The Soul and the Veil of Politics: The Philosopher's Journey
Plato’s early dialogues form a loose narrative that portrays the philosophical life as a journey that both engages and transcends political life and human culture. This remains a compelling image.
Plato’s dialogues the Meno, Apology, and Phaedo stand together as a loose triumvirate of texts that portray Socrates’ life and mission — and by extension the life of philosophy — as a journey associated the soul, community, change, and politics. This is not surprising when we focus on the early Platonic dialogues, wherein we find the narrative of Socrates’ trial and death, along with a number of foreshadowing events. Indeed, in these texts the narrative focuses our attention on that point where Socrates exits the veil of becoming and he becomes all soul. This journey is worth our attention because it will can teach some important lessons about Socrates, philosophy, and perhaps even ourselves.
The Meno
The events of the Meno take place before the trial and death of Socrates. The Meno takes up the question of whether virtue can be taught; the dialogue ends in perplexity, but along the way, we encounter questions and insights about virtue, knowledge, learning, and the existence of the soul.
The Meno begins with a discussion about moral instruction — whether it is possible to teach virtue? This question is far from esoteric. Indeed, whatever the particulars every society has a moral code of some sort that it wishes to pass on to the youth. However, in order to answer this question clearly it is important to first define virtue. Despite his best efforts, Meno fails to do so and confesses that once he thought that he understood virtue but now he is convinced of his own ignorance. Eventually Socrates suggests that virtue is a kind of knowledge (something like practical wisdom). The dialogue ends in perplexity because neither Meno nor Socrates can identify those capable of teaching practical wisdom. The Sophists, rhetoricians (really teachers of the politicians), cannot teach because they make persuasive speeches rather than asking the right sort of questions (Socrates’ view of teaching is that it primarily involves questions). Similarly, it is evident that the leading political men of Athens cannot teach virtue because their sons so often turn out poorly. This latter point outrages one of the interlocutors, who represents the “noble” and “best men” of Athens. This development signifies the inadequacy of Athenian institutions and politicians and an antipathy between wisdom and political power.
As with so many Socratic dialogues, the conversations winds back and forth. At a crucial point the dialogue turns to the nature of learning and knowledge, which quickly brings us to the famous scene wherein Socrates gently leads a slave boy to important geometrical conclusions by asking him the right sorts of questions. This exercise is intended to support the claim that learning is a kind of recollection, which in turn suggests that the soul learned prior to its present state. The upshot is that soul can exist without the body and, as such, is immortal. On its own, this line of argument is only suggestive rather than demonstrative; it gains considerable force when the metaphysical conditions of the forms are brought into play, as in the Phaedo (more on that anon). However, what is more important here is the establishment of a pattern.
First, an important question is brought into view; next, we experience the inadequacy of reason and politics. But the dialogue does not end in pure skepticism. Rather there is a turn to search within and above. The soul comes into view and possibilities of immortality and wisdom open up before us. This is what makes Plato so compelling even to this day. He discovers questions within our experience that cannot be easily answered by ordinary means and institutions; and it is this very experience of inadequacy that opens up to us to new vistas of meaning, truth, and experience. This is Plato’s deep magic — the transition to the otherworldly. A similar pattern may be found in Plato’s Apology.
The Apology
Socrates is put on trial ostensibly for corrupting the youth and teaching strange gods. These charges are easily swept aside. Nevertheless, the jury’s jeering and shouts indicate that there is something shameful in Socrates’ way of life or he would not have been brought to trial. Socrates provocative defense is that his way of life is in fact divinely inspired. The reason is this: the oracle at Delphi said that Socrates was the wisest among men. Now he did not believe this was so and set out to prove the god incorrect by finding someone wiser than himself. Socrates went to those who were reputed to be wise, but under critical examination found, that they could neither demonstrate nor define. He concludes that the oracle must have meant something like this: Socrates is wisest in that he knows he is not wise or that human wisdom is worth very little. Here we find the pattern emerging once again.
The important question of wisdom is brought into view, but the ordinary sources of authority and truth are inadequate to find an answer. This lays the foundation for a radical critique of the city and a transition away from the mundane world of human experience. Indeed, later in the dialogue, Socrates admonishes the Athenians for caring too much about power, wealth, and reputation, and too little for the best condition of the soul.
As is well known, Socrates is condemned to death, but he appears to be truly indifferent to his fate. And at this point the text returns to the otherworldly pattern. Socrates professes that his poise in the face of death is produced by the fact that his guiding spirit had not held him up during the course of his trial and, according to Socrates, if he was going in the wrong direction, his spirit would have intervened and checked his behavior. He goes on to claim that he had experienced this throughout his life and intimates that the sign is a gift of the gods. Unchecked by his protecting spirit, Socrates is confident that even if his path leads towards death, he is doing the right thing. And by the very end of the text, Socrates makes a straightforward profession of faith in the benevolent providence of the gods.
The pattern is complete again. Important questions about death and wisdom arise; the wise of this world cannot answer them, but we are assured of something higher and better than the frailty of mere human wisdom.
The Phaedo
In the Phaedo the detachment from worldly things and the reality of the soul and world of the forms come to fore. This text covers the time immediately before Socrates’ death and apparently his last conversation. This dialogue deserves considerable attention, but I will focus only the two most relevant parts: (a) preparation for death and (b) the reality of the soul and the separate world of the forms.
Socrates explains to his friends that he is not afraid of death because philosophy is preparation for death. The idea here is that the man who loves and pursues wisdom will detach from bodily goods and worldly passions. The true philosopher recognizes that the passions of the body are a source of great distraction. Moreover, he is aware that riches, fame, and the like are inferior to wisdom and the soul. After all, without wisdom, neither riches nor fame is good in itself. And the soul continues forever, whereas worldly goods quickly fade away. Indeed the enlargement of soul is an essential element of the Platonic tradition. This line of argument clearly puts on display the negative movement of the Plato’s otherworldly pattern. Although this world of experience participates in being and goodness, it distracts from wisdom and it is inferior to the otherworld. It is something to be overcome. This theme is adumbrated by what Plato has to say about the soul.
As already noted, Plato claims that learning is a kind of recollection and that this process indicates the soul’s immortality. In the Phaedo, he adds more precision to the argument. Whenever we know something truly, we know it through the form. It is form that gives us a standard for making firm judgments; the form ties down the truth. But the objects of our experience fall short of the perfection of the form. Each form is only what it is; the form of square does not include anything non-square; therefore, the form of square is the perfection of square. The same goes for the form of truth, beauty, and justice. But none of the objects of our experience measure up to this level of perfection. Therefore, the soul must have learned of them before it existed with the body. But if so, then the soul can exist without the body — it already has. The soul separable from the body and may continue to exist after its dissolution. Not only this, the pre-existence of the soul and the perfection of the forms, supports the conclusion that the forms exist altogether apart from the world of experience. And at this point the full otherworldly pattern is in place.
We find that the objects of experience do not turn out to be the basis of knowledge — they are too imperfect. Rather the foundation of knowledge, along with the soul, exist apart from the changes and divisions of this imperfect world.
The Philosophical Journey
What does Plato’s otherworldly pattern tell us about the love wisdom? Philosophy is preparation for death. Human wisdom is worth very little. Immortality and perfection are beyond the limits of this word. Death is a kind of healing. These theses and others paint an austere portrait of the philosopher.
The philosopher seeks wisdom and finds an endless horizon of questions. He also discovers that the answers of his culture and political community are insufficient — human wisdom is not worth very much. But Socrates does not lapse into despair or skepticism. Rather he discovers that the truth exists in a better and higher reality and that he has access to this reality. Finally, he prepares himself for an encounter with the higher truth by separating himself from worldly distractions; the philosopher detaches and prepares for death. Finally, he contemplates death with equanimity because he knows his own immortality.
At times, this image of philosophy attracts me powerfully, and I am hardly alone. When one grasps the corruption of the world and perceives the existence of higher reality, the otherworldly pattern beckons. This is the vertical axis of what I call the transcendent – immanent dialectic of philosophy (and Christian existence). But of course, anyone who has read Logos Letter is aware of my long engagement in political philosophy — that most worldly branch of philosophy. Here we find the horizontal axis of the love of wisdom. Indeed, this tension pervades Plato’s work, the first great political philosopher and the weaver of the otherworldly pattern. Did he create this tension on purpose? Did he intend a political otherworldliness? Or an otherworldly politics? Perhaps both?
My own view is that the otherworldly pattern is correct and higher than alternatives, but incomplete. In the end, we are not gods or even pre-existent souls. We are men. Spirits to be sure, but spirits of flesh and blood, time and place. As Aristotle says of the contemplative life, it is more divine than human. Although we are meant for more, in this life, we do not dwell in the heavens, but merely in temples.