Mary Louise Gill

Philosophos
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Philosophos
Plato’s Missing Dialogue
Mary Louise Gill
1
3
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Preface
This book has been long in the making, and I have incurred many debts, here gratefully
acknowledged. Official work on the project began in 1999–2000, when I was a
Member of the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, an ideal setting for research
and stimulating discussion. I initially conceived the project as an investigation into
Plato’s later metaphysics in dialogues responding to the critique of forms in
the Parmenides—a dialogue I had studied intensively in connection with an earlier
book—but changed course that year, because the investigation of knowledge in the
Theaetetus came to seem more important than the Parmenides for understanding Plato’s
later metaphysics and method. The final project returns to something close to the
original conception, now combined with the second, with a focus on the Parmenides
and the series of dialogues Theaetetus, Sophist, and Statesman culminating in the prom-
ised but missing Philosopher. I profited from an NEH Summer Stipend (2004) and a
rewarding year at the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard (2005–6), and
these awards enabled me to complete a first full draft of the book. The book gained its
current shape only gradually in the years since. I am grateful to those institutions for the
precious time and resources to read, think, and write, and to the University of
Pittsburgh for granting me two terms of research leave and to Brown University for
granting me four such terms.
My debts go back long before 1999 to G. E. L. Owen’s classes on Plato in the late
1970s in Cambridge, especially his lectures on Plato’s Sophist and a graduate seminar on
the second part of the Parmenides. Owen’s fascination with these works was infectious,
and the clarity and rigor of his writings continues to be a model for me. I take this
opportunity to thank him.
Versions of parts of the book have been presented in many venues since 1999.
I thank the participants in a graduate seminar at the University of Pittsburgh and in my
undergraduate and graduate classes on Plato at Brown for their perceptive comments
and questions. I gave papers and seminars related to the project at the American
Philosophical Association, University of Arizona, Brown, University of Connecticut,
University of California at Berkeley and Davis, City University of New York,
Dartmouth College, Harvard, Lehigh, University of Michigan, University of Notre
Dame, University of Pittsburgh, Princeton, St Cloud State, Saint Louis, University of
South Carolina, Stanford, University of Texas at Austin, University of Toronto,
Wesleyan, Williams College, and Yale; and abroad at conferences in Barcelona,
Chania, Dublin, Edinburgh, Frankfurt, and Prague. I am grateful for the feedback at
all those events, and especially thank Eric Brown, Dimitri El Murr, Rachel Singpur-
walla, and my late friend and colleague, Steven Strange, for their challenging
vi PR EFAC E
comments on four of those occasions. Most valuable for the project as a whole was the
opportunity to give five seminars at the University of Paris 1 Pantheon–Sorbonne in
the spring 2010. I thank my hosts, Dimitri El Murr and Annick Jaulin, for organizing
my visit and entertaining me so well.
I also thank Dimitri El Murr for detailed written comments on the Introduction
and Chapter 1, Sandra Peterson on Chapter 2, John Malcolm on papers dealing with
the Theaetetus and Sophist, Jan Szaif on papers dealing with the Theaetetus and
Philebus, Devin Henry on papers treating division in the Sophist, Statesman, and
Philebus, and Scott Berman on a paper pertaining to Chapter 7. I profited from
numerous discussions about Plato with my colleagues Alan Boegehold, Justin
Broackes, David Konstan, Fernando Muniz, and Joshua Schechter. I am grateful
to Christine Thomas for her advice on the whole project, and to Paul Ryan for
comments on the whole and for on-going advice and discussion, especially about
technical matters of Greek.
I owe special thanks to Seana McNamara for her beautiful and innovative
cover design “Knots,” and to Robert Howton for his conceptual insight and
expertise in rendering the Figures in Chapters 5 and 6. Over the years I have
profited from stimulating discussions about Plato with David Berger and Heike
Sefrin-Weis. Nicolas Bommarito prepared the Index of Names; Eric LaPointe and
Allison Kemmerle developed preliminary drafts of the Index Locorum and gave
me helpful comments on the manuscript. Many students have raised penetrating
objections, forcing me to rethink and rewrite, including Derek Bowman, Thomas
Fisher, Daniel Hagen, Randall Rose, and members of the Working Groups in
Ancient Philosophy at Berkeley (2005) and Yale (2007). I thank Sara Kramer for
helping me start the abstracts. My debts to individuals for particular points are
recorded in the notes.
Peter Momtchiloff, my editor at Oxford, generously solicited four sets of reader’s
reports—two at the time the book was accepted, and two more after I revised the
manuscript in light of the first reports. One of the final pair of referees revealed herself
as Constance Meinwald, and I am delighted to be able to thank her by name. I am
grateful to her and the other readers for Oxford University Press for their constructive
criticisms and suggestions, all of which I have tried to address. I also thank the members
of the Oxford production staff for their patience and expert guidance, and Aimee
McDermott for her timely assistance with the proofs.
Thanks to the following presses and editors for permission to use my previously
published work: Hackett Publishing Company; Franz Steiner Verlag; Edward Zalta,
editor of the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy; Gretchen Reydams-Schils, editor of the
Journal of the International Plato Society; Academia Verlag; and Oxford University Press.
Details are given in Works Cited. For abbreviations of titles of ancient texts cited, see
the Index Locorum.
My greatest thanks go to Paul Coppock, who read the whole manuscript at three
different stages and gave me comments both global (on structuring the project) and
P R E FAC E vii
particular, catching many errors. He is responsible for preliminary work on the General
Index and for the photo of me on the dust jacket. Most important have been our
discussions over the years, which have helped me think through philosophical pro-
blems relevant to Plato.
Contents
Introduction 1
1 The Missing Dialogue 1
2 Portrait of the Philosopher 6
3 Puzzle of the Philosopher 13
1. Forms in Question 18
1.1 Socrates’ Theory of Forms in the Parmenides 19
1.2 Parmenides’ Critique 27
1.3 A World without Forms 43
2. A Philosophical Exercise 45
2.1 Plan of the Exercise in Parmenides Part II 47
2.2 The Positive Hypothesis 57
2.3 The First Antinomy 62
2.4 Instant of Change 64
2.5 The Second Antinomy 65
2.6 Summary of the Positive Hypothesis 69
2.7 Retrospective of the Exercise 70
2.8 Being and Participation 72
3. The Contest between Heraclitus and Parmenides 76
3.1 The Parmenidean Thread in the Theaetetus 78
3.2 Heraclitean Perception and its Objects 81
3.3 Parmenidean Perception and its Objects 86
3.4 Parmenides on Not-Being and Being in the Sophist 92
3.5 Battle of the Gods and Giants 95
4. Knowledge as Expertise 101
4.1 Prologue of the Theaetetus 103
4.2 Definition of Clay 104
4.3 Limits of Perception 107
4.4 True Judgment 120
4.5 Elements and Complexes 125
4.6 Accounts 127
4.7 Knowledge and True Belief 131
5. Appearances of the Sophist 138
5.1 The Angler and the Sophist 139
5.2 Puzzle of the Sophist 145
5.3 Great Kinds 149
x CONTENTS
5.4 Difference 158

5.5 Sameness and Being 163
5.6 False Statement 167
5.7 Producing Appearances 169
Appendix to Chapter 5: Assessment of the Debate:
Being auto kath’ hauto and pros alla 173
6. Refining the Statesman 177
6.1 The Statesman and the Herdsman 179
6.2 The Age of Cronus and the Age of Government 185
6.3 Model of a Model 188
6.4 The Weaver and the Statesman 190
6.5 Imitators 192
6.6 Refining Gold 194
6.7 Arts of Measurement 196
6.8 Laws and Expertise 197
6.9 The Statesman’s Knowledge 198
6.10 Socrates’ Name 200
7. The Philosopher’s Object 202
7.1 Intimations of the Philosopher 203
7.2 Aporia about Being in the Sophist 206
7.3 Dialectic in the Sophist 211
7.4 Excursus on Sound in the Philebus 214
7.5 Dialectic in the Sophist (Revisited) 223
7.6 Resolving the Aporia about Being 227
7.7 The Structure of Being 229
7.8 Being and Knowledge 236
7.9 The Philosopher’s Name 240
Works Cited 245

Index Locorum 263
Index of Names 274
General Index 278
Introduction
Plato’s Sophist and Statesman present themselves as the first two dialogues of a projected
trilogy undertaken to define three kinds of expert: the sophist, the statesman, and the
philosopher. The Sophist and Statesman define the first two kinds, and both dialogues
advertise the Philosopher, but the anticipated final dialogue is missing.1 We can be fairly
sure that the dialogue was not written and lost, since ancient lists of Plato’s works
survive and do not include it.2 So the question is: why did Plato promise the Philosopher
and then fail to write it? I shall argue that Plato offers various sketches and studies of the
philosopher but deliberately withholds the dialogue in order to stimulate his audience
to combine the pieces into the full portrait he did not paint. Why make this bold claim
instead of supposing that Plato died before he could write it, or moved on to other
projects contrary to his original plan, or any number of possible explanations?3 We can
begin to answer the question about the missing dialogue by locating it within a larger
group of dialogues and by observing Plato’s dialectical strategy within that group.
1 The Missing Dialogue

I mentioned a trilogy, but in fact the Philosopher is the missing final member of a
tetralogy opening with the Theaetetus, a dialogue concerning the question “What is
knowledge (epistēmē )?” Both the Sophist and Statesman link themselves dramatically to
the Theaetetus by presenting that conversation as having occurred the previous day
(Sph. 216a1–2, Stm. 258a3–4), and the Theaetetus links itself to them with Socrates’
1
For the announcements, see Chapter 7 sec. 7.1 below.
2
Diogenes Laertius (first half of the third century ce) in his Lives of Eminent Philosophers (3.56–62
[= Hicks]) discusses several ancient editions of Plato, including the important one of Thrasyllus (died 36
ce) arranging Plato’s works in tetralogies (see Tarrant [1993]), and that of the earlier grammarian Aristophanes
of Byzantium (librarian in Alexandria in the early second century bce), who organized some of Plato’s
dialogues in trilogies. We have all the works Diogenes lists in the editions of Aristophanes and Thrasyllus, plus
several works they rejected as spurious. The Philosopher receives no mention.
3
Many scholars have addressed the question—e.g., Campbell (1867, Introduction to the Statesman:
lvi–lix), Cornford (1935a: 168–9), Skemp (1952: 20–2), Friedländer (1969: I.152–3, III.281 and 525 n. 5),
Wyller (1972, argues that the Parmenides is the Philosopher, a view criticized by Panagiotou [1973]), Klein
(1977: 4–5), Guthrie (1978: V.123–4), Davidson (1993: 193, suggests that the Philebus took the place of the
Philosopher), Dorter (1994: 235–7), M. Frede (1996: 146, 149–51), Notomi (1999: 23–5, 238–40, 287–8,
296–301), and Miller (2004: 10). For discussion of efforts to identify the Philosopher with various existing
dialogues, see A. E. Taylor (1926: 375 n. 1) and Wyller (1972).
2 PHILOSOPHOS
farewell invitation to meet again in the same place tomorrow (Tht. 210d4). The three
dialogues feature the same dramatic characters—Socrates, the geometer Theodorus,
the young mathematician Theaetetus, and his friend Socrates the Younger. An un-
named visitor from Elea accompanies Theodorus on the second day and replaces the
elder Socrates as the main speaker in the Sophist and Statesman.4 Socrates takes part at
the beginning of each dialogue but then silently observes the main discussion.5 The
Theaetetus, Sophist, and Statesman also share an overarching theme. Knowledge, first
analyzed in the Theaetetus, serves as a generic kind in the rest of the series (called technē
in the Sophist, epistēmē in the Statesman) and is divided into subkinds in the effort to
define the special expertise of the sophist and statesman.6 The philosopher’s expertise
will fall under the same generic kind. In this way the Theaetetus sets up the Sophist–
Statesman–Philosopher series by analyzing the generic kind they assume.
The Theaetetus also contributes to our series by distinguishing three sorts of account
(logos), the second and third of which can serve as definitional techniques.7 Of these,
one sort of account analyzes a whole (physical or generic) into its elementary parts (Tht.
206e6–207d2), and defines a generic whole with reference to those parts in some
combination, as in “clay is earth mixed with liquid” (Tht. 147c4–6). Call the technique
used to reach such a definition “analysis.” The other sort of account differentiates an
entity (a concrete particular or a specific kind) from others falling under a single kind
(Tht. 208c7–209c11), and defines a specific kind with reference to a wider kind and
features that mark it off from others within that kind, as in the familiar formula “man is
a rational animal.” Plato labels the technique of arriving at such definitions “division.”
His Eleatic Stranger uses the method of division to define specific kinds such as the
sophist and statesman, whose arts are sorts of expertise, but he cannot use that same
technique to define the highest genus (knowledge/expertise) itself. To define the
highest genus an inquirer uses analysis, and can use that technique again to isolate a
specific kind from others closely akin to it. The Theaetetus prepares the ground for the
whole series both in showing how to define the relevant highest genus and in setting
out two definitional techniques used at different stages of the project.
Cross-references in both the Theaetetus (Tht. 183e5–184a2) and Sophist (Sph. 217c3–7)
to Socrates’ long-ago meeting with Parmenides portrayed in the Parmenides alert the
4
On the significance of the visitor’s namelessness, see Blondell (2002: 318–26).
5
On the implications of Plato’s silencing Socrates in the Sophist and Statesman for his later approach to
philosophy (the visitor and Socrates differ in styles of teaching), see M. Frede (1996), Long (1998), and
Blondell (2002: ch. 6, esp. 378–96). Socrates is also a silent listener in the second part of the Parmenides and in
most of the Timaeus and Critias and is absent from the Laws. On the possible significance of Socrates’
upcoming trial and death (mentioned at the beginning and end of the Theaetetus: 142c5–6, 210d2–4) for the
conversation in the Sophist and Statesman, see Miller (2004: 1–3), and Zuckert (2009: 39–48, 680–735). These
issues add to the overall picture, but I shall not discuss them. In my view Plato is interested in the philosopher
as a type of expert. Socrates and the Eleatic Stranger are examples of that type, but a much more important
example is our author himself, who writes all the parts of the conversation.
6
Below in this Introduction I discuss the conception of knowledge presupposed in this statement. For
evidence that the same genus is divided in the Sophist and Statesman, see Stm. 258b2–c2.
7
Cf. R. Robinson ([1950] 1969: 55).
I N T RO D U C T I O N 3
reader to the relevance of that discussion for the present one, though the Parmenides stands
outside our series. Thus we have three dialogues—Theaetetus, Sophist, and Statesman—
which group themselves into a series, herald the Philosopher as a fourth member, and assert
their reliance on the Parmenides.8
In my view the Parmenides holds the key to Plato’s strategy in our series of dialogues
and to the question about its missing member. In the first part of the dialogue a
youthful Socrates presents and Parmenides criticizes Plato’s theory of forms—the
view that there are eternal, unchanging objects, grasped by the intellect and not by
the senses, which explain selected features of things in the changing world around us—
and Socrates proves unable to rescue the theory.9 At the end of the critique Parmenides
claims that Socrates has posited forms too soon, before he has been properly trained,
and the second part of the dialogue demonstrates the sort of training he has in mind.10
In the transitional section leading up to the demonstration, Parmenides recommends
that once Socrates has completed the upcoming exercise he should start again, repeat-
ing it with variations. Whereas the demonstration in the Parmenides concerns the form
of oneness, Socrates should perform similar exercises taking as his subject likeness,
unlikeness, change, rest, being, not-being, and similar entities (Prm. 136b1–c5). Par-
menides’ recommendation suggests that new rounds of the exercise will bear some
resemblance to the exercise in the second part of the Parmenides. I argue below that
Plato presents a second round of the exercise repeating the dialectical pattern of
argument in the Parmenides and that this second round is especially relevant to the
missing Philosopher. At the end of this Introduction I set out this dialectical pattern,
since it provides the backbone of my book.11
The dialectical pattern established in the second part of the Parmenides is only one
such pattern replicated by Plato in our series, and another duplicated pattern in the
Sophist and Statesman bears significantly on my theme. Both dialogues begin the search
for their respective targets (the sophist, the statesman) with elaborate dichotomous
divisions—the progressive division of a general kind into two subordinate kinds—with
8
Stylometric analyses of Plato’s works put the composition of the Parmenides and Theaetetus close in time
to each other, after the Phaedo and Republic and other dialogues traditionally dated to Plato’s so-called
“middle” period, and before his late works, including the Sophist and Statesman (dated by their stylistic kinship
to the Laws, a work generally agreed to be Plato’s last). For an assessment of recent work on stylometry and
the chronology of Plato’s dialogues, see Young (1994: esp. 240, presenting a table with results of different
analyses). While I accept the standard dating of Plato’s dialogues, evidence that an earlier Prologue of the
Theaetetus was replaced by the one we have (Anon. Comm. Tht. Col. III, 28–32 [= Bastiani and Sedley]) and
the cross-references between dialogues in our series and back to the Parmenides convince me that even after
publishing his works Plato continued to revise them. Plato’s endless tinkering was well-known in antiquity:
e.g., Dionysius of Halicarnassus, De comp. verb. 25 [= Usher]. It seems to me likely that Plato substantially
revised an earlier version of the Theaetetus to fit it into a series with the Sophist and Statesman. I suspect that the
Parmenides underwent revision too—either that or Plato conceived a plan for our series at the time of writing
the second part of the Parmenides and the transitional section leading up to it.
9
Our topic in Chapter 1 below.
10
Our topic in Chapter 2.
11
In Chapters 2, 3, and 7.
4 PHILOSOPHOS
the aim of locating the target at the tip of one branch of the divided tree. Though
unique in their details, these divisions serve a shared heuristic purpose, to uncover the
special puzzle posed by the target kind. The division in the Sophist reveals the sophist at
the tips of branches all over the tree (what ties all those appearances together?); and the
division in the Statesman, though it locates the statesman at the tip of a single branch,
finds him with many rivals at that location (how does the statesman differ from others
who claim to look after human beings?). The puzzle once revealed reorients the
inquiry, suggesting new techniques to locate and define the essence of the target.12
This similar strategy in the two dialogues could indicate that the Philosopher, had Plato
written it, would also have opened with a dichotomous division to reveal the special
puzzle of the philosopher, but I believe that the repetition in the Sophist and Statesman
demonstrates one chief point: the inquirer must initially determine what makes the
target puzzling, and that may be discovered by division or by some other means. I argue
below that the puzzle associated with the philosopher is the puzzle about being, a
puzzle exposed (and indeed solved) in our series by following a dialectical pattern from
the second part of the Parmenides.
Whereas the second part of the Parmenides advertises itself as a dialectical exercise, the
Sophist and Statesman seem more dogmatic, since they arrive at solutions to their central
puzzles. Even so, these dialogues—along with the patently aporetic Theaetetus—also
function as exercises designed to train students in dialectical techniques, the philoso-
pher’s methods. The Statesman in particular features the Stranger and his interlocutor
engaging in trial and error, retracing their steps to make corrections, and diagnosing
what went wrong and why. The Theaetetus reads like a Socratic dialogue, with several
fresh starts, and it ends without reaching a satisfactory conclusion. I shall contend that in
the course of investigating three definitions of knowledge—as perception, as true
judgment, and as true judgment with an account—the Theaetetus also presents exercises
in each activity: in perceiving, correctly judging, and formulating accounts.13 These
dialogues also make increasing use of models—simple but revealing examples or at any
rate simpler cases—to show on a smaller scale how to solve a more difficult problem.
The model of the angler in the Sophist demonstrates the method of dichotomous
division and guides the inquirers part of the way in their search for the sophist; the
model of the weaver in the Statesman displays a new dialectical technique useful in the
search for the statesman and also exemplifies an essential feature of the statesman. These
dialogues contain other models as well, and the Statesman includes a model of a model
(children learning their letters) to show how any good model should operate. Plato’s
Stranger claims that the way children learn their letters shows how people learn
everything (Stm. 278c8–d6). He goes on to observe that in the example of the children
learning their letters, a child is asked to spell a particular word not merely to test his
competence in spelling that particular word but to increase his overall competence in
12 13
Our topics in Chapters 5 and 6. These exercises are discussed below in Chapters 3 and 4.
spelling (Stm. 285c8–d4). The Stranger then indicates that the investigation of the
statesman, though undertaken to reveal the statesman, aims chiefly to make students
more dialectical about everything (Stm. 285d5–8). Here the investigation of the
statesman itself becomes a model to train the participants in dialectical techniques
and teach them how to investigate other great and difficult topics. One such topic is the
philosopher, whose methods they have been using to uncover the sophist and states-
man.
Thus my argument that Plato intentionally withheld the Philosopher hinges on the
nature of these works themselves—works that stimulate the participants and audience
to engage in exercises of various sorts and urge them to extend arguments left
incomplete. One might agree yet still press the question: Why think that Plato left
out the Philosopher on purpose? The exercises he provides (especially the explicit one in
the second part of the Parmenides) are challenging enough. Why did he not write the
Philosopher with the final exercise as well?
Plato did not write the Philosopher but—and this is the main support for my claim
that he left it unwritten on purpose—he did write the final exercise. This exercise,
spanning parts of the Theaetetus and Sophist, replicates a complex dialectical pattern
established in the second part of the Parmenides. Although the version is simpler, it is in
some respects harder, because Plato goes to considerable lengths to camouflage the
argument, with the result that readers easily miss pieces of the pattern. Overlook any
major part of that structure or miss the way the parts fit together and you will fail to
realize that the argument pertaining to the philosopher repeats the pattern of argument
about oneness in the Parmenides and that its solution lies ready to hand, just as the
solution to the puzzle about oneness does. The fact that Plato sets out the puzzle
associated with the philosopher but hides the pieces of the puzzle and its solution in
plain sight, and that the puzzle once unearthed matches that in the Parmenides and
permits a breakthrough in exactly the same way justifies my conclusion that Plato
could have written the Philosopher but withheld it, while at the same time giving his
audience the means to work out the portrait it would have contained.
Plato uses the devious strategy I have attributed to him because, by making his
audience work very hard to dig out his meaning, he fosters in them (and us, his modern
readers) a skill in reading and a competence in using dialectical techniques and
developing new ones. In my view Plato regards knowledge in general as skill or
expertise (technē ), a cognitive capacity, and philosophy as one expertise among others.
Students acquire that skill through practice, by engaging in philosophical exercises,
reflecting on their mistakes and how to correct them. Plato tests their competence by
posing problems he does not explicitly solve.
Obviously the merits of my argument can be properly assessed only when the details
are fleshed out and defended in the course of this book, but if I am right about the
strategy, Plato did not write the Philosopher because he would have spoiled the exercise
had he written it. In finding the philosopher through the exercise, the student becomes
6 PHILOSOPHOS
a philosopher by mastering his methods, and thus the target of the exercise is internally
related to its pedagogical purpose.
2 Portrait of the Philosopher

I now turn to the portrait of the philosopher Plato challenges his audience to find, and
I discuss two principal topics: first, the philosopher’s object, the subject-matter he
studies; and second, the philosopher’s knowledge, his special expertise in dealing with
that object. A third topic, which I restrict mainly to this Introduction, is the philoso-
pher’s product—his discourse—the article he makes and brings into the world, on a par
with the sophist’s deceptive discourse and the statesman’s happy and well-managed
city. I start with the philosopher’s object, since his object generates the puzzle of the
philosopher.
The philosopher’s object: the form of being

In the middle of the Sophist, while describing the method of dialectic in his search for the
sophist, the Stranger claims to have caught sight of the philosopher first. He remarks that
the sophist is hard to see, because he keeps escaping into the darkness of not-being (the
negation of being: to mē on). The philosopher is hard to see too, but because he always
devotes himself through reasoning to the form of being (tēi tou ontos . . . ideai). People fail to
see him because they are dazzled by the light (Sph. 254a8–b1), but the Stranger assures
his interlocutor that they will find the philosopher in that divine place—the region of
being—if they look for him (Sph. 253e7–8), and he coyly adds that they will investigate
the philosopher more clearly soon, if they still want to (Sph. 254b3–4). Thus, in the
midst of his investigation of not-being undertaken for the sake of the sophist, the
Stranger indicates where to find the philosopher. We will find him by investigating
the subject-matter he studies, the form of being.
Some scholars think that the Stranger clarifies being through his analysis of not-
being in the Sophist and thereby reveals the philosopher as well as the sophist. On this
view Plato had no need to write the Philosopher because it would have duplicated
material in the Sophist (Plato avoids that sort of repetition). The idea seems plausible,
because a few pages earlier in the Sophist, after developing a series of puzzles about not-
being and then about being, the Stranger declares that they are now equally confused
about both. That equal confusion gives him hope: to the extent that he can shed light
on one of them, he will shed light on the other as well (Sph. 250e5–251a3).14 He goes
on to analyze not-being, and that analysis allows him to unmask the sophist. At the end
of his treatment of not-being, he boasts that he has found the form of not-being (to
eidos . . . tou mē ontos), and he then makes a series of parallel claims about not-being and
14
This hope for the joint illumination of being and not-being is known in the scholarly literature as the
“Parity Assumption.” See Owen (1971: 229–31).
being (Sph. 258d5–259b7). So although the Stranger does not explicitly define the
philosopher in the Sophist, he suggests that one can work out the definition based on
the joint illumination of not-being and being.15 No need, then, for Plato to write the
dialogue Philosopher.
Although the Stranger clarifies not-being and being to the same extent, one can
demonstrate that clarity sufficient for not-being and the sophist will not suffice for
being and the philosopher. The puzzles about not-being set out earlier in the dialogue
had a common source, a Parmenidean conception of not-being as the opposite (enantion)
of being.16 The opposite of being is nothing, and we cannot think or talk about that.17
The Stranger solves the problem about not-being by showing that the expression “not
being” (to mē on) is incomplete—it takes a further completion (for instance, “not being
large,” or “not being beautiful”). In the central section of the Sophist he distinguishes
five great kinds (megista genē )—being, sameness, difference, change, and rest—and
argues that instead of construing not-being as the opposite of being, one should
understand not-being as difference (Sph. 257b3–4, 258e6–259a1). For example, any-
thing other than being counts as not being being, because it is different from being
(non-identical with it): change is not being, redness is not being, and so on.
Once the Stranger interprets not-being as difference, it is easy to show that being and
not-being (difference) are not reverse sides of the same coin, and hence that equal
illumination will shed only partial light on being. In the section on great kinds, difference
is marked off from being on the following ground: difference always relates an entity to
things other than itself (pros alla), whereas being operates in two ways, both itself by itself
(auto kath’ hauto) and in relation to other things (pros alla) (Sph. 255c13–e7).18 At this stage
we need not spell out the key distinction between auto kath’ hauto and pros alla (the
distinction is highly controversial, and we shall examine it in due course); we need merely
notice that equal illumination will reveal only what difference and being have in
common, namely their operation pros alla. Being is a much richer notion than not-
being, and so the degree of illumination needed to clarify not-being and the sophist
15
See Notomi (1999: esp. 23–5, 238–40, 287–8, 296–301; and 2007: esp. 270–2).
16
I translate enantion as “opposite.” Following a helpful note and textual evidence in Keyt (1973: 300
n. 33), I understand “opposites” to cover both polar contraries (i.e., polar incompatibles with intermediates
between them, such as white and black) and contradictories (polar incompatibles without an intermediate,
such as odd and even or white and not-white). The word “incompatible” extends more broadly than
“opposite,” since the presence of one feature can exclude another without being its opposite—e.g., the same
thing cannot be both round and square.
17
The historical Parmenides seems to have regarded not-being as the contradictory of being, since his
Way of Truth allows no intermediate between them (DK 28B2). One might alternatively regard nothing as
the polar contrary of being and suppose that there are intermediates between them. Plato appears to toy with
that view in Republic V, 475b8–480a13. On either conception not-being is the opposite of being.
18
As noted by Dancy (1999: 58 n. 29) and Malcolm (2006a: 275 n. 1), the new Oxford Classical Text of
the Sophist (Duke et al. [1995]) misidentifies the opening lines of this passage by misplacing the number 15 in
the margin at line 14 in their text. I cite the Stranger’s opening statement by the correct numbering in Duke
(1995): 255c13–14. These lines are often referred to in the literature by the numbers in the earlier Burnet
(1900) edition: 255c12–13.
8 PHILOSOPHOS
will be too little to clarify being and the philosopher. To find the philosopher, we must
understand being auto kath’ hauto, the nature or form of being.
Commentators too rarely notice that the Stranger’s intricate discussion of five great
kinds in the Sophist and subsequent treatment of not-being provide an analysis of only
one of those kinds—difference—the form he needs in order to analyze falsehood and
then finally to capture the sophist who produces false statements.19 The Stranger gives
no comparable analysis of being. So to the extent that being receives illumination, it
comes entirely via the analysis of not-being interpreted as difference. I shall use the
analysis of difference as a model to make headway on sameness and being (and in doing
so I engage in an exercise inspired by but not present in the text), but that model will
not take us the whole distance.20 The latter part of the Sophist does not provide
sufficient resources fully to grasp the nature of being, and therefore does not tell us
enough to find the philosopher. The puzzle about being is the special puzzle of the
philosopher, and solving it would be the main project of the missing Philosopher, much
as solving the problem of not-being, the heart of the puzzle associated with the sophist,
is the main task of the Sophist. The puzzle concerns the philosopher’s object, the
subject-matter he studies.
The philosopher’s knowledge

We shall approach our topic from a second direction by examining the philosopher’s
knowledge, comparable to the sophist’s sophistry and the statesman’s statecraft. On this
topic we start with Plato’s investigation of knowledge in general in the Theaetetus, a
dialogue that examines and rejects three definitions of knowledge—as perception, as
true judgment, and as true judgment with an account.21 To understand Plato’s
conception of knowledge, we need to decide why the final definition in the Theaetetus
fails, and whether that failure points toward some constructive alternative. Some
scholars think the final definition—knowledge as true judgment with an account—
anticipates a familiar twentieth-century definition, knowledge as justified true belief.
Philosophers credit Plato for first proposing this definition and also for noticing that the
definition is circular and that attaining knowledge involves a vicious regress, since one
must know the evidence to know the proposition it is evidence for.22 On this view, to
find a way past the failure at the end of the Theaetetus Plato must find a means to avoid
the circularity and regress or somehow render them benign.
Other interpreters put weight on Plato’s discussion of knowledge and belief in
the Republic and propose a quite different explanation of the failure at the end of the
Theaetetus. In Republic V Socrates characterizes knowledge and belief as cognitive
capacities (dunameis), analogous to sight and hearing, which have different objects
19
The point has been noticed by Heinaman (1983: 11 n. 27) and Reeve (1985: 56).
20
We shall discuss these topics in Chapter 5 sec. 5.5.
21
22
E.g., Gettier (1963: 121 n. 1), Armstrong (1973: 150–61), and Fine (1979).
(sight is set over colors, hearing over sounds) and accomplish different things (sight sees,
and hearing hears) and can be differentiated on those grounds. Knowledge and belief
can be similarly distinguished by their objects and what they accomplish: knowledge is
directed toward unchanging forms and never makes mistakes, whereas belief is directed
toward changing things in the world, and sometimes gets things right, sometimes
wrong (Rep. V, 475b8–480a13). If Plato believes that knowledge and belief are distinct
capacities set over different realms of objects, then the final definition of knowledge in
the Theaetetus goes wrong because it treats knowledge as upgraded true belief. Since the
Theaetetus also seems to ignore or at least downplay forms, the failure at the end is taken
to provoke the audience to realize that knowledge requires forms as its object.23
I diverge from these views and argue that Plato in the Theaetetus still regards
knowledge as a skill or expertise (technē )—a complex cognitive capacity (dunamis)
(labeled nowadays as “knowing how”)—which can be acquired through training,
and then actively used and gradually improved. In my view the failure at the end of
the dialogue prompts the reader to go back to a proposal Theaetetus made and Socrates
apparently rejected at the very beginning: knowledge as expertise (Tht. 146c7–d3).
One needs to combine Theaetetus’ three official definitions of knowledge—as per-
ception, true judgment, and an account—into an adequate definition of knowledge as
expertise. According to this reading the Theaetetus focuses on active knowledge and
analyzes it into three components: acquaintance with sensible or intelligible objects
(direct awareness of something either through sense perception or through what I call
“mental perception”), true judgment about it, and an account that grounds the
activity. Knowing how is intimately connected with knowledge by acquaintance and
propositional knowledge (knowing that) but is not reducible to one or the other of
them or both.24 I take it that this conception of knowledge preserves Plato’s view in
the Republic that knowledge and belief are capacities (dunameis) directed toward objects
(Rep. V, 477c6–d5), though not necessarily different objects—if indeed that was Plato’s
view in the Republic.25 The Theaetetus also preserves the idea in the Republic that
knowledge “knows what-is as it is” (gnōnai hōs esti to on [Rep. V, 477b10–11; cf.
478a6]): knowledge is a capacity to grasp something (what-is) in a particular way (as it
is). Plato continues to treat forms as the special objects of knowledge, but—and this is
an important difference—forms in our series of dialogues do not exist apart from things
in the world around us, as they do in the first part of the Parmenides and probably in the
Phaedo and Republic, but are the stable natures of things, immanent in them.26 Plato’s
23
Cornford (1935a: 7, 28, 162–3), Ross (1951: 101–3), Dorter (1994: 15, 118–20), and Sedley (2004:
esp. 178–81).
24
The classic article is Ryle (1945–6). Knowing how is a topic of renewed debate: see Stanley and
Williamson (2001), Koethe (2002), and a collection of essays edited by Bengson and Moffett (2011).
25
For arguments that Plato does not restrict knowledge to forms in the Republic, see Fine (1978) and
Annas (1981: ch. 8). Cf. Rowe (2007: ch. 6, esp. 213).
26
The Timaeus, traditionally regarded as a late dialogue, is a notable exception. Because the Timaeus seems
to ignore the objections to forms in the Parmenides, Owen (1953) argued that the Timaeus predates the
Parmenides, and several scholars agree, including Sayre (1983: 255, 256–67) and Bostock (1988: 9, 149–50);
10 PHILOSOPHOS
treatment of forms in the Theaetetus, Sophist, and Statesman is in my view one respect in
which his later philosophy displays a distinctly Aristotelian bent.27
Branches of knowledge are distinguished from one another by their special object—
the subject-matter they study—and that object organizes the expertise, dictating its
proper methods and tools (shoes dictate the techniques of shoemaking, numbers those
of arithmetic, health those of medicine, and so on).28 People acquire expertise in
medicine or law or arithmetic by solving medical, legal, or arithmetical problems. In
solving problems students learn to use the methods proper to a particular discipline;
they make mistakes, correct them, and reflect on what went wrong and why. Training
in many arts involves learning rules that govern practice, but even if someone can state
the rules early on, she has mastered them only when she can apply them reliably in a
variety of situations. The rules must become internalized, second-nature, so that they
help to structure the expertise.29 The expert can apply the rules automatically without
stopping to recall them or check them in a book, and she has the flexibility to solve
problems not encountered before. Although the expert might say the same thing as a
novice when asked why she did what she did, she grasps the rule in a quite different
way, and when called upon to explain, she does not simply cite general rules, but states
why she did what she did on this occasion in these particular circumstances. In a famous
passage distinguishing knowledge from true belief in the Meno, Plato’s Socrates says
that true beliefs acquired by hearsay are fine things as long as they last, but they rarely
last long unless one ties them down by reasoning out the explanation (Meno 97e6–
98a4). In the Meno the knower is an eye-witness, someone who can direct others to
Larisa because he has traveled the road himself. And so it is with expertise. The expert
can explain what he did on a particular occasion, because he has traveled, and keeps
traveling, the road.30
The philosopher’s knowledge is a skill like others, but a skill in searching for answers
to questions of a certain sort, those dictated by the philosopher’s object, the form of
but Cherniss (1957) gave detailed objections to Owen’s view, and many scholars now reject Owen’s redating.
I count myself in the latter group. Although I do not discuss the Timaeus in detail in this book, I believe that
Plato reintroduces separate forms in the Timaeus for a special reason: the Demiurge looks to these objects in
fashioning the world. In Chapter 1 note 53 below, I briefly discuss the way I take the Timaeus to avoid the
objections to forms in the Parmenides.
27
Since Aristotle spent twenty years in Plato’s Academy until Plato’s death in 347 bce, first as a student
and then presumably as a teacher, mutual influence is scarcely surprising. I shall sometimes appeal to Aristotle
to clarify topics in Plato.
28
This statement will need to be qualified in the case of arts that deal with the same object from different
perspectives—e.g., weaving, spinning, and carding all deal with clothes. In cases of this sort the object only
partially determines the techniques of a discipline and must be supplemented by the discipline’s particular
perspective on the object and manner of dealing with it. I discuss this topic in Chapter 6 and Chapter 7 sec. 7.9.
29
As Ryle (1945–6: 14) vividly puts the idea, “Rules are the rails of [a person’s] thinking, not extra
termini of it.”
30
Some philosophers would question whether the expert even needs to be able to explain. See the debate
between Dreyfus (2005, 2007) and McDowell (2007a, 2007b). In connection with Plato, see Wieland (1999:
esp. 280–309) and objections (review of the original edition) in C. C. W. Taylor (1983).
being.31 That object organizes the expertise in a particular way and, like the object of
other disciplines, determines the appropriate methods the philosopher uses, methods
Plato calls “dialectic.” A student acquires this discipline by undertaking philosophical
exercises, and through such training learns to recognize patterns across variations and
gradually gains a settled disposition to solve a range of problems including ones not
encountered before.
To speak of a settled disposition might suggest that a person gains a new capacity
previously lacked, but that is not Plato’s view. He thinks that all humans share a basic
cognitive capacity—intelligence—which they can direct toward various objects and
can progressively refine and improve.32 In the Allegory of the Cave in the Republic,
Socrates claims that learning is not like putting sight into blind eyes (Rep. VII, 518b6–
c2). Human beings are born with a mental capacity (dunamis), analogous to sight, a
capacity keen and sharp, no matter what object it takes as its focus (Rep. VII, 518d9–
519b6). Thus the same innate capacity can develop into expertise in shoemaking or
chess or medicine or arithmetic or statecraft or philosophy, depending on the object
the capacity is directed toward. Education does not instill a capacity lacked at the start
but rather turns an innate capacity in a new direction, and then gradually articulates and
sharpens it.
On the question of the philosopher’s knowledge, the Statesman guides the investi-
gation in several key respects. Whereas the Sophist presents a negative portrait of the
sophist as the great pretender and might give the impression that the philosopher just is
his positive counterpart, the Statesman reveals that sophists come in many stripes, and
pretenders to statecraft are declared to be the greatest sophists of all (Stm. 303b8–c5).
Only some sophists, then, pretend to be philosophers, while others claim other sorts of
expertise. Moreover, the Statesman shows that locating the object of an expertise
frequently does not suffice to distinguish that expertise from others sharing the same
domain (for instance, the statesman has many rivals who look after the needs of humans
who live in a city). In cases like this one must use some method other than dichoto-
mous division to mark off the target kind from its closest rivals while also preserving
their kinship.33 As we shall see, Plato’s philosopher has a rival who investigates being
using dialectical techniques, so it is not enough to locate the philosopher’s object and
his methods of dealing with it. The Statesman recommends and uses techniques to
define the statesman that can be extended to the investigation of the philosopher.34
31
On philosophy (and other disciplines) as knowing how, cf. Ryle (1945–6: 15).
32
The Republic claims that people are suited from birth for different functions (guardians, army, workers),
and so suggests that some people cannot turn away from mundane things. Even so, a worker can become an
expert in his craft.
33
34
In Chapter 7 sec. 7.9 I discuss the philosopher’s main rival—the true rhetorician in the Phaedrus—and a
way to distinguish them.
12 PHILOSOPHOS
The philosopher’s discourse

