Journal of Philosophy of Education, Vol. 32, No.

2, 1998

Plato's Theaetetus: What to do with an Honours Student

DAVID ROZEMA
Socrates' dialogue with the young student, Theaetetus, is a case of the highest form of education: a `divine service' to the state of Athens, to Theaetetus' family and friends, and to Theaetetus himself. It is less a means for Socrates (or Plato) to present his theory of knowledge than a sort of `noble lie' designed and intended by Socrates to keep Theaetetus both appropriately humble and hungry for wisdom. The progress of the dialogue is an allegory of moral education, a picturing of what Aristotle later laid out more pedantically in the Nicomachean Ethics.
These are the two types, Theodorus. There is the one who has been brought up in true freedom and leisure, the man you call a philosopher; a man to whom it is no disgrace to appear simple and good-for-nothing when he is confronted with menial tasks, when, for instance, he doesn't know how to make a bed, or how to sweeten a sauce or a attering speech. Then you have the other, the man who is keen and smart at doing all of these jobs, but does not know how to strike up a song in his turn like a free man, or how to tune the strings of common speech to the tting praise of the life of gods and of the happy among men. (Socrates, Theaetetus, 175d176a)

Socrates speaks to Theodorus, but his words are for Theaetetus who is listening closely to what Socrates has to say. Such a distinction among men must have pricked up his young ears, for Theodorus has already sung praise of him to Socrates (143b144b), and now he wonders what kind of a man he is, and what kind of a man Theodorus is for praising him in that way. Is Theodorus, with his knowledge of geometry, astronomy and music, enough of a free man to know what makes for a divine and happy life? Can he tune his strings of common speech to sing a fitting song of praise? Or does his knowledge consist of mere technai useful in the marketplace, but useless in a community (176d)? If the latter, then Theodorus' song of praise for Theaetetus is actually a dirge. Clearly, the distinction Socrates makes between the two types of men corresponds to the distinction between what each of them knows: more precisely, the distinction between what it means to say of each of them that he knows what he knows. The tests for a man's knowing happiness
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will be different from the tests for knowing bed-making; different not only in the kinds of things these are, but also in the forms of such knowings. And it is remarkable that in the midst of a dialogue premised on Socrates' self-proclaimed ignorance of knowledge, we find him so freely making use of the very term he is seeking to define. This ought to clue us in. With such a Socrates, Plato is either giving us a picture of complete philosophical ineptitude, or he, Plato, is just as philosophically inept, or Plato and Socrates both know prefectly well what counts as knowledge, that there are various kinds of it, that one kind is very often mistaken for the other, and that Theaetetus (in Socrates' case) or the reader of the dialogue (in Plato's case) is in danger of making just such a mistake perhaps for the rest of his life. The first two alternatives are possible only in logical space: in the real world, it is not possible to suppose that either Socrates or Plato are so inept.1 Indeed, if one reads the dialogue in such a manner as to make reading a techne, a specialised skill attained only by those whose profession it is to determine what it is that Plato or Socrates thought or believed, this very reading shows one's type: such technicians are `keen and smart', but they cannot sing, nor tune their strings of speech, in praise of divine happiness.2 Still, they (like Theodorus and Theaetetus himself) might think that what they produce after reading Plato (or after listening and conversing with Socrates) is real music. But this is an illusion: not all speech is sensible, and not all sensible speech is beautiful. Both Plato and Socrates were masters at spotting such illusions, and at dispelling them. Like Ion, Euthyphro, Meno and Glaucon, Theaetetus is under an illusion. Ion thinks he is a master of poetry when he is not. Euthyphro thinks he is pious when he is not. Meno thinks the sophists have taught him virtue when they have not. And Glaucon (for a while) thinks he possesses a just soul when he does not. So what is Theaetetus' illusion? Perhaps this: he thinks he is wise when he is not. What must be noted is the way in which Socrates dispels these illusions. They cannot simply be undone the spell must somehow be broken. This may require a more powerful spell; stronger magic, or a more convincing dream (cf. 201d202c). For one under an illusion, there is no help but this. In that case, the illusion has already captured and (in some cases) conquered their ability to distinguish the truth from its opposite. Thus, Socrates uses the `indirect' approach: he uses the strongest spell available to the philosopher the quest for a universal definition (hence the metaphysical theory of the Forms). He asks Euthyphro, `What is piety?', and Meno, `What is virtue?', and Glaucon, `What is justice?' and Theaetetus, `What is knowledge?' At the beginning of the Theaetetus we learn that Theaetetus has returned from the front lines of the war, badly wounded and suffering from dysentery. In fact, Eucleides (who had met Theaetetus in the harbour area and urged him to stay with him at his house in Megara) says it is the dysentery that is the greatest cause of Theaetetus' suffering, and that it has broken out throughout the whole army. This disease dysentery, `the runs' has laid low the entire army; they can no longer
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fight for their country. When the enemy attacks, they run! It is not clear, from the way Eucleides states this, whether Theaetetus' suffering is the result merely of his own dysentery, or if he suffers as well, vicariously, from the epidemic that has spread throughout the army. But it is not unreasonable to suppose that a man like Theaetetus a `fine man' for whom `some people [were] singing his praises for the way he behaved in the battle' would also suffer at the mere thought of the misery being endured by his fellow soldiers, and the eventual consequences suffered by all his countrymen if, as a result of this disease, the war was lost. They may just turn tail and run. From a literary standpoint, these details in the prologue about Theaetetus' dysentery are a metaphor for both the condition of, and the dangers facing, Theaetetus' soul at the time the dialogue with Socrates takes place. It seems that Theaetetus' tendency to have runny thoughts has, in the end, found its way into his constitution. We also learn from the prologue that Socrates had predicted that `we should inevitably hear more of Theaetetus, if he lived to grow up' (142d). And here, indeed, Eucleides, Terpsion and many other Megarians and Athenians do hear more of Theaetetus, thirty years after Socrates first conversed with him and made this prediction. But what did Socrates expect Theaetetus to do or become? And what dangers did he foresee for Theaetetus when he added the condition, `if he lives to grow up'? These are the questions that naturally arise out of the prologue. Plato intends them to be the reader's guide to understanding the dialogue that follows.3 When Theaetetus first meets Socrates, Theaetetus is only sixteen years old. He is introduced to Socrates by Theodorus, the famous Cyrenian geometer and tutor to Theaetetus. Theodorus introduces him as an honours student:
[A]mong all the people I have ever met and I have got to know a good many in my time I have never yet seen anyone so amazingly gifted. Along with a quickness beyond the capacity of most people, he has an unusually gentle temper; and, to crown it all, he is as manly a boy as any of his fellows. I never thought such a combination could exist; I don't see it arising elsewhere. People as acute and keen and retentive as he is are apt to be very unbalanced. They get swept along with a rush, like ships without a ballast; what stands for courage in their make-up is a kind of mad excitement; while, on the other hand, the steadier sort of people are apt to come to their studies with minds that are sluggish, somehow freighted with a bad memory. But this boy approaches his studies in a smooth, sure, eective way, and with great good-temper; it reminds one of the quiet ow of a stream of oil. The result is that it is astonishing to see how he gets through his work, at his age. (144ab)

