CHARMIDES, or Temperance
translated by Benjamin Jowett
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE:
SOCRATES, who is the narrator;
SCENE: The Palaestra of Taureas, which is near the Porch of
the King Archon.
Yesterday evening I returned from the army at Potidaea, and
having been a good while away, I thought that I should like to go
and look at my old haunts. So I went into the palaestra of
Taureas, which is over against the temple adjoining the porch of
the King Archon, and there I found a number of persons, most of
whom I knew, but not all. My visit was unexpected, and no sooner
did they see me entering than they saluted me from afar on all
sides; and Chaerephon, who is a kind of madman, started up and
ran to me, seizing my hand, and saying, How did you escape,
Socrates?-(I should explain that an engagement had taken place at
Potidaea not long before we came away, of which the news had only
just reached Athens.)
You see, I replied, that here I am.
There was a report, he said, that the engagement was very
severe, and that many of our acquaintance had fallen.
That, I replied, was not far from the truth.
I suppose, he said, that you were present.
Then sit down, and tell us the whole story, which as yet we
have only heard imperfectly.
I took the place which he assigned to me, by the side of
Critias the son of Callaeschrus, and when I had saluted him and
the rest of the company, I told them the news from the army, and
answered their several enquiries.
Then, when there had been enough of this, I, in my turn, began
to make enquiries about matters at home-about the present state
of philosophy, and about the youth. I asked whether any of them
were remarkable for wisdom or beauty, or both. Critias, glancing
at the door, invited my attention to some youths who were coming
in, and talking noisily to one another, followed by a crowd. Of
the beauties, Socrates, he said, I fancy that you will soon be
able to form a judgment. For those who are just entering are the
advanced guard of the great beauty, as he is thought to be, of
the day, and he is likely to be not far off himself.
Who is he, I said; and who is his father?
Charmides, he replied, is his name; he is my cousin, and the
son of my uncle Glaucon: I rather think that you know him too,
although he was not grown up at the time of your departure.
Certainly, I know him, I said, for he was remarkable even then
when he was still a child, and I should imagine that by this time
he must be almost a young man.
You will see, he said, in a moment what progress he has made
and what he is like. He had scarcely said the word, when
Now you know, my friend, that I cannot measure anything, and
of the beautiful, I am simply such a measure as a white line is
of chalk; for almost all young persons appear to be beautiful in
my eyes. But at that moment, when I saw him coming in, I confess
that I was quite astonished at his beauty and stature; all the
world seemed to be enamoured of him; amazement and confusion
reigned when he entered; and a troop of lovers followed him. That
grown-up men like ourselves should have been affected in this way
was not surprising, but I observed that there was the same
feeling among the boys; all of them, down to the very least
child, turned and looked at him, as if he had been a statue.
Chaerephon called me and said: What do you think of him,
Socrates? Has he not a beautiful face?
Most beautiful, I said.
But you would think nothing of his face, he replied, if you
could see his naked form: he is absolutely perfect.
And to this they all agreed.
By Heracles, I said, there never was such a paragon, if he has
only one other slight addition.
What is that? said Critias.
If he has a noble soul; and being of your house, Critias, he
may be expected to have this.
He is as fair and good within, as he is without, replied
Then, before we see his body, should we not ask him to show us
his soul, naked and undisguised? he is just of an age at which he
will like to talk.
That he will, said Critias, and I can tell you that he is a
philosopher already, and also a considerable poet, not in his own
opinion only, but in that of others.
That, my dear Critias, I replied, is a distinction which has
long been in your family, and is inherited by you from Solon. But
why do you not call him, and show him to us? for even if he were
younger than he is, there could be no impropriety in his talking
to us in the presence of you, who are his guardian and cousin.
Very well, he said; then I will call him; and turning to the
attendant, he said, Call Charmides, and tell him that I want him
to come and see a physician about the illness of which he spoke
to me the day before yesterday. Then again addressing me, he
added: He has been complaining lately of having a headache when
he rises in the morning: now why should you not make him believe
that you know a cure for the headache?
Why not, I said; but will he come?
He will be sure to come, he replied.
He came as he was bidden, and sat down between Critias and me.
Great amusement was occasioned by every one pushing with might
and main at his neighbour in order to make a place for him next
to themselves, until at the two ends of the row one had to get up
and the other was rolled over sideways. Now my friend, was
beginning to feel awkward; former bold belief in my powers of
conversing with him had vanished. And when Critias told him that
I was the person who had the cure, he looked at me in such an
indescribable manner, and was just going to ask a question. And
at that moment all the people in the palaestra crowded about us,
and, O rare! I caught a sight of the inwards of his garment, and
took the flame. Then I could no longer contain myself. I thought
how well Cydias understood the nature of love, when, in speaking
of a fair youth, he warns some one "not to bring the fawn in
the sight of the lion to be devoured by him," for I felt
that I had been overcome by a sort of wild-beast appetite. But I
controlled myself, and when he asked me if I knew the cure of the
headache, I answered, but with an effort, that I did know.
And what is it? he said.
I replied that it was a kind of leaf, which required to be
accompanied by a charm, and if a person would repeat the charm at
the same time that he used the cure, he would be made whole; but
that without the charm the leaf would be of no avail.
Then I will write out the charm from your dictation, he said.
With my consent? I said, or without my consent?
With your consent, Socrates, he said, laughing.
Very good, I said; and are you quite sure that you know my
I ought to know you, he replied, for there is a great deal
said about you among my companions; and I remember when I was a
child seeing you in company with my cousin Critias.