The philosopher, like the sophist and statesman, also has a product—his discourse,
whether oral or written (or silently thought), and insofar as he uses his discourse to
teach others, his expertise is practical, as well as theoretical.35 In this Introduction
I discuss the philosophical product of chief importance to this book, the written works
of our author, Plato.
Plato’s conception of knowledge and its acquisition makes the dialogue a particularly
useful means for philosophical teaching. The audience witnesses a philosophical expert
(Socrates, Parmenides, the Eleatic Stranger) in action exploring a philosophical prob-
lem either with a purported expert or with a young person undertaking to learn the art.
Many of these conversations end without being finished, because the interlocutor gives
up in exasperation in the middle or runs out of ideas. A respondent who gives up the
search has not profited from the encounter, but the audience can go further. The
puzzle that ends the conversation should stimulate them to try again. Plato does not
leave his audience to their own devices: sometimes he picks up the thread in another
work, but more often he goads his readers to retrace their steps to find some mistaken
assumption that led to the unsatisfactory outcome or some fruitful suggestion worth
pursuing. The dialogues frequently indicate how to go on, how to get beyond an
impasse, but they require rereading, following roads not taken, and reassessing assump-
tions earlier taken for granted. The audience must pay attention to signals of various
kinds in the text, which urge them to make a connection with something said before.
Plato’s dialogues present live conversations between a main speaker and one or more
interlocutors, or narrations of such conversations, but he wrote his dialogues chiefly to
be read.36 My claim might seem so obvious as not to need stating, since Plato’s thought
is accessible to us only through his writings, but it may seem less likely when we think
of his ancient audience and his own claims about writing. In the Theaetetus Plato’s
surrogate author, Eucleides of Megara, says that Socrates narrated the conversation to
him, Eucleides went home, took notes, and wrote the conversation when he had time.
He checked bits with Socrates later and made revisions, and now has a full text, which a
slave will read to him and Terpsion while they rest (Tht. 142c5–143b4). This passage
suggests that ancient audiences heard Plato’s written text recited by a single voice, yet
such communal reading is similar to private reading in that one can ask the reader to go
35
Some philosophers—e.g., Dreyfus (1979: 67–8) and C. Taylor ([1992] 1995)—think that Plato got
western philosophy off track by distinguishing theoretical knowledge and practical knowledge and then
leaving a gap between theory and its practical application. Plato may have gone astray in the Republic, but
even there his educational program prescribes that future philosopher-kings (and queens) spend fifteen years
engaged in the practical affairs of the city before they make their final ascent in dialectic (at age 50) in
preparation for taking their turn ruling the city (Rep. VII, 539e2–540b7). Whatever one ultimately decides
about the Republic, in the Statesman Plato’s Stranger recognizes that an expert must be able to use his
knowledge in day-to-day practice.
36
Cf. Burnyeat (1999: 269–70 n. 25).
back and reread an earlier passage.37 More troubling is Socrates’ notorious critique of
writing in the Phaedrus and the claim in a Platonic letter (possibly spurious) that writing
should be just for fun, not a serious pursuit, and that Plato would not write about the
most important things (Phdr. 274b6–278e3; Ep. VII, 341a7–344d2). These criticisms of
writing have encouraged some scholars to think that Plato saved his most important
ideas for his oral teaching, or at least would not put such ideas in writing.38 Some
commentators cite these texts to explain why the Philosopher is missing.39 I believe, on
the contrary, that Plato’s written works present or indicate his main ideas and that he
wrote his works to be read—not once, but over and over. Unless we can go back and
reread earlier bits of a dialogue in light of what is said later, we shall miss some of Plato’s
most important insights, including elements of his portrait of the philosopher.
Plato’s dialogues make huge demands on the reader. Plato expects his students to
read the arguments on the page carefully and critically, but he also expects them to
observe signposts in the text that press them to make connections the speakers do not
explicitly make and to construct arguments that go beyond the surface text. Reading
Plato’s dialogues feels like solving a jigsaw puzzle. The pieces are all there (if we can just
find them), we see how some of them fit together into part of the design, but the
overall picture only gradually emerges, and in the end we may have to redo a section
we thought was already finished. An unsuccessful or puzzling dialogical ending
provokes the reader to go back to something said before, either in the middle or at
the beginning. In my view, continuing in the direction broken off at the end is only
sometimes the way forward; more often progress requires combining elements from
earlier attempts and developing an idea proposed and seemingly discarded, perhaps at
the very beginning.40
3 Puzzle of the Philosopher

In developing my interpretation of Plato I have used several heuristic techniques,
typically ones recommended by his main speakers to their interlocutors. First, I have
taken seriously Parmenides’ advice in the prelude to the philosophical exercise in the
second part of the Parmenides that students should repeat the exercise with variations.
37
In the Parmenides Zeno reads his book aloud to the assembled group (Prm. 127c5–6), and then Socrates
asks him to go back and reread a section (Prm. 127d6–7). The Phaedrus features Phaedrus reading aloud a
speech by the orator Lysias (Phdr. 230e6–234c5), and on two occasions while criticizing it Socrates asks
Phaedrus to go back and reread the beginning (Phdr. 262d8–e6, 263d5–264a3). According to Knox (1968:
432–5), books in antiquity were normally read aloud, but there is also evidence of silent reading. Cf. Gavrilov
(1997), Burnyeat (1997), and Johnson (2000). Thanks to Peter Agócs for these additional references.
38
Krämer (1990: 108), Szlezák (1999: esp. ch. 12), and other members of the Tübingen School. Cf.
Migliori (2007: 95). On the vexed issue of Plato’s unwritten doctrine (mentioned once explicitly by Aristotle,
Phys. IV.2, 209b13–16), I agree with Sayre (1983: 75–84) that Plato’s main views are expressed in his writings.
39
E.g., Cornford (1935a: 169) and Friedländer (1969: III.281).
40
In Chapter 4 I defend such a reading of the Theaetetus.
14 PHILOSOPHOS
I therefore looked for similar dialectical patterns in our series on the hunch that they
would guide me to Plato’s philosopher. Second, I have followed the Stranger’s advice
in the Sophist and Statesman and looked for models—simple but revealing examples or
at least simpler cases—introduced to show on a smaller scale how to solve a more
difficult problem. Third, I have paid close attention to Plato’s stage directions, cross-
references, verbal echoes, and other literary devices on the assumption that they would
indicate how to read the text and how to make connections within and across texts.
Here in the Introduction I limit myself to sketching a single pattern of argument Plato
uses to bring the philosopher into view.
I have claimed that Plato spells out the puzzle about being (the philosopher’s object)
by repeating a dialectical pattern Parmenides uses in the second part of the Parmenides in
the exercise devoted to oneness. The basic idea of the exercise in the Parmenides is this:
Assume that oneness is, and ask what follows for it and for other things on that
hypothesis. Then assume that oneness is not, and consider what follows for it and for
other things on that hypothesis. The relevant pattern of dialectic occurs in Parmenides’
treatment of the positive hypothesis.41 In four steps he examines and rejects two
positions about oneness (in Deductions 1 and 2), positions that initially look very
similar but end up at opposite extremes—that the one is nothing (Deduction 1) and
that the one is everything (Deduction 2)—then finds a middle path (in Deduction 3),
and then destroys the solution (in Deduction 4). To get past the fourth deduction and
go back to the constructive solution in the third deduction, the student needs to
diagnose the mistake in the fourth deduction. The fourth deduction overturns the
preceding proposal by insisting that the one is simply one and not many. As we shall
see, that is Socrates’ own thesis in the first part of the dialogue, and he challenges
Parmenides to prove him wrong (Prm. 129d6–130a2). Parmenides refutes him by
relying on that thesis at key moments in the exercise.42 If Socrates wants to escape
the conclusions of the fourth deduction and return to the proposal in the third
deduction, he must give up that thesis and recognize that the one is both one and
many. The idea, which initially seemed to him impossible, need not be troubling once
he recognizes that the same thing can have opposite features if those features are
explained in different ways.
To repeat: in his programmatic remarks before he begins the demonstration in the
second part of the Parmenides, Parmenides claims that the upcoming exercise represents
only the first step of a much larger program. When the student completes the exercise
about the one, he should start over, and take some other entity as his topic—likeness,
unlikeness, change, rest, being, not-being, and other topics (Prm. 136b1–6)—and only
through repeating the exercise with variations can he achieve a full view of the truth
(Prm. 136c4–5).
41
My interpretation of the exercise in the Parmenides is controversial, and I argue for it in Chapter 2
sec. 2.1. Here I simply state my view.
42
For my defense of this claim, see Chapter 2 secs. 2.3, 2.5, and 2.7.
How much of the exercise in the Parmenides is the student to carry over to new
rounds? It would be rash to generalize from two instances, since the exercise probably
allows considerable diversity depending on the topic and special puzzles surrounding
that topic, so let me simply describe the similarities between the two versions I plan to
discuss. Each version focuses on a single subject (oneness in the Parmenides, being in the
Theaetetus and Sophist), and in two steps presents an antinomy each arm of which is
unacceptable. The third step seeks a middle path between the extremes, and the fourth
step undermines the solution. In the exercise about being, the lead speaker considers
two opposed views about the nature of being—the Heraclitean view that being is
changing (step one) and the Parmenidean view that being is unchanging (step two)—
and shows that the conclusions of each alternative should be rejected. Steps three and
four mimic the strategy in the Parmenides by first finding a middle path (at step three),
and then dismantling it (at step four).43
Thus in my view the exercise about being replicates in four steps the treatment of the
positive hypothesis in the Parmenides, and diagnosing the error in its fourth step will
allow us to locate the philosopher. This version takes place across two dialogues, the
Theaetetus and Sophist, and to my knowledge it has escaped scholarly notice. Although
the dialectical pattern is unmistakably there, it has been overlooked because Plato’s
readers are accustomed to reading his dialogues as stand-alone unified wholes, but in
this case we miss the pattern unless we read the Theaetetus and Sophist together as parts
of a series. Secondly, our author takes extraordinary trouble to keep his audience from
noticing. Just for a start, he has different main speakers—Socrates in the Theaetetus, the
Eleatic Stranger in the Sophist—carry out different steps of the argument.
In the first part of the Theaetetus Socrates stages a contest between two opposing
positions about being, the view of Heraclitus that being is many and changing, and the
view of Parmenides that being is one unchanging thing.44 In the Theaetetus the
competition looks like a side-show, because Socrates keeps stressing the irrelevance
of Parmenides to the discussion (about perception), while at the same time mentioning
him again and again. Seemingly in passing he says that he and his interlocutor must take
sides with one group or the other or end up marooned, having refuted all the wise men
of the past (Tht. 180d7–181b4). He then refutes the Heracliteans, but refuses to
confront Parmenides despite his earlier promise to do so (Tht. 181b4–184a9). The
Sophist finally takes on Parmenides, and the Stranger refutes him (Sph. 244b6–245e5
and 248a4–249b7).45 Thus we have the first two steps of the pattern, the demonstra-
tion that each of two extreme positions is unacceptable. In the section that follows the
official refutation of Parmenides, the Eleatic Stranger contrives a battle between two
43
I discuss the first three steps in Chapter 3 and the final step (and the third step once more) in Chapter 7.
44
These are Plato’s representations of Heraclitus and Parmenides, and they may well not match the views
of the historical figures.
45
I argue in Chapter 3 that the official refutation of Parmenides, which concerns the number of beings, is
not the relevant challenge to him. The relevant challenge comes in the next section on the nature of being,
where he is represented by the “friends of the forms,” who insist that being rests and cannot change.
16 PHILOSOPHOS
groups, whom he calls the Gods (friends of the forms) and the Giants (materialists), who
disagree about the nature of being (Sph. 245e6–249d8). These two groups are not the
same as the ones in the Theaetetus, but by the end of the passage the friends of the forms
have joined forces with the champions of rest, and the materialists have joined forces
with the champions of change.
The Stranger tries to get the two groups to reach an agreement about being, and
offers them a definition: being is a capacity (dunamis) to act on other things or to be
affected by other things (Sph. 247d8–e4). The Giants accept the proposal (these are
refined, agreeable Giants), while the Gods resist, claiming that forms are unchanging
and so cannot be affected. The Stranger finally gives up the effort to persuade them.
For his part he declares in closing that the philosopher will take sides with neither
group, but like children who are offered a choice between two things and beg for both,
he will say that “being and the all are all things unchanged and changed, both together”
(Sph. 249c10–d4). Whatever this statement precisely means (and we shall return to it
more than once), for now simply note that the philosopher pursues a fourth option not
entertained in the Theaetetus. Instead of taking sides with one group or the other or
rejecting both, the philosopher finds a compromise between the two groups. In the
strategic pattern, this compromise—I call it the “children’s plea”—matches the con-
structive third deduction in the Parmenides, the third step of the dialectical exercise.
No sooner does the Stranger exclaim that he has got a definition of being (Sph.
249d6–7) than he notices a problem (249d9–11). Being cannot be defined as both
changing and resting, because change and rest are complete opposites (contradictories),
and therefore exclude each other (Sph. 250a8–9). So being is not change and rest, both
together, but something else (Sph. 250c3–4). The Stranger next claims that in its own
nature being neither rests nor changes (Sph. 250c6–7), and his claim seems plausible—
even promising—yet then he announces that being (whatever its nature is) neither rests
nor changes, but stands outside change and rest (Sph. 250c12–d3), a conclusion he
invites Theaetetus to reject: “Most impossible of all” (Sph. 250d3–4). What is this
mysterious thing called “being,” which neither rests nor changes? If change and rest are
contradictories with universal application, everything must do one or the other, and
any self-respecting Platonist should say that being rests, since rest (stability) is a feature
of Platonic forms as forms (an ideal feature of forms, as Aristotle calls such features).46
This argument—I call it the “Aporia about Being” (Sph. 249d9–250d4)—rules out the
previous constructive result and constitutes the fourth step of the dialectical exercise.
The Aporia about Being is deeply flawed, but this is the argument that gives the
Stranger his grounds for saying that he and Theaetetus are now completely confused
about being—indeed as confused about being as they previously were about not-
being—and this observation gives him hope that he may be able to clarify both being
and not-being at once (Sph. 250d5–251a4). We shall need to come back and assess the
46
Aristotle, Top. V.7, 137b3–13. His own example of an ideal feature of Platonic forms is rest (to ēremein).
Aporia, but we should notice one thing now: the inquirers find themselves squarely in
the bad spot Socrates hoped to avoid in the Theaetetus, stuck in no man’s land between
the advocates of change and the advocates of rest, after renouncing both. This fourth
step in the pattern is comparable to the fourth deduction in the Parmenides, and the
solution is the same: Socrates must give up his thesis in the first part of the Parmenides,
this time about change and rest (Prm. 129d6–130a2; cf. 129b1–3, b6–c3).
To solve the puzzle about being and find the philosopher, Plato’s readers must
recognize that change rests and rest changes. Not such a momentous admission, we
might think, but the idea is very strange in light of the Sophist, because throughout the
remainder of the dialogue the Stranger insists that change and rest are mutually
exclusive opposites, and many of his arguments in the section on great kinds rely on
that premise. Plato could have written the same or similar arguments in the later part of
the Sophist using a pair of opposite forms that do exclude each other, such as hot and
cold, but he did not. Because of his treatment of change and rest, I claim that Plato does
not paint the portrait of the philosopher in the Sophist. He did, however, draw the
cartoon in the Battle of the Gods and Giants, before barring us from it in the Aporia
about Being. My reading will show why the attractive proposal about being in the
Battle of the Gods and Giants has seemed so hard to square with the rest of Sophist.
Plato challenges his readers to make their own way back to that solution: we shall find
the philosopher there, in the vicinity of the children’s plea.
1
Forms in Question
T s ØØ çØºçÆ

æØ; B
fi æ
łÅ
fi Iªı
ø ø;
(Plato, Parmenides 135c5–6)
What then will you do about philosophy? Where will you turn, while these diffi-
culties remain unresolved?
Plato’s Eleatic Stranger says in the Sophist that the philosopher always devotes himself
through reasoning to the form of being, but the brightness of the place keeps most
people from seeing him. We start our investigation of the philosopher by considering
forms in general. This chapter will set out the theory of forms proposed in the first part
of the Parmenides and the objections marshaled against it, and will consider what
revisions Plato can make to address the main objections. In my view the dialogues in
our series—Theaetetus, Sophist, and Statesman—reflect those modifications while pre-
serving key aspects of the theory intact.
The Phaedo and Republic appeal to forms in the course of treating other topics—the
immortality of the soul in the Phaedo and the education of the philosopher-king in the
Republic—but neither dialogue gives a systematic treatment of them, and their state-
ments do not add up to a single well worked-out theory. Central questions receive
different answers in different places, even within a single dialogue, including the
troublesome issue of participation—initially the relation between sensible particulars
(physical objects grasped by our senses) and intelligible forms invoked to explain some
of their features. Only in the Parmenides are forms the central topic of discussion and far
from settling issues, the dialogue presents puzzles about forms without solving them.
By the end of the examination one might wonder whether Plato can (or should)
preserve a theory of forms at all, yet his main speaker declares that if someone,
impressed by all the difficulties, denies the existence of forms, he will have nowhere
to turn his thought and will destroy the capacity for dialectic entirely (tēn tou dialegesthai
dunamin) (Prm. 135b5–c3).1 This statement suggests that Plato will keep the theory,
1
All citations in this chapter refer to the Parmenides unless otherwise noted, and translations come from
Gill and Ryan (1996) with minor revisions. Some scholars translate dialegesthai here with a weaker word, such
as “discourse” or “conversation,” but a weaker word results in a much stronger meaning—that unless
Socrates solves the difficulties no meaningful discourse will be possible. See Cornford (1939: 99–100);
FORMS IN QUESTION 19
though with some revisions to meet the objections. In my view several of the main
difficulties stem from a conception of forms as separate, as existing apart from ordinary
physical things in an immaterial realm of their own.
1.1 Socrates’ Theory of Forms in the Parmenides

The Parmenides recounts a conversation Socrates had in his youth with Parmenides,
when Parmenides visited Athens from Elea with his younger colleague Zeno, who
brought to Athens for the first time his book defending Parmenidean monism from
critics who believed in the existence of many things.2 Socrates presents his theory of
forms as a reply to Zeno’s objections and thus as an aid to Parmenides’ critics, but
Parmenides then shatters Socrates’ theory in turn. Unlike typical Socratic dialogues in
which Socrates cross-examines and refutes someone who claims knowledge about a
particular topic, here Plato reverses the roles of his speakers, with Socrates defending a
theory of forms, and Parmenides cross-examining and refuting him.3 Where do things
stand at the end of the whole critique (the end of the first part of the dialogue)? One
might expect that Parmenides, having saved his own thesis, will force Socrates to accept
it, but that is not the moral Parmenides draws. Instead he observes that Socrates has
posited forms too soon, before he has been properly trained, and recommends that he
examine both sides of a question.
We start with Zeno, whose book contained a series of arguments designed to defend
Parmenides’ thesis, “the all is one” (128a8–b1), from critics who believed in a plurality
of things (128c6–d6).4 Zeno’s arguments had the following shape: If things are many,
cf. Peterson (1996: 177 and 2000: 19–20, 43). By the end of Part II it does look as though there is nothing to
talk about, but then no one is there to do any talking either. Maybe Parmenides is already anticipating that
conclusion, but since he next asks what Socrates will do about philosophy (135c5–6), and since the
philosopher’s major tool is dialectic, I think “dialectic” is the appropriate translation here. Cf. Phlb. 57e6–
7, where the same phrase is used and plainly means “the capacity for dialectic.”
2
The dramatic date of the conversation is perhaps 450 bce, when Socrates was about 19 years old, and the
dramatic date of its retelling is at least fifty years later, after Socrates’ death in 399 bce. For more details, see
Miller (1986: 15–36) and Gill (1996: 3–7); and see Mansfeld (1990: 64–8) for the suggestion that the fictional
date is much earlier, when Socrates would have been exceedingly young (sphodra neon) (Prm. 127b1–c5).
Whatever the dramatic date of the Parmenides, it is highly unlikely that a conversation of this sort ever took
place between the historical Parmenides and the historical Socrates. Here a youthful Socrates presents a full-
blown theory of forms, and these forms—and the problems with them—have a lot in common with forms as
presented in the Phaedo, a conversation Socrates had with friends at least fifty years later on the last day of his
life. Given the devastating critique in the Parmenides, Socrates’ views in the Phaedo all those years later would
scarcely look so similar had either conversation actually occurred. Historical truth is not Plato’s aim.
3
The Parmenides provides a good occasion to query the idea that some character in Plato’s dialogues speaks
for the author, because here both Socrates, who advocates the theory, and Parmenides, the critic, have a claim
to represent Plato. Plato wrote all the parts in his dialogues, and his views can best be determined by
considering what emerges from the whole conversation. Even then our grasp of Plato’s views remains partial
until we also take into account his conversation with his audience by means of the dialogue.
4
Scholars have doubted whether the historical Parmenides was a numerical monist. See Mourelatos
(1970) and Curd (1998). Although I am inclined to think that he was, nothing in my argument depends on
his actual view, only on the position Plato attributes to him, and that is numerical monism.
20 PHILOSOPHOS
they must be both F and not-F for some value of “F” (e.g., like and unlike, one and
many, at rest and in motion)—pairs of features Zeno regards as incompatible, incapable
of belonging to the same thing at the same time.5 Since the same things cannot have
incompatible properties at the same time, things are not many, and Parmenides is right:
the all is one. Plato does not rehearse Zeno’s particular arguments, because he can
motivate Socrates’ proposal simply by appealing to Zeno’s main thesis: if things are
many, they have incompatible properties, and that is impossible.6
Socrates replies to Zeno in a long speech (128e5–130a2), claiming that he can explain
the compresence of opposites in ordinary things, if Zeno will grant his hypothesis, that
there are forms: “a form of likeness, itself by itself (auto kath’ hauto), and another form,
opposite to this—what unlike is (ho estin anomoion)” (128e6–129a2). According to Socrates,
he and Zeno are like and unlike each other by partaking (tōi metechein) of the forms of
likeness and unlikeness, and there is nothing astonishing about that (129a2–b1). Similarly,
Socrates is one and many—one person among the seven people present but many parts—
and he has both features because he partakes of two opposite forms, oneness and multitude
(129c4–d2). That is not surprising either: ordinary things have opposite features simulta-
neously because they partake of forms of opposites, such as likeness and unlikeness or
oneness and multitude. He says he would be shocked, however, if someone could show
him that the same difficulty infects the forms themselves—that the like itself is unlike, the
unlike like, the one itself many, the many one; that change itself rests, and rest changes, and
more generally that forms partake of other forms. He challenges Parmenides and Zeno to
prove him wrong—to show that the same difficulty he introduced forms to solve extends
to forms themselves (129b1–3, b6–c3, 129d6–130a2).
In the second part of the dialogue, Parmenides presents Socrates’ thesis about the
one—that it is simply one and not many—as the first step of his own argument and
demonstrates the devastating consequences of that thesis. I shall argue that Part II is an
indirect argument demonstrating that to save the theory of forms and philosophy
Socrates must abandon his thesis about the one and admit that it is both one and many
5
According to the fifth century ce Neoplatonic philosopher Proclus (In Parm. 694,23–25 [= Cousin]),
Zeno’s book contained 40 logoi (arguments), each of which attacked the thesis that things are many by
deriving contradictory consequences from it. See Dillon (1986) and Dillon’s introduction in Morrow and
Dillon (1987: xxxviii–xliii). On opposites and incompatibles, see my Introduction, note 16.
6
One genuine fragment from Zeno’s book survives, and it indicates the sorts of arguments he used (here
the predicates are “limited” and “unlimited”). The Neoplatonic commentator Simplicius (sixth century ce)
preserves the statement:
In proving again that, if things are many, the same things are limited and unlimited, Zeno writes the
following in his own words:
“If things are many, they must be as many as they are, and neither more nor less than that. But if they are
as many as they are, they would be limited.
“If things are many, the things-that-are are unlimited; for there are always others between the things-
that-are, and again others between those. And in this way the things-that-are are unlimited.” (DK 29B3
= Simplicius, In Phys. 140,28–33 [= Diels])
This reductio, like the one described in the Parmenides, yields the conclusion that things are not many. Hence
the all is one.
(in different ways).7 To repeat a claim I made in my Introduction, Socrates (or at least
Plato’s readers) will eventually have to reevaluate, for other examples as well, the denial
that forms participate in other forms, and in some cases their own opposite. In the first
part of the dialogue Parmenides repeatedly demonstrates a different point: take any
form—say largeness—which Socrates regards as one, and Parmenides will show that it
is many rather than one. In this section I shall undertake to show why Socrates and others
find Zeno’s paradoxes troubling and how forms are supposed to solve them.
Socrates introduces forms in his speech to explain a phenomenon that seems to allow
a simple diagnosis. Why should anyone be bothered by Zeno’s paradoxes, the com-
presence of opposites in ordinary things? The same thing can be simultaneously both
F and not-F (say like and unlike), as long as it is F in one respect or relation and not-F in
another. For example, Zeno is like Socrates in species but unlike him in age and size—
fill out the predicates “like” and “unlike” by specifying the respects in which Zeno and
Socrates are like and unlike, and the contradiction disappears. Again, Socrates is both
one and many, because he is one man and many parts. Only if the same thing is F and
not-F at the same time, in the same respect, and in relation to the same thing, is there a
contradiction. Socrates regularly mentions the qualifiers when he speaks of the com-
presence of opposites, yet—like Zeno—he finds that compresence puzzling. He thinks
his theory of forms enables him to solve the paradoxes.
As interpreters we need to understand why Plato’s dramatic characters find the
compresence of opposites troubling. Their puzzlement makes sense on the supposi-
tion that, whereas we moderns regard “like” and “unlike,” “one” and “many,”
“large” and “small” as incomplete predicates requiring something further to com-
plete the meaning, Plato’s dramatic characters regard such terms as complete pre-
dicates that specify monadic properties of things, even though they recognize that
those predicates regularly take a further completion.8 If largeness and smallness are
regarded as monadic properties, the statement “Simmias is large (in relation to
Socrates) and small (in relation to Phaedo)” is as paradoxical as the statement “the
same thing is round and square,” because one property excludes the other.9 In my
view Socrates introduces forms in the Parmenides to remove a feeling of paradox we
do not share.
Let us set aside our misgivings and grant that Zeno’s paradoxes have bite, and now
ask how forms are supposed to solve them. I turn to an argument in the Phaedo, which
7
See Chapter 2 sec. 2.3 below. Cf. Anscombe ([1966] 1981: 28–9).
8
For the distinction between complete and incomplete predicates, see Owen (1957: esp. 107–11), who
speaks of the “Greek mistreatment of ‘relative’ terms in the attempt to assimilate them to simple adjectives”
(110), and cites Aristotle’s complaint (Met. `.9, 990b15–17) about Plato’s “nonrelative class of relatives”
(kath’ hauto genos tōn pros ti) (107). Whereas Owen discussed the mistake in connection with forms (e.g., the
form of equality is simply equal, not equal to anything), I take the problem to extend to the relational
properties of ordinary things, such as largeness in Simmias. I do not wish to defend Plato’s treatment of
relational properties, only to make sense of it. For a vigorous defense of Plato’s treatment of relational
statements in the Phaedo, see Matthen (1982).
9
In this book I use “property,” “attribute,” and “feature” interchangeably, though I prefer “property” in
distinguishing monadic and relational features of things, and “attribute” or “feature” in distinguishing features
internal or external to the nature of things.
22 PHILOSOPHOS
sets out in more detail a theory of forms very similar to the one Socrates proposes in the
Parmenides. Many aspects of Plato’s theory of forms in the Phaedo are controversial, and
it is not my aim to assess alternative views but merely to present an interpretation,
consistent with the evidence, that makes sense of Socrates’ theory in his long speech in
the Parmenides and gives Parmenides’ objections purchase on it.
In the Phaedo Socrates meets with friends on the last day of his life and gives a series
of arguments to prove the immortality of the soul. At the beginning of the final
argument, he claims that he can prove the soul’s immortality, if Simmias and Cebes
(his main interlocutors) agree that there are forms, and that forms explain features
things have in the sensible world, notably opposite features, such as beauty and ugliness
or largeness and smallness (Phd. 100b1–9).10 Socrates says:
If anything else is beautiful besides the beautiful itself, it is beautiful for no other reason than
because it partakes of that beautiful; and the same goes for all cases. Do you agree to this sort of
explanation? (Phd. 100c4–7)
Socrates rejects various explanations of beauty, such as bright color and shape (Phd.
100c9–d3), and claims to be sure of only one thing, that “by the beautiful (tōi kalōi) all the
beautiful things are beautiful” (Phd. 100d7–8, e2–3). Socrates uses the Greek instru-
mental dative “by the beautiful” to indicate that the form of beauty is responsible for—
the cause of—the beauty of beautiful things.11 Plato’s Socrates does not have our
modern conception of a cause as an event that brings about another event (e.g., the
burning of the match that causes a fire), but instead thinks of causes as things responsible
for effects of a certain kind.12 In the Phaedo Socrates discusses three principles of
causation.13
First, a cause should explain one sort of effect and not its opposite, and for that reason
Socrates rejects other purported causes of beauty, such as bright color or shape.
10
Later he extends the account to entities which are not themselves opposites but are essentially
characterized by a feature with an opposite—e.g., fire (always accompanied by heat) and snow (always
accompanied by coldness) or threeness (the feature of triplets and always accompanied by oddness) and
twoness (the feature of pairs and always accompanied by evenness) (Phd. 103c10–105c7). He uses this later
“clever” explanation to prove the immortality of the soul (105c8–107a1). We need only the earlier “safe”
explanation to make sense of Socrates’ theory in the Parmenides.
11
For this use of the instrumental dative to specify a cause, cf. Euthphr. 6d9–e2, Prt. 332a8–b1, and Hp.
Ma. 287c1–d2. We shall discuss more examples in the Parmenides, Theaetetus, and Sophist.
12
Sedley (1998: 115) observes that we should understand “thing responsible” in a very broad sense to
include (among others) physical stuffs, mathematical processes such as addition, a soul, and forms. Two Greek
words commonly translated as “cause”—aition and aitia—originated in the law courts. An aition was typically
the person responsible for some outcome, the one who bears the blame, while an aitia is the charge of
responsibility, often an accusation of blame (LSJ s.v. aition and aitia). M. Frede ([1980] 1987: esp. 129) claims
that Plato (unlike Aristotle) often observes this distinction, and when he does, an aition is the thing
responsible, properly translated as “cause,” while an aitia is something linguistic, a statement attributing
responsibility, and can be translated “reason,” “causal account,” or “explanation.”
13
Cf. Bostock (1986: 136–42, 151–3), Sedley (1998: 121), and Hankinson (1998: 87–98); see also Burge
(1971: 4–5). These authors state the rules in the negative (thus adhering more closely to Socrates’ examples
than I do), though they ultimately state my (3) in the positive. On my version:
Although bright color seems to account for beauty in many instances—for example,
the Thracian parade he saw at the Piraeus and a sunset—bright color sometimes
accounts for the opposite effect, for instance, the ugliness of Helen’s cloak at a funeral.
Since bright color apparently accounts for opposite effects, it is not the real cause of
beauty. For a similar reason Socrates rejects particular sizes—such as 5 feet 6 inches—as
the cause of largeness, because the same size makes Simmias large in comparison with
Socrates but also small in comparison with Phaedo (Phd. 100e5–101a8).14 The cause of
largeness should explain only largeness and not its opposite.
Second, a real cause should be the sole cause of an effect and permit no alternative
explanation. While the Thracian parade seems to owe its beauty to the bright color of the
costumes, Helen seems to owe hers to her comely shape. Because bright color has
competitors it is not the real cause of beauty. Socrates discusses another example: someone
might claim that adding one unit to another explains why there are two things, but
someone else might claim that dividing one unit into two accounts for that same effect.
Since two operations can explain the same effect, neither addition nor division is the real
cause of the twoness of a pair of things (Phd. 101b4–c9). The cause of twoness should be
the only cause of pairs, and the cause of beauty the only cause of beauty.
Third, the cause of F-ness has the character it explains in its effects. Socrates finds it
incredible that one might say that Phaedo is larger than Socrates by a head, because a
head not only accounts for opposite effects (Phaedo’s largeness and Socrates’ smallness),
but is itself a small thing (Phd. 101a8–b2). The cause of largeness should be large.
Consider again the first part of the passage I quoted above: “It appears to me that if
anything else is beautiful besides the beautiful itself, it is beautiful for no other reason than
because it participates in that beautiful” (Phd. 100c4–6). The statement indicates that
other things are beautiful because they participate in the form of beauty, and that the
form itself is beautiful. Statements of the form “beauty is beautiful” are known in the
scholarly literature as self-predication.15
The precise meaning of self-predication is controversial. I shall criticize some
alternatives in due course, but here I simply state the view that seems to me to be
If x causes something to be F
(1) x causes only instances of F-ness (and perhaps effects that follow from F-ness) and never the opposite of
F-ness.
(2) x is the only cause of F-ness (there is no competing cause).
(3) x is itself F (and in no way not-F).
Some of Plato’s “clever” causes mentioned later in the dialogue do not satisfy (2). Bostock (1986: 153–6)
thinks that (3) is due to a conceptual muddle on Plato’s part, but as we shall see, (3) is a very important part of
Plato’s theory.
14
Irwin (1977: 8–9) argues that features such as bright color and shape are problematic because they are
sensible qualities. But there need be no restriction to sensible qualities, because at Rep. I, 331c1–10, Socrates
rejects returning what you owe (an action type) as a definition of justice. Returning what you owe, though just
in most situations, is not just in all (suppose you borrowed a weapon from someone who goes mad before you
return it). Returning what you owe is therefore as problematic as bright color, yet is not a sensible quality.
15
In addition to the Phaedo passage, self-predications occur at e.g., Prt. 330c2–e2 and Hp. Ma. 292e6–7.
24 PHILOSOPHOS
most consistent with the evidence.16 In my view the self-predication assumption goes
hand-in-hand with a view of causation, sometimes called the “transmission theory of
causation” or the “synonymy principle,” the view that a cause has the character it
explains in its effects—for instance, fire in virtue of its own heat makes other things
hot.17 The pre-Socratic philosophers and Hippocratic doctors regarded material stuffs
as causes, and those stuffs have the character they transmit to their effects.18 Plato’s
Socrates cites immaterial forms as causes, but he agrees that the item responsible for an
effect has the property it explains in that effect: the form of beauty, itself a beautiful
thing, makes other things beautiful. Socrates’ causal theory might seem vacuous but it is
not: If you can grasp what beauty is—define it—the definition of beauty should enable
you to pick out things in the world that really are beautiful, and moreover to explain
what the beauty of the form and its instances consists in.19
The form has the same character as its participants and has it in a preeminent way.
While the many F things are both F and not-F (in different respects or relations, at
different times, from different perspectives, and so on), the form of F-ness (the F) is
unqualifiedly F—F regardless of context or other qualifications. Socrates says in the
Symposium (quoting the wise Mantinean woman Diotima):
First, the beautiful always is and neither comes to be nor is destroyed, and neither grows nor
diminishes; and next, it is not beautiful in one way, ugly in another, nor at one time but not at
another, nor beautiful in relation to one thing but not in relation to another, nor beautiful here
but ugly there, so that it is beautiful to some people but ugly to others. (Smp. 210e6–211a5)
Because the form of F-ness is unqualifiedly F—invariantly F across contexts—it shuts out
its opposite, and for that reason forms explain instances of F-ness alone and not the
opposite, unlike typical features cited as causes, such as bright color and shape, which are
beautiful in some contexts but not in others. In his long speech in the Parmenides Socrates
highlights this idea when he insists that oneness and other forms exclude their opposites.
Note that when I say that the form of F-ness “is unqualifiedly F” or “has F-ness in a
preeminent way,” these phrases do not indicate that the form stands to F-ness in a
16
For an assessment of various interpretations of self-predication in Plato, see Malcolm (1991).
17
Aristotle, Phys. VIII.5, 257b9–10; cf. APo I.2, 72a29–30; Phys. III.2, 202a9–12; Met. Æ.1, 993b23–26.
Aristotle often illustrates the principle with man generates man—the parent (in particular the male parent)
has the same species form as its offspring. In artificial production the craftsman has in mind the form he
transmits to the product. Socrates uses the example of fire and heat in his “clever” explanation later in the
Phaedo (Phd. 103d2–12 and 105b5–c4). The transmission theory of causation enjoyed a long history and is
endorsed by Descartes in Meditation III.40–41 [= Adam and Tannery]. On the transmission theory, see
Lloyd (1976), Makin (1990), Dancy (1991: 86), Sedley (1998: 123–4); cf. Burge (1971), Barnes (1979: I.88,
118–20), and Hankinson (1998: 31–2, 92, 449). The version in Teloh (1981: 4, 42–6) is criticized by
Malcolm (1991: 11–16).
18
To quote Anaxagoras: “How could hair come to be from not hair and flesh from not flesh?” (DK
59B10). The ancient medical treatises On the Nature of Man 7 and On Ancient Medicine 13–16 [= Jones] treat
material stuffs as dunameis (powers/capacities) and as having dunameis. On Plato’s debt to medical writers, see
Moline (1981: 88–95).
19
Sedley (1998: 127–9) notes that Plato’s Socrates illustrates the point with largeness, because we all
understand what largeness is—the capacity to exceed something.
different relation from the one in which its participants stand to that same character. The
relation is participation in both cases, expressed in predications as various as “Socrates is
wise/has wisdom” (accidental predication) “wisdom is a virtue” (essential predication)
and “beauty is beautiful” (self-predication).20 In the Phaedo Socrates refuses to spell out
what he means by participation, saying only that “nothing else makes something
beautiful except the presence (parousia) of that beautiful or association (koinōnia) or
however it occurs ( prosgenomenē ), for I won’t yet insist on that” (Phd. 100d4–7).21
Participation remains obscure in the Parmenides. I shall take it to be the relation—
whatever that relation turns out to be—that ties an entity (sensible thing or form) to
some attribute it has, specified by the verb in sentences of the form “X is F,” “X is (an)
F,” or “X has F-ness” (where “X” stands for a term designating the thing the sentence is
about, “F” for an adjective or kind term, “F-ness” for a noun, and both adjective and
noun specify the attribute F-ness). 22 In the Parmenides and our series of dialogues, Plato’s
speakers call the relation by many names, but most important for our purposes are
“participation” (methexis or metechein) and “being” (einai). The problem of participation
is part of the problem about being, the puzzle associated with Plato’s philosopher.
Socrates’ statement about participation appears to leave open the question as to whether
a form is immanent in its participants (and thus an immanent form) or exists apart from its
participants and explains a feature of them that merely corresponds to that separate form
(call the feature an immanent character—e.g., the largeness in Simmias corresponds to the
form of largeness and the beauty in Helen corresponds to the form of beauty).23 In his long
20
On participation, cf. Wedberg (1955: ch. 3, esp. 36), F. C. White (1977), and see the salutary discussion
in Mates (1979). Some Platonic scholars will balk at my claim about participation, since they regard the
relation specified in a self-predication as something other than participation (e.g., identity or some other
relational tie called “being”). But Aristotle had no qualms in the Topics about speaking of participation in
definitional contexts, e.g., a species participates in its genus (Top. IV.1, 121a10–19; cf. IV.5, 126a17–25) and
in its differentiating features (Top. V.4, 132b35–133a11). Perhaps the Neoplatonic efforts to harmonize Plato
with Aristotle’s Categories help to explain the pervasive idea that Plato envisaged two distinct relational ties
between subject and attribute in essential predications (taken on the model of Aristotle’s said-of relation) and
accidental predications (taken on the model of Aristotle’s inherence relation). On the Neoplatonic tradition,
see Gerson (2005).
21
This passage contains a textual problem. At 100d6 most of the MSS read æª
Å, printed in
Burnet’s (1900) edition with a dagger, which I have translated “[however] it [participation] occurs.” But
Wyttenbach proposed, and Duke et al. (1995) accept (with some papyrus support), æÆªæı
Å to yield
“[however it (participation)] is called.” The participle could instead be neuter genitive (æª
ı),
rather than feminine nominative, in which case the translation would read “[however it (the beautiful)] is
present.” I thank Dimitri El Murr for calling this issue to my attention. My argument does not hinge on the
decision here, since I take Socrates’ claim, however construed, to be intentionally vague. But I prefer
æª
Å or æª
ı, since I take Socrates’ vagueness to concern the nature of participation,
not merely what to call it.
22
Greek has no indefinite article, and it must often be supplied when speaking of an entity as falling under
a kind, as in “Socrates is (a) man,” or “man is (an) animal.”
23
The label “immanent character” applies only to those features of objects that separately existing forms
are invoked to explain, and it is an open question what features count as immanent characters. To judge from
the Phaedo, Simmias’ largeness is an immanent character (Phd.102b3–103a2), whereas his height of 5 feet 6
inches is simply a feature of him but not an immanent character. The scope of forms and immanent characters
is highlighted in the first movement of Parmenides’ critique in the Parmenides (130b1–e4). See note 26 below
26 PHILOSOPHOS
speech in the Parmenides, Socrates favors separate forms and immanent characters and
explicitly speaks of forms as separate (chōris) (Prm. 129d6–8); he also confirms the separation
of forms from immanent characters when Parmenides asks him whether the form of F-ness
is separate from the F-ness in things (Prm. 130b1–6). Although Socrates’ position in the
final argument in the Phaedo is less clear than that in the Parmenides, I shall assume that he is
talking about immanent characters and separate forms rather than immanent forms, but
whichever way one understands the Phaedo, the theory as so far explicated does not remove
the puzzle with which we began. Simmias is both large and small; and so, through
partaking of the forms of largeness and smallness, he has both largeness and smallness in
him. If his largeness and smallness are monadic properties, the situation remains as
paradoxical as before, and forms fail to remove the problem, since largeness and smallness
in Simmias exclude each other.
A discussion in the Republic helps to elucidate the status and role of immanent
characters in the Phaedo and will allow us finally to see how Socrates’ theory of forms is
supposed to disarm Zeno’s paradoxes in the Parmenides. In Republic IV Socrates explains
psychological conflict by distinguishing three parts of the soul in competition with one
another. He introduces the following Principle of Opposites:
It is clear that the same thing will not be able to act or be affected in opposite ways at the same
time, in the same respect and in relation to the same thing, so that if we discover these things
happening in their case [i.e., in the case of the soul], we’ll know that it was not the same thing but
more than one. (Rep. IV, 436b8–c1)
Socrates duly mentions the qualifiers, which by our lights should solve the problem of
psychological conflict, but he does not use them in his own explanation, concluding
instead that the soul has three distinct parts that can oppose one another. A person
wants and refuses the same thing, say a drink, because her appetite wants the drink,
while her reason resists. According to Socrates, when someone attributes opposites to
one thing, the person speaks loosely, since the thing has parts, and strictly speaking
different parts are bearers of the opposite features. Socrates gives another example of
compresent opposites and resolves the conflict in the same way. Take a man who
waves his arms while standing still. Strictly speaking one should not say that the same
man, at the same time, is both at rest and in motion, but instead say that part of him is at
rest (his legs) and part in motion (his arms) (Rep. IV, 436c5–d3).24 Again Socrates
distinguishes parts of the thing, and attributes the opposites to different parts.
for the main difference between immanent characters and other features of things. Denyer (1983) and Fine
(1984 and 1986) have challenged in different ways the traditional view that Socrates in the Phaedo takes forms
to be separate—to exist apart—from their participants. For objections to Fine’s view, see Devereux (1994:
esp. 63–83).
24
Socrates also mentions a top twirling in one spot (Rep. IV, 436d4–e7), which might be explained in
the same way—its axis is at rest while its circumference is in motion—though Bobonich (2002: 229–31 and
529–30 nn. 16 and 19) has proposed a different explanation of this case.
Socrates appears to adopt a similar strategy in the Phaedo, except that here the proper
bearer of each of a pair of opposite features is an immanent character.25 Simmias is both
large and small because he partakes of the forms of largeness and smallness, and by
partaking of them he has two immanent characters, largeness and smallness, as “parts”
of him. Simmias is the host of largeness and smallness, but when someone says
“Simmias is large and small” he speaks loosely. As in the Republic, Simmias is large
and small because one part of him (his largeness) is large, while another part (his
smallness) is small (Phd. 102d5–103a3).26 The felt contradiction vanishes because
different parts of Simmias are the subjects of each of the opposite features. This is the
final piece of the solution to Zeno’s paradoxes proposed by Socrates in the Parmenides.
In his speech in the Parmenides Socrates says that while the compresence of opposites
in sensible things should not surprise us, since he can explain those features by appeal to
opposite forms, he would be amazed if the forms themselves partook of their opposite.
There are two reasons why this would amaze him: First, if the form of beauty partook
of its own opposite, it would violate the first rule of causation and be no more
responsible for the beauty of beautiful things than bright color, which is beautiful in
some contexts (the Thracian parade, a sunset), ugly in others (Helen’s cloak at a
funeral). The form of beauty must be unqualifiedly beautiful to ensure that it accounts
for beautiful things alone, and not ugly things as well. Second, if a form partook of its
own opposite, that compresence would itself call for explanation (as such compresence
does in the case of sensible things), and so there would have to be further opposite
forms to explain the compresent opposites in it. At some level there must be opposite
forms that exclude their own opposite, or else—so Socrates thinks—the explanatory
role of forms would be undermined altogether. He therefore blocks the proliferation at
the start by insisting that forms exclude their opposite. Parmenides will show him in the
second part of the dialogue that he must give up that thesis in the case of oneness. But if
oneness is many, as well as one, how can it explain the oneness of other things, since
the compresence of opposites in it calls for explanation?
1.2 Parmenides’ Critique

