ There is a clear tendency in the Euthydemus to convert the allegedly serious philosophic discussion into a riotous comedy, and Ctesippus, cast as a more provocative double of Socrates, functions as the character through which some of the most comic elements in the dialogue are conveyed. Earlier in the scene, he proposed to count the sophists’ teeth in order to confirm their omniscience (294b11– c10), and kept asking piquant questions, to the point that even the self-controlled Socrates was carried away (294d5 – e1); he now ends up calling Euthydemus’ father a boar and a dog. There is serious matter to be conveyed through the eristic scenes too – and to that I will turn shortly. Suffice it for the moment to say that the escalating tension between two opposite tendencies, the seriously philosophic and the comic, is carefully channeled through two different characters. Even if Socrates too occasionally verges toward the comic (or the ironic), the most buffoonish and hilarious remarks are reserved for the philosophically unhelpful but dramatically effective Ctesippus. (iii) Goods (299a1– e9) Ctesippus, laughing, says that he beats his dog because he cannot beat Dionysodorus. When the sophist comments that, in doing so, Ctesippus beats his father, the latter responds that he would rather beat the sophists’ father. It is time to switch gears before the situation actually comes to blows: when Ctesippus points out that the sophists’ father must have enjoyed many goods thanks to his sons’ wisdom, Euthydemus latches onto this statement to claim that his father does not in fact need many goods. So the argument shifts in a new direction. The initial goal seems to be to show that men in general do not need many goods; but as the argument proceeds, the claim becomes that men do not need goods in great quantities. Euthydemus asks Ctesippus whether it is good for a sick man to take as much of a medication as possible, or for a man at war to have as many weapons as possible. Ctesippus responds with what in fact constitutes a playful refutation of the sophist. If one is as big as a huge male statue, then it makes sense for him to take as much of a medication as possible. In a similar way, it is appropriate for Geryones or Briareos to have as many weapons as possible. Neither

 Further parallels between the Euthydemus and the Clouds are discussed in Chapter 3.

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statues nor giants fit the description of men suggested in Euthydemus’ original claim, but the sophist is nonetheless reduced to silence. Picking up the silenced Euthydemus’ argument, Dionysodorus asks whether one should have goods such as gold always and everywhere – καὶ ὡς μάλιστα ἐν ἑαυτῷ;¹⁶⁵ would it make one most happy to have gold in his stomach, skull, and eyes? Ctesippus responds playfully: the Scythians drink out of skulls which they use as cups, and they are said to be most happy! If Dionysodorus intended to show that gold in a skull does not make one happy, Ctesippus can think of at least one case in which its possession and perfect happiness are at least not mutually exclusive. All this seems like an endless joke. If Plato simply wanted to portray eristic absurdity, has he not done so sufficiently thus far? A full answer to this question must wait until the scene has been examined in its entirety. But one thing needs to be pointed out here. The questions raised by the sophists are whether one needs many good things and whether their possession is itself always a good thing. These are very interesting questions to ask, given that the first protreptic scene began with a list of things conventionally regarded as good, whose value it later discredited, and the second protreptic scene questioned whether the mere possession of those goods was sufficient for happiness, emphasizing the need for an art which combined their production / acquisition and use. There is more in this passage to reinforce the connection to the protreptics: first, wisdom, goods, and happiness are tied together here, as they are in the protreptics (cf. 299d7– e1; 299e4); second, the particular reference to gold in the present passage picks up the example with which the second protreptic began: in that scene Socrates was asking Cleinias whether it would be beneficial to know where the most gold could be mined on earth (288e3 – 4). The Platonic reader is encouraged to see beyond the mere jocular qualities of the scene. Moreover, even if the sophists claim that it is unnecessary for one to possess many goods, the mere reference to a great multitude of them, available always and everywhere, preserves the element of universality and extravagance already observed in previous sections (universal omniscience, being the father of everyone, etc.). The emphasis is laid on things big, universal, and available throughout time – and it is worth noting that such are the objects of philosophic inquiry.

 Chance (1992) 167 points out the double meaning of ἐν ἑαυτῷ, originally meaning “in one’s possession” but subsequently employed to mean “inside one’s body.”

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(iv) Seeing (300a1– 8) Picking up on Ctesippus’ statement that the Scythians look into skulls, Euthydemus asks whether people see τὰ δυνατὰ ὁρᾶν ἢ τὰ ἀδύνατα. The phrase is ambiguous, meaning either “things that one can or cannot see” or “things (themselves) capable or incapable of seeing.” Indeed Euthydemus shifts from one meaning to the next in the course of the argument. Ctesippus responds with a similar binary opposition, whose members, however, he views as mutually exclusive: if it were possible that Euthydemus could be saying nothing though speaking, then that would describe well what he is doing. Juxtaposing two opposite things has so far been the technique of the sophists, which Ctesippus now cleverly adopts. Of course, in telling Euthydemus that he says nothing while speaking, Ctesippus gives the definition of nonsense; the sophists have been doing nothing but talking nonsense. (v) Speaking (300b1– d2) Ctesippus makes clear that he holds it impossible that one could be speaking and saying nothing at the same time. Latching on to this statement Dionysodorus formulates a brief but rather complex argument. Ctesippus’ λέγοντα μηδὲν λέγειν means that the sophist speaks but does not say anything – of import, it is implied. Dionysodorus assumes that σιγῶντα λέγειν is actually possible, but at the same time distorts the meaning of the phrase. Ctesippus originally used it in the sense of “speaking, yet being essentially silent” but Dionysodorus shifts the meaning to “silent things – like stones – speaking,” and then assumes that the latter is possible. Ctesippus is willing to play along and claim that in fact there are cases in which silent things do speak (or make a sound), as in the case of tools in a smith’s workshop. He then challenges Dionysodorus to complete the argument by showing that speaking things may be silent; this was, at any rate, what he had originally claimed, and not what Dionysodorus tried to refute. A narrative comment interrupts the argument: according to Socrates, Ctesippus is in agony because of his young lover (300c1). The comment is made in passing, yet it provides an insight into the motivations of Ctesippus, as presented by the narrator: Socrates attributes his prolonged engagement with the sophists as an expression of his wish to impress Cleinias, who is watching the contest. Indeed Ctesippus is soon to reap the fruits of his labors: at 300d3 he will laugh mockingly at the two sophists, and his lead will be followed by Cleinias (300d6). But Euthydemus takes over for the moment. He asks Ctesippus if, when one is silent, one is also silent about speaking things. Ctesippus responds by suggest-

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ing that all things are silent; there are no speaking things. Euthydemus thinks this is not the case, and so Ctesippus assumes that all things must speak. In the precise manner of the sophists, he jumps from one end of the spectrum to the other: if it is not the case that all things are silent, it must be that all are speaking. So he assumes the existence of two opposites with no middle ground between them. It is Euthydemus who now attempts to qualify! He suggests that all the things that speak do speak. Ctesippus insists: this is not what he is asking! Euthydemus must respond about everything: are all things silent, or do they speak? Ctesippus has taken over all the attributes of the sophists: he is tyrannical, demanding the answers he sees fitting, and allowing no middle ground between two opposites. Meanwhile Euthydemus, the initiator of the argument, is reduced to a responder. He even attempts to qualify his answers, exactly in the manner of Socrates in the beginning of the scene. One may picture him cornered and whispering, as Ctesippus builds up toward the upcoming moment of his sarcastic laughter. Ctesippus and Euthydemus have momentarily exchanged roles. The transformation is stunning. The argument remains unfinished because Dionysodorus intervenes. To the question whether everything is silent or everything speaks he gives the exasperated answer oὐδέτερα καὶ ἀμφότερα (300d1), which allows Ctesippus to exclaim in triumph to Euthydemus that the sophist has been defeated. Throughout the scene the sophists have refused to allow that two opposite – and allegedly mutually exclusive – things may co-exist. But here Dionysodorus admits of a case in which they do, and so he proves inconsistent. (vi) Socrates and Dionysodorus: The Concluding Arguments (300e1– 303a9) Ctesippus’ role in the scene diminishes from this point on, as Socrates takes over for the final encounter with the sophist. The exchange between him and Dionysodorus in the final section (300e1– 301c5) is a marathon of an argument – in fact the longest stretch of text in which the interlocutors remain the same for more than two consecutive arguments. The philosopher and the sophist engage in an uninterrupted discussion, clearly in the form of a crescendo, for three arguments in a row. The transition to this final section of the internal dialogue is made through Socrates’ question to Cleinias about the reason why he is laughing at the beautiful things just said. Before the young man has the opportunity to give an answer, however, Dionysodorus asks the philosopher if the beautiful things he is referring to are different from the beautiful itself; the technique of latching on is in place until the very end. Socrates responds after some moments of perplexity that beautiful things are different from the absolute beautiful, though there is

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some beauty in each of them (πάρεστιν μέντοι ἑκάστῳ αὐτῶν κάλλος τι, 301a4). Socrates’ “perplexity” alerts the reader to an interpretative possibility that lies just beneath the surface of what is explicitly said: is Dionysodorus questioning the Theory of Forms?¹⁶⁶ Dionysodorus takes the verb πάρεστιν to mean “to be by someone/ something,” rather than “present in someone/ something,” and so asks whether one becomes an ox when an ox sits beside him, or Dionysodorus if Dionysodorus does; he then rephrases his question, asking “how the different might be different from the different by its being present by the different” (301a8 – 9). Let us call the two things that are different from each other A and B. Then the question of Dionysodorus becomes: “how might A be different from B by B’s being present by A?” Dionysodorus has essentially repeated his original question in a more perplexing way: how might a beautiful particular be different from the Beautiful by the presence of the Beautiful by the beautiful particular?” It is at this point that Socrates states that he will try to imitate sophistic wisdom – which seems rather appropriate, given what Dionysodorus has just said: with the sophist by him, Socrates becomes a sophist himself. So he claims that what is different is different, in the same way that the sophists earlier claimed that whoever is a knower must be a knower, and similarly a father must be a father – in all cases. Socrates essentially avoids giving an answer, but instead turns to praising the sophists for carrying out splendidly “what is appropriate” for them as craftsmen of the art of conversing – or dialectic (301c4 – 5). Socrates ironically praises the sophists for carrying out proper dialectic exactly at the moment that he has started carrying out eristic. Dionysodorus immediately loses all interest in the argument he initiated just above, and like an easily distracted youth he now latches on to the new word Socrates has used, προσήκει, to ask which craftsman is appropriate for each of a number of tasks he lists. Socrates patiently responds until Dionysodorus, exploiting a syntactical ambiguity, ends up claiming that it is appropriate to cut up and cook a cook. προσήκει … τὸν μάγειρον κατακόπτειν (301d2– 3) can either mean that it is appropriate for a cook to cut up something, with τὸν μάγειρον taken as the subject of the infinitive, or that it is appropriate that someone cut up the cook, with τὸν μάγειρον taken as the object. Note the switch from searching for the appropriate craftsman for each task to the appropriate “task” for a particular craftsman.

 I only mention this here to account for Socrates’ puzzlement, but I return to it in my discussion of the scene below.

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The final argument of the section follows. Socrates has said that, when it comes to knowledge, everything must start (ἄρχεσθαι, 301e8) from Dionysodorus and end with Euthydemus. Dionysodorus latches on to this statement to exploit the double meaning of the word ἄρχω.¹⁶⁷ While Socrates used it to mean “to start,” Dionysodorus uses it to mean “to rule,” and shapes his argument as follows: Socrates grants that he rules over those living beings which are in his possession, such as an ox or a sheep; by virtue of that possession he can also sacrifice them to the gods; if things were not so, the animals would not be his. But animals are identified as those beings that have a soul; and only those animals are Socrates’, over which he has the power to rule; Dionysodorus feels confident that he now has the premises necessary to launch his accusation against Socrates. The latter claims to feel caught in a net (302b7), and the earlier hunting metaphor is employed again: the prey is now trapped – or so the sophists are left to think; but at the same time they themselves are identified as hunters of men, as they were implicitly also in the second protreptic. Dionysodorus now gives his verdict: Socrates has no ancestral Zeus, and he is no real Athenian (302c1). But, alas, Dionysodorus once again projects onto Socrates his own shortcomings; for he is himself no Athenian, and so he does not seem to know much about Athenian religion. Socrates must correct him by pointing out to the unfortunate foreigner that there is only an ancestral Apollo for the Athenians, who are descended from his son Ion. The Athenian readers, who took such exceptional pride in their autochthony and glorious ancestry,¹⁶⁸ will have laughed to their heart’s content at Dionysodorus’ blunder – yet another in the ever-growing list. But nothing intimidates Dionysodorus: having finally sorted out which gods are appropriately described as Socrates’ ancestors, he proceeds with his argument. Socrates has certain ancestral gods; these gods have a soul and so they are animals; those animals are Socrates’ own, which he can sacrifice. At this point Socrates admits to Euthydemus that there is no escape left for him (302e6); the text leaves unclear whether this is an aside comment which Dionysodorus ignores and continues, or whether Euthydemus himself finishes off the final argument and with it the final eristic scene. Both brothers, at any rate, are brought to the fore at the concluding moment.

 Hawtrey (1981) 180 – 181 explains it on the basis of the double meaning of σός, different when applied to gods than to animals. The same is true of ζῷον, which can either mean “any living being” or, more specifically, “animal.” But he doesn’t point out the double meaning of ἄρχω.  Cf. for example the praise of Athenian ancestry in the Thucydidean Funeral Oration of Pericles.

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The implication is left unspoken: since the gods are living beings, and since they are Socrates’ gods, he sacrifices them! Even at this unvoiced condemnation the philosopher is left speechless. Ctesippus rushes “to help,” but his help consists in exclamatory praise of the argument. Dionysodorus clearly does not know where to stop: he latches on to Ctesippus’ exclamation “bravo, Heracles!” (Πυππὰξ ὦ Ἡράκλεις, 303a6) to ask whether Heracles is a bravo or a bravo Heracles. Ctesippus too, like Socrates, gives up. His earlier role as an unhelpful aide is here echoed through the reference to Heracles, which recalls the interlude on Heracles, Iolaus, the Hydra and the Crab; the broader section starting after that interlude is here closed off neatly. There are then two major sections in this final scene: the first one, from the beginning of the scene to the interlude, makes the central point of universal omniscience; the second one, from the interlude to the end of the scene, builds on that essential point in ways to be discussed extensively below. But let us first take a look at a schema of the structure of the scene: (i) Euthydemus – Socrates → on omniscience Dionysodorus – Socrates → on omniscience *Ctesippus asks for proof Euthydemus – Socrates → on omniscience Socrates – both sophists: Refutation of omniscience (ii) Socrates – Dionysodorus → on nephews, fathers, mothers, brothers Euthydemus – Ctesippus → on fathers Dionysodorus – Ctesippus → on fathers (iii) Euthydemus – Ctesippus: Refutation #1 → on having goods Dionysodorus – Ctesippus: Refutation #2 → on having goods (iv) Euthydemus – Ctesippus: Refutation #3 → on things capable of seeing (v) Dionysodorus – Ctesippus: Refutation #4 → on silent things speaking Euthydemus – Ctesippus/ Dionysodorus’ intervention: Ctesippus’ victory (vi) Socrates – Dionysodorus → beautiful particulars vs. the absolute beautiful → cooking the cook → Socrates has no gods

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It has been argued that the structural principle of the first two eristic scenes was the double: arguments were organized in pairs, questions framed as binary oppositions, proofs based on double meanings, etc. The same pattern might be expected in this final eristic scene. This is in fact the impression one originally gets from the two initial arguments on omniscience, one building on the other. But exactly at the point that the initial pair is concluded, Ctesippus jumps into the discussion, and the structural basis of the scene shifts for the first time.¹⁶⁹ Section (i) argues for omniscience, progressively expanding the claim until it acquires universal applicability in the past, present, and future. It is followed by a refutation: Socrates proves that he himself doesn’t know everything, and implies that neither do the sophists. Section (ii) consists in claims about nephews, brothers, fathers and mothers. Then follows a series of five refutations, with Ctesippus’ victory over the sophist reserved for the climactic position. Section (iii) discusses whether possessing goods first in as great a quantity as possible, then always and everywhere, is good, and so these two arguments, much like the ones on omniscience and fatherhood, have implications of universality. Section (iv) asks whether people can see what can be seen, and (v) whether speaking and silence can go together. In the final section (vi) Ctesippus again recedes to the background as Socrates returns to discuss with Dionysodorus, who remains the sole questioner in a series of three arguments. There is a gradual increase not only in the length of the eristic scenes, but also in their complexity. The original purpose of the discussion with the sophists was to convince Cleinias to pursue philosophy and virtue. But as the dialogue progressed, the focus shifted away from Cleinias himself, questioned by the sophists only in the first eristic scene, and his role was taken up by Ctesippus. Moreover, in the first scene Cleinias was the sole interlocutor of the sophists, while in the second Ctesippus was followed by Socrates, who intervened to calm him down and then for the first time refuted the sophists. In the third scene Socrates is the new interlocutor of the brothers; soon Ctesippus reappears, before Socrates returns for the finale. Moreover, the opening scene of the internal dialogue created the expectation that Cleinias would be the sole interlocutor of the sophists. But as we moved from one eristic scene to the next there was a progression from the youngest and least intellectually challenging interlocutor to the oldest and most intellectually able. We would then expect the series to be completed with Socrates. But

 This is not to say that doubles are entirely absent from the final eristic scene. We still find disjunctive questions, or arguments based on the double meaning of words or phrases. But the neat structuring in pairs of arguments is abandoned.

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in fact Ctesippus reappears right after the philosopher has refuted the sophists in the final scene. Why? Ctesippus is quite different here than earlier in the dialogue. He challenges the sophists in five consecutive arguments, and seems to have understood exactly what the proper way is to deal with them. His manner is playful, since taking them seriously only led to a dead-end – or almost to blows – before. Having learnt the sophistic tricks, he now uses them against the sophists: Ctesippus takes eristic and turns it on its head.¹⁷⁰ In so doing, he demonstrates that it is actually possible to learn the technique of the sophists, and indeed very fast. Learning about virtue, however, is a completely different story.

2.2 The Three Eristic Scenes as a Continuum 2.2.1 Forms and Recollection in the Third Eristic Scene There is a concentration of central Platonic views familiar from other dialogues put in the mouth of the sophists in this final scene.¹⁷¹ Scholars occasionally point them out, but in passing, without accounting for them. For example Hawtrey argues that “it is difficult to say why Plato puts his own doctrines into the despised mouths of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus; I am inclined to suspect that he is enjoying himself and entertaining his more intelligent readers.”¹⁷² In what follows I would like first to list these references, so that it might become clear that they are concentrated in the final eristic scene, and then suggest an explanation for their presence at this point in the dialogue. First, as Friedländer argues, the claim with which the third eristic scene opens alludes to the Theory of Forms.¹⁷³ The sophistic claim is that one knows

 In taking this view I disagree with Jackson (1990) 381– 385 and McCabe (2008) 114– 115; cf. 120, who see Ctesippus as “captivated” by the eristic method and therefore genuinely developing eristic tendencies.  Chance (1992) 154 notes a single occurrence of Platonic views presented by the sophists: “using the theory of recollection as the serious model from which this eristic travesty could deviate, Plato has shown how his very own teaching, which is designed to make us dogged workers and committed seekers after truth, can be warped by a philosophical mutant into an eristic λόγος that can, in turn, obliterate all the benefits made possible by anamnesis.” I agree with this interpretation, but intend to show that such references to Platonic views in the Euthydemus are recurrent and consistent.  Hawtrey (1981) 166. See also Erler (1987) 246 – 248 and 253.  Friedländer (1964) 192; cf. Hawtrey (1981) 141. For a discussion of the ‘Status der Ideen’ in the Charmides, Euthydemus, and Lysis see Baltes (2000); even though he notes only the most

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everything on account of knowing one thing; similarly the Theory implies that one is capable of identifying a set of things as sharing a certain quality because of the presence in them of a single Form. A multitude of things, then, becomes knowable on account of one’s knowledge of the corresponding Form. Moreover, the emphasis in the early sections of the scene on the idea of universality has already been noted; the Forms too are universal, in the sense that they constitute the common property of all souls before they enter the body. The section on omniscience also alludes to the Theory of Recollection.¹⁷⁴ The sophists claim that Socrates has known everything for all time – even before he was born. This is a clear echo of the theory expounded first in the Meno and later in the Phaedo, according to which knowledge of certain things can be attested in an individual who has not undergone the necessary training that would account for its possession. The slave boy in the Meno is shown to have some knowledge of mathematics, even though he has never been educated on the subject. So he must have acquired this knowledge in a previous state of existence. He can be induced to recall it through a process of question and answer, provided that the right questions are put to him. This theory is used later in the Phaedo as an argument in favor of the immortality of the soul. It was noted above that in the Euthydemus it is Socrates who encourages the sophists to expand their claim of omniscience to include knowledge throughout time by himself posing the question whether they have possessed universal knowledge all along. Socrates essentially urges the brothers to speak about anamnesis. Keulen’s explanation is convincing: “so macht Sokrates seinerseits aber auch gleichzeitig darauf aufmerksam, unter welchen erschlichenen Bedingungen es zu der überraschenden und unmöglichen Schlußfolgerung in jedem einzelnen Fall kommen konnte.”¹⁷⁵ If the sophists want everyone to know everything, then Socrates implicitly suggests that this is possible only through acquaintance with the Forms. In light of the allusion to the Theory of Forms in the first section of the scene, it seems plausible to conclude that the subsequent reference to things that can and cannot be seen points to the world of perception as opposed to that of the Forms. Note that the metaphor employed in the Republic is precisely that of the philosopher viewing the Forms, and having his eyes hurt, while those remaining in the cave do not get to see them (Rep. 7. 515c – e). The question posed by the sophists whether one can see what is impossible for one to see acquires new explicit allusion to Forms in the Euthydemus (at 300e), he provides a useful overview of how Forms are understood in these dialogues, which he identifies as early.  Cf. Hawtrey (1981) 149.  Keulen (1971) 45.

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meaning: the Forms are presented in the Republic as entities that the philosopher comes to see – but they are in fact invisible, and only seen with the mind’s eye. Through this metaphor the philosopher comes to see the invisible. Finally in the closing section of the internal dialogue, Dionysodorus’ question about the beautiful particulars as opposed to the absolute beautiful is a very Socratic question to ask. One may think of the Hippias Major, for example, where the philosopher tries to get Hippias to recognize that there is a difference between beautiful particulars and the beautiful as an absolute (H. Maj. 286c – 291d); similarly in the Theaetetus Socrates attempts to make the young man distinguish between various kinds of knowledge on the one hand and their common quality on the other, which allows one to identify them all as knowledge, and so as members of the same general category (Theaet. 146d – e). But Dionysodorus does not only ask whether the beautiful things are the same as the beautiful (301a1). When Socrates argues that the beautiful things are different from the beautiful itself (301a3 – 4), although there is some beauty in each of them, Dionysodorus follows up with a question regarding the way in which the presence of the absolute beautiful might make something else beautiful. Dionysodorus is essentially, and apparently unbeknownst to him, speaking of F-ness being present in F and accounting for its being F. There seems to be not a mere reference to definitions here, but yet another allusion to the Theory of Forms.¹⁷⁶ How, then, is one to account for the existence of this Platonic material as a substratum of the eristic scene? The reasons why allusions to Platonic theories are put in the mouth of the sophists and reserved for the final scene can be better comprehended in the context of the entire dialogue. In what follows, therefore, I show how the individual and seemingly disconnected scenes can be read as a continuum, and how that helps explain the allusion to Platonic theories in the third eristic scene.

2.2.2 The Continuum So far I have discussed each eristic scene in its own right. I have focused on the internal structure, the primary sophistic techniques, and the contribution of the

 Jackson (1990) 388 – 394 discusses this section without making any mention of Forms; but see Mohr (1984). For a general discussion of the transition from definitions to Forms in Plato see Dancy (2006).

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dramatic elements to a full understanding of the scenes. I now turn to examine the three scenes taken together.¹⁷⁷ The sophists originally show some care in fulfilling the task assigned to them by Socrates. The issue of learning, on which they focus in the first eristic scene, is relevant to a discussion about virtue and philosophy, and it looks as though asking a potential student like Cleinias who the person learning is and what he learns are good preliminary questions leading in the right direction. It is just that the potential student is so dismayed by the aggressive attitude of his intended teachers that he cannot follow through; the sophists, on the other hand, are not really interested in teaching. In the second scene, in which the goal is either to convince Cleinias to practice philosophy or to show him which kind of knowledge he should seek to acquire in order to become happy, the things the sophists set out to prove appear to bear no relevance to these questions. They are presented as a mere response to Ctesippus’ criticism in the beginning of the scene. In the final scene, in which the aim is to determine the kind of knowledge leading to happiness, the sophists do not identify it, but claim that everyone has it; the remainder of the scene seems to consist of arguments apparently formulated completely at random, as the sophists latch on to comments made by their interlocutors to formulate their own arguments.¹⁷⁸

 To my knowledge, no discussion of the connections between the eristic scenes has been undertaken so far in scholarship on the Euthydemus, with the exception of Bonitz (1863) 105 – 115, who argues for a certain order underlying the eristic arguments.  The instances of this technique of latching on to a chance remark by an interlocutor to formulate a new argument are recurrent throughout the final scene: when Socrates mentions Iolaus, Dionysodorus introduces the argument about Iolaus being his nephew (297d1 ff.); when Ctesippus claims that even a dog could be Euthydemus’ father, Dionysodorus argues that Ctesippus hits his own dog and hence his father (298d5 ff.); following up on Ctesippus’ remark that the parents of the sophists will have enjoyed many goods on account of their children’s wisdom, Euthydemus claims that no one needs many goods (299a1 ff.); when Ctesippus claims that the Scythians look into the skulls they use as cups, Euthydemus asks whether they see what can be seen or not (299e7 ff.); Ctesippus doubts that it is possible for one to say nothing and yet speak, and thereupon Dionysodorus asks him if it is possible for silent things to speak (300a7 ff.); when Socrates asks Cleinias why he is laughing at beautiful things, Dionysodorus asks if those are the same as the beautiful itself or not (300e ff.); Socrates’ mention of what is an appropriate task for the sophists allows Dionysodorus to argue that it is appropriate that a cook be cooked (301c3 ff.); finally, when Socrates comments that everything ought to start from Euthydemus and end with Dionysodorus, the latter shifts the meaning of the word Socrates employed from “starting” to “ruling over one” and formulates the final argument of the dialogue. Even when Ctesippus exclaims πυππάξ in alleged admiration of the sophist, Dionysodorus asks whether Heracles is πυππάξ or πυππάξ Heracles (303a5 ff.).

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Chance has argued that “eristic is without an end or goal toward which its inquiry advances, for it does not ‘advance’ in any ordinary sense of that word – it just bounces back and forth between antinomous poles;”¹⁷⁹ and this is indeed the impression the reader gains even after a number of readings of the Euthydemus. In a similar vein Rappe comments that the fallacies in the dialogue “make for an annoying read even if they do hold some kind of dialectical interest… Why does Plato bother us with these quibbling siblings?”¹⁸⁰ If Plato merely aims to poke fun at men like his Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, the joke seems to last a bit too long: why so much fuss when the absurdity is obvious? Scholars have occasionally raised this question about the eristic scenes of the Euthydemus, but no satisfactory answer has been proposed so far; students of the dialogue typically explain the fallacies in the eristic arguments and otherwise dismiss the scenes as a long joke.¹⁸¹ But in fact there is a serious puzzle here, to which yet another must be added: the explanations so far proposed for the concentration of allusions to Platonic views in the final scene are not entirely satisfying either.¹⁸² These two factors suggest that there is something more to this dialogue, whose eristic scenes in particular have been treated at best as an unsystematic handbook of fallacies. The sophists are indeed depicted as carelessly jumping from one point to the next, without any specific end in view. But this character sketch is only part of what the author is up to. In what follows I argue that there is much more than the fun and the fallacies to the three eristic scenes. There is in fact a way in which they can be read as a continuum, telling, as it were, a single story; this “story” is related to the parallel one of the protreptic scenes; and so the dialogue must be read at two levels: at surface level, the eristic scenes appear unrelated, the sophists latch on to the chance comments of their interlocutors to formulate arguments, and the jocular quality of the interactions is predominant; at a deeper level, however, the eristic scenes are intricately connected, the arguments themselves have implications relevant to Platonic theories, and very serious material lies available for the attentive reader.  Chance (1992) 56.  Rappe (2000) 286.  But see Scolnicov (2013) 71– 83 for a recent acknowledgement of the seriousness of the eristic scenes.  Kahn (2000), for example, suggests that the references to Forms and Recollection serve as a preview of issues with which Plato intends to grapple in later dialogues, sketching the main areas with which philosophy is concerned. True though this might be, it still leaves open the question of their function within the Euthydemus. Since the dialogue stands on its own, as an individual work, it calls for interpretation not only in light of other dialogues, but also in its own right.