I am glad to find that you remember me, I said; for I shall
now be more at home with you and shall be better able to explain
the nature of the charm, about which I felt a difficulty before.
For the charm will do more, Charmides, than only cure the
headache. I dare say that you have heard eminent physicians say
to a patient who comes to them with bad eyes, that they cannot
cure his eyes by themselves, but that if his eyes are to be
cured, his head must be treated; and then again they say that to
think of curing the head alone, and not the rest of the body
also, is the height of folly. And arguing in this way they apply
their methods to the whole body, and try to treat and heal the
whole and the part together. Did you ever observe that this is
what they say?
Yes, he said.
And they are right, and you would agree with them?
Yes, he said, certainly I should.
His approving answers reassured me, and I began by degrees to
regain confidence, and the vital heat returned. Such, Charmides,
I said, is the nature of the charm, which I learned when serving
with the army from one of the physicians of the Thracian king
Zamolxis, who are to be so skilful that they can even give
immortality. This Thracian told me that in these notions of
theirs, which I was just now mentioning, the Greek physicians are
quite right as far as they go; but Zamolxis, he added, our king,
who is also a god, says further, "that as you ought not to
attempt to cure the eyes without the head, or the head without
the body, so neither ought you to attempt to cure the body
without the soul; and this," he said, "is the reason
why the cure of many diseases is unknown to the physicians of
Hellas, because they are ignorant of the whole, which ought to be
studied also; for the part can never be well unless the whole is
well." For all good and evil, whether in the body or in
human nature, originates, as he declared, in the soul, and
overflows from thence, as if from the head into the eyes. And
therefore if the head and body are to be well, you must begin by
curing the soul; that is the first thing. And the cure, my dear
youth, has to be effected by the use of certain charms, and these
charms are fair words; and by them temperance is implanted in the
soul, and where temperance is, there health is speedily imparted,
not only to the head, but to the whole body. And he who taught me
the cure and the charm at the same time added a special direction:
"Let no one," he said, "persuade you to cure the
head, until he has first given you his soul to be cured by the
charm. For this," he said, "is the great error of our
day in the treatment of the human body, that physicians separate
the soul from the body." And he added with emphasis, at the
same time making me swear to his words, "Let no one, however
rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to give him the cure,
without the charm." Now I have sworn, and I must keep my
oath, and therefore if you will allow me to apply the Thracian
charm first to your soul, as the stranger directed, I will
afterwards proceed to apply the cure to your head. But if not, I
do not know what I am to do with you, my dear Charmides.
Critias, when he heard this, said: The headache will be an
unexpected gain to my young relation, if the pain in his head
compels him to improve his mind: and I can tell you, Socrates,
that Charmides is not only pre-eminent in beauty among his
equals, but also in that quality which is given by the charm; and
this, as you say, is temperance?
Yes, I said.
Then let me tell you that he is the most temperate of human
beings, and for his age inferior to none in any quality.
Yes, I said, Charmides; and indeed I think that you ought to
excel others in all good qualities; for if I am not mistaken
there is no one present who could easily point out two Athenian
houses, whose union would be likely to produce a better or nobler
scion than the two from which you are sprung. There is your
father's house, which is descended from Critias the son of
Dropidas, whose family has been commemorated in the panegyrical
verses of Anacreon, Solon, and many other poets, as famous for
beauty and virtue and all other high fortune: and your mother's
house is equally distinguished; for your maternal uncle,
Pyrilampes, is reputed never to have found his equal, in Persia
at the court of the great king, or on the continent of Asia, in
all the places to which he went as ambassador, for stature and
beauty; that whole family is not a whit inferior to the other.
Having such ancestors you ought to be first in all things, and,
sweet son of Glaucon, your outward form is no dishonour to any of
them. If to beauty you add temperance, and if in other respects
you are what Critias declares you to be, then, dear Charmides,
blessed art thou, in being the son of thy mother. And here lies
the point; for if, as he declares, you have this gift of
temperance already, and are temperate enough, in that case you
have no need of any charms, whether of Zamolxis or of Abaris the
Hyperborean, and I may as well let you have the cure of the head
at once; but if you have not yet acquired this quality, I must
use the charm before I give you the medicine. Please, therefore,
to inform me whether you admit the truth of what Critias has been
saying;-have you or have you not this quality of temperance?
Charmides blushed, and the blush heightened his beauty, for
modesty is becoming in youth; he then said very ingenuously, that
he really could not at once answer, either yes, or no, to the
question which I had asked: For, said he, if I affirm that I am
not temperate, that would be a strange thing for me to say of
myself, and also I should give the lie to Critias, and many
others who think as he tells you, that I am temperate: but, on
the other hand, if I say that I am, I shall have to praise
myself, which would be ill manners; and therefore I do not know
how to answer you.
I said to him: That is a natural reply, Charmides, and I think
that you and I ought together to enquire whether you have this
quality about which I am asking or not; and then you will not be
compelled to say what you do not like; neither shall I be a rash
practitioner of medicine: therefore, if you please, I will share
the enquiry with you, but I will not press you if you would
There is nothing which I should like better, he said; and as
far as I am concerned you may proceed in the way which you think
I think, I said, that I had better begin by asking you a
question; for if temperance abides in you, you must have an
opinion about her; she must give some intimation of her nature
and qualities, which may enable you to form a notion of her. Is
not that true?
Yes, he said, that I think is true.
You know your native language, I said, and therefore you must
be able to tell what you feel about this.
Certainly, he said.
In order, then, that I may form a conjecture whether you have
temperance abiding in you or not, tell me, I said, what, in your
opinion, is Temperance?