Socrates’ account leaves several issues obscure, and Parmenides asks for clarification
more than once before he begins his objections. The critique of forms divides into six
movements, and they raise some fundamental questions for Socrates’ theory: First,
25
Cf. Jordan (1983: 42–3) and McCabe (1994: 50).
26
In this passage Socrates emphasizes that both the form F-ness and the immanent character F-ness are
F and will not admit their opposite. In this key respect immanent characters differ from typical features an
object has, such as Simmias’ size—5 feet 6 inches—which is both large and small (in different comparisons).
The compresence of opposites in the case of typical features calls for explanation, just as it does in the case of
Simmias himself. For the claim that the problem of compresence infects many features of things and not (or
not merely) the things that have those features, cf. Gosling (1960), Crombie (1963: II.70), and Irwin (1977:
8–9 and nn. 12 and 13).
28 PHILOSOPHOS
what forms are there? Why are there forms of some things and not others (first
movement)? Second, what is the nature of participation, the relation between some-
thing with a certain feature and the form responsible for that feature (second and fifth
movements)? The second question raises a kindred question, because different con-
ceptions of participation have different implications for the ontological status of forms
themselves. What sort of entities are forms? Universals? Immaterial stuffs? Perfect
abstract particulars? Third, on what grounds does Socrates think that a form, invoked
to explain a multiplicity of instances, is itself one and not many? Are those grounds
correct and adequate (third movement)? Parmenides reveals the weakness of Socrates’
position by showing again and again in various ways that the forms he took to be one
are in fact many rather than one. I shall omit the fourth movement in which Socrates
makes the interesting suggestion, quickly rejected, that forms are thoughts in the mind.
Parmenides’ objections display a progression, and results of earlier arguments are
assumed in later arguments. Thus, when Socrates realizes at the end of the fifth
movement that he lacks a coherent account of participation, Parmenides assumes in
the sixth and final movement of Part I that sensible particulars do not partake of forms
at all, that there is a complete divorce between the world of forms and our world.
Instead of sensible particulars partaking of forms, sensibles and forms relate only to
other entities in their own group. But then, if we in our realm have no connection to
forms, and they in theirs have no connection to us, what import do forms have for us?
Socrates in his opening presentation had claimed that sensible things have certain
features by partaking of forms. It now appears that, if forms exist but have no link to
things in our realm, they fail to explain anything. Nor do they ground our knowledge,
since we have no access to them. One might think that the final argument shows that
Socrates can do without forms, but Parmenides asserts at the end that there must be
forms, if Socrates is to save dialectic and philosophy (135b5–c6). To preserve philoso-
phy, the objections must be addressed.
Scope of Forms
In the first movement of the interrogation (130b1–e4), Parmenides asks: What forms
are there? On what grounds does Socrates posit forms in some cases but not in others?
The argument proceeds in four steps. Socrates feels confident that there are forms of
the sorts listed at steps one and two, begins to have doubts about the forms at step three,
and feels quite sure there are no forms for things mentioned at step four, though he
admits that the reasons for positing forms in the other cases might apply here as well.
Parmenides starts his interrogation by asking for clarification:
Tell me. Have you yourself distinguished as separate (choris men), in the way you mention, certain
forms themselves, and also as separate (choris de) the things that partake of them? And do you
think that likeness itself is something, separate (choris) from the likeness we have? And one and
many and all the things you heard Zeno read about a while ago?—I do indeed, Socrates replied.
(130b1–6)
Here Parmenides gets Socrates to confirm two points left vague in his presentation.
First, separation is a symmetrical relation—if X is separate from Y, Y is separate from
X. Having said in his speech that forms are separate from the things that partake of them
(129d6–8), Socrates now agrees that things that partake of forms are also separate from
them. Second, he agrees that likeness itself is separate from the likeness we have—that is,
separate from the immanent character the form is invoked to explain. His agreement on
this second point will cause him trouble later, since a form will prove unable to explain
its own immanent character, as the form and its own character are not separate from
each other. Parmenides does not ask what Socrates means by separation beyond
ensuring that it is a symmetrical relation.27 The meaning becomes plain in the course
of the first movement. Forms are separate from their participants and immanent
characters, and vice versa, by existing apart from them. As Socrates conceives them,
forms exist in their own realm apart from their spatiotemporal participants.
At step one Parmenides asks about forms of opposites of the sort mentioned in Socrates’
long speech—likeness and unlikeness, oneness and multitude, and everything Zeno
talked about in his book. Plato does not offer a complete inventory of forms in this
group, and consequently leaves us asking how extensive the list should be. The second
part of the dialogue focuses on oneness and other highly abstract kinds, some or all of
which presumably belong on the list—being, not-being, sameness, difference, largeness,
smallness, equality, change, and rest, among others—and several of these are called “great
kinds” (megista genē ) in the Sophist: being, sameness, difference, change, and rest. Socrates
explicitly mentioned change and rest in his earlier speech (129d6–e4), and they were
certainly a central topic for Zeno. Their presence on the list is important for my overall
theme in this book, but as I mentioned in my Introduction, their status is problematic.
I shall call forms at step one structural forms or kinds.28 Other forms have categorial
content and can be located in genus–species trees as in Aristotle’s Categories (e.g., man
and ox are species of animal, animal is a species of living thing, and so on up the tree of
substance; bravery, justice, and wisdom are species of virtue, redness and greenness are
species of color, and both virtue and color are species of quality), but structural forms,
such as oneness, sameness, and difference, have no place in the categories. Scholastic
philosophers in the Middle Ages called them “transcendentals,” because they transcend
Aristotle’s categories and apply to items in all these groups.29 Structural forms enable
categorial (and other structural) forms to relate to one another in various ways.
27
While “separation” could have various meanings in connection with Plato’s theory of forms, some of
the possibilities are ruled out here because Socrates agrees that separation is a symmetrical relation. Fine
(1984) has a different view of separation from mine, but she sets aside the evidence of the Parmenides (1984:
58–9) on which mine is based. On the meaning of “separation,” see also Morrison (1985) and Devereux
(1994).
28
Plato uses eidos (“form”) and genos (“kind”) interchangeably when speaking of structural forms, and so
shall I.
29
Ryle ([1939] 1965: 115) calls them “formal concepts” and points out that they differ from ordinary
concepts not just in level of generality but in type. As he says, they are “not peculiar to any special subject-
matter, but integral to all subject-matters.” Later in the same paper ([1939] 1965: 131) he calls such topic-
30 PHILOSOPHOS
Parmenides next asks, at step two (130b7–10), whether Socrates thinks there are
forms of justice, beauty, and goodness, and everything of that sort. Moral and aesthetic
values absorb the speakers’ attention in the Socratic dialogues (e.g., Euthyphro, Laches,
and Charmides), and Socrates regularly cites justice, beauty, and goodness as forms in the
Phaedo and Republic.30 Although Parmenides mentions only positive forms in this
group, Socrates in the Republic introduces their opposites as well: justice and injustice,
beauty and ugliness, goodness and badness (Rep. V, 475e9–476a7). In the Parmenides
Socrates accepts the forms at step two, and Parmenides does not ask him about their
opposites.
When at step three (130c1–2) Parmenides asks whether there is a form of man,
separate from us all, and forms of fire and water, Socrates begins to hesitate (130c3–4).
If we think of his previous long speech, we can understand his hesitation, because in
response to Zeno he introduced only forms of opposites to explain opposite features in
sensible things. Moral and aesthetic values at step two resemble the opposites at step
one in that they, too, often apply to things together with their opposite—a fine-
looking woman is beautiful when compared to other women, but not beautiful when
compared to a goddess (Hp. Ma. 289a8–b7); a bright color is beautiful in one context,
not in another. People also disagree about values—an action prized as just in one
society is faulted as unjust in another society. Given Socrates’ focus on the problem of
opposites, he might see no comparable need for forms of natural kinds in group three.
A passage in the Republic (Rep. VII, 523a10–524d6) supports the adoption of forms
of opposite features and not of physical objects, their parts, and material stuffs. Socrates
says that some of our sense perceptions do, whereas others do not, provoke our
thought to reflection. Perceptions summon our reflection if they yield an opposite
perception at the same time. He holds up three fingers—the little finger, ring finger,
and middle finger—and says that each of them appears to be a finger. Since sight gives
no opposite report, one does not think to ask: What is a finger? Perception of a finger
does not stimulate the intellect. But in the case of largeness and smallness and other
pairs of opposites, sight reports that the ring finger is large compared to the little finger
but small compared to the middle finger. The visual report is confusing, since it
announces that the same thing is both large and small, and thus provokes the intellect
to ask: What is largeness? What is smallness?
The Republic passage does not say that there is a form of largeness and not a form of
finger, but it corroborates the impression given by his long speech in the Parmenides
that Socrates posits forms of opposites. Because sense perception seems to yield a
neutral concepts “syncategorematic.” In my view some of these items (e.g., sameness and difference) apply to
all subject-matters, while others (e.g., equality and inequality) only to some.
30
Parmenides lists the good as one form among others, apparently ignoring the preeminent status it enjoys
in Republic VI and VII. The good does not figure prominently in the Parmenides or in our series of dialogues
that presuppose the Parmenides. It does have a prominent place at the end of the Philebus, where Socrates
characterizes it in terms of three conjuncts: truth, measure, and beauty (Phlb. 64c1–65a5). I shall return to
goodness in Chapter 6 sec. 6.5 and Chapter 7 sec. 7.9.
satisfactory report about physical objects and stuffs, he feels no comparable need to
posit a form. At the end of the first movement of the cross-examination (130e1–4) and
again in the transition to the second part of the dialogue (135c8–d6), Parmenides
attributes Socrates’ difficulties to his youth and lack of training. The obviously difficult
cases, such as largeness and smallness, provoke his reflection, but he does not yet fully
appreciate that sense perception on its own may not suffice even when there is no
perceptual conflict, as in the case of man, fire, and water. The late dialogues invoke
forms of natural kinds, so Plato evidently includes such forms in his later metaphysics.31
Parmenides’ examples at step four (130c5–d2)—hair, mud, and dirt—further urge
Socrates to consider in what contexts he posits forms and why. Here the young man
resists the idea that there are separate forms of things that seem to him undignified and
worthless, and he claims that these things are just what we see (130d3–9). Since
Parmenides attributes Socrates’ reluctance to his inexperience, he leaves us to wonder
how extensive the list of forms should be. Should there perhaps be a separate form
whenever people call a number of things by the same name? That is, does Plato adopt a
“One over Many” principle, according to which there are forms of all general kinds
and features, including artifacts and negations?32 Whatever one decides about hair,
mud, and dirt, Socrates should plainly have a better reason for excluding forms in these
cases than that the examples seem worthless and commonplace.33 Our group of
dialogues will discuss numerous commonplace kinds, and in particular angling and
weaving, which are definable and probably count as forms.
Except by implication at step one of the Scope of Forms, Parmenides’ critique does
not mention forms of negations (e.g., the not-large, the not-beautiful), and we might
reasonably think that Plato will reject such forms because one can appeal to the positive
member of a pair of opposites to explain its negative counterpart.34 In the Statesman the
Eleatic Stranger rules out a form of barbarian, and he does so because barbarians
constitute a group merely by sharing a negative feature in common, that of being
non-Greek speakers (Stm. 262c10–263a1). As we shall see when we discuss the Sophist
and Statesman, Plato rejects forms of negations with one notable exception—the form
of not-being, interpreted as difference (Sph. 258b9–c4).
In his long speech in the Parmenides, Socrates has given an argument for forms of
opposites only. In the Scope of Forms Parmenides encourages him to consider what
functions forms perform beyond explaining compresent opposites in ordinary things.
Do Platonists need a form of mud, for instance, if there are forms of its components,
earth and water? If forms play an explanatory role, mixtures of stuffs might be
explicable in terms of the forms of stuffs that compose the mixture. Does a Platonist
31
E.g., Phlb. 15a4–5 speaks of the form of man, and Ti. 51b6–e6 discusses the form of fire.
32
Rep. X, 596a6–7, on its most natural reading states that there is a form whenever people call a number
of things by the same name, and Socrates proceeds to talk about forms of couch and table. For a different
construal of the passage, see J. A. Smith (1917) and Fine (1980: 212–20).
33
I say more about mud in Chapters 3 and 4.
34
Cf. Aristotle, Met. ˘.7, 1032b2–6.
32 PHILOSOPHOS
need a form of hair or finger, given a form of man, since these functional parts can be
explained with reference to the whole of which they are parts?35 Relevant to the scope
of forms is a question explored in the second part of the Parmenides and Theaetetus:
What is the relation between a whole and its parts?36 If a whole is simply the sum of its
parts, there need be no form of the whole, since the whole can be analyzed into its parts
and explained with reference to forms of those parts. If, on the other hand, a whole is
more than the sum of its parts, a form of the whole might be called for. Although I shall
follow up on the scope of forms only piecemeal in upcoming chapters, I believe that
Plato economizes in his later theory of forms: he posits forms to explain things and
refrains from positing a form when some feature or kind can be fully analyzed in terms
of other forms.
Whole–Part Dilemma
The second movement (130e4–131e7) takes up the problem of participation, an issue
the aged Socrates left unexplained in the Phaedo (Phd. 100d4–7): What is the relation
between things that have a certain feature and the form of that feature? Parmenides
starts, as he did at the beginning of the first movement, by clarifying Socrates’ position
and asking for confirmation:
But tell me this: is it your view that, as you say, there are certain forms, from which these other
things, by getting a share of them, derive their names—as, for instance, they come to be like by
getting a share of likeness, large by getting a share of largeness, and just and beautiful by getting a
share of justice and beauty?—It certainly is, Socrates replied. (130e4–131a3)
Socrates said nothing explicitly about names in his speech, but otherwise Parmenides’
statement appears to summarize his view with additional examples from steps one and
two of the Scope of Forms. The claim about names recalls the final argument in the
Phaedo where Socrates says that things derive their names from forms in which they
participate (Phd. 102a11–b6).37 This allusion to the Phaedo should remind the reader
that in refusing to clarify participation Socrates left open the question as to whether
forms are separate from their participants or immanent in them. In this first treatment of
participation, Parmenides assumes immanence, and Socrates tries to resist.
Parmenides opens with a dilemma and presents the alternatives as exhaustive: does
each participant get as its share the whole form or only a part of it? Taking up the first
alternative, he asks: Can a whole form—one thing—be in each of a number of things?
If so, the form will be separate from itself by being, as a whole, in things that are
separate from each other (131a8–b2). Parmenides’ reasoning depends on the assump-
tion that immanent forms are in question rather than immanent characters (features of
35
Ti. 76c1–d3 gives a functional account of hair and does not mention a form of it.
36
Prm. 157b6–159b1 (third deduction) and Tht. 203c4–205e8. On the passage in the Theaetetus, see
Burnyeat (1990: 191–209), and on wholes and parts more generally in Plato, see Harte (2002).
37
E.g., when Simmias and Phaedo come to be like by getting a share of likeness, they have likeness in
them and are called “like” eponymously after the name of the form (“likeness”).
things that correspond to forms).38 Obviously Socrates fails to anticipate where Par-
menides is heading when he initially agrees that the two alternatives exhaust the
possibilities (131a7), because in movement five (132c12–133a7) he will propose anoth-
er way to understand participation—the pattern–copy model—and on that conception
forms are separate from their participants, and no Whole–Part Dilemma arises.
In movement two Socrates tries to avoid the first alternative (that the whole form is
in a number of things) by proposing an analogy, one that reveals his commitment to
separate forms. He claims that a form is like one and the same day—a day is in many
places at the same time without being separate from itself. If a form is like that, it could
be one and the same in all the instances (131b3–6). Socrates’ proposal allows more than
one construal: he could mean one and the same daytime, some definite period between
sunrise and sunset, the same in Athens and Thebes; or he could mean one and the same
daylight, an invisible, homogeneous stuff covering many different places at the same
time. On the first interpretation he would conceive of forms as abstract particulars, on
the second as homogeneous invisible stuffs, but on either interpretation forms are
separate, since one day is in many places without being a component of located things.
Parmenides immediately opts for the second alternative and says: you mean like a sail
covering a lot of people? (131b7–9). His analogy removes the previous ambiguity in
favor of daylight, a diaphanous stuff covering many things at the same time.39 This new
analogy appears to concede separation (but only temporarily) and leads into the second
side of the dilemma. If a form is comparable to a sail, part of the sail is over (epi) each
person, and in that case forms are divisible, and each participant—being under its own
bit of the sail—partakes of a part. So, declares Parmenides, only part of the form is in
(en) each thing (here he reintroduces immanence) (131c5–7). Forms are therefore not
merely divisible but actually divided into parts, and hence are many rather than one—a
conclusion Socrates concedes (131c9–11).
At the end of the section Parmenides introduces a series of puzzles about the forms of
largeness, equality, and smallness (131c12–e7) to show that the second alternative will not
do either. If forms are regarded as wholes with parts, forms of quantities give rise to
paradoxes. Take smallness: the form of smallness is small, because smallness is small (self-
predication); but also large, because smallness as a whole is larger than each of its parts
(131d7–e1). Parmenides does not give a parallel argument about largeness, because no
conflict would crop up: the form of largeness is large for two reasons—both in the way
that smallness is small, since largeness is large (self-predication), and in the way that
smallness is large, since the whole of largeness is larger than each of its parts. Instead he
highlights a puzzle concerning the parts of largeness (immanent forms): the parts of
38
In taking the Whole–Part Dilemma to concern immanent forms, I revise my interpretation in Gill
(1996: 24–9).
39
Readers sometimes fault Parmenides for not taking Socrates’ proposal seriously and for intimidating
him into accepting his own less auspicious analogy instead. See e.g., Crombie (1963: II.330–1). Allen (1997:
131–3), on the other hand, thinks that Parmenides is making Socrates’ analogy more explicit. On the
analogies, see Panagiotou (1987).
34 PHILOSOPHOS
largeness are large (that being their proper character) and small (in relation to the whole of
largeness) (131c12–d2). At least in the case of smallness and largeness, then, the second side
of the dilemma is no more acceptable than the first (131e3–7). Not only is the form of
largeness many rather than one, but largeness in Simmias (now conceived of as an
immanent form) is both large and small. This result might encourage Socrates to insist on
separate forms, but as we shall see (fifth movement) he has no greater success explaining
participation in terms of separate forms than Parmenides has with immanent forms.
It is significant that the Whole–Part Dilemma is the only movement in the Parmenides
explicitly recalled in another dialogue, the Philebus. Scholars sometimes point to the
Philebus as evidence that Socrates should adopt the second alternative in the Parmenides,
that participated forms—forms other things partake of—are multiplied in their partici-
pants, but the passage in the Philebus by no means assures that conclusion.40 In reading the
passage, notice that Socrates treats items he calls “monads” as immanent in things:
And after that, [must we suppose] that in the things that come to be in turn and are unlimited,
one and the same monad comes to be at the same time in one and many, whether we must posit
it [the monad] as scattered and multiplied or as a whole separate from itself—which might appear
most impossible of all? (Phlb. 15b4–8)
We cannot conclude that Socrates prefers the idea that a participated form is scattered
and multiplied simply because he claims that the other alternative “might appear most
impossible of all”: in using the Greek potential optative (English “might”) with the
verb “to appear” he makes his assertion of impossibility doubly doubtful. We should,
however, be struck by the fact that immanence is taken for granted.41 In the Philebus
passage Socrates presents two ways that forms might be immanent in things without
deciding between them.
One might defend the idea that forms are present as wholes in many scattered
particulars by conceiving of forms as universals. Aristotle characterizes a universal as
“what is naturally predicated of more than one thing” (Int. 7, 17a39–40; cf. Met. ˘.13,
1038b11–12), and claims that universals are immanent in things, not separate: “what is
common (to koinon) is present in many places at the same time—so clearly none of the
universals exists separately (chōris) apart from the particulars” (Met. ˘.16, 1040b25–27).
Socrates could have pursued that option in the Parmenides, but he does not, and
presumably he overlooks it because he regards forms as separate from their participants,
not as universals immanent in them. Although he might look more favorably on the
idea in the Philebus, there is an independent reason why he would deny that forms are
40
Pace Fine (1986: 81–2) and Allen (1997: 128–9, 133–4).
41
Some scholars, e.g., Cornford (1939: 86–7) and Cherniss (1944: Appendix VII), think that the Whole–
Part Dilemma responds to Eudoxus, who (under the influence of Anaxagoras) advocated immanent forms.
Cf. Alexander’s discussion of Eudoxus (In Met. 97,27 98,24 [= Hayduck]), which repeats the dilemma from
the Parmenides; and Aristotle, Met. `.9, 991a14–19. For criticisms of Cherniss, see Schofield (1973: 1–3).
Regardless of whether Plato is responding to Eudoxus in the Whole–Part Dilemma, it matters more that he
himself adopts an immanentist position in the Philebus and other late dialogues (except the Timaeus).
universals, even while supposing their immanence—and that is Plato’s ongoing com-
mitment to self-predication, the idea that each form partakes of the same feature that
other things have by partaking of it.42 In this respect Platonic forms differ from
universals, because universals (with the exception of such unusual universals as oneness
and being) are not instances of themselves.
Largeness Regress
The third round, known since Aristotle as the “Third Man Argument,” does not start
with a request from Parmenides for clarification as in the previous sections.43 Instead he
starts from Socrates’ assumption in the previous argument that each form is one,
proposes a reason why Socrates might think it is one, and then shows that, on the
contrary, there must be an infinite number of similar forms. I quote the argument in
full and use numbers and letters for future reference:
(1) I suppose you think each form is one (hen hekaston eidos . . . einai) on the following ground: (a)
whenever some number of things seem to you to be large, perhaps there seems to be some
one character (mia tis . . . idea), the same as you look at them all, and (b) from that you
conclude that the large is one (hen to mega . . . einai).44—That’s true, he said.
(2) What about the large itself and the other large things? If you look at them all in the same way
with the mind’s eye, again won’t some one thing appear large (hen ti au mega phaneitai), by
which (hōi) all these appear large (tauta panta megala phainesthai)?45—It seems so.
(3) So (ara) another form (eidos) of largeness will make its appearance, which has emerged
alongside largeness itself and the things that partake of it, and in turn another over all
these, by which (hōi) all of them will be large (tauta panta megala estai). Each of your forms
(tōn eidōn) will no longer be one, but unlimited in multitude. (132a1–b2)
42
E.g., Sph. 258b9–c4.
43
The literature on the Third Man Argument is enormous. Among the influential works on this topic are
Vlastos ([1954] 1965), Sellars (1955), Geach ([1956] 1965), Strang (1963), Vlastos (1969a), and Cohen (1971).
My present discussion develops Gill (1996: 29–38).
44
Rickless (2007: 65 n. 5) objects to the translation of idea at 132a3 as “character” rather than “form” in
Gill and Ryan (1996: 133). Of course, idea often means “form” in Plato. If it does so here, then Socrates
notices one immanent form in the many large things and concludes that it is one. But since Parmenides has
just argued in the Whole–Part Dilemma, and Socrates agreed, that an immanent form is many, not one
(131c9–11), we should take the one idea Socrates notices to be an immanent character (whose oneness has not
been questioned), a thesis that goes hand-in-hand with separate forms, which Socrates has been advocating
from the start. My interpretation here is an instance of my more general view that Parmenides’ critique is a
carefully woven progression, with later arguments relying on results of earlier arguments. As for idea, Plato uses
the word in reference to an immanent character, as opposed to a (separate or immanent) form at Ti. 28a4–b1,
46c7–d1, 49c2–4, 50c7–e1, and 71a7–b1. The evidence from the Phaedo is less clear-cut, given the
disagreement among scholars as to whether Plato’s Socrates is talking about immanent characters (e.g.,
Devereux [1994]) or immanent forms (e.g., Fine [1986]), but if he is talking about immanent characters and
separate forms, the following texts are relevant: Phd. 104b6–c1, d1–3, d5–7. See Devereux (1994: 66–73 and
nn. 13 and 18) for further citations and discussion.
45
For a defense of this translation of paragraph (2), see Gill (1996: 32–3 n. 46). The more usual translation
of paragraph (2) is: “What about the large itself and the other large things? If you look at them all in the same
way with the mind’s eye, won’t some one large again appear, by which all these appear large?” See note 50
below for an interpretation of paragraph (3) consistent with this more usual translation of paragraph (2).
36 PHILOSOPHOS
What theory does Socrates hold that allows Parmenides to saddle him with an
infinite number of forms of largeness at step (3), contrary to his initial view that
there is only one (step [1])? I take it that Socrates holds the theory already extracted
from his long speech earlier in the Parmenides, the final argument of the Phaedo, and his
responses to Parmenides so far. Step (1) attributes to Socrates an inference at (1b): at
(1a) Socrates observes a number of things that seem to him to be large—temples and
elephants, say—and notices in them some one immanent character, the same as he
looks at them all. According to Socrates’ causal theory in the Phaedo, things are large
(have the immanent character largeness) because they partake of the form of largeness.
So if there is one immanent character shared by the many large things, there is a
separate form of largeness that is its cause: at (1b) Socrates infers the existence of one
cause from the existence of its effect, the immanent character.46
At step (2) Parmenides asks Socrates to repeat what he just did at step (1a) but to
include the form in the group of large things and to look at this new group, but now
with his mind’s eye, and to notice that some one thing appears large. The fact that
Socrates agrees to this step indicates his commitment to self-predication understood as
we earlier discussed it. For he can create the new group only if he thinks that the form
has the same character it explains in its effects and in the same way (though more
eminently), a view consistent with the transmission theory of causation.47 Both
largeness itself and the many large things participate in largeness.48
Many commentators think that Parmenides introduces a second form of largeness
already at step (2), but notice that at step (2) he speaks in terms of appearances (“won’t
some one thing appear large, by which all these appear large?” 132a7–8), whereas at step
(3) he speaks in terms of being, mentioning another form of largeness by which all of
them will be large.49 Given this difference between paragraphs (2) and (3), I take step
(2) to reiterate step (1a) and step (3) to reiterate (1b): at step (2) the one thing that
appears large is the immanent character. Socrates has not yet made the inference to
some one form that corresponds to that character.
Only at step (3) does Parmenides state the implication that reiterates (1b)—that a
second form of largeness will make its appearance alongside the first form and the many
46
In the Symposium Socrates’ mentor Diotima describes an upward progression, at the penultimate step of
which a person gazes upon “the great sea of beauty.” Only after being strengthened by that vision does the
individual behold the form of beauty itself (Smp. 210d3–e1). This poetic description anticipates the inference
in the Largeness Regress.
47
Cf. Scaltsas (1992: 221, 224–7).
48
Those scholars who think that the relation between a form and its own character (expressed in a self-
predication) is different from that between an ordinary participant and that same character need to explain
why the Third Man Argument is an issue for Plato at all. One might respond that Plato’s Parmenides attacks a
position that misunderstands the theory of forms (the youthful Socrates is simply confused), but it is then
highly surprising that Aristotle and Alexander of Aphrodisias regard the argument as a serious objection to
Plato’s theory: Aristotle, SE 22, 178b36–179a10; Met. `.9, 990b15–17; ˘.13, 1038b34–1039a3; Peri Ideōn, in
Alexander, In Met. 83,34–84,7; 84,21–85,3; cf. 85,4–13, trans. in Fine (1993: 18–19).
49
This difference between paragraphs (2) and (3) was first called to my attention by Rogers Albritton in a
seminar on the Parmenides I taught at UCLA in 1994.
large things; and then another, and so on in an infinite regress.50 Why does Socrates
allow Parmenides to generate the regress? Why not object that the first form is all there
is—that it explains its own character or needs no explanation? Either way, no regress
would follow. Since Socrates concedes the regress, he must think that the form’s own
character calls for explanation, but in that case, why not insist that the form explains its
own character, as well as that of the many other large things? In his long speech
Socrates spoke of the form of likeness itself by itself (auto kath’ hauto), and this phrase can
be construed in two main ways, of which the first has two variations. Something is itself
by itself, if (a) it is separate (exists apart) from other things, or (b) is considered on its
own apart (abstracted) from other things.51 The phrase can also be used in a causal
sense: something is itself by itself, if it is responsible for its own proper being,
independent of other things.52 This second meaning becomes increasingly important
in the second part of the Parmenides and Sophist. Why does Socrates not rely on the
second meaning and object that the form explains its own character? In that way he
could block the regress.
The answer lies in Socrates’ commitment to separation. Recall Parmenides’ first
request for clarification and Socrates’ response, which I re-quote, this time emphasizing
the crucial line:
Tell me. Have you yourself distinguished as separate, in the way you mention, certain forms
themselves, and also as separate the things that partake of them? And do you think that likeness itself
is something, separate from the likeness we have? And one and many and all the things you heard Zeno
read about a while ago?—I do indeed, Socrates replied. (130b1–6)
Here Socrates agrees that the form is separate not only from sensible things that
partake of it, but also from the immanent character it explains. Call this the “Separa-
tion Assumption.” Socrates need not have agreed to either component of the
50
Those interpreters who ignore the switch from appearing to being in paragraphs (2) and (3) and take the
second form of largeness to be introduced in paragraph (2) construe the ara (“so”) at the beginning of
paragraph (3) not to mark an inference, as I do, but as “so (we agree that).” Parmenides then repeats what
Socrates has already conceded in response to paragraph (2), namely, that a second form of largeness will make
its appearance. I do not find this more usual construal persuasive.
51
For (a), see, e.g., Phd. 64c4–8, where Socrates describes death as the separation of the body “itself by
itself (auto kath’ hauto) apart (chōris) from the soul” and the separation of the soul “itself by itself (autēn kath’
hautēn) apart (chōris) from the body.” For (b) indicating abstraction from context, see, e.g., Tht. 206a5–8,
where Socrates reminds Theaetetus that when he learned his letters he kept trying to distinguish each letter
on its own (auto kath’ hauto) apart from the surrounding letters so that its position in other spoken and written
words would not confuse him. See also Prm. 143a4–9. Cf. Burnyeat (2000: 36–7), who discusses the phrases
auto to X (“the X itself ”) and the strengthened form auto kath’ hauto and says: “In Plato ‘itself ’ and ‘itself by
itself ’ standardly serve to remove some qualification or relation mentioned in the context.” Cf. Peterson
(2000: 32–4).
52
In this second usage the phrase differs from auto to X (see previous note), which has no causal
implications. It also differs from pros heauto (“in relation to itself ”), though some scholars assimilate that
phrase with auto kath’ hauto in its causal sense. The meaning of pros heauto is discussed in Chapter 2 sec. 2.1 and
Chapter 5 sec. 5.5 below.
38 PHILOSOPHOS
Separation Assumption (and will eventually give up both), but his concession entails
that a form cannot explain its own immanent character, since the form and its
character are not separate from each other. Instead, a second form is needed to
explain the feature the first form shares with its participants. Then, since the trans-
mission theory of causation demands that the cause have the feature it explains in its
effects, largeness2 will also be large, and so can be added to the group of large things,
and then a third form, largeness3, is needed to explain that feature. Each separate
form, which Socrates took to be one, turns out to be infinite in plurality, this time by
duplication.
To avoid the Largeness Regress, Socrates must give up at least one assumption to
which he has so far been committed. He might give up the Self-Predication Assump-
tion, which I have taken to be part and parcel of his causal theory—reject that
assumption and the form cannot be grouped with its participants, and no regress
threatens. He might instead reject the idea that a form’s own character calls for
explanation (by the form itself or something else); or he might give up the Separation
Assumption (at least the second part according to which what explains an immanent
character must be separate from it): this thesis generates the regress, since it calls
repeatedly for a further, qualitatively similar but numerically distinct form to explain
the character the previous form shares with its participants. To judge from the second
part of the Parmenides and the Sophist, Plato retains his causal theory of forms, its
corollary self-predication, and the demand that something explain the form’s own
character. Instead—with the stunning exception of the Timaeus—he gives up both
components of the Separation Assumption and treats forms as immanent in their
participants.53 As we shall see in Chapter 2, giving up that assumption does not fully
solve the problem, because there remains a question about a form’s relation to its own
character: are they merely qualitively the same or are they also numerically the same?
Only in the second case can a form be self-explanatory. Achieving that outcome, far
from being straightforward, requires solving the problem of participation, part of the
problem about being.54
I skip over the fourth movement, in which Socrates tries to avoid the Largeness
Regress by proposing that forms are thoughts in the mind. In this section Parmenides
53
The Timaeus retains both self-predication—forms generate things that are likenesses of them (e.g., Ti.
50c4–6, 51e6–52b5)—and separate forms. I think that Plato blocks regress arguments of the Parmenides type
by introducing the Receptacle, which generated things enter and leave, but forms cannot enter (Ti. 52a2–3).
A form and its participants share the same character (Ti. 52a4–5), but the Receptacle prevents the form from
being grouped with its participants, and so the regress cannot get started. Cf. Prior (1983: 125–6), though his
account of why the theory in the Timaeus escapes Third Man objections (138–46) differs from my own. In
my view the proposal in the Timaeus cannot deal with all participation, since forms partake of other forms,
and according to the Timaeus forms cannot enter the Receptacle. I discuss the Timaeus in relation to the
Parmenides in Gill (2004), and in relation to the Theaetetus in Gill (1987).
54
See further below Chapter 2 sec. 2.8 and Chapter 7 secs. 7.7 and 7.8.
forces him back to the previous result by getting him to concede that thoughts take as
their objects forms outside the mind, with the result that those entities, not our internal
thoughts, explain the character things have.55
Likeness Regress
To avoid the previous difficulties, Socrates offers his own proposal about participation,
according to which forms are separate from their participants. In the fifth movement
(132c12–133a7) he asserts that forms are patterns (paradeigmata) set in nature, and that
other things partake of forms by being likenesses (homoiōmata) of them.56
Contrast this conception of participation with the one envisaged in the Whole–Part
Dilemma. According to that view, if something partakes of a form, it gets a share of the
form, as though the form were a quantity of stuff parceled out to the various
participants. To make the present view more vivid, we might compare a form to an
artist’s model, and the participants to the images the artist makes; or we might think of
someone standing in a room full of mirrors: the person is analogous to the form, and his
reflections to the participants; they have the features they have because of him. Yet
whereas the person and his reflections have many features in common, the form and its
likenesses have only one (or one main one)—the feature the form explains in its
participants. According to Socrates, a thing partakes of the form of F-ness by being a
likeness or copy of F-ness. Being a likeness of something is an asymmetrical relation—a
portrait is a likeness of Simmias, but Simmias is not a likeness of it. Parmenides makes
trouble for Socrates’ proposal by arguing that the asymmetrical relation depends on an
underlying symmetrical relation, the relation of being like. If a portrait of Simmias is
like Simmias, then Simmias is like it.57
There are two general ways to construe the Likeness Regress. On one reading,
Parmenides generates a regress in much the same way as he did in the earlier argument
about largeness, starting with any form, say the form of beauty.58 When Socrates
proposes that the many beautiful things are beautiful because they are likenesses of
beauty itself, Parmenides points out that if the many beautiful things are likenesses of
beauty, they are like beauty and beauty is also like them, and so they have a feature in
common on the basis of which they are like, namely their beauty. (This time, instead of
assuming self-predication, Parmenides infers it from Socrates’ proposal.) But since the
form that accounts for that character is separate from it (Separation Assumption), a
regress follows as before. Another form of beauty will make its appearance to account
for the beauty shared by the first form and the other beautiful things, and so the regress
55
I discuss this argument in Gill (1996: 38–42). See also Burnyeat (1982: 20–3). I return to it briefly in
56
This proposal is important because Plato favors the pattern–copy model of participation in the Timaeus.
57
Cf. Mignucci (1990: 177–8) and Allen (1997: 180–1).
58
There are many variations of this general reading. See esp. Spellman (1983).
40 PHILOSOPHOS
proceeds with an unlimited multitude of qualitatively similar but numerically distinct