Although he is appropriately impressed by this description, Socrates subtly suggests to Theaetetus that Theodorus, given his areas of expertise geometry, astronomy, arithmetic and music may not be the best judge of the quality of a soul. He suggests that an investigation is in order, an investigation of Theaetetus' soul.
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But supposing it were the soul of one of us that he were praising? Suppose he said one of us was good and wise? Oughtn't the one who heard that to be very anxious to examine the object of such praise? And oughtn't the other to be very willing to show himself o? Yes, certainly, Socrates. Then, my dear Theaetetus, now is the time for you to show yourself and for me to examine you. For although Theodorus often gives me attering testimonials for people, both Athenians and foreigners, I assure you I have never before heard him praise anybody in the way he has just praised you. (145b)

Now, it is common for philosophers to read the Theaetetus as a dialogue about knowledge its general form and criteria.4 Others have seen that Plato may have had another object in mind, such as showing that there are different forms of knowledge, and that each of them has its proper facts. But even these latter readers have focused on the explicit question of the dialogue, `what is knowledge?', as if this were the dialogue's operative issue.5 But this passage speaks otherwise. Here Socrates clearly indicates that his interest is in discovering whether or not Theaetetus himself is `good and wise', and not whether he can give a universal definition of knowledge, or whether he can see, in the sense of describing or explaining, the distinction between various kinds of knowledge, although this latter suggestion is nearer the truth. Contrary to most interpretations, it is clear from this passage that Socrates' examination is for something both specific Theaetetus' soul (cuwZ ), his moral character; and particular  Theaetetus' soul, his moral character. Socrates' concern is personal, and this concern takes the shape of an `examination'. Theaetetus is undergoing the soul-doctor's physical. Now how does one examine a soul for such things as goodness and wisdom? Where does one look? In what sorts of circumstances does one see the true constitution of another's soul? There are, I think, many ways of doing this (Shakespeare might be the best at showing us the many ways it can be done), but one such circumstance might be this: you are a bright, young promising scholar. Your parents (or guardians) and your childhood habits have taught you to take pleasure in doing what is kind, generous, courageous, honest and noble. You have a natural love of learning that your teachers (and others) have magnified by their own love of learning. In addition, you have a good memory, a quick and easy grasp of both the actual and the theoretical connections between objects and events, and a fine eye and a sharp ear for order, harmony and beauty. Many of your teachers and elders have noticed your fine qualities and are beginning to speak well of you to others. You are more and more being encouraged to seek out and accept the honours that are your due advanced courses at school, awards and scholarships for academic achievement, committee appointments in both the Academy and the community, nominations to political offices, and promotions in the workplace. With a nervous thrill, you realise that the VIPs, the `higher-ups', are beginning to recognise you. They say `hello' as you pass
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them in the hallways and porticos of the Acropolis, the courts and gardens of the Academy, the shops and restaurants of the marketplace, or the docks and offices of the Piraeus. They introduce and `acknowledge' you amongst the assembly of officers, educators, counsellors, ambassadors and oligarchs! They may even ask for your opinion! And, of course, they are always much more cordial, reflective and selfsacrificing than you had imagined them to be. Such fine, sophisticated, beautiful people! What an honour, then, to be honoured by such as these! It nearly takes your breath away! Your breath, indeed. How can one breathe in such rarefied air? How does one keep one's head or, more importantly, one's soul? How one weathers such ecstatic storms storms that just such a person is particularly susceptible to being caught up in might indeed be the most severe and exacting test of one's goodness and wisdom. Theaetetus is ripe for the test.
Then, my dear Theaetetus, now is the time for you to show yourself and for me to examine you. For although Theodorus often gives me attering testimonials for people, both Athenians and foreigners, I assure you I have never before heard him praise anybody in the way he has just praised you. (145b) [my italics]