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The first eristic scene essentially poses and attempts to answer a single (albeit twofold) question: who learns what? Since Socrates points out that μανθάνειν is ambiguous, the question may be rephrased as “who understands what.” In the context of the arguments, understanding arises from knowledge already acquired. The ambiguity of μανθάνειν creates a conflation between learning as a process of coming to know and knowledge as a state of having come to know. With knowledge placed at the center of attention, then, the attempt is to identify its subject and object: who may acquire it, and what is it exactly that one may acquire? Moreover, that knowledge is conceived of as possessed either in full or not at all, for people may be either wise or ignorant, and no middle ground between wisdom and ignorance is acknowledged. But in fact the acquisition of knowledge occupies precisely that middle ground: a man who comes to know progresses from ignorance to knowledge, from one thing to its opposite – and he must know that he does not know in order to learn. Since the sophists reject both possible answers to their questions, the first eristic scene only manages to pose the question with which the reader is left at its conclusion: who comes to know/ has come to know what? In the second eristic scene the sophists make two claims: false statement is impossible, and refutation is impossible. But in fact the entire scene relies on a single claim, the impossibility of falsehood. For, if no one can make a false statement, there will be nothing for anyone to refute.¹⁸³ Socrates draws out the consequences of this claim: it amounts to the denial of ignorance. The second eristic scene, then, responds to the question of the first one: if no one is ignorant, everyone knows; the subject who knows is identified as everyone. The object has not been explicitly determined yet: one may make no mistakes in the things he does know, but need not know everything; put a different way, the things with respect to which no one is ignorant have not been explicitly specified. Note that here too the arguments on the impossibility of falsehood and contradiction rely on the use of a set of notions presented as mutually exclusive and exhaustive: what is and what is not. No middle ground is allowed between these two either, as it was not between wisdom and ignorance, or the things one knows and the things one does not know, in the first eristic scene. As one might have come to expect, the third eristic scene turns to the question that was left open at the end of the second eristic scene, i. e. the object of knowledge. The scene starts with the long section on omniscience throughout  Of course the sophists could refute true statements. But they grant that no one can make a false statement and no one can believe anything false (286d1– 10); so everyone must believe and say what is true; and if everyone believes what is true of things, there can be no difference of opinion on any given topic, and therefore no contradiction.

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time, which provides the sophistic answer to the question of the object of knowledge: it is everything. Again, this answer relies on a set of contraries, the knower and the non-knower, with no middle status allowed between the two. The following schema summarizes the links between the eristic scenes which I have proposed so far: 1st eristic scene: Question: who comes to know/ knows what Question relies on: wisdom vs. ignorance (no middle) 2nd eristic scene: Answer: everyone knows Answer relies on: being vs. non-being (no middle) 3rd eristic scene: Answer: knows everything Answer relies on: knower vs. non-knower (no middle) There is a break in the narrative after this point: Socrates compares himself to Heracles, and the epistemological issues are dropped for good. The remaining sections of the scene do not raise irrelevant issues. But before I show how they may be read, I turn for a moment to the protreptics. The first eristic scene had posed a question, which it left unanswered: what is the object of knowledge? The first protreptic poses the same question, which it too leaves unanswered: one needs knowledge to be happy – but what form of knowledge is that? What does it consist in? Albeit in very different ways, the first eristic and the first protreptic scenes run parallel. The second protreptic attempts to determine the object of the knowledge that will make people happy and good, but fails to do so. If the object of that knowledge, unspecified at the end of the second protreptic, is (as I argued in the previous chapter) identified as the Forms, is that relevant to the sophistic claims of the immediately preceding and following eristic scenes? In fact it is. The claim of the impossibility of falsehood and therefore ignorance in the second eristic scene prepares the way for the claim of omniscience in the beginning of the third. When the sophists claim that they know everything, Socrates urges them to add that they have always done so. So he forces on them what sounds like the claim that they have had an acquaintance with the Forms before they were born. The allusions to Forms and Recollection in the third eristic scene now become meaningful; the Forms are the object of knowledge sought ever since the first eristic and first protreptic scenes. The sophists’ response to

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the question of the object of knowledge sought is “everything,” and the way in which it is formulated points to the Forms; the response to the same question implied in the second protreptic scene also points to the Forms; and so the eristic and protreptic scenes continue to run parallel. Sophists and philosophers are presented as mirror-images of each other: in claiming that everyone knows everything, the sophists sound ridiculously absurd; and yet in a sense they echo the very advocates of Recollection and the Forms; for they too claim that, in a sense, everyone “knows” everything, i. e. has an a priori knowledge of Forms, which he must recollect. The respective views of the two parties may appear dangerously similar, and misconceptions about what truly is philosophy are likely to arise. Moreover, the eristic scenes, typically regarded as Plato’s long joke, accomplish much more than merely contributing to the comic quality of the dialogue: properly read, they illustrate the very real danger of conflation between philosophy and eristic. A way has thus been suggested in which the eristic scenes can be taken quite seriously. In this sense one may speak of “serious” sophistry being juxtaposed to the “playful” philosophy of the protreptic scenes.

2.2.3 Two Eristic Assumptions The third scene began with the claim of universal omniscience, which relied on the removal of a qualifier: every man was a knower, but the “of what” question was suppressed. The term ἐπιστήμων is normally used to refer to a person that possesses knowledge of something; despite the sophistic claims, it is not the case that the term, when used without qualification, is employed to refer to the omniscient man. It remains an incomplete term, in need of qualification. The sophists rely on two assumptions: first, the term does not need that qualification; second, the knower in an unqualified sense is opposite to the (equally unqualifiedly) non-knower, with no middle condition between the two. The first assumption is evident also in the immediately following section on fathers and other relatives: as in the opening series of arguments, so here a qualification is omitted. The sophists would earlier not allow that one could be a knower of something, and now that one could be a father of someone. ¹⁸⁴ The sec-

 By resisting qualifications of this sort, the sophists essentially deny the possibility of things relating to each other. They claim instead that the objects of inquiry are to be examined only in their own right, and that all possible connections to things beyond them must be left aside. McCabe (1999) comes to a similar conclusion but in the different context of a discussion of the impossibility of contradiction (second eristic scene): “the Euthd., investigating as it does the

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ond assumption does not apply, for there is indeed no middle ground between fatherhood and non-fatherhood, as there is in the case of knowledge and ignorance. Now the of what question is crucial in the case of experts: it is only natural to ask a person claiming to have knowledge what the object of that knowledge is. This is what Crito asks Socrates in the beginning of the dialogue: what the wisdom of the sophists consists in. This is also what Socrates asks Cleinias in the second protreptic: what the wisdom or knowledge or art that leads to happiness and virtue consists in. Finally, the Euthydemus not only starts but also ends on this note, through Socrates’ final advice to Crito to determine the object of philosophy before seeking the appropriate teachers.¹⁸⁵ A central concern of the dialogue, then, is to identify the object of the knowledge, or to answer the “of what” question, as regards both the sophists and the philosophers. The answer implied by both the protreptic and the eristic scenes is the Forms. The identification of the specific object of knowledge is a central theme in other dialogues too, in which sophists claim to possess some sort of knowledge. When in the Protagoras, for example, Hippocrates appears convinced to become a student of the famous sophist, Socrates urges him to determine what exactly it is that he expects to learn from him (Protag. 311b – 313c). Many may claim to have knowledge, but determining its object is critical; and it is exactly this crucial question that the sophists of the Euthydemus attempt to bypass. So much for the first assumption on which the sophists rely in the third eristic scene; now the second assumption, that there is no middle ground between two opposites, such as the knower and the non-knower, is related to an issue possibility of contradiction, is interested in the relations between different ‘things,’ where those relations are construed not only in terms of identity of one thing, but also in terms of its nonidentity from others” (pp. 149 – 150); but the sophists hold that “for any two concrete things, they are either quite cut off from each other, or they collapse into one another, and there is only one thing after all” (p. 150); the sophists then present what they take to be true of things as equally true of statements: “So any statement that has a bearing on any other is the clone of that other; any statement that is different from another has no bearing on it” (p. 150). The practice McCabe notes in the second eristic scene is in fact the same as the one I observe in the third. Zeyl (1999) 173 – 74 finds McCabe’s attribution of systematic principles to the sophists problematic, and I share his concern. But it is still possible that Plato shows consistent interest in certain issues, which find expression through characters themselves inconsistent. More significantly, Zeyl p. 173 doubts that there is enough textual evidence to suggest that the sophists deny the possibility of relations between things; it is true that McCabe infers that statements cannot contain the objects of other statements, otherwise contradiction would be possible – but this seems to me a reasonable way of understanding what is meant by the sophistic claim that each thing has its proper description, which may not overlap with the description proper for a different thing.  For a full discussion of this see Chapter 3.

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arising also in the previous two eristic scenes. We saw that in the second one “what is” and “what is not” are presented as mutually exclusive and exhaustive, i. e. with no middle ground between them. Similarly in the first one there is only room for wisdom and ignorance, with no evident middle between the two ends of the spectrum. So many eristic arguments can be shown to rely on such contraries, between which no middle ground is allowed; the recurrent binary oppositions of the first eristic scene set the tone for what follows less explicitly in the remaining two scenes. But for learning, which is at the heart of this dialogue and crucial for what sophists and philosophers profess to do, that middle ground is necessary as a transition and testing ground on the path to knowledge.¹⁸⁶ The assumption that x and non-x are mutually exclusive and exhaustive is a very familiar puzzle, lying at the center of the digression of the Sophist (237a – 259d). There the Eleatic Stranger is at pains to show that the two are not in fact contraries; “non-x” must be understood to mean “different from x,” rather than “contrary to x.” Take x to be “large,” for example; what is “not-large” is not necessarily “small,” but may well be something of average size, lying between “large” and “small.” We saw that in all three eristic scenes the sophists deny any middle ground between two extremes: between wisdom and ignorance in the first, what is (or being) and what is not (or non-being) in the second, knowledge and ignorance in the third. Clearly, the central issues here are knowledge and being. They might seem unrelated; but in the Republic they are inextricably connected: what is knowable is identified as “what is,” what is not knowable as “what is not,” and there is middle ground between the two, that of opinion and of what “is and is not” (Rep. 477d7– 478e6).¹⁸⁷ The employment of mutually exclusive and exhaustive terms throughout the sophistic argumentation is no mere joke or coincidence. It is rather a literary device put to philosophical use: the repeated occurrence of contraries relating to knowledge and being first points to the connection between these two in the Republic; then the Sophist shows that such alleged contraries are not in fact mutually exclusive and exhaustive; taken together, these two intertexts illuminate the sophistic arguments of the Euthydemus. The implication of these arguments is that, in denying the existence of any middle ground between wisdom and ignorance, and in claiming to possess knowledge (or wisdom), the sophists place

 There is in fact an example of learning as a process taking place within the dialogue in the case of Ctesippus, who clearly learns the technique of the sophists.  For the intimate connection between knowledge and being or, more broadly, between epistemology and metaphysics in Plato, see White (1992) 277– 280; 284– 285.

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themselves in the one end of the spectrum, instead of admitting their middle position.¹⁸⁸ The two brothers have barely gone through the intermediary period that we call learning: the speed with which they acquired their knowledge is emphasized early on in the dialogue. The Republic, on the other hand, proposes a full-scale program through which the philosopher is to progress from opinion to knowledge, which he is to acquire by viewing the Forms. So, while the sophists claim to be teachers in possession of knowledge, their arguments are formulated on the basis of a binary opposition which completely bypasses the process of learning, and so essentially undermines this very claim. The need to acknowledge the existence of the middle ground in the process of learning comes up also in the Symposium (201e3 – 202b5). There Socrates reports the speech on love he had heard from Diotima. Socrates had suggested to the woman from Mantinea that Eros was a great god, but she had objected to his identification of the god as fair and good. Socrates had rushed to ask whether she then held him to be shameful and bad. Diotima explained that whatever is not fair need not be shameful, and that the same applies also to wisdom and ignorance; in the middle ground between these two lies true opinion.¹⁸⁹ A little later in the dialogue Diotima places Eros, and the philosophers, among those lying between wisdom and ignorance (204a8 – b1).¹⁹⁰ So, in the Symposium, the philosopher is placed precisely in the middle between two extremes.¹⁹¹ And

 In the Third Lecture of his recent book on the Euthydemus, Scolnicov (2013) also discusses the two brothers’ rejection of middle ground between opposites, or their endorsement of the Parmenidean Principle of Non-Contradiction; and he adds the insightful observation that, if there is only one mode of being, in itself, and not relational, as the sophists would have it, serious problems arise for the Platonic theory of participation. For “[t]he idea is present in the sensible thing, not as it is in itself but in a relational mode, i. e. as it is in relation to the sensible medium in which it is reflected” (pp. 52– 53).  Cf. Rosen (1968) 227, who notes without further elaboration: “[Socrates’] attitude is represented, in the initial exchange with Diotima, as an ignorance of the difference between contraries and contradictories: a “logical” version of the ignorance of the intermediate.” Sier (1997) 22 makes the interesting observation that the representation of eros as neither simply good nor simply bad in the Symposium provides a contrast to the speeches first in condemnation and then in praise of eros in the Phaedrus.  See Scott and Welton (2008) 91– 106 for an illuminating discussion of the placement of love and philosophy in the middle between two opposites.  Wardy (2002) presents a very interesting structural analysis of the Symposium, in which he identifies a number of “polarities” or “opposites,” collapsing, maintained, or simply problematized in the work. This technique he links to the Heraclitean theory of the “unity of opposites,” according to which unity arises from tension between opposites. In his extensive discussion he lists numerous such polarities, such as the public and the private, the male and

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while a philosopher may only claim to be on the upward path to knowledge, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus rush to claim full possession of it. There are further connections between the two dialogues; Socrates’ discussions with Agathon and Diotima in the Symposium in fact seem to state explicitly a number of things which are only implicit in the Euthydemus. At Symp. 199c Socrates seeks a definition of eros. So he asks Agathon if love is τινος, i. e. if it is love of something. To illustrate his point, he offers the example of a father (199d), who is similarly a father of someone. ¹⁹² Of course this “of what” (or “of whom”)¹⁹³ question has come up already in the third eristic scene of the Euthydemus, where the very same example of the father was used. As in the Euthydemus (298d), so too in the Symposium, the examples of the mother and brother follow. These examples of family relations serve to illustrate in the Symposium the relation between love and its object, as they illustrate the relation between knowledge and its object in the Euthydemus. In other words, the “of what” question of the Euthydemus points to the need to specify the object of knowledge in the same way that in the Symposium the same question points to the need to specify the object of love. Soon, love and knowledge will be linked in the Symposium, and the connection between that dialogue and our text will be further reinforced. Once it has been determined that love requires an object, Socrates returns to his initial investigation of the nature of eros (Symp. 199e – 200a); in due course he and Agathon identify that object by agreeing that love is of what one lacks, i. e. the beautiful and good. Next, Socrates narrates his conversation with Diotima (201e ff.). In the beginning of this narration, his mistaken view on opposites between which there is no middle ground is corrected – and the very opposites discussed here are wisdom and ignorance, just as in the Euthydemus. Eros, no longer defined as a god but as μέγας δαίμων, is placed in the middle ground between gods and mortals. Lovers and philosophers are then placed in

the female, etc., which are for the most part implicit in the work, and only noticed by an attentive reader; in the Euthydemus, I argue, similar polarities resurface in the eristic scenes, yet this time they are much more explicit: the sophists consistently frame their questions as invitations to their interlocutor to choose between oppposites. Pursuing the question of the larger significance of the use of such polarities, implicit or explicit, across dialogues is beyond the scope of this work, but certainly an issue worthy of closer examination.  Hunter (2004) 80 suggests that the emphasis on the relational character of eros is meaningful within the context of the Symposium as a critical response to Agathon’s speech. Scott and Welton (2008) 84– 85 note that bringing up relations between family members point to yet another kind of love, understood as philia, which had not been central to the discussion on love in the dialogue thus far.  As Dover (1980) 133 – 134 notes, the Greek is convenient here because τινος can be used for both persons and objects.

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the middle ground between wisdom and ignorance. The object of love is here defined as the good, which one wishes both to obtain and to retain forever for the sake of happiness (204e – 205a). A parallel is therefore drawn between love in general and love of wisdom (or philosophy) in particular: generic lovers and lovers of wisdom alike are placed in the middle between two extremes, wisdom and ignorance. It is precisely this middle which the sophists of the Euthydemus claim not to occupy in presenting themselves as teachers and possessors of knowledge. The issue of the existence of middle ground between two extremes is raised again, both repeatedly and explicitly, in the Philebus. In this dialogue Socrates and Protarchus set out to define pleasure in order to determine whether it is a good, or whether wisdom, thinking, and the like are better. Both men agree that pleasure is of many kinds, which raises the familiar question of how a thing can be both one and many. In this context Socrates identifies one with unity, many with infinity, and then emphasizes that what is truly significant is to determine the exact number between the one and the infinite. But he notes that “the wise men of today” pay no attention to that middle ground, and in so doing they practice an eristic method of argumentation (16c – 17a).¹⁹⁴ An example follows to illustrate Socrates’ view: sound is one and at the same time infinite in number; one is not made wise by the mere acknowledgement of this fact; instead, one is wise with respect to music when he is able to distinguish the intervals between individual sounds and to determine their exact number (17a – e). So it becomes clear that, for Socrates, the eristic method fails to pay attention to what actually makes one wise with respect to his particular field of knowledge. For wisdom is in fact acquired through knowledge of the middle ground between two opposites. As we have seen, this practice of denying the existence of the middle, described as eristic in the Philebus, is amply attested in the eristic arguments of the Euthydemus. A similar point is made at 43d – 44d. Here Socrates argues for the existence of three possible ways of life. Aside from a pleasant and a painful one, he insists that there is also a middle way, which one may not identify with either the pleasant or the painful. So pleasant and painful are not mutually exclusive and exhaustive, because there is a way of life understood as lying between these two, and consisting in lack of both pain and pleasure. Now, we are told that philosophical opponents of Philebus would dispute this claim, for they hold that pleasure simply amounts to lack of pain. So, for them, there are only two options: a life of pain and a life of non-pain, which they identify with the life of

 See Frede (1997) 144– 145 for an analysis of how eristic sophists employ this fallacious practice.

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pleasure. While the opponents of Philebus take it that pain and non-pain are mutually exclusive and exhaustive, Socrates argues that pain and pleasure (as distinct from non-pain) are the two ends of the spectrum, with non-pain (and nonpleasure) placed in between these two. The relevance of this passage to the Euthydemus lies in the fact that the Socrates of the Philebus argues for the existence of middle ground between two opposites, which are thought by others to be mutually exclusive and exhaustive.¹⁹⁵ To sum up: the Sophist shows the invalidity of the claim that x and non-x are mutually exclusive and exhaustive, indicating that there is middle ground between the two; the Philebus specifies that the practice of rejecting the middle is eristic, and argues against it; the Republic emphasizes the importance of the middle ground of opinion between wisdom and ignorance; and the Symposium places the philosopher precisely in that middle ground. The sophists of the Euthydemus refuse to acknowledge that they too must at best occupy that middle ground between wisdom and ignorance which, in the Republic, corresponds to the realm of opinion. Note that the fallacy of the excluded middle seems relevant to the account Socrates gives of the unnamed logographer in his final address to Crito. Close to the end of the Euthydemus, Socrates presents a whole theory about “the man in the middle.” Whatever lies in the middle between two things is understood to be composed of these two (306a2 – 3), and turns out to be one of three things: a) if the two components are the one bad, the other good, then the thing in the middle is better than the bad but worse than the good; b) if the two components are both good but with respect to different things, then the thing composed is worse than both components; c) if the two components are both bad but with respect to different things, then the thing in the middle is better than its components (306a3 – b2). Now take philosophy and politics to be both good, which is case b: then the man practicing both is inferior to the men¹⁹⁶ practicing just one of the two; if one practice is good and the other bad, which is case a, then the man in the middle is inferior to the practitioners of the one but superior to the practitioners of the

 The additional complication of the Philebus is that the two opposites in Socrates’ view (pain and pleasure) are not the same as the two opposites in the view of Philebus’ opponents (pain and non-pain). But it remains the case that Socrates emphasizes here the need to acknowledge middle ground between these opposites.  Note that there is an interesting conflation in the text between the practitioners of philosophy or politics and the practices themselves; Socrates in fact compares the men who practice both philosophy and politics not to men who practice just one of the two, but to the individual practices themselves.

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other; and only if both are bad, then, according to case c, the man in the middle is superior to both of the two others. But philosophy and politics must be both good, and so the man in the middle finds himself in the worst possible position (306b2 – c5). Students of the Euthydemus typically summarize this passage, essentially without interpreting it – and it is no surprise, for it seems to make no sense in the context of the dialogue. Why is the anonymous critic of Socrates presented as “the man in the middle,” and what purpose does this elaborate theory about men and practices “in the middle” serve anyway? I do not propose to offer a full explanation here, but at least some progress can be made if one takes into account the eristic tendency to formulate arguments on the basis of binary oppositions between which there is thought to be no middle ground, as discussed above. In the case of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, but also of the philosophers, the middle position between wisdom and ignorance was taken to indicate the process of learning; by implication, both philosophers and sophists ought to acknowledge that they themselves were in that process. So, if to be “a man in the middle” comes to mean to be a learner, then our unnamed man of the end of the Euthydemus, identified as a middle-man of sorts, also seems to qualify as a learner rather than a teacher. He thus appears unjustified in presenting himself as a critic of others, because he is neither in possession of knowledge nor entitled to the confidence he seems to derive from it. Crito’s unnamed man is thought to possess knowledge about speech-writing and is in fact rather eminent on account of that (305c1– 4). But for Socrates he is still a man “in the middle,” and so no better than a philosopher, who only claims to be on the path to knowledge, but not in possession of it. The question as to why the man should be placed in the middle between philosophy and politics, rather than between wisdom and ignorance – which would make my argument much stronger – still remains. The arguments of the eristic scenes are formulated on the basis of opposites of the form x and nonx, whereas philosophy and politics are not mutually exclusive and exhaustive opposites. So the middle position here is of a different kind than the one discussed earlier.¹⁹⁷ But even if the correspondence is not exact, we are still presented with yet another “man in the middle” at the end of the dialogue, whose very identification as such brings to mind those other “men in the middle,” hinted at earlier in the text. Moreover, Socrates’ verdict on this man is the same as it would have been if he had been placed in the middle between wisdom and ignorance:

 I am thankful to Prof. S. Rangos for this observation.

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the unnamed man thinks he knows more than he actually does (305c6 – e2). And why should this man be placed between philosophy and politics in particular? I propose as a tentative solution to the puzzle that this serves the purpose of pointing the reader to the identification of the man as Isocrates.¹⁹⁸ There is one final, significant implication of the eristic rejection of the middle between two opposites. We have seen that in many dialogues the existence of this middle ground is emphasized. But note that these are all dialogues generally thought to belong to the middle or late period in Plato’s life. In the so-called Socratic ones, however, the situation is rather different: Socrates himself appears in these dialogues to commit the same error that the eristics do in the Euthydemus. Robinson has a very useful discussion of this: “Fallacious question is common in Plato’s early dialogues in the form of offering an inexhaustive set of alternatives: “Is A X or Y?”, where the truth is that it is neither. Such a question can be made especially plausible by a fallacious use of the law of excluded middle. If Socrates asks us whether A is X or not-X we feel that it must be one or the other; and yet the question whether justice itself is just or unjust is probably fallacious … Socrates often succeeds in getting a universal proposition accepted by representing that the only alternative is the contrary (“Is A X or not-X?”), when the truth is that “Some A is X and some is not” (e. g. Gorg. 507a7– 9, Alc. I, 126c).”¹⁹⁹ So if the Socrates of the early dialogues can be found guilty of the same logical errors that the two brothers commit in the Euthydemus – to which one must add fallacious ambiguity, as also pointed out in Robinson²⁰⁰ – what does this suggest for our interpretation of the present dialogue? It appears that yet another similarity is hinted at between the sophists and Socrates, which brings them dangerously close to one another. The eristics are “playful” in a way in which Socrates himself is also known to be, and this common practice suggests an additional reason why the conflation between the two is likely to occur. Albeit for very different purposes, the two parties employ rather similar, questionable tactics.

 A full discussion of the issue of the man’s identity is reserved for Chapter 4.  Robinson (1942) 98. I should also like to thank Prof. V. Tsouna for independently making the same observation upon reading an earlier draft of this chapter.  Robinson (1942) 98 – 99 and 106 – 114, where he presents arguments both in favor and against Plato’s consciousness of the fallacy of ambiguity; whether Plato had a concept of ambiguity as such, and whether he gave it a name or not, I think it is clear at least from the Euthydemus that he was aware of certain instances of it. Robinson’s position is not quite clear, because he challenges his own arguments in favor of awareness, without eventually drawing a detailed conclusion; but it seems that he too thinks that Plato is aware of this form of fallacy, although perhaps not to the greatest possible extent.

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There is, in fact, an instance of the fallacy of the excluded middle in the Euthydemus itself: as discussed in the relevant section of Chapter 1, Socrates juxtaposes the wise and the ignorant man in the good-fortune argument of the first protreptic (280a1– 5) in a way that is rather reminiscent of the sophists’ practice. Not only does he present Cleinias with two mutually exclusive and exhaustive opposites, but he also singles out the very terms presented as mutually exclusive and exhaustive by the sophists in the first, the beginning of the second, and essentially also the third eristic scenes. It must be intended for the reader to notice the similarity. Yet does this suggest that Socrates too, like the two brothers, fails to acknowledge that he occupies the middle ground between wisdom and ignorance? Socrates may be spared this criticism, for, unlike the brothers, he does not claim to be a teacher. It is not he who claims to possess and be able to transmit knowledge in the Euthydemus; in fact, no matter how ironically, he still fashions himself as a potential student of the sophists. Of course this is in keeping with his attitude in other dialogues as well, in which he emphatically presents himself to his interlocutors merely as their fellow-inquirer into the truth.²⁰¹ So if a philosopher is by definition a learner, then he must acknowledge – in fact, fully embrace – his “middle” position.

2.2.4 Back to the Continuum I have so far argued that a unifying principle underlies all five scenes of the internal dialogue, running at least until the beginning of the third eristic scene, where the claim of omniscience is made: the first eristic scene asks who comes to know what, just as the first protreptic scene identifies knowledge/ wisdom as the sole way to happiness, without, however, determining what it consists in; the second eristic scene provides the first part of the answer to the ques If both the brothers and Socrates fail to acknowledge the existence of middle ground between two opposites, if Socrates occasionally does the same in the early dialogues, and, finally, if this very practice is “corrected” in the middle-late dialogues, then what does this change suggest? Had Plato failed to notice the fallacy earlier, or was he aware of it? Is he distancing himself from the Socrates of the early dialogues? Might he have wished to illustrate an actual practice of the historical Socrates? An attempt to answer these complex questions would take us too far afield. It would require a thorough examination of the passages in which the fallacy is attested (and its function in context) as well as of the passages in which it is “corrected.” Suffice it for the moment simply to raise the question, without attempting to address an issue that, despite its overall significance, does not have direct bearing on the interpretation of the Euthydemus itself.

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tion posed in the first one by arguing that everyone knows; the third completes the answer by claiming that everyone knows everything; the second protreptic sandwiched between them implies that the knowledge sought consists in the Forms. Now this kind of knowledge is latent in everyone, and by knowing the Forms one may know everything. Socrates and the sophists appear to be saying things that sound rather similar but are rather different: the arguments of both point to the same object of knowledge (Forms, or everything); but while the sophistic arguments imply that there is no middle ground of opinion, or process through which one comes to acquire knowledge, evidence from other Platonic dialogues suggests that this is precisely the path the philosopher – and inevitably also the sophist – treads on. Despite the fact that the sophists do not make their claims in a serious way, the eristic scenes can and ought to be taken seriously. Let us now examine the remainder of the final scene of the internal dialogue and its role in the continuum for which I have argued. In the first part of this scene the eristic claims of universal knowledge throughout time are challenged by Socrates (296d8 – 297b8); the inconsistencies are of course exposed, but in order to avoid direct confrontation Socrates introduces a mythological exemplum. The sophists latch on to it to formulate an argument about nephews, fathers, mothers and brothers, in the course of which Ctesippus takes over from Socrates as their interlocutor. What the sophists deny in this long argument is the difference between, say, father in an absolute sense and the particular father of someone. This may be understood as applicable also to Forms and the corresponding perceptible objects: if a father in the absolute sense corresponds to the Form of fatherhood, then the father of Socrates is a particular instance of that Form – and there is a difference between these two, which the sophists refuse to acknowledge. The issue at hand, therefore, appears to be the relation between universals and particulars. The next section questions whether goods are appropriate in great quantities, always, everywhere, and whether they make one happy. In asking about the need to possess many goods, the sophists echo Socrates. This section, in fact, brings in the ethical questions raised in the protreptics: does one need many good things to be happy or does one of them suffice? Platonic metaphysics provides an answer to the central questions of Platonic ethics: if, in accordance with the protreptics, wisdom suffices to make one happy, one does not need many goods; indeed one only needs to acquire knowledge of the Forms. But if knowledge of the Forms is the particular sort of wisdom that makes one happy, what is the precise nature of these Forms? The section on seeing what cannot be seen that follows points to the invisibility of these intelligible entities, which one is to perceive with the mind’s eye.