At first he hesitated, and was very unwilling to answer: then
he said that he thought temperance was doing things orderly and
quietly, such things for example as walking in the streets, and
talking, or anything else of that nature. In a word, he said, I
should answer that, in my opinion, temperance is quietness.
Are you right, Charmides? I said. No doubt some would affirm
that the quiet are the temperate; but let us see whether these
words have any meaning; and first tell me whether you would not
acknowledge temperance to be of the class of the noble and good?
But which is best when you are at the writing-master's, to
write the same letters quickly or quietly?
And to read quickly or slowly?
And in playing the lyre, or wrestling, quickness or sharpness
are far better than quietness and slowness?
And the same holds in boxing and in the pancratium?
And in leaping and running and in bodily exercises generally,
quickness and agility are good; slowness, and inactivity, and
quietness, are bad?
That is evident.
Then, I said, in all bodily actions, not quietness, but the
greatest agility and quickness, is noblest and best?
And is temperance a good?
Then, in reference to the body, not quietness, but quickness
will be the higher degree of temperance, if temperance is a good?
True, he said.
And which, I said, is better-facility in learning, or
difficulty in learning?
Yes, I said; and facility in learning is learning quickly, and
difficulty in learning is learning quietly and slowly?
And is it not better to teach another quickly and
energetically, rather than quietly and slowly?
And which is better, to call to mind, and to remember, quickly
and readily, or quietly and slowly?
And is not shrewdness a quickness or cleverness of the soul,
and not a quietness?
And is it not best to understand what is said, whether at the
writing-master's or the music-master's, or anywhere else, not as
quietly as possible, but as quickly as possible?
And in the searchings or deliberations of the soul, not the
quietest, as I imagine, and he who with difficulty deliberates
and discovers, is thought worthy of praise, but he who does so
most easily and quickly?
Quite true, he said.
And in all that concerns either body or soul, swiftness and
activity are clearly better than slowness and quietness?
Clearly they are.
Then temperance is not quietness, nor is the temperate life
quiet,-certainly not upon this view; for the life which is
temperate is supposed to be the good. And of two things, one is
true, either never, or very seldom, do the quiet actions in life
appear to be better than the quick and energetic ones; or
supposing that of the nobler actions, there are as many quiet, as
quick and vehement: still, even if we grant this, temperance will
not be acting quietly any more than acting quickly and
energetically, either in walking or talking or in anything else;
nor will the quiet life be more temperate than the unquiet,
seeing that temperance is admitted by us to be a good and noble
thing, and the quick have been shown to be as good as the quiet.
I think, he said, Socrates, that you are right.
Then once more, Charmides, I said, fix your attention, and
look within; consider the effect which temperance has upon
yourself, and the nature of that which has the effect. Think over
all this, and, like a brave youth, tell me-What is temperance?
After a moment's pause, in which he made a real manly effort
to think, he said: My opinion is, Socrates, that temperance makes
a man ashamed or modest, and that temperance is the same as
Very good, I said; and did you not admit, just now, that
temperance is noble?
Yes, certainly, he said.
And the temperate are also good?
And can that be good which does not make men good?
And you would infer that temperance is not only noble, but
That is my opinion.
Well, I said; but surely you would agree with Homer when he
says, Modesty is not good for a needy man?
Yes, he said; I agree.
Then I suppose that modesty is and is not good?
But temperance, whose presence makes men only good, and not
bad, is always good?
That appears to me to be as you say.
And the inference is that temperance cannot be modesty-if
temperance is a good, and if modesty is as much an evil as a
All that, Socrates, appears to me to be true; but I should
like to know what you think about another definition of
temperance, which I just now remember to have heard from some
one, who said, "That temperance is doing our own business."
Was he right who affirmed that?
You monster! I said; this is what Critias, or some philosopher
has told you.
Some one else, then, said Critias; for certainly I have not.
But what matter, said Charmides, from whom I heard this?
No matter at all, I replied; for the point is not who said the
words, but whether they are true or not.
There you are in the right, Socrates, he replied.
To be sure, I said; yet I doubt whether we shall ever be able
to discover their truth or falsehood; for they are a kind of
What makes you think so? he said.
Because, I said, he who uttered them seems to me to have meant
one thing, and said another. Is the scribe, for example, to be
regarded as doing nothing when he reads or writes?
I should rather think that he was doing something.
And does the scribe write or read, or teach you boys to write
or read, your own names only, or did you write your enemies'
names as well as your own and your friends'?
As much one as the other.
And was there anything meddling or intemperate in this?
And yet if reading and writing are the same as doing, you were
doing what was not your own business?
But they are the same as doing.
And the healing art, my friend, and building, and weaving, and
doing anything whatever which is done by art,-these all clearly
come under the head of doing?
And do you think that a state would be well ordered by a law
which compelled every man to weave and wash his own coat, and
make his own shoes, and his own flask and strigil, and other
implements, on this principle of every one doing and performing
his own, and abstaining from what is not his own?
I think not, he said.
But, I said, a temperate state will be a well ordered state.
Of course, he replied.
Then temperance, I said, will not be doing one's own business;
not at least in this way, or doing things of this sort?
Then, as I was just now saying, he who declared that
temperance is a man doing his own business had another and a
hidden meaning; for I do not think that he could have been such a
fool as to mean this. Was he a fool who told you, Charmides?
Nay, he replied, I certainly thought him a very wise man.
Then I am quite certain that he put forth his definition as a
riddle, thinking that no one would know the meaning of the words
"doing his own business."