This, then, is the point of Socrates' examination: it is a test of Theaetetus' moral character, the state of his soul. And if it turns out to be an inconclusive test i.e. if, because of his young age, Theaetetus does not yet have a consistent character, or an established order in his soul it might also serve to mould his character, to prevent his appetite for honour from outstripping his love and obedience to the Good and the Wise, the `divine nature'.6 We must, then, try to understand how the ostensive question of this dialogue `what is knowledge' becomes the means by which Theaetetus `shows [him]self' to be either `good and wise' (arEtZ tE kai sofi a), or otherwise, or, perhaps, nowise.7 9    Here's where the examination begins:
Tell me, now. You are learning some geometry from Theodorus, I expect? Yes, I am. And some astronomy and music and arithmetic? Well, I'm very anxious to, anyway. And so am I, my son from Theodorus or from anyone who seems to me to know about these things. But although I get on with them pretty well in most ways, I have a small diculty which I think ought to be investigated, with your help and that of the rest of the company. Now isn't it true that to learn is to become wiser about the thing one is learning? Yes, of course. And what makes men wise, I take it, is wisdom? Yes. And is this in any way dierent from knowledge?
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What? Wisdom. Isn't it the things which they know that men are wise about? So knowledge and wisdom will be the same thing? Yes. Now this is just where my diculty comes in. I can't get a proper grasp of what on earth knowledge really is. Could we manage to put it in words? What do all of you say? Who'll speak rst?

So the games begin. And what follows is, indeed, a game, as Socrates indicates.
Anyone who makes a mistake shall sit down and be a Donkey, as the children say when they are playing ball; and anyone who comes through without a miss shall be King and make us all answer any question he likes. Well, why this silence? Theodorus, I hope my love of argument is not making me forget my manners just because I am so anxious to start a discussion and get us all friendly and talkative together? (145c146a)

What, exactly, is Socrates' difficulty? A cursory reading of this passage produces this answer: his difficulty is that he `can't get a proper  grasp of what on earth knowledge really is' (epist mZ oti potE 9 Z  9 tugwa nEi o n). But if this is his difficulty, why does he treat the search  for an answer to this problem as a game (sfairi zontEB)? If knowledge is  wisdom, and wisdom is so intrinsically valuable as to be honoured by all, wouldn't you expect the search for it to be anything but a game? There is a flippancy here that belies the seriousness of the goal of such a search. The search for wisdom is not something to be played at, or viewed as a diversion from more important work. To think this of Socrates would fly in the face of everything else we know of him, and the story of his trial and death would portray an utterly reprehensible, unpitiable man, for he would have sold his life for a game of, say, dodge-ball. What, then, is his difficulty? His difficulty is that he has already begun to examine Theaetetus, and Theaetetus has already begun to fail. He has blown the very first question. This examination, we know, is supposed to allow Theaetetus to demonstrate his goodness and wisdom. If he is as good and wise as Theodorus (and perhaps others) say he is, then he ought to be able to keep his head recognise a verbal trap, avoid entanglements with shrewd sophists, velvet-voiced counsellors, unmoored educators, and reclusive philosophers. He ought to be able to resist giving an answer to questions that are ill-conceived, even if not outwardly deformed, for the framers of such questions might purposely play upon the honours student's desire to prove himself worthy. The ideas that are born from such ill-conceived questions and their growth in the womb of logic turn out to be nothing but `wind-eggs', or `phantoms'. But often, by the time this becomes apparent, the marriage has been made; the former honours student has been consumed by the distributors of praise.
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Theaetetus has succumbed to just such a temptation: he has already shown, in what he has just said or done, that he may not be as good and wise as the reports have made him out to be. And what has Theaetetus just said or done? He has just agreed that knowledge and wisdom are the same thing. It is here that Socrates says, `Now this is just where my difficulty comes in'. Somehow, Theaetetus' equating knowledge and wisdom presents a difficulty. Are knowledge and wisdom `the same thing' (tau to 9 n)? Offhand, I suspect that most of us would not know how to answer such a general question; and even if we are inclined to do so, my guess is that most of us would say, `no, they are not the same thing'. So why does Theaetetus agree that they are the same thing? The answer can be seen in how the discussion leads up to this. Socrates first asks Theaetetus, `Now isn't it true that to learn is to become wiser about the thing one is learning?' To which Theaetetus answers, `Yes, of course'. From the context, we know that the kind of `things' Theaetetus would have in mind here would be the specific subjects that his tutor, Theodorus, teaches geometry, arithmetic, astronomy and music. And, indeed, it is true that we say that certain people are `wise' in the ways of their craft, their specific discipline. This just means that they are experts in their field. For example, if you wish to learn about quantum physics (and if you could manage to see either of them at all), you might be best served by studying with Richard Feynman or Stephen Hawking. If you have difficult questions about the law or the judicial system, you would perhaps get the best answers from one of our Supreme Court Justices. For the best training in operatic singing, start at the top and see if Pavarotti will take you on as a protege. Seamus Heaney might be the finest poet you could find. If you wished to learn dramatic acting or directing, you'd best hook up with Kenneth Branagh. And if you wish to know how to teach, you ought to consult with . . . well, who would you see? (Socrates, perhaps?) But here, maybe, we begin to get the point: how to teach what? Is `teaching' a `field', a specific discipline like chemistry or mathematics? Is it a `craft' like computer programming or physical therapy? The context of Socrates' question, like the context of the question about teaching, would lead you to believe that it is just as sensible to ask about wisdom in general as it is to ask about a specific kind of wisdom. And there is this use of the expression, `wisdom' where we use it to mean something like `expertise'; but it is not the only use. For there is also this use of the expression: `Theaetetus is good and wise'. This is the ethical sense; it is what we say when we praise someone for their moral character, and not necessarily for their mastery of an art or a craft or a science. We are all familiar (perhaps all too familiar) with those whose wisdom in some specific art or science has no effect and certainly no necessary connection with what is `good and wise'. Theaetetus, we might say, is the victim of a false analogy: he thinks that, because wisdom and knowledge are synonymous in some cases when we speak of wisdom as expertise in a specific discipline wisdom
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and knowledge must, in general, be `the same thing'. But, now, is Socrates also a victim of this false analogy? No, he is not. First of all, remember that Socrates sees the search for an answer to this question as a game, something to be played at. (And the fact that he can play this game for a long time should not surprise or dissuade us from thinking that it is still a game.) If he did not see the false analogy, he would take this question and the search for an answer to it much more seriously than he does. This does not mean, however, that he takes his original examination lightly, for it is certainly possible to use a game to either test for or teach some aspect of goodness and wisdom. I have been told and, in my more idealistic or naive moods, actually believed that one of the reasons for having children participate in games and sports at school (and elsewhere) is to teach them such morally laden qualities as fairness, lawfulness, respect for your adversaries, good sportsmanship, and the ability to find joy in the company of others. The game itself may not be in fact, ought not be, and, in the case of wellreared children, usually is not more important than the learning and practising of these virtues. So Socrates can still be very serious about determining or encouraging Theaetetus' goodness and wisdom without being serious in the search for knowledge-in-general. Second, remember the specificity of the object of Socrates' examination: he wishes to find in Theaetetus goodness and wisdom. If Socrates himself believes that goodness-in-general and wisdom-in-general are the same as knowledge-in-general, then he would give up the examination from the very beginning, for he admits that he does not know what knowledge is, any more than Theaetetus or anyone else does. How could he test for what he himself does not know?8 Third, Socrates himself drops plenty of hints that this philosophical question, `what is knowledge?' is meaningless. Here's Theaetetus' first attempt to answer the question:
I think that the things Theodorus teaches are knowledge I mean geometry and the subjects you enumerated just now. Then again there are the crafts such as cobbling, whether you take them together or separately. They must be knowledge, certainly.