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Once the philosophers have managed to view them, they are to transmit their knowledge to others. In their role as rulers, they will make the citizens good – and for this purpose they will employ dialectic. So the section on speaking that follows in the third eristic scene is fitting. In their attempt to transmit knowledge, some people may speak and yet say nothing – or talk nonsense; clearly, the sophists as alleged teachers of wisdom fall under this category. At this juncture Ctesippus imitates them by exploiting two particular elements of their technique: their rejection of qualifications and of the middle ground between opposites. If all things are not silent, all things will necessarily speak, he insists, and one may not qualify by distinguishing between certain things that do speak and others that do not. In the final section between Dionysodorus and Socrates the question of the relation between the Forms and the sensible objects arises afresh: how are individual objects made beautiful? This section points to the distinction between beautiful particulars and the Form of the Beautiful, and seems to question the theory of participation: how can a single, indivisible Form be in each particular beautiful thing? Thus the implied answer to the central question of the dialogue, concerning the object of the knowledge that leads to happiness, now appears to be questioned: if the object of knowledge sought is the Forms, understood as universals, it is unclear how they can be in the particulars. Dionysodorus wonders about the precise way in which the presence of beauty in a beautiful thing is to be understood, in the same way that in the Parmenides (130e – 131e) Parmenides asks Socrates in what way a Form is present in the particulars: is it present as a whole in each of them?²⁰² If that were the case, how could a single Form be present in multiple particulars at the same time? Socrates proposes that the Form could be analogous to a single day, which is present in many places at once, but Parmenides counters with the example of a sail spread over many people, in which case only parts of it are set over each individual. If the third eristic scene indeed hints at second thoughts about the Forms of the sort that we find in post-Republic dialogues, then we have good reason to think that the Euthydemus too is written after the Republic. ²⁰³ Its placement among the late dialogues would also account for its connections with the Sophist. ²⁰⁴ Moreover, the aporia of the second protreptic would be appropriate,

 See Sprague (1967b); more generally on the allusion to the Theory of Forms here see Friedländer (1964) 192, Guthrie (1975) 278 – 279, Hawtrey (1981) 174.  Cf. McCabe (2002).  For the close connection between the Euthydemus and the Sophist see also Smith (1975) 18 – 48. Smith makes the interesting observation that Euthydemus and Dionysodorus fit the defi-

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for it would point to a real problem: if the Forms are the object of knowledge, what is their exact nature? The “of what” question lingers at the end of the first protreptic, is not answered in the second, and then recurs in the third eristic scene; all this suggests that the way in which that question has been answered in the metaphysics of the Republic may be problematic. Socrates’ answer to Dionysodorus explains the theory of participation, which the sophist misinterprets. His misinterpretation is likely to imply criticism of the Forms. The sharp change in the narrative, with Socrates taking over from Ctesippus before this argument, might also suggest a change in the underlying content: if the answer to the central question of the object of knowledge has so far been the Forms, their precise nature remains unclear. But, more significantly, in a grotesquely distorted and comically outrageous way, the discussions of the sophists mirror the Socratic discussions – and the eristic versions of the Socratic themes come after their more serious exploration. Next, the discussion turns to objects appropriate for certain craftsmen; first, Dionysodorus and Socrates seek the craftsmen appropriate for specific objects of the respective crafts, but soon this is switched around to a search for the objects appropriate for specific craftsmen. The argument concerns the central question of an art, such as the one leading to happiness, and its appropriate teacher. It may then be read as follows: if the Forms are the object of the knowledge to be acquired, which craftsman is to transmit it? It cannot be the sophists, for they can at best identify the object of cookery.²⁰⁵ Knowledge of the Forms, as the particular sort of knowledge necessary and sufficient for happiness, can be provided only by the philosophers.

nition of the sophist given in the Sophist better than any other sophist in the Platonic corpus; he also discusses false statements, statements involving “other than,” and negative statements as issues raised in both works. For the suggestion that behind the Late-Learners of the Sophist (251b – c) we are not meant to see Antisthenes, but rather Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, see Brancacci (1999).  There is a possible connection with the Gorgias here (464b2– 465e1): in his discussion with Polus, Socrates identifies two arts that take care of the body, medicine and gymnastics, and two corresponding arts for the soul, legislation and justice. For each of these he identifies also four “empirical practices,” rather than arts, which aim at the pleasant rather than the good of the body and the soul respectively, and yet mislead people into thinking them as better than the corresponding arts. The empirical practice corresponding to legislation is sophistry, the one corresponding to justice, rhetoric; parallel to sophistry in the case of the body is embellishment, parallel to rhetoric is cookery. One could make a stronger case for the connection with the Euthydemus if cookery corresponded to sophistry in the Gorgias. But it is still close enough to merit attention.

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Socrates expresses his “admiration” for the sophistic wisdom, which has managed to identify the appropriate object of the art of cooking, and which he expects Dionysodorus to be able to pass on to him (301e1– 6). Right before its close, the third eristic scene is played all over again, essentially in the same labyrinthine way that the second protreptic scene had ended: in its beginning Socrates had asked the sophists to identify the knowledge that was the object of the art he sought, and they had claimed the ability to show that Socrates possessed it; now Dionysodorus has just identified the object of the art of cooking, whereupon Socrates reminds him of his professed ability to transmit that knowledge to him. The final section of the scene focuses on ruling. This too is relevant, for those in charge of transmitting their knowledge of the Forms will be the philosopher-rulers. But such men run the risk of displeasing their fellow-citizens back in the cave. In fact, they run the risk of being accused of having no gods – and that by men who themselves know nothing about Athenian religion. The final argument, in which Socrates is accused of having no gods or sanctuaries or anything good (302c1– 2), is set apart from all others, as it is the last and indeed the longest in the entire dialogue. Once again, it is not chosen at random. It restates one of the actual accusations raised against Socrates, to which he responds in the Apology. We are, I think, justified in thinking that Plato alludes to that text here, as he mounts a defense of his teacher. In the course of the third eristic scene the sophists have made the most provocative claims, have echoed and distorted the views of Socrates, and they now pass final judgment. But the reader should be able by now to read the philosopher’s silence in the appropriate way. Let us sum up. Socrates and the sophists essentially give the same answer to the question of knowledge: everyone knows everything. But the way in which this is understood by each party is rather different. For the sophists, the claim of omniscience marks the peak of their arrogance. For Socrates, omniscience refers to the Forms, and is relevant to the question of a happy life, so that ethics and metaphysics are inextricably linked. To be happy, one needs to come to know the Forms. For this purpose he needs the guidance of an actual teacher, who cannot be the sort of man who denies the very existence of the intermediate path from ignorance to wisdom. Further, the precise nature of these Forms, knowledge of which is to lead to eudaimonia, must be carefully determined. The sophists are unaware of the serious implications of their words; they are the tools in the hands of the author, who structures the arguments he assigns them into a meaningful continuum. So their arguments point to invisible Forms, which one comes to “see” through speech and dialectic, under the guidance of the appropriate craftsmen-rulers; but the eristic arguments also raise

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some questions about the nature of the Forms and their relation to the particulars. The entire third eristic scene can be read as an implicit description of the nature of the Forms, their participation in the particulars, the transmission of the knowledge about them and the danger involved in doing so. This interpretation of the Euthydemus involves much reading between the lines. But this should not be surprising for a Platonic dialogue, since, in one way or another, all dialogues of Plato are essentially puzzles for the reader to solve.²⁰⁶ The solution I propose for the puzzle of the Euthydemus may be summarized as follows: the central question of the dialogue concerns the way in which one may become happy; happiness is thought to be achieved through the acquisition of knowledge alone; this knowledge is of a specific kind: knowledge of the Forms; the nature of these Forms is relational with respect to perceptible objects; by acquiring it, one may speak of what truly is; but the transmission of this knowledge depends on the appropriate teachers, who run the risk of being accused of questioning the existence of the traditional gods.

 Cf. Rossetti (2000a), who argues that the Euthydemus requires the active engagement of the reader in sorting out meaning which is only implicit in the text.

3 Conflating Philosophy and Sophistry: The Framing Scenes In this chapter I discuss the three scenes in which Socrates converses with Crito: the introductory framing scene, with which the dialogue opens; the interruption of the internal dialogue in the middle of the second protreptic scene, in which the situation of the opening scene returns abruptly; and the final framing scene, which concludes the dialogue.²⁰⁷ My main aim is to examine the relationship between Socrates as narrator and Crito as addressee, or member of the audience before which the internal dialogue takes place. I will argue that the relationship between Socrates and Crito is remarkably ambiguous, and I will propose an explanation for that ambiguity. In the analysis of the final scene I will discuss the related issues of the identity of the unnamed man introduced by Crito, the function of his introduction in the Euthydemus, and his relevance to the internal dialogue.

3.1 Introductory Framing Scene Crito’s opening remarks set the scene. Socrates has had a conversation. The place and time in which it occurred are specified: the Lyceum, the day before. The content of the conversation will soon be reported in the internal dialogue,²⁰⁸ but

 For a discussion of the function of the framing dialogues in Plato (including a brief discussion of the frame in the Euthydemus) see Johnson (1988).  Some of the Platonic works are dramas, i. e. direct dialogues between a number of interlocutors; under this category fall the Euthyphro, the Crito, the Laches, the Alcibiades, the Gorgias, the Meno, the Greater Hippias, the Lesser Hippias, the Ion, the Menexenus, the Cratylus, the Phaedrus, the Timaeus, the Critias, the Sophist, the Statesman, the Philebus, and the Laws. Other Platonic works are novels, i. e. we find in them a narrator present already at the beginning of the work, reporting a dialogue that is interspersed with narrative comments; under this second category fall the Charmides, the Lysis, the Republic and the Parmenides. In all four of these works there is no internal addressee; instead, the character that takes on the role of the narrator (Socrates in the first three, Cephalus in the final one) reports a dialogue addressed to the reader. Finally, there is a third category of Platonic works, which we may called mixed; under this category fall works that begin as dramas, i. e. direct dialogues, but have other dialogues embedded in them, which are narrated by a character functioning as an internal narrator. This internal narrator gives his narrative commentary on the dialogue he is reporting. Such works are not pure dramas, but verge toward the novel, since they have internal narrators and addressees. The Protagoras, the Symposium, the Phaedo and the Euthydemus meet these criteria. In the beginning of the Protagoras Socrates and an unnamed friend converse in direct dialogue, but

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Crito first focuses on the participants in the discussion – or the dramatis personae. His primary interest is in one man, who will turn out to be Euthydemus, and so his initial address to Socrates begins and ends with the same question: τίς ἦν (271a1, cf. 271a5). Crito has only seen, but has not managed to hear, for there was a great crowd gathered around the speakers. So the reader, with him, first visualizes the scene as an image, before the actual discussion (i. e. what one would hear) is reported. The reference to the crowd surrounding the interlocutors adds a chorus²⁰⁹ to the dramatis personae, and the stage is set. In response to Crito’s τίς Socrates asks πότερον. So he emphasizes right from the start that we are here concerned with two individuals rather than one.²¹⁰ Crito now becomes more specific; having sketched the big picture, he fills in the details. Socrates is the point of reference; the man sitting second on his right is the one Crito wants to know about, while in between the two is the son of Axiochus. The picture is telling: a young man is placed between two opposite forces competing over him. Now Crito points to a further reason why the discussion he wants to hear about might be of significance to him. Cleinias, son of Axiochus, for whose sake the entire internal dialogue is carried out, is compared to Crito’s own son Critoboulos. It is perhaps telling that both young men are initially identified as their fathers’ sons; in fact the actual name of Cleinias is not mentioned until 273a5, when he is said to enter the Lyceum, and, so to speak, to appear on stage. The discussion between Socrates and Crito is a discussion of the older generation about the young; note that Socrates’ old age will soon figure soon Socrates becomes the narrator of the story of his meeting with Protagoras; similarly in the Symposium Apollodorus starts out by conversing with an unnamed friend, but soon reports on a meeting at Agathon’s house, about which he has himself heard from Aristodemus; in the Phaedo, Phaedo starts conversing with Echecrates, but soon reports to him the discussion on the last day of Socrates; and in the Euthydemus the direct dialogue between Socrates and Crito quickly gives way to the internal dialogue narrated by Socrates. Unlike the other three works, which combine a direct framing dialogue and a narrated embedded one, the Euthydemus is the only work in which the framing dialogue returns at the end of the work; in the Protagoras, the Symposium, and the Phaedo the opening scene merely introduces the main discussion, which is then narrated, whereas in the Euthydemus the opening scene is balanced by a closing one, in which the situation of the framing narrative is picked up afresh. [The Theaetetus is a special case: it includes an embedded dialogue, but that dialogue is read to the internal audience, Euclides and Terpsion; it is not narrated, nor does it include narrative comments. So this work should fall under the first category of direct dialogues, except that it includes two of those rather than one.]  Cf. 276b6.  The significance of this is discussed in Chapter 2.

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prominently (e. g. 272b5 – 6). The son of Axiochus is said to have grown, and it is precisely his age which alerts to the need for proper education.²¹¹ Cleinias is approximately of the same age as Critoboulos; and while the latter is slender, the former is “well-grown and fair and good-looking” (271b4– 5); as the reader will soon find out, he already has a lover. So the issue of Critoboulos’ education might wait for the moment, while that of Cleinias’ is urgent. Socrates responds to Crito’s question, leaving the additional comments on Cleinias and Critoboulos aside for the moment: his interlocutor of the previous day was Euthydemus, sitting on Socrates’ right, with Cleinias in between; on Socrates’ left was his brother, Dionysodorus. Crito says that he knows neither of the two – yet he appears to know enough to identify them as sophists (σοφισταί, 271c1). Whether he uses the term in its generic sense, to indicate possessors of some form of knowledge, or more specifically in its technical sense, to refer to professional sophists, remains unclear for the moment;²¹² it will become clear in the course of the dialogue.²¹³ Crito now asks whence they came and what their wisdom is. ²¹⁴ He has already, then, made the assumption that they possess some sort of knowledge. This foreshadows the fact that in the concluding scene of the dialogue he will show himself to know much more than he originally admits to Socrates. His conversation with the unnamed man, reserved for the very end of the Euthydemus, will have provided the information he would otherwise be unable to possess at this early point in the discussion.²¹⁵ But in this initial scene Crito is being disingenuous; he takes on the persona of a man who is entirely unaware of the content of the conversation to be reproduced in the internal dialogue. His interest  There is a parallel situation in the beginning of the Alcibiades, where Socrates takes up again his association with the young man after a long period of absence, precisely when he has reached the appropriate age to embark on public life and is in need of Socrates’ guidance. Due to the emphasis on age in the Euthydemus, and the contrast between the old and the young, I find de Vries’ view that the reference at 271b3 is to size rather than age hard to maintain; see de Vries (1972) 42.  For a list of eight possible meanings of the word “sophist” in the 5th century see Edmunds (2006) 418 – 421.  See my discussion of the final framing scene in this chapter.  When Socrates rephrases a little later in the dialogue (274d2– 3), he speaks of the δύναμις of the sophists’ wisdom; on this see Benson (1997).  Narcy (1984) 140 – 141 makes two insightful observations about the fact that any mention of the unnamed man is reserved for the end of the work: in this way the reader is forced at the end of the dialogue to revert to its beginning, so that the end essentially marks a fresh start of the inquiry; moreover, the narrative reproduces the actual order of events in the story: the comments of the unnamed man, reserved for the end of the narrative, had also come at the end of the discussion of the previous day.

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has evidently been piqued by the comments of the unnamed man and so he seeks to hear the details of the conversation, most likely for the sake of the education of his son. Socrates responds to Crito’s questions in the order that they were posed: the men were originally from Chios, but they moved to Thurii,²¹⁶ and they have been around these lands (Athens and environs, presumably) for many years; but when it comes to determining their wisdom, Socrates supplies excessive praise rather than a concrete answer. He calls it θαυμασία (271c5), and describes the men themselves by employing three consecutive παν-compounds, suggestive of the omnipotence he attributes to them: πάσσοφοι, παγκρατιασταί and παμμάχω (271c6 – 7). Socrates associates the men with the art of the pancration, clearly understood on the basis of its etymology as an art of constant victory. But the precise knowledge the men possess still escapes us. Socrates waxes oratorical: he bestows excessive praise on the sophists, which, however, lacks specific content.²¹⁷ This is already suggestive of the method Socrates will employ throughout the dialogue: on the one hand he will praise the two brothers profusely, while on the other he will consistently undermine that praise. Next, Socrates contrasts the two brothers to a pair of actual pancratiasts. While the latter only fight with the body, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus are in possession of a threefold art: first, they fight physical battles and teach anyone willing to pay them the same skill; second, they are the strongest (κρατίστω, 272a2) in the battle of the law-courts (μάχην, 272a2), and they teach others to speak and compose forensic speeches; third, they have reached the climax of their pancratiastic art by fighting with words and refuting any statement, whether true or false, and this too they are capable of teaching (272a6 – 272b1). Note the emphasis on the ability of the brothers to transmit their threefold skill to others; but the teachability of their professed art will be questioned later, when Euthydemus and Dionysodorus will claim to teach virtue. Note also that all three aspects of the skill Socrates attributes to the sophists are defined as forms of fighting, and as subcategories of the pan-cratiastic, or all-winning, art. The art of the brothers is essentially fighting; its product, victory. So this is what Socrates tells Crito that the wisdom of the brothers consists in, and it is important to bear in mind that he gives this account of the sophistic art after the dialogue with the sophists has ended. In terms of dramatic time,

 For a possible reason why the brothers, if historical, may have been expelled from Thurii see Hawtrey (1981) 42.  Cf. a parallel move by Polus in Gorgias 448d1– 10: Polus gives responses to Socrates’ questions, which, however, are not to the point – and Socrates attributes that to his rhetorical training.

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then, the introductory framing scene takes place after the internal dialogue, which, however, comes later in the narrative. We are about to see the sophists themselves defining their wisdom in very different terms. But regardless of what Socrates will report that they claimed, and despite his profuse praise, he has told Crito exactly what he holds their art to be: an art of fighting and refutation, aiming at permanent victory, with complete disregard for the truth – the truth which Socrates in the Apology, for example, places above everything else.²¹⁸ So when he adds that he intends to become their student, the irony is amply clear. The question, however, is why Socrates ought to be ironic toward Crito. ²¹⁹ It would make sense for him to praise the brothers ironically in their presence, but it is not at all self-evident why he ought to keep up this pretense toward his old associate and friend. Surprisingly, this question has not been addressed sufficiently in scholarly work on the Euthydemus, but has been typically brushed aside as part of the “joke” which the dialogue as a whole is often taken to be.²²⁰ Yet the reason why Socrates remains ironic beyond the limits of the inter-

 See Apology 29d1– e3 (esp. 29e2).  Socrates’ irony toward Crito is so puzzling that Palpacelli (2009) 152 deems it more reasonable to conclude that Socrates in fact is not ironic, but actually believes in the wisdom of the sophists: “Non può esserci ironia in questo intervento, non c’è dubio che Socrate ritenga la sapienza dei due meravigliosa e importante, perché lo ha detto sia a Critone (addirittura il giorno dopo aver incontrato i due, quando, dunque, non avrebbe più senso fare dell’ironia) sia a Clinia sia a Ctesippo e non può certo ingannarli.” In this chapter I argue instead that Socrates is certainly ironic toward Crito, and I aim to provide an explanation for it.  An exception to this is Strauss (1983) 67, who raises the question, but does not answer it explicitly. In fact the article as a whole is written in a very cryptic way. It reads almost like a summary of the Euthydemus, interspersed with occasional comments, which, however, are not developed into a coherent argument. Despite the fact that Strauss’ interpretation is almost as complex as the Euthydemus itself, it alerts the reader to certain aspects of the dialogue that have generally gone unnoticed by others. Strauss is one of the very few to acknowledge flaws in the Socratic arguments; and if he merely hints at them, he certainly hits the mark. For example on p. 75, in his discussion of the good fortune argument of the first protreptic, where Socrates sets out to show that good fortune is identical to wisdom, Strauss comments: “He [sc. Socrates] indicated most clearly that the wisdom in question does not always guarantee good luck. Kleinias who was not supposed to notice this, did not notice it.” He hints at another flaw on p. 76: Socrates has claimed that a man without intelligence is better off without assets – among which the moral virtues have been included; Strauss comments: “When Socrates asked next who would do less, a courageous and moderate man or a coward, and therewith which of the two is better off without intelligence, Kleinias replied ‘the coward’… Socrates gave Kleinias no opportunity to decide whether the unintelligent man is better off if he is just or if he is unjust; judging by the analogy of the other cases the answer would have to be that he is better off if he is unjust. But this thought verges on the absurd.” But if Socrates’ arguments show similarities to the eristic ones, and if

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nal dialogue and why Crito’s own attitude toward him is ambiguous are central questions, to be addressed in full in this chapter, once all three scenes have been discussed in which this interaction takes place.²²¹ But let us, for the moment, return to complete the discussion of the first scene.

Socrates himself also praises the brothers, then perhaps he means it! Perhaps, in fact, he is not ironic to Crito; this seems a possible way in which Strauss may have come to the conclusion he states in the final paragraph of his article, that “Socrates takes the side of the two brothers against Ktesippos and Kriton” (p. 88). Altman (2007) mounts a forceful attack on this interpretation. The problem is that, to do so, he constructs a full argument for Strauss, which Strauss himself never does. I agree with Altman in not understanding Strauss’ claim on p. 73 that, because in the first eristic scene it is shown that neither the wise nor the ignorant learn, it turns out that “learning is impossible, hence presumably that wisdom proper is impossible, and hence that the only wisdom possible is eristics”; cf. the top of p. 77 for the same point. Strauss raises some important questions, and hints at some real problems in the Euthydemus, but his proposed solutions are not as clear. Even if his concluding paragraph supports that Socrates endorses eristic (and so, by implication, that Socrates’ praise of the sophists to Crito is genuine), a number of questions are left open: why exactly does Socrates endorse eristic? Which aspects of it does he endorse? If, as Strauss, I think, argues (p. 78), Socrates’ view of the sophists changes as they grow serious in the course of the internal dialogue, what is one to make of the mock-praise at its end? Altman himself does not answer the puzzle of Socrates’ praise of the sophists to Crito; he merely shifts to a discussion of the development of Ctesippus in the course of the dialogue, which seems rather off the mark; note, for example, the following (p. 375): “In the light of Socrates’ pedagogical purpose, Ctesippus’ victory over the brothers becomes as delightfully uncomplicated as the laughter that crowns his triple victory. Sweet though this victory is to the lovers themselves, it is sweeter still to Socrates.” I argue extensively against such an interpretation in Chapter 4.  The question why Socrates ought to appear to endorse the sophistic method has also been raised by Gonzalez (1998) 127– 128, who holds that there is some degree of seriousness in the praise of eristic, for Socrates acknowledges that both eristic and philosophy often use the same means, i.e. similar ways of arguing, despite aiming at different ends. See also Landy (1998), who argues that Socrates in the Euthydemus does defend the sophists against their much inferior counterparts, the speechwriters; for “he evidently prefers such intellectuals because, in this circle, knowledge seems to be sought for no end beyond what takes place in the conversation” (p. 197). In Landy’s view the sophists, like Socrates, seek wisdom as something valuable in and of itself, while the logographers promise – and men like Crito seek – tangible benefits; yet nowhere in the text do the sophists appear to value wisdom for its own sake. In fact they do not seem to value wisdom at all; they merely seek victory over their interlocutors in what they perceive as verbal contests. Nor does the Socrates of the Euthydemus appear disinterested in the practical application of the knowledge philosophy is to provide, as Landy goes on to suggest; Socrates’ failure to determine the object of the wisdom to be attained if philosophy is pursued need not, and in my view does not, imply a lack of interest in that object and its applications. Landy p. 195 also claims that the Republic “does not and perhaps cannot acknowledge…that philosophy might be unable to determine what the good is.” But the Republic explicitly acknowledges and essentially repeats the very problem encountered in the second protreptic of the Euthydemus, which consists in defining the good as knowledge – of the good; see Rep. 6 (505b – c).

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Crito raises an objection to Socrates’ expressed intention to become a student of the two brothers: isn’t he too old to learn? Perhaps we would expect him to raise a different objection: does Socrates really want to learn how to fight with words, showing complete disregard for the truth? This question does not arise, however; Crito merely focuses on Socrates’ age. As a character, he is sketched with consistency: education earlier appeared to him to be appropriate for the young, and so it is reasonable that he finds the old Socrates an unlikely candidate to be a student. He views education as limited to the young and unnecessary for the old. But there is a second level of possible interpretation: Crito too may be seen as ironic; instead of asking Socrates what business he might have with sophists of the worst sort, as he will implicitly suggest in the final framing scene, he puts forward the less explicit obstacle supplied by the age of his interlocutor, and encourages him to reveal more. It may be objected that Crito has not yet “seen” the sophists in action from Socrates’ perspective, i. e. he has not listened to the internal dialogue – so how could he be ironic toward Socrates? Yet his response to the unnamed man, recorded at the end of the Euthydemus (305a8 – b3), but in fact delivered before Crito had heard the internal dialogue, makes clear that he already has a formed opinion about the quality of the sophistic teaching. Of course such an interpretation of Crito’s attitude only becomes possible when we come to the Euthydemus for a second reading; the dialogue itself seems to require multiple readings for some of its implications to become apparent. Socrates shows no hesitation: the men themselves acquired their wisdom only recently, in their old age. So, clearly, it does not seem to require the long study of other arts. Indeed, as has been shown in Chapter 2, Ctesippus furnishes an example of a man who learnt the art of eristic rather quickly. Note that Socrates again describes the wisdom of the brothers as eristic (cf.ταύτης τῆς σοφίας ἧς ἔγωγε ἐπιθυμῶ, τῆς ἐριστικῆς, 272b9 – 10), an art of fighting by means of words; when addressing Crito, he is consistent in his view of the limitations of the two brothers, to whom he does not attribute the teaching of virtue. But Socrates claims that there is something else that troubles him: he fears he might attach opprobrium to the brothers themselves by becoming their student. To clarify his point, he establishes the following parallelism: Connus teaches Socrates to play the cithara. The fellow-students laugh at Socrates, but they also call Connus a teacher of the old. That, presumably, is the opprobrium attached to the teacher upon his admission of Socrates as a student. Now Socrates suggests that the same thing might happen to the two brothers. If the situation is transferred to the case of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, the fellow-student of Socrates turns out to be none other than Crito, who will indeed, at the end of

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the dialogue, “laugh at” Socrates by voicing implicit criticism against him for associating with the sophists. Moreover, if Socrates has the ability to make his teachers appear worthy of reproach, his intended eristic teachers run that risk. Socrates wishes to persuade Crito to join him in becoming a student of the sophists, and encourages him to bring his sons along (272d1– 2). It is hard not to think of the parallel situation in Aristophanes’ Clouds, in which the old Strepsiades fails to learn from the sophist Socrates because of his old age, and so his younger son is encouraged to become a student himself. The issue of the proper education of the young, played out in the Aristophanic comedy, is picked up afresh in the Euthydemus, but the situation is reversed. The alleged teachersophist of the Clouds is here cast in the role of the student, intending to learn from the actual sophists.²²² Crito asks about the wisdom of the sophists yet again (272d5). The answers Socrates has given so far – pancratiastic art, art of fighting and refutation, and eristic wisdom – have not been specific enough. An illustration is called for, and the internal dialogue will fill that gap. Socrates gives assurance that he can give a detailed account of the conversation, for he paid careful attention. He thus begins his narration of the discussion of the previous day at 272d7. The very first thing he notes is that it was in accordance with the will of some god (272e1) that he remained in the Lyceum; his δαιμόνιον prevented him from leaving, evidently allowing for the ensuing discussion to take place. Socrates’ involvement in the dialogue is portrayed as divinely sanctioned. Soon enough, the two brothers and their students entered. Then came Cleinias and his admirers, among whom Ctesippus is singled out. The way they all took their seats is specified once again (273b1– 7, cf. 271a8 – b1 and 271b6 – 8). Note that, upon seeing Socrates, Cleinias moves in his direction; the brothers, on the other hand, are attracted by the sight of Cleinias himself (273b3). Socrates’ earlier suggestion to Crito that his sons should be used as δέλεαρ to approach the sophists is here confirmed: the sophists target the young. There is a hint here that they are also consistently attracted by the handsome youth; the erotic element will in fact prove to be an undercurrent throughout the dialogue, with Ctesippus competing with the brothers for the admiration of the young Cleinias.

 For the numerous parallels between the Euthydemus and the Clouds see, for example, Palpacelli (2009) 243 – 245. I agree with her conclusion, p. 245: “Allora l’ impressione è che Platone abbia presente in particolare questa commedia nel costruire la sua commedia che ha, tra i propri obiettivi, quello di distinguere decisamente Socrate dagli eristi, il metodo dialettico da quello eristico.” Cf. Michelini (2000), who includes a more general discussion of Socrates’ comic attributes in the Euthydemus and beyond.

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After the general introduction provided by the opening scene, the characters appear on stage.²²³ As we glide into the internal dialogue, the introductory scene is essentially repeated: not only the setting and seating arrangements but also the question of the wisdom of the sophists recur, in fact in the same order as that followed in the introductory framing scene. This time, however, there will be some significant divergence from the original account.²²⁴ In the presence of the sophists, Socrates informs Cleinias of the occupations of the brothers: things pertaining to war, which the future general ought to know, and things pertaining to the law-courts, such as the ability to protect oneself when suffering an injustice (273c4– 9; cf. 271d1– 272b1). These two occupations of the sophists match the corresponding references in the framing scene, but the third one does not: the brothers themselves do not claim to practice the pancration, an art of fighting and refutation, or anything else of the sort; instead they claim to teach virtue (273d8 – 9). It now becomes clear that in the framing scene Socrates did not reproduce to Crito exactly what he had heard from the sophists. The text itself provides evidence for the fact that what Socrates told Crito in the opening scene was an interpretation rather than a simple repetition of the actual sophistic claims. In other words, Socrates equates what the sophists claim to be their teaching of virtue with the art of refutation.²²⁵ So what does the first scene of the Euthydemus accomplish? First, it sets the stage for the central discussion of the dialogue. Second, it sets up the relation between Socrates and Crito as rather ambiguous. Socrates praises the sophists to Crito, who responds by feigning complete ignorance of anything pertaining to them. But there are indications sufficient to show that Socrates’ praise is ironic; Crito is given enough information on the basis of which he can conclude that the praise is not meant in earnest. The relation between the two characters will become more intricate in the scenes discussed below, as Crito will fail to draw this conclusion.²²⁶

 While the beginning of the internal dialogue does not form part of the first framing scene, it is discussed here because of its clear relation to it, as will be argued presently.  I am here referring to the account that is ‘original’ in terms of time in the narrative rather than the story.  Méridier (1931) 123 misses this point when arguing that “aujourd’hui Euthydème et Dionysodore tiennent pour accessoires leurs talents de naguère; la science qu’ils professent est l’éristique (272b).” In fact it is not themselves who claim to practice eristic; 272b is Socrates’ distorted version of what the sophists actually say.  Diop (2004) 126 argues that Socrates hides from Crito what he really thinks of the sophists in the beginning of the dialogue to create a sense of suspense; but this cannot be the case, for Socrates keeps up this pretense until the very end of the Euthydemus.