I dare say, he replied.
And what is the meaning of a man doing his own business? Can
you tell me?
Indeed, I cannot; and I should not wonder if the man himself
who used this phrase did not understand what he was saying.
Whereupon he laughed slyly, and looked at Critias.
Critias had long been showing uneasiness, for he felt that he
had a reputation to maintain with Charmides and the rest of the
company. He had, however, hitherto managed to restrain himself;
but now he could no longer forbear, and I am convinced of the
truth of the suspicion which I entertained at the time, that
Charmides had heard this answer about temperance from Critias.
And Charmides, who did not want to answer himself, but to make
Critias answer, tried to stir him up. He went on pointing out
that he had been refuted, at which Critias grew angry, and
appeared, as I thought, inclined to quarrel with him; just as a
poet might quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems in
repeating them; so he looked hard at him and said--
Do you imagine, Charmides, that the author of this definition
of temperance did not understand the meaning of his own words,
because you do not understand them?
Why, at his age, I said, most excellent Critias, he can hardly
be expected to understand; but you, who are older, and have
studied, may well be assumed to know the meaning of them; and
therefore, if you agree with him, and accept his definition of
temperance, I would much rather argue with you than with him
about the truth or falsehood of the definition.
I entirely agree, said Critias, and accept the definition.
Very good, I said; and now let me repeat my question-Do you
admit, as I was just now saying, that all craftsmen make or do
And do they make or do their own business only, or that of
They make or do that of others also.
And are they temperate, seeing that they make not for
themselves or their own business only?
Why not? he said.
No objection on my part, I said, but there may be a difficulty
on his who proposes as a definition of temperance, "doing
one's own business," and then says that there is no reason
why those who do the business of others should not be temperate.
Nay, said he; did I ever acknowledge that those who do the
business of others are temperate? I said, those who make, not
those who do.
What! I asked; do you mean to say that doing and making are
not the same?
No more, he replied, than making or working are the same; thus
much I have learned from Hesiod, who says that "work is no
disgrace." Now do you imagine that if he had meant by
working and doing such things as you were describing, he would
have said that there was no disgrace in them-for example, in the
manufacture of shoes, or in selling pickles, or sitting for hire
in a house of ill-fame? That, Socrates, is not to be supposed:
but I conceive him to have distinguished making from doing and
work; and, while admitting that the making anything might
sometimes become a disgrace, when the employment was not
honourable, to have thought that work was never any disgrace at
all. For things nobly and usefully made he called works; and such
makings he called workings, and doings; and he must be supposed
to have called such things only man's proper business, and what
is hurtful, not his business: and in that sense Hesiod, and any
other wise man, may be reasonably supposed to call him wise who
does his own work.
O Critias, I said, no sooner had you opened your mouth, than I
pretty well knew that you would call that which is proper to a
man, and that which is his own, good; and that the markings of
the good you would call doings, for I am no stranger to the
endless distinctions which Prodicus draws about names. Now I have
no objection to your giving names any signification which you
please, if you will only tell me what you mean by them. Please
then to begin again, and be a little plainer. Do you mean that
this doing or making, or whatever is the word which you would
use, of good actions, is temperance?
I do, he said.
Then not he who does evil, but he who does good, is temperate?
Yes, he said; and you, friend, would agree.
No matter whether I should or not; just now, not what I think,
but what you are saying, is the point at issue.
Well, he answered; I mean to say, that he who does evil, and
not good, is not temperate; and that he is temperate who does
good, and not evil: for temperance I define in plain words to be
the doing of good actions.
And you may be very likely right in what you are saying; but I
am curious to know whether you imagine that temperate men are
ignorant of their own temperance?
I do not think so, he said.
And yet were you not saying, just now, that craftsmen might be
temperate in doing another's work, as well as in doing their own?
I was, he replied; but what is your drift?
I have no particular drift, but I wish that you would tell me
whether a physician who cures a patient may do good to himself
and good to another also?
I think that he may.
And he who does so does his duty?
And does not he who does his duty act temperately or wisely?
Yes, he acts wisely.
But must the physician necessarily know when his treatment is
likely to prove beneficial, and when not? or must the craftsman
necessarily know when he is likely to be benefited, and when not
to be benefited, by the work which he is doing?
I suppose not.
Then, I said, he may sometimes do good or harm, and not know
what he is himself doing, and yet, in doing good, as you say, he
has done temperately or wisely. Was not that your statement?
Then, as would seem, in doing good, he may act wisely or
temperately, and be wise or temperate, but not know his own
wisdom or temperance?
But that, Socrates, he said, is impossible; and therefore if
this is, as you imply, the necessary consequence of any of my
previous admissions, I will withdraw them, rather than admit that
a man can be temperate or wise who does not know himself; and I
am not ashamed to confess that I was in error. For self-knowledge
would certainly be maintained by me to be the very essence of
knowledge, and in this I agree with him who dedicated the
inscription, "Know thyself!" at Delphi. That word, if I
am not mistaken, is put there as a sort of salutation which the
god addresses to those who enter the temple; as much as to say
that the ordinary salutation of "Hail!" is not right,
and that the exhortation "Be temperate!" would be a far
better way of saluting one another. The notion of him who
dedicated the inscription was, as I believe, that the god speaks
to those who enter his temple, not as men speak; but, when a
worshipper enters, the first word which he hears is "Be
temperate!" This, however, like a prophet he expresses in a
sort of riddle, for "Know thyself!" and "Be
temperate!" are the same, as I maintain, and as the letters
imply, and yet they may be easily misunderstood; and succeeding
sages who added "Never too much," or, "Give a
pledge, and evil is nigh at hand," would appear to have so
misunderstood them; for they imagined that "Know thyself!"
was a piece of advice which the god gave, and not his salutation
of the worshippers at their first coming in; and they dedicated
their own inscription under the idea that they too would give
equally useful pieces of advice. Shall I tell you, Socrates, why
I say all this? My object is to leave the previous discussion (in
which I know not whether you or I are more right, but, at any
rate, no clear result was attained), and to raise a new one in
which I will attempt to prove, if you deny, that temperance is
Yes, I said, Critias; but you come to me as though I professed
to know about the questions which I ask, and as though I could,
if I only would, agree with you. Whereas the fact is that I
enquire with you into the truth of that which is advanced from
time to time, just because I do not know; and when I have
enquired, I will say whether I agree with you or not. Please then
to allow me time to reflect.
Reflect, he said.
I am reflecting, I replied, and discover that temperance, or
wisdom, if implying a knowledge of anything, must be a science,
and a science of something.
Yes, he said; the science of itself.
Is not medicine, I said, the science of health?
And suppose, I said, that I were asked by you what is the use
or effect of medicine, which is this science of health, I should
answer that medicine is of very great use in producing health,
which, as you will admit, is an excellent effect.
And if you were to ask me, what is the result or effect of
architecture, which is the science of building, I should say
houses, and so of other arts, which all have their different
results. Now I want you, Critias, to answer a similar question
about temperance, or wisdom, which, according to you, is the
science of itself. Admitting this view, I ask of you, what good
work, worthy of the name wise, does temperance or wisdom, which
is the science of itself, effect? Answer me.
That is not the true way of pursuing the enquiry, Socrates, he
said; for wisdom is not like the other sciences, any more than
they are like one another: but you proceed as if they were alike.
For tell me, he said, what result is there of computation or
geometry, in the same sense as a house is the result of building,
or a garment of weaving, or any other work of any other art? Can
you show me any such result of them? You cannot.
That is true, I said; but still each of these sciences has a
subject which is different from the science. I can show you that
the art of computation has to do with odd and even numbers in
their numerical relations to themselves and to each other. Is not
Yes, he said.
And the odd and even numbers are not the same with the art of
They are not.
The art of weighing, again, has to do with lighter and
heavier; but the art of weighing is one thing, and the heavy and
the light another. Do you admit that?
Now, I want to know, what is that which is not wisdom, and of
which wisdom is the science?
You are just falling into the old error, Socrates, he said.
You come asking in what wisdom or temperance differs from the
other sciences, and then you try to discover some respect in
which they are alike; but they are not, for all the other
sciences are of something else, and not of themselves; wisdom
alone is a science of other sciences, and of itself. And of this,
as I believe, you are very well aware: and that you are only
doing what you denied that you were doing just now, trying to
refute me, instead of pursuing the argument.
And what if I am? How can you think that I have any other
motive in refuting you but what I should have in examining into
myself? which motive would be just a fear of my unconsciously
fancying that I knew something of which I was ignorant. And at
this moment I pursue the argument chiefly for my own sake, and
perhaps in some degree also for the sake of my other friends. For
is not the discovery of things as they truly are, a good common
to all mankind?
Yes, certainly, Socrates, he said.
Then, I said, be cheerful, sweet sir, and give your opinion in
answer to the question which I asked, never minding whether
Critias or Socrates is the person refuted; attend only to the
argument, and see what will come of the refutation.
I think that you are right, he replied; and I will do as you
Tell me, then, I said, what you mean to affirm about wisdom.
I mean to say that wisdom is the only science which is the
science of itself as well as of the other sciences.
But the science of science, I said, will also be the science
of the absence of science.
Very true, he said.
Then the wise or temperate man, and he only, will know
himself, and be able to examine what he knows or does not know,
and to see what others know and think that they know and do
really know; and what they do not know, and fancy that they know,
when they do not. No other person will be able to do this. And
this is wisdom and temperance and self-knowledge-for a man to
know what he knows, and what he does not know. That is your
Yes, he said.
Now then, I said, making an offering of the third or last
argument to Zeus the Saviour, let us begin again, and ask, in the
first place, whether it is or is not possible for a person to
know that he knows and does not know what he knows and does not
know; and in the second place, whether, if perfectly possible,
such knowledge is of any use.
That is what we have to consider, he said.
And here, Critias, I said, I hope that you will find a way out
of a difficulty into which I have got myself. Shall I tell you
the nature of the difficulty?
By all means, he replied.
Does not what you have been saying, if true, amount to this:
that there must be a single science which is wholly a science of
itself and of other sciences, and that the same is also the
science of the absence of science?
But consider how monstrous this proposition is, my friend: in
any parallel case, the impossibility will be transparent to you.
How is that? and in what cases do you mean?
In such cases as this: Suppose that there is a kind of vision
which is not like ordinary vision, but a vision of itself and of
other sorts of vision, and of the defect of them, which in seeing
sees no colour, but only itself and other sorts of vision: Do you
think that there is such a kind of vision?
Or is there a kind of hearing which hears no sound at all, but
only itself and other sorts of hearing, or the defects of them?
There is not.
Or take all the senses: can you imagine that there is any
sense of itself and of other senses, but which is incapable of
perceiving the objects of the senses?
I think not.
Could there be any desire which is not the desire of any
pleasure, but of itself, and of all other desires?
Or can you imagine a wish which wishes for no good, but only
for itself and all other wishes?
I should answer, No.
Or would you say that there is a love which is not the love of
beauty, but of itself and of other loves?
I should not.
Or did you ever know of a fear which fears itself or other
fears, but has no object of fear?
I never did, he said.
Or of an opinion which is an opinion of itself and of other
opinions, and which has no opinion on the subjects of opinion in
But surely we are assuming a science of this kind, which,
having no subject-matter, is a science of itself and of the other
Yes, that is what is affirmed.
But how strange is this, if it be indeed true: must not
however as yet absolutely deny the possibility of such a science;
let us rather consider the matter.
You are quite right.
Well then, this science of which we are speaking is a science
of something, and is of a nature to be a science of something?
Just as that which is greater is of a nature to be greater
than something else?
Which is less, if the other is conceived to be greater?
To be sure.
And if we could find something which is at once greater than
itself, and greater than other great things, but not greater than
those things in comparison of which the others are greater, then
that thing would have the property of being greater and also less
That, Socrates, he said, is the inevitable inference.
Or if there be a double which is double of itself and of other
doubles, these will be halves; for the double is relative to the
That is true.
And that which is greater than itself will also be less, and
that which is heavier will also be lighter, and that which is
older will also be younger: and the same of other things; that
which has a nature relative to self will retain also the nature
of its object: I mean to say, for example, that hearing is, as we
say, of sound or voice. Is that true?
Then if hearing hears itself, it must hear a voice; for there
is no other way of hearing.
And sight also, my excellent friend, if it sees itself must
see a colour, for sight cannot see that which has no colour.
Do you remark, Critias, that in several of the examples which
have been recited the notion of a relation to self is altogether
inadmissible, and in other cases hardly credible-inadmissible,
for example, in the case of magnitudes, numbers, and the like?
But in the case of hearing and sight, or in the power of self-motion,
and the power of heat to burn, this relation to self will be
regarded as incredible by some, but perhaps not by others. And
some great man, my friend, is wanted, who will satisfactorily
determine for us, whether there is nothing which has an inherent
property of relation to self, or some things only and not others;
and whether in this class of self-related things, if there be
such a class, that science which is called wisdom or temperance
is included. I altogether distrust my own power of determining
these matters: I am not certain whether there is such a science
of science at all; and even if there be, I should not acknowledge
this to be wisdom or temperance, until I can also see whether
such a science would or would not do us any good; for I have an
impression that temperance is a benefit and a good. And
therefore, O son of Callaeschrus, as you maintain that temperance
or wisdom is a science of science, and also of the absence of
science, I will request you to show in the first place, as I was
saying before, the possibility, and in the second place, the
advantage, of such a science; and then perhaps you may satisfy me
that you are right in your view of temperance.
Critias heard me say this, and saw that I was in a difficulty;
and as one person when another yawns in his presence catches the
infection of yawning from him, so did he seem to be driven into a
difficulty by my difficulty. But as he had a reputation to
maintain, he was ashamed to admit before the company that he
could not answer my challenge or determine the question at issue;
and he made an unintelligible attempt to hide his perplexity. In
order that the argument might proceed, I said to him, Well then
Critias, if you like, let us assume that there is this science of
science; whether the assumption is right or wrong may hereafter
be investigated. Admitting the existence of it, will you tell me
how such a science enables us to distinguish what we know or do
not know, which, as we were saying, is self-knowledge or wisdom:
so we were saying?
Yes, Socrates, he said; and that I think is certainly true:
for he who has this science or knowledge which knows itself will
become like the knowledge which he has, in the same way that he
who has swiftness will be swift, and he who has beauty will be
beautiful, and he who has knowledge will know. In the same way he
who has that knowledge which is self-knowing, will know himself.
I do not doubt, I said, that a man will know himself, when he
possesses that which has self-knowledge: but what necessity is
there that, having this, he should know what he knows and what he
does not know?
Because, Socrates, they are the same.
Very likely, I said; but I remain as stupid as ever; for still
I fail to comprehend how this knowing what you know and do not
know is the same as the knowledge of self.
What do you mean? he said.
This is what I mean, I replied: I will admit that there is a
science of science;-can this do more than determine that of two
things one is and the other is not science or knowledge?
No, just that.
But is knowledge or want of knowledge of health the same as
knowledge or want of knowledge of justice?
The one is medicine, and the other is politics; whereas that
of which we are speaking is knowledge pure and simple.
And if a man knows only, and has only knowledge of knowledge,
and has no further knowledge of health and justice, the
probability is that he will only know that he knows something,
and has a certain knowledge, whether concerning himself or other
Then how will this knowledge or science teach him to know what
he knows? Say that he knows health;-not wisdom or temperance, but
the art of medicine has taught it to him; and he has learned
harmony from the art of music, and building from the art of
building, neither, from wisdom or temperance: and the same of
That is evident.
How will wisdom, regarded only as a knowledge of knowledge or
science of science, ever teach him that he knows health, or that
he knows building?
It is impossible.
Then he who is ignorant of these things will only know that he
knows, but not what he knows?
Then wisdom or being wise appears to be not the knowledge of
the things which we do or do not know, but only the knowledge
that we know or do not know?
That is the inference.
Then he who has this knowledge will not be able to examine
whether a pretender knows or does not know that which he says
that he knows: he will only know that he has a knowledge of some
kind; but wisdom will not show him of what the knowledge is?
Neither will he be able to distinguish the pretender in
medicine from the true physician, nor between any other true and
false professor of knowledge. Let us consider the matter in this
way: If the wise man or any other man wants to distinguish the
true physician from the false, how will he proceed? He will not
talk to him about medicine; and that, as we were saying, is the
only thing which the physician understands.
And, on the other hand, the physician knows nothing of
science, for this has been assumed to be the province of wisdom.
And further, since medicine is science, we must infer that he
does not know anything of medicine.
Then the wise man may indeed know that the physician has some
kind of science or knowledge; but when he wants to discover the
nature of this he will ask, What is the subject-matter? For the
several sciences are distinguished not by the mere fact that they
are sciences, but by the nature of their subjects. Is not that
And medicine is distinguished from other sciences as having
the subject-matter of health and disease?
And he who would enquire into the nature of medicine must
pursue the enquiry into health and disease, and not into what is
And he who judges rightly will judge of the physician as a
physician in what relates to these?
He will consider whether what he says is true, and whether
what he does is right, in relation to health and disease?
But can any one attain the knowledge of either unless he have
a of medicine?
No one at all, it would seem, except the physician can have
this knowledge; and therefore not the wise man; he would have to
be a physician as well as a wise man.
Then, assuredly, wisdom or temperance, if only a science of
science, and of the absence of science or knowledge, will not be
able to distinguish the physician who knows from one who does not
know but pretends or thinks that he knows, or any other professor
of anything at all; like any other artist, he will only know his
fellow in art or wisdom, and no one else.
That is evident, he said.
But then what profit, Critias, I said, is there any longer in
wisdom or temperance which yet remains, if this is wisdom? If,
indeed, as we were supposing at first, the wise man had been able
to distinguish what he knew and did not know, and that he knew
the one and did not know the other, and to recognize a similar
faculty of discernment in others, there would certainly have been
a great advantage in being wise; for then we should never have
made a mistake, but have passed through life the unerring guides
of ourselves and of those who are under us; and we should not
have attempted to do what we did not know, but we should have
found out those who knew, and have handed the business over to
them and trusted in them; nor should we have allowed those who
were under us to do anything which they were not likely to do
well and they would be likely to do well just that of which they
had knowledge; and the house or state which was ordered or
administered under the guidance of wisdom, and everything else of
which wisdom was the lord, would have been well ordered; for
truth guiding, and error having been eliminated, in all their
doings, men would have done well, and would have been happy. Was
not this, Critias, what we spoke of as the great advantage of
wisdom to know what is known and what is unknown to us?
Very true, he said.
And now you perceive, I said, that no such science is to be
I perceive, he said.
May we assume then, I said, that wisdom, viewed in this new
light merely as a knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, has this
advantage:-that he who possesses such knowledge will more easily
learn anything which he learns; and that everything will be
clearer to him, because, in addition to the knowledge of
individuals, he sees the science, and this also will better
enable him to test the knowledge which others have of what he
knows himself; whereas the enquirer who is without this knowledge
may be supposed to have a feebler and weaker insight? Are not
these, my friend, the real advantages which are to be gained from
wisdom? And are not we looking and seeking after something more
than is to be found in her?
That is very likely, he said.
That is very likely, I said; and very likely, too, we have
been enquiring to no purpose; as I am led to infer, because I
observe that if this is wisdom, some strange consequences would
follow. Let us, if you please, assume the possibility of this
science of sciences, and further admit and allow, as was
originally suggested, that wisdom is the knowledge of what we
know and do not know. Assuming all this, still, upon further
consideration, I am doubtful, Critias, whether wisdom, such as
this, would do us much good. For we were wrong, I think, in
supposing, as we were saying just now, that such wisdom ordering
the government of house or state would be a great benefit.
How so? he said.
Why, I said, we were far too ready to admit the great benefits
which mankind would obtain from their severally doing the things
which they knew, and committing the things of which they are
ignorant to those who were better acquainted with them.
Were we not right in making that admission?
I think not.
How very strange, Socrates!
By the dog of Egypt, I said, there I agree with you; and I was
thinking as much just now when I said that strange consequences
would follow, and that I was afraid we were on the wrong track;
for however ready we may be to admit that this is wisdom, I
certainly cannot make out what good this sort of thing does to us.
What do you mean? he said; I wish that you could make me
understand what you mean.
I dare say that what I am saying is nonsense, I replied; and
yet if a man has any feeling of what is due to himself, he cannot
let the thought which comes into his mind pass away unheeded and
I like that, he said.
Hear, then, I said, my own dream; whether coming through the
horn or the ivory gate, I cannot tell. The dream is this: Let us
suppose that wisdom is such as we are now defining, and that she
has absolute sway over us; then each action will be done
according to the arts or sciences, and no one professing to be a
pilot when he is not, or any physician or general, or any one
else pretending to know matters of which he is ignorant, will
deceive or elude us; our health will be improved; our safety at
sea, and also in battle, will be assured; our coats and shoes,
and all other instruments and implements will be skilfully made,
because the workmen will be good and true. Aye, and if you
please, you may suppose that prophecy, which is the knowledge of
the future, will be under the control of wisdom, and that she
will deter deceivers and set up the true prophets in their place
as the revealers of the future. Now I quite agree that mankind,
thus provided, would live and act according to knowledge, for
wisdom would watch and prevent ignorance from intruding on us.
But whether by acting according to knowledge we shall act well
and be happy, my dear Critias,-this is a point which we have not
yet been able to determine.
Yet I think, he replied, that if you discard knowledge, you
will hardly find the crown of happiness in anything else.
But of what is this knowledge? I said. Just answer me that
small question. Do you mean a knowledge of shoemaking?
Or of working in brass?
Or in wool, or wood, or anything of that sort?
No, I do not.
Then, I said, we are giving up the doctrine that he who lives
according to knowledge is happy, for these live according to
knowledge, and yet they are not allowed by you to be happy; but I
think that you mean to confine happiness to particular
individuals who live according to knowledge, such for example as
the prophet, who, as I was saying, knows the future. Is it of him
you are speaking or of some one else?
Yes, I mean him, but there are others as well.
Yes, I said, some one who knows the past and present as well
as the future, and is ignorant of nothing. Let us suppose that
there is such a person, and if there is, you will allow that he
is the most knowing of all living men.
Certainly he is.
Yet I should like to know one thing more: which of the
different kinds of knowledge makes him happy? or do all equally
make him happy?
Not all equally, he replied.
But which most tends to make him happy? the knowledge of what
past, present, or future thing? May I infer this to be the
knowledge of the game of draughts?
Nonsense about the game of draughts.
Or of computation?
Or of health?
That is nearer the truth, he said.
And that knowledge which is nearest of all, I said, is the
knowledge of what?
The knowledge with which he discerns good and evil.
Monster! I said; you have been carrying me round in a circle,
and all this time hiding from me the fact that the life according
to knowledge is not that which makes men act rightly and be
happy, not even if knowledge include all the sciences, but one
science only, that of good and evil. For, let me ask you,
Critias, whether, if you take away this, medicine will not
equally give health, and shoemaking equally produce shoes, and
the art of the weaver clothes?-whether the art of the pilot will
not equally save our lives at sea, and the art of the general in
And yet, my dear Critias, none of these things will be well or
beneficially done, if the science of the good be wanting.
But that science is not wisdom or temperance, but a science of
human advantage; not a science of other sciences, or of
ignorance, but of good and evil: and if this be of use, then
wisdom or temperance will not be of use.
And why, he replied, will not wisdom be of use? For, however
much we assume that wisdom is a science of sciences, and has a
sway over other sciences, surely she will have this particular
science of the good under her control, and in this way will
And will wisdom give health? I said; is not this rather the
effect of medicine? Or does wisdom do the work any of the other
arts, do they not each of them do their own work? Have we not
long ago asseverated that wisdom is only the knowledge of
knowledge and of ignorance, and of nothing else?
That is obvious.
Then wisdom will not be the producer of health.
The art of health is different.
Nor does wisdom give advantage, my good friend; for that again
we have just now been attributing to another art.
How then can wisdom be advantageous, when giving no advantage?
That, Socrates, is certainly inconceivable.
You see then, Critias, that I was not far wrong in fearing
that I could have no sound notion about wisdom; I was quite right
in depreciating myself; for that which is admitted to be the best
of all things would never have seemed to us useless, if I had
been good for anything at an enquiry. But now I have been utterly
defeated, and have failed to discover what that is to which the
imposer of names gave this name of temperance or wisdom. And yet
many more admissions were made by us than could be fairly
granted; for we admitted that there was a science of science,
although the argument said No, and protested against us; and we
admitted further, that this science knew the works of the other
sciences (although this too was denied by the argument), because
we wanted to show that the wise man had knowledge of what he knew
and did not know; also we nobly disregarded, and never even
considered, the impossibility of a man knowing in a sort of way
that which he does not know at all; for our assumption was, that
he knows that which he does not know; than which nothing, as I
think, can be more irrational. And yet, after finding us so easy
and good-natured, the enquiry is still unable to discover the
truth; but mocks us to a degree, and has gone out of its way to
prove the inutility of that which we admitted only by a sort of
supposition and fiction to be the true definition of temperance
or wisdom: which result, as far as I am concerned, is not so much
to be lamented, I said. But for your sake, Charmides, I am very
sorry-that you, having such beauty and such wisdom and temperance
of soul, should have no profit or good in life from your wisdom
and temperance. And still more am I grieved about the charm which
I learned with so much pain, and to so little profit, from the
Thracian, for the sake of a thing which is nothing worth. I think
indeed that there is a mistake, and that I must be a bad
enquirer, for wisdom or temperance I believe to be really a great
good; and happy are you, Charmides, if you certainly possess it.
Wherefore examine yourself, and see whether you have this gift
and can do without the charm; for if you can, I would rather
advise you to regard me simply as a fool who is never able to
reason out anything; and to rest assured that the more wise and
temperate you are, the happier you will be.
Charmides said: I am sure that I do not know, Socrates,
whether I have or have not this gift of wisdom and temperance;
for how can I know whether I have a thing, of which even you and
Critias are, as you say, unable to discover the nature?-(not that
I believe you.) And further, I am sure, Socrates, that I do need
the charm, and as far as I am concerned, I shall be willing to be
charmed by you daily, until you say that I have had enough.
Very good, Charmides, said Critias; if you do this I shall
have a proof of your temperance, that is, if you allow yourself
to be charmed by Socrates, and never desert him at all.
You may depend on my following and not deserting him, said
Charmides: if you who are my guardian command me, I should be
very wrong not to obey you.
And I do command you, he said.
Then I will do as you say, and begin this very day.
You sirs, I said, what are you conspiring about?
We are not conspiring, said Charmides, we have conspired
And are you about to use violence, without even going through
the forms of justice?
Yes, I shall use violence, he replied, since he orders me; and
therefore you had better consider well.
But the time for consideration has passed, I said, when
violence is employed; and you, when you are determined on
anything, and in the mood of violence, are irresistible.
Do not you resist me then, he said.
I will not resist you, I replied.
The Classical Library, This HTML edition copyright 2000.