But Socrates says that this answer is too specific: what he wants is a definition of knowledge-in-general:
That is certainly a frank and indeed a generous answer, my dear lad. I asked for one thing and you have given me many; I wanted something simple, and you have given me a variety.

Theaetetus then asks his best question in the dialogue:

And what does that mean, Socrates?

And Socrates answers:

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Nothing, I dare say . . . (146cd) [my italics]

Like an aside to the audience in a play, which the other character(s) might pick up on but never do, Plato has Socrates remind us of what is really going on: that there is another purpose, another meaning behind the words that we hear (or see). And this is not the only clue from Socrates, either. He goes on:
You were not asked to say what one may have knowledge of, or how many branches of knowledge there are. It was not with any idea of counting these up that the question was asked; we wanted to know what 9 9 n go;) (146e) knowledge itself is. Or am I talking nonsense? (Z oude le [my italics]

This is not simply a rhetorical question. It is neither obvious nor clear that there must be an answer to `what knowledge itself is'. And just because much of the next eighty or so pages are filled with the attempt to answer this question, this does not mean that the question is sensible. (Examples of extensive nonsense disguised as sense are too numerous and too various to mention here; but anyone in literature, philosophy, journalism, political science, history, psychology in fact, in nearly every discipline has seen such nonsense with their very eyes.) Socrates does not think it is obvious either, for after Theaetetus (mistakenly) replies that it is not nonsense, he goes on to illustrate what kind of a definition he is after. But he starts with a warning:
Now you think about this. Supposing we were asked about some commonplace, everyday thing; for example, what is clay? And supposing we were to answer, `clay of the potters' and `clay of the stovemakers' and `clay of the brickmakers', wouldn't that be absurd of us? . . . Absurd to begin with, I suppose, to imagine that the person who asked the question would understand anything from our answer when we say `clay', whether we add that it is dollmaker's clay or any other craftsman's. Or do you think that anyone can understand the name of a thing when he doesn't know what the thing is? (147ab) [my italics]

Theaetetus' first definition of knowledge that it is many different things thus

. . . goes no end of a long way around, in a case where, I take it, a short and commonplace answer is possible. In the question about clay, for example, it would presumably be possible to make the simple, commonplace statement that it is earth mixed with liquid, and let the question of whose clay it is take care of itself. (147c)

The implication here is that this definition of clay is, indeed, a general definition, one that would include every kind of clay. But, in fact, it does not do this. An earth scientist or a potter, for example, would say that the definition is too broad: not just any kind of earth and not just any
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kind of liquid go together to make clay. We need to be more specific. On the other hand, I have heard such utterances as these: `Thou art the potter, I am the clay', `He's clay in my hands!' `When I leave this body of clay . . .'. These, I realise, are metaphors; but it often happens that, through more or less constant use, a metaphorical use makes its way into the dictionary, which is where you will often find definitions. (And, in fact, my Webster's dictionary does include this use as one of the definitions of `clay'.) So you might even make the case that Socrates' definition is too narrow. But neither of these objections shows that Socrates' definition is wrong, either: this is how one might legitimately speak of clay. Now, if `clay', the word, is seen always having to be the `name' of some `thing', then only one of these definitions can be correct; we'll have to have some other terms for these other `things' (perhaps `geoclay', `potterclay' and `poetclay'?). And this would lead, ultimately, to a complete revision of all languages, although we could never be sure what we meant by saying that. Ambiguity run wild. Meaning would be meaningless; do you know what I mean? (Does that make sense to anyone? Does the previous sentence? Does the previous sentence? Does the . . . .)9 In any case, it is misleading to think that we can give a definition of any term apart from a context. It can't even be done for `clay'. Socrates knows this: he knows that seeing `knowledge' as the name of a `thing' will forever put it out of reach, as the example of `clay' demonstrates. Still, clay is an appropriate term for Socrates to use here, for Theaetetus is clay: he is vulnerable to the merchants of praise, the self-seeking suitors who would like to make use of such unsuspecting intelligence. Socrates, then, purposely feeds Theaetetus this falsehood, and thereby deceives him. But why? Is he just such a suitor? I do not think so. Rather, as he himself says, he is a `midwife'. After much encouragement by Socrates to attempt to answer the question, `what is knowledge?', Theaetetus says:
But I assure you Socrates, I have often tried to think this out, when I have heard reports of the questions you ask. But I can never persuade myself that anything I say will really do; and I never hear anyone else state the matter in the way that you require. And yet, again, you know, I can't even stop worrying about it.