forms.
Alternatively, we can read the argument as specifically concerned with the form of
likeness, and on this reading Parmenides generates a different sort of regress.59 Socrates
gets into trouble because he thinks of likeness, a relation between entities, as a monadic
property that itself stands in a relation to the entities it relates. We start as before with
any form, say the form of beauty. Both beauty and its likenesses are like each other, so
they have a feature in common, namely (both beauty and) likeness.60 Since the many
beautiful things and the beautiful itself all partake of likeness, they are on the present
proposal all likenesses of likeness; and since the form of likeness, as pattern, is like things
that are like it, it can be grouped together with them on the basis of their common
feature, likeness. What ties together this new group? Although there is no logical
reason why a relation should not relate itself to other things, once more Socrates’
commitment to the Separation Assumption prevents him from recognizing that. He
agrees that since the form of likeness is like other things, there must be a further form,
likeness2, to relate the members of the new group. And since this new form shares with
its participants a common feature, likeness, there must be another form, likeness3, to
relate them, and so on indefinitely.
Several considerations favor the second interpretation, but I focus on only one.61 At
the end of the argument, Parmenides concludes: “So other things don’t get a share of
the forms by likeness (homoiotēti); we must seek some other means by which they get a
share” (133a5–6). Socrates did not mention likeness when he proposed that forms are
patterns and participants likenesses (homoiōmata), but Parmenides construes Socrates’
proposal as grounded in the form of likeness, and calls attention to that fact by
mentioning likeness at the end.
If we adopt the second interpretation, the Likeness Regress does not repeat the main
idea of the Largeness Regress but exposes a different problem. Whereas the Largeness
Regress derives a regress by focusing on a form things partake of, and shows that if
something partakes of one, it partakes of an unlimited number; the Likeness Regress
derives a regress by focusing on the relation between an entity and the form it partakes
of, and treats the relation as standing in a similar relation to the items it relates. At each
step the relation that bundles the previous group must itself be bundled together with
them, with the result (given the Separation Assumption) that a further relation is
needed to bundle them, and so on indefinitely. An unlimited number of relations
59
See Schofield (1996); cf. Gill (1996: 42–5), Allen (1997: 179–93), McCabe (1994: 87–90), and Rickless
(2007: 80–5). Henry Mendell and Malcolm Schofield were both instrumental in persuading me of this
interpretation.
60
Socrates anticipated this proposal in his long speech when he claimed that things are like by partaking of
likeness (128e6–129b1).
61
In addition to the issue I discuss in the main text, there is a textual reason for preferring this interpretation:
those who adopt the first sort of interpretation need to delete the word Yı from the Greek text at 132d9–e1
to avoid having Parmenides repeat himself in his next statement at 132e3–4. On the second interpretation the
word can be kept. See Schofield (1996: 60–5), whose view I endorse in Gill (1996: 44).
are needed to connect an entity to its character. The regress resembles one made
famous by F. H. Bradley.62
The Likeness Regress construed in the second way spotlights the problem of
participation. Part I of the Parmenides proposes two conceptions of participation, one
in the Whole–Part Dilemma (where forms are immanent), and the other in the
Likeness Regress (where they are separate), and Parmenides makes trouble for both
versions. Since the dialogues in our series and the Philebus treat forms as immanent in
things, Plato must address the Whole–Part Dilemma, and he does so, I suggest, by
embracing both sides of the dilemma.63 But that cannot be the whole solution, because
the Likeness Regress indicates a problem even for immanent forms, a problem brought
out forcefully in the second part of the dialogue in the treatment of being as a relational
link between a form and its immanent character. I shall argue in Chapter 7 that to solve
the problem of participation, one must first understand that most perplexing form—
the form of being—the special subject-matter studied by Plato’s philosopher.
Greatest Difficulty
Since Socrates has failed to explain participation so as to escape the objections,
Parmenides assumes in the sixth movement (133a8–134e8) a complete separation
between our world and the world of forms. Having claimed that sensible particulars
do not partake of forms, he then argues that Socrates could not defeat an objector who
asserts that forms are unknowable (133b4–c1). The argument has two parts. In the first
part (133a8–134c3) Parmenides concentrates on us and our world and argues that
forms have no relation to us and we have no cognitive access to them, but only to
things around us.64 In the second part (134c4–e8) he turns to the gods and their world
and argues that they are not our masters and that by means of divine knowledge,
though much more precise than ours, they know nothing of us. He presents the whole
final movement as the greatest difficulty of all (133a8–b2).
In this final movement Parmenides and Socrates agree that forms are not in us
(133c3–5). Not only do forms exist apart from us, but we and things that belong to us
are also ontologically independent of them—that is, our features do not depend on
forms for what they are.65 Parmenides illustrates ontological independence by focusing
62
Bradley (1897: 17–18). I owe the reference to Ryle ([1939] 1965: 107); given Ryle’s own interpreta-
tion of the Likeness Regress, he sees more difference between the two versions than I do.
63
See below Chapter 7 sec. 7.4, pp. 216–17.
64
Many interpreters focus on the first part of the argument and contend that a complete divorce is not in
view—e.g., in her excellent paper, Peterson (1981) argues that Plato confines the separation to definitional
contexts. The divorce thesis seems to me warranted for two reasons: first, the Greatest Difficulty builds on the
preceding five movements in Part I and gives the crowning blow to Socrates’ theory of forms; Parmenides is
justified in assuming no participation between sensibles and forms, because Socrates has failed to explain it.
Cf. Prior (1985: 75–82). Second, I think that the first part of the argument should be read together with its
second part, in which Parmenides argues that the gods have no knowledge of us or power over us; this would
not be so, if the separation between our world and the divine world were not complete.
65
I understand two items to be ontologically independent, if the nature of the one does not involve the
nature of the other. For example, two chemical elements, such as copper and tin, are ontologically
42 PHILOSOPHOS
on forms of relational properties, such as master and slave.66 In the divine realm master
and slave are determined as what they are in relation to each other, whereas in our
realm a master is determined as what he is, not in relation to a form, but in relation to a
human slave (133c8–134a1). Things in the two realms have similar names, but that
similarity masks their complete independence, since Parmenides has severed the causal
link between forms and things in our realm.
Although the two realms do not associate, Parmenides continues to speak of
participation, but instead of its being a relation between things around us and forms,
it is a relation between things and their features within each realm. He says that
whatever we call the things that belong to us, whether likenesses (as in the previous
argument) or something else, it is by partaking of them—the things that belong to us—
that we come to be called by their various names (133c8–d5). Whereas earlier he said
that we “partake of ” (metechomen) forms and “have” (echomen) immanent characters
(e.g., 130b1–5), in this final argument he uses the two verbs interchangeably in
connection with each realm: we neither partake of nor have forms (134b3–4, b9,
b11–12), but both partake of and have immanent characters; similarly in the divine
realm, god partakes of and has knowledge itself (134c10–11, d1–2).67
Knowledge exists in both realms: knowledge itself is of truth itself, and each kind of
knowledge (the branches of divine knowledge, such as divine arithmetic, geometry,
carpentry, and so on) relates to its proper object—to what that object is (134a3–4)—
and similarly in our realm, we know the truth for us (par’ hēmin . . . alētheias), and each
kind of knowledge (human arithmetic, geometry, carpentry) deals with its proper
object here (134a9–b1). While we cannot know the truths in the divine realm, since
we do not partake of knowledge itself, we can know things in our own sphere.
The second part of the argument emphasizes that the gods partake of knowledge
itself and know the forms, but lack our knowledge, and so do not know us or things in
our realm; nor do they have any power in relation to us. Socrates finds the results
shocking (134e7–8), yet the gods’ lack of omniscience and omnipotence is not the
reason why Parmenides calls this argument the greatest difficulty.68 Indeed one might
independent of each other, but bronze depends ontologically on both, since its nature involves the natures of
copper and tin.
66
Although Parmenides focuses on relational properties in marking off the realm of forms from our realm,
by the end of the argument that realm appears to embrace all forms, including ones we do not think of as
relational, such as beauty and goodness (134b14–c3).
67
Fujisawa (1974) discusses Plato’s usual use of “partakes of ” and “has” and the anomaly here. I continue
to use the label “immanent characters,” though forms in this final movement do not explain them. Immanent
characters and corresponding forms simply have similar names.
68
McPherran (1999) focuses on the second part of the argument in light of the first and contends that the
whole movement aims to provoke the audience to distinguish senses of the word dunamis, which he construes
as “the meaning of a word concept” in the first part of the argument and as “the power to do something” in
the second. The notion of dunamis is important, and McPherran (cf. 1986) rightly has in view the connection
between the Greatest Difficulty and the Battle of the Gods and Giants in the Sophist, where the Stranger
defines the being of something as its dunamis (capacity/power) to act on other things or to be affected by other
things (Sph. 247d8–e4). In my view the word dunamis has the same meaning in both parts of the Greatest
wonder why Parmenides thinks this movement poses a serious problem: if things in our
realm are determined as what they are in relation to other things around us, and if we
can know those things without appealing to forms, why bother with forms?
That reaction overlooks a clue at the beginning of the second part of the argument:
Surely you would say that if in fact there is knowledge—a kind itself—it is much more precise
(akribesteron) than is knowledge that belongs to us. And the same goes for beauty and all the
others. (134c6–8)
This statement suggests that, without access to forms, our knowledge lacks the precision
enjoyed by the gods, and beauty in us is fuzzy, not something precise. Perhaps we can do
without forms, but with a loss of precision, since both our knowledge and its objects are
somehow nebulous. In considering what this nebulousness amounts to, recall paragraph
(2) of the Largeness Regress, where Parmenides spoke of a largeness that appears large and
explains why the many large things (including largeness itself) appear large—a largeness
I identified as the immanent character shared by the many large things and the form of
largeness. In paragraph (3) Parmenides announced that Socrates must now infer the
existence of a second form of largeness to explain why the many large things together
with the form of largeness not only appear large but in fact are large. Socrates had to make
the inference because he regarded the form as separate from the character it explains.
Although the immanent character accounts for the appearance, the form explains things
actually being as they appear to be. Remove the causal link between forms and immanent
characters, as Parmenides does in the Greatest Difficulty, and things no longer really are
this or that. The characters we observe lose their definiteness, because they are determined
as what they are, not by stable relations to unchanging forms, but by their changing
relations to other things in our realm. On this conception our realm is intrinsically fuzzy
and volatile—and that is what our world would be like, Parmenides suggests, if sensible
things do not participate in forms.
Furthermore, lacking an account of participation to save his theory from the final
movement, Socrates cannot answer an objector who claims that forms are unknow-
able, because he has and can gain no access to what things really are. That is why
Parmenides calls the final argument the greatest difficulty.
1.3 A World without Forms

By the end of the Greatest Difficulty, Parmenides has argued that forms, if they exist, have
no connection to us, or we to them, and so they do not explain the features things have in
the sensible realm. Sensible things are determined as what they are by their changing
relations to other things in our realm. And since we have no access to forms, but only to
things that belong to our realm, we cannot appeal to forms to ground our beliefs about the
Difficulty, but the meaning is rich enough to include both of McPherran’s senses. I discuss being and dunamis
further in Chapter 3 sec. 3.5 and Chapter 7 secs. 7.7 and 7.8.
44 PHILOSOPHOS
world or to explain the relations among things within it. Instead, we must be content with
appearances and with our inaccurate means of judging what the appearances are. Imagine
ourselves like the prisoners in the cave in the Republic (Rep. VII, 514a1–520d5). Our legs
and necks bound, we can observe only the shadows flitting on the wall before us, and
judge the appearances by comparing them with one another. The situation of the cave-
dwellers differs significantly from our own at the end of the final argument in Parmenides’
critique. In the cave, the shadows are cast by puppets carried along the road in the firelight
behind the prisoners, and the shadows are linked indirectly to forms, even if the prisoners
do not know it. The prisoners can also escape from their chains, turn their vision away
from the shadows and first observe the puppets themselves in the light of the fire, then
make their way out of the cave, and ultimately behold real things in the light of the sun
(analogous to the form of the good). They have a chance to return to the cave and observe
the shadows once more but now in the light of what they have learned. So they can come
to know the shadows and what they are shadows of (Rep. VII, 520c1–6). By the end of
Parmenides’ critique, that possibility has faded, permitting us no escape from the shadows.
Remove the causal link between forms and sensible things, and the world we inhabit is
intrinsically unstable and unknowable.
Parmenides describes similar worlds three times in the second part of the dialogue,
and each time the world becomes more indefinite until it disappears altogether.
Deduction 4 (159b2–160b2) describes a situation resembling that in the final move-
ment in Part I. Imagine that the form of oneness exists but has no connection to other
things—it and the others are separate from each other both in the sense that they exist
apart and in the sense that they are ontologically independent of each other. Parmen-
ides argues that since other things do not partake of the one, they have no other
determinate character either. In Deduction 7 (164b5–165e1) he asks us to imagine
what other things would be like if there were no oneness, and goes on to describe a
world of vivid appearances we can apparently identify and differentiate in relation to
one another; yet always on closer inspection what we thought we saw turns out to have
been a mirage, one appearance dissolving into another. This is not merely a problem
with our knowledge, but infects the things themselves, which scatter and dissipate
before our eyes. By the eighth and final deduction (165e2–166c2), even the appear-
ances have vanished: If the one is not, there is nothing at all (166b7–c2). Part II as a
whole shows the cost of denying the existence of forms.
With this vision of what is at stake if forms are denied or if they exist but have no
connection to us, Parmenides points out at the end of Part I that, despite all the
difficulties just discussed and a host of others besides, there must be forms. Otherwise
Socrates will have nowhere to turn his thought and will destroy the capacity for
dialectic entirely (135b5–c3). The question is, then, what to do about philosophy,
while these difficulties remain unresolved (135c5–6). Socrates, now at a loss, has no
suggestion to give. That, says Parmenides, is because he has posited forms too soon,
before he has been properly trained. The second part of the dialogue demonstrates the
sort of training he has in mind, and to that exercise we now turn.
2
A Philosophical Exercise
Ø b E PæBÆØ ıº
Ø æhæªı e ØÆæBÆØ ŒÆºø ~ .
(Aristotle, Metaphysics ´.1, 995a27–28)
For those who want to find a way forward it is useful to explore the difficulties well.
When Socrates falls into doubt at the end of the first part of the Parmenides after failing
to salvage his theory of forms, Parmenides recommends training, twice saying that
without proper exercise the truth will escape him (Prm. 135c8–d6, 136a4–c5), a claim
repeated by Zeno (Prm.136e1–3).1 In the second part of the dialogue Parmenides
demonstrates one version of the exercise. In four deductions he adopts a positive
hypothesis—if [the] one is—and considers the consequences for the one and other
things on that hypothesis; then in four more deductions he starts from the opposing
negative hypothesis—if [the] one is not—and considers the consequences for them on
that hypothesis.2 Were it not for the repeated claims that training of this sort is needed
to discover the truth, the exercise might seem like sheer gymnastics, an impression
Parmenides encourages in a summary at the end of the whole exercise:
Let us then say that [viz. “if [the] one is not, nothing is”]—and also that, as it seems, whether [the]
one is or is not, it and the others both are and are not, appear and do not appear, all things in all
ways, both in relation to themselves and in relation to each other.—Very true. (166c2–5)
1
All citations in this chapter, unless otherwise noted, are to the Parmenides. Again, translations are from
Gill and Ryan (1996) with minor modifications.
2
In Greek a hypothesis is regularly stated in an “if ” clause, expecting a “then” clause stating the
consequences, whereas in English we usually speak of a hypothesis that something is the case (even when
we plan to draw out the consequences). I often use the more natural English rendering. The positive
hypothesis is often translated “if one/unity exists,” or “if there is one” but I avoid such translations even
though “exists” is one translation of Greek esti. Plato uses the verb “to be” in more than one way in Part II,
and I shall argue that the verb has a single meaning in its various uses. Since the verb “exists” in English differs
in meaning from the copula “is,” that translation would be misleading. There is scholarly disagreement about
the subject(s) of the hypotheses, to be discussed below, but I state in advance that I take the subject of all the
deductions to be the Platonic structural form, designated as “oneness,” “the one,” or simply “one.” I add the
definite article in square brackets when a Greek adjective serves as the grammatical subject of a hypothesis or
statement.
46 PHILOSOPHOS
This ending balances the conflicting conclusions of the preceding deductions and calls
attention to their contradictions. By “conclusion,” I mean the various large-scale
consequences that follow from the positive or negative hypothesis, and also on a
small scale the consequent of any conditional statement.3
In my view the final summary is not the true ending of the exercise, but the one that
readers will take away if they miss the argument across the deductions, an argument
culminating in the final line of Deduction 8 just before the summary begins and
recalled in its opening line: “Let us then say that” (166c2–3):
Then if we were to say, to sum up, “if [the] one is not, nothing is (ouden estin),” wouldn’t we
speak correctly?—Absolutely. (166b7–c2)
If the one is not, there is nothing at all—no world—to explain.4 The conclusion is
obviously false, since we inhabit some sort of world. The false consequent of the
conditional casts doubt on the antecedent, the negative hypothesis itself, and presses
the interlocutor to abandon it in favor of the positive hypothesis that the one is. But he
cannot simply go back, because—as we shall see—the first part of the exercise compels
him again and again to reject the positive hypothesis in favor of its negative counter-
part. And yet the negative hypothesis yields a plainly false conclusion.
Since one or the other of the two hypotheses must be true, we should ask whether
there is some way to save the positive hypothesis, and there is. I shall argue that to save the
positive hypothesis, Socrates needs to give up his thesis in his long speech in Part I that
forms cannot partake of other forms (129d6–130a2). In some cases a form must even
partake of its own opposite, an outcome Socrates declared he would find astonishing,
even monstrous (129b1–3, b6–c3). He challenged Parmenides to prove him wrong, and
Part II is that refutation. The exercise teaches two main lessons: first, there must be forms,
since there is a world to explain; and second, the one must partake of natures other than its
own, including its own opposite, contrary to Socrates’ assertion in Part I. Socrates needs to
work out how the one can play the explanatory role required by his theory even though it
is both one and many. The separation of forms from their participants—a major problem
for Socrates’ theory of forms in Part I—is not an issue for most of the exercise (with the
exception of Deduction 4), because Parmenides concentrates exclusively on forms, and in
their case participation involves immanence: the participated form is an attribute of its
participant. At the same time, a related problem pervades Part II without being solved.
Does participation entail that a form and its own character are numerically distinct as in the
two regress arguments in Part I?
I claimed in my Introduction that the exercise in the second part of the Parmenides
constitutes the first round in a much larger program, and that Plato repeats the pattern
3
For discussion of whether we should take “conclusions” this way or in reference to whole conditionals,
see Peterson (1996: 173–7), who defends the second alternative.
4
Sandra Peterson points out to me that Plato could here be playing on the etymology of ouden
(“nothing,” “not even one thing”): “If one is not, not (even) one thing is” which she interprets (2000: 42)
as: “If there is no such thing as being one, there would not be a single kind of thing.” In my translation
Parmenides makes a much stronger claim: there is nothing at all, if the one is not.
A PHILOSOPHICAL EXERCISE 47
with variations in an exercise about being spanning parts of the Theaetetus and Sophist.
Since I take the exercise in the Parmenides to serve as a model for that endeavor and to
expose puzzles about being without solving them, this chapter will lay out the relevant
argumentative structure and call attention to those puzzles, which will need to be
addressed in the next round of the exercise. Given my limited purpose, I restrict my
discussion to the positive hypothesis and its main strategies and merely summarize the
deductions starting from the negative hypothesis to show how they fit into the larger
dialectical scheme of Parmenides Part II.
2.1 Plan of the Exercise in Parmenides Part II

Parmenides makes several prescriptions for the exercise before he undertakes it. First,
Socrates should adopt the manner of the exercise he heard from Zeno (135d8), who
would start with a hypothesis—contradicting Parmenides—that things are many, and
show that they have incompatible properties (e.g., they are both like and unlike or both
limited and unlimited). By demonstrating that the same things cannot have incompat-
ible properties at the same time, Zeno attacked the thesis of Parmenides’ opponents and
came to the aid of Parmenides’ own thesis that the all is one. Second, Parmenides
approves of something Socrates said to Zeno. While Zeno displayed the compresence of
opposites in visible things, Socrates challenged him to display the same difficulty in the
case of forms (129d6–130a2), and Parmenides now recommends that Socrates follow
Zeno’s method but apply it to intelligible things, not concrete particulars (135d8–e4).5
Third, whereas Zeno in his book started from a single hypothesis and derived various
consequences, Parmenides advises Socrates not only to hypothesize that something is,
but also to hypothesize that that same thing is not (135e8–136a2). Zeno targeted the
hypothesis of Parmenides’ opponents and showed the absurd consequences that fol-
lowed from it, but Parmenides now advises Socrates also to consider the negation of that
hypothesis, which Zeno (and Parmenides) endorsed, that things are not many (i.e., that
they are one), and examine the consequences that follow from that, and then to deny
that hypothesis and consider the consequences of that denial.6
5
Occasionally in Part II Parmenides refers to the entities he discusses as forms. Deduction 2 mentions the
one and the others and largeness and smallness as forms (149e5–150a1), Deduction 3 mentions the one as a
form (158c5–7), and Deduction 4 speaks of likeness and unlikeness as forms (159e2–160a3). For considera-
tions against taking the exercise to be explicitly about forms, see McCabe (1994: 104–5).
6
Plato has prepared his readers for opposing arguments already in the Parmenides. In the first part of the
dialogue, Zeno says that Parmenides’ opponents took Parmenides’ hypothesis “if it is one” and derived absurd
and contradictory consequences from it, and that Zeno himself took their hypothesis, “if things are many,” and
showed that the consequences on that hypothesis are even more absurd. Then Socrates introduced his theory of
forms to defend the position of Parmenides’ critics, and Parmenides destroyed his defense. Notice the progres-
sion: at each step the counterargument defeats its predecessor. We should also note that the negation of the
positive hypothesis in Part II is not the position of Parmenides’ critics, that things are many, but rather the thesis
that the one is not (from which it follows in Deduction 8 that there is no many either).
48 PHILOSOPHOS
Parmenides makes a fourth recommendation vital to the overall argument in my book.

He recommends that once Socrates has completed the upcoming exercise, he repeat it,
taking some other entity as the subject of a positive or negative hypothesis (136b1–c5).
For example, Socrates should hypothesize that likeness is or that it is not, and examine the
consequences on each hypothesis for likeness itself and other things. He should do it again
for unlikeness, change, rest, generation, destruction, being, and not-being. In short, says
Parmenides, the same method applies to whatever Socrates might hypothesize as being or
not being or as having any other property.7 He does not demonstrate this extended
program in Part II, but restricts himself to examining one hypothesis and its negation.8
Puzzled by Parmenides’ third point about the structure of the exercise, Socrates asks
for clarification, and Parmenides gives an illustration, using Zeno’s hypothesis:
If [the] many are, what must the consequences be both for the many themselves in relation to
themselves and in relation to the one, and for the one in relation to itself and in relation to the
many? And, in turn, on the hypothesis—if [the] many are not—you must again examine what
the consequences will be both for the one and for the many in relation to themselves and in
relation to each other. (136a5–b1)
Parmenides’ illustration suggests that, starting from each hypothesis (positive or nega-
tive), Socrates should consider the consequences both for the entity (or entities)
hypothesized (in this case the many) and for other things (in this case the one), and
whichever of the two he derives consequences for, he should consider the conse-
quences for it in relation to itself and in relation to the other things. The illustration
indicates that there will be paired deductions, and the number of pairs depends on how
Parmenides carves up the parts.
When we look at the actual exercise in Part II and its positive and negative
hypotheses about the one, we find not two, four, or eight deductions, but nine. On
closer inspection this irregularity can be readily explained, because one deduction
stands out from the overall scheme. Whereas four deductions start from the positive
hypothesis and four from the negative hypothesis, an additional deduction following
the second opens “Let us speak yet a third time” and begins not from the original
positive hypothesis about the one but from a hypothesis combining conclusions of the
7
The prescription to repeat an exercise with variations recalls Socrates’ recommendation in the Meno,
after the geometry lesson with Meno’s slave. At the end of the exercise the boy has discovered the right
answer to the geometrical problem, and even has a proof, but Socrates says the boy has mere true belief and
needs more exercise to turn that true belief into knowledge:
And these beliefs have just now been stirred up in him like a dream. But if someone asks him about the same
problem many times and in many ways, you know that he will have knowledge about these matters as
accurate as anyone’s. (Meno 85c9–d1)
New rounds of the Meno exercise will presumably concern themselves with problems involving the
Pythagorean Theorem, as does the first round presented in the Meno. In my view new rounds of the exercise
in the Parmenides will study the participation of forms in their own nature and in natures other than their own.
8
For a quite different view from mine about the nature of the “new rounds” (the exercise repeated with
variations), see Peterson (2003).
second and first deductions: “If the one is as we have described it—being both one and
many (hen te on kai polla) (Deduction 2) and neither one nor many (mēte hen mēte polla)
(Deduction 1), and partaking of time (Deduction 2)” (155e4–6). Given its reliance on
both Deductions 1 and 2, we should regard this deduction as an appendix to both, and
not as part of the overall plan described at the outset.9
I begin by describing what happens in Part II without interpretation. Each of the
two main parts of the exercise, beginning from the positive or negative hypothesis, has
four deductions as parts, for a total of eight deductions. Two deductions in each
foursome examine consequences for the entity hypothesized, and two examine con-
sequences for other things.10 One member of each pair derives positive consequences
(X is both F and not-F, for various values of “F”), the other negative (X is neither F nor
not-F for those same values). The scheme in Part II contains a number of anomalies
besides the Appendix, and in particular Parmenides reverses the order of the first and
second deductions relative to the other six (the first deduction derives negative
consequences, the second positive; thereafter, the order is consistently positive–
negative). The following table gives the basic structure (+ for positive, – negative):
Deduction Hypothesis Subject of consequences Consequences