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3.2 Interruption The frame returns abruptly in the context of the second protreptic scene, in which Socrates and Cleinias seek to identify the art leading to eudaimonia. During that process the following arts are considered: first, the art of speech-writing; then, the art of generalship; and finally, after Crito’s intervention, the art of politics. These three options are not chosen at random, for they initially reproduce the threefold art of the sophists, as presented in the original framing scene and subsequently in the beginning of the internal dialogue. The structural divide between speech-writing and generalship on the one hand and politics on the other, which is brought about through the intervention of Crito, points to a similar division between arts that the sophists are capable of practicing and others that they are not. The brothers are not denied the ability to prove successful in the first two arts; indeed they were earlier identified as teachers of forensic speech-writing and generalship. But when it comes to the third, the art of statesmanship, things are significantly different. We saw that in the opening scene of the dialogue Socrates attributed to the brothers the art of refutation as the third branch of their pancratiastic art; but in the beginning of the internal dialogue the sophists themselves substituted the teaching of virtue in the same climactic position. Now the end of the second protreptic will imply that the teaching of virtue – or the transmission of the knowledge necessary for its acquisition by each individual citizen – is the product of the art of the statesman, and the art itself is placed at the climax of the inquiry conducted by Socrates and Cleinias. So it appears that Crito interrupts the second protreptic scene at a point which creates a division between arts to which the sophists indeed have access, and that from which they are barred. They may claim to teach virtue, but for Socrates that falls under politics; since he implicitly rejects that the sophists teach virtue, he must also reject that they practice the relevant art. The intervention of Crito reinforces this view also at the level of structure. Crito interrupts Socrates’ narration because he finds it hard to believe that Cleinias was capable of rejecting the art of the general in the sophisticated way that he did. Is he justified in expressing disbelief? Cleinias is supposed to have accomplished a number of difficult things: he has paralleled the art of the general to the art of hunting; he has then mentioned other forms of hunting; and he has referred to dialecticians as those to whom a certain type of hunters hands over its catch. The mention of dialectic in particular is striking, especially since it comes from the same young man who, just a moment ago, was battered in argument by the sophists; Crito’s interruption seems justified. But, in doubting that Cleinias could make such an argument, Crito doubts Socrates’ trustwor-

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thiness as a narrator reproducing the actual conversation, and this highlights afresh the puzzling relation between the two.²²⁷ Socrates indeed seems to put in the mouth of Cleinias things that he would not be able to say.²²⁸ But why should he attribute to the young man things he would not be in a position to have said? In so doing, Socrates gives the lead to Crito to interrupt. His intervention highlights the fact that, unlike eristic, significant progress in philosophy cannot be made in such a short time.²²⁹ In the second and third eristic scenes Ctesippus takes on a similarly active role as Cleinias does in the second protreptic, picking up on the technique of the sophists and imitating it. In the mock-praise of the two brothers at the end of the internal dialogue Socrates emphasizes the speed with which Ctesippus and any other could learn the eristic method (303e5 – 8). The sophists themselves, after all, take pride in their ability to transmit their knowledge most quickly in the beginning of the Euthydemus (272b3 – 4, 273d9); they themselves acquired it in their old age, and only within a year or two (272b8 – c1). Socrates, on the other hand, is still a student of music in his old age, and allegedly wants to become a student of the sophists as well. So eristic is presented throughout the dialogue as a skill that is quickly acquired and quickly transmitted to young students. Philosophy, on the other hand, requires time and leisure. This is emphasized, for example, in a digression in the Theaetetus, in which we find a direct comparison between philosophers and forensic orators. While the latter are always under time pressure, hurrying to convince an audience of jurors before the water in the clock runs out, the philosophers enjoy leisure in their discussions; their inquiries require time (Theaet. 172c3 – 173c6). Of course the Theaetetus passage discusses the time available for inquiry to the philosophers, and not the time within which they can teach their method to others; Socrates himself does not claim to teach anything at all. In that respect it may seem inappropriate to compare it to the Euthydemus passage, in which the issue at hand is the speed with which the eristic method is transmitted. Yet it is still relevant that the practice of philosophy is understood as a long-lasting process and not a skill that can be picked up easily and quickly and then passed on to others.

 Dawidowicz (1983) discusses the role of Socrates as narrator in the Euthydemus. Unfortunately, the article is written in Polish, which I cannot read. But as far as one can tell from the English summary accompanying it, there is no discussion in it of the role of Socrates as a narrator likely to misrepresent deliberately the conversation he reports.  But Hinrichs (1951) 181 and Jackson (1990) 394 hold that Cleinias did indeed say these things and so made progress in the course of the dialogue. No argument is supplied in either case.  Cf. Michelini (2000) 526.

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Socrates’ narration creates the circumstances necessary to elicit a response from Crito that will bring to the foreground this crucial distinction between eristic and philosophy. We saw that in the introductory framing scene Socrates put on an ironic persona by excessively praising the sophists to Crito. Crito seems to adopt the same playful attitude toward his friend in the present scene. He doubts that Cleinias could have said what Socrates attributes to him, but at the same time does not go as far as to say explicitly that Socrates is putting his own words into the mouth of the young man. Instead he plays along, granting that the words were spoken by some superior being.²³⁰ This playful relation between Socrates and Crito continues, as we will see, to the end of the Euthydemus. ²³¹

3.3 Final Framing Scene 3.3.1 Socrates’ Speech of Praise The final laughter, followed by Socrates’ praise of the sophists, marks the end of the internal dialogue. Socrates now suggests that the reaction of the audience to the sophistic display influenced him to such an extent that he too turned to praising the brothers. He claims to be completely subdued by them (καταδουλωθείς, 303c2), employing a term that suggests enslavement, and thereby reinforcing a metaphor that runs throughout the Euthydemus: the sophists practice an art of fighting, enslaving their opponents upon their victory. The first word Socrates uses to address the brothers is μακάριοι (303c4), a term formerly used to describe those who have achieved eudaimonia (290d7). It is as if the “victorious” sophists have reached the pinnacle of happiness. Yet Socrates’ eulogy is sharply biting: while the brothers are praised for having achieved “such a great thing” (303c4), exactly what that is remains unspecified. Socrates focuses on three aspects of the brothers’ success. First, they appear not to care for the majority and the haughty, but only for those who are like themselves. This is described as “the most magnificent thing” about their speeches (303c7). And while it might indeed appear good to be indifferent to the wishes of the multitude, Socrates immediately shifts the praise toward less convenient ground. He adds that only a few men of the same sort as the two brothers would appreciate the sophistic speeches, whereas the rest would prefer

 Palpacelli (2009) 162 takes this to be a reference not to Socrates but to the author Plato.  For a discussion of the remaining part of this scene see Chapter 1.

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to be refuted. The “most magnificent thing” about such speeches is something that men unlike the sophists would be ashamed of even uttering. The initial praise ends as a whopping back-handed compliment. The second praiseworthy element, described as “popular and gentle” (303d6), concerns the ability of the sophists to reduce their interlocutors to silence; the fact that the same happens to the sophists themselves is described as graceful (χαρίεν, 303e4). Once again, the praise is twisted: the speeches that are allegedly praised are at the same time described as burdensome and self-defeating. Note also that the term “graceful” will be picked up in the final scene of the dialogue by Crito, who will, however, apply it not to eristic but to “philosophy” (304e6 – 7). The final characteristic of the sophistic speeches, described as “the greatest” (303e5) thing about them, is the short time within which anyone can learn how to imitate them. But Socrates rushes to advise the sophists against displaying their abilities in front of many people; they should keep such displays only among the two of them, or anyone willing to pay them. Since it has been shown that eristic requires little time, and therefore little money, its practitioners are advised not to give it away.²³² The closing words of the speech reach a peak of sarcasm: in praising what is rare, like the speeches of the sophists ought to be, Socrates contrasts it to water, the cheapest thing; the sophists are encouraged to keep their speeches rare – and, by implication, expensive. But, in an explicit reference to the beginning of Pindar’s Olympian 1, Socrates rushes to add that water is also the best. Of course, if water is the best, the rare speeches of the sophists that are contrasted to it are certainly not. In the same breath that Socrates mocks the two brothers, he adds that he himself and Cleinias should be admitted as their students. He does not seem to wait for an answer, however, for soon thereafter, he says, they left (304b7); and on this note, the internal dialogue comes to a close.

3.3.2 Crito as a Student At the end of the embedded narrative Socrates repeats the suggestion he made to Crito at its beginning: he should join him in becoming a student of the two brothers (304b7– c1, cf. 272d1– 2). To reassure him that this is a fitting endeavor, he  Gonzalez (1998) 122 – 125 makes the attractive suggestion that all three elements of Socrates’ praise essentially point to characteristics which his own practice shares with eristic; but especially the third element of praise, i. e. the speed with which the eristic skill may be transmitted, seems directly opposed to dialectic, which requires time and leisure.

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notes that students of all ages and natures are accepted, so long as they are willing to pay the fee the sophists charge. This statement addresses Crito’s initial concern with the age of Socrates, and also repeats the common criticism against the sophists for requiring pay. Further, it raises the issue of the appropriate nature required for certain intellectual activities; in the Theaetetus, for example, in the section in which Socrates describes his art of midwifery, he emphasizes that certain natures are appropriate for philosophical inquiry, while others are not. Some may be deliberately led to miscarriage (149d3); others, while originally accepted, are not received back into association with Socrates after a period of disengagement (151a2– 4). At least the Socrates of the Theaetetus, then, is selective in a way that the sophists are not.²³³ The Euthydemus emphasizes that considerations of this sort do not come into play for the two brothers so long as the intended student is able to pay up. But Socrates makes a further point, which seems targeted specifically at Crito: he reassures him that his engagement as a student will not prevent him from transacting other business and making profit (304c3 – 4). This comment, which creeps into Socrates’ “protreptic” to Crito almost surreptitiously, reveals something about the way Socrates views his old-time friend: were Crito to think that his money-making activities would be hindered by an engagement in learning, he would much rather focus on those. This is sharp criticism, especially since it takes place in a dialogue in which Socrates has discussed extensively the relation between wealth and wisdom, and the dangers involved in the possession of the former without the latter. Crito is portrayed as a practical man in whose philosophical predisposition Socrates puts little trust, even if he frames the criticism in the odd context of a protreptic to eristic wisdom. With this Socratic portrayal of Crito the internal dialogue ends, and he proceeds to take center stage.

3.3.3 Crito and Socrates In the opening scene of the Euthydemus Socrates is said to have had a conversation with someone the day before. In the final scene he finds out that Crito too had had a conversation with someone precisely about Socrates’ conversation. Crito is now about to report it in the same way that Socrates reported the internal dialogue. But he mentioned nothing of the sort in the introductory scene, before

 Even if in the relevant passage cited above Socrates attributes the selectivity to the god and not to himself, it remains a fact that not everyone is deemed suitable for philosophical inquiry.

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having Socrates narrate the whole discussion to him. Instead he claimed that, while he was present, he heard nothing. This is puzzling; it would not have been out of place for him to mention at the beginning of his conversation with Socrates that he had met a man who had criticized his friend for his interaction with a pair of sophists. Moreover, if Crito was completely unaware of the content of the conversation of the previous day, how would he be in a position to agree with the unnamed man’s criticism of Socrates for interacting with worthless men, when in the introductory scene he does not even appear to know their names? The fact that he waits until Socrates has narrated the whole discussion to him before he even mentions the man suggests that his relation to Socrates is more complex than one might be originally inclined to think. But we saw that Socrates is not straightforward with Crito either. He keeps up the pretense of praising the sophists throughout the dialogue, and encourages Crito to join him in becoming their student, while at the same time completely undermining his own suggestion; moreover, he appears occasionally to misrepresent the discussion, whereupon Crito feels obliged to interrupt him. So the ambiguous attitude of Socrates toward Crito is paralleled by the equally ambiguous attitude of Crito toward Socrates. Each withholds information from the other, and it remains for the reader to interpret the dynamics of their relation. (i) Crito, the Unnamed Man, and Socrates on “Philosophy” First, Crito sets himself apart from his friend by proclaiming that he is one of those whom Socrates in his speech of praise identified as unlike Euthydemus (303d3 – 5, cf. 304c7– 8). He then introduces a new character, whom, however, he leaves unnamed, and reports to Socrates what that man had to say about him and the two sophists. The identity of this man has been the primary focus of scholarly attention in respect to this final scene. Yet scholars rarely go beyond the identification itself to raise certain further questions about the scene, which are in my view much more pressing.²³⁴ Whether the man is or is not Isocrates, as most scholars assume, why is he brought in here, at the very end of the dialogue, without any previous introduction? What is the function of this appendix, and what does Isocrates specifically contribute to it if he is indeed the one mentioned here? These questions I aim to address in what follows. Echoing Socrates, the unnamed man himself starts out with a mock praise of the sophists: he first calls them wise (304d7), then mentions that they were

 So, for example, Gifford (1905) 15 – 20 reviews the scholarship on the question of the identity of the man up until his time but does not even raise the much more important question of his significance in the work.

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worth listening to (304d9), and concludes that they are the wisest in this kind of speeches (304e1– 2); but immediately thereafter he calls them foolish, worthless themselves, and pursuing a worthless study (304e3 – 5). The triple praise is followed by triple criticism, which essentially repeats in briefer form Socrates’ own triple mock-praise of the sophists. In response to the man’s criticism, Crito comments that philosophy is a graceful thing (304e6 – 7). Notice that the unnamed man himself has attributed no particular title to the sophists or their practice; it is Crito who identifies them as philosophers. Why? The whole purpose of the internal dialogue was to distinguish between eristic and philosophy. Despite certain similarities, there were major differences, which lay in the seriousness with which each party engaged in conversation and the purpose it sought to accomplish. In calling the eristic practice philosophy, Crito reveals that he has failed to grasp the main point of the internal dialogue.²³⁵ It is of course striking that this should be the case for a man as intimately connected with Socrates as Crito. Crito is the very man who, in the dialogue named after him, appears close to the philosopher in his final days, genuinely caring for him, and offering to provide an escape from prison. Crito is also present in Socrates’ final hours, as depicted in the Phaedo, and he is the one whom Socrates appoints to take care of practical matters after his death (115b1– 118a14). Yet the fact that the Crito of the Euthydemus fails to grasp the deeper significance of Socrates’ claims about the sophists matches the way he is represented in those other dialogues. As Weiss convincingly argues, there too he is portrayed as a practical man, who genuinely cares for Socrates, but does not fully understand the extent of his commitment to his philosophical views; Crito’s own primary concerns remain wealth and reputation, which bring him much closer to the average Athenian.²³⁶ Crito is then appropriately chosen as the interlocutor of Soc-

 One may object that, in terms of dramatic time, Crito gives his opinion here before listening to what Socrates says in the internal dialogue. I have assumed, however, that Crito must know more about the internal dialogue than he allows us to think at the beginning of the Euthydemus: if Crito knew nothing about what was discussed between Socrates and the sophists, he could not have agreed with the unnamed man that Socrates’ interlocutors were worthless men. So he must feign complete ignorance of the content of the conversation, in order to hear Socrates’ version first, before voicing his criticism. Notice, further, that Crito calls the practice of the eristic brothers “philosophy” here in the final scene of the dialogue, but he calls the men “sophists” in the first scene (271c1). This only makes sense if in that first scene he uses the term generically, to mean men who possess some sort of knowledge/wisdom, about which he then inquires.  Weiss (1998) 43 – 49. Stokes (2005) 31 is, I think, justified in clarifying: “Crito may be unphilosophical, to the point of vagueness about what philosophy is; yet neither in the Euthydemus nor elsewhere does Plato represent him as a fool.”

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rates in the present dialogue, for he is the most likely of his associates to have misconceptions about the role of philosophy.²³⁷ While he realizes that there is some difference between the method of the brothers and that of Socrates, and for this reason considers the interaction of the latter with the former blameworthy when done in public, he cannot exactly pinpoint the problems of the eristic approach. He terms that too philosophy, lumping it together with the Socratic method, and calls it “a graceful thing.” Presumably his long association with Socrates has provided him with the belief that philosophy is worthwhile; but what it really consists in escapes him. Crito holds certain views, but cannot give an account for holding them; in reality, he appears not to know what philosophy is even after the internal dialogue which has made its distinctiveness its goal. Now the unnamed man does not oppose Crito’s use of the term “philosophy”: he responds that “it” is not at all graceful but instead worthless (304e7– 305a1). But the following sentence makes clear that the unnamed man’s criticism is aimed at the sophists and not Socrates himself: he rejects those who “do not care at all for whatever they might say, but latch on to every word” (305a3 – 4). His only criticism of Socrates is for wanting to make himself agreeable to such men. So the unnamed man clearly distinguishes between the two methods.²³⁸ When he turns to rejecting the method of the sophists in his own words, he calls it by the general term τὸ πρᾶγμα (305a6). The unnamed man appears at least to respect Socrates more than the sophists, and to accuse only those of their method. But, despite his awareness of the difference between the Socratic and the eristic method, he does not oppose Crito’s misattribution of the term “philosophy” to eristic. The man fails to recognize the sharp irony behind Socrates’ praise of the sophists and his apparent defeat in the contest. This is truly like theater of the absurd: the sophists do not understand Socrates’ criticism of them, nor does the audience, which bursts into laughter at the end of the performance; but the same applies to Crito and the unnamed man, who criticize Socrates for flattering worthless people. In essence, the unnamed man fails to appreciate Socrates’ policy of non-confrontation. Direct conflict Socrates disapproves of also in the case of Ctesippus, whom from the very start he characterizes as ὑβριστὴς be-

 For a different explanation for the selection of Crito as the appropriate interlocutor of Socrates in the Euthydemus see Kato (2000) 130.  Could it be that the unnamed man in fact does not distinguish between the two methods, but assumes they are just one and the same? This seems unlikely; if the unnamed man did not distinguish between Socrates’ and the sophists’ methods, it would appear odd that he criticizes only the sophists for their method, while Socrates only for interacting with such worthless men.

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cause of his young age (273a8), thus foreshadowing his explicit and provocative criticism of the sophists; Socrates is old enough to know better. The unnamed man concludes his speech to Crito by saying that both “the thing itself” and its practitioners are καταγέλαστοι (305a8). The pursuit of what Crito termed “philosophy” and the “philosophers” themselves, then, are called laughable. But the man did not criticize the method of those whom Socrates would identify as philosophers, and so it is unclear who in reality deserves the ridicule. The term καταγέλαστοι clearly picks up on the references to laughter predominant in the internal dialogue.²³⁹ In the final scene it was still unclear to the internal audience who is properly to be laughed at, and it befalls the reader to determine for whom that is appropriate: what is to be termed philosophy, and is that worthy of ridicule? There is an utter confusion in terms and the contents to which they properly apply in this final part of the dialogue. For the unnamed man, “the thing” that Crito earlier termed philosophy is worthless because the sophists are. For Crito, philosophy cannot be worthless, but the sophists must be, for he agrees with the unnamed man that Socrates ought to avoid discussing with men of their sort in public (305b1– 3).²⁴⁰ Crito is clearly inconsistent, for he on the one hand rejects the sophistic practice and on the other terms it philosophy. But Socrates is unwilling to point out the inconsistency. Instead he adopts Crito’s term, asking who the man was who blamed “philosophy” (305b6).²⁴¹ As Thucydides would put it, words have lost their usual meaning in this final scene of the Euthydemus. ²⁴² Throughout the dialogue Socrates refrained from calling the two brothers philosophers or their art philosophy. In the introductory framing scene, he spoke of an art of refutation, or eristic wisdom; subsequently, when introducing the first protreptic, he spoke of an initiation into the mysteries of the Corybantes, and described the whole first eristic scene as the first part of the

 See Chapter 4.  Apparently Crito does not regard it blameworthy if Socrates engages in private discussions with men like the two brothers. But discussions held in public are likely to create wrong impressions, especially when the irony of Socrates’ praise is not appreciated by the audience. The case of the unnamed man illustrates the danger: the man criticizes Socrates not for his own method but for his praise of the sophists.  We have seen in the analysis of the protreptic scenes that Socrates himself occasionally indulges in similar practices; his use of certain terms can be ambiguous. Just as Crito uses ‘philosophy’ to talk about sophists, so Socrates uses ‘eu prattein’ to talk about ‘success’ and ‘happiness’ in the course of the same argument. But Socrates’ linguistic play is deliberate; there is evidence in the Euthydemus to suggest that he is aware that he is misleading his interlocutor. Crito, on the other hand, seems to be genuinely perplexed in his use of terms.  Cf. Thucyd. 3.82.4.

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sophistic ritual (277e3); when introducing the second protreptic scene he said that the foreigners imitated Proteus, the Egyptian sophist (288b8). Not once before this final scene has Socrates called Euthydemus and Dionysodorus philosophers. Why, then, does he call them philosophers now? If the whole internal dialogue did not suffice to drive home the point that there are essential differences between philosophy and eristic, Socrates will not provide a ready-made answer to Crito. Instead he allows for the ambiguity to persist. In the concluding lines of the Euthydemus Socrates will encourage Crito to reflect further on the matter, indicating that the question of the definition of philosophy as opposed to eristic has not been addressed adequately. But for the time being he does not give up his pose. As soon as he finds out that the man in question is a logographer, he claims that men of his sort run into difficulties when conversing with people engaging in philosophy (305d1– 2); yet upon adding immediately thereafter that, when logographers engage in private conversations with men around Euthydemus they are checked, he makes clear that it is the sophists whom he identifies as philosophers, adopting Crito’s term for them.²⁴³ (ii) The Identity of the Unnamed Man Socrates wants to know whether the unnamed man introduced by Crito is an orator or a composer of speeches (305b5 – 9). The issue has come up before; Socrates clearly refers back to the distinction drawn in the second protreptic between, on the one hand, men who merely produce, and, on the other, men who produce but also use their product. The emphasis on the fact that the unnamed man is no orator clearly serves to show his inferiority, at least by the criterion of the second protreptic.²⁴⁴ Whoever he may be, and whatever his pretentions, the importance attached to his wisdom is questioned right from the start. But there must be a further justification for the introduction in this final scene of

 Peterson (2011) 200 briefly notes the conflation in terms in this final scene. But she holds that Socrates adopts Crito’s terminology because he “also understands that ‘philosophy’ can apply to the specialized conversational skills the brothers teach.” On p. 201 she repeats the same view: “Socrates seems in a very deliberate way not to be reforming Crito’s or anyone’s vocabulary. He recognizes that there are a variety of ways to use the word ‘philosophy.’” I find this view difficult to accept because of the general purpose of the Euthydemus, which is precisely to distinguish philosophy from its competitors. Moreover, Socrates has been playful throughout the dialogue, and it seems that he keeps up this playful persona also in the present case, rather than being open to the idea that philosophy may apply as a term also to the practice of the sophists.  Canto (1987) 219 makes the interesting observation that Isocrates, here described as a man never present to deliver his speeches himself, is essentially depicted in exactly such a situation in the Euthydemus: his words are reported by Crito, while he is absent.

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a man emphatically identified as a logographer. Recall that this logographer criticizes the sophistic method, but not the Socratic. Why, then, does Socrates reject him in the most forceful way? Note that Socrates only needs to hear that the man in question writes speeches but does not deliver them in order to be in a position to conclude that he stands between philosophy and politics.²⁴⁵ But in what sense is a forensic speech-writer midway between a philosopher and a politician? This is explained a little later, at 305d8: speech-writers know a bit of philosophy, a bit of politics, but neither well enough. Yet it seems that they make claims to both. It is no doubt striking that Socrates states that he was planning to talk about these sorts of men before Crito brought them up (305c5 – 6): why should he consider it appropriate in this context to do so? Remember that, in discussing speech-writing in the second protreptic, Socrates had emphasized that this art seemed likely to be the one leading to eudaimonia (289d10 – 290a5). It was eventually rejected, but the emphasis there in a sense prepares for its reappearance here. There must be something about the art of speech-writing in particular, and about a specific, but unnamed practitioner of it, which would justify the recurrence of this issue in the final scene. The man in question is a logographer who rejects eristic, but is himself rejected by a philosopher. The information Crito provides about him has led the majority of scholars in the past two centuries to identify him with Plato’s contemporary Isocrates.²⁴⁶ The reasons why this identification is plausible have been

 For the placement of speech-writers in the middle between philosophers and politicians Socrates invokes Prodicus. Does he genuinely endorse the views of this sophist? Prodicus is cited elsewhere too in cases where a distinction needs to be drawn between words whose precise meaning must be identified. In Protag. 337a1– c4 we find a comic illustration of Prodicus’ particular interest in the proper use of words; Prodicus is mentioned also in Charmides 163d1– 4, again in the context of determining the proper meaning of certain terms. It seems that this sophist was regarded as an authority in questions of language. To that extent it is convenient – and playful – for Socrates to invoke him, so long as this serves Socrates’ own purpose of discrediting the speech-writer in question; the employment of the term μεθόρια (305c7) to describe men like the unnamed man Socrates attributes to the expert at determining the appropriate terminology for each category of things. But Socrates has presented his own views on the relation between philosophy and politics in the protreptics, and it is unclear what middle ground there might be for a speech-writer to occupy between these two.  Schleiermacher (1836) 228 takes Isocrates to be the obvious target; Thompson (1868) 179 – 182 lists reasons why Isocrates must be understood as implied here; Wilamowitz (1919) 235 holds that the unnamed man stands for rhetoric in general; Taylor (1926) 101– 2 argues against Isocrates and proposes Antiphon; Field (1930) 193 opts for Isocrates, arguing against Taylor; Ries (1959) 40 – 44 provides an extensive list of previous, mainly German, scholarship on the issue, and himself identifies the man as Isocrates; Bluck (1961) 115 n. 4 notes that the identification

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listed many a time.²⁴⁷ It is a common assumption that Plato and Isocrates were rivals. They both ran schools in Athens, and both had views about Athenian politics and the proper education of the young. They also both sought to determine what philosophy consisted in. But what each understood under the term was rather different. For Isocrates, a practical man, philosophy was an art of persuasive speaking. Of course the real-life rivalry between Plato and Isocrates does not suffice to account for a potential reference to the latter in the Euthydemus. However, surprisingly few scholars find it necessary to explain why he should fit the context of the dialogue, and the occasional explanations offered tend to stay on the surface of things.²⁴⁸ Why is a logographer in general, and Isocrates in particular, relevant in a dialogue entirely concerned so far with the rather different topic of eristic? In what follows I argue against an explanation proposed by Ries and, in the main, followed by Eucken, and then make an alternative suggestion.

with Isocrates is problematic because the unnamed man of the Euthydemus rejects philosophy wholesale, whereas Isocrates did not (I argue against this below); Friedländer (1964) 194 sets aside the question of the man’s identity to raise the important question of his function in the work; Zeppi (1969) lxxix – lxxxiii proposes to identify the man as Callicles; Guthrie (1975) 282– 3 agrees with those who argue for Isocrates, but does not discuss his function in the Euthydemus; Hawtrey (1981) 189 regards Isocrates fitting simply because he too was an opponent of Plato, like the eristics; in his view Plato rejects the eristic practice in the internal dialogue, and then proceeds to attack speech-writing in the final scene. But if the greatest part of the Euthydemus deals with eristics, it seems rather odd that Plato would add an irrelevant appendix at the end of the work, merely to address an additional opponent. Dušanić (1999) assumes that the man is Isocrates and takes a purely historical approach, arguing for political implications in the Platonic dialogue which, however, seem to lack any textual support; Heitsch (2000) also opts for Isocrates and compares his mention in the Phaedrus; Kato (2000) 131, Michelini (2000) 530, and Palpacelli (2009) 220 – 226 are also in favor of Isocrates.  Isocrates was a speech-writer who did not deliver his speeches in front of a law-court or public assembly, he identified himself as a philosopher, had specific political suggestions, etc.  Eucken (1983) 48 – 53 proposes an explanation. See esp. p. 50: “Der Abschluß des Euthydem ist nicht in dem Sinn ein ‘Epilog’, daß hier noch eines peripheren Problems gedacht würde, als vielmehr die Vollendung der Auseinandersetzung, da Platon nun den Gegner auf die Bühne bringt, gegen den das Vorangehende entwickelt ist.” This explanation is addressed in full below. Palpacelli (2009) 232 does not offer any explanation but only says the following: “In chiusura Platone presenta un’ ulteriore proposta educativa rappresentata da Isocrate; egli, agli occhi di Platone, è sicuramente migliore rispetto agli eristi, perché, appunto, egli ha un programma in cui crede, anche se ha un limite ed è quello di credersi più grande di quanto in realtà non sia…” But on this account it remains unclear why Isocrates’ alternative educational system should be juxtaposed to that of the eristics in this context, just before the dialogue ends, and almost tacked onto it for no obvious reason.

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In the 390s Isocrates published his speech Against the Sophists, in which he aimed to distinguish himself from the sophists of his time, whose practices he condemned. This speech makes clear that the term “sophist” was not univocally defined, nor did it apply to any one specific group of people. Early in the 5th century, Isocrates complains, it was used to refer to any man considered wise, but later on it acquired an almost derogatory sense. He then targets three groups of sophists, from which he wishes to distinguish himself: the first are those who practice eristic, engaging in disputation, and promising their students the acquisition of virtue and happiness in return for small fees (1– 8); the second are teachers of political discourse, who undertake to make their students effective public orators without paying due attention to their respective natures and experience (9 – 13); and the third consist in older sophists, who used to teach their students how to defend themselves in the law-courts (19 – 20). Ries has argued that in this speech Isocrates attacks Plato, collapsing his philosophical method with that of the actual sophists.²⁴⁹ This, he continues, initiates a response on Plato’s part, laid out in the Euthydemus, in which he portrays the real sophists, and shows how their practice differs from dialectic.²⁵⁰ It makes sense, then – so the argument goes – to have Isocrates appear at the end of the internal dialogue, since it is in response precisely to his criticism that Plato has written the Euthydemus; once the illustration of the two methods has been completed, the man who instigated it is brought to the fore.²⁵¹

 The view that the school of Isocrates did not make any distinction between philosophy and sophistry, defended by Ries, is actually already to be found among Platonists in the 1830s; cf. Schleiermacher (1836) 227– 228. But the view is not backed by argument there.  Ries (1959) 25 – 35.  Why is he not identified as Isocrates? It is not at all rare, after all, for historical figures to be identified by name in Platonic dialogues, and Isocrates in particular is explicitly mentioned in the Phaedrus (278e8 – 279b3). One explanation may be that an explicit reference to Isocrates would create an anachronism because of the dramatic date of the Euthydemus; such a potential anachronism I take to be a good reason to keep the man unnamed and yet allude to him; cf. Field (1930) 193. Now the dramatic date itself has been set by Taylor (1926) 90 – 91 on the basis of the following arguments: a) Euthydemus and Dionysodorus are supposed to have left Thurii many years before the time of the present discussion (271c3 – 4), and the foundation of that city we know to have taken place at 444 BC; b) Cleinias is the son of Axiochus, who was involved in the profanation of the Mysteries, and so Taylor assumes that the discussion of the Euthydemus must have taken place before that time, at around 420 BC; c) in the mention of Connus in the opening scene Taylor sees a potential reference to the play Connus by Ameipsias, put on in 423, and he assumes that that play would have been recent. The second and third arguments I find speculative. There is nothing in the dialogue to suggest what the fortune of Axiochus was at the time, nor any clear reason why the play of Ameipsias should be both relevant and recent. So I think that the dramatic date of the Euthydemus is hard to determine. Sometime after the

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This argument appears to explain convincingly why a logographer rather reminiscent of Isocrates occupies center stage at the closing of the Euthydemus and how he is relevant to the internal dialogue. But there are intra- as well as extra-textual reasons to reject this view. First, the unnamed man of the Euthydemus does seem to draw a distinction between Socrates and the sophists, whereas, for Ries, Isocrates in the Against the Sophists does not. We saw above that the unnamed man does not accuse both parties of the same things; he blames the sophists for their complete lack of interest in sound method, but Socrates only for not condemning them for that. But, more importantly, the real Isocrates does not fail to distinguish between Socrates (or Plato) and the sophists in the Against the Sophists either. Plato fits none of the three types of sophists condemned there: he is neither a teacher of disputation, nor of political, nor of forensic discourse; indeed he does not teach men how to speak at all. What is more, in this speech at least, Isocrates shows a friendly attitude toward Plato: he seems to borrow the argument of the Gorgias about alleged teachers of virtue who, however, distrust the very students whom they claim to have made virtuous, fearing that they will not pay them the fees for the teaching they underwent (4– 6, cf. Gorg. 459c8 – 461b2). On what grounds, then, does Ries argue that Plato is treated as an eristic and attacked by Isocrates in the Against the Sophists? His interpretation is based primarily on Isocrates’ reference to the sophists of the first group, who promise to lead their students to virtue and happiness. Ries holds that In dieser vergröbernden Formulierung steckt doch deutlich Platonisches: ein normatives Wissen von Gut und Böse als Vorbedingung rechten Handelns und zeitliches und ewiges Glück als Lohn. Isokrates’ Kritik umrundet also wesentliche Gedanken Platons, auf die im Grunde alle Frühdialoge hinweisen.²⁵²

But there is no reason to think that Isocrates has Plato in mind here, for there were indeed sophists who promised to teach virtue or excellence, as the Euthydemus itself suggests (cf. Protag. 318e5 – 319a5; Gorg. 459c8 – 460a4; Sophist 223a4– 11; 224c9 – d2). Moreover, it is precisely this type of sophist that Isocrates mocks for asking for small fees while promising such great rewards; but clearly Socrates

foundation of Thurii is all that can be said with any degree of certainty. Taylor thought that the anachronism would ensue because in the 420s Isocrates was just a young man, without the reputation he later acquired, and so the attack on him would be unjustified. But if he is wrong about the dramatic date and therefore also about the anachronism, a puzzle remains as to why Isocrates is not explicitly named.  Ries (1959) 28.

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and Plato fail to meet this criterion for inclusion among the group. In response to this potential objection to his interpretation, Ries argues that there were other members of the Socratic circle who did receive money;²⁵³ but why that should involve Plato or Socrates in particular in the Isocratean criticism remains entirely unclear. Ries cites one final reason why he takes Isocrates to attack Plato in the Against the Sophists: both men showed care for the souls of young men, but understood entirely different things under this task.²⁵⁴ But again, this is no evidence that Isocrates regards and presents Plato or Socrates as eristics. On the whole, Ries bases his view on very thin ground; there is no evidence in the Against the Sophists that Isocrates lumps together Socrates or Plato and the eristics. Eucken defends the same view as Ries but he relies primarily on Isocrates’ Helen for evidence.²⁵⁵ The proem of this epideictic speech targets three groups of opponents: first, those who claim that it is impossible to utter falsehood or to contradict; second, those who maintain that courage, wisdom, and justice are identical, all involving one kind of knowledge; and finally, those who engage in eristic disputations. All three are criticized for engaging in useless, absurd inquiry. The people in the first category resemble our sophists: claims against the existence of falsehood and contradiction are put forth in the second eristic scene of the Euthydemus; but behind such claims Eucken sees Antisthenes, a man of the Socratic circle.²⁵⁶ The issues raised in the second category sound very much like claims made, for example, in the Protagoras, and typically associated with the historical Socrates.²⁵⁷ So, then, if Plato shared the views he puts in the mouth of Socrates in his dialogues, or was at least thought to do so by his contemporaries, he does appear to be attacked here.²⁵⁸ But there is still no evidence

 Ries (1959) 29.  Ries (1959) 32.  Eucken (1983) 45 – 56; cf. Méridier (1931) 137– 138.  Eucken (1983) 45. However, the fact that Antisthenes was Socrates’ associate does not prove that Isocrates considered Plato an eristic.  See, for example, Irwin (1995) 8 – 9 and 38 – 44.  Eucken (1983) 45 – 47 argues that the second group targeted in the Helen proem does not apply to Plato, but to Socrates and Antisthenes; Plato was not very old at the time of the publication of the speech, but Isocrates says that men “grew old” making such claims. The argument seems weak, for the reference to men having grown old arguing the same positions may just be a way of emphasizing their long-term commitment to them, even if, technically, they do not qualify as old. Compare Zajonz (2002) 86, however, who accepts Eucken’s point. At any rate, what is puzzling is that a few pages later Eucken draws the following conclusion (p. 51): “In der Helena-Rede gibt es verschiedene Anzeichen dafür, daß Isokrates in der Frage, was Eristik

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that Isocrates does not distinguish between eristics of the Euthydemian sort, whose practices resemble those of both the first and the third category of the Helen proem, and Socrates (or Plato), understood under the second category. The fact that Isocrates is equally dismissive of all does not mean that he does not acknowledge the difference between them. In fact he must, since he places them into different groups, as is made clear through the use of οἱ μέν … οἱ δέ … ἄλλοι δέ … (Helen 1): καὶ καταγεγηράκασιν οἱ μὲν οὐ φάσκοντες οἷόν τ’ εἶναι ψευδῆ λέγειν οὐδ’ ἀντιλέγειν οὐδὲ δύω λόγω περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν πραγμάτων ἀντειπεῖν, οἱ δὲ διεξιόντες ὡς ἀνδρεία καὶ σοφία καὶ δικαιοσύνη ταὐτόν ἐστιν καὶ φύσει μὲν οὐδὲν αὐτῶν ἔχομεν, μία δ’ ἐπιστήμη καθ’ ἁπάντων ἐστίν, ἄλλοι δὲ περὶ τὰς ἔριδας διατρίβοντες τὰς οὐδὲν μὲν ὠφελούσας, πράγματα δὲ παρέχειν τοῖς πλησιάζουσιν δυναμένας. And people have grown old, some of them asserting that it is not possible to say what is false or to contradict or to give two opposite accounts of the same things, others arguing that courage and wisdom and justice are the same thing, and that we do not possess any of them by nature, but that there is one kind of knowledge concerning them all, and others yet spending their time with disputations which are not helpful at all, but which can cause trouble to those who associate with them.

But Eucken argues that in Helen 6, where Isocrates speaks of “philosophy of a disputatious sort” (ἡ περὶ τὰς ἔριδας φιλοσοφία), he refers back to all three categories distinguished in Helen 1, now lumped together.²⁵⁹ In fact, however, there is no clear indication whether Isocrates here speaks of all three groups, treating them as a single category, or of just one of them, i. e. the last, which is the only one said to engage in disputation in Helen 1. And even if it could be shown that Isocrates did refer to all of them together, this would still be rather scanty evidence for ascribing the view to him that there is no essential distinction to be drawn between Socratics and eristics. Eucken himself seems to hesitate, for a little later he draws a milder conclusion: “Die Sokratik insgesamt, nicht spezifisch der Platonismus, ist von einer minderen Eristik abzusetzen. Beide aber sind Formen der einen Streitrednerphilosophie, die ihren einheitlichen Charakter in der Paradoxie ihrer Thesen beweist” (my emphasis).²⁶⁰

bedeutet, Platon geantwortet hat” (my emphasis). Eucken sees it as “gegen Platon gerichtet” that the views of Antisthenes, a Socratic, on virtue and knowledge are placed on the same level (“auf einer Stufe”) as those of the eristics. So, then, Eucken’s main reason for thinking that Plato is on the spot in the Helen proem seems to be that Socratic (but not Platonic) and eristic views are treated as equal.  Eucken (1983) 47.  Eucken (1983) 51.

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Eucken cites a few more passages in support of his view that Isocrates identifies the Socratics with the eristics.²⁶¹ The first one is from the Speech to Nicocles (39): “Regard as wise not those who dispute with precision about little things, but those who speak well about the greatest ones, nor the ones who promise eudaimonia to others but are themselves in many aporiai, but those who speak moderately of themselves.” Yet it seems clear that Isocrates here rejects two different practices, and so he must distinguish between them. The next passage cited by Eucken comes from the Antidosis (258); but there too I see no good reason to conclude that Isocrates has the Socratics in mind when he merely speaks of “zealous practitioners of disputation” who blame useful speeches. The final passage comes from the Letter to Alexander (3), whom Isocrates addresses as follows: “(I hear that) of the philosophical systems you do not even reject the disputatious kind.” This passage too does not indicate any confusion between Socratics and eristics; what it does show is that Isocrates applies the term “philosophy” to eristic, and this will become very relevant in a moment. But it does not suggest that by “philosophy” Isocrates refers to Socrates, Plato, or any other Socratic, to whom he attributes disputation. So Isocrates does not appear to present Socrates or Plato as sophists. But then one still needs to explain why the logographer of the final scene is relevant to the rest of the Euthydemus. It is true that he sounds very much like the actual Isocrates; but why should Isocrates be relevant here? Well, in a sense Isocrates has done in the Against the Sophists what Plato does in the Euthydemus: ²⁶² he has presented his art as superior to a group of sophists whom he attacks forcefully, in the same way that Plato’s character Socrates implicitly distinguishes himself and his method from that of his eristic opponents. Both the Against the Sophists and the Euthydemus attack the sophists and propose better alternatives to their methods. It might seem, then, that Isocrates and Plato are on a par. Yet is the Isocratean criticism of the sophists enough to distinguish him from, and establish him as superior to, the sophists whom he condemns? Socrates’ answer is emphatically negative. Even if Isocrates criticizes the sophists, Socrates presents him as no better than they are. In this way Isocrates is indeed relevant to the internal dialogue and its central theme of eristic. There is a further problem with Isocrates, which accounts for his relevance here: the internal dialogue aimed to show what philosophy is not, but also what it is. The problem with Isocrates is that he understood something complete-

 Eucken (1983) 52 n. 29.  I am here assuming for the Against the Sophists a date earlier than the Euthydemus, whose date is itself debated. Mandilaras (2003) 6, vol. 1, dates the speech to around 390.

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ly different under the name of philosophy.²⁶³ In Against the Sophists 11, 14, and 18, for example, he uses the term philosophy to describe his own art of speech composition. This is also the case throughout the Antidosis (e. g. Antidosis 48 – 50, 176 – 77, 292), where he clearly responds to Plato and his understanding of philosophy, for he fashions himself as the alter ego of Socrates and claims the title of philosophy for himself.²⁶⁴ So the real Isocrates attributes the term “philosophy” to a practice which Plato considers logography or, more broadly, rhetoric. From Plato’s point of view, then, Isocrates has grave misconceptions about what philosophy is, and this makes him relevant at the conclusion of a dialogue in which even Crito has similar misconceptions. There is also a third reason why Isocrates figures in the final scene: the ambiguity in the use of terms attested at the end of the Euthydemus points to Isocrates’ own ambiguous use of terms. Ries and Eucken argued that Isocrates does not distinguish between philosophers and eristics, whereas I argued that he does; but despite drawing a distinction between the two with regard to the actual methods they employ, he is much less careful in the use of terms he applies to each of them. We saw above that in Helen 6 he speaks of “eristic philosophy,” thus applying the name “philosophy” to a practice rather different from what Socrates and Plato would understand under this term. So there is evidence that Isocrates committed the same error as Crito and his unnamed man do in the Euthydemus. The unnamed man, like Isocrates, realizes the difference between Socrates and the eristics, and yet terms the latter philosophers. (iii) Crito and his Son The unnamed man disappears in the same sudden way that he appeared. Crito has nothing at all to comment on Socrates’ theory of the “man in the middle.” Instead, he wants to know what he is to do with the education of his son. After all, the dialogue began with him comparing Cleinias to Critoboulos, and the comparison now becomes comprehensible. Critoboulos has come of age, and needs someone to benefit him, but his father finds all potential educators

 For a good discussion of the definition of the “philosopher” by Isocrates as entirely within the socio-economic structure of the Athenian polis and that by Plato as conspicuously outside of it, see Nightingale (1995) 13 – 59.  Too (2008) 24 argues that “extensive literary citation of Plato’s work is in part the strategy by which the rhetorician denies any distinction between sophist and philosopher… In citing Plato so extensively and obviously, Isocrates seeks to resist a categorical distinction that the former is otherwise trying to establish, and as history demonstrates, succeeds in establishing.”

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“rather odd” (306e5), and is at a loss how to cultivate in his son an interest in philosophy. Socrates does not respond to the actual point Crito makes; he does not suggest how Crito is to urge his son to practice philosophy. But he does have something to say about the “rather odd” philosophers. He argues that the art should not be judged on the basis of its teachers, for most will be found to be laughable (καταγελάστους, 307b1). The last time this term was employed, it was by the unnamed man, who accused the practitioners of this “thing” in general (305a6 – 8); Socrates echoes him here. The whole dialogue shows a special interest in determining who deserves the ridicule, which is indiscriminately applied left and right. Of course Socrates has given his answer, but Crito has not realized it. So Socrates urges him to disregard the teachers wholesale, whether good or bad (!), and examine αὐτὸ τὸ πρᾶγμα, “the thing itself” (307b6 – c4). What is that “thing,” really? Crito must examine for himself. If some people claim to practice philosophy, whether they are sophists or Isocrates – and they may well be laughable – what matters is the subject itself. Different things may be termed philosophy by different people; but the question is what they actually teach. This is what Crito needs to consider: what exactly it is that he wants his son to learn. Notice that Socrates’ final advice is to focus on τὸ πρᾶγμα, and not the teachers, when it is precisely the teachers that Crito asks about. Crito is already convinced that “the thing” is worthwhile; but Socrates implicitly points out that he only imagines that he understands and approves of philosophy, when in reality he is not yet in a position to do so. He first has to think out for himself what the differences are between eristic and philosophy, stop lumping them together, and then seek the appropriate teacher. Just as in the Protagoras, the thing has to be determined before the teacher is chosen (312b7– 314b6).

3.3.4 Conclusion: The Contribution of the Final Scene Why does the Euthydemus end as it does? The work aimed to distinguish between eristic and philosophy. Upon the end of the internal dialogue, Crito and his interlocutor, to be identified with Isocrates, agree that Socrates is better than the eristics, and that the latter are to be condemned. But Crito shows no proper care for the terms he employs to refer to the two parties, which suggests, beyond the confusion in names, a confusion in the contents to which the names apply. Crito does not properly understand what philosophy is, and whether eristic may be lumped together with it. If the five scenes preceding the return of the framing narrative are to be understood as a comedy performed before him, Crito in a sense represents the au-

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dience of that comedy. Naturally, if this old friend of Socrates has failed to grasp Socrates’ effort to draw a line between eristic and philosophy, it is quite likely that others, less familiar with Socrates, present among the audience of the previous day, may also have failed to understand the difference between the two pursuits.²⁶⁵ The parallels between the Euthydemus and the Clouds imply that similar misconceptions are likely to have arisen after the performance of that play – or, possibly, before it, providing the material for the play. In the Aristophanic comedy Socrates was misrepresented as a sophist;²⁶⁶ according to the Socrates of the Apology, this wrong impression persisted in the audience and created a prejudice against him (18b4– d7). Similar misguided conclusions are represented among the internal audience of the dialogue in the aftermath of the performance written into the Euthydemus. The unnamed man does not oppose Crito’s misattribution of terms, although his own criticism targets the sophists. The real Isocrates, who also targeted the sophists, might appear to be on a par with Socrates (and Plato), for he too condemns eristic. But Socrates presents him as inferior even to the sophists, whom he continues to defend. Plato here targets both the old critics (and so he structures the work as an Aristophanic comedy) and the new ones (and so he adds this particular epilogue to the performance, pointing to Isocrates). The orator who rejected the sophists but claimed philosophy for himself had serious misconceptions about the practice to which the term might apply. Some concluding remarks on the relation between Socrates and Crito are necessary. Socrates’ irony toward Crito is in effect an encouragement for the latter to think harder, and also a form of veiled criticism: Crito is urged to become a student of the sophists, but has been given all the information he would need to conclude that the suggestion is not meant seriously; he is then presented with a Cleinias that makes tremendous progress within a short period in order to be made to realize that such an achievement would not have been possible; finally, he is told that he need not be concerned about running losses if he becomes a student, in the hope that he might understand that he has his priorities wrong. More than anything else, Socrates’ irony serves to characterize Crito as little better than the average Athenian. But Socrates is no teacher of the ordinary kind; instead of open criticism and positive advice, he has only hints to offer.

 The risk of conflation between eristic and dialectic is emphasized also in the final eristic scene, in which Ctesippus adopts eristic techniques, while the sophists become the mouthpiece for distorted Platonic views.  For a similar connection with Aristophanic comedy in the case of the Protagoras see Capra (2001) 59 – 95.

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Crito must become an active thinker; he needs to stand on his own two feet if he is to benefit from his interaction with Socrates. And what is to be made of Crito’s own ambiguous attitude toward Socrates? Crito adopts his friend’s playfulness; without being explicit, he realizes that Cleinias did not learn as fast as Socrates presents it, and also reserves his criticism of Socrates for the end of the performance. But the criticism itself and his confusion in terms reveal that he is not just a witty interlocutor, who picks up on Socrates’ playfulness and repays him the joke. Misconceptions persist, which add to the light atmosphere of his interaction with Socrates a dark undercurrent: the end of the dialogue underlines that not only among opponents but even among the group of Socrates’ closest friends the question of the nature of philosophy remains a matter of contention.

4 Reversals: Laughter, Play, and Seriousness In this chapter I trace two interconnected motifs of the internal dialogue. The primary one is that of laughter, which occurs at structurally significant moments in the text. There is a secondary motif of play and seriousness, which contributes to the effect of the primary one, and is, I will argue, intrinsically connected to it.²⁶⁷ After examining these motifs in the internal dialogue, I look at laughter in the framing scenes, and finally attempt to show what interpretative conclusions can be drawn from the pattern that emerges. The study of these motifs will tie together the individual scenes of the Euthydemus, which have so far been studied only within thematically connected groups, into a coherent and meaningful whole. More importantly, this final chapter aims to reinforce an essential point of my analysis so far, i. e. the complex relation between the playful (or comic) and the serious in the Euthydemus. It has been argued that, in the protreptic scenes, Socrates’ argumentation is occasionally playful; in the eristic scenes, the typically serious Socratics²⁶⁸ can prove playful, while the typically non-serious sophists can point to some rather serious issues; finally, in the framing scenes, the question is raised of what is, in the final analysis, laughable. This undercurrent of the dialogue will be enhanced through the study of a formal element: the repeated references to laughter, play, and seriousness. It seems appropriate to draw a distinction right at the start between two different kinds of laughter occurring in the internal dialogue. The first is the laughter of the sophists’ adherents, which takes place at the conclusion of refutations by the sophists of their Socratic interlocutor Cleinias. It is taken up by the Socratics later in the dialogue, upon their own refutation of the sophists. The second kind of laughter is that which Socrates fears for himself when about to ask a question or put forth a position. This too is later taken up by the sophistic party, suggesting a reversal of roles and attitudes toward laughter between sophists and Socratics.

 What I propose to offer here is an analysis of laughter as a motif solely in the Euthydemus. For a fuller discussion of laughter in Plato see Halliwell (2008) 276 – 302. Greene (1920) is a perhaps too general survey of elements in the Platonic corpus broadly understood as comic. Brock (1990) provides a list of comic techniques used by Plato. Migliori (2000) discusses “serious play” in Plato as a technique employed to engage the reader actively in philosophical inquiry (esp. pp. 185 – 187).  It becomes clear as the dialogue progresses that the followers of Cleinias, and especially Ctesippus, adhere to Socrates, so I often call them ‘Socratics’ or ‘followers of Socrates.’

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The first kind of laughter actually occurs in the course of the dialogue, while the second, while anticipated, does not. Moreover, the former is triumphant – an expression of arrogant superiority;²⁶⁹ the latter is an indication of modesty, selfdoubt, and fear that one might be accused of simple-mindedness.²⁷⁰ In other words, while laughing at someone indicates that one assumes a position of power, fearing that one may be laughed at suggests the opposite. Of course the matter gets much more complicated when one takes into account the all-pervasive Socratic irony. Socrates is being playfully ironic when expressing fear that he might raise a laugh in the eyes of his opponents. But at the same time he insists on trying to check this reaction. How are we to understand his attitude toward laughter? I return to address this question in the final section of this chapter.

4.1 The Primary Theme of Laughter (1) The Two Sophists Laugh Socrates begins the narration by explaining to Crito that, though he was intending to leave the Lyceum, his δαιμόνιον urged him to stay – an indication that something of importance was about to take place. Soon thereafter Euthydemus and Dionysodorus entered along with their students. Then came Cleinias with his following of admirers, among them Ctesippus. Cleinias approached Socrates, and soon the sophists did the same. Thus the internal dialogue is set in terms of time and place, and the dialogic action is about to begin. Socrates starts out by informing Cleinias that the two sophists are wise men. He then intensifies the statement, explaining that they are wise in matters of importance and not in trivial ones. They know about war and about speeches delivered at law-courts. The reaction of the sophists to Socrates’ praise is remarkable: they burst into laughter (273d1). Note that this is the very first thing they do (as a pair) in the dialogue. So far we have seen them arrive and sit, first further away, then closer to Socrates. Now, before ever uttering a word, they join in laughter. The brothers treat the philosopher with condescension: Euthydemus explains to Socrates that their activities relating to war and the law-courts are πάρεργα, things they just do

 This kind of laughter is an expression of Schadenfreude; for a discussion of this emotion in ancient literature and its particular association with philosophy see Röcke (2009) 277– 289.  Cf. Mader (1977) 31– 32 for the same distinction.

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on the side, and not their primary tasks. Their principal job is the teaching of virtue. (2) Dionysodorus Smiles Socrates asks the sophists to demonstrate their ability to teach virtue by convincing Cleinias to pursue wisdom and a virtuous life. The young man is then brought in and the first round of questioning begins. Euthydemus asks the first question: is it the wise or the ignorant that learn? Before anyone answers, Plato, through Socrates’ narration, pauses to inform his reader of the reactions of each distinct group of listeners, like a film director who turns the camera consecutively in three different directions before returning to the main action. We first zoom in on Cleinias, who blushes. Next we turn to Socrates, who urges the young man to be bold. Finally we see Dionysodorus, who, smiling (μειδιάσας, 275e4), tells Socrates in a low voice that Cleinias will be proven wrong no matter what answer he gives. The characterization here is implicit, yet significant: Cleinias’ blush suggests a moment of weakness. To this Socrates responds with encouragement, Dionysodorus with a hint of self-satisfaction. The contrast between the two parties – Socrates and the sophists – is already set up. Dionysodorus’ quiet smile is not the same as the laughter of the two brothers that came before; it anticipates an expected triumph rather than celebrating it. But it is in the same vein, and it sets the tone for what is to follow. Dionysodorus’ first involvement in the educational project undertaken by him and his brother is suggestive of their approach, which proves not creative but destructive, negative rather than positive. Plato is already painting his characters with broad strokes. (3) The Followers of the Sophists Laugh Euthydemus eventually has Cleinias agree that it is the ignorant who learn, and not the wise. As soon as this first showpiece of the sophistic method comes to an end, the followers of the sophists laugh (276b6 – c1): Ταῦτ’ οὖν εἰπόντος αὐτοῦ, ὥσπερ ὑπὸ διδασκάλου χορὸς ἀποσημήναντος, ἅμα ἀνεθορύβησάν τε καὶ ἐγέλασαν οἱ ἑπόμενοι ἐκεῖνοι μετὰ τοῦ Διονυσοδώρου τε καὶ Εὐθυδήμου. So when he had said these things, just like a chorus when the chorus leader gives the signal, those followers of Dionysodorus and Euthydemus shouted in applause and laughed at the same time.

Laughter here functions as a structural pointer, marking the end of the first sophism. The audience is conceived of as divided into two groups, with the follow-

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ers of the sophists on the one hand and those of Cleinias on the other.²⁷¹ The narrator is careful to point out that up to now it is only the former that laugh. (4) The Followers of the Sophists Laugh Again In the next scene Dionysodorus gets Cleinias to accept the opposite of what Euthydemus had gotten him to accept: it is the wise, not the ignorant, that learn. Laughter ensues at the conclusion of the argument (276d1). But the reaction here is much stronger than before. In the earlier passage we read that the audience shouted in applause and laughed (ἅμα ἀνεθορύβησάν τε καὶ ἐγέλασαν, 276b7). Here καὶ πάνυ μέγα (276d1) is added to emphasize the intensity of the reaction. Moreover, while the people laughing are the same as earlier, i. e. the adherents of the sophists, the way in which they are identified is significantly different. In the first passage they were called the followers of Dionysodorus and Euthydemus (οἱ ἑπόμενοι ἐκεῖνοι μετὰ τοῦ Διονυσοδώρου τε καὶ Εὐθυδήμου, 276b7– c1). But in the second they are identified as their lovers (οἱ ἐρασταὶ τοῖν ἀνδροῖν, 276d2). The connection between the sophists and their adherents is thus progressively described as closer. Finally, a justification is added for the audience reaction in the second passage: these people are laughing because of their amazement at the wisdom of the sophists (ἀγασθέντες τῆς σοφίας αὐτοῖν, 276d2). The cumulative effect of these three elements suggests a progressive intensification of the reaction. We will see that this is only the first indication of a general build-up in the reaction of the audience, culminating in the final laughter at the end of the internal dialogue. The intensification noticed here is, in other words, part of a general tendency that reaches a climax later on in the Euthydemus. What happens with the other half of the audience, the adherents of Socrates? Their reaction when Euthydemus earlier defeated Cleinias was not recorded, but this time it is: they are silent from amazement, and their surprise is further underlined through verbal repetition (276d2– 5): οἱ δ’ ἄλλοι ἡμεῖς ἐκπεπληγμένοι ἐσιωπῶμεν. γνοὺς δὲ ἡμᾶς ὁ Εὐθύδημος ἐκπεπληγμένους, ἵν’ ἔτι μᾶλλον θαυμάζοιμεν αὐτόν, οὐκ ἀνίει τὸ μειράκιον, ἀλλ’ ἠρώτα. And we, the other group, were remaining silent in our amazement. And Euthydemus, realizing that we were amazed, in order that we might admire him even more, was not letting go of the young man, but continued to question him.

 For a general discussion of the different types of listening (and audience roles) in the works of Plato see Usener (1994) 150 – 173.

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Not only is this part of the audience struck with amazement, but Euthydemus notices it and attempts to impress them further. The process of augmentation is clear: while in the first scene only half the audience reacted, and in fact in a comparatively mild way, in the second the one group of listeners reacts much more intensely than before and the other is stupefied.²⁷² As the first pair of sophisms comes to an end, the method of the sophists has been clearly portrayed as a spectacle. Euthydemus and Dionysodorus in the role of performers have each given an example of their art. They have made the young man agree first that x is true, and then that its opposite is. Once they have completely frustrated him, the part of the audience that consists of their followers and lovers bursts into triumphant laughter. One cannot help but think of the modern parallel of a sit-com; at the end of each scene the laugh-track is introduced – except that the laughter here is progressively more intense, and at the expense of Cleinias. (5) Socrates Points out that the Sophists Laugh The first round of exposition consisted of two scenes: in the first, longer one, Euthydemus questions Cleinias; in the second, shorter one Dionysodorus is the questioner. The second round that immediately follows also consists of two scenes structurally balancing the first pair. Euthydemus begins by questioning Cleinias, and he has the boy conclude that the one who knows is the one who learns (276d7– 277b2). No audience reaction is recorded. Dionysodorus takes over, demonstrating that the one who does not know is the one who learns (277b3 – c7). The reaction of the larger audience is again omitted. Instead the focus is on Socrates, who sets out to encourage Cleinias lest he grow fearful.²⁷³

 Note that the reference to the stupefaction of the audience remains ambiguous. It could refer to their admiration for the skills of the sophists (which is the way Euthydemus takes it, according to the narrator), but much more likely indicates their total surprise at – and disapproval of – the way in which the two brothers have so far handled the discussion.  The language of fear (and boldness as its opposite) runs through the early part of the dialogue. When Euthydemus was about to begin questioning Cleinias in the first round, the narrator Socrates had commented that the sophist was speaking ἅμα ἀνδρείως τε καὶ θαρραλέως (275b8). Then Socrates had addressed Cleinias using vocabulary that directly echoed the language he had used to describe Euthydemus: Θάρρει, ἦν δ’ ἐγώ, ὦ Κλεινία,καὶ ἀπόκριναι ἀνδρείως (275d7– e1). This verbal echoing helps correlate the attitudes of the two men. It is an expression of Socrates’ wish for a balance of power between them. Once the first two rounds of questioning have been concluded, Socrates feels the need for an intervention in order to restore the courage and manly spirit of the young man. Realizing that Cleinias is losing the battle (γνοὺς βαπτιζόμενον τὸ μειράκιον, 277d2– 3), he fears lest he turn cowardly, and so addresses him: βου-

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Socrates’ intervention is divided into two parts. In the first he explains to Cleinias what the method of the sophists and its results have been. In the second he illustrates his own method, which he will then encourage the sophists to follow. This whole section is Socrates’ first granting of the benefit of the doubt to the two brothers. In the first part, Socrates’ summary and evaluation of what has taken place so far, we find a new reference to laughter. It has been the method of the sophists, Socrates tells Cleinias, to trip someone, make him fall, and then laugh at him (278b2– c1). This sums up well the preceding action. Cleinias had indeed been tripped, he had fallen twice, and the followers of the sophists had burst into laughter. One notes that their laughter is not treated as something trivial, a mere decorative element in the dialogue. Instead, Socrates describes it as the climax of the sophistic performance, each time capping a given argument. But he underlines that this type of performance may only be a prologue to more serious engagement with the questions raised by the sophists. (6) Socrates Urges his Listeners Not to Laugh In the second part of the protreptic scene the philosopher begins the demonstration of his own method with a series of disclaimers. He asks the sophists to refrain from laughing, should he seem to them to be speaking in a rather simple fashion (278d5 – e2): ἐὰν οὖν δόξω ὑμῖν ἰδιωτικῶς τε καὶ γελοίως αὐτὸ ποιεῖν, μή μου καταγελᾶτε· ὑπὸ προθυμίας γὰρ τοῦ ἀκοῦσαι τῆς ὑμετέρας σοφίας τολμήσω ἀπαυτοσχεδιάσαι ἐναντίον ὑμῶν. ἀνάσχεσθον οὖν ἀγελαστὶ ἀκούοντες αὐτοί τε καὶ οἱ μαθηταὶ ὑμῶν· σὺ δέ μοι, ὦ παῖ ᾿Aξιόχου, ἀπόκριναι. And if I seem to you to be doing this in an amateurish and laughable way, do not laugh at me. For I will find the courage to improvise in your presence because of my eagerness to listen to your wisdom. So have the courage to listen without laughing, both you and your students. And you, son of Axiochus, answer me.

There is much verbal repetition in this passage. Socrates fears he is likely to speak in a ridiculous manner (γελοίως), and so the sophists are asked not to laugh at him (μή μου καταγελᾶτε). Once this request has been made, it is almost immediately repeated in similar terms. But the first request is addressed only to λόμενος ἀναπαῦσαι αὐτό, μὴ ἡμῖν ἀποδειλιάσειε, παραμυθούμενος εἶπον (277d3 – 4). The cowardice suggested by ἀποδειλιάσειε would be the exact opposite of the boldness recommended earlier. The language employed here makes plain that what the audience is watching is a competitive spectacle; Socrates is urging his side on.

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the sophists; the second is originally addressed to them, as the dual suggests (ἀνάσχεσθον οὖν ἀγελαστὶ ἀκούοντες), but their adherents are added right before the sentence comes to an end, almost in the form of an appendix (αὐτοί τε καὶ οἱ μαθηταὶ ὑμῶν). Socrates’ request that the audience refrain from laughing is in direct response to the dialogic action so far. Following the example set by the sophists in the beginning of the dialogue (273d1), the audience has laughed twice at the failures of Cleinias. It is precisely this reaction that Socrates aims to check – but also to highlight through its repeated mention. Notice that the references to laughter discussed under (1) through (5) above deal with what we may call the “eristic” laughter, i. e. laughter that occurs upon the defeat of an interlocutor of the sophists as an indication of their sense of superiority. The references to laughter discussed in the present section, on the other hand, are of a different sort. They are suggestive of an attitude which is essentially opposite to that of the sophists and their followers: Socrates takes on the role of the simple-minded speaker who fears ridicule in the eyes of his audience. In the first case, then, we are dealing with eristic laughter; in the second, with the fear thereof. The actual exposition of the Socratic method begins at 277e with the question whether all men want to prosper. The ensuing discussion is of significant length, ending at 282d. References to laughter are present in the beginning, but they recede as Socrates continues with his argumentation. The philosopher poses his first question to Cleinias and immediately undercuts himself, fearing that his words might induce laughter because the answer is so obvious: ἢ τοῦτο μὲν ἐρώτημα ὧν νυνδὴ ἐφοβούμην ἓν τῶν καταγελάστων; (“or is this question one of these laughable ones I was afraid of just now?” 278e4– 5). He soon adds a second disclaimer: ἢ τοῦτο ἐκείνου ἔτι εὐηθέστερον; (“or is this even sillier than that?” 279a3). All this is of course in keeping with Socrates’ standard claim of ignorance, well-known from other Platonic dialogues. But given the accumulation of references to laughter in the Euthydemus, these too need to be regarded in the context of this particular dialogue. In claiming to be afraid of being laughed at, Socrates is in fact striking a blow against the sophists, indirectly criticizing them for laughing first at him (273d1), then also at Cleinias (276b7, 276d1) earlier in the work. Note that he pretends to fear lest his questions appear laughable, whereas the sophists laugh at the responses of their interlocutors. In other words, Socrates claims to be afraid that his method of philosophical inquiry may appear laughable, whereas the sophists express no such doubts about the quality of their own teaching method. Laughter is not aimed at themselves but at their intended students.

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(7) Socrates Again Urges his Listeners Not to Laugh The philosopher lists a number of goods of different types which are generally thought to lead to εὖ πράττειν (279a4– c8). Some of these goods have to do with the body, others with society, and others yet are moral virtues.²⁷⁴ At the end Socrates adds wisdom. He then pauses for a moment to ask Cleinias if there is anything good they have forgotten to include in their list. Soon he himself adds good fortune, and immediately undercuts himself (279c9 – d5): Ὀλίγου καταγέλαστοι ἐγενόμεθα ὑπὸ τῶν ξένων ἐγώ τε καὶ σύ, ὦ παῖ ᾿Aξιόχου. – Τί δή, ἔφη, τοῦτο; – Ὅτι εὐτυχίαν ἐν τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν θέμενοι νυνδὴ αὖθις περὶ τοῦ αὐτοῦ ἐλέγομεν. –Τί οὖν δὴ τοῦτο; –Καταγέλαστον δήπου, ὃ πάλαι πρόκειται, τοῦτο πάλιν προτιθέναι καὶ δὶς ταὐτὰ λέγειν. We almost made ourselves laughable in the eyes of these foreign men, you and I, son of Axiochus. – Why is this? he said. – Because having added good fortune to the list we made before, we were now again speaking about the same thing. – And what does this mean? – It is of course quite laughable to put forward again what is already lying before us and to say the same thing twice.

The double use of καταγέλαστος here picks up the language used in the beginning of the section (cf. μή μου καταγελᾶτε, 278d6). Fear of ridicule is expressed again, as it was in the beginning of Socrates’ exposition of his method (278d). But why is a reference to laughter included here? This is a crucial moment in the dialogue. The philosopher is about to introduce a tricky argument, in which he – at least originally – purports to show that wisdom is equivalent to good fortune. He will thus suggest that adding εὐτυχία to the list of goods leading to happiness would mean to say the same thing twice, since wisdom has already been included. So, Socrates concludes, it is unnecessary to mention good fortune; wisdom is enough. Laughter then functions once again as a structural pointer in the dialogue, marking off the end of a section – in this case, the one listing the goods. But it does more than that: it gives a warning of sorts to the audience – and the reader – that an important, though possibly controversial, statement is about to be made. It is indeed far from obvious that a wise person will have no need of good fortune if he is to fare well.²⁷⁵ Laughter is Plato’s way of highlighting this significant moment in the discussion. So far the sophists have performed and their audience has laughed; Socrates has intervened to explain that this reaction

 Hawtrey (1981) 76 defines them as external, physical, and spiritual.  For a full discussion of the argument and relevant bibliography see Chapter 1.

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was like laughter when someone slips and falls, and to request that it not be repeated. His first request comes at the beginning of his exposition; the second comes now that the most significant moment in the argumentation has been reached. Moreover, Socrates’ initial point about the identity of wisdom and good fortune is not only far from obvious; it is also not the point he eventually makes. For, as was discussed in the first chapter, at the conclusion of the argument Socrates’ claim is that wisdom guarantees good fortune. By saying that his point is laughably obvious when it is not, Socrates is portrayed as slyly clever – perhaps even more so than the sophists.

4.2 The Secondary Theme of Play and Seriousness (a) The Sophists Have Not Been Serious I have so far discussed a number of cases in which the sophists or their followers laugh or are urged to refrain from so doing. Laughter has thus developed into a motif, parallel to which runs a new one. This is the motif of play as opposed to seriousness.²⁷⁶ It will be seen that, as this new theme develops, the earlier one recedes, only to return when the new theme has been abandoned. At first there seems to be some overlap in the first protreptic scene between the two motifs I have been discussing. Alongside references to seriousness and the lack thereof we find references to laughter, already discussed above in section (5). But the distinguishing element between the two is that, once transition has been made to the motif of seriousness, laughter does not actually take place in the action, but is only referred to in an evaluation of the action that came before. Socrates discusses the action prior to his intervention, and so mentions that the sophists and their followers laughed. But, as we will see, no one will laugh again in the dialogue until the motif of seriousness has definitively receded. The two motifs are interconnected and supplementary to each other, not only because they develop in succession, but also for a further, thematic reason. A playful attitude is likely to provoke laughter, and requests for seriousness are

 For a detailed discussion of play in Plato see De Vries (1949). See also Ardley (1967) 226 – 244, whose main argument is that play is central to Platonic thought and a necessary guiding principle for the life of the philosopher; but his discussion is rather brief and many of his claims in need of further textual support. For play in connection with eros and as an early stage in the learning process, see Plass (1967) 343 – 364. For play and laughter as distancing strategies (i. e. establishing distance between the author and his text) in the Symposium and Republic, see Long (2007) 174– 192.

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meant to curb such a response to the argumentation. The laughter of the earlier sections leads to demands for seriousness in the present one. So laughter and play go hand in hand, while seriousness is their opposite. A hint that the sophistic approach lacks seriousness is to be found quite early in the dialogue. When the two sophists first appear “on stage,” they laugh at the description Socrates offers of their professional activities (273d1– 2). Then Euthydemus speaks for the first time, responding to the philosopher: Οὔτοι ἔτι ταῦτα, ὦ Σώκρατες, σπουδάζομεν (“We no longer seriously engage in these matters, Socrates” 273d3). The ταῦτα here refers to activities relating to war and the law-courts, which Socrates has attributed to the sophists. So the subject-matter formerly pursued by the sophists is different from the teaching of virtue, which becomes the main topic of the rest of the discussion. But it is still telling that the first thing the sophists say in the dialogue is oὔτοι … σπουδάζομεν. It sets the tone for their subsequent attitude, prepares for the motif which now unfolds for the first time, and hints at the question of their seriousness overall.²⁷⁷ It will be taken up again a number of times in the dialogue, discussed under (b) through (g) below. In the beginning of his intervention Socrates points out to Cleinias that the method adopted by the sophists up to that point has been mere play, reminiscent of the rites of the Corybantes (277d6 – e2).²⁷⁸ After this general description of their method he proceeds to explain the specific difficulties in their argumentation, revealing the way in which they had trapped Cleinias. He then returns to his original point that the sophists had engaged in a game, and makes it again, this time quite emphatically. The repetition of both language and thought is revealing (278b2– d3): ταῦτα δὴ τῶν μαθημάτων παιδιά ἐστιν—διὸ καί φημι ἐγώ σοι τούτους προσπαίζειν—παιδιὰν δὲ λέγω διὰ ταῦτα, ὅτι, εἰ καὶ πολλά τις ἢ καὶ πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα μάθοι, τὰ μὲν πράγματα οὐδὲν ἂν μᾶλλον εἰδείη πῇ ἔχει, προσπαίζειν δὲ οἷός τ’ ἂν εἴη τοῖς ἀνθρώποις διὰ τὴν τῶν ὀνομάτων διαφορὰν ὑποσκελίζων καὶ ἀνατρέπων, ὥσπερ οἱ τὰ σκολύθρια τῶν μελλόντων καθιζήσεσθαι ὑποσπῶντες χαίρουσι καὶ γελῶσιν, ἐπειδὰν ἴδωσιν ὕπτιον ἀνατετραμμένον. ταῦτα μὲν οὖν σοι παρὰ τούτων νόμιζε παιδιὰν γεγονέναι· τὸ δὲ μετὰ ταῦτα δῆλον ὅτι τούτω γέ σοι αὐτὼ τὰ σπουδαῖα ἐνδείξεσθον, καὶ ἐγὼ ὑφηγήσομαι αὐτοῖν ἵνα

 For play in association with the sophists see, for example, the end of Gorgias’ Helen, where Gorgias presents his speech as an example of play, composed for pleasure rather than for any practical purpose; for a review of the literature on this, and for the juxtaposition of play and seriousness in Plato, see Càffaro (1995) 73 – 78.  Linforth (1946) usefully lists all references to the Corybantes in Plato, though his main aim is to discover as much as possible regarding the rites themselves, rather than to suggest reasons for their repeated mention in the Platonic corpus.

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μοι ὃ ὑπέσχοντο ἀποδῶσιν. ἐφάτην γὰρ ἐπιδείξασθαι τὴν προτρεπτικὴν σοφίαν·νῦν δέ, μοι δοκεῖ, δεῖν ᾠηθήτην πρότερον παῖσαι πρὸς σέ. ταῦτα μὲν οὖν, ὦ Εὐθύδημέ τε καὶ Διονυσόδωρε, πεπαίσθω τε ὑμῖν, καὶ ἴσως ἱκανῶς ἔχει· τὸ δὲ δὴ μετὰ ταῦτα ἐπιδείξατον προτρέποντε τὸ μειράκιον ὅπως χρὴ σοφίας τε καὶ ἀρετῆς ἐπιμεληθῆναι. These parts of learning are a game – hence my claim that these men are playing with you – and I call it a game for this reason, that even if one should learn many or even all such things, he would know no better how things are in reality, but he would only be in a position to play with people because of the differences in the meaning of words, tripping and overturning them, just like those who, taking away the stools from those about to sit, rejoice and laugh when they have seen someone fallen on his back. So consider that these things done to you by them have been a game. After these things it is clear that these two will show you the serious things, and I will instruct them so that they might give me what they promised. For they said they would demonstrate their protreptic wisdom. But as things are, it seems to me, they thought they first had to play with you. Let these things, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, be enough play for you; they are perhaps sufficient. But now show by your urging how the young man ought to attend to wisdom and virtue.

Repetition aside, the essential ideas are the following: the method employed by the sophists is a game, a preliminary stage in their educational project; so these men played with Cleinias, and they merely taught him to play with other people; but from now on they will be serious. A progression may be noted from a generalizing manner of speaking (“this method is generally a game”) to a more concrete one, referring to the past (“this particular exposition was a game”), and finally to the very specific, referring to the future (“stop playing from now on, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus!”). But the pattern is not absolutely neat. Socrates seems less interested in establishing a progression from the general to the particular and more in underlining the importance seriousness holds in his eyes in the treatment of the matter at hand. This he makes sure to emphasize through verbal repetition in the beginning of his intervention. Just as we distinguished between two different kinds of laughter – one of sophistic arrogance, another of Socratic (mock?)-modesty – it will be useful to distinguish also between two kinds of play. While Socrates appears opposed to the sophistic playfulness, his attitude toward the brothers is itself playful. His subtle – or, at times, less than subtle – irony is a clear indication of this. Then there must be (at least) two different kinds of play, one of which is explicitly condemned, the other implicitly endorsed. How do they differ, and what exactly is it about the sophistic kind of play that the philosopher finds at odds with the educational process? Socrates himself can be playful toward his interlocutors in this and other dialogues. He is, for example, capable of asking questions based on equivocations of the same sort as that of μανθάνειν employed by the sophists in the Euthydemus; and he too, like them, does not bother to alert his interlocutors to the

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multi-faceted meaning of a word. Take for example the use of φίλος in the Lysis (212a8 – 213d5). The word means both “kindly disposed toward someone” (in the active sense) and “a friend of someone” (in the passive). Socrates exploits this verbal ambiguity to lead Menexenus to admit and then reject a series of four different answers to the same question: who becomes φίλος of whom when A loves B? The philosopher too, like the sophists, is, on occasion, capable of exploiting the ambiguity of language.²⁷⁹ He is also capable of merely refuting an interlocutor, without offering anything positive in place of the refuted positions. All the elenchic dialogues end in aporia, or at least they appear to do so, even when something positive can be teased out. So in this respect too the Socratic method resembles that of the sophists: both the philosopher in other dialogues and the brothers in the present one guide their interlocutors through a series of questions, only to show them at the end that their original views are flawed. What then is the difference between Socrates and the sophists, when their methods seem so strikingly similar, and when Socrates not only is playful in other dialogues but also explicitly endorses play as a legitimate part of philosophical teaching in the Euthydemus? ²⁸⁰ Indeed in the first protreptic scene the philosopher employs the analogy of an initiation into the mysteries to suggest that play is an acceptable part of the sophistic exposition to the extent that it functions as a preliminary stage to something more serious – but it remains necessary that something more serious follow.²⁸¹ The difficulty arises

 Examples of this practice in our own dialogue, such as the ambiguous use of εὖ πράττειν in the first protreptic, are discussed in the first chapter.  Halliwell (2008) 287 usefully draws a distinction between two kinds of laughter, which essentially amounts to the same thing as my distinction between two kinds of play in the Euthydemus: he argues that the explicit laughter of the sophists is paralleled by the implicit ‘laughter’ of Socratic irony.  Adkins (1970) provides a very useful list of references to initiation in the Platonic corpus, highlighting the fact that they are used as a running metaphor in various dialogues to describe both sophistic and philosophical learning; some of his reservations about whether initiation language is applied to philosophy already in the ‘early’ dialogues are countered by Hawtrey (1976) 22– 24. Adkins also notes that the motif is picked up from Aristophanes’ Clouds, where Socrates’ students undergo initiation. Various other connections between the Euthydemus and the Clouds have already been discussed in my analyses of the introductory framing scene and the third eristic scene; since, then, the Euthydemus is in many ways a response to the Clouds, it makes perfect sense to have the Socrates of the Euthydemus reverse the sophistic depiction of Socrates in Aristophanes by attributing mock-initiation to the real sophists. The sophistic initiation is supposed to be the first stage of a learning process, but is shown to be rather different from the corresponding philosophical one. Thus, both a similarity and a difference between

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from the fact that the sophists fail to show themselves capable of such a serious engagement with the questions they pose. The difference between the two parties must also lie in the purpose for whose sake each employs play. The sophists, on the one hand, exult in demonstrating the ignorance of their interlocutors, laughing at their failures and reaffirming their own alleged omniscience. Socrates, on the other hand, is the first to admit ignorance, and the second protreptic ends in aporia. But even in dialogues in which Socrates engages in conversation with interlocutors who, unlike Cleinias, appear confident in their knowledge, the philosopher does not aim at self-aggrandizement but at their reduction to the same admission of ignorance as himself. This will be a necessary first step, clearing the way for further philosophical inquiry. A couple of examples will suffice. At the end of the Lysis Socrates calls himself καταγέλαστος just as much as he does Lysis and Menexenus for having failed to sketch out clearly their views on friendship (223b3 – 8). Even though one suspects that Socrates knows much better than his younger friends, the philosopher never assumes the position of power that the sophists so eagerly seek. Think also of the end of the Laches, where the failure of Socrates, Nicias, and Laches to define courage satisfactorily is only a starting-point for further discussion. Lysimachus invites Socrates to come to his house on the following day to pursue the inquiry further (201b8 – c3). So while for the sophists the play of refutation is an end in itself, for Socrates it is only the beginning. The methods of the two parties might have the use of play in common. But for Socrates this is only the “initiation into the mysteries”; for the sophists it is not just a preliminary stage in their teaching, but all of it. (b) Dionysodorus Wonders If Socrates Has Been Serious By 282d3 Socrates has convinced Cleinias to practice philosophy (which was the task he had originally assigned to the sophists at 275a5 – 6) because it leads to wisdom and therefore happiness. At the end of the Socratic exposition Dionysodorus asks Socrates and his adherents about their wish that Cleinias become wise: πότερον παίζετε ταῦτα λέγοντες ἢ ὡς ἀληθῶς ἐπιθυμεῖτε καὶ σπουδάζετε; (“are you joking when you say these things or do you truly desire them and are being serious?” 283b5 – 7). Thus the section that started with Socrates’ emphatic request for seriousness on the part of the sophists is closed off with one of them

sophists and philosophers are indicated – and this, as argued in Chapter 1, is a technique employed quite frequently in the Euthydemus.

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asking whether Socrates himself is serious.²⁸² The ring composition emphasizes the miscommunication between the two parties. Socrates had given the sophists the task of persuading Cleinias to pursue wisdom, which they failed to accomplish. Now Socrates has himself succeeded in this task, but the sophists are still wondering if his original intentions were meant seriously.²⁸³ (c) Socrates Is “Playful” Ctesippus becomes the protagonist in the second eristic scene, taking over from Cleinias the role of being questioned by the sophists. He joins the discussion for the first time at 283e1 when, upset by Dionysodorus’ bold claim that the lovers of Cleinias want to ruin him, he wishes that ruin befall Dionysodorus himself for falsely attributing evil intentions to those who love Cleinias. Euthydemus gives Ctesippus two consecutive proofs that lying is impossible. Dionysodorus gets involved in the discussion again, and the situation comes close to a fight. So a second intervention by Socrates is called for. In the first intervention Socrates urged the sophists to become serious. Here, however, he is willing to become playful, if he is to avert a fight: προσέπαιζόν τε τὸν Κτήσιππον καὶ εἶπον (“I was playing with Ctesippus and said” 285a3). He tells Ctesippus that he should allow the sophists to ruin Cleinias if they wish, provided that they show him the path to virtue. But Socrates’ allegedly playful attitude is in fact quite serious. He still wants the sophists to demonstrate their abilities in moral education. He is willing to let them follow any method they opt for, so long as they lead their student in the direction of virtue. His playfulness is no compromise, but an attempt to deflect the hostility the brothers had aroused in Ctesippus and to give them another chance to demonstrate their educational abilities. (d) The Sophists Are Not Serious Ctesippus explains that he is not upset with Dionysodorus but merely disagreeing with him. The sophist latches on to this statement to claim that disagreeing with someone is impossible. So he begins questioning Ctesippus, bringing him to a point where he has nothing more to say. Ctesippus remains silent. It was in a similar situation earlier in the dialogue that Socrates had intervened to encourage Cleinias (277d). He now does the same for Ctesippus. This time, however,

 So also Hawtrey (1981) 96.  Even if the sophists wonder only superficially about the intention of Socrates, they still raise an interesting question about the quality of the argument Socrates has just put forth. If he is indeed serious, why is his argument in the first protreptic scene so full of holes? This crucial question is addressed in Chapter 1.

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he is not demonstrating a method alternative to that of the sophists, but instead playing their game. He takes Dionysodorus’ claim as a working hypothesis and suggests that, if disagreeing is impossible, then lying, thinking wrongly, and being ignorant are also impossible. Dionysodorus is willing to agree that no one is ignorant, at which point Socrates asks him if he really believes what he is saying: Λόγου ἕνεκα, ὦ Διονυσόδωρε, λέγεις τὸν λόγον, ἵνα δὴ ἄτοπον λέγῃς, ἢ ὡς ἀληθῶς δοκεῖ σοι οὐδεὶς εἶναι ἀμαθὴς ἀνθρώπων; (“Are you saying this thing for the sake of talking, Dionysodorus, in order to say something paradoxical, or do you really think that no one is ignorant?” 286d11– 13). Socrates’ question does not specifically employ the language of play and seriousness. Yet it implies that the sophists are not serious enough, since they prove willing to agree to any claims, however extravagant, merely to say something interesting or shocking. Even on the assumption that their claims hold true, Socrates is in a position to lead them to inconvenient conclusions. Full of pretended naïveté, he asks what the need is for teachers like them when no one in the world is ignorant (287a6 – b1). The point is remarkably crucial, but Dionysodorus makes little of it. He shows surprise that Socrates still remembers what the brothers had claimed in the beginning of the conversation, i. e. that they are teachers of virtue. It seems that for the sophists virtue is merely the ability to refute. Socrates chooses to pass this over, but for the reader the matter is amply clear: the sophists have been asked for seriousness, but they fail to show consistency even with their former claims. Ctesippus had been encouraged to play along with the sophists, and this is what Socrates himself has just done. He has taken their thesis as a working hypothesis and shown it to be inconsistent with one of their earlier claims. While his first intervention in the internal dialogue had been a demonstration of his own method, the second one is a refutation of the sophists. Socrates is, in a sense, paving the way for Ctesippus’ series of playful refutations in the final eristic scene. But Ctesippus will take his refutations a step further, and will be significantly more “playful” than Socrates, being less careful about the general validity of his claims. His responses to the sophists will themselves exploit verbal ambiguity or stretch the meaning of words. For example in 300b λέγειν, properly used of speaking, is used by Ctesippus of the sound a smith’s iron tools make when struck against something. (e) The Sophists Must Become Serious There are similarities of structure and content between the first (277d1– 282e6) and second (288b3 – 293a6) protreptic scenes. The earlier one is divided into two sections, of which I call the first explanatory, the second expository. In

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the explanatory section Socrates discusses and evaluates the method of his opponents. In the expository one he puts forth his own. More specifically, he first explains to Cleinias the difficulties of the sophistic method, and then illustrates his own way of questioning the young man, hoping that a similar method will be adopted by the sophists. The same bipartite structure is identifiable in the second protreptic scene (288b – d). Socrates first explains to Ctesippus what the sophists have done: they have imitated Proteus in trying to escape.²⁸⁴ The philosopher then puts forth his own method for a second time and concludes with a request for seriousness on the part of the sophists. It is in fact Socrates himself who points to the thematic connection between this intervention and the earlier one by telling Ctesippus: καὶ νυνδὴ ἃ πρὸς Κλεινίαν ἔλεγον, καὶ πρὸς σὲ ταὐτὰ ταῦτα λέγω (“and the things I was just now telling Cleinias, the same I am telling you too” 288b4– 5). In the explanatory part of the first protreptic scene (277d – 278e) the emphasis was on being playful; παιδιά and other words etymologically related to it were used seven times in very close proximity in the text. In the corresponding part of the second protreptic scene (288b4– d4) the language is not that of παίζειν but of its opposite, σπουδάζειν. Once again one notices a high concentration of words etymologically related to seriousness repeated multiple times within the space of a few lines of text. Before turning to address Cleinias, Socrates briefly addresses Ctesippus, explaining to him that the sophists are promising teachers so long as they abandon their playful attitude and become serious: οὐ γιγνώσκεις τῶν ξένων τὴν σοφίαν ὅτι θαυμασία ἐστίν. ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐθέλετον ἡμῖν ἐπιδείξασθαι σπουδάζοντε (“You do

 Note that in the former explanation to Cleinias, Socrates had pointed out the specific flaws of the sophistic argumentation, while in this one to Ctesippus he speaks more generally, using the Proteus metaphor. Proteus seems an appropriate choice because, once caught, he must speak the truth (cf. Odyssey 4.347– 572); the sophists should be forced to do the same. McCabe (2008) argues that, while the sophists are Protean in the sense that they require effort on the part of a Menelaus to reveal their truth, the metaphor becomes equally applicable to Socrates when the other aspect of Proteus, that of the wise old man, is taken into account; moreover the figure of Proteus, understood as the man who persists through change, i. e. who remains the same man despite his many transformations, is Plato’s answer to the puzzle raised by the sophists in the beginning of the second eristic scene, when they assume that wanting Cleinias to become wise is wanting him dead (see esp. pp. 115 – 119). But there is no reference in the text to the fact that Proteus changes and yet remains essentially the same, and so no indication that Proteus is meant to provide an answer to the puzzle of persistence and change. It seems more plausible that the introduction of Proteus serves the more limited purpose of highlighting the difficulty of eliciting anything serious from the sophists – because nothing serious is to be found in them. In other words, I take Socrates’ brief reference to Proteus (288b7– c1) to be just another example of the all-pervasive Socratic irony, couched as it is between two instances of profuse praise of the sophists (288b4– 6 and c3 – 4).

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not perceive that the wisdom of the foreigners is wonderful. But the two of them do not wish to demonstrate it to us in earnest” 288b6 – 7). So the philosopher insists that they must be convinced to demonstrate their wisdom in a serious manner: μὴ ἀφιώμεθα τοῖν ἀνδροῖν ἕως ἂν ἡμῖν ἐκφανῆτον ἐφ’ ᾧ αὐτὼ σπουδάζετον· οἶμαι γάρ τι αὐτοῖν πάγκαλον φανεῖσθαι, ἐπειδὰν ἄρξωνται σπουδάζειν (“Let us not let the two men go until they reveal themselves to us under the condition that they be serious; for I think that something extremely beautiful will be revealed by them, once they start being serious” 288c1– 4). Socrates soon adds another request for seriousness: ὅθεν γὰρ τὸ πρότερον ἀπέλιπον, τὸ ἑξῆς τούτοις πειράσομαι, ὅπως ἂν δύνωμαι, διελθεῖν, ἐάν πως ἐκκαλέσωμαι καὶ ἐλεήσαντέ με καὶ οἰκτίραντε συντεταμένον καὶ σπουδάζοντα καὶ αὐτὼ σπουδάσητον (“from where I left off earlier I will attempt, in whatever way I am able, to go through what follows after these, in case I might call on them somehow, and they themselves, both showing mercy and feeling pity for me being earnest and serious, might also be serious” 288c6 – d4). The term σπουδάζειν is used five times within a few lines, which clearly suggests the emphasis Socrates intends to lay on a serious approach to the issue under discussion. This is no time for games like those the sophists played before, nor for the laughter that ensued (cf. 278b – c). Socrates and Cleinias have sought to identify the kind of knowledge that leads to happiness, but they have reached a dead-end. So the philosopher asks the sophists to help them answer the same question: what is the knowledge one should acquire and use as a guiding principle to live a happy life? He underlines that he needs the sophists to be serious in pursuing this question (292e8 – 293a6, esp. παντὶ τρόπῳ σπουδάσαι, καὶ σπουδάσαντας ἐπιδεῖξαι). Thus the second protreptic scene both begins and ends with requests for seriousness. (f) Τhe Sophists Αre Serious In the beginning of the third eristic scene Euthydemus shifts the question by claiming that he is in a position not only to teach the kind of knowledge that leads to happiness but to prove that Socrates already possesses it. Dionysodorus gets involved and the two brothers make the outrageous claim that everyone knows everything, so that they themselves do too. At this point Socrates states that he is convinced: the brothers are indeed serious (294b1– 3). Hawtrey comments on this as follows: “Socrates cries out in excitement, because the claim of omniscience is indeed a serious one, and to this extent his appeals for seriousness have been successful.”²⁸⁵ An otherwise insightful com-

 Hawtrey (1981) 145.

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mentator is here misled by the double meaning of the English word “serious,” which can either mean “not joking” or “important.” He seems to be suggesting that the claim of omniscience is serious in the sense that it is important, and not in the sense that it is meant seriously. But the Greek word σπουδάζειν only involves being earnest in one’s engagement in something, or paying serious attention to it (see LSJ s.v.). So I am inclined to interpret the passage in a different way: Socrates has been requesting seriousness, but the claim of the sophists is definitely not a serious one, in the sense that no rational human being could ever truly believe that he or she knows everything. Socrates must then be ironic in claiming that the sophists have become serious precisely when they have lost all sense of seriousness. If to talk about serious things is being serious, then the brothers are serious; but in fact they do not talk seriously about the serious matters they undertake to teach. Thus far Socrates has given them the benefit of the doubt, but when they make their most outrageous claim, he gives up trying to convince them to adopt a different attitude. He is no doubt ironic in calling them serious, but he is not sarcastic, avoiding conflict in much the same way as when he intervened to check Ctesippus’ aggression and prevent direct confrontation.²⁸⁶ For this reason he grants that the brothers are serious precisely when it has become clear as day that they have no intention of being so. (g) The Sophists Think that the Socratics Are Not Serious Ctesippus asks the sophists to prove their claim that they know everything. Now the two brothers think that they are made fun of (294d1), and so they refuse to respond. We recall that it was Socrates who earlier expressed the fear that he would be ridiculed by the sophists and their audience because of the improvisational character of his argumentation (cf. 278d5 – 9). The sophists now find themselves in the same position.²⁸⁷ Moreover, Socrates was earlier requesting seriousness, while it is now the sophists that refuse to participate in a discussion in which the other party appears to them not to be serious enough. Clearly, a reversal has taken place. The beginning of the first Socratic intervention in the internal dialogue had marked the beginning of the occurrence of references to play and seriousness. It

 Cf. Narcy (2000) 286 – 287, who points out that Socrates is himself not serious in calling the sophists serious.  The brothers have based their argument merely on games of language, and so they are naturally afraid of being exposed when asked to illustrate their claims by giving a real-life example. This is different from Socrates’ earlier fear lest his views be considered overly simplistic or obvious.

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had also been the first point at which Socrates had expressed fear of ridicule in the eyes of the sophists. Once they have expressed the same fear, the references to seriousness disappear, and are not to be found in the rest of the dialogue. Plato seems to have found an elaborate way of marking off the beginning and end of a section in which the motif of play and seriousness is predominant. He has also hinted that the Socratics are switching roles with the sophists, which will become much more evident in the final eristic scene. We saw that the shift to the motif of play and seriousness takes place in the central part of the internal dialogue. The two protreptic scenes emphasize that laughter, the initial sophistic reaction to the failed attempts of Cleinias to carry through with his original position, is inadvisable. Indeed these scenes, as well as the eristic scene sandwiched between them, are laughter-free. In other words, Socrates’ intervention brings about the shift to the new motif, as he urges the sophists and their followers to refrain from laughter, an explicit sign of their lack of seriousness. Yet the playful attitude of the sophists remains evident in the way they handle the discussion; the explicitness disappears along with their laughter, but the attitude is still the same. The Socratics react to it through laughter of their own in the final eristic scene, and we thus return to the original motif.

4.3 The Return of the Primary Theme of Laughter (8) Ctesippus Laughs At 295a1 Euthydemus sets out to prove that Socrates too, like the sophist, not only knows everything but has always known it. The philosopher plays his game, assuming that his claims are valid, and then turns the tables on him. His refutation of the two brothers (297a) makes Dionysodorus blush in a way that recalls Cleinias’ earlier blush at 275d5 – 6, when Euthydemus had asked him his first question.²⁸⁸ Socrates had tried to encourage the young man, where It might seem that blushing is a sign of good character, and so it may appear hard to reconcile that with Dionysodorus’ general attitude in the dialogue. But the aspect of blushing which I wish to emphasize here is its function as an indication of embarrassment. There is a parallel for that in Plato’s Protagoras (312a): Hippocrates has come to Socrates before dawn to ask for his help in becoming a student of Protagoras, which he wishes very eagerly. Socrates asks him what he expects to become if he undergoes the teaching Protagoras has to offer; if studying with a doctor would make Hippocrates a doctor, and studying with a sculptor would make him a sculptor, what would studying with a sophist like Protagoras make him? Hippocrates blushes, for he realizes that the obvious answer is “a sophist,” and yet he finds it shameful for one to claim to be one. So Hippocrates’ blush is due to a sense of shame arising from the recognition of

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as Dionysodorus had bragged that Cleinias would be refuted no matter what answer he would give. It is Dionysodorus again – on that earlier occasion smiling in self-satisfaction (275e4) – who now finds himself in the same position as Cleinias. There is a clear role reversal between the two men, the questioning one and the questioned; the intervention of Socrates causes the sophists the same sense of shame that they had caused Cleinias before.²⁸⁹ From this point on the conversation between Socrates and the sophists becomes progressively more and more absurd (297b2– 298b3): Euthydemus ends up claiming that his own father is everyone’s father by virtue of being a father; Dionysodorus attempts to prove to Ctesippus that his dog is his father, and that

a blunder; this is also the case with Cleinias and Dionysodorus in the Euthydemus. For further parallels see Lysis 204b, and Rep. 350d3; on Thrasymachus’ blush in the Republic see Annas (1981) 52.  Blushing and being reduced to silence are in fact employed as motifs in the Euthydemus. The first eristic scene opens with Cleinias blushing at the sound of the first question of the sophists (275d5 – 6). While he is not explicitly reduced to silence, the scene comes to a close with Socrates intervening to give him some rest (277d1– 4). In the second eristic scene Ctesippus, exasperated at what he interprets as offensive remarks on the part of the sophists, takes over from Cleinias, but is reduced to silence – this time explicitly (286b7). In the third eristic scene Socrates plays along with the sophists, allowing them to make their first – and most crucial – claim of universal omniscience, but immediately thereafter he begins to refute them. In his effort to avoid the refutation, Dionysodorus makes a mistake, whereupon his brother reproaches him for ruining the argument. As a result, Dionysodorus blushes (297a8). This is the first reversal in the balance of power between the two sides: so far the Socratics have blushed and/or been reduced to silence, but Dionysodorus’ blush is clearly intended as a counterweight to Cleinias’. Nor does Euthydemus prove invulnerable; for at 299c8, upon conclusion of Ctesippus’ refutation of his claim that it is good to have as much of a good as possible, he is himself reduced to silence. Note that the phrasing here is exactly the same as that reporting Ctesippus’ earlier silence: Καὶ ὁ μὲν Εὐθύδημος ἐσίγησεν (cf. 286b7: Καὶ ὁ μὲν Κτήσιππος ἐσίγησεν). The final pair of arguments between Ctesippus and the sophists concerns the possibility of silent things speaking, and immediately after those Dionysodorus is silenced. We recall that in the second eristic scene it was directly after the claim about the impossibility of contradicting that Socrates had for the first time contradicted the sophists. A clear thematic link is established between the sophistic claims and the actual practice in the drama of the dialogue. Finally, the third eristic scene ends with Socrates qua narrator claiming that he “lay speechless” (303a5). Dionysodorus makes one last attempt to keep the discussion going with his latching on to the exclamatory πυππάξ. Clearly, he does not know where to stop, so Ctesippus must exclaim that he too gives up. Notice the multiple reversals: in the opening scene of the internal dialogue Dionysodorus is smiling and Cleinias blushing; but in the final scene it is the sophist’s turn to blush, while Cleinias bursts into sarcastic laughter. Moreover, Cleinias and Ctesippus, initially silenced by the sophists, eventually reduce them to silence. Yet the whole purpose of eristic is just to keep on talking, and hence Socrates and Ctesippus have to feign defeat in order to bring the contest to a close.

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by hitting it he hits his father. Before the sophist has fully made his point, Ctesippus laughs and the theme of laughter returns: καὶ ὁ Κτήσιππος γελάσας, Νὴ τοὺς θεούς, ἔφη (“And Ctesippus, laughing, said ‘By the Gods’” 298e8 – 9). The related theme of play and seriousness has already come to a close with Socrates’ ironic acknowledgment that his interlocutors are serious (294b1– 2). Once his requests for seriousness reach an end-point, it is time for the first motif of the dialogue to resurface.²⁹⁰ Yet it is not the sophists who laugh now, but Ctesippus, a representative of the Socratic group. (9) Ctesippus Laughs Again Euthydemus and Dionysodorus take turns asking Ctesippus whether one should have as much of a good as possible and whether he should have it everywhere, whether clothes can see, and finally whether it is possible for someone silent to speak or someone speaking to be silent. In response to this series of absurd claims Ctesippus laughs again. This time his reaction is much stronger than before. The earlier γελάσας (298e9) is replaced by μέγα πάνυ ἀνακαγχάσας (300d3). The verb καγχάζω itself is stronger than γελάω, suggesting a guffaw and a mocking attitude.²⁹¹ This strong term is then reinforced by πάνυ, and further intensified by the adverb μέγα. The reaction of Ctesippus mirrors a similar one in the early part of the dialogue, where the students of the sophists had also laughed on two occasions. In the earlier case the simple ἐγέλασαν was used (276b7), while in the later the reaction is described with more detail (καὶ πάνυ μέγα ἐγέλασάν τε καὶ ἐθορύβησαν, 276d1). Balance arises not only from the fact that both reactions are progressively intensified, but also through a verbal echo: πάνυ μέγα is found in both intensified reactions.²⁹² Moreover, the occurrence of laughter at this point is once again structurally significant: it marks the end of Ctesippus’ direct engagement in argument with the sophists, as Socrates takes over for the final series of arguments that bring the third eristic scene to a close (300e1– 303a9).

 Of course we saw above [under (f), p. 171] that Socrates had declared that the sophists were serious, although they were not; the fact that the requests for seriousness do not recur does not mean that the serious attitude of the brothers has been established.  On the differences between the three words employed for laughter in Greek see Lopez Eire (2000); for καγχάζω as a verb indicative of laughter associated with hybris see p. 22; cf. p. 28. For this laughter of insolence in Plato’s Republic and Euthydemus see pp. 29 – 31.  Jouët-Pastré (1998) 274 argues that such excessive laughter is condemned in the Republic as an indication of lack of measure and subordination of the rational part of the soul to the passions.

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Satisfied with himself for the defeat of an opponent, Ctesippus laughs out of a sense of arrogant superiority. The sophists who had trapped Cleinias earlier find themselves trapped here, and Ctesippus takes over their role in laughing derisively at their situation. His laughter is of the same kind as that of the sophists and their followers earlier in the dialogue. (10) Cleinias Laughs At 300d5 – 6 Cleinias laughs in unison with Ctesippus. Socrates asks the boy why he is laughing: Τί γελᾷς, ὦ Κλεινία, ἐπὶ σπουδαίοις οὕτω πράγμασιν καὶ καλοῖς; (“Why are you laughing, Cleinias, at such important and beautiful things?” 300e1– 2). Hawtrey suggests that “this sentence has little purpose beyond the usual irony and the fact that it gives, in καλοῖς, a cue to Dionysodorus for the next sophism and so provides a link with it.”²⁹³ I am inclined to think that the matter is somewhat more complicated. Between the laughter of Cleinias and Socrates’ asking about it there is a section in which the narrator (Socrates again) inserts an important comment (300d7– 9): ὁ δέ μοι δοκεῖ ἅτε πανοῦργος ὤν, ὁ Κτήσιππος, παρ’ αὐτῶν τούτων αὐτὰ ταῦτα παρηκηκόει· οὐ γάρ ἐστιν ἄλλων τοιαύτη σοφία τῶν νῦν ἀνθρώπων. And that one seems to me, on account of the fact that he is a rogue – I mean Ctesippus – to have overheard these very things from these very men. For no such wisdom exists among any other of the men of our times.

It would make more sense to have the question about the purpose of Cleinias’ laughter immediately follow the statement that he had laughed. Instead, Plato’s Socrates has inserted an ambiguous narrative comment: which things exactly has Ctesippus learnt from the two brothers? Has he learnt to win the battles of words, or to brag about victories of this sort? Note Ctesippus’ words accompanying his laughter: Ὦ Εὐθύδημε, ἔφη, ὁ ἀδελφός σου ἐξημφοτέρικεν τὸν λόγον, καὶ ἀπόλωλέ τε καὶ ἥττηται. (“‘Euthydemus,’ he said, ‘your brother has both sides of the argument at once, and he has both perished and been defeated.’” 300d4 – 5). Hawtrey explains that the word ἐξημφοτέρικεν is a technical term, meaning “to have both sides of the argument at once.”²⁹⁴ This constitutes a contradiction, and so Ctesippus laughs at the failed answer of Dionysodorus. At the same time, however, great emphasis is laid on Dionysodorus’ defeat through the use of ἀπόλωλε and ἥττηται. The sophist is curiously treated by a (former?) Socratic as an opponent in a contest. So when Socrates says that Ctesippus must have

 Hawtrey (1981) 173.  Hawtrey (1981) 173.

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learnt “these very things” from the sophists, he seems to be referring not only to his ability to defeat the sophists by means of eristic argument but, primarily, to his bragging and laughing at a fallen opponent. Seen this way, it makes sense that the seemingly irrelevant narrative comment is inserted between the two references to Cleinias’ laughter: through his question to Cleinias, Socrates intends to criticize Ctesippus for his bragging, and for having taken up the ways of the sophists. They (273d1) and their followers (276b7, 276d1) were the ones, after all, who laughed at Socrates and Cleinias respectively, though the philosopher repeatedly requested that they refrain from laughter. Ctesippus has now adopted their manners, tripping them and laughing over their failures. Finally, he has set an example for Cleinias, who imitates his laughter, just as the adherents of the sophists earlier followed the example set by the two brothers. Socrates, consistent with his earlier views, can only be disapproving of this attitude.²⁹⁵ Hawtrey is, I think, right in pointing out the irony in Socrates’ question, since the things the sophists said are neither important nor beautiful. But to brag and laugh at them is to become one of them. (11) Everybody Laughs Socrates takes over from Ctesippus and engages in a discussion with Dionysodorus that ends at 303a5 with the philosopher completely dumbfounded. Ctesippus also states that he finds it impossible to fight against the two sophists. As the discussion comes to an end everyone is laughing, clapping hands, and almost dying of laughter (303b1– 3). At the end of the performance, as it were, the audience gives its final applause. No one present refrains from participating in the general exultation. So the motif of laughter, earlier progressively intensifying, now reaches its highpoint. Socrates himself notes that things are different than before, for now even the columns of the Lyceum are shaking. But, interestingly, he misrepresents the earlier situation, only mentioning that the followers of Euthydemus laughed before (303b4 – 5), and thus playing down the fact that Ctesippus and Cleinias followed the sophistic example. Earlier the sophists and their followers had laughed at the difficulties of the Socratics; then the Socratics had laughed at the difficulties of the sophists. But in the final section Socratics and sophists are in unison. They all experience a perverse kind of pleasure, which remains essentially unjustified.

 For the opposite view, that Socrates actually endorses Ctesippus’ laughter, see Halliwell (2008) 290. See also Rossetti (2000b), who reads the Platonic Socrates as a provocative figure, with an air of superiority, bringing about the ridicule of his interlocutors.

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The final laugh occurs when Socrates and Ctesippus present the sophists with an admission of defeat. What exactly is it that each part of the audience finds funny at this point? The sophists and their adherents must take the statement at face value. Assuming that their interlocutors are indeed defeated in argument, they rejoice in what they perceive as their party’s victory. How about the Socratics? It only makes sense that they laugh mockingly at the sophists and their group who fail to grasp that the admission of defeat is not meant in earnest; the conversation of the final eristic scene, so far from being serious, has turned out to be hilarious. But in mocking the sophistic party, the Socratics too take up the wrong attitude, against which Socrates repeatedly advised. Note that laughter and death are tied together through the use of the verb παρατείνω: καὶ γελῶντες καὶ κροτοῦντες καὶ χαίροντες ὀλίγου παρετάθησαν (“and laughing and clapping and rejoicing they almost died” 303b3). What is the significance of the morbid undertones introduced here for the first time in association with laughter?²⁹⁶ The first protreptic scene argued that the way to happiness was through knowledge, which proved to be the only unconditional good. The second protreptic scene attempted to determine exactly what kind of knowledge that was. When Socrates and Cleinias failed to identify it, they handed the question over to the sophists, who claimed that Socrates and everyone else possessed that knowledge – without ever attempting to determine its nature. As the final scene progresses, Socratics and sophists alike seem less interested in finding an answer to this crucial question and more in

 This verb is an interesting word-choice. According to the LSJ, its first meaning is “to stretch out beside,” and, by extension, “to torture.” It also has more technical meanings (“to apply a figure to a right line,” “to lengthen in pronunciation,” etc.), all of which are extensions of the basic meaning of τείνω. In the passive the verb can mean “to be half-dead, worn out.” The association with death will perhaps appear not explicit enough; one would make a better case for reading morbid undertones into the final laugh of the Euthydemus if Plato had used a form of ἀποθνῄσκειν. Let us consider the occurrences of παρατείνειν in the Platonic corpus: in Rep. 7. 527a8 and Men. 87a5 and 87a6 it is used in its various other meanings, but in Symp. 207b5 it is employed in the sense of tormenting, and juxtaposed with ὑπεραποθνῄσκειν. It is used in this sense also in Lys. 204c6. In Protag. 333e3 the case is unclear because the codex has παρατετάχθαι < παρατάσσω, which Kock emends to παρατετάσθαι < παρατείνω; if his emendation is correct, then the context calls for a meaning along the lines of “having great difficulty.” So the relevant cases (Symposium, Lysis, and possibly Protagoras) point in the direction of a distortion of the body, exertion, and torment. Even if this does not amount to death, it is still a rather negative connotation for the effects of laughter, and quite close to the description of such an effect on the suitors in Odyssey 20, on which see more below. Hence I am inclined to think that in the Euthydemus too the final laugh is to be understood, if not as equivalent to death, then at least as a torment.

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striking a blow against their opponents. So when they join in laughter at the end of the scene, they have completely lost sight of their original aim, and yet seem to rejoice in their ignorance. In other words, what was originally perceived as a comedy only by the sophists became a comedy for the Socratics too. If laughter is an expression of happiness, and happiness is directly related to knowledge, then the laughter of ignorance is an expression of the wrong kind of “happiness,” a mere sense of self-satisfaction for the defeat of someone treated as an opponent when he should in fact be a fellow-inquirer into the truth. The fact that Ctesippus and Cleinias laugh at the sophists at the end of the internal dialogue suggests that they have fallen into the sophistic trap. No doubt they have learnt to beat the sophists at their own game; but exactly here lies the danger in associating with the brothers. Philosophy becomes a mere contest of words able to raise thoughtless laughter. The sophists manage to turn not only their own students but also the Socratics away from the pursuit of truth; the latter too appear satisfied by their victory in the verbal combat and rejoicing in the ignorance of their opponents. Precisely that brings about the intellectual death of them all. One point must be clarified: if the final occurrence of laughter is an indication of intellectual death which involves the Socratics just as much as their opponents, are Ctesippus and Cleinias presented as permanently corrupted? More specifically, is Ctesippus portrayed as having definitively deserted the Socratic camp through his employment of eristic tactics? This seems unlikely. What he has shown is that the sophistic technique is easily imitated – and the speed with which it can be picked up will soon be emphasized by Socrates in his final mock-praise of the sophists. Moreover, Ctesippus has shown that employing such tactics is the only way of interacting with the sophists that can prove effective. But then how do we account for Socrates’ implicit condemnation of the laughter, through its association with death? What Socrates condemns is not Ctesippus’ temporary adoption of eristic methods, but his mocking attitude toward the sophists. Ctesippus does not switch to the ‘dark side,’ for he does not endorse eristic as a path to knowledge, but only uses it when nothing else seems to work with the brothers. Yet at the same time he assumes that explicit attitude of superiority which Socrates consistently avoids – and it is this further step against which the philosopher cautions. The final laugh is associated with death because it suggests a kind of confidence in one’s powers which in fact matters little. For the point is not to prove victorious over a perceived opponent, but to pursue a

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philosophical question to the end and reach the truth. Unless this is achieved, arrogant self-satisfaction seems out of place.²⁹⁷ I have so far suggested a way of understanding the association of the final laugh with death in the context of the Platonic dialogue only. This understanding may be further enhanced when this ‘last laugh’ is seen in connection with a parallel situation in the Odyssey. Halliwell notes without further elaboration that the climactic laughter of the Euthydemus is an echo of the laughter of the suitors in Odyssey 18.100.²⁹⁸ There too laughter and death are tied together: ἀτὰρ μνηστῆρες ἀγαυοὶ / χεῖρας ἀνασχόμενοι γέλῳ ἔκθανον (18.99 – 100). In what follows I draw out the implications of this observation, arguing for further connections between the Euthydemus and the epic, which create a parallelism that goes far beyond the verbal echo of a single line. Plato in fact seems to have worked laughter into the Euthydemus with a view to the fate of the suitors in the Odyssey. In Odyssey 18 we find Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, in his palace in Ithaca. Provoked by Irus, he violently confronts and defeats him, in a way that prefigures his ultimate confrontation with the suitors. The suitors themselves take an interest in the fight between the two men, which they treat as a spectacle. Antinous is the first to laugh at them (18.35), soon followed by the rest of the suitors in unison (18.40); the audience cheers on. Upon Irus’ defeat in the hands of Odysseus, the suitors almost die of laughter (18.100). Odysseus mocks the defeated man, and the suitors do the same, laughing once again (18.111). Next, the “beggar” turns to Amphinomus with a speech that highlights the issue of the change of fortune in human affairs – he too once used to be a happy man – and warns him of the inescapable bloodshed that will accompany Odysseus’ return. Hence the upcoming death of the suitors, earlier “dying” of laughter, is now explicitly mentioned.²⁹⁹ At 18.320 the unfaithful maidservants laugh at the “beggar,” and Melantho threatens him that someone better than Irus might appear, who will succeed in casting him out of the palace. The attitude of the maids repeats that of the suitors, who laugh one last time at 18.350.

 For a discussion of a very similar function of laughter in Herodotus see Lateiner (1977), who argues that such a “fatal” laughter is deliberately employed as a motif to alert the reader to the upcoming fall of someone all too confident in his power. (I am grateful to Prof. John Dillery for bringing this article to my attention.) On laughter in the Phaedo, shortly before Socrates’ actual death, see Stella (2000).  Halliwell (2008) 290. For his analysis of the laughter of the suitors in Homer see pp. 86 – 97. On this see also Levine (1980) and (1982– 1983).  On the laughter of Penelope (18.164), different in kind from that of the suitors and maidservants, see Levine (1983) and Clay (1984).

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Book 19 constitutes a break. There is no hint of laughter here, though the upcoming doom of the suitors is prefigured all the more explicitly, e. g. in the dream that Penelope narrates to the “beggar.” In Book 20 laughter returns along with the suitors. While Odysseus is planning their death, he can hear the women lying with them, laughing (20.8). A feast is prepared, during which a man interestingly named Ctesippus throws a cow-foot at the “beggar” (20.300). Thereupon Odysseus smiles a most sardonic smile (20.301– 2). Telemachus rebukes Ctesippus, but Agelaus tells him to urge his mother to marry. The young man responds that he does not prevent her from so doing. At this point (20.346) Athena raises “unquenchable laughter” among the suitors, which distorts their faces, while they eat bloody meat and their eyes are filled with tears. Theoclymenus gives a prophecy, foreseeing their doom. Yet the suitors remain unaware of what is to come, and three more references to their laughter follow (20.358; 374; 390). If it can be shown that the situation in the Euthydemus bears enough similarities to the Homeric passage to establish a parallel, then the argument that the final laugh in Plato is both indicative of (intellectual) death and not endorsed by Socrates will be significantly strengthened. Let us compare. In both Odyssey 18 and the Euthydemus we have a contest between two parties: Irus competes with Odysseus, and the sophists with the Socratics;³⁰⁰ in both the contest is viewed as a spectacle, with an audience laughing regularly; also in both we notice a progressive intensification of the laughter: in Odyssey 18 the laughter of a single suitor is followed by the laughter of them all, while in the Euthydemus the sophistic party laughs harder and harder, and Ctesippus is joined by Cleinias; in both texts there is a climactic laughter, louder than all earlier ones (for Homer also louder than all the ones to follow); finally, the climactic “unquenchable laughter” of the suitors comes shortly after the intervention of Ctesippus, which sounds rather similar to the intervention of his namesake in the Euthydemus, leading to the climactic laughter there.³⁰¹

 Further parallels, less strictly related to the motif of laughter, may be noted between the Odyssey and the Euthydemus, including notably the comparison of the sophists to Proteus at 288b7– c2. The reference is clearly inspired by Odyssey 4; cf. McCabe (2008). It may be argued, moreover, that Odysseus in his disguise as a beggar is primarily opposed by two suitors, Antinous and Eurymachus, who are paired, for they both throw stools at him (Antinous: 17.462– 64; Eurymachus: 18.394– 98); cf. the pair of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus. Further, this image of the suitors throwing stools at Odysseus might be linked to the metaphor employed by Socrates upon conclusion of the first eristic scene to describe the sophistic practice: the brothers pull the seats away from those about to sit on them, and so make them fall (Euthyd. 278b).  It is even possible that the structure of the Platonic dialogue loosely repeats that of Homer. In the Odyssey too we have a break (Book 19) between two laughter-filled sections (Books 18 and

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Given the accumulation of similarities between the two texts, it is truly tempting to assume that Plato is writing with Homer in mind. The Platonic reader seems encouraged to view the sophists and their audience, but also the Socratics who mock them, in the position of the Homeric suitors and maidservants, who laugh in ignorance, failing to realize their upcoming death. A fate practically equivalent to death seems to await those who yield to the temptation of eristic laughter: sophists and misled Socratics alike laugh at each other, not realizing that they are laughing at their very own misfortune, as they steer away from the true purpose of any engagement in philosophical argument, i. e. the pursuit of knowledge. But, like the English proverb, “he who laughs last laughs best”; and the last to laugh in Homer will be Odysseus, upon his revenge. Socrates, for his part, prefers the silent laughter of irony.³⁰²

4.4 The Theme of Laughter in the Framing Scenes The very first occurrence of a laughter-related word in the Euthydemus is not found in connection with the sophists, Socrates’ intended teachers of virtue, but with Connus, his music teacher. When the philosopher expresses his wish to become a student of the sophists, Crito reminds him of his age: isn’t he rather old for such an undertaking? (272b5– 6). The assumption seems to be that an old man might be a less successful student than a young one. But Socrates responds that he isn’t afraid, for the sophists too acquired their eristic wisdom rather late in life. This would have been enough of a response to Crito, but the philosopher continues to add something curious. What he is afraid of is not that he might be ridiculed himself, but that he might attach ὄνειδος (“reproach” or “blame” 272c1) to the sophists, as he does to Connus. That is, others might reproach the brothers for teaching an old man, as they reproach Connus – while they also laugh at Socrates (272c4). Socrates is evidently not prevented by this laugh-

20), just as in the Euthydemus. Moreover, in both works the laughter in the second of the two sections comes shortly after the intervention of a Ctesippus.  If Socratic irony is a form of laughter – and Socrates is indeed quite ironic toward the sophists in the Euthydemus – then why should he reject the explicit laughter of Ctesippus? In other words, why should Socrates associate Ctesippus’ mocking attitude with death, if he too essentially mocks the sophists? The difference is this: Socrates’ irony aims to alert an interlocutor to the possibility of his ignorance; Ctesippus’ laughter, on the other hand, is a celebration of a personal triumph – a triumph, in fact, which is unjustified, because it has not led to the acquisition of the kind of knowledge that would actually matter to Socrates.

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ter from remaining a student, despite the fact that he is ridiculed in the eyes of his fellow-students. Now this seems to contradict Socrates’ fear of being laughed at by the sophists, who profess to be teachers like Connus, and their own students. There is thus an indication for the reader already in the introductory scene as to how he or she ought to read Socrates’ later comments on laughter in the internal dialogue. Socrates is not truly embarrassed when laughed at. But he assumes the role of the buffoon to avoid saying explicitly that the eristic laughter merely reveals arrogant confidence in one’s knowledge. In fact the sophists and their students, like the students of Connus, may laugh at the philosopher as much as they see fit; he will still not be discouraged from remaining a student, acquiring knowledge throughout life, and at the same time calling into question the beliefs of others, especially when these are presented as knowledge to be imparted to students. The parallel introduced here between Connus and the sophists entails a further implication: while others may laugh at Socrates, he potentially has the power of attaching reproach to his intended teachers – the term employed is ὄνειδος. Thus we anticipate that the Socratic response to the sophistic tricks will be sharp criticism, but not laughter. This accounts for the fact that Ctesippus’ and Cleinias’ laughter toward the end of the final eristic scene is neither endorsed by the philosopher, nor even mentioned in his summary description of earlier cases of laughter at 303b3 – 5. The laughter of superiority Socrates condemns throughout. The parallel between Connus and the sophists is picked up again toward the end of the dialogue: in 295d3 – 7 Euthydemus’ attitude reminds Socrates of Connus, who does not like it when his student “does not yield to him,” and blames Socrates’ inability to learn. The real problem, of course, is that the teachers in each case cannot adequately defend their own positions, and so they get angry at anyone who, by asking questions, exposes them. By admitting Socrates in a discussion with them, the sophists, like Connus, run the risk of having him reveal their intellectual impotence. Let us turn to the final framing scene. At the end of the internal dialogue Crito returns to the foreground to speak of a stranger present at the discussion between Socrates and the sophists, who voices criticism against the philosopher for engaging in conversation with the two brothers (305a1– 4). Crito himself describes giving advice to Socrates as γελοῖον (304d2), but still mentions that the stranger considers people engaging in what Crito has termed philosophy to be καταγέλαστοι (304e6 – 305a8):

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Καὶ ἐγώ, ᾿Aλλὰ μέντοι, ἔφην, χαρίεν γέ τι πρᾶγμά ἐστιν ἡ φιλοσοφία. Ποῖον, ἔφη, χαρίεν, ὦ μακάριε; οὐδενὸς μὲν οὖν ἄξιον. ἀλλὰ καὶ εἰ νῦν παρεγένου, πάνυ ἄν σε οἶμαι αἰσχυνθῆναι ὑπὲρ τοῦ σεαυτοῦ ἑταίρου· οὕτως ἦν ἄτοπος, ἐθέλων ἑαυτὸν παρέχειν ἀνθρώποις οἷς οὐδὲν μέλει ὅτι ἂν λέγωσιν, παντὸς δὲ ῥήματος ἀντέχονται. καὶ οὗτοι, ὅπερ ἄρτι ἔλεγον, ἐν τοῖς κράτιστοί εἰσι τῶν νῦν.³⁰³ ἀλλὰ γάρ, ὦ Κρίτων, ἔφη, τὸ πρᾶγμα αὐτὸ καὶ οἱ ἄνθρωποι οἱ ἐπὶ τῷ πράγματι διατρίβοντες φαῦλοί εἰσιν καὶ καταγέλαστοι. And I [sc. Crito] said, “but philosophy is a graceful thing.” “My dear fellow, graceful? Hardly,” he said. “It is of no worth. On the contrary, if you had been present then, I think you would be very ashamed on behalf of your friend. So strange was he, wishing to make himself agreeable to people who do not care at all what they say, and who latch on to every word. And these people, as I was saying just now, are the very ablest of our contemporaries. But indeed, Crito,” he said, “both the thing itself and the men engaging in it are worthless and laughable.”

The conflation of terms in this final scene of the Euthydemus and the question of what is properly to be called “philosophy” have already been discussed in the previous chapter. The focus here is on the unnamed man’s use of the term καταγέλαστοι. This term (or etymologically related ones) Socrates earlier used of himself, when suggesting that his listeners might laugh at his arguments (e. g. 278d6, 278e4, 279c9 – d1, 279d4). It now becomes clear that, in the eyes of this stranger at least, the arguments of the philosopher par excellence did not appear as laughable – for he drew a distinction between Socrates and the sophists, condemning the former only for associating with the latter – but philosophy did. The stranger discredits philosophy itself based on the abilities of those who profess to be its teachers: in this case, the two brothers. The Euthydemus ends with Socrates’ response precisely to this criticism: if some teachers, whether Socrates himself or the sophists, are thought by others to be καταγέλαστοι (307b1), it does not follow that philosophy itself is of no value. This we can now read back to the internal dialogue: whether the sophists and their followers laugh at Socrates and the Socratics, or the Socratics at the sophists, and whether either side deserves that or not, philosophy retains its intrinsic value. The question raised in both the initial and the final framing scenes is essentially the same: who is properly to be laughed at? Does Socrates deserve the laughter of the students of Connus? Does he and do the sophists deserve the laughter of the unnamed man? Finally, are the teachers of philosophy or is the subject itself worthy of ridicule? Socrates’ answer is that in any case the object of study does not deserve to be laughed at. Only unqualified teachers ought to fear reproach, and it remains for the reader to determine who these are. The so For the use of ἐν τοῖς with the superlative see Smyth §1089.

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phists and Socrates follow methods which appear similar. But the question whether they are truly the same, and can both be called “philosophy,” is left for the reader to determine.

4.5 Summary and Interpretation I have tried to show that the Euthydemus is permeated by two interrelated motifs. On the one hand, various participants in the dialogue laugh at structurally significant moments. On the other, there are multiple references to play and its opposite, seriousness, with Socrates and the sophists taking turns in their attempts to identify whether the other party is serious or joking. The interrelation between the two motifs becomes clear when one notices the progression from the predominance of the first one to that of the second, and then the return of the first. Moreover, laughter frames the entire internal dialogue, occurring at its very beginning and also concluding it. Let us look more closely. In the beginning of the internal dialogue the philosopher states that the two brothers are men good at war and the law-courts. In response, the sophists laugh. At the end of the first showpiece of their method, as presented by Euthydemus, his followers laugh. At the end of the second showpiece, this time conducted by Dionysodorus, the same men laugh, harder than before. The tension is escalating. The first Socratic intervention in the internal dialogue takes place at this point. Socrates tells Cleinias that it has been the practice of his interlocutors so far to trip him and then laugh at him. He adds that he fears that they might do the same to him when he speaks. And when he has reached a critical moment in his argumentation he again expresses fear that the audience may laugh. From here on the motif of laughter recedes. It is however replaced by repeated references to play as opposed to seriousness. In the beginning of the first protreptic scene Socrates says that the sophists earlier “played,” but will now be serious in their argumentation. But as soon as he has finished speaking, Dionysodorus asks him if he seriously means what he is saying. In the second protreptic scene Socrates once again asks the sophists to be serious, underlining that he himself is very much so. When he fails to answer the philosophical question he has posed, he calls himself ridiculous and asks the sophists to pursue it, emphasizing the seriousness of his attitude. Following up on Socrates’ question, Euthydemus claims that everyone knows everything, and Socrates concludes that the sophist is indeed serious. There is no point in continuing a conversation which started out as a protreptic to the pursuit of wisdom if the claim is made

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that everyone is wise; it is time for Socrates to give up all effort, letting the sophists think that they have won the contest.³⁰⁴ Now the motif of seriousness and its opposite recedes again, while the motif predominant in the earlier part of the dialogue returns. But it is no longer the sophists that laugh, nor their audience. It is rather Ctesippus, followed by Cleinias. At the end of the discussion everybody laughs. They laugh so hard they almost die, Socrates says. There is a final applause; the performance has come to an end. There are two kinds of laughter in the dialogue. One is the actual laughter, first of the sophists and their followers, then of Ctesippus and Cleinias; the other is that which Socrates fears for himself, though it never actually takes place. In the first eristic scene the sophists and their adherents laugh mockingly at the inability of their opponents to maintain their original position in a given argument; Ctesippus and Cleinias adopt the same mocking attitude in the final eristic scene. In the second and fourth scenes Socrates presents himself as vulnerable to the same sort of reaction that had followed Cleinias’ defeats. Were the laugher he claims to fear for himself substantiated, it would be an expression of his interlocutors’ scornful attitude toward the positions he puts forth in argument. Much more than fearing ridicule in the eyes of the sophists, Socrates presents them with a mild warning against what indicates their own lack of seriousness in a matter as important as that of moral education.³⁰⁵ His alleged fear of disapproval is in fact a denunciation of the sophists, and the motif of laughter itself no mere literary embellishment but in fact directly related to the philosophical attitudes of the two parties. The sophists, on the one hand, laugh at their interlocutors when they refute them. They show no interest in guiding them toward the discovery of the truth which they claim to possess, but instead rejoice at the utter frustration of their intended students. Socrates’ approach is directly opposed to that. His repeated attempts to check laughter indicate his disapproval of the sophistic method of discourse, which transforms a discussion aiming at the discovery of the truth into a contest of power. The motif of laughter is thus employed as one of the ways in which the philosophical (or pseudo-philosophical)

 Socrates adopts the same method elsewhere (e. g. in the Ion), and in so doing he avoids engaging in direct conflict with his interlocutor. But the audience (and the reader of Plato) should be in a position to discern the irony and draw his own conclusions.  So also Halliwell (2008) 289.

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approaches of the two parties are juxtaposed.³⁰⁶ This literary aspect of the dialogue serves to enhance its philosophical import.

 There is an extensive analysis of laughter in Philebus 47d – 50c, in the context of a discussion of how comedy causes a mixture of pleasure and pain in the soul. The ‘ridiculous’ is here defined as the attribute of a man who is both self-ignorant and weak. Comedy causes laughter at the expense of such a man, which consists in a mixture of pleasure (because laughter is taken to be an indication of pleasure) and pain (because this laughter involves envy, i. e. taking pleasure in the misfortune – specifically, the self-ignorance – of a friend). So laughter in an unqualified sense is understood as pleasure, but laughter at the misfortune/ self-ignorance of a friend as envy, which is pain. Now, it is quite interesting that in the Philebus we find an explicit condemnation of laughter at the expense of a weak person – for this is precisely the sort of laughter the sophists arouse in the Euthydemus. Moreover, it is consistent with the Euthydemus that this mocking laughter is directed against someone who is specifically self-ignorant; I have already discussed the connection between laughter and self-ignorance in our dialogue. Further, the connection between the ridiculous and self-ignorance is also attested elsewhere in the Philebus: at 19a Protarchus calls upon Philebus to respond to Socrates’ question instead of him out of fear that he might appear ridiculous; Socrates’ question concerns the issue of pleasure and its kinds, a topic about which Protarchus and Philebus claim to possess knowledge; so if they are shown to be ignorant on this particular topic, this will essentially amount to selfignorance, i. e. thinking that one knows what he in fact does not know; finally, Protarchus himself speaks of self-ignorance at 20a, when he is forced to admit that he does not have an answer to Socrates’ question. For a discussion of laughter and ignorance in Philebus see Schulthess (2000) 309 – 318, who argues that, in rejecting comedy, Plato seems to reject attacks on self-ignorance; but in fact, he continues, Plato deems it permissible to expose the ridiculous – as indicative of one’s self-ignorance – when one does not actually laugh at it – and this is what Socrates typically does with his interlocutors (p. 317). This view matches the attitude I take Socrates to adopt in the Euthydemus.

Conclusion: Overall Interpretation This book set out to provide an interpretation of the Euthydemus as a whole, showing the importance not only of the protreptic scenes but also of the eristic and framing ones for a full appreciation of the philosophical theme of the work. The first two chapters provided an analysis of the internal dialogue: while earlier scholarship had focused on the differences illustrated in this part of the work between the Socratics and the sophists, it was here argued that the two parties also share some significant similarities, both in the content of their arguments and in their respective methods. The third chapter turned to the framing scenes, showing how they both motivate and comment on the internal dialogue. Finally the fourth chapter discussed the motifs of laughter and play, demonstrating that they contribute significantly to the characterization of Socratics and sophists; in fact, they reinforce the impression gained through the analysis of the arguments about the methods of the two parties. It is now time to provide an overall interpretation of the dialogue, drawing on both its philosophical and its dramatic aspects: what is the Euthydemus finally about? The work sets out to answer the following question, posed by Crito at its beginning: in what does the wisdom of the two brothers, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, consist? Socrates claims that, in order to answer fully, he must give an account of his entire interaction with the sophists. So the internal dialogue is intended to provide that answer. But this it never does in an explicit way: Socrates never specifies exactly what the sophists teach. Implicitly, however, his narration reveals a number of things about “eristic wisdom”: the first eristic scene shows the brothers feigning concern for the identification of the proper student and the object of learning, but in fact intimidating their current student and cancelling out all possible answers to their own questions; in the second eristic scene they claim that all statements are true, and so no one can refute anyone else – while all they have been shown to do is refute successive interlocutors; finally, the central claim of the third eristic scene is that everyone knows everything – and so learning appears unnecessary. But if this is the case, the sophists are denying the very possibility or usefulness of the transmission of the knowledge which they claim to possess and be able to transmit. Moreover, if the illustration of their method suggests that they teach refutation rather than virtue, they explicitly deny even the possibility of that. Thus the knowledge of the sophists appears to lack any particular object. Now the protreptic scenes sandwiched between the eristic ones also aim to identify an object of knowledge – that of the philosophers – and they also fail to determine it explicitly. Here the epistemological question is connected with an

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ethical one: the central claim of the protreptic scenes is that knowledge is necessary and sufficient for happiness. This knowledge is acquired through philosophy and transmitted through politics; but the particular sort of knowledge to be acquired and transmitted is not specified. In this respect, eristic “wisdom” and philosophy seem to suffer from the same problem. Yet the implication is that eristic simply lacks a specific object of knowledge, whereas philosophy does have one, which, however, requires that the student be prepared to undergo a longer process of inquiry: the sought-after form of knowledge leading to happiness is implicitly identified as the one that will make the individual a good man, and this knowledge, it is also implied, comes about through recollection of the Forms. Moreover, the attitudes of the two parties toward knowledge are radically different: while Socrates does not specify – but only appears in the process of searching for – the sort of knowledge leading to happiness, the sophists do not specify that sort of knowledge either, and yet they claim omniscience. Philosophers are presented as learners, sophists as knowers. But the two parties show certain similarities in method: they both engage in some sort of conversing – or dialectic; they both use fallacious arguments, and so they can both be viewed as playful; and in the final scene they almost exchange roles: the sophists, in a way, speak of Forms and Recollection, while Socrates eventually starts speaking like a sophist; further, Ctesippus imitates the eristic methods, while Euthydemus starts asking for permission to qualify his statements. There are also reversals in certain motifs of the dialogue, emphasizing that roles have been temporarily exchanged between the two groups: in the early part of the Euthydemus Cleinias blushes, the sophists and their followers laugh at the Socratics, and the Socratics are reduced to silence; in the later part of the dialogue Dionysodorus blushes, Ctesippus and Cleinias laugh at the sophists, and the brothers are reduced to silence. As the practices of Socratics and sophists almost merge into one, certain audiences are likely to fail to draw the dividing line between them. In light of these similarities and role reversals, the repeated allusions to the Clouds become meaningful: there Socrates was cast as a sophist; here, Socrates still shares some traits with his philosophical opponents, while the sophists themselves, at least in the final eristic scene, appear oddly reminiscent of philosophers. The tragicomedy of the Euthydemus responds to the challenge of the comedy of the Clouds: it both acknowledges the similarities and illustrates the differences between philosophy and eristic, at the same time underlining the danger of conflation between them. The Euthydemus shows how similar Socrates and the sophists may appear, how grotesquely Socratic / Platonic views can be distorted, and how such distortions can persist through time and lead to unjus-

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tified accusations of philosophy; it is of course telling that the internal dialogue ends with Dionysodorus’ accusing Socrates of impiety, which is clearly evocative of the actual accusations raised against the historical Socrates. Now the final framing scene of the Euthydemus comments precisely on this implication of the internal dialogue, that the similarities between the two methods can lead to conflation between them. They illustrate how the audience of a comedy – be it the audience of the Aristophanic comedy or the audience of the ‘comedy’ that is the internal dialogue – can indeed fail to recognize what may properly be termed philosophy, and what may not. Certain similarities between Socratics and sophists are undeniable; but the distinction between them is equally undeniable, and one ought to be able to make it. Yet even Crito hardly manages. And so the Euthydemus ends with the assignment of this task to him: he must first determine what philosophy is, before choosing an appropriate teacher for his son. Thus the Euthydemus begins with the aim of identifying the wisdom of the sophists; in the course of the dialogue this is juxtaposed and even conflated with the (sought-after) wisdom of the philosophers; and the question with which the dialogue ends concerns the distinction between the two. The Euthydemus is artfully crafted into an organic whole. It ends by raising the same question with which it began, and with which the reader, in light of the internal dialogue, is invited to engage afresh.

Appendix: The Structure of the Euthydemus Introductory Framing Scene: 271a1– 272d6 Internal Dialogue: First Eristic Scene 272d7– 277c7 First Protreptic Scene 277d1– 282e6 Second Eristic Scene 283a1– 288b2 Second Protreptic Scene 288b3 – 293a6 Third Eristic Scene 293a7– 303a9 Concluding Framing Scene 303b1– 307c4

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Index of Proper Names Antisthenes 94, 122, 148 – 149 Archelaus 42 Aristotle 3, 45, 51 Axiochus 38, 126 – 127, 146, 160, 162

121 – 123, 127 – 128, 131, 143, 146, 156 – 159, 165, 167 – 169, 171, 173 – 177, 181, 185, 188 – 190 Diotima 18, 113 – 114

Callicles 12 – 13, 36, 39, 52 – 53, 60, 145 Cephalus 57, 125 Chaeredemus 94 Cleinias 5, 9 – 15, 18, 20 – 21, 29 – 31, 35 – 38, 41 – 42, 44 – 46, 48, 50 – 57, 60 – 62, 64 – 66, 68 – 74, 77, 79 – 81, 83 – 85, 87, 96 – 98, 102, 106, 111, 119, 126 – 127, 132 – 137, 146, 151, 153 – 162, 164 – 165, 167 – 168, 170 – 171, 173 – 174, 176 – 179, 181, 183, 185 – 186, 189 Connus 131, 146, 182 – 184 Crab 93, 101 Critias 57, 125 Crito 2, 5, 7, 10, 35 – 36, 38, 53, 55 – 59, 61 – 62, 65 – 66, 69, 86 – 87, 89, 111, 116 – 117, 125 – 144, 151 – 154, 156, 182 – 184, 188, 190 Critoboulos 36, 38, 126 – 127, 151 Ctesippus 5, 35, 74, 76 – 81, 83 – 85, 90 – 91, 93 – 98, 101 – 103, 106, 112, 120 – 122, 130 – 132, 135, 141, 153, 155 – 156, 168 – 170, 172 – 179, 181 – 183, 186, 189

Heracles 93 – 94, 101, 106, 109 Hydra 93, 101

Dionysodorus 5, 35, 52, 54, 68 – 74, 76 – 85, 87 – 90, 92 – 103, 105 – 107, 114, 117,

Thrasymachus

Iolaus 93 – 94, 101, 106 Isocrates 7, 118, 139, 143 – 153 Lysias

87

Parmenides 74 – 75, 113, 121 Patrocles 93 Phidippides 95 Philolaus 87 Pindar 137 Polemarchus 57 Polus 42 – 43, 122, 128 Prodicus 144 Protagoras 83 – 84, 86 Protarchus 115, 187 Proteus 143, 170, 181 Sophroniscus 94 Strepsiades 95, 132 13, 174

Greek Works Cited ARISTOPHANES – Clouds 7, 95, 132, 153, 166, 189 HOMER – Odyssey

170, 178, 180 – 182

ISOCRATES – Against the Sophists 83, 103, 138, 146 – 148, 150 – 151, 161 – Antidosis 150 – 151 – Helen 148 – 149, 151, 164 – Letter to Alexander 150 – Speech to Nicocles 150 PLATO – Alcibiades 35, 38, 125, 127 – Apology 12, 22, 40, 123, 129, 153 – Charmides 57, 103, 125, 144 – Crito 39, 125 – Gorgias 12 – 13, 29, 36, 39, 42 – 43, 45, 52 – 53, 55, 58, 60, 62 – 63, 118, 122, 125, 128, 147, 164

– Hippias Major 87, 105, 125 – Hippias Minor 31, 125 – Ion 100, 125, 186 – Laches 125, 167 – Lysis 3, 103, 125, 166 – 167, 174, 178 – Meno 3, 24 – 26,29 – 34, 42, 70, 104, 125 – Parmenides 121, 125 – Phaedo 74, 104, 125 – 126, 140, 180 – Phaedrus 1, 113, 125, 145 – 146 – Philebus 67, 115 – 116, 125, 187 – Protagoras 3, 24, 31, 44, 74, 87, 111, 125 – 126, 144, 147 – 148, 152 – 153, 173, 178 – Republic 13, 29 – 30, 34, 44, 48, 51, 55, 57, 62 – 64, 66 – 67, 75, 104 – 105, 112 – 113, 116, 121 – 122, 125, 130, 163, 174 – 175, 178 – Sophist 45, 54, 67, 74 – 75, 91, 112, 116, 121 – 122, 125, 147 – Statesman 52 – 53, 55, 60, 125, 134 – Symposium 1, 9, 18,42, 67, 113 – 114, 116, 125 – 126 – Theaetetus 10, 45, 74, 77, 105, 126, 135, 138

General Index agon 71 ambiguity 2, 7, 16, 33, 45 – 47, 69, 74 – 78, 83, 99, 108, 118, 125, 143, 151, 166, 169 analytical approach 3 anamnesis 70, 103 – 104 aporia 6, 11, 48, 62, 64, 121, 150, 166 – 167 assets 5, 10 – 11, 27 – 28, 33, 36 – 37, 39 – 40, 44, 46 – 50, 59, 64 – 65, 129 audience 5, 71, 125 – 126, 135 – 136, 141 – 142, 153, 157 – 162, 172, 177 – 178, 180 – 182, 185 – 186, 189 – 190 binary opposition 7, 72 – 74, 97, 102, 112 – 113, 117 blush 87, 157, 173 – 174, 189

eudaimonia 1, 5, 14, 52 – 53, 63, 66, 88, 123, 134, 136, 144, 150 eu prattein 14, 142 fallacy 4, 6, 10 – 11, 17, 39, 42, 44 – 45, 67, 77, 118 – 119 fallacy of the excluded middle 7, 116, 119 false belief 81 – 82 false statement 76, 79 – 82, 108, 122 Form of the Good 64 Forms 24, 31, 45, 54 – 55, 63, 67 – 68, 99, 103 – 105, 107, 109 – 111, 113, 120 – 124, 128, 134, 189 framing scenes 2, 5, 7, 125, 155, 182, 184, 188

comedy 1, 8 – 9, 91, 95, 132, 152 – 153, 179, 187, 189 – 190 comic 9, 74, 85, 95, 110, 132, 144, 155 conditional good 27, 36, 40 – 41, 49 – 51, 59, 65 contradiction 2, 79, 82 – 83, 94, 108, 110 – 111, 113, 148, 176 conventional good 23, 25 – 26, 28, 30 – 31, 35 – 37, 41 – 42, 46 – 47, 58 – 59, 61 courage 12, 22, 24 – 25, 30, 32 – 33, 70, 148 – 149, 159 – 160, 167

generalship 53 – 54, 134 geneticists 2 good fortune 10 – 11, 14 – 21, 23, 27, 34, 36 – 37, 41 – 42, 46 – 47, 129, 162 – 163

dating of the Euthydemus 29, 33 death 8, 74, 140, 178 – 182 dependent good 37, 61 dialectic 37, 41, 54 – 55, 81, 99, 121, 123, 134, 137, 146, 153, 189 doctrine 1 – 2, 4, 62, 87, 103 drama 1, 3, 9 – 10, 45, 81, 125, 174 dramatic action 3, 6, 10 dramatic approach 2 – 3

independent good 38, 59, 61 internal dialogue 5, 9, 98, 102, 105, 119 – 120, 125 – 127, 129 – 138, 140 – 143, 145 – 147, 150, 152, 155 – 156, 158, 169, 172 – 174, 179, 183 – 185, 188, 190 – 191 irony 4, 7, 14, 56, 95, 129 – 131, 133, 136, 141 – 142, 153, 156, 165 – 166, 170, 172, 175 – 177, 182, 186

education 35 – 36, 38, 43, 47, 127 – 128, 131 – 132, 145, 151, 168, 186 Eleatic 75 – 76, 112 elenchus 9, 12, 42 esoterists 3

happiness 5 – 6, 11 – 12, 14, 16, 19 – 22, 26 – 28, 30, 34, 36 – 45, 47 – 50, 53 – 54, 56, 58 – 62, 64 – 67, 88, 96, 106, 111, 115, 119, 121 – 122, 124, 136, 142, 146 – 147, 162, 167, 171, 178 – 179, 189 hunting 53 – 54, 56, 91, 100, 134

justice 1, 12, 22, 24, 30, 32, 43, 118, 122, 148 – 149 kingly art 52, 58, 60, 62 – 63 knowledge 6 – 7, 10 – 11, 15 – 19, 21, 23 – 24, 26, 28 – 29, 31 – 36, 38 – 39, 43 – 44, 47 – 53, 55, 58 – 67, 70 – 73, 75, 81, 88 –

General Index

91, 94, 100, 104 – 106, 108 – 115, 117, 119 – 124, 127 – 128, 130, 134 – 135, 140, 148 – 149, 167, 171, 178 – 179, 182 – 183, 187 – 189 logographer 116, 130, 143 – 145, 147, 150 love 5, 26, 35, 49, 97, 113 – 115, 127, 166, 168 Lyceum 5, 74, 86, 125 – 126, 132, 156, 177 narrator 7, 70, 90 – 91, 97, 125 – 126, 135, 158 – 159, 174, 176 non-being 74 – 75, 109, 112 omnipotence 128 omniscience 89 – 96, 101 – 102, 104, 108 – 110, 119, 123, 167, 171 – 172, 174, 189 opinion 15, 33, 61, 75, 108, 112 – 113, 116, 120, 131, 140 pain 22, 112, 115 – 116, 187 pancratiast 80, 128 pancration 128, 133 philosopher-king 55, 63 philosophy 1 – 3, 5 – 12, 26, 36 – 37, 42, 47 – 49, 52 – 53, 56, 59 – 66, 68, 72 – 73, 102, 106 – 107, 110 – 111, 113, 115 – 118, 125, 130, 135 – 137, 139 – 146, 149 – 154, 156, 166 – 167, 179, 183 – 185, 189 – 190 piety 24 pleasure 115 – 116, 164, 177, 187 political art 6, 48, 52, 55 – 66, 116 – 118, 134, 144 – 145, 189 principle of charity 4, 42 properties of the soul 6, 25, 32 – 33, 44, 46 recollection 33, 67, 70, 82, 103 – 104, 107, 109 – 110, 189

203

refutation 69 – 71, 74, 80 – 84, 89, 92, 95, 101 – 102, 108, 129, 132 – 134, 142, 155, 167, 169, 173 – 174, 188 rhetoric 36, 52 – 53, 55, 58, 77, 122, 144, 151 silence 47, 80, 84 – 85, 94, 96, 102, 123, 137, 174, 189 soul 12, 25, 35, 39 – 40, 53 – 54, 60 – 61, 63 – 64, 91, 100, 104, 122, 148, 175, 187 speech-writing 52 – 54, 56, 77, 117, 134, 144 – 145 statesman 60, 134 success 16 – 17, 19 – 21, 26 – 27, 31, 47, 53, 68, 85, 136, 142 teachability of virtue 29, 31 techne 51, 62 temperance 12, 22, 24, 30, 32 Thurii 128, 146 – 147 tragedy 9 unconditional good 30, 36, 40 – 41, 46, 59, 65, 178 unnamed man 7, 117 – 118, 125, 127 – 128, 131, 139 – 145, 147, 151 – 153, 184 virtue 5 – 6, 9 – 15, 21 – 22, 24 – 25, 27 – 36, 39 – 41, 43 – 44, 46, 48, 52, 60 – 66, 68, 72, 79, 82, 88 – 89, 100, 102 – 103, 106, 111, 128 – 129, 131, 133 – 134, 146 – 147, 149, 157, 162, 164 – 165, 168 – 169, 174, 182, 188 virtue as a skill 51, 63 wisdom 5 – 6, 9 – 11, 13 – 22, 24 – 44, 46 – 49, 51, 55, 60 – 64, 66, 74, 81, 95 – 96, 99, 106, 108 – 109, 111 – 117, 119 – 121, 123, 127 – 133, 138, 140, 142 – 143, 148 – 149, 157 – 158, 160, 162 – 163, 165, 167 – 168, 171, 176, 182, 185, 188 – 190