To which Socrates responds,

Yes; those are the pains of labour, dear Theaetetus. It is because you are not barren, but pregnant. I don't know about that, Socrates. I'm only telling you what's happened to me. Then do you mean to say that you've never heard about my being the son of a good, hefty midwife, Phaenarete? Oh, yes, I've heard that before. And haven't you ever been told that I practise the same art myself? (148e 149a)
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Socrates then goes on to list some `general facts' about midwives and their art: the task is given to those who are past child-bearing age themselves; they can tell, better than anyone else, who is pregnant and who is not; they have the power to bring on the pains of labour and also to relieve them, through the use of `simple drugs and by singing incantations' (149d); they can, in difficult cases, either induce the birth or, if necessary, promote a miscarriage; and they have a more secret gift, one they hesitate to use for fear of being confused with political advisors and dating services: the gift of matchmaking. Socrates then says that, except for the fact that `there is not in midwifery the further complication, that the patients are sometimes delivered of phantoms and sometimes of realities' which are often `hard to distinguish', his art of midwifery `is just like theirs in most respects'.
The dierence is that . . . I watch over the labour of their souls, not of their bodies. And the most important thing about my art is the ability to apply all possible tests to the ospring, to determine whether the young mind is being delivered of a phantom, that is, an error, or a fertile truth. (150bc)

Notice what it is here that Socrates is concerned with: the offspring of the soul. These `offspring' are either `errors' or `fertile truths'. Since the truths of the soul are fertile, the errors must be either impotent or toxic. In any case, the implication is that the offspring of the soul will result in a certain way of life; the offspring of the soul are the guiding principles of one's life that result in actions, desires and emotions that are either healthy, inert, or destructive. A pregnant soul, then, is one that is ready to settle down to a certain kind of life; ready to be held morally responsible for its own actions, desires and emotions. And it is only in this light that we can make sense of Socrates' claim to be a midwife. He says that, like a midwife, he is himself past the age of giving birth to wisdom past the fertile age when the soul sets its course but that:
with those who associate with me it is dierent. At rst some of them may give the impression of being ignorant and stupid; but as time goes on and our association continues, all whom God permits are seen to make progress a progress which is amazing both to other people and to themselves. And yet it is clear that this is not due to anything they have learnt from me; it is that they discover within themselves a multitude of beautiful things, which they bring forth into the light. But it is I, with God's help, who deliver them of this ospring. (150d)

And, indeed, those who do resist the crowd in favour of temperance, generosity, justice or self-control (especially at a young age), or who (perhaps meekly) question the wisdom of those `at the top' they often are thought of as being ignorant and stupid. But for those who are not intimidated, they `bring forth into the light' the fruit of their virtue. As for those who prematurely leave his care, Socrates says they often `miscarry', because they have `resorted to harmful company' and
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`neglected the children I helped them bring forth' by `set[ting] more value upon lies and phantoms than upon the truth'. In addition, Socrates says that through his art he is able to bring on the pains of labour, and also to allay them, `by the use of simple drugs, and by singing incantations'. And this is exactly what he does to Theaetetus! By using the `simple drug' of the false analogy between one specific use of the word `wisdom' and another; by `singing [the] incantation' that ` ``Knowledge'' is a noun; nouns are names of persons, places or things, so knowledge must be a ``thing'' we ought to be able to search for', Socrates is able to bring on the pains of labour in Theaetetus' soul. Does this mean that Theaetetus does have goodness and wisdom in him, or that he is about to `give birth' to them? Not necessarily. For, as Socrates says, `when I examine what you say I may perhaps think it is a phantom and not truth, and proceed to take it quietly from you and abandon it' (150c). We see, at the end of the dialogue, that this is, indeed, the fate of all Theaetetus' attempts to answer the question, `what is knowledge?'
And so, Theaetetus, knowledge is neither perception nor true judgement, nor an account added to true judgement. It seems not. Well now, dear lad, are we still pregnant, still in labour with any thoughts about knowledge? Or have we been delivered of them all? As far as I'm concerned, Socrates, you've made me say far more than ever was in me, Heaven knows. Well, then, our art of midwifery tells us that all of these ospring are wind-eggs and not worth bringing up? Undoubtedly. And so, Theaetetus, if ever in the future you should attempt to conceive or should succeed in conceiving other theories, they will be better ones as the result of this enquiry. And if you remain barren, your companions will nd you gentler and less tiresome; you will be modest and not think you know what you don't know. This is all my art can achieve nothing more. (210bc)

Now if Socrates were truly a suitor to Theaetetus' intellect, looking to use it for his own ends, it would not be to his advantage to end the discussion this way. Who would want to continue dating someone who has intimidated you and said that all your ideas were `wind-eggs and not worth bringing up'? Some date this turned out to be! And yet, Socrates is Theaetetus' friend: he clearly does hope that Theaetetus will `give birth' to goodness and wisdom. And if he does not, Socrates hopes that he will at least be good enough company to listen to and follow his betters. He warns Theaetetus in advance that, if his thoughts turn out to be phantoms, he should not believe what others who are barren of virtue believe about Socrates:
They do not believe that I do this in kindness, since they are far from knowing that no God is unkind to mortals, and that I do nothing of this
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sort of unkindness, either, and that it is quite out of the question for me to allow an imposture or to destroy the truth. (151cd)

And not only is Socrates Theaetetus' friend, he is Theaetetus' family's friend, Athens' friend, and humanity's friend as well. By preventing Theaetetus from thinking he is wise prematurely, Socrates does a great service to both Theaetetus' family and his country. Any number of schemers might play on such an unsuspecting and untempered intellect; Theaetetus might even become proud and arrogant, making him a festering wound to his family and a dangerous threat to his fellow citizens. As the best matchmaker, Socrates prevents this marriage, saving Theaetetus for another, less harmful union. And Plato, by giving the world this picture of Socrates, does a great service to all mankind, especially to all those whose task in life includes the care and growth of souls. In all of his dialogues, we see the God-like motivation and the masterful means for calling a soul unto virtue. And, as I have said, Socrates is Theaetetus' friend too: what he believes when Socrates leaves is for his own good, because there is a truth behind Socrates' critique of Theaetetus' answers to the question of knowledge. If we understand that goodness and wisdom (call it `moral knowledge' if you like) is not a matter of what one thinks, but rather a matter of what one does how you live your life then we can look below the surface of the dialogue to see the moral education of a soul. Theaetetus' first answer, that `knowledge is perception', is the `childish view'; it represents the moral state of an infant: he does not even know what `good and evil', `right and wrong', or `wisdom and folly' mean, much less which actions, desires or emotions fall into each category. (If it feels good to you, do it.) A preliminary understanding of these concepts requires that the child learn the language. And so it is beautifully ironic that this view of knowledge concludes that:
wherever you turn, there is nothing . . . which is in itself just one thing; all things are coming into being relatively to something. The verb `to be' must be totally abolished though indeed we have been led by habit and ignorance into using it ourselves more than once, even in what we have just been saying. That is wrong, these wise men tell us, nor should we allow the use of such words as `something', or `mine', `this' or `that', or any other name that makes things stand still. (157ab)

But because Theaetetus answers virtually every question Socrates asks about this view with a version of `that's how it seems to me', or `apparently so', the dialogue goes nowhere for an awfully long time. Anybody with a sense of humour and a literary nose can smell from this alone that knowledge cannot be perception, for if it were, there would be nothing to discuss! Likewise, you cannot discuss goodness and wisdom with an infant, even if you can make it mouth the words. As Socrates says, `The exponents of this theory need to establish some other language; as it is, they have no words that are consistent with their
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hypothesis' (183b). `Moral relativism' is a contradiction in terms: but, even more importantly, it is a fatal disease to the soul. It is, in fact, dysentery: the inability to `digest' anything that would provide nourishment to the soul. The disease itself is being unable to say of anything that it is more than just your opinion, what is `apparent', or what `seems to me' to be the case. And it runs on and on and on. The result is moral dehydration: no right or wrong; nihilism. The foetal soul dries up. Socrates wants to help Theaetetus develop his intellectual digestion, so that he can `give birth' to his own soul. If he does not do this, he will not `live to grow up'. So he must see that just saying one is good and wise does not make it so. He will die an infant, perhaps an enfant terrible. Theaetetus' next answer that `knowledge is true judgement' represents the next stage in moral education, the stage where mere habit passes for goodness and wisdom. As Socrates' images of the soul as a `waxen block' and as an `aviary' suggest, a young person may be deeply and favourably impressed like a pure, soft block of wax to act in ways that their elders have shown them. This person may even attempt to act, in new or unfamiliar situations, according to the moral principles he has had impressed upon him, by `calling down' one of these `birds', and making use of it in the decision at hand. But, since ethics is not an exact science no science at all this bird in the hand often turns out to be no better than the two in the bush. So, despite his best intentions, he may be bushwhacked. You cannot be good and wise by luck. Still, good habits go a good way farther towards establishing goodness than standing at the crossroads with a signpost to everywhere and nowhere. Theaetetus' third and final attempt to define knowledge that it is `true judgement with an account' represents the last stage of a moral education: a settled, permanent life of goodness and wisdom. Such a life is at home in virtue, and cannot be dislodged. The kind of `account' that Socrates tells Theaetetus would truly define knowledge suggests that such an account must consist of a distinct, individual `subject'; that one cannot truly `know' goodness and wisdom unless one is good and wise. Certain individual lives account for goodness and wisdom: but we do not know goodness and wisdom unless or until we become so. And now I have said enough. Socrates will have the last word:
Let us try to put the truth in this way. In God there is no sort of wrong whatsoever; he is supremely just, and the thing most like him is the man who has become as just as it lies in human nature to be. And it is here that we see whether a man is truly able, or truly a weakling and a nonentity; for it is the realisation of this that is genuine wisdom and goodness, while the failure to realise it is manifest folly and wickedness. Everything else that passes for ability and wisdom has a sort of commonness. (176c)

Correspondence: David Rozema, Department of Philosophy, University of Nebraska at Kearney, Kearney, Nebraska 68849, USA.
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NOTES
1. This is not to say that some I hesitate to call them `readers' have not held to these alternatives. But, like the test Socrates gives to Theaetetus (`So knowledge and wisdom will be the same thing?'), this is Plato's rst test of who can read. 2. The number of such technicians is vast in our day. A short list, especially with regard to the Theaetetus, should suce here: F. M. Cornford (1935); Myles Burnyeat (1990); David Bostock (1988); Ronald Polansky (1992); Nicholas White (1976); Kenneth M. Sayre (1969). See also Edward M. Galligan (1983); Robert S. Brumbaugh (1983); Myles Burnyeat (1992); Paul Woodru (1992); and Bernard Williams' Introduction to the Hackett publication of Theaetetus (1992). 3. In his commentary on Theaetetus, Seth Benardete (1984) makes much of the fact that this dialogue was the written account of Eucleides, a Megarian who `recognizes nothing but speech'. He thinks that Eucleides is likely to ignore the signicance of the unspoken aspects of communication, such as the nod of a head, the reluctance of an answer, and the sweat on someone's brow. An even more signicant omission is `Socrates' understanding of what his interlocutors had in mind in saying what they did and what his own intentions were' (I.86). Benardete thinks that these narrative omissions make Theaetetus a much more dicult dialogue to interpret than, say, Protagoras or Republic. He says, `Indeed, the dialogue's most obvious defect seems to consist in its failure to consider knowledge in its relation to learning, intention, and understanding' (I.86). This allows Benardete to make a number of suppositions which the text cannot support, since the text is, in his view, incomplete without such narrative devices. For example, he interprets Plato's inclusion of the introduction to the dialogue to be indicative of an attempt to entice the reader into supposing that what Socrates says about himself as a midwife, as well as his description of a philosopher, is what Socrates himself thought; whereas, in reality, Plato is testing his readers to see if they can recognise in these passages the Megarian illusion of Socrates (see Benardete, 1997). It is not clear where such suppositions ought to stop, nor where we can be sure that we have got the real Socrates speaking and not the Megarian Socrates. (For a similar interpretive implication from the prologue, see Rosemary Desjardins, 1990, p. 180.) A very runny view! These points are much ado about nothing: as I have noted, the prologue has a much neater and cleaner purpose; one much more consonant with what you'd expect to nd in a poem (viz. metaphor). Furthermore, since Socrates himself has meticulously related to Eucleides the conversation and corrected the account where needed, there is no reason to suppose that Eucleides would not faithfully recount it. It is true that Eucleides himself may not understand how to understand the dialogue, but a transcriber, like a translator, may be very good at recording what was said while simultaneously failing to understand a word of it. If Plato intends the prologue to be any sort of test for his readers, it is whether or not the reader can make just this distinction. 4. The usual conclusion amongst these readers is that, despite its later date, Theaetetus is a thoroughly aporetic dialogue, much like Euthyphro, Crito, Charmides, or (as some would have it) Apology, leaving the central question of the dialogue unresolved. (See, for example, Cornford (1935), p. 151, p. 154; Paul Shorey (1968), p. 50, p. 66; W. G. Runciman (1962), p. 40; Sayre (1969), p. 133, p. 137; Norman Gulley (1962), p. 101, p. 103.) 5. The conclusions among this group of readers dier on what sort of `knowledge' Plato (contra Socrates) is privileging with the name in the Theaetetus. Burnyeat (1992, p. 57) and Benardete (1989, I.92I.93), for example, vote for `self-knowledge'. Desjardins (1990), on the other hand though `the other hand' is probably way too close votes for absolute abstraction, making knowledge into something like the sum total of all thought. (To be honest, I don't really know what she votes for. As soon as I read her proposal that language is inherently ambiguous, a curious thing happened I could no longer follow a word.) 6. Socrates, in Republic, says much about the trials and temptations that inevitably face the person with just such a character as I have been describing (see Republic, 490c495b, and 549c550b). The person who retains a pure, virtuous soul `has been saved . . . by a divine dispensation'.
[F]or there isn't now, hasn't been in the past, nor ever will be in the future anyone with a character so unusual that he has been educated to virtue in spite of the contrary education he received from the mob I mean, a human character; the divine, as the saying goes, is an exception to the rule. You should realize

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7. The standard classication of Plato's dialogues has been, since the end of the last century, in terms of discernible changes in Plato's `style'. Certain philological features such as the relative prominence or absence of the elenchus, the ratio of oration to conversation, the relative amount of aporia the dialogue produces due to the failure to resolve a problem, and the explicit use of certain terms and expressions (e.g. eidos) have been the unquestioned basis for a number of dierent interpretive approaches. Tigerstedt has these approaches well-mapped in his chapter on `The Genetic Approach' (1977, Ch. IV). But whatever variations there are e.g. whether the dates of the dialogues indicate a maturation in Plato's thought (for a legion of possible reasons), or a movement from `Socrates' thought' to `Plato's thought', or a progressive unveiling of `what Plato really thought' the beginning note is the same: the dialogues cannot be correctly interpreted without an accurate classication of their respective dates. However, since the dialogues are at least as mimetic (i.e. comedic or tragic) in nature as they are elenctic, aporetic, didactic, or dialectic, a much more helpful way to classify the dialogues of Plato would be in terms of which of these three categories Socrates' (primary) dialogue partners fall into: `good and wise', otherwise (i.e. evil and foolish), or nowise (i.e. an unsettled, youthful soul). Cf. Aristotle's division of character across all mimetic arts (Poetics, 1448a2). The dialogues that fall in the rst category are the `successful' ones: there is some resolution to the questions asked. This `resolution', however, is not manifested in the explanatory accuracy of some metaphysical theory (like the so-called Platonic theory of the Forms), but rather in the good hope that the person Socrates is conversing with will exhibit a life of virtue and nobility. Republic is the prime example of a dialogue of this kind. Dialogues in the second category would be those which have an `unsuccessful' ending: not only is there no answer found to the strictly philosophical question at hand (the `what is F?' question), but, more importantly, there is an unwillingness on the part of Socrates' dialogue partner to even pursue the question any longer. In these dialogues, it is clear from the beginning that Socrates is (or soon becomes) a bother to his dialogue partner, and the dialogue is cut o abruptly whenever it becomes clear that this partner is frustrated. Euthyphro is typical of this category of dialogue. The third kind of dialogue is that in which, although the strictly philosophical question remains unanswered, there is a residue of wonder or puzzlement on the part of the dialogue partner. Socrates leaves them with a puzzle, and it is clear that the puzzle has become their own; they will (at least for a while) continue to try to work it out. These dialogues are the `clihangers': we do not know whether or not these dialogue partners will live lives of virtue and honour, or whether they will fall short. Theaetetus, I think, turns out to be a dialogue of this sort. 8. This is the familiar question from Meno:
How will you look for it [virtue], Socrates, when you do not know at all what it is? How will you aim to search for something you do not know at all? If you should meet with it, how will you know that this is the thing that you did not know? (Meno, 80d)

that if anyone is saved and becomes what he ought to be under our present constitutions, he has been saved you might rightly say by a divine dispensation (492e).

The explicit answer given by Socrates (to the forgetful Meno) is that there must be, in a person's soul, innate ideas; otherwise all learning and knowledge would be impossible. Thus, he says, learning is just the recollection of an immortal soul. But this view, and whatever it leads to, is premised on a picture of language or thought visible in Meno's statement of his puzzle that takes all words, sentences, and thoughts as representative: what we `know' is only what we can think or say. Although Socrates must share the premise of Meno's puzzlement for a while in order to help him, I do not think Socrates or Plato held this view of language or thought. For if they did, the one could never have spoken, and the other never have written Apology. 9. Interestingly, this (complete revision of language) is just what Socrates shows results from Protagoras' theory that `Man is the measure of all things' as it applies to knowledge. This is the view that `knowledge is perception', which turns out to be nonsense (cf. 157b, 183ab).

REFERENCES
Anton, John and Anthony Preus (eds.) (1983) Essays on Ancient Greek Philosophy, Vol. 2 (Albany, SUNY Press). Benardete, Seth (1984) The Being of The Beautiful (Chicago, University of Chicago Press).

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Benardete, Seth (1997) Plato's Theaetetus: on the way of the logos, The Review of Metaphysics, 51(1), pp. 2553. Benson, Hugh H. (ed.) (1992) Essays on the Philosophy of Socrates (New York: Oxford University Press). Bostock, David (1988) Plato's `Theaetetus' (Oxford, Oxford University Press). Brumbaugh, Robert S. (1983) Doctrine and dramatic dates of Plato's dialogues, in: J. Anton and A. Preus (eds.) Essays on Ancient Greek Philosophy, Vol. 2 (Albany, SUNY Press). Burnyeat, F. M. (1990) The `Theaetetus' of Plato (Indianapolis, Hackett). Burnyeat, F. M. (1992) Socratic midwifery, Platonic inspiration, in: Hugh H. Benson (ed.) Essays on the Philosophy of Socrates (New York: Oxford University Press). Cornford, F. M. (1935) Plato's Theory of Knowledge (London, Routledge & Kegan Paul). Desjardins, Rosemary (1990) The Rational Enterprise: Logos in Plato's `Theaetetus' (Albany: SUNY Press). Galligan, Edward M. (1983) Logos in the Theaetetus and the Sophist, in: J. Anton and A. Preus (eds.) Essays on Ancient Greek Philosophy, Vol. 2 (Albany, SUNY Press). Gulley, Norman (1962) Plato's Theory of Knowledge (London, Methuen). McDowell, John (1973) Plato: `Theaetetus' (Oxford, Clarendon Press). McPherran, Mark L. (1993) Knowing the Theaetetus, Phronesis, 38, pp. 321336. Plato, Theaetetus, trans. M. J. Levett; revised by Myles Burnyeat; ed. Bernard Williams (Indianapolis, Hackett) (1992). Polansky, Ronald (1992) Philosophy and Knowledge: A Commentary On Plato's `Theaetetus' (Lewisburgh, PA, Bucknell University Press). Runciman, Walter G. (1962) Plato's Later Epistemology (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press). Sayre, Kenneth M. (1969) Plato's Analytic Method (Chicago, University of Chicago Press). Shorey, Paul (1968) The Unity of Plato's Thought (Hamden, CONN., Archon Books). Tigerstedt, E. N. (1977) Interpreting Plato (Uppsala, Almquist & Wiksell). White, Nicholas P. (1976) Plato on Knowledge and Reality (Indianapolis, Hackett). Williams, Bernard (1972) Knowledge and reasons, in: G. H. von Wright (ed.) Problems in the Theory of Knowledge (The Hague, Nijho). Woodru, Paul (1992) Plato's early theory of knowledge, in: Hugh H. Benson (ed.) Essays on the Philosophy of Socrates (New York: Oxford University Press).

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