1 + one –
2 + one +
3 + others +
4 + others –
5 – one +
6 – one –
7 – others +
8 – others –
9
Those who would agree with my characterization of this third attempt include Friedländer (1969:
III.206–11), Owen (1970: 358), Bostock (1978: 231), Allen (1997: 213), Turnbull (1998: 112), and Rickless
(2007: 188). On the other side, Cornford (1939: 194) regards it as a corollary to the second deduction,
separated from it because it would spoil the symmetry of Deduction 2 with Deduction 1; cf. Miller (1986:
111–21 and 251 nn. 53, 54). Peterson (2000: 47–8 [= Second Appendix]) regards it as a third part of
Deduction 2; cf. Sayre (1996: 240–1) and Scolnicov (2003: 134–9). While those who disagree with my
characterization are right that this third deduction treats the one as being in time, as in the second deduction
and not the first, they overlook or downplay one part of the present hypothesis: “and (being) neither one nor
many” (155e5–6). Nowhere in Deduction 2 does Parmenides argue that the one is neither one nor many:
that is a conclusion of Deduction 1. Miller’s (1986: 112 and 251 n. 54) translation of kai as “and so” to yield
“and so not one and not many” masks the “neither . . . nor” construction characteristic of the first and other
deductions that reach negative conclusions in Part II. Since the Appendix hypothesizes that the conclusions of
both previous deductions are true, it is an Appendix to both. The Appendix assumes that the one is in time (as
in Deduction 2) because it sets out to show that the opposite conclusions of Deductions 1 and 2 can be true at
different times.
10
Entities called “the others” (ta alla) are things other than the subject of the hypothesis. In Part II entities
other than the one include sameness, difference, likeness, unlikeness, being, change, and rest—forms at step
one of Parmenides’ Scope of Forms in Part I.
50 PHILOSOPHOS
Some interpreters regard Part II as a parody of other philosopher’s methods, but

most scholars take the exercise seriously and find in it a constructive message.11 Among
those who take Part II seriously, a substantial number contend that all or most of
the conclusions in Part II are acceptable, some scholars arguing that apparently
conflicting deductions treat different subjects—ones essentially characterized by differ-
ent properties—while others urge that opposing deductions treat the same subject but
in terms of its definitional features or features it merely displays.12 According to another
broad tradition, paired deductions treat the same subject but present real antinomies
designed to prod Socrates to recognize that the theory of forms involves some mistaken
assumption.13 On the antinomist view most of the conclusions are validly deduced,
given the premises, but are unacceptable—unsound.
My view shares the spirit of the antinomist approach but does not fit squarely in that
tradition, because I take Part II to contain a single argument composed of nine
deductions designed to provoke the student to find a way to save the positive
hypothesis that the one is. All the deductions treat the same subject, the Platonic
form of oneness. Deductions 1 and 2 reach opposite conclusions plainly stated in the
summary of the positive hypothesis at the end of Deduction 4—the one is everything
(panta) (Deduction 2) and not even one (oude hen) (Deduction 1) (160b2–3)—but the
second deduction has the same implication as the first, since the one cannot be
everything without having manifold incompatible properties. Thus both Deductions
1 and 2 lead independently to the negative hypothesis that the one is not. The
Appendix tries to combine the results of Deductions 1 and 2 but its proposal cannot
11
Those who regard it as a parody include Burnet (1914: 263–4) and A. E. Taylor (1934: 10–11, 39–40).
Runciman ([1959] 1965: 167–76) surveys earlier views of Part II, and Turnbull (1998: Appendix) gives a
helpful survey and critique of several recent views.
12
The Neoplatonists are early proponents of the first type of interpretation finding a constructive
message. According to them, the first deduction treats the One beyond being, the second its first hypostasis,
Nous, the third (which I have designated an appendix), Soul, and so on: see Dodds (1928) on the
Neoplatonic view. Different versions of this approach are given by Cornford (1939: 107) and Miller
(1986: 76–7, 96–9). For objections to this type of approach, see Allen (1997: 208–15), Meinwald (1991:
24–6), and Turnbull (1998: 185–92). Sayre (1978: 136–7, 140; 1983: 42; and 1996: 106–7, 119–24) holds a
distinctive version of this approach. For the second type of view, see Meinwald (1991 and 1992) and Peterson
(1996, 2000, and 2003).
13
Russell (1937: 355) calls Part II “perhaps the best collection of antinomies ever made.” Ryle (1939:
542–3) states his view succinctly in his review of Cornford (1939):
The second part of the [Parmenides] is or is intended to be a reductio ad absurdum argument. The two
propositions to which it is applied, namely, Unity exists and Unity does not exist, are intended to be univocal.
There are four main operations in the argument, and each operation has two ‘claws’; and the two ‘claws’ of
each operation are intended to demonstrate antithetical conclusions. And the conclusions of each ‘claw’,
taken by itself, constitute, for the most part, logically impossible conjunctions. The subject of the hypotheses
is a Form or ‘universal’. The purpose of the second part of the dialogue is to show that some presupposition of
the theory of Forms contains a radical logical flaw. And the argument is successful.
Owen (1970) maps Part II, setting out premises of the arguments, and thinks that Plato sets up a conflict
between pairs of premises or one premise and a thesis derived from others. In his view (1970: 98) the
deductions set without solving problems that engage Plato in several late dialogues. For mapping, see also Gill
(1996, esp. 117–23: Analysis of the Deductions in Part II). Others in this tradition include Friedländer (1969:
III.202–18), Schofield (1977), and Allen (1997).
succeed and again points to the negative hypothesis. Deductions 3 and 4, which
examine consequences for other things on the hypothesis that the one is, also reach
opposite conclusions—that the others have various properties (Deduction 3) and that
they have none (Deduction 4)—but Deduction 3 spells out many fruitful results, which
are then discarded in Deduction 4. Deductions 3 and 4 stand outside the main argument
by ignoring the overwhelming reasons to reject the positive hypothesis, and in my view
Deduction 3 holds the key to saving it, but to save it one must locate the mistaken
assumption that allows Deduction 3 to be undermined in Deduction 4. I develop the
main contours of my view by elaborating and criticizing the second constructive
approach, which takes paired deductions to examine the same subject from different
perspectives and to present contradictions that are merely apparent, not real.
In her acclaimed book on the Parmenides, Constance Meinwald takes up Michael
Frede’s thesis about being in the Sophist and argues that paired deductions in the second
part of the Parmenides examine the same subject either auto kath’ hauto (itself by itself ) or
pros alla (in relation to other things).14 Deductions that consider the subject auto kath’
hauto examine its essential features (features mentioned in its definition and therefore
inside its nature), whereas deductions that consider the subject pros alla examine its non-
essential features (features it displays by standing in a relation to entities outside its
nature). According to Meinwald, the Parmenides captures two kinds of predication
Frede finds in the Sophist, but uses the phrases pros heauto (“in relation to itself ”) and pros
ta alla (“in relation to the others”) in place of auto kath’ hauto and pros alla.15 The idea is
attractive because these two phrases are emphasized at three key moments in the
discussion: in Parmenides’ illustration with reference to Zeno (136a5–b1, quoted
above), and in two summaries of the exercise—a review of the positive hypothesis at
the end of Deduction 4 (160b2–4, quoted and discussed below), and a summary of the
whole exercise at the end of Deduction 8 (166c2–5, quoted at the start of this chapter).
Consider again the illustration about Zeno: Socrates is to start with the positive
hypothesis, that the many are, and examine the consequences for the many in relation
to themselves (pros hauta) and in relation to the one (pros to hen) and for the one in
relation to itself (pros hauto) and in relation to the many (pros ta polla); then, starting from
the negative hypothesis that the many are not, he is again to examine the consequences
for the one and for the many in relation to themselves (pros hauta) and in relation to
each other (pros allēla) (136a5–b1).16 In Meinwald’s view, the illustration forecasts eight
sections in the upcoming exercise, and they will come in pairs, with one member
examining consequences for the subject pros heauto—in virtue of its own nature—the
other examining properties it has by standing in a relation to natures other than its own
14
Meinwald (1991: 74–5, 178 n. 18, 179 n. 19; and 1992: esp. 381); M. Frede (1967), summarized in
Frede (1992). I discuss Frede’s view about being in the Sophist in my Appendix to Chapter 5 below.
15
Meinwald (1991: ch. 3). Peterson (2000: 38) develops Meinwald’s view and takes pros heauto to mean
“as a matter of definition or analysis” and pros ta alla to mean “not as a matter of definition or analysis.”
16
This passage and its implications are discussed in detail by Meinwald (1991: ch. 2).
52 PHILOSOPHOS
(pros ta alla). If we ignore the Appendix, Part II does indeed consist of eight deductions,
as the illustration so interpreted suggests.
Plausible as the interpretation seems, there are good reasons to reject it. In the first
place, though Parmenides uses the pros-phrases often, he does not use them in the way
that Meinwald’s thesis projects.17 Instead he uses them in an ordinary way to express a
subject’s relation to itself or other things.18 When he wants to say that an entity
X stands in a certain relation to itself or other things, he typically states the relation
as “X has the relation (sameness, unlikeness, etc.) in relation to (pros) itself and/or in
relation to (pros) other things,” as in “the one has unlikeness in relation to the others
(pros ta alla)” (161a6). The prepositional phrases themselves occur less often in the
exercise than the illustration about Zeno and the summaries would lead us to expect,
but that is because Parmenides often specifies the second member of a two-place
relation without pros, putting the word specifying it instead in the dative or genitive
case, as in the following example from Deduction 2, where he switches from pros with
an accusative to a simple dative: “Furthermore, the one would also itself be so [i.e.,
equal] in relation to itself (pros heauto): having neither largeness nor smallness in itself, it
would neither be exceeded by nor exceed itself, but being equally matched would be
equal to itself (simple dative: heautōi)” (150e1–4).19 An example using the pros-phrases
from Deduction 6 shows that Parmenides considers relations to self and others in the
same deduction: “Furthermore, it [the one] would have neither likeness nor difference
in kind in relation to itself (pros heauto) or in relation to the others (pros talla)” (164a2–4).
As this example from Deduction 6 indicates, every deduction considers the subject(s)
both in relation to itself/themselves and in relation to other things. We should judge
the meaning of the pros-phrases in the illustration about Zeno and the summaries from
their use in the deductions, not take them to be variants of the terminology (auto kath’
hauto and pros alla) in the Sophist.
Not only do the deductions in the Parmenides tell against Meinwald’s construal of the
pros-phrases. The section of the Sophist that speaks of the distinction between auto kath’
17
Meinwald (1991: 47 and 177–8 n. 2) notes the rarity of the locutions as she understands them. She
discusses two instances in the fifth deduction (1991: 56–63), but even these do not say what her thesis
demands. Both are supposed to be examples of her pros ta alla qualification: “So the one would also have
unlikeness, in relation to which (pros hēn) the others are unlike it” (161b3–4); and “So the one also partakes of
inequality, in relation to which (pros hēn) the others are unequal to it” (161c9–d1). Her view calls for
Parmenides to say that the one is unlike/unequal to the others in relation to unlikeness/inequality, but instead
the qualification in each case modifies a claim about the others. She cites a third example from the fifth
deduction (161a6, quoted in my main text), but it is an ordinary relational claim comparable to many others
in Part II.
18
Objections to Meinwald’s construal of the terminology have been raised by several scholars. The
objection was first made by Miller (1986: 225–8 n. 8) against Sayre (1978 and 1983), who interprets the
qualifications differently from Meinwald but also thinks that each deduction treats its subject either pros heauto
or pros ta alla. Those raising the objection against Meinwald include Gill (1996: 56 n. 90), Sayre (1996:
111–14), Turnbull (1998: 197–9), and Rickless (2007: 102–6).
19
Peterson (2000: 39) notes that this pros heauto claim occurs in a deduction that she and Meinwald regard
as pros ta alla.
hauto and pros alla uses the phrase pros heauto in precisely the same way it is used in the
Parmenides: “when we say it [change] is the same, we speak in this way because of its
participation in sameness in relation to itself (pros heautēn)” (Sph. 256a12–b2). Change is
the same in relation to itself (change)—otherwise put: change is identical with itself.
Whereas the phrase auto kath’ hauto, as Frede interprets it (and to this extent I agree), is used
to specify a feature inside the nature of the subject, the phrase pros heauto indicates that a
subject stands in some relation to itself. The two phrases do not mean the same thing.20
In a series of articles, Sandra Peterson defends and develops Meinwald’s thesis, and
she responds to the objection about the pros-terminology by arguing that pros heauto
and pros ta alla are introduced as quasi technical expressions in the illustration about
Zeno and recalled in the two summaries (end of the fourth and eighth deductions) to
indicate that paired deductions examine the same subject through its definitional
features (pros heauto) or non-definitional features (pros ta alla); but Parmenides does
not wish to develop a technical vocabulary, and so he uses the phrases in ordinary ways
to express a thing’s relation to itself or to other things in the exercise itself. Thus the
objection poses no threat to Meinwald’s position.21
I simply disagree. In my view the phrases kath’ hauto (“in virtue of itself ”), pros heauto
(“in relation to itself ”), and pros alla (“in relation to others”) are technical terms in the
Parmenides and Sophist, and so Parmenides’ use of such phrases in the actual exercise
should guide our interpretation of the programmatic passage and summaries. On my
reading these passages anticipate or recall the way the pros-phrases are actually used. I
shall articulate my view by using the Meinwald–Peterson position as foil, raising
queries for them that will help me spell out my alternative.22 I aim to show that the
conclusions of Deductions 1 and 2 are equally unacceptable and conflict with each
other (steps one and two of the dialectical pattern), that the Appendix tries and fails to
reconcile their conclusions, and that Deduction 3 finds a productive middle path (step
three of the pattern), then ruled out in Deduction 4 (step four of the pattern). The
deductions thus build on one another and develop a single argument. In what follows
I call attention to issues in Deductions 1, 2, the Appendix, and Deduction 3 that tell
against the Meinwald–Peterson view while supporting mine.
First, although all the conclusions in Part II should be acceptable according to
Meinwald and Peterson, at the end of Deduction 1 Parmenides invites his interlocutor
to reject his final conclusions and in this way suggests that at least some conclusions in
the exercise are unacceptable. Starting from the positive hypothesis about the one, he
considers consequences for it and concludes that it is nothing at all—not even one—
but then adds a qualification: “if we are obliged to trust this argument” (141e12–
20
In Chapter 5 sec. 5.5, I shall argue that pros alla and pros heauto are species of pros ti (in relation to
something), with pros alla especially associated with difference, pros heauto with sameness.
21
See esp. Peterson (2000: 38–40 and 44–7 [= First Appendix]).
22
Peterson has addressed or is in the process of addressing several of my queries. Since she (1996: 167, 178)
finds about 195 arguments in Part II, the project of showing that every conclusion is acceptable has been
started but is not yet finished.
54 PHILOSOPHOS
142a1). He goes on to say that since the one is not, it has no name or account, and there
is no knowledge, perception, or opinion of it, and then asks: “Can these things be so
concerning the one?” to which his interlocutor replies: “I certainly don’t think so”
(142a6–8).23 By calling into question the conclusions of the first deduction, Parmen-
ides alerts the audience that they should not accept all conclusions in Part II.24
Second, while it may be the case that conflicts between deductions can be explained
by arguing that paired deductions consider the subject either in virtue of itself (kath’
hauto) or in relation to other things (pros alla), that proposal does not explain all the
conflicts within the long second deduction. Parmenides argues that if the one is, it is
both one and many, both the same as itself and different from itself, both the same as
the others and different from them, both growing older than itself and growing
younger than itself, and so on: opposing features in paired arguments appear to exclude
each other. Perhaps with diligence and ingenuity all these apparent conflicts can be
resolved.25 Even granting that possibility, the opposed results are more simply con-
strued as genuine conflicts in a larger strategy to bring Deduction 2 to the antithesis of
Deduction 1. These opposing conclusions are stated in the summary of the positive
hypothesis at the end of Deduction 4:
Thus if [the] one is, the one is all things (panta) (Deduction 2) and not even one (oude hen)
(Deduction 1), both in relation to itself and, likewise, in relation to the others.26—Exactly.
(160b2–4).
If the one is everything, it is bound to have incompatible properties.

Third, the Appendix considers the one a third time and now takes as its hypothesis
the conclusions of both Deductions 1 and 2: “If the one is as we have described it—
being both one and many (Deduction 2) and neither one nor many (Deduction 1), and
23
Meinwald’s (1991: 20–2) main objection to the antinomist view (“rejectionism” as she calls it) is that it
ignores the fact that “there are no expressions of dissatisfaction” on the part of the interlocutor at the
paradoxical results in the exercise. She qualifies her claim in an endnote citing this passage as an exception
(1991: 175 n. 21; cf. 180 n. 14) but this counterinstance undermines her objection. The passage also deserves
an interpretation on her part, since it appears to be at odds with her own thesis that all the conclusions are
acceptable.
24
Peterson (1996: 178–90, esp. 188–90) argues that the results at the end of Deduction 1 are in fact
acceptable, given the strict way that Parmenides is considering the one in Deduction 1. I agree that the
conclusions are validly deduced, given the strictness of Deduction 1 (Parmenides allows consequences for the
one only insofar as it is one), but the conclusion, that the one, if it is, is nothing—not even one—is surely
unacceptable, especially in light of the Meinwald–Peterson thesis, according to which Deduction 1 is
definitional (i.e., considers what the one is solely in virtue of itself). Peterson also explains (1996: 179–80)
that Parmenides’ own reaction to the conclusion need not indicate that he rejects it, only that he wants at this
early stage of the exercise to provoke the interlocutor (and audience) to think about it.
25
Meinwald (1991: 115–16) points to Parmenides’ resolution of one apparent conflict: the one is
becoming both older and younger than the others—it becomes older than the others by an absolute interval,
but younger than the others because the proportional interval keeps diminishing (154a5–155c4). Peterson
(2000: 48–50 [= Third Appendix]) deals with a second instance (148a6–c3). So perhaps someone can
eventually resolve each pair of apparently conflicting results.
26
Scholars disagree about precisely what the summary says, and I shall discuss this passage in more detail
below (in sec. 2.6), but the disagreement does not affect the translation of the two emphasized claims.
partaking of time (Deduction 2).” In the Appendix Parmenides proposes to accept the
conclusions of Deductions 2 and 1, and taking them as contradictory, claims that the
one is in those states (both one and many/neither one nor many) at different times.27
There would be no need to resolve the conflict between Deductions 1 and 2 by appeal
to time, if—as Meinwald and Peterson contend—the subject had been considered auto
kath’ hauto in Deduction 1 and pros alla in Deduction 2, for all those conclusions should
already be acceptable at the same time.
Fourth and finally, Deduction 3 focuses on consequences for the others, on the
hypothesis that the one is, and considers what they are both in relation to the one
(pros to hen) and by nature, in virtue of themselves (kath’ heauta) (158d5–6; cf. 158b5–7,
c5–7, e2–3)—here Parmenides actually uses the technical terminology auto kath’ hauto
from the Sophist. While this treatment does not rule out the Meinwald–Peterson view,
the fact that their thesis makes Deduction 3 a pros ta alla section risks distorting the
project of this deduction, which considers the others both as they are in themselves
(auta kath’ hauta—the perspective of Deduction 1) and through their participation in
the one (the perspective of Deduction 2). In my view Deduction 3 is the place where
Parmenides indicates how to save the positive hypothesis.
On the reading of Part II that I propose, the nine deductions contribute to a single
coherent argument with a powerful message. The exercise presents antinomies, but it
also displays a striking progression, with later deductions criticizing or building on
conclusions of previous ones.28 Thus Deduction 2 opens by reassessing the original
hypothesis that led to the dubious conclusions at the end of Deduction 1 (namely that
the one neither is nor is one); the Appendix tries and fails to keep all the conclusions of
Deductions 1 and 2 by arguing that both can be true at different times; and Deduction
3 in discussing the others uses the Sophist’s distinction to indicate (it does not
show, since it draws consequences for the others) that the one can be both one (in
virtue of itself) and many (in relation to other things), a conclusion then undermined in
Deduction 4.29 The four deductions that make up the negative hypothesis follow a
similar strategy but not the same pattern. Deductions 5 and 6 develop opposing views
about not-being (that it is a feature of things like any other, and that it is the absence of
features), followed in Deduction 7 by a remarkable picture of things appearing to be
what they are not, a picture destroyed by Deduction 8. But unlike the fourth
deduction of the positive hypothesis which challenges the audience to find a way
back to the constructive third deduction, the eighth deduction of the negative
27
This pair of results, as stated, is in fact logically equivalent, but Parmenides treats them as contradictory.
See sec. 2.4 below.
28
Although Part II is highly systematic and might appear repetitious, there is virtually no duplication.
Whenever there would be repetitive reasoning, Parmenides leaves out the argument. For instance, in
Deduction 2 he argues at length that the one is both like and unlike the others (147c1–148d1), but then
simply states that he could show in the same way that the one is like and unlike itself (148d1–4).
29
This is the dialectical pattern in four steps I claim is repeated in the second version of the exercise in the
Theaetetus and Sophist. The subject of that exercise is being, and the pair of opposing features is change and
rest.
56 PHILOSOPHOS
hypothesis does not lead back to the seventh, but instead presses the interlocutor and
audience to reject the negative hypothesis itself in favor of the positive hypothesis
earlier abandoned. On this reading Part II develops one vast argument with all nine
deductions intricately linked to one another.
At the end of the transitional section before the exercise begins, Socrates still finds
Parmenides’ description obscure and asks for a demonstration. After a good deal of
hesitation Parmenides agrees and proposes to start with himself and his own hypothesis
about the one (137b2–4). He selects Aristotle to be his interlocutor, saying that because
of his youth he will cause least trouble and be most likely to state what he thinks.30
Throughout Part II Parmenides maintains strict control of the proceedings, with
Aristotle doing little more than expressing agreement or asking for clarification—
some of his most exuberant replies punctuate singularly dubious conclusions. The
one time he expresses misgivings, at the end of Deduction 1, he does so only when
prompted by Parmenides. We might wonder why Parmenides bothers with an
interlocutor at all, since Aristotle has nothing of substance to say, but giving a long
speech would be utterly inappropriate, because Parmenides introduces the upcoming
demonstration as an exercise for students.31 The respondent plays an essential role in
the exercise, and Aristotle’s expression of doubt at the end of Deduction 1 also cues us,
the audience, to be wary and critical even when he is not.32
The youthful Socrates witnesses but does not take part in the demonstration, and it is
worth asking what exercise Plato expects him to perform on this and future occasions.
Parmenides said the following to Socrates after the youth failed to rescue his theory of
forms in the first part of the dialogue:
Only a very gifted man can come to know that for each thing there is some kind, a being itself by
itself; but only a prodigy more remarkable still will discover that and be able to teach someone
else who has sifted all these difficulties thoroughly and critically for himself. (135a7–b2)
30
This Aristotle is not, of course, the great fourth-century philosopher, who was Plato’s student. Aristotle
in the Parmenides is a young comrade of Socrates’ who later (404 bce) became one of the thirty tyrants in
Athens at the end of the Peloponnesian War (127d2–3). Even so, by selecting someone named “Aristotle,”
Plato doubtless expected his audience to think of his most brilliant pupil, but whether Plato was honoring
him or making fun of him (or both) is hard to tell.
31
Cornford in his well-known translation of the Parmenides (1939, repr. in Hamilton and Cairns [eds.]
[1961]) simply dispensed with Aristotle and turned the whole of Part II into a speech (1939: 109 gives his
rationale). This modification of genre seriously misrepresents the nature of the project: Part II is not a treatise.
32
Meinwald (1991: 22) points out that Aristotle is unusually undercharacterized and lists the few
descriptions of him in the dialogue, though she leaves out a significant detail: Parmenides chooses Aristotle,
because (as the youngest) he is likely to cause least trouble (hēkista gar an polupragmonoi) and say what he thinks,
while his answers will allow Parmenides time to catch his breath (137b6–8). In his demonstration Parmenides
does not welcome a respondent like Socrates, who raises tough objections, since he wants to go through the
exercise systematically. The choice of interlocutor helps to explain why an expression of dissatisfaction occurs
just once, at the end of Deduction 1, and only then at the prodding of Parmenides. I thank Paul Ryan for
reminding me of why Parmenides chose Aristotle to be his respondent. On Parmenides’ choice of Aristotle,
see Friedländer (1969: III.200–1, 216–17) and Sinaiko (1965: 232–5).
Socrates in the Parmenides, clearly a gifted man, can come to know the forms and can
already sift difficulties thoroughly and critically for himself, but he is not (or at least not
yet) the prodigy ready to teach someone else. Until Socrates has mastered the lesson, at
which time he can take over the role of Parmenides, he should be a more critical
Aristotle. As we shall see in Chapter 3, the mature Socrates will lead the first part of the
next exercise on being in the Theaetetus and will witness its continuation in the Sophist.
The present exercise prepares him for the second round.
2.2 The Positive Hypothesis

A number of scholars agree that the first and second deductions present opposing
conclusions about the same subject, but we must first establish that these two deduc-
tions start from the same hypothesis—often unquestioned but far from evident. I shall
argue that they start from variants of the same hypothesis. Showing this will pay a
valuable dividend, because the hypotheses in Deductions 1 and 2 can be distinct
versions of the same hypothesis only if one and the same form—being—operates in
two ways. This result will prove important to our investigation of being in later
chapters. At the same time, getting clear on the positive hypothesis will enable us to
see (in the next section) how Deductions 1 and 2 fit together as the first two steps of a
larger dialectical strategy.
Parmenides sometimes expresses the positive hypothesis as ei hen estin (Deduction 1)
and sometimes as hen ei estin (Deductions 2, 3, and 4).33 While word order in English
often affects the meaning of a sentence, Greek is an inflected language, and so the order
of the words need not affect the meaning. That said, the Greek in both versions is
underdetermined, since we can construe the adjective hen (“one”) either as grammati-
cal subject, “if [the] one is,” or as predicate (with grammatical subject understood), “if
it (the one) is one.” I shall argue that we should translate the hypothesis in the first
deduction as “if it (the one) is one,” and in the second, third, and fourth as “if [the] one
is.”34 The syntactically distinct versions suggest that the “is” has different meanings in
the two contexts, but I shall contend that it has the same meaning in both. This second
part of my argument depends on showing that a single form—being—can be both a
monadic property and a relational link to further properties.
33
For N KØ, see 137c4; for £ N Ø, see 142b3, 157b7, 159b3. Since the diacritical marks were
added by editors in the Hellenistic period and adjudicated in modern editions (notice the different markings
of Ø in the two versions), they should not guide our interpretation. For a list of the different Greek forms
of the positive and negative hypothesis in Part II, see Ross (1953: 92–3).
34
Continuing a policy initiated already, I add a definite article in square brackets when an adjective alone
serves as a subject expression in order to turn the adjective into a substantive for more natural English. Diès
(1923: 72, 79), Hardie (1936: 101–2), and Chrysakopoulou (2010: 107, 127) interpret the hypothesis in
Deductions 1 and 2 as I do. Cf. A. E. Taylor (1934: 64, 73). For my earlier discussion of this issue, see Gill
(1996: 65–71). Brisson (1994: 114, 140) interprets both versions as I interpret the first. Most authors interpret
both with some variant of my second.
58 PHILOSOPHOS
To see that the hypothesis is to be construed in different ways in different deduc-

tions, we should start by considering some evidence from the first part of the dialogue
and the transition to Part II, because different sections support different alternatives. At
the beginning of Part I, Socrates mentions Parmenides’ hypothesis and the hypothesis
Zeno denies, and he uses “one” and “many” as predicates. Socrates states that Zeno
denies the hypothesis, “if things are many” (ei polla esti ta onta) (127e1–2), and here the
grammatical subject ta onta (literally, “things-that-are”) is explicitly stated, and “many”
is the predicate. He says that Parmenides claims that “the all is one” (hen . . . einai to pan)
(128a8–b1), and again a grammatical subject is mentioned, and “one” is the predicate.
As the discussion proceeds, the speakers do not use subject-expressions explicitly, but
they can be supplied from the preceding context. Thus Zeno states Parmenides’
hypothesis in the form used in Deduction 1, ei hen esti (128d1), and we should translate
this based on Socrates’ earlier statement (128a8–b1) as “if it (the all) is one.” Zeno also
states the hypothesis he denies as ei polla estin (128d5–6), and again we should construe
“many” (polla) as a predicate (“if they [things-that-are] are many”), in accordance
with Socrates’ original statement of that hypothesis (127e1–2). The opening part of the
dialogue thus suggests that “one” and “many” will be predicates in the hypotheses
of Part II.
But in his prescriptions for the upcoming exercise in the transitional section intro-
ducing Part II, Parmenides uses “one” and “many” as grammatical subjects. Recall that
he says that the exercise will be just what Socrates heard from Zeno, except that
Socrates should focus on forms rather than visible things; and that, whereas Zeno
started from a single hypothesis and derived various consequences, Socrates must
hypothesize not only “if each thing is” (ei estin hekaston) and consider the consequences,
but also “if that same thing is not” (ei mē esti to auto touto) (135e8–136a2). Here “each
thing” and “the same thing” serve as grammatical subjects in the positive and negative
hypotheses, while “is” and “is not” are predicates. Next Parmenides illustrates the
method using the hypothesis that Zeno denies and the one he endorses (136a4–b1).
The Greek of the positive and negative hypotheses is again underdetermined—ei polla
esti and ei mē esti polla—but the proper construal can be determined from Parmenides’
prescription directly preceding. Since he said that Socrates must first hypothesize, if
each thing is, and then hypothesize, if that same thing is not, we should construe
“many” in the illustration accordingly. So “many” is the grammatical subject in the
hypothesis, and the positive and negative hypotheses are: “if [the] many are” and “if
[the] many are not.” This construal is confirmed a few lines later, when Parmenides
claims that Socrates must repeat the exercise starting from the hypothesis “if likeness is”
(ei estin homoiotēs) (136b1–2). Parmenides’ use of an abstract noun, instead of an
adjective, plainly indicates that “likeness” is the grammatical subject, not the predicate
in that hypothesis. Contrary to our observations about the early part of the dialogue,
this evidence promotes the expectation that “one” and “many” will be subject-
expressions in the hypotheses in the upcoming exercise.
Before we assume that Parmenides has revised the hypothesis in the course of Part I,
we should notice one last piece of evidence from the transitional section. When
Parmenides finally yields to the entreaties of his companions and agrees to give a
demonstration, he proposes to start with himself and his own hypothesis, saying that
he will hypothesize about the one itself and consider what the consequences must be “if
it is one or if it is not one” (eite hen estin eite mē hen) (137b4). This translation, taking
“one” as predicate, is the only idiomatic rendering of the Greek without emending the
text.35 We need feel no surprise that Parmenides states his own hypothesis this way, with
“one” as predicate rather than as subject, given Socrates’ earlier characterization of
Parmenides’ claim: “the all is one” (128a8–b1)—“if it is one” simply follows from
that formulation. I take this statement to set the stage for the hypothesis in Deduction 1
of Part II.
Although Parmenides does not explicitly use a subject-expression when he first
states the hypothesis in Deduction 1, “the one” is to be understood as the subject,
because he mentions the one in the main clause of the sentence (the first consequence):
“If it is one, the one would not be many” (137c4–5). This translation is confirmed a
few lines later: “Therefore, if the one is to be one (ei hen estai to hen), it will neither be a
whole nor have parts” (137d2–3). Here the adjective hen is the predicate, and the
substantive-expression to hen (“the one,” definite article with adjective) is the gram-
matical subject. This result makes sense, because Parmenides said at the outset that he
would hypothesize about the one itself, and stated the positive and negative versions of
his own hypothesis as “if it is one or if it is not one” (137b4). So we should understand
the hypothesis in Deduction 1 as: “if it (the one) is one.”
An additional piece of evidence comes from the beginning of Deduction 2 (142b5–
c7), where Parmenides discusses the meaning of the positive hypothesis and distin-
guishes two ways to understand it—as “if [the] one (is) one” (ei hen hen) and “if [the]
one is” (ei hen estin). He says that now (in Deduction 2) we should construe the
hypothesis as “if [the] one is” and that the hypothesis means that the one partakes of
being.36 Someone might object that ei hen hen—whose literal translation is “if one
one”—is not the version of the hypothesis in Deduction 1, since we must supply the
“is” (as we frequently must in Greek), but Parmenides has a reason to omit the verb
35
Emendations have been suggested, so as to construe as grammatical subject: either delete the final
or replace it with Ø. Wundt (1935: 6 n. 1) proposed the alternative emendations, and Cornford (1939:
108 and n. 3) adopted a corresponding translation. Cf. Sayre (1996: 17), Turnbull (1998: 39), Scolnicov
(2003: 78), and Rickless (2007: 107–8). Meinwald (1991: 39–45) considers the issue in detail, advocates
emending, and argues that Ø got shortened to (with dropping out) and spells out the meaning
thus: “If The One is or if The One is not.” As noted above, the diacritical marks were introduced by later
editors, and so the treatment of initial epsilon in and Ø is not an issue for this proposal, though it would
be an unusual scribal error. Allen (1997: 208 and n. 37) claims that the translation can be gotten without the
emendation. Grammatically he may be right, but idiomatically unlikely: cf. Phdr. 277d9–10 (thanks to Paul
Ryan for discussion and this reference). There seem to be very few scholars since Wundt who take the
sentence as given in the un-emended Greek. See the earlier translation of Diès (1923: 71), and more recently
Brisson (1994: 114), Gill and Ryan (1996: 141 with Gill [1996: 67]), and Chrysakopoulou (2010: 105).
36
Cf. Hardie (1936: 101–2).
60 PHILOSOPHOS
here.37 The first deduction considers the one by itself independent of everything else.
The original version of the hypothesis, “if [the] one is one,” assumes that the one
partakes of oneness, and it becomes evident as the deduction proceeds that it partakes
only of oneness. Parmenides then reveals a shocking result at the end of the first
deduction, that the one cannot partake of its own character—oneness—without also
partaking of being, a character distinct from oneness, to link it to its oneness (141e9–
142a1). Because that result follows from the hypothesis and is not presupposed in its
original formulation, Parmenides omits the troublesome “is” in stating the hypothesis
at the start of the second deduction to capture the intent of the hypothesis in
Deduction 1, that the one has only one feature, its oneness.
To understand why Parmenides takes the hypothesis in different ways in Deductions
1 and 2, and why they are nonetheless variants of the same hypothesis, we need to
make sense of “is” in the two versions. In the hypothesis “if [the] one is one,” the “is” is
an incomplete predicate linking the grammatical subject to the grammatical comple-
ment. In Greek both the subject and complement are adjectives—not two substantive-
expressions or one substantive and one adjective—and so we must decide whether the
“is” serves as an identity-sign, as in the sentence, “Zeus is Jupiter,” in which case the
expressions on the left and right side of “is” refer to the same entity; or whether it serves
as a copula, as in the sentence “Simmias is large,” in which case only the subject-
expression refers to something, while the predicate ascribes a property to it. I quote
again the last sentence of the first paragraph of the first deduction, since it indicates that
the “is” functions as a copula: “Therefore, if the one is to be one, it will neither be a whole
nor have parts” (137d2–3). Because the hypothesis here includes a substantive-expres-
sion (created by appending a definite article to the adjective in Greek) as grammatical
subject and an adjective as complement, the hypothesis is a predication, and a predica-
tion of a special Platonic sort: a self-predication. According to the hypothesis in
Deduction 1, the one has its own proper feature—the one is one.
In the version of the hypothesis in the second deduction, “if [the] one is,” the “is”
functions syntactically as a complete predicate. If the verb also functions semantically as
a complete predicate, it requires nothing further to interpret its meaning. Whereas
English has a separate verb “exists” to serve as a complete predicate, classical Greek had
no separate verb but attributes existence to something by means of the verb “to be”
without a complement. For this reason many interpreters of the Parmenides have
translated the positive hypothesis as “if [the] one exists.” If that were the correct
construal of the hypothesis in the second deduction, the hypotheses in the two versions
would have different meanings, since the incomplete “is” (copula) and the complete
37
R. Robinson (1953: 245–7) makes the objection against Hardie. Cornford (1939: 136 and n. 1) and
most other translators I have checked supply “is.” Schofield (1973: 31–2) might object to taking ei hen hen as a
statement of the hypothesis in its Deduction 1 version, since he emphasizes the importance of the formula-
tions “one is” and “one one.” I agree with him that the beginning of Deduction 2 emphasizes the distinctness
of being and oneness, but I still think that we should supply “is.”
“is” (“exists”) would play different semantic roles. The difference is evident in a
sentence such as “Pegasus is a winged horse, but he does not exist”: we ascribe
properties to Pegasus even though he is an imaginary object, not an actual living
creature.
Plato’s use of the verb “to be” has been much debated, especially in connection with
the Sophist, and scholars dispute whether the syntactically distinct uses of the verb in “X
is F” and “X is” reflect a semantic difference, but we need not enter that debate yet.38
For now we should take our cue from what Parmenides says at the end of the first
deduction and start of the second. At the end of Deduction 1 he argues that the one
cannot even be one because, to be one, the one would have to partake of being, which
links it to its oneness, and so would not only be one but also be (141e9–142a1), contrary
to the first consequence of the first deduction that the one is simply one and not many
(137c4–5). The beginning of Deduction 2 emphasizes that the one partakes of being
and that being is distinct from oneness (142b5–c7). These passages indicate that being is
a feature distinct from oneness and that it can function in two ways: it plays a relational
role in linking something to a property it has (stated in a sentence such as “the one is
one” or “the one is large”) and it is itself a monadic property the subject has (stated in
the sentence “the one is”). In either case, the subject is by partaking of being. The fifth
deduction makes trouble for the idea that being both links something to a property it
has and is itself a property the entity has, since the subject will need an infinite number
of links to have its own character (161e3–162b3). The conception of being is thus
problematic, but the shift from one version of the positive hypothesis to the other
ceases to be perplexing, because the same entity—being—functions in two ways. Since
this is so, it is no longer remarkable that, without warning or noticeable misgivings, the
speakers switch back and forth between two versions of Parmenides’ and Zeno’s
hypotheses earlier in the dialogue. The “is” is univocal in the two versions.
To sum up: Deductions 1 and 2 adopt variants of the same hypothesis. The version
in the first deduction characterizes the one in a particular way, namely as one, whereas
the version in the second deduction characterizes the one as being, treating being as a
property that can stand alone or link the one to its own or other natures. This
observation will be of considerable importance when we discuss being in the Sophist.
In that dialogue the Eleatic Stranger claims that being operates in two ways—auto kath’
hauto (itself by itself) and pros alla (in relation to other things) (Sph. 255c13–d7). To
judge from the Parmenides, the same entity functions in two fundamental ways, as a
monadic property, and as a relational property linking the subject to its own or other
properties. We do not yet know what being is, apart from these two modes of
operation, and as I suggested in my Introduction and shall argue in due course, getting
clear on the nature of being auto kath’ hauto is the crucial task in untangling the puzzle
of the philosopher.
38
I explore this issue more fully in Chapter 5, with Appendix, and Chapter 7.
62 PHILOSOPHOS
2.3 The First Antinomy

We need not go through the details of the opening pair of deductions to grasp their
strategy, some elements of which have already emerged from our previous discussion.
The most important point, however, can be shown only now that we have distin-
guished the two versions of the positive hypothesis in Deductions 1 and 2, according to
which the hypothesis in Deduction 1 is: “If it (the one) is one.”
Parmenides opens the first deduction (137c4–142a8) and derives as the first conse-
quence Socrates’ thesis about oneness from his long speech in Part I:39
If it (the one) is one, the one would not be many, would it?—No, how could it? (137c4–5)
Recall Socrates’ long speech in Part I. Having just declared that there is nothing
surprising about sensible things being both one and many, Socrates asserts:
But if he [Zeno or Parmenides] should demonstrate this thing itself, what one is (ho estin hen), to
be many, or, conversely, the many to be one—at that I’ll be astonished. (129b6–c1)
Having asserted Socrates’ thesis as the first consequence in Deduction 1, Parmenides

relies on it in the rest of the deduction and derives many further consequences: the
one is neither F nor not-F for many values of “F”—neither changing nor resting,
neither the same as nor different from itself or other things, neither like nor unlike
itself or others, and so on—and he crowns the argument with the disturbing conclusion
that the one is not even one but nothing at all (141e9–142a1). Parmenides arrives
at that stunning result by arguing that the one cannot be one without partaking of
being, a feature different from its oneness, to link it to its oneness. To be one, the
one must have two features, oneness and being.40 While the consequences of the
first deduction are validly deduced, given the initial hypothesis and first consequence,
the conclusion that the one itself is nothing at all is unacceptable, and as we already
noted, Parmenides invites young Aristotle to reject it and his further consequences
(142a1–8).
To avoid the conclusion of the first deduction and save the positive hypothesis,
Parmenides opens the second deduction (142b1–155e3) by weakening Socrates’ thesis
to allow the one to partake of being to link it to its oneness: the one is now allowed to
partake of two natures, oneness and being (142b5–c7). But that seemingly small
amendment has far-reaching consequences, because the one turns out to be both
one and unlimited in multitude (two arguments: 142c7–143a3 and 143a4–144e7),
and once that has been established, Parmenides argues that the one is both F and not-F
for the same values denied of it in Deduction 1—both changing and resting, both the
same as itself and different from itself, both the same as the others and different from
39
I agree with Curd (1989: 350) that this is the fundamental claim in Deduction 1, but as I construe the
positive hypothesis in its first version, it is a claim about oneness in particular, not about all forms, as Curd
(1989: 348) thinks.
40
Other instances in Deduction 1 denying that the one has two features are 138b4–5 and 140a1–3.
them, and so on—and ultimately everything.41 That result will not do either—since to
be everything, the one will have many mutually exclusive properties. If Socrates tries to
avoid this result by rejecting the initial concession, that the one partakes of being, and
maintains his thesis from Part I, he is thrown back to the objectionable conclusion of
Deduction 1, that the one is nothing at all. Both Deductions 1 and 2 independently
show that the positive hypothesis must be jettisoned in favor of the negative hypothesis.
The order of Deductions 1 and 2 is reversed (negative–positive) relative to the rest of
the paired deductions in Part II (which are all ordered positive–negative), because
Deduction 1 sets the stage for the whole of Part II, starting from Socrates’ thesis in Part I,
that the one itself is one and not many. Socrates challenged Parmenides to prove
him wrong (129d6–130a2), and the exercise in Part II is that refutation—an indirect
argument using Socrates’ thesis as the first step in Deduction 1. Socrates is wrong,
because his thesis entails unacceptable results: if the one is one (positive hypothesis in
its first version), the one is nothing (conclusion of Deduction 1); if the one is not
(negative hypothesis), there is nothing at all (conclusion of Deduction 8). To avoid
these consequences Socrates must give up his thesis and admit that the one is both one
and many. And yet that admission seems unpromising too, because Parmenides shows in
Deduction 2 that if the one partakes of being to link it to its oneness, the concession—
allowing the one to have two features, oneness and being—has massive unwanted
consequences: the one is everything.
The major problem in the First Antinomy is a conception of being shared by both
deductions, that being is a nature outside the nature of beings, including oneness.
Parmenides alerts Socrates and the reader to the issue when he comments on Socrates’
failure at the end of Part I (I requote with emphasis):
Only a very gifted man can come to know that for each thing there is some kind, a being itself by
itself (ousia autē kath’ hautēn); but only a prodigy more remarkable still will discover that and be
able to teach someone else who has sifted all these difficulties thoroughly and critically for
himself. (135a7–b2)
What is the being auto kath’ hauto for each thing? In particular, what is the being of
oneness? By assuming that being stands outside the one, Deduction 1 shows that the one
cannot even be one without partaking of a nature other than its own and so, to have its
own nature, must be more than one. Deduction 2, starting from the hypothesis that the
one is, derives as its first consequence that the one partakes of being, and as its second
that being differs from oneness:
If [the] one is, can it be, but not partake of being?—No it cannot.—So there will be the being of
the one, and that is not the same as the one. (142b5–8)
41
Since the many conflicting results are distributed throughout the long second deduction, the clearest
evidence that Deduction 2 concludes that the one is everything is the summary of the positive hypothesis at
the end of Deduction 4 (160b2–3), quoted above and further discussed below in sec. 2.6: “the one is all
things.” Cf. Allen (1997: 213).
64 PHILOSOPHOS
To find his way out of the First Antinomy and save the positive hypothesis, Socrates
should give up his thesis in Part I, but that is not all. He must also recognize that being is
inside the nature of beings. That way the one could be one in virtue of itself, and have
other features by partaking of natures other than its own. The problem about
being must await the second exercise: Part II of the Parmenides leaves that problem
unresolved.
In the third attempt (the Appendix), Parmenides tries to save the positive hypothesis
by combining the results of the First Antinomy.
2.4 Instant of Change

The Appendix (155e4–157b5) aims to reconcile the conclusions of Deductions 1 and
2 by arguing that the one is in opposing states at different times, but Parmenides
chooses a curious way to state the hypothesis of this third attempt:
Let’s speak of it yet a third time. If the one is as we have described it—being both one and many
(Deduction 2) and neither one nor many (Deduction 1), and partaking of time (Deduction 2)—
must it not, because (hoti men) it is one, sometimes partake of being, and in turn because (hoti d’) it
is not [one], sometimes not partake of being?42—Necessarily. (155e4–8)
The hypothesis is odd in that the two pairs of conclusions as stated are logically
equivalent in that something neither one nor many is both many (since not one) and
one (since not many), and so there is no conflict between the two deductions to
resolve. But Parmenides goes on to spell out his meaning in the sequel by focusing on
only the first member of each pair—the one is one (Deduction 2) and not one
(Deduction 1)—and now there is a contradiction. The Appendix relies on the Law
of Non-Contradiction (that the same thing cannot be both F and not-F at the same
time and in the same respect) to solve the First Antinomy. Parmenides’ solution rests on
the claim that the one partakes of time (155e6): if the one is F and not-F at the same
time and in the same respect, it violates the Law. He says:
So it partakes at one time, and doesn’t partake at another; for only in this way could it both
partake and not partake of the same thing (tou autou). (155e10–11)
Take any pair of mutually exclusive and jointly exhaustive opposites, such as motion
and rest (156c1–e7). In addition to the Law of Non-Contradiction, Parmenides takes
for granted the Law of Excluded Middle (that a thing must be either F or not-F, where
not-F is the contradictory of F), though he restricts it to things in time: “There is no
time in which something can, simultaneously, be neither in motion nor at rest”
42
I have added “one” in square brackets, because the claim is evidently elliptical, with “one” to be
supplied from the preceding hoti men clause. Parmenides goes on to say that he is talking about something
partaking and not partaking of the same thing (tou autou) (155e10–11, quoted in my main text).
(156e6–7).43 But if something is in motion at one time and at rest at another time, it
must change from motion to rest. When does it change? If it is moving, it has not yet
changed, and if it is at rest, it has already changed. When it switches from one state to
the other, it should (he suggests) be between the two states—neither moving nor
resting—and yet there is no time when it can be in neither state. So Parmenides
proposes that the change occurs at an instant (exaiphnēs: literally “the sudden”), outside
of time (156d1–e7)—at that instant, the one is neither F nor not-F.
Parmenides proposes to save the one from violating the Law of Non-Contradiction
by stipulating that it is F and not-F at different times. Having said that there is no time
when the one is neither F nor not-F, he allows it to be neither F nor not-F at an instant,
not in time. Yet now a contradiction reappears at the instant, because at the instant of
change the one is both not-F and F, for something not resting is moving and something
not moving is resting, and so at the instant of change the one is both moving and
resting.44 The Appendix cannot save the positive hypothesis by permitting the con-
clusions of Deductions 1 and 2 to be true at different times, and moreover the
reappearance of a contradiction at the instant of change reinforces the implication of
Deductions 1 and 2 taken individually: the positive hypothesis must be abandoned in
favor of the negative hypothesis.45
2.5 The Second Antinomy

The so-called “third” attempt tried to reconcile Deductions 1 and 2 by combining
their results and thus to find a constructive way forward—step three of the dialectical
pattern—but missed the mark. Deduction 3 (157b6–159b1) takes a different approach
to the same end, and with much greater success. The third deduction is important to
my overall argument for two main reasons. First, this section shows what the structural
form oneness contributes to its participants, and so alerts us that being should perform
analogous (though not the same) functions. Second, Deduction 3 finds a productive
middle ground between Deductions 1 and 2, not by combining their results (as in the
botched Appendix) but by combining their perspectives—that is, by considering things
both as what they are in virtue of themselves (auta kath’ hauta) (the perspective of
Deduction 1) and in relation to other things (pros alla) (the perspective of Deduction 2).
This dual treatment allows things to be responsible for their own natures while at the
43
Cf. Owen (1970: 358–9). Rickless (2007: 195 n. 2) queries my claim in Gill (1996: 86) that Parmenides
is talking about contradictories in this section and thinks instead that he is talking about contraries. Pace
Rickless, one and not-one are contradictories, and Parmenides’ statement just quoted would be false if he
were talking about contraries.
44
Cf. Scolnicov (2003: 136–9, with 12–16). Plato’s Eleatic Stranger gets a similarly startling result for
being in the Sophist, and he does not even restrict the conclusion to the instant, but simply concludes that
being neither rests nor changes (Sph. 250c12–d3). That claim is part of the Aporia about Being and will be
discussed below in Chapter 7 secs. 7.2 and 7.6.
45
Friedländer (1969: III.202, 206–11) interprets the Appendix very differently, as successfully synthesizing
the thesis in Deduction 1 and antithesis in Deduction 2.
66 PHILOSOPHOS
same time having features explained by natures other than their own. Deduction 3
focuses on “the others” and claims that in themselves (auta kath’ hauta) they are
unlimited in multitude, but through their participation in the one (pros hen), they are
collective wholes, individual parts of wholes, and stand in determinate relations to one
another and to the whole, and the whole in relation to them. Parmenides does not
explicitly apply this dual approach to the one itself, but we can see how that extension
might go: the one is one in virtue of its own nature (auto kath’ hauto) and many through
its relations to other things (pros alla). The one could then be both one and many in
different respects and preserve its explanatory function, by being self-explanatory. It is
significant that Parmenides does not draw out these implications but instead under-
mines Deduction 3 in Deduction 4, precisely on the ground that the one cannot
perform its various operations without being fragmented into many. Deduction 4
constitutes step four of the dialectical pattern, the step ruling out the previous achieve-
ment. Parmenides invites Socrates to see for himself how to avoid the conclusions of
Deduction 4 and to find his own way back to the insights of Deduction 3. Deductions
3 and 4 constitute the Second Antinomy.
Wholes and parts

We start, then, with Deduction 3. If the one is, what follows for the others? Parmenides
first points out that since the others are other than the one, they are not the one—that is,
they are non-identical with it (157b8–c1)—but nonetheless stand in some relation to it:
And yet the others are not absolutely deprived of the one, but somehow partake of it.—In what
way?—In that things other than the one are surely other because they have parts; for if they
didn’t have parts, they would be altogether one.—That’s right.—And parts, we say, are parts of
that which is a whole.—Yes, we do.—Yet the whole of which the parts are to be parts must be
one thing composed of many, because each of the parts must be part, not of a many, but of a
whole. (157c1–8)
Here the others partake of the one by being wholes and are other than it by having
parts. By implication, the one itself lacks parts, even though it is participated in—
otherwise the others would not be different from it. Whatever the manner of their
participation, the one is “altogether one,” and its oneness is apparently not jeopardized
by its having many participants. Deduction 4 will underscore this implication and take
issue with it.
First Parmenides considers what the one contributes to the others to make them
wholes, unified things composed of many. He attempts to clarify the difference between
a whole composed of many parts, and a sheer multitude of things, by arguing that a part
cannot be part of a many, because a multitude cannot be viewed collectively as a group
(157c8–d7).46 Instead, a part must be part of a whole, something one:
46
The argument is compressed and problematic, and for our purposes we need not go through it. I discuss
it in Gill (1996: 87–9). See also Allen (1997: 313–14) and Harte (2002: 122–9).
So the part would not be part of many things or all, but of some one character (mias tinos ideas)
and of some one thing (henos tinos), which we call a “whole,” since it has come to be one
complete thing composed of all. This is what the part would be part of.—Absolutely.—So if the
others have parts, they would also partake of some one whole (tou holou te kai henos).—
Certainly.—So things other than the one must be one complete whole with parts.—Necessarily.
(157d7–e5)
At the outset Parmenides said that the others “somehow partake” of the one, and he
argues that the others partake of the one by being wholes composed of parts, where a
whole is any complete thing with parts. Some wholes are concrete particulars with
physical parts, yet more importantly for the Parmenides and the other dialogues in our
series, many wholes are intelligible kinds, such as the form of man, the form of
knowledge, the form of statesmanship, or any other unified complex kind. This
argument suggests that the one does not add a categorial feature to those the others
already have but instead determines something about their features, converting them
into a whole that can be viewed all together.
In the next section Parmenides argues that the parts also partake of the one, and in
their case, instead of explaining the unity of something composed of parts, the one
explains the individuality of something singular (157e5–158b4). The one is responsible
not only for the unity of wholes but also for the singularity of parts that compose those
wholes.
At the same time, the one limits the parts in relation to one another and in relation to
the whole, and the whole in relation to them. In discussing the one’s limiting role,
Parmenides considers what the others are apart from the one: stripped of oneness,
anything that partakes of the one—whether the oneness of a part or the oneness of a
whole—is in its own nature, itself by itself (autēn kath’ hautēn), unlimited in multitude
(apeiron plēthei) (158b5–c7). In Deduction 3 “unlimited in multitude” does not mean
an infinite plurality (as in the regress arguments in Part I) but an indefinite many, since
the others cannot be counted if they are considered solely in themselves. Both wholes
and parts gain determination as wholes and parts through their participation in the one:
Furthermore, whenever each part comes to be one part, the parts then have a limit in relation to
one another and in relation to the whole, and the whole has a limit in relation to the parts.—
Quite so.—Accordingly, it follows for things other than the one that from the one and
themselves gaining association with each other, as it seems, something different (heteron ti)
comes to be in them, which affords a limit for them in relation to one another; but their own
nature (hē d’ heautōn phusis), by themselves (kath’ heauta), affords unlimitedness (apeirian).—
Apparently.—In this way, indeed, things other than the one, taken both as wholes and part by
part, are both unlimited and partake of a limit.—Certainly. (158c7–d8)
This passage shows that the others can be considered in two ways, as what they are in
virtue of themselves and what they are through their participation in the one. In virtue
of themselves (kath’ heauta), the others are unlimited, but through their participation in
the one, something different (heteron ti) comes to be in them that limits them in relation
68 PHILOSOPHOS
to one another.47 So participation in the one transforms an indefinite multitude

into an organized whole, with parts individuated and then further determined in
relation to one another and in relation to the whole, and the whole determined
in relation to them. Parmenides thus suggests that the one is the principle of structure
for the entities it unifies.
Since Deduction 3 focuses on the others, it does not work out the implications for
the one itself, and this omission allows Deduction 4 to reject the productive conclu-
sions of Deduction 3.
The others apart from oneness

Deduction 4 (159b2–160b2)—step four of the dialectical pattern—rules out the
conclusions of Deduction 3 by arguing that the others cannot partake of the one
without fragmenting it into many. Thus Deduction 4 again takes for granted Socrates’
thesis from Part I, that the one is simply one and not many, and once more reaches
unacceptable results, this time for the others, which end up having no features since
they do not partake of the one. Deduction 4 bears a closer resemblance than any other
to arguments in Part I, with echoes of both the Whole–Part Dilemma and the Greatest
Difficulty.
Parmenides contends that the one is separate (chōris men) from the others, and the
others separate (chōris de) from it (159b6–c4). The one and the others are separate by
existing apart from each other, and consequently the one is not immanent in them.
Deduction 4 agrees with Deduction 3 that what is altogether one has no parts, but
whereas Deduction 3 allows the others somehow to partake of the one even though
the one is altogether one, Deduction 4 excludes that participation. Since the one is
separate from the others and lacks parts, it cannot be in them as a whole, nor can parts
of it be in them. So the others can in no way partake of the one, given that they partake
neither by getting a part of it nor by getting it as a whole (159c5–d4).48 Since
participation in the one would pluralize it by breaking it up into parts, the one cannot
perform the various duties assigned to it in Deduction 3.
If the one is separate from the others, and the others do not partake of it, the one
and the others not only exist apart from each other, they are also ontologically
independent—as were forms and visible things in the Greatest Difficulty in Part I.49
Whereas the Greatest Difficulty allows things in our realm to be what they are in
relation to one another, Deduction 4 ignores that possibility, and Parmenides argues
instead that the others have no features at all, since they do not partake of the one: they
are not one or many (159c5–e1), not like or unlike the one (159e2–160a3)—indeed
47
Cf. this passage with Aristotle, Met. ˘.17, 1041b11–31. Aristotle, too, uses the phrase heteron ti
(“something different”) in a discussion of parts and wholes, employing the phrase to specify the form that
organizes the parts, so that, e.g., the syllable “ab” differs from the syllable “ba,” though they both contain the
same parts.
48
Cf. Whole–Part Dilemma, esp. 131e3–5.
49
See esp. 133c3–134a1.
they lack all features, because each feature is one feature, and so to partake of any
feature, they would have to partake of the one (160a4–b2).50
Deduction 4 completes the dialectical strategy we shall bring to the second exercise
about being: the rejection of two extreme positions (Deductions 1 and 2), a reconcili-
ation (Deduction 3), and the rejection of that middle way (Deduction 4). As for the
exercise in the Parmenides itself, Parmenides has by no means finished.
2.6 Summary of the Positive Hypothesis

Deduction 4 completes the investigation of the positive hypothesis and ends with the
following statement:
Thus if [the] one is, the one is all things (Deduction 2) and is not even one (Deduction 1), both in
relation to itself and likewise in relation to the others.—Exactly. (160b2–4)
This claim, located at the end of Deduction 4, is surprising, because it mentions only
the conclusions of Deductions 1 (the one is not even one) and 2 (the one is all things)
and ignores those of Deductions 3 and 4. At the beginning of this chapter I quoted
Parmenides’ summary at the end of Deduction 8, which recalls all eight deductions
(166c2–5). In light of that statement, many commentators have thought that there
should be a comparable summary here mentioning the consequences of all four
preceding deductions, and they supplement the text accordingly.51 We should not
supplement the text but instead ask why Parmenides ignores Deductions 3 and 4 and
simply states the contradiction between the conclusions of Deductions 1 and 2, a
statement he could have made at the end of Deduction 2. I suggest that Parmenides
ignores Deductions 3 and 4 in the summary at the end of Deduction 4 because there
was already overwhelming reason to reject the positive hypothesis before he turned to
consider consequences for the others on that hypothesis. The failure of the Appendix
to combine both sets of conclusions makes it even more evident that the positive
hypothesis must be rejected in favor of the negative hypothesis.
In retrospect we might well ask what point there was of considering the one’s
contribution to the others in Deduction 3, since the grounds for giving up the positive
50
The possibility ignored in Deduction 4 is considered in Deduction 7, where Parmenides argues, on the
hypothesis that the one is not, that there is a lively world of appearances, with the others appearing to be all
sorts of things in relation to one another.
51
Heindorf (1806) supplements a ¼ººÆ at 160b3 to read: pººÆ, ŒÆd pººÆ. If one accepts Heindorf ’s
conjecture, the translation at 160b2–4 yields the expected summary:
Thus if [the] one is, the one is all things (Deduction 2) and is not even one (Deduction 1), both in relation to
itself and in relation to the others, and likewise the others (Deductions 3 and 4).—Exactly.
For a defense of Heindorf ’s supplement, see Meinwald (1991: 142–4). Several other scholars accept
Heindorf ’s conjecture or at least point out its appeal: e.g., Sayre (1996: 299 and 357 n. 24) and Turnbull
(1998: 123); cf. Cornford (1939: 217 and n. 1). Cooper (1997: 391), editor of Plato: Complete Works, also
recommends it in an editorial note to the Gill and Ryan translation of the Parmenides, without taking editorial
credit.
70 PHILOSOPHOS
hypothesis were already decisive. Deduction 3 ignores that implication and assumes that
the one is both altogether one and nonetheless has participants, and on that assumption
Parmenides derives a number of useful results. Deduction 4 then undermines those results
with the reminder that the others cannot partake of the one without fragmenting it into
many (contrary to Socrates’ thesis in Part I). The results in Deductions 3 and 4 now seem
beside the point, and the statement at the end of Deduction 4 reinforces that impression,
since it ignores them. Deductions 3 and 4 overlook the conclusive grounds for abandon-
ing the positive hypothesis, and the summary ignores those deductions for that very
reason. In my view Deductions 3 and 4 are there because they indicate a strategy to save
the positive hypothesis, a topic to which I return in the next section.
Having excluded the positive hypothesis, Parmenides turns to the negative hypoth-
esis, with Deductions 5 and 6 examining consequences for the one, and Deductions 7
and 8 consequences for the others, starting from the hypothesis that the one is not.
Although the four deductions that make up the negative hypothesis are impressive in
their own right, this section of Part II is not part of the dialectical pattern I take to be
replicated in setting out and solving the puzzle about being, so I simply summarize
those deductions in my retrospective of the exercise.52
2.7 Retrospective of the Exercise

I claimed at the outset that Part II of the Parmenides has two endings. The first is the real
conclusion, a conclusion we recognize if we speak “correctly” (orthōs): “If [the] one is
not, nothing is” (166b7–c2). The summary at the end (166c2–5), which I quoted at the
beginning, merely appears to sum up the exercise and will be mistaken for the real
conclusion only if the reader fails to see how Part II fits together into a coherent whole.
If a reader misses the point, the conclusions of paired deductions seem to carry equal
weight, and the summary collects the contradictions. But the first conclusion is the
serious one. Deduction 8 builds on the preceding deductions to reach its verdict: if the
one is not, nothing is.
Let me summarize the steps that lead to that result. Deductions 1–4 consider the
consequences, first for the one, then for the others, starting from the positive hypoth-
esis that the one is. Deduction 1 shows that if the one is simply one, it is nothing at all—
not even one. Deduction 2 shows that if Parmenides allows the one to partake of being
to link it to its oneness, the one is everything indiscriminately. Neither conclusion will
do. Consider again the ending of Deduction 4, which concludes Parmenides’ treat-
ment of the positive hypothesis. There he states the contradiction between the con-
clusions of Deductions 1 and 2, a contradiction he could have stated at the end of
Deduction 2, because by then there was already more than sufficient reason to reject
the positive hypothesis and to adopt the negative hypothesis instead. The contradiction
52
For more discussion of the negative deductions, see Gill (1996: 94–104).
between the conclusions of Deductions 1 and 2 forces the negative hypothesis, and each
side of the contradiction forces it as well. The failure of the Appendix to reconcile the
results of the First Antinomy reinforces that outcome. Since Deductions 3 and 4 ignore
the preceding results when they turn to the others, and the summary ignores them, we
too shall ignore Deductions 3 and 4 in our reconstruction of the overall argument and
come back to them when we consider how to save the positive hypothesis.
We turn, then, to the negative hypothesis, and here I simply state my conclusions, since
we have not discussed the details. Deductions 5 and 6 consider what is meant by the
hypothesis that the one is not. Deduction 5 (160b5–163b6) assumes that “[the] one is not”
means that the one partakes of not-being, as though not-being were a property an object
partakes of, on a par with oneness, largeness, and equality.53 Parmenides then shows that
the one, which is not, must partake of being to link it to its not-being, but then it must
partake of another share of being to link it to its link—indeed, it must partake of infinite
shares of being even not to be (161e3–162b3). The unacceptable results in this section
show—what Deductions 1 and 2 also show—that the speakers have a faulty conception of
being, which they take to stand outside the nature of the subject. Deduction 6 (163b7–
164b4) again considers the meaning of the hypothesis “[the] one is not,” and proposes that
“is not” means the absence of being for whatever is said not to be. Strip away all being
from the one, and it is nothing at all, not there to be talked about.
Deductions 7 and 8 consider consequences for the others, on the hypothesis that the
one is not, and Parmenides now takes a step beyond the situation envisaged in the
Greatest Difficulty in Part I. In that argument stable entities exist, but they fail to
explain our world, and so are irrelevant to us. Deduction 7 (164b5–165e1) assumes that
nothing is stable but that there is a vibrant world even so—a kaleidoscopic world of
appearances. Nothing lasts, since the masses we catch sight of dissolve before our eyes,
but a world nonetheless, with things appearing to have various properties through their
interactions with one another. Deduction 8 (165e2–166c2) then shows that all that is
sheer illusion—the masses we thought we saw are not there after all, since the one is
required even for the masses to appear many and different from one another. Remove
the one, and all things are indescribable. As Deduction 6 shows, what is indescribable is
nothing at all, and so Deduction 8 concludes that, if the one is not, nothing is.
In the transitional section to Part II, Parmenides says that there must be forms, if Socrates
is to have anywhere to turn his thought, and if he is to preserve the capacity for dialectic
(135b5–c3), a means of getting at the truth. Whereas the Greatest Difficulty in Part I gives
the impression that Socrates might do without forms, though with a loss of precision, Part
II shows that denying the existence of forms has more serious consequences than we might
initially suppose. By going through the exercise in Part II we realize that there must be
stable entities, and they must explain our world, and we see this truth because it is evident
that the conclusion of Deduction 8 is not true: There is a world to be explained.
53
This assumption resembles that in Deduction 2 (142b5–c7), where Parmenides takes the hypothesis “if
[the] one is” to indicate that the one partakes of being.
72 PHILOSOPHOS
To avoid the outcome of the eighth deduction, Socrates must reject the negative
hypothesis which gives rise to it and return to the positive hypothesis. To save the
positive hypothesis he must give up his thesis in Part I and instead agree that forms
partake of other forms, and in the case of oneness that the one is both one and many. At
the same time, he should not accept the thesis in the unbridled manner of Deduction
2 but in the judicious manner signaled in Deduction 3 and recognize that an entity has
its own character in virtue of itself and other characters through its participation in
natures other than its own.
But recognizing that an entity can be viewed from two perspectives does not by itself
save Socrates from a regress similar to the Likeness Regress in Part I. Can the one be one
simply in virtue of itself? Deduction 1 argues that the one must partake of being—a
character distinct from oneness—even to have its own character, and Deduction 5
exploits the same idea by showing that an entity must partake of infinite shares of being
to have any character at all, including its own. This is the problem of participation—the
problem of being as a relational link between an entity and a property it has—a
problem still pending in the Parmenides. To address that difficulty, we must make
sense of that most perplexing form, the form of being.
Before we turn to that project, we should pause to consider why being is so
troublesome. I do so by focusing on a passage in Deduction 3.
2.8 Being and Participation

Deduction 3 spelled out the various functions of oneness—it makes other things
unified wholes, individual parts of wholes, and limits the parts in relation to one
another and to the whole, and the whole in relation to them. In the midst of this
discussion Parmenides says:
But clearly it [each part] would partake of the one, while being something other than one.
Otherwise, it wouldn’t partake, but would itself be one. But as it is, it is surely impossible for
anything except the one itself to be one.—Impossible. (158a3–6)
This passage is the main evidence for the pervasive idea among Platonic scholars that
only something other than F-ness can participate in F-ness and that being and participation
are different sorts of relational tie. I aim to show, on the contrary, that “being” and
“participation” name the same relational tie. According to the wide-spread interpreta-
tion (of which there are many varieties), the relation specified in a self-predication, as in
“the one is one,” is different from participation. Harold Cherniss claims that this
passage clearly distinguishes two meanings of “is F,” namely: (1) “has the character
F,” and (2) “is identical with F.”54 In his view, the passage implies that any participant
54
Cherniss ([1957] 1965: 370–2). On this passage, see Vlastos (1969b), Lewis (1976: 121–2), and
Nehamas (1982: 358–65).
in oneness is other than the one/oneness.55 If Plato held such a view all along, the Third
Man Argument in the first part of the dialogue was not a genuine problem, because a
form does not have the property it explains in its instances, and so cannot be grouped
together with them. Although it is possible that the argument rests on a misunder-
standing of Plato’s theory of forms (Socrates is represented as young and inexperi-
enced), one wonders why in that case Aristotle and Alexander of Aphrodisias took it to
be a reasonable objection to Plato’s theory.56 If Plato’s Parmenides now introduces two
sorts of relational ties to avoid the regress, the innovation comes at a price, because
Plato should then reject the transmission theory of causation, according to which the
form has the character it explains in its participants. Perhaps he can find some other way
to preserve the explanatory role of forms, but I doubt that he took that route.
Evidence from the Sophist indicates that Plato remained committed to self-predica-
tion, a corollary of the transmission theory of causation. At a key moment in isolating
the form of not-being, Plato’s Eleatic Stranger utters a string of self-predications:
Just as the large is large and the beautiful is beautiful and the not-large is not large and the not-
beautiful is not beautiful, so too in the same way not-being (to mē on) was and is not being (mē on),
one form (eidos) numbered among the many beings. (Sph. 258b11–c4)
Notice that these statements are predictions rather than identity-statements, since the
Stranger uses the definite article with the subject-expression and not with the comple-
ment. Given Plato’s continued reliance on self-predication in his later dialogues, it
seems highly unlikely that he abandoned the transmission theory of causation in
dialogues responding to the Parmenides.57 But if he retained that causal theory, a
form and its participants have the same character and have it in the same way (though
the form has it more eminently), and so “being” and “participation” should name the
same relational tie.
Consider a passage earlier in Deduction 3, which helps to show that “being” and
“participation” label the same relational tie:
So since they [the others] are other than the one, the others are not the one. For [if they were the
one] they would not be other than the one.—That’s right.—And yet the others are not
absolutely deprived of the one, since they partake (metechei) of it somehow (pēi).—In what
way?—In that things other than the one are surely other because they have parts; for if they
didn’t have parts, they would be altogether one (pantelōs an hen eiē ).—That’s right. (157b8–c4)
55
The idea that only something other than F-ness can partake of F-ness is known in the scholarly literature
as the “Non-Identity Assumption,” and has been spelled out in various ways—e.g., “the form, as the general
nature common to members of a class, cannot be identical with any of these members” (Malcolm [1991: 48,
62]). The Separation Assumption to which I appealed in explaining the two regress arguments in Parmenides
Part I—the assumption that a form is separate from its participants and from the immanent character it
explains—is a version of the Non-Identity Assumption but has the advantage over alternatives in being a
thesis Socrates explicitly endorses (130b1–6).
56
See texts from Aristotle and Alexander cited in Chapter 1 note 48.
57
For further evidence, cf. Timaeus 47e3–53b5.
74 PHILOSOPHOS
This passage first states that the others are non-identical with the one (notice the
definite article: “the others are not the one” [157b9]). Then Parmenides states what
appear to be two predications, one expressed as “they partake of it somehow,” the other
expressed (in a counterfactual) as “they would be altogether one” (this is a predication,
since no definite article occurs with “one”). The others are the subject of both verbal
phrases “partake somehow” and “be altogether”: they are other than the one but
somehow partake of it, and if they were not other than it they would be altogether
one. This passage suggests that the crucial difference in the two cases concerns the
nature of the subject: if the subject is different from the attribute it partakes of, it can still
partake of it somehow, but if the subject is the same as the attribute it partakes of, it is
altogether that attribute—the attribute exhausts what the subject is by specifying its
entire nature. Bring this thought to our initial passage:
But clearly it [each part] would partake of the one, while being something other than one.
Otherwise, it wouldn’t partake, but would itself be one. But as it is, it is surely impossible for
anything except the one itself to be one.—Impossible. (158a3–6)
This passage makes good sense when read in light of the earlier passage. The others
merely partake of the one, since they are one but other than the one, whereas the one is
altogether one, because the form and its attribute are the same. There is no difference
in the relational tie. The difference concerns the subject—whether it is different from
or the same as the character it partakes of.
If this interpretation is correct, both regress problems in Part I persist, even without
the Separation Assumption. Recall that Parmenides was able to generate an infinite
number of qualitatively similar forms, because Socrates agreed to the Separation
Assumption (130b1–6). By treating forms as attributes of other forms in Part II,
Parmenides does without the Separation Assumption, and yet the problem recurs in
another fashion. Deductions 1 and 2 treat being as a relational tie between the one and
its own and other characters, a tie outside the one. Think of being that way, and the one
and its own character are numerically distinct. If the one is one by partaking of being to
link it to its oneness, then it must partake of another share of being to link it to its link
(as in the Likeness Regress in Part I).58 The oneness of the one stands at an infinite
remove from the subject, and so the original one cannot explain its own character or
the oneness of anything else (as in the Largeness Regress in Part I).
To save an explanatory theory of forms, Plato must solve the problem of participa-
tion, which is part of the problem of being. He must eventually show that being is a
structural feature inside the beings enabling them to relate to their own nature—also
58
Parmenides gives a second version of the Likeness Regress in Deduction 5, using being instead of
likeness as the link (161e3–162b3). I have mentioned without discussing this fascinating argument in the
present book, but see my discussion in Gill (1996: 94–9), and my plea in Gill (2002) to restore the transmitted
text, which Shorey (1891) emended (by inserting a “not” at 162a8 and deleting a “not” at 162b2). For
alternative interpretations of the passage in Deduction 5, which retain Shorey’s changes and find no regress of
the Likeness type, see Kahn (1981: 115–17) and Scolnicov (2003: 152–5).
inside them—and to natures outside themselves. Then a form and its nature can
be numerically, as well as qualitatively, the same. Moreover, a form can be self-
explanatory—be what it is in virtue of itself (auto kath’ hauto)—without depending
on anything outside itself to explain what it is. The second part of the Parmenides does
not show this but sets the stage for the second exercise about being, whose solution will
enable Plato to solve the problem of participation and us to locate his philosopher.
3
The Contest between Heraclitus
and Parmenides
Æºº IÆÆ ÆØ.

(Heraclitus DK 22B84a)
Changing it rests.
In the Theaetetus and Sophist Plato stages and mediates a competition between Heraclitus
and Parmenides about the nature of being. While Plato’s debt to these two pre-Socratic
philosophers is widely acknowledged, my claim that he seeks to reconcile their views in
his own conception of being may seem implausible. According to the traditional picture
of Plato encouraged by Aristotle’s description of him in Metaphysics `.6 and .4, the
young Plato followed the Heracliteans in thinking that all sensible things are constantly
changing, and for that reason denied that we can know them, views he retained in later
life. Plato also learned from Socrates, who pioneered the search for definitions, and took
over Socrates’ definitional project, but since Plato believed that sensible things keep
changing, he posited immaterial forms, separate from the physical world, as the stable
objects of definition and knowledge. Sensible particulars stand in some relation to
forms, which Plato called “participation” but did not adequately explain (Met. `.6,
987a29–b14). This report suggests that throughout his life Plato remained a Heraclitean
about the sensible world and a Parmenidean about forms, and that he continued to think
that we gain access to these separate realms by different routes—sensible things by means
of belief and sense perception, and forms by means of intellect, impeded by the senses.
There is no contest between Heraclitus and Parmenides, because their views relate to
different spheres—Heraclitus to the changing, sensible world of Becoming, Parmenides
to the unchanging, intelligible world of Being.
Many passages in Plato’s dialogues appear to justify this traditional view, including
Socrates’ famous Digression at the center of the Theaetetus and the Battle of the Gods
and Giants at the center of the Sophist, both of which we shall discuss below. Yet the
bulk of the Theaetetus stands out in stark contrast to this well-known account, because
the young mathematician Theaetetus tries to define knowledge without mentioning
forms and first defines it as perception, a proposal Socrates spells out in terms of
Heraclitus’ doctrine of flux, the view that things are constantly changing. The defini-
H E R A C L I T U S A N D PA R M E N I D E S 77
tion of knowledge as perception seems antithetical to the familiar portrait of Plato, and
accordingly some scholars argue that Plato opened the dialogue with this proposal
simply to dismiss it before going on to Theaetetus’ more promising definitions of
knowledge in terms of true judgment plus an account.1 Since these later attempts still
appear to gloss over the role of forms as the objects of knowledge (not to mention
defining knowledge as upgraded true belief or judgment), some authorities claim that
the Theaetetus ends without finding an adequate definition of knowledge, precisely
because Plato leaves forms out of the story.2 This way of interpreting the Theaetetus
brings it into line with the traditional scheme, and there is no contest between
Heraclitus and Parmenides, since their views still bear on different spheres.
I shall first show that Plato sets up a contest between Heraclitus and Parmenides in
the same arena with competing answers to the same question about the nature of
being.3 Then I lay out a pattern of argument in the first part of the Theaetetus and mid-
section of the Sophist echoing the strategy of the first four deductions in the second part
of the Parmenides, starting with two opposing views developed and refuted by Plato’s
main speakers: (1) the Heraclitean position that being is many and changing (compa-
rable to Deduction 2 in the Parmenides), and (2) the Parmenidean position that being is
one unchanging thing (comparable to Deduction 1 in that dialogue).4 After these two
refutations, the Eleatic Stranger (3) reconciles the two sides in the Battle of the Gods and
Giants in the Sophist, arguing that being is both unchanged (at rest) and changing. In a
final step (4), the bulk of which I save for Chapter 7, the Stranger destroys the union in an
argument I call the “Aporia about Being,” starting from the claim that change and rest are
opposites which cannot partake of each other (Sph. 250a8–9), and then arguing that
being is some obscure third thing (Sph. 250b8–c8) subject to neither rest nor change
(Sph. 250c12–d3). In Chapter 7 I shall contend that to overcome the Aporia about
Being, which undermines the preceding constructive proposal, the Platonist must again
give up Socrates’ thesis in his long speech in the first part of the Parmenides, this time
about change and rest. Socrates and the Stranger are wrong to think that change and rest
are mutually exclusive opposites, and their mistake prevents them from defining the form
of being—being auto kath’ hauto. The issue about participation, noted in our discussion of
the Parmenides, can only be resolved once being auto kath’ hauto is understood.
Before we embark on this project, let me make clear that what I am calling the
contest between Heraclitus and Parmenides is not a contest between the historical
1
See, e.g., Sedley (2004: 5).
2
Cornford (1935a: 7, 28, 162–3). To be more precise, Cornford (1935a: 28, 105–6) thinks that Plato was
determined to say as little as possible about forms, not that he left them out entirely; see also Sedley (2004:
esp. 178–81). Sedley (1996: 89–93) discusses the ancient credentials of this interpretation.
3
On the history of the role of the contest (agōn) in Greek literature and Plato’s use of that motif in his
dialogues (though not in the present context), I have profited from reading Barney (2001: 60–73).
4
Recall that the order of Deductions 1 and 2 was reversed relative to the other three antinomies in Part II
of the Parmenides. Parmenides reversed the order because he planned to examine the implications of Socrates’
thesis in Part I, that the one is simply one and not many. The order need not be reversed in the second version
of the exercise.
78 PHILOSOPHOS
figures.5 Plato takes great liberties with his predecessors, using simplified, modified, or
extreme versions of their positions to suit his own philosophical purpose, and some-
times developing their views in ways their authors might never have thought of, let
alone approved.6 He also groups people together who share a common outlook in one
respect but whose theories otherwise differ considerably. He displays the struggle between
idealized positions and then seeks to resolve them. I begin by showing that Plato stages a
contest between Heraclitus and Parmenides in the first part of the Theaetetus—staging easy
to miss, because it looks like dramatic byplay. I invite you to bring to the project the
following thought: Part I of the Theaetetus, which investigates perception, is itself an
exercise in seeing, in noticing things of significance buried in the text.
3.1 The Parmenidean Thread in the Theaetetus

The first main part of the Theaetetus investigates Theaetetus’ claim that knowledge is
perception. Socrates spells out the proposal and urges Theaetetus to adopt two other
positions, one about perception, and one about the world perceived.7 Theaetetus should
endorse Protagoras’ Measure Doctrine that “man is the measure of all things, of things
that are that they are, and of things that are not that they are not” (Tht. 152a2–4), and to
guarantee the truth of all perceptions claimed in the Measure Doctrine, he should
adopt a Heraclitean world-view according to which everything is changing.8 This
world-view is supposed to ensure that if you and I disagree about the taste of some
wine, our disagreement is easily resolved, because the wine has no objective flavor that
could convict one or both of us of being wrong. After elaborating the Protagorean and
Heraclitean positions, Socrates claims that the three theses—the Heraclitean view that
everything is changing, the Measure Doctrine of Protagoras, and Theaetetus’ defini-
tion of knowledge as perception—come to the same point (160d5–e4). This statement
has encouraged some scholars to think that the truth of Theaetetus’ proposal entails the
5
The historical Heraclitus may have thought that all is change, but at least he thought that change is
permanent, as in the fragment used as the epigraph of this chapter: “Changing it rests” (DK 22B84a). As I said
in Chapter 1, Plato interprets Parmenides as a numerical monist, and his interpretation may or may not reflect
the position of the historical figure. I tend to think it does, but the traditional interpretation of Parmenides has
been challenged by Mourelatos (1970) and Curd (1998). Palmer (1999) gives a detailed account of Plato’s
reception of Parmenides.
6
For instance, in the Battle of the Gods and Giants in the Sophist, Plato presents the Giants as materialists,
and then waters down their position so extensively that no self-respecting materialist would allow it. Plato
knows full well that he is taking liberties, and his Stranger tells us as much (Sph. 246d4–9, 247c2–7).
7
My understanding of the strategy of Part I of the Theaetetus is indebted to Burnyeat (1982: 6–7 n. 2, and
1990: 9–10), who thinks that the Protagorean and Heraclitean doctrines are views Socrates offers Theaetetus
to support his thesis, not views Plato himself accepts; but I disagree with Burnyeat that Plato treats those
supporting doctrines as necessary and sufficient conditions for the truth of Theaetetus’ proposal, and hence
that the refutation of Protagoras and Heraclitus is a reductio of that definition. The text presents those
doctrines as though they were necessary conditions for the truth of Theaetetus’ proposal, but Plato recognizes
that they are at best sufficient conditions, and not the only possible ones. For the objection, cf. M.-K. Lee
(2005: 91 n. 30) and McDowell (1973: 180, 184).
8
Until the end of section 3.3, citations will be to the Theaetetus unless otherwise noted.
truth of the doctrines of Heraclitus and Protagoras, and that a refutation of them will
undermine his definition. This does appear to be Socrates’ strategy until we reach the
final line of his critique. After dispatching Heraclitus Socrates says:
We shall not agree that knowledge is perception—at least according to the route that all things
are changing—unless Theaetetus here states it some other way. (183c1–3)
What is this mysterious possibility left open? The hint that Theaetetus might have some
other way to support his claim alerts the reader that Socrates has not undermined the
boy’s thesis but (at best) only one way of defending it.9 In fact, Socrates keeps
mentioning the alternative, but he does so in passages easily overlooked because they
seem tangential to the main argument of Part I concerning Protagoras and Heraclitus.
The alternative is Parmenides, who famously believed that the universe consists of one
unchanging thing. I have claimed that Part I is an exercise in seeing—in noticing things
in the text that initially seem irrelevant—and the presence of Parmenides in this section
is a prime example of something we should be noticing.
Socrates magnifies the appearance of Parmenides’ irrelevance by mentioning him as
standing outside the mainstream of wise opinion or as an afterthought, someone he
nearly forgot. At the beginning of his discussion of the Heraclitean position, Socrates
announces that, with one exception, all the wise men of the past—Protagoras,
Heraclitus, Empedocles, Epicharmus in comedy, Homer in tragedy—agree that every-
thing results from change, and that rest (hēsuchia) causes not-being and destruction
(152e1–153d7). The sole exception to that consensus is Parmenides (152e2). Again, in
the build-up to the critique of Heraclitus, after a page of light-hearted joking about the
Heracliteans (179d2–180d7), Socrates declares:
But I nearly forgot (epelathomēn), Theodorus, that others in turn proclaim the opposite view that
“unchanged (akinēton) is a name for the all,” plus the other things a Melissus or a Parmenides
asserts in opposition to all of them [the Heracliteans]—that all things are one, and that the one
stands still (hēsteken), itself in itself (auto en hautōi), because it has no place in which it moves.10
What shall we do with all these people, my friend? For little by little in our advance we have,
without noticing (lelēthamen), fallen in between the two groups. (180d7–181a1)
Socrates goes on to speak of the need to investigate both groups. If the flowing people
make the most sense, we should take refuge with them and escape their opponents; but
9
Some scholars, e.g., Kanayama (1987: 59–60 and n. 51), M.-K. Lee (2005: sec. 5.9), and Lorenz (2006:
78 n. 20), take the line to suggest that Theaetetus might support his Protagorean position by some means
other than Heraclitus. In my view it indicates that Theaetetus might support his view that knowledge is
perception by bypassing Protagoras, as well as Heraclitus.
10
The text of the quote from Parmenides is uncertain, and scholars dispute the meaning. Cornford
(1935a: 94 n. 1, and 1935b) argued that the line is a distinct fragment of Parmenides completing his poem,
and controversy has ensued. See McKirahan (2010 with extensive bibliography) on this question. Nothing in
my argument depends on whether Plato misquoted Parmenides DK 28B8.38 (half the line should go with
the preceding lines, half with the lines that follow) or quoted the final line of Parmenides’ poem. What
matters is the Parmenidean thesis that the all is unchanged.
80 PHILOSOPHOS
if the defenders of rest seem nearer the truth, he says that we should side with them
against the defenders of flux. If both groups are refuted, he says that we shall look pretty
silly trying to find something of our own (180e5–181b4); Theodorus agrees that both
sides call for examination (181b6–7). Here the contest between opposing positions is
explicitly stated. Next Socrates refutes the Heracliteans (181b8–183b6) (completing
step one of the dialectical exercise), and then proclaims that he has escaped Protagoras
and Heraclitus and will reject Theaetetus’ proposal that knowledge is perception—that
is, unless the youth has some other way to defend it (183b7–c3).
Now Theaetetus begs Socrates to deal with the other group, the people who say that
the all stands still, as he promised to do (183c8–d2). Socrates speaks at some length
about his awe for the great Parmenides, his long-ago meeting with him (in the dialogue
Parmenides), his inability to do him justice in a short space, and says that to do so now,
while investigating knowledge, would be a digression (183e3–184a9). And yet, given
his hint that Theaetetus might find another way to defend his proposal, how can it be
irrelevant to investigate that other alternative? The passage quoted above suggests that
Parmenides is not in fact irrelevant to the main argument in Part I. What did Socrates
mean when he said: “What are we going to do with all these people? For little by little
in our advance we have, without noticing, fallen in between (eis to meson) the two
groups” (180e5–181a1)? At the time he emphasized the need to confront both sides,
both Heraclitus and Parmenides.
In the preceding pages (160e6–179b9), Socrates brings a series of objections against
Protagorean relativism—the view that each of us is the judge of what is true for us—
and his critique culminates in the objection that a completely general relativism is self-
refuting (170a6–171c7). Then he reformulates the relativist’s position to allow some
objective truths, while maintaining relativism in other areas. The relativist holds firm
that immediate sense experiences are relative to the observer (171d9–e3), but he now
concedes that an expert outdoes a layman in determining what is good or bad for our
health (171e3–9) and what benefits a city (172a5–b2). He still insists that human values,
such as beauty, justice, and piety, are matters of local convention (172a1–5, b2–8).
Socrates interrupts the reformulation with his lofty Digression (172b8–177c2), appar-
ently a plea for the objectivity of justice and other values.11 After the interruption
Socrates returns to the assessment of relativism, and the relativist now agrees that an
expert outdoes a layman in judging perceptions pertaining to the future (177d2–
179b9), but Socrates’ appeal in the Digression evidently left him unmoved, since the
relativist continues to assert that whatever conventions a city lays down for itself as just
remain just for that city, for as long as the community upholds them (177c6–d2). The
reformulation of relativism, step by step shifting types of perceptions from the relative
to the objective side of the divide, has gradually brought Socrates and Theodorus (his
respondent throughout this section) in between Heraclitus and Parmenides. Parmen-
11
Burnyeat (1990: 31–9). Cf. Friedländer (1969: III.171–2).
ides, the advocate of stability, could provide metaphysical support for the objectivity of
perception, in much the same way that Heraclitus, the advocate of flux, provides the
metaphysical support for relativism.
The strategically placed references to Parmenides in the first part of the Theaetetus
indicate his relevance to the discussion of perception and its objects. Socrates claims
that he and his companions have got themselves in between the Heracliteans and
Parmenideans, that they should examine both groups and take refuge with one side or
the other or else be left stranded, having rejected both (180e5–181b4). As I mentioned,
this is the place where Plato announces the contest between the advocates of change
and the advocates of rest as rivals in a single field who take opposing stands on the
nature of being—the object of perception. Plato never brings Heraclitus and Parmen-
ides into direct confrontation with each other. Instead, his lead speakers elaborate their
views and refute each philosopher separately—Heraclitus in the Theaetetus, Parmenides
in the Sophist—and when the Stranger mediates the contest in the Battle of the Gods
and Giants, the contestants are represented by proxies, who reveal themselves only
finally as Heracliteans and Parmenideans shortly before the Stranger negotiates a truce
(Sph. 249c10–d4).12
We begin with the development and critique of Heraclitus’ ontology in Theaetetus
Part I (first arm of the antinomy about being), then retrace our steps to observe the
subtext revealing Parmenides’ position on that same topic; thereafter we turn to the
official critique of Parmenides in the Sophist (second arm of the antinomy) and
conclude with the proposed reconciliation of the two sides in the Battle of the Gods
and Giants (step three of the dialectical exercise).
3.2 Heraclitean Perception and its Objects

Socrates elaborates Theaetetus’ proposal that knowledge is perception by appeal to
Protagoras (151e8–152a4), whose Measure Doctrine he interprets as saying that each
thing is for me as it appears to me, and each thing is for you as it appears to you (152a6–8).
If you and I stand in the same wind, and I shiver, while you do not, we are both
right about how the wind feels to us. The wind is not itself cold or warm, but cold for
me, and not for you (152b2–8). Socrates identifies Protagorean perception as phantasia,
the response to an appearance (152b10–c3), and this identification suggests that Prota-
gorean perception is intrinsically judgmental, because Plato’s Stranger in the Sophist
defines phantasia as a combination of perception and judgment (Sph. 264a4–b2).
Later in the Theaetetus Socrates narrows the meaning of perception by marking it off
from perceptual judgment (179c2–5), and this too suggests that the original Protagorean
view combined them: I am both aware of something and judge it to be as it appears to
me. Given the identification of perception and phantasia, Socrates announces that
12
The contest is recalled again at Sph. 252a5–10.
82 PHILOSOPHOS
perception satisfies two criteria for knowledge: it is always of what-is (tou ontos) and
without falsehood (apseudes)—that is, true (152c5–6).
The Secret Doctrine

What sort of world would guarantee that perception (= phantasia) is always of what-is
and never mistaken? Socrates claims that Protagoras holds a Secret Doctrine, the
Heraclitean view that all things are constantly changing:
Nothing is itself by itself (auto kath’ hauto) one thing, nor would you address it correctly as
something (ti) or of any particular quality (hopoionoun ti), but if you speak of it as large, it will also
appear small, and if you speak of it as heavy, it will also appear light, and thus with everything,
because nothing is either some one thing or some one quality. And all things, which we say
“are,” come to be from motion and change and blending with one another—though that is not
the right way to speak of things, for nothing ever is, but always becomes. (152d2–e1)
How is the Secret Doctrine supposed to help Protagoras, who takes perception to be of
what-is (i.e., being)? Why would he go along with a view that replaces the verb “to
be” (einai) with the verb “to become” or “to come to be” (gignesthai)? In switching
from being to becoming has Socrates simply left Protagoras behind and moved on to
Heraclitus?
Socrates has not left Protagoras behind because, immediately after his first exposition
of the Secret Doctrine (in a lengthy passage I mentioned briefly before), he says that all
the wise men of the past, with the sole exception of Parmenides, agree that everything
is the offspring of flux and change, and he explicitly mentions Protagoras, along with
Heraclitus, Homer, and others (152e1–153d7). The Secret Doctrine presents a theory
of being according to which everything is always becoming—“this moving being” (tēn
pheromenēn tautēn ousian), as Socrates later calls it (179d3; cf. 177c7). Otherwise put:
“the all is change (to pan kinēsis ēn) and nothing but that” (156a4–5, 180d7, 181c2).
Socrates alerts us time and again that the Secret Doctrine is a theory of being by
continuing to use the verb “to be” after saying that Heracliteans should avoid it, and
moreover by ostentatiously combining it with the verb “to become” even when he
could easily restrict himself to the latter. For example, toward the end of the section he
says the following about perceivers and things perceived:
It remains, I suppose, that we are (einai) for each other, if we are (eite esmen), or become
(gignesthai), if we become (eite gignometha), since in fact necessity ties our being (tēn ousian)
together. (160b5–7)
The Secret Doctrine spells out Protagoras’ ontological commitments with a concep-
tion of being, understood as becoming.
Heraclitean beings
Protagorean perception is supposed to satisfy a second criterion for knowledge—not
only is its object being (now understood as becoming), it is also never mistaken. How
does the Secret Doctrine guarantee the truth of all my perceptions? According to the
Secret Doctrine, nothing is one thing itself by itself, and we cannot correctly speak of
anything as some one thing or as some one quality (152d2–4)—call something large,
and it will also appear small, or heavy and it will also appear light (152d4–6). How then
can one’s experience of anything as large be true, if it has become the opposite even as
one speaks? Plato’s Heraclitus replies that a person’s perception is true because a
singular perceptible quality is tied directly and momentarily to him. The quality is
not something public and objective, something that anyone else could perceive, or
even the same person again at a different moment. Since all perceptible qualities are
momentary and tied directly to a perceiver, a person cannot be wrong about his
immediate experience.
Some interpreters argue that the Secret Doctrine envisages enduring perceptible
objects (wind, wine, stone) and perceivers (Socrates or at least his tongue and eye)
which change in their perceptible or perceptive qualities, but such endurance would
leave room for error about those enduring things.13 Even so, these interpreters are right
that passages spelling out the Measure Doctrine and Secret Doctrine support, or at least
allow for, persisting objects and perceivers—lasting beings. In my view we witness the
gradual disintegration of objects and perceivers while Socrates talks about them, and by
the end of the elaboration (before the final refutation of Heraclitus, who by then holds
an even more radical view), perceptible objects are mere collections of momentary
relational entities tied to equally momentary perceivers.14 But much of the exposition
suggests a less extreme position, according to which persisting things undergo mere
qualitative change. For instance, in stating Protagoras’ doctrine, Socrates speaks of the
same wind blowing ( pneontos anemou tou autou), something one of us experiences as
cold, the other as not (152b2–4). Again, in speaking of the wise men of the past,
Socrates says that they regard everything as the offspring of flux (152d7–e1), and that
seems to leave room for enduring products of change. He also develops a Heraclitean
theory of perception, according to which perceptible objects and perceivers produce
twin offspring, sensible qualities (white, sweet) and perceptions (seeing, tasting). He
characterizes the offspring as quick changes occurring between the object and the
perceiver, and the parents (stone and eye) as slow changes (156a2–157a7). Because the
parents beget the paired offspring through their contact with each other, they appar-
ently have some identity independent of the perceptual encounter.
Socrates begins sowing doubts about enduring objects from the very beginning,
however. Recall that he denies at the start that anything is one thing itself by itself,
which can correctly be called some one thing or some one quality (152d2–4). These
claims already cast doubt on enduring things, as well as enduring qualities.15 He advises
13
For this view, see Matthen (1985), Brown (1993: 203–9), and M.-K. Lee (2005: ch. 5).
14
Cf. Dancy (1987: 72–94), Burnyeat (1976: 44 and 1990: 13–19), and Irwin (1977: 6).
15
Socrates repeats time after time the claim that nothing is one thing itself by itself: 153e4–5, 156e9–
157a1, 157a7–b1, 160b10–c2, and 182b4–5.
84 PHILOSOPHOS
students of the Secret Doctrine to avoid all words such as “being,” “something,”
“this,” and “that,” which bring things to a standstill, and instead to use words such as
“becoming” and “altering” to avoid the appearance of stability (157a7–b8). Then he
declares that they should be careful with their words both in speaking of things one by
one and of many things collected together, customarily called by such names as “man”
or “stone” (157b8–c3). This claim admits more than one interpretation. Socrates could
be saying that people use the names “man” and “stone” for collections of individuals,
an interpretation that leaves room for enduring things; but he could instead be saying
that people apply these names to concrete collections of momentary entities different
from moment to moment, and then “stone” picks out a process with no enduring
substratum.16 Whatever one decides about this passage, by the end of the section
objects and perceivers have disintegrated into collections of momentary entities.17
Socrates says of himself, the perceiver:
Accordingly I myself will never come to be perceiving any other thing in this way, for there will
be another perception of another thing, and it makes (poiei ) the perceiver otherwise qualified and
another man (allon). (159e7–160a1)
A little later (a passage I quoted in part above in another connection) he says of

perceivers and objects:
It remains, I suppose, that we are for each other, if we are, or become, if we become, since in fact
necessity ties our being together, and ties it to nothing else nor in turn to our very selves (hēmin
autois). So it remains that we are tied to each other. (160b5–8)
What initially seemed to be enduring perceptible objects and perceivers, which change
in their perceptible qualities or perceptions, have given way to collections of percep-
tible qualities or perceptions—collections constituted out of those instantaneous rela-
tional entities and different from moment to moment.
This more extreme version of the Heraclitean theory undermines the earlier theory
of perception. The perceptible objects and perceivers can no longer generate percep-
tible qualities and perceptions by encountering one another, because they are now
constituted out of those former offspring—the objects are collections of momentary
qualities tied to perceivers, and the perceivers are collections of momentary perceptions
tied to qualities.18 By the end of the elaboration of the Heraclitean position, there are
simply two sorts of happenings: quick (momentary) motions (perceived qualities and
16
The first interpretation is advocated by Brown (1993: 207–8). McDowell’s translation (1973: 24, 143–5)
reflects this view, though his commentary leaves options open. Cf. Campbell (1883: 62) and M.-K. Lee (2005:
107–9 and n. 63). The second interpretation is advocated by Dancy (1987: 85–8), Burnyeat (1976: 30–1),
Bostock (1988: 65–70), and Denyer (1991: 86, 101–2).
17
Dancy (1987) works out the overall strategy in detail, though I agree with Burnyeat (1990: 42–52) that
the Heraclitean theory does not finally become incoherent until Socrates elaborates and refutes a radical
version of it (181b8–183b6).
18
Matthen (1985: 36–41) mentions this incoherence and argues that, to avoid it, the parents must be
enduring things.
perceptions tied to each other), and slow changes made up of those momentary
motions. Perception is of what-is (being), but the objects of perception (whether
sensible qualities or objects) are changes. Perception is unerring, because momentary
perceptible qualities (and objects) are directly tied to momentary perceptions (and
perceivers), and at the moment of perception the perceiver can make no mistake about
what he perceives. No surprise, on reflection, that the Heraclitean doctrine keeps
changing in the course of its presentation. The page of jokes about the Heracliteans at
the end describes what we have just experienced—as Theodorus says, “Just like their
books, they keep moving” (179e7–8).
Critique of Heraclitus
By the time that Socrates returns to Heraclitus and undertakes his critique (181b8–
183b6), he has vindicated the possibility of error in the case of a significant number of
perceptual judgments, including claims about what is in the interest of a state, and what
will be true in the future. The Protagorean still maintains that moral values are relative
to the political group that establishes and accepts them and that immediate sense
experiences are relative to each perceiver. Protagoras stands on sturdiest ground in
the case of immediate perceptions of sensible qualities, and Socrates focuses on such
perceptions in the refutation of Heraclitus.
Can I make mistakes about my own immediate experience? According to the earlier
Heraclitean theory, all my perceptions are true for me, because a perception and a
perceptible quality are directly tied to each other. But before Socrates returns to
Heraclitus, he analyzes Protagorean perception (earlier equated with phantasia) into
two components, perception proper (hai aisthēseis) and perceptual judgment (hai kata
tautas doxai) (179c2–5). Given this distinction, the momentary relational entity itself
consists of two acts, a perceiver’s direct encounter with a sensible quality, and his
identification of that sensible quality as something or other. Therein comes the
possibility of error, since one might misidentify what one perceived at the very
moment of perceiving it.19
Now Socrates undertakes to describe a world in which this sort of error could not
occur. Whereas the earlier Heraclitean world excluded diachronic stability, while
permitting momentary relational entities, on the revised view the perceiver risks
error within that very moment, and so Socrates removes even momentary certainty.
If judgment is insecure even at a moment, error cannot occur, but then no meaningful
talk is possible either.
Socrates distinguishes two species of change—motion and alteration (181c2–d6)—
and claims that everything is changing in both ways, both moving in space and
changing in character (181d8–182a2). In the earlier theory of perception, whiteness
flowed white, but in the refutation of the Heracliteans the whiteness itself transmutes
19
Cf. Burnyeat (1990: 43–4, 49–50).
86 PHILOSOPHOS
into some other color while flowing between the external object (stone) and percep-
tual organ (eye) (182c9–10). Without such radical flux, Socrates maintains, the quality
would be stable in some respect, and the perceiver could be wrong about his experi-
ence of it. Yet in a world in such radical flux, language itself is vacuous—not merely
false, but meaningless—since the quality one tries to identify has already changed into
something else by the time one has attempted (and failed) to refer to it (183a2–b6), and
the seeing has changed into some other perception in the course of its happening. Since
our statements themselves have no meaning in such a world, Theaetetus must abandon
his definition, “knowledge is perception.” The refutation of the Heraclitean view of
being as becoming completes step one of the dialectical exercise about being. If being is
changing in every respect, language itself is meaningless.
Plato’s Protagoras (not to mention the historical figure) would scarcely be fazed by
the refutation of Heraclitus, since he need not concede that perception consists of two
components, perception proper and perceptual judgment. Though Socrates illegiti-
mately introduces the distinction in his argument against Protagoras, it enables our
author to establish an important point in his refutation of Heraclitus. Even advocates of
flux must agree that the world possesses sufficient stability that language can get a grip
on it.20 The need for stability suggests an entirely different line of argument to defend
the thesis that knowledge is perception, and so we now turn to Parmenides’ shadowy
presence in Theaetetus Part I, the beginning of step two in the dialectical exercise about
being.
3.3 Parmenidean Perception and its Objects

Since even Plato’s radical Heraclitean must agree that the world contains enough
stability that we can talk about it, Theaetetus has good reason to beg Socrates to discuss
Parmenides when Socrates leaves open the possibility that there might be another way
to defend the definition of knowledge as perception. But Socrates refuses, saying that
to discuss Parmenides now would be a digression (en parergōi) (184a7). This is a bit of
camouflage. The mention of a digression calls to mind an earlier moment when
Socrates digressed and points back to the Digression (so-called by Socrates using the
plural: parerga, 177b8). The Digression, though not explicitly about Parmenides,
depicts a philosophical ideal of which Parmenides is a prime exemplar.
The Digression
Socrates’ Digression occupies the center of the Theaetetus (172b8–177c2), a location
that calls attention to its importance, and it stands out in high relief against the
backdrop of everything else in the dialogue.21 Whereas the rest of the Theaetetus
investigates mundane knowledge and seems virtually free of traditional Platonic
20
Cf. Kahn (2007: 45).
21
On the Digression, I have profited especially from reading Sedley (2004: 65–86).
metaphysics, this passage recalls the other-worldly aspects of the Phaedo and Republic.
Coming as it does in the midst of the reformulation of relativism, it apparently pleads
for the objectivity of moral values. At the same time, and more important for my
argument, it contrasts two varieties of perception—sense perception and what I call
“mental perception,” direct awareness of stable, intelligible objects.22 Socrates uses a
number of verbs for perception in this passage, including blepein (“to see,” “to look”),
often with the preposition eis (“to look at”). Perceptual awareness is contrasted with
failure to notice, expressed by the verb lanthanein (“to escape notice”). The Digression
describes two sorts of lives, that of the philosopher and that of the worldly man, and
drives a wedge between the worldly man’s perception of transient sensible objects and
the philosopher’s perception of stable objects, such as the whole world, all of time, and
the nature of man, justice, and happiness.23 My description of the Digression highlights
what the philosopher and worldly man perceive and what they fail to notice.
Philosophers grow up without knowing their way to the marketplace, law-court,
council-chamber, or any other civic gathering place. They do not see or hear (oute
horōsin oute akouousi) laws and decrees (173d3–4), or know anything about the goings-
on in the city. The philosopher does not even know that he does not know (173d9–
10), since his body alone sleeps and lives in the city, while his thought travels to the
heavens (173e1–174a2). Socrates tells a story about Thales, who once while doing
astronomy and looking upward (anō bleponta) fell into a well, to the vast amusement of
a Thracian serving-girl. Thales seemed to her ridiculous—so keen was he to know the
things in heaven that he failed to notice the things right at his feet (lanthanoi auton)
(174a4–8). The same joke, says Socrates, applies to any philosopher. The philosopher
fails to notice (lelēthen) his neighbor, not only ignoring his neighbor’s activities but
scarcely knowing whether his neighbor is a human being or some other creature.
Instead of noticing his neighbor, the philosopher asks: “What is man (ti pot’ estin
anthrōpos), and what belongs to such a nature to do or to suffer different from other
things?” (174b1–6). When he hears the idle talk of those around him saying, for
instance, that someone with property of ten thousand acres or more has something
huge, it sounds to him like a small plot, accustomed as he is to look at all the earth (eis
hapasan . . . tēn gēn blepein) (174e5). Or hearing people praised for their noble lineage, he
22
I argue in Chapter 4 below that perception for Plato is actively noticing something without judging,
but since Socrates has not yet narrowed perception to exclude judgment (179c2–5), we need not decide
whether mental perception in the Digression is mere noticing or noticing plus the identification of what is
noticed. M. Frede (1987b: 3–4) points out that the Greek notion of perception extends beyond sense
perception to include mental perception (some evidence is listed in Burkert [1972: 270 and n. 154]), though
Frede thinks that in the Theaetetus Plato narrows the notion to sense perception and regards it as a purely
passive affection of the mind. I discuss this view in Chapter 4, but now I simply contend that Plato accepts the
broader Greek notion of perception that includes mental perception. Cf. Dancy (1987: 62–3) and Polansky
(1992: 67–8).
23
I thank a reader for the Press for cautioning me that the Digression leaves unclear how the objects of the
philosopher’s purview relate to Platonic forms. What matters for my argument is the stability of these objects,
whatever they are.
88 PHILOSOPHOS
thinks the praise comes from an inability to look always at the all (eis to pan aei blepein)—
all of time—due to lack of education (174e5–175b4).
Whenever the philosopher has to deal with the clever litigious types and their petty
concerns, he looks silly, because he pays no attention to the things that interest them.
But suppose the philosopher draws one of them up to a higher level, and gets him to
quit asking about my injustice to you and yours to me, but gets him instead to examine
“justice itself and injustice (autēs dikaiosunēs te kai adikias), what each of them is and how
they differ from everything else and from each other” (175c1–3); and to quit asking
questions such as “Is a king happy?” or “a person with gold?” but to consider kingship
and human happiness and misery in general (175c4–8). What then? Now the fellow
with the sharp legal mind has to give an account and he stands there dizzy and
stammering. Then Thracian girls and other uneducated people are not the ones who
laugh, because they do not perceive (ou gar aisthanontai), but those who grew up as free
men and not as slaves find it very funny (175c8–d7).
Socrates describes two patterns (paradeigmata) corresponding to two ways of life
(175d7–176a1, 176e3–4). On the one hand, there is the person Theodorus calls a
philosopher, who has grown up in real freedom and leisure but is hopeless at menial
tasks, especially sweetening sauces and making flattering speeches; on the other, a
person who excels at precisely those things. Since we can never remove people of the
second sort, we should make all haste to escape from earth to heaven and become like
god, as much as possible, by becoming just and pious, with prudence (176a8–b2). Of
these two patterns, one is divine and supremely happy, the other godless and wretched,
but the wicked do not see (ouch horōntes) this. Because of their folly and stupidity, they
fail to notice (lanthanousi) that, because of their unjust actions, they become increasingly
like the one paradigm, and unlike the other (176e4–177a2).24 The two lives differ
chiefly in what captures the individuals’ attention. Whereas the wily politician looks
downward and sees the changing world of politics, reputation, and rewards, and fails to
notice his gradual conversion to the wicked pattern, the philosopher’s detachment
from the world around him is so extreme as to be almost comical.25 He ignores his
neighbor, not caring whether the individual is even human, and instead asks what man
is. Staring at the sky and falling into wells, he makes himself a laughingstock for
Thracian girls and worldly men who cannot see what the philosopher sees. The
philosopher laughs at the advocate suspended on high looking downward at what he
24
Socrates’ two patterns resemble two patterns described in the Timaeus, in an account of how the divine
craftsman fashioned the best possible world. The Demiurge had two alternatives to use as an ideal (para-
deigmati)—either what is always changeless or what comes to be (Ti. 28a4–b2). Timaeus reasons: if our world
is beautiful and the creator good, then the god clearly looked at (blepōn) the eternal paradigm and reproduced
its character (tēn idean) and capacity (dunamin) (Ti. 28a8), but if our world is not beautiful and the creator not
good, then he looked at what comes to be. Since our world is clearly the most beautiful creation and the
creator the best of causes, he looked at (eblepen) the eternal model when he fashioned our world (Ti. 28c5–
29b1). Both dialogues feature a good paradigm and a bad one, and the goodness of the world or a person’s life
depends on which of the two is the focus of attention.
25
Rue (1993) discusses the comic aspects of the philosopher.
saw before, because the clever man of the world is completely disoriented and cannot
answer the questions the philosopher asks. While the philosopher pays no attention to
what the clever man sees, what he himself sees from his high perch—all the earth
(174e5), all time (175a1–2)—the clever man fails to notice.
Scholars often associate the philosopher of the Digression with Socrates, but if Plato
intends the allusion, he portrays Socrates with his head in the clouds, since Socrates
certainly knew his way to the marketplace and will depart for the Royal Stoa at the end
of the day to meet Meletus’ indictment against him (210d2–4).26 We should not try to
pinpoint any one philosopher or tradition that satisfies the philosophical paradigm, but
simply observe that the Digression portrays a philosopher of a different stripe from the
Protagoreans and Heracliteans who dominate the rest of Part I. This philosopher
ignores the transient sensible world around him and focuses on stable objects instead.
Socrates and Thales belong to the philosophical type, at least in their otherworldly
moments; so does the philosopher of the Phaedo, who strives to separate his soul from
his body, and likewise the philosopher-kings of the Republic—though philosopher-
kings are more worldly in that they return to earth to rule. In his abstraction from the
world around him, the philosopher of the Digression more closely resembles the one in
the Phaedo, who in dying escapes to heaven and leaves his mortal body behind.
While some details in the description recall Socrates himself, in one respect at least
the philosopher resembles Parmenides. The Proem of Parmenides’ poem (DK 28B1)
describes the philosopher’s journey to meet a goddess, who declares to him both the
Truth and Doxa (Mortal Opinions). Like Parmenides, the philosopher in the Digres-
sion goes to a divine place, where he can observe both ways described by the goddess,
while recognizing the value of only one. The Parmenidean thread in the Theaetetus is
important, because Plato hints that, had Socrates spelled out Parmenides’ position,
Theaetetus could have found another, more fruitful way to support his proposal that
knowledge is perception, this time by appeal to the stability of objects perceived. Since
Parmenides believed that all things are one and unchanged (180e1–4), he could
provide Theaetetus a means to defend perception as direct awareness of stable objects
and to argue for its objectivity.
Mental perception and its objects

Mental perception comes into the foreground in the Digression, but it is by no means
restricted to that section of Part I. The verb “to perceive” (aisthanesthai) first occurs in
the dialogue in Theodorus’ opening speech, when he says that he has perceived
(ēisthomēn) no one so marvelously well-endowed as Theaetetus, so quick at learning,
gentle in his disposition, and courageous (144a2–5). Though Theodorus has doubtless
26
At a workshop on the Theaetetus at UC Davis in 2008, Douglas Hutchinson gave a spirited and to my
mind convincing defense of the reference to Socrates, based on echoes in the Digression to lines in
Aristophanes’ comedies, especially the Clouds. In my view the Digression presents a type of individual, and
in some salient respects Socrates fits the type. Cf. Sedley (2004: 67).
90 PHILOSOPHOS
learned about Theaetetus’ psychic qualities from his outward behavior, Theodorus’
senses cannot perceive the underlying dispositions manifested in that behavior.27 The
main discussion in Part I begins and ends with perception of sensible qualities such as
white and sweet, but the original version of Protagoras’ Measure Doctrine applies to all
apprehensions—fears, desires, and other emotions (156b2–7), memories of past per-
ceptions (166b2–4), dreaming (157e1–158d6), and also direct awareness of numbers
(154c1–5) and values (166c9–167d2). Since the Measure Doctrine gets into trouble
because it applies even to the doctrine itself (170a6–171c7), perception in Part I clearly
extends beyond sense perception.28
Socrates calls upon our mental perception repeatedly in the first part of the Theae-
tetus. I have already mentioned the strategically placed references to Parmenides, but
there is much more we should be noticing. Contrary to those scholars who think that
the Theaetetus does without or downplays forms, I think that forms pervade the first
part of the dialogue, though they are strangely hard to see.29 Forms are hidden because
they differ in one chief respect from forms in the Phaedo, Republic, and first part of the
Parmenides (apart from the Whole–Part Dilemma). With the possible exception of the
Digression, which may be anomalous in this respect, forms in the Theaetetus do not
exist apart from sensible things, but are attributes of them, immanent forms. Let us
consider some of the evidence.
At the beginning of the main dialogue, leading up to his first request for a definition
of knowledge, Socrates says, apparently innocently: “It is by wisdom, I suppose, that
wise men are wise” (Sophiai de g’ oimai sophoi hoi sophoi) (145d11). This sentence with its
tell-tale instrumental dative, used often in reference to formal causes, could come
straight out of the discussion of forms in the Phaedo, where Socrates asserts that “by the
beautiful all the beautiful things are beautiful” (tōi kalōi panta ta kala kala) (Phd. 100d7–
8); or it could come from the Euthyphro, where he speaks of “that form itself by which
all the pious things are pious” (ekeino auto to eidos hōi panta ta hosia hosia estin) (Euthphr.
6d10–11).30 Few scholars take the Euthyphro to treat forms as separate from sensible
things, but whether forms are separate or immanent, Plato treats them in the Theaetetus
as he does elsewhere, as formal causes, responsible for things around us being what they
are—pious, beautiful, wise. After claiming that wise men are wise by wisdom, Socrates
27
In addition to discussing the first occurrence of the verb, Dancy (1987: 63) also mentions the second
occurrence at 149d5–6, where Socrates asks Theaetetus if he has perceived this thing about midwives, that
they are very clever matchmakers. This second instance nicely illustrates the Protagorean view of perception
as phantasia, which combines perception and judgment. Cf. Polansky (1992: 67).
28
Fine (1996: sec. 2) distinguishes between what she calls Narrow Protagoreanism (e.g., “it appears red to
me”) and Broad Protagoreanism (e.g., “The argument appears sound to me”); cf. Sedley (2004: 49–53) and
M.-K. Lee (2005: 81).
29
Friedländer (1969: III.492–3 n. 40) lists people on the two sides of the debate about forms in the
Theaetetus and sides with those who think that forms are mentioned. Contrast Kahn (2007: 38–9, 46–8). Ryle
(1990: 44, in a lecture he gave in 1952) thinks that Plato lost interest in the “over-ripe” theory of forms after
the Parmenides. See note 2 above for authors who, unlike Ryle, think that Plato downplays forms in his
strategic effort to make us recognize the need for them.
30
Cf. Hp. Ma. 287c1–d2, 289d2–3.
identifies wisdom and knowledge (Tht. 145e1–7) and then asks for a definition of
knowledge. This opening gambit sets the stage: the Theaetetus undertakes to define the
form of knowledge.
In its selection of forms, the first part of the Theaetetus appears to have taken its script
straight from the Scope of Forms in the Parmenides (Prm. 130b1–e4). Recall that
Parmenides asks the youthful Socrates in four steps to tell him what forms there are,
starting with two groups of forms Socrates embraces, then forms he wavers about but
accepts, and finally forms he rejects. At step one Socrates agrees that there is a form of
likeness, forms of oneness and multitude, and other forms of that sort. These structural
forms figure prominently in both the Parmenides and Sophist. At step two Socrates
agrees that there are forms of justice, beauty, goodness, and other values, but begins to
hesitate at step three when Parmenides asks him about a form of man and forms of fire
and water. Then at step four Parmenides asks him about forms of hair, mud, and dirt,
and Socrates resists, claiming that these things are just what we see and that there are no
separate forms for them. When he admits that he sometimes gets perplexed about these
things, Parmenides replies that Socrates is still young, and philosophy has not yet
gripped him as it eventually will.
Bring this list from the Parmenides to the first part of the Theaetetus. At the end
of Part I, having apparently defeated Protagoras and Heraclitus, Socrates counters
Theaetetus’ proposal that knowledge is perception a second time by pressing him to
notice that there are some features of things which the soul cannot grasp through the
senses but must grasp through itself (184a9–186e12). Each of these features—being
and not-being, likeness and unlikeness, sameness and difference, oneness and other
numbers—is common (koinon) to sensible qualities grasped by different senses. The
common features seem different from the structural forms at step one of the Scope of
Forms (Prm. 130b1–6) only because Socrates introduces them as properties of (peri)
things—for instance, the being of sensible qualities (185a8–9)—not as entities that exist
apart from their participants. Later in the same passage Socrates mentions beautiful and
ugly, good and bad, and asks whether these, too, are things the soul grasps through itself
(186a9), and again introduces them as properties of things—the beauty, ugliness, and
goodness of Theaetetus (185e3–5)—but otherwise they represent the second group in
the Scope of Forms. In the Digression, as we have seen, the philosopher averts his
gaze from the world around him to think about justice itself and injustice (175c2–3),
and we should recall that justice was an example at step two of the Scope of Forms
(Prm. 130b7–10). The Digression also states that the philosopher ignores his neighbor
and reflects instead on what man is (174b1–6), a form at step three of the Scope of Forms
(Prm. 130c1–4).
The most telling instance of the Theaetetus’ reliance on the Scope of Forms comes
from the fourth group in the Parmenides, the group the youthful Socrates disdained
(Prm. 130c5–d9). Early in the Theaetetus Socrates offers Theaetetus a definition to use as
a model for his own definition of knowledge, a definition of clay (147c4–6). The
Greek word pēlos gets translated as “clay” in the Theaetetus but as “mud” in the
92 PHILOSOPHOS
Parmenides, where Socrates dismisses it because of its insignificance. Socrates is quite

sure in the Parmenides that there is no form of mud separate from the stuff he sees, but
he uses clay as an example in the Theaetetus to show what a good definition should look
like: “Clay is earth mixed with liquid.” It may be that clay, though definable, is not a
form, yet that should not be because clay is too humble to merit a form, but rather
because it is definable with reference to its elemental components earth and water,
forms at step three of the Scope of Forms (Prm. 130c2 mentions fire and water). Forms
belong to the Parmenidean legacy Plato urges his readers to notice in Theaetetus
Part I. The Digression is not atypical in its treatment of forms within that dialogue,
nor is the Theaetetus atypical in our series of dialogues that respond to the Parmenides.
Forms are featured in the Theaetetus much as they are, more prominently, in the Sophist.
So far Plato has staged a contest between Heraclitus and Parmenides about the nature
of being (Heraclitean being is changing, whereas Parmenidean being is stable), has
elaborated their conceptions of perception, and has completed the first step in the
dialectical pattern we traced in the second part of the Parmenides, corresponding to
Deduction 2, the refutation of Heraclitus. We now turn to the explicit treatment and
refutation of Parmenides in the Sophist, continuing the second step in the dialectical
pattern (similar to Deduction 1 in the Parmenides). Parmenides enters the discussion in
the Sophist initially not because of his views about being, but because of his views about
not-being, congenial to the sophist. As for being, the Stranger first confronts Parme-
nides on the number of beings, and when he finally turns to the nature of being in the
Battle of the Gods and Giants, Parmenides has apparently receded into the background,
having already been defeated. By the end of the Battle of Gods and Giants, however,
the Giants (materialists) have taken sides with the Heracliteans in their view that being
changes, and the Gods (friends of the forms) have taken sides with Parmenides in their
view that being rests (is unchanged), and the Stranger has shown that neither the Gods
(and Parmenides) nor the Giants (and Heraclitus) can maintain their extreme positions.
The Battle of the Gods and Giants completes step two of the dialectical pattern and
also—though only temporarily—resolves the contest between Heraclitus and Parme-
nides, step three of the dialectical pattern.
3.4 Parmenides on Not-Being and Being in the Sophist

The first part of the Sophist makes several attempts to define the sophist and each time
the sophist appears to have a different expertise (he is a hunter, a merchant, a skilled
debater, and so forth). These abortive attempts finally reveal that the sophist has a
special capacity: he appears to know many things which he does not in fact know (Sph.
233c6–8)—he produces false appearances, deceives.31 So, to understand the sophist,
the inquirers have to make sense of appearances and their production.
31
All further citations in this chapter will be to the Sophist unless otherwise noted. We shall discuss the
various definitions of the sophist in Chapter 5.
Puzzles about not-being and being

To make sense of appearances, which often obscure what things really are, the Stranger
claims that he must examine and ultimately refute Parmenides, who asserts in his poem
that no one will ever prove that things-that-are-not are (einai mē eonta), and bars his
audience from that route (237a8–9; cf. DK 28B7.1–2). Parmenides argued that one
cannot think or talk about what-is-not, because any thinking or talking is thinking or
talking about something—namely, something that is (DK 28B2). How, then, can one
understand false appearances which are not what they purport to be? The Stranger will
eventually violate Parmenides’ prohibition and demonstrate that people can in fact
think and state things-that-are-not, and do so without contradiction. He starts with a
series of puzzles about not-being and then suggests that there is a similar confusion
about being.
A false assumption about negation makes it seem impossible to think or talk about
not-being. The inquirers assume that a negation specifies the opposite of the item
negated (240b5, d6–7); but if so, then not-being is nothing at all, and people cannot
think or talk about that.32 A second source of trouble about not-being infects being as
well. The speakers mistakenly assume that there is a one-to-one correspondence
between a name and a thing—that a name picks out something, different names
pick out different things, and each thing has one proper name.33 The Stranger later
attributes the idea to some individuals he derisively calls Late-Learners, who urge
people to call a thing only by its own name and not by any other, permitting them
to call a man “man” and the good “good,” but not to call a man “good” (251b6–c2).34
Given these assumptions, it seems impossible to talk sensibly about not-being.35 The
first puzzle (237b7–e7) shows that we cannot meaningfully use the phrase “what-is-
not,” because it attempts and fails to pick out nothing; the second (238a1–c12) shows
that we cannot say anything meaningful about what-is-not (i.e., about nothing),
because in using the phrase “what-is-not” we treat the referent as a single thing (by
using the singular); and the third (238d1–239c8) shows that we contradict ourselves
even trying to state the puzzles. If not-being is the opposite of being, and if there is a
one-to-one correspondence between a name and a thing, then Parmenides is right that
we cannot coherently think or talk about not-being. The Stranger still finds these
32
On opposites, see Introduction note 16.
33
Nehamas (1979: 101–2 and 1982: 372–3) calls this the “One-Name Assumption” and thinks that Plato
himself held this view about names in the middle dialogues but rejected it in the Sophist. For a possible
candidate other than Plato, see Cornford (1935a: 254).
34
I follow Moravcsik (1962: 57–9) on the interpretation of the Late-Learners, against Owen (1971: 261)
and others, who take them to allow identity statements (and only identity statements)—e.g., “man is man”
and “good is good.” The context indicates that the Late-Learners have a view about naming, because the
Stranger has just said that he needs to show how one thing can have many names (251a8–b4; cf. 252b8–10).
On this interpretation, the Late-Learners passage is also relevant to the earlier puzzles about not-being and
being. Cf. Bostock (1984: 99–100), Roberts (1986: 230), and Malcolm (2006a: 278).
35
My exposition of the puzzles about not-being is indebted to Owen (1971: 241–4). For a different
construal of the puzzles, see Thomas (2008: 637–42).
94 PHILOSOPHOS
puzzles persuasive at the end of the dialogue, because he says: “If a statement (logos) is of
nothing (mēdenos), it would not be a statement at all, for we have shown that a
statement that is a statement of nothing cannot be a statement” (263c9–11). The
final two puzzles about not-being (239c9–240c6, 240c7–241b3) provide the sophist
a means to escape his pursuers by showing that the sophist does not in fact say what-is-
not, because his images, while not originals, are something—images like the originals—
and not nothing. Parmenides wins all five rounds about not-being, still maintaining that
it is impossible to speak or think coherently about not-being, and enables the sophist to
slip away, out of the hunters’ reach (241a3–c3).
Having lost these rounds to Parmenides, the Eleatic Stranger asks Theaetetus to do
him a favor—not to think of him as a parricide even though, to mount an adequate
defense, he will have to subject Parmenides’ dictum to examination and show both
that not-being somehow is, and that being somehow is not (241d1–7). Instead of a
showdown, however, Parmenides retains the advantage in the opening puzzle about
being. After surveying the variety of views about the number of beings on offer, the
Stranger singles out people who think there are two things, say hot and cold (243d8–
244b5), and asks what these people mean when they say of both hot and cold that they
“are” and each “is”: what is this being they attribute to hot and cold? If it is a third thing
in addition to them, there are three things rather than two, and only that third thing is
being. If they call one of the two opposites “being,” and thus identify that item with
being, the other will not be in the same way, and so there is only one being, not two. If
instead they call both of the original two “being” in the same way, and being is not
distinct from the two, then they identify the three, and there is very clearly only one
thing, being. With the same sort of argument the Stranger can stump all the pluralists,
whatever the number of their basic entities.36 There is just one being, and it is either
distinct from the beings, or the same as one or all of them. Parmenides wins this set too.
Critique of Parmenides
There has been a tremendous build-up to the match with Parmenides, anticipated
since Part I of the Theaetetus. If Parmenides survives the confrontation, Theaetetus may
have another way to defend his proposal that knowledge is perception. Alternatively, if
Parmenides is refuted, and none of the wise men is left standing, how can poor folks
like us have anything of consequence to say? (Tht. 181b1–4). The Sophist, too, has
stressed the gravity of this undertaking, since the guest has said that to unmask the
sophist he must confront Parmenides and cautioned Theaetetus not to think him a
parricide, even though he intends to violate Parmenides’ prohibition against taking the
road that things-that-are-not are. We expect a stunning refutation.
36
Wedin (1980–1: 268) discusses the three quantitative puzzles about being (including this one and the
two arguments against monism), makes this point, and calls the general view “discrete pluralism.” Whereas he
thinks the argument could apply to any discrete pluralist view with a finite number of entities, I think it could
also apply to theories positing an unlimited number of entities, e.g., atomism.
The Stranger gives two arguments, the second of which (244d14–245d11) is

disappointing, since it misrepresents numerical monism by appropriating an image
the historical Parmenides used as an analogy in his poem. In demonstrating the perfection
of being, Parmenides compared being to a spherical whole (DK 28B8.43–45), but he
did not say that being is literally a whole, and he explicitly denied its divisibility
(DK 28B8.22).37 The Stranger takes the analogy literally and argues that, if being is a
whole, it has a middle and extremities as parts, and is therefore more than one. He knows
the numerical monist’s actual view, because he goes on to say: “According to the correct
account, what is truly one must be said to be completely without parts” (245a8–9).
Parmenidean being is a unit, numerically one thing.
The first objection to Parmenides (244b6–d13) is better and is reminiscent of the first
deduction in the Parmenides, except that here the Stranger focuses on names (“being”
and “oneness”) instead of attributes (being and oneness). Because of that difference
Parmenides might stand his ground. What do the Eleatics mean by “being”? They say
that there is only one thing (hen to pan), yet because they call it both “being” and
“one,” the name “one” and the one it names are two things, and “being” and the
being it names are two more things. Although Parmenides could insist that there is only
one thing and it has no name, that response provides Theaetetus no incentive to rely on
Parmenides in defending his definition of knowledge as perception. The numerical
monist cannot even state his position without introducing plurality, and that is reason
enough to reject it.38 Step two of the dialectical exercise about being is, however, not
yet complete, because the contest between Heraclitus and Parmenides concerns the
nature of being and not merely its number. In the next section step two is completed in
tandem with step three, the reconciliation of the two sides. Both players are repre-
sented by substitutes.
3.5 Battle of the Gods and Giants

The Stranger stages a battle between two groups he calls the Gods and Giants, who
disagree about the nature of being (245e6–249d8).39 The Giants are materialists who
drag everything down to earth and think that the only real beings are things they can
squeeze in their hands. The Gods defend their position reverently from high up in
some invisible region, and claim that true being is certain bodiless, intelligible forms;
they pulverize tangible bodies into powder and downgrade them to becoming rather
than being. A struggle persists between these two groups. The Stranger and Theaetetus
speak for both groups, and the Stranger has no qualms about reforming the Giants to
serve his present purpose before going on to criticize both sides.
37
Cf. Harte (2002: 103 n. 90), who discusses this argument in detail (100–16).
38
On this argument, see McCabe (2000: 66–73).
39
On the Gigantomachia and its significance for this passage, see Brown (1998: 181–2).
96 PHILOSOPHOS
The visitor tries to bring the opponents to an agreement by getting each side to
admit that what they regard as real shares some feature in common with what they
reject. Then he attempts to get both sides to agree on the common feature and to
define being as that. He has an easier time with the Giants than the Gods, because he
chooses to address a group of reformed Giants, who concede the existence of some
bodiless things. The reformed Giants then stand on equal terms with the Gods in
merely downgrading and not excluding the things they reject. If the Giants admit the
existence of some immaterial things, such as the soul or virtues and vices, they need to
find a feature shared by both material and immaterial things. The Stranger proposes to
the Giants a definition of being applicable to both:
I say that that which possesses any sort of capacity (dunamis), whether it be naturally suited to act
(eis to poiein) on anything else or to be affected (eis to pathein) to even the smallest extent by the
most insignificant thing, even if only once: all this really is (ontōs einai). I am proposing, in short,
to give a definition (horon horizein): things-that-are as they are (ta onta hōs estin) are simply capacity
(dunamis). (247d8–e4)
Some scholars take this passage to state only a mark of being—some feature in virtue of
which we class things as beings, but the phrase horon horizein supports a stronger
construal, “to give a definition.”40 The Stranger states what makes any being a
being, and that is its capacity to act on other things or to be affected by other things.41
Notice that being, conceived as the dunamis of things to act or be affected, is inside the
beings, not a link that stands outside them as in the Parmenides. This difference will
prove important when we eventually return to the troublesome question about
participation.42
The Stranger then turns to the Gods, friends of the forms, who separate being from
becoming, and tries to get them too to recognize some feature shared by the things
they accept as real and the things they reject. He takes a different tack from the one he
used with the Giants:
And [you say] that by means of the body through perception we associate (koinōnein) with
becoming, but that by means of the soul through reasoning (dia logismou) [we associate] with real
40
For the first interpretation, see Cornford (1935a: 232–9), Moravcsik (1962: 37), Bluck (1975: 92 and
n. 1), and Brown (1998: 189, 192–3). On the side I favor there are many supporters from different scholarly
traditions, including Grote (1875: II.416–17, 436–44), Souilhé (1919: 154), Diès (1932: ch. 2, and 1955:
355), A. E. Taylor (1961: 146), and Friedländer (1969: III.267). Cf. de Rijk (1985: 101–2 and n. 12),
N. P. White (1993: 39), and Notomi (1999: 218 and nn. 25 and 26). Owen (1971: 229–30 n. 14) lists passages
where horos means “definition.” Scholars on the second side overwhelmingly regard the definition as
provisional (Grote is a notable exception, but he thinks that Plato ultimately takes the side of Protagoras
[1875: II.438–44]). I agree with scholars in the second group that the definition is abandoned in the rest of the
Sophist, but I argue that Plato presses the audience to find their way back to it: the definition is not
provisional.
41
Diès (1932: esp. ch. 2) focuses in detail on the definition of being in the Sophist. Souilhé (1919) discusses
and helpfully classifies uses of the term dunamis throughout Plato’s works and compares its use in earlier Greek
thought and Aristotle.
42
To be discussed in Chapter 7 sec. 7.8.
being, which you say is always uniformly the same, whereas becoming is one way at one time,
another way at another time. (248a10–13)
Does not our association with both sorts of things indicate that sensible things and
intelligible things share a common feature, in fact the very one just offered the Giants
(248b2–4)? The visitor characterizes association as “an affection (pathēma) or action
(poiēma) from some capacity (ek dunameōs tinos), occurring in consequence of things
coming together in relation to one another” (248b5–6). The perceiver and knower
have a capacity to grasp sensible and intelligible things, and those things have a capacity
to be sensed or known. In sensing and knowing, we act on the object, and the object is
somehow affected.43 Anything, including stable forms, is somehow changed in being
sensed or known.
The Gods reject the proposal, claiming that becoming has a capacity to act and to be
affected, but being has a capacity for neither (248c7–9). Being cannot be affected in
being known, because that would entail its being changed (kineisthai) to the extent that
it is affected, and that cannot happen to something at rest (to ēremoun) (248d10–e5).
The Stranger tries a second time to persuade the Gods that change exists in the realm of
being (248e7–249b7), urging them to agree that that realm includes change and life
and soul and prudence. He argues that if the Gods agree that there is reason (nous), they
must accept life, and then soul, and so they must accept something changing and
change as beings (249b2–3); whereas if they deny change, the same steps in reverse will
exclude reason (249b5–6). Here the Stranger completes his critique of Parmenides, the
second step in the dialectical pattern: unless Parmenides allows being somehow to
change, thought has no access to it.
Without waiting for the Gods to say whether they admit change into the realm of
being or abandon reason instead, the Stranger turns back once more to the Giants, and
claims that their view, according to which everything is changing, also eliminates
reason from the realm of being (249b8–10, c3–4). The Giants and their kinsmen the
Heracliteans go too far in rejecting rest (stasis), because without rest there would be no
stable objects for reason to grasp (249b12–c1). The Stranger then draws together the
two sides of his argument and states that, without both change and rest, reason has no
place in the realm of being:
What then? Do you observe reason being or coming to be anywhere without these [i.e., change
and rest]?—Least of all.—And indeed against this person we must fight with every argument—
the person who does away with knowledge, prudence, or reason and confidently speaks in any
way about anything.—Very much so. (249c3–8)
43
Keyt (1969: 2–7) sets out the argument and offers a helpful survey of earlier literature on it. See more
recently Brown (1998: 196–203), who would object to my active-passive construal. I come back to this topic
in Chapter 7, but for now let my construal of active and passive simply reflect the grammatical active and
passive, and realize that the metaphysics may not be as it seems (I think it is as it seems).
98 PHILOSOPHOS
Both the champions of change and the champions of rest seem to have a point about
the requirements for perception and cognition, and yet by excluding one condition or
the other both are wrong.
The Stranger proposes in conclusion that the philosopher will reconcile the two
sides:
For the philosopher, then, who especially honors these things [knowledge, prudence, and
reason] there is every necessity, as it seems, on account of them neither to accept from those
who state one (tōn hen), or even the many forms, that the all stands still (to pan hestēkos); nor in
turn even to hear those who change being in every way (tōn . . . pantachēi to on kinountōn), but
according to the children’s plea, to say that being (to on) and the all (to pan) are all things
unchanged and changed (hosa akineta kai kekinēmena), both together (sunamphotera).—Most true.
(249c10–d5)
We now find ourselves in a place quite different from the three positions canvassed in
the Theaetetus (Tht. 180e5–181b4). There Socrates said that he and his interlocutors had
to confront both the Heracliteans and the Eleatics and take refuge with one side or the
other, for what hope is there if both sides are refuted? The children beg for a fourth
option: “being and the all are all things unchanged and changed, both together.”44
This step—the reconciliation of two opposing views about being—corresponds to the
third step in the dialectical pattern in the Parmenides, similar to the constructive third
deduction.
According to one reading of the final line, the children plead merely to expand the
realm of being to include the candidates of both groups, and on that reading scholars
take the proposal to upgrade the changing world of sense experience (or at least some
changing things such as souls or ensouled bodies) into the realm of being.45 On that
reading the Stranger merely expands the number of beings, but this section concerns the
nature of being. The line should be construed in a different way: the children beg for
both features—change and rest—and want being to include all things that both change
and rest.46 This construal better suits the overall argument of the Battle of the Gods and
Giants, for recall that the Stranger tries to convince the Gods that the things they accept
as real must be changeable as well as stable, since we can know them; and then informs
the Giants that they must concede that things are stable, as well as changeable, on the
same ground, since we can know them. According to this argument, the philosopher
44
Cornford (1935a: 242 n. 1) gives a nice illustration of the children’s plea in addressing Campbell (1867)
and the scholars Campbell discusses ad loc., who seem never to have asked a child the question: “Which hand
will you have?” Cornford quotes from a letter of Mary Lamb (Aug. 20, 1815) on a visit to Cambridge: “We
were walking the whole time—out of one College and into another. If you ask me which I like best, I must
make the children’s traditionary unoffending reply—‘Both’.”
45
E.g., Cornford (1935a: 241–2), Keyt (1969: 6), Brown (1998: 202), and Gerson (2005: 39–42). Cf.
Bostock (1984: 100, 106–7).
46
This construal is advocated by Moravcsik (1962: 40), Owen (1966: 339 n. 15), Friedländer (1969:
III.269), Bluck (1975: 100–1), and Reeve (1985: 60–1 n. 43). Although Grube (1935: 40) translates thus, his
later discussion (161–2 and Appendix 2) indicates that his interpretation fits with those listed in the previous
note.
needs both Parmenides and Heraclitus, and he needs both because the possibility of
knowing anything depends on both. The children’s plea refines the earlier dunamis-
proposal by defining being in terms of rest as well as change. Not only did the Stranger
state the original version as a definition (horon horizein) (247e3–4), he also claims at the
end of the section, following the children’s plea, to have captured being in a definition
(perieilēphenai tōi logōi to on) (249d6–7).
The next section of the Sophist (249d9–250d4: the Aporia about Being) confirms the
second construal of the children’s plea, because it rejects the strong version of that
thesis: “So being (to on) is not (ouk . . . esti) change and rest (kinēsis kai stasis), both
together (sunamphoteron), but something different from them” (250c3–4). The chil-
dren’s plea, starkly put, is the paradoxical thesis (contradicted by the statement in the
Aporia): “Being is change and rest, both together.”47 We shall discuss the definition of
being more fully in Chapter 7 and see that it is not as strange as the stark version sounds,
but does mention both change and rest. To anticipate: the being of something is its
capacity to remain the same and to act on other things or to be affected by other things.
Many scholars take the friends of the forms in the Battle of the Gods and Giants to be
Plato of the Phaedo and Republic.48 The friends of the forms adopt a more extreme
position than Plato in the Republic, however. Consider the Sun Analogy in Republic VI
(Rep. 506d2–509c4). Just as the sun, responsible for light, enables sight (the capacity)
actually to see and a visible object actually to be seen; so the good, responsible for truth,
enables knowledge (the capacity) actually to know and a knowable object actually to
be known. The subject has a capacity to know and the object has a capacity to be
known. Plato of the Republic should accept the definition of being the Stranger offers
the Giants, that being is capacity and that beings are because they have the capacity to
act on other things or to be affected by other things. Perhaps Plato accepted the
children’s plea all along, or perhaps only now appreciates the implications of his earlier
view. Among the implications, change (the form) rests and rest (the form) changes. The
statements “change rests” and “rest changes” will both have to be true, because
knowers associate with both forms in knowing them: change must be stable to be
knowable, and rest must be somehow changed in being known.
Among the philosophers who would reject the definition of being are philosophers
with whom the Eleatic Stranger claims to be intimately familiar, his colleagues in Elea
who follow Parmenides. He quietly identifies some of the Gods when he finishes
explaining why they should accept the definition of being he offered the Giants and
said that the Athenian youth Theaetetus might not plainly hear the Gods’ answer, but
he himself, an Eleatic, knows what they would say, perhaps because of his intimate
47
We have seen separate pure versions of Heraclitus, “the all is change” (to pan kinēsis ēn) (Tht. 156a5) and
of Parmenides, “the all rests” (to pan hestēkos) (Sph. 249d1); cf. “unchanged (akinēton) is a name for the all”
(Tht. 180e1). These combine into the stark version of the children’s plea.
48
E.g., Cornford (1935a: 242–8), Sayre (1983: 224), N. P. White (1993: 39), and Palmer (1999: 179). For
a more cautious assessment, see Brown (1998: 194–5, 203–4 and n. 45).
100 PHILOSOPHOS
acquaintance (dia sunētheian) with them (248b6–8). The Gods apparently include the
Stranger’s own associates in Elea, people who reject the definition of being he offered
the Giants and insist that it applies only to the realm of Becoming. The Eleatics and
extreme Platonists reject the definition at a high cost, however, for if they deny that
being is somehow changed, being cannot be known, since our knowing it has some
sort of impact on it. Unless Parmenides and his followers allow the object to be
somehow changed, there is no place for our association with intelligible things outside
the mind.
The need to reconcile Parmenides and Heraclitus—step three of the dialectical
pattern—is one of the Sophist’s major insights, and yet the possibility is raised only to
be crushed in the next section, leaving the speakers in a state of confusion about being
equal to their earlier confusion about not-being (250d5–e5). We shall discuss the
Aporia about Being in Chapter 7, but we should note now that the argument uses as
a premise an instance of Socrates’ thesis in his long speech in the Parmenides, that change
and rest are mutually exclusive opposites (Prm. 129d6–e4, Sph. 250a8–9). The second
half of the Sophist continues to treat change and rest as opposites, and many of the
arguments start from that premise. As long as change and rest exclude each other, the
children’s plea for both goes unfulfilled, permitting no access to the nature of being—
being auto kath’ hauto.
To sum up: The structure of the contest between Heraclitus and Parmenides about
being replicates the structure of the argument about oneness in the positive hypothesis
in the second part of the Parmenides. The version in the Theaetetus and Sophist, though
more scattered, is much simpler and considers two opposing positions about being, that
being is (many and) changing, and that being is (one and) at rest, next unites the two
positions, and then destroys the union. Here we can anticipate how to find a way back
to the constructive proposal about being in the Battle of the Gods and Giants. Socrates
must again give up the assumption that undermines it, this time that change and rest are
mutually exclusive opposites.
We shall return to the philosopher’s object in Chapters 5 and 7, but to grasp the full
import of the argument in the Battle of the Gods and Giants, we shall first examine the
philosopher from a second direction: his knowledge directed toward that object.
4
Knowledge as Expertise
ŒÆı̀ › ŒıŒg ØÆÆØ c ŒØ .

(Heraclitus DK 22B125)
Even the barley-drink separates if it is not stirred.
The Sophist and Statesman begin their definitional projects by positing a single genus
called technē (“art” or “expertise”) in the Sophist, epistēmē (“knowledge”) in the
Statesman, and then divide the genus step by step into subkinds to find the special
expertise of the sophist and statesman at the tip of one branch of the divided tree.1
Given the similar technique used in those two cases, there is reason to expect that the
philosopher, too, has a distinctive sort of expertise differentiated from others that fall
under the same genus. The Sophist and Statesman posit the genus without defining it,
prompting one scholar to remark that, since we must know the genus to know its
species and cannot know a highest genus in the same way (by division), the genus is
defined simply by collecting its species to see what salient features they have in
common.2 In this chapter I shall argue that the Theaetetus indicates how to define the
genus assumed in the divisions of the Sophist and Statesman. While the discussion starts
with a collection of branches of knowledge, that is merely the first step, allowing the
inquirers to establish a rough description of knowledge before embarking on the search
for a real definition of it. The Theaetetus accomplishes the task missing in the Sophist and
Statesman by using a method of definition spelled out in the last part of the dialogue: the
dialogue shows how to define knowledge by analyzing it into its conceptual parts.
The Theaetetus explores and criticizes three definitions of knowledge—as perception
(aisthēsis), as true judgment (alēthēs doxa), and as true judgment with an account (logos).3
1
For the claim that the same genus is divided in the two searches, again see Stm. 258b2–c2.
2
Bostock (1988: 245–6). Collection is described at Phdr. 265d3–5, and is used in the Sophist and Statesman
to isolate a kind for division, and in the Statesman also to provide a preliminary description of the target kind
to be defined: the statesman (Stm. 258e8–259c9). Sayre (1969: 155; and 2006: 36–48) has a distinctive view of
collection, and he thinks that it largely drops out in the Statesman.
3
I translate doxa in the Theaetetus as “judgment” and doxazein as “to judge,” following one scholarly trend:
e.g., McDowell (1973), Burnyeat (1990: esp. 69–70), and Sedley (2004); cf. Cornford (1935a, in connection
with Part II of the dialogue); see also Bostock (1988: esp. 156–7). But that translation is by no means
universally accepted: e.g., Fine (1979, and her other papers on Plato’s epistemology) and Chappell (2004)
translate the noun as “belief.” Polansky (1992), Kahn (2007: 39–40), and others prefer “opinion.” I favor
“judgment,” because in the Theaetetus Plato uses the word for the activity of judging rather than for the
102 PHILOSOPHOS
Socrates examines and rejects each definition in turn and concludes with these words:
“So, Theaetetus, knowledge is neither perception, nor true judgment, nor an account
added to true judgment” (Tht. 210a9–b2).4 Knowledge cannot be identified with any
one of the three, but Socrates’ statement leaves open a possibility I shall pursue, that
knowledge is a combination of those components.
In my view the Theaetetus treats knowledge as a special sort of capacity (dunamis), a
cognitive skill—an expertise (technē )—which can be exercised on particular occasions
in acts of knowing.5 Socrates and Theaetetus focus on the active exercise of that
capacity and then analyze active knowledge into three components—perception,
true judgment, and an account—and examine those components in turn in the three
main parts of the dialogue. We can appeal to the three activities of perceiving, judging
truly, and giving an account to define the corresponding capacities for those activ-
ities—capacities which, suitably defined and in the appropriate combination, constitute
the complex capacity for knowing. That complex capacity cannot be reduced to its
component capacities, or to the underlying base to which it belongs (the soul, psuchē ),
or to a composite of the capacities and underlying base. The complex psychic dunamis
coordinating acts of knowing is more than the sum of its parts and irreducibly basic, the
formal cause of those acts. The dunamis is a combination of psychic capacities, unified in
a particular way and shared by all branches of knowledge, allowing the branches to
count as knowledge. This complex dunamis also makes its possessor wise, as Socrates
says at the beginning of the discussion: “It is by wisdom, I suppose, that wise men are
wise” (145d11). The Theaetetus undertakes to define the form of knowledge, identified
at the outset as wisdom (145d7–e7).6
The Theaetetus opens with an outer frame. Though written particularly for this
dialogue, the Prologue of the Theaetetus sets the stage for the upcoming series of works
capacity (dunamis) to judge, as in Rep. V, 475b8–480a13 (where “belief” is a good translation for a lasting state
of mind). In the Theaetetus doxa is ambiguous in the way that “judgment” and “statement” are ambiguous in
English: the word refers sometimes to an act, the exercise of a cognitive capacity on a particular occasion, and
sometimes to the content of such an act (a proposition), which can be true or false. In my view, the capacity
to judge (belief) figures in the Theaetetus implicitly, and I say more about that capacity at the end of this
chapter.
4
All citations in this chapter refer to the Theaetetus unless otherwise noted.
5
As I said in my Introduction, I take the Theaetetus’ conception of knowledge as capacity to be consistent
with Republic V–VII. See esp. Rep. V, 477c6–d5, where Plato treats knowledge and belief as distinct
capacities, which differ from each other in their objects and in what they accomplish. For one interpretation
of knowledge as dunamis in Rep. V, see N. D. Smith (2000). Runciman (1962: 13, 17, 39) reads the Theaetetus
looking for a distinction between knowing that, knowing how, and knowing by acquaintance, and
concludes disappointingly that Plato did not distinguish them.
6
Osborne (2003: 133–6) argues that Socrates mentions wisdom at the outset to broaden the conception of
knowledge beyond expertise, and she thinks that this extension includes ordinary mundane knowledge.
I agree that Plato’s conception of knowledge in the Theaetetus extends to mundane knowledge, and shall
discuss two main examples later in this chapter—knowing Theaetetus and knowing the spelling of his
name—but I believe that most of what we call “mundane knowledge” would for Plato count as mere true
belief. What counts as mundane knowledge requires developed skill.
K N OW L E D G E A S E X P E RT I S E 103
on knowledge culminating in the missing Philosopher and offers a clue to understanding

the whole series.7 We start with it.
4.1 Prologue of the Theaetetus

On the occasion of Theaetetus’ wounding in a battle at Corinth compounding the
effects of a serious illness, Eucleides of Megara reports a conversation the young
Theaetetus had with Socrates shortly before Socrates’ trial and death.8 Plato’s surrogate
author tells his friend Terpsion that when he visited Athens, Socrates reported the
conversation to him, he took notes when he got home to Megara and later wrote up
the whole at his leisure.9 On trips back to Athens he checked details with Socrates and
made corrections at home, so that by now he has most of the account in writing, and
asks a slave to read it to them while they rest. Eucleides explains that his account is not a
narrative, as Socrates related it to him, because he cut out phrases such as “I said,” and
“he agreed,” and presents Socrates as conversing directly with Theodorus and Theae-
tetus. Eucleides’ remarks about the genesis of the account and the trivial changes
affecting its genre have considerable relevance for the upcoming investigation of
knowledge—though the relevance becomes evident only after one has read the
whole work and comes back again to the beginning. In a passage about a jury at the
end of the second part of the dialogue (201a4–c6), Socrates claims that people can
make correct judgments about things they have learned second-hand, but in reaching
their verdict the jury could only know things they witnessed first-hand themselves, and
7
There is evidence that the Theaetetus had an alternate Prologue of about the same length as the current
one (Anon. Comm. Tht. Col. III, 28–32 [= Bastiani and Sedley]). For a discussion of the Anonymous
Commentator and other ancient interpretations of the dialogue, see Sedley (1996).
8
The Prologue, mentioning Theaetetus’ wounds and illness, probably indicates that the dialogue com-
memorates his death. Since the early 1900s scholars have taken the relevant battle to have occurred in 369 bce
and have used that year to fix an absolute date for the composition of the Theaetetus. But the evidence that
Plato replaced an earlier prologue (see previous note) suggests that he wrote the Theaetetus before that date
and revised it with a new prologue at the time of Theaetetus’ death. The date of Theaetetus’ death has
recently been disputed by Nails (2002: 374–8), who makes a strong case that Theaetetus died much earlier in
a battle with Corinth in 391, at age 24. If Nails is right, we lose an absolute date of composition/revision
entirely, since Plato could have composed the dialogue and revised it anytime after Theaetetus’ early death.
More important than an absolute (or even relative) date of composition are Plato’s cross-references in the
Theaetetus to other dialogues, and from other dialogues to it. The cross-references indicate that at some stage
Plato arranged the Theaetetus, Sophist, and Statesman into a series and intended his audience to read the series in
light of the Parmenides. The reference to the Euthyphro at the end of the Theaetetus (Socrates leaves for the
Royal Stoa to meet the indictment of Meletus against him, and runs into Euthyphro there) suggests that issues
in the Euthyphro (requirements for definition) are worth thinking about as one tries to find a way past the
difficulty at the end of the Theaetetus, though I shall not pursue this thread.
9
Since Eucleides mentions the conversation as having occurred not long before Socrates’ death (142c5–
6), and since the dialogue ends with Socrates’ departure for the Royal Stoa to face the indictment against him
(210d2–4), Eucleides apparently got the report during the last month or so of Socrates’ life (according to
Plato’s dramatic staging). Plato lists both Eucleides and Terpsion as present at the prison for Socrates’ last day
recounted in the Phaedo (59c2). As I said in my Introduction, note 5, I shall not discuss the significance of
Socrates’ impending trial and death for our series, a topic that has been well explored by other scholars.
104 PHILOSOPHOS
so they do not actually know the truth of what happened.10 Whereas a narrative
presents a second-hand report, a drama stages a conversation unfolding before our eyes.
Eucleides distinguishes between narrative and drama and then blurs the distinction,
making the audience feel like eye-witnesses to the upcoming conversation, even
though the whole is in fact a report, and possibly a flawed report, since Eucleides did
not witness the events himself, and despite his best efforts to achieve accuracy, his
memory is not perfect.
What do we have? Narrative? Drama? How can the reader be an eye-witness to any
of this? Even the reporter did not observe the conversation. Plato perplexes his readers at
the beginning (at least on rereading) as to the status of the account and their relation to it,
and in so doing provokes them (and us modern readers) to ask what difference it makes
whether one is reading or hearing a narrative or a dramatic performance. Could we be
an eye-witness even if it really were a drama? Would it have been sufficient for
knowledge had we been there that day and heard the conversation ourselves? By
stimulating his audience to ask these questions, Plato lures them (and us) into the
conversation. Once we become participants, we are not just reading or hearing an
account, no matter how many removes it is from the live conversation. In this way Plato
turns his audience into eye-witnesses, in a position to learn what knowledge is. Once we
become participants engaged in the exercise ourselves, it makes no difference whether
the text is narrative or drama or how many removes we are from the events described.11
Plato does not close the frame at the end of the Theaetetus. The Sophist and Statesman
continue in direct speech, as though they were parts of the same report, and the
Statesman ends without a closing frame.12 Although the Prologue was apparently
written for the Theaetetus alone, since all its details pertain to that dialogue, the lack
of closure nonetheless gives the impression that the series Sophist–Statesman continues
the same discussion the next day.13 As we shall see in Chapter Six, the Statesman has a
peculiar ending, and that ending adds to the impression that the conversation is still in
progress and incomplete.
4.2 Definition of Clay

At the beginning of the main discussion, Theodorus introduces Socrates to his student
Theaetetus, whom he describes as physically ugly—he resembles Socrates in his snub
nose and prominent eyes—but praises for his intellect and character, a blend of courage
and steadiness (143e4–144b6). Theodorus’ description of Theaetetus prompts Socrates
to ask the young man whether Theodorus the geometer is qualified to judge his looks
10
Cf. Meno (97a6–98a9) on knowledge and true belief about the Road to Larisa.
11
For a different interpretation of the Prologue, see Blondell (2002: 43–4, 305–6, 312–13).
12
Cf. Lane (1998: 7), who credits the observation to Myles Burnyeat.
13
As Blondell (2002: 316–17) points out, the Prologue could have mentioned Young Socrates and the
Eleatic visitor, with whom Socrates conversed the following day, had Plato wanted it explicitly to introduce
all three dialogues.
as well as his intellectual gifts, and discussion of the geometer’s expertise leads naturally
to the dialogue’s main question: What is knowledge? Theaetetus first replies by giving
a list of examples based on the preceding discussion:
I think that the things someone might learn from Theodorus are knowledge—geometry and the
subjects you enumerated just now [arithmetic, astronomy, music]—and cobbling, too, and the arts
(technai ) of the other craftsmen; all of them together and each separately are simply knowledge.
(146c7–d3)
This list of examples and Socrates’ upcoming objection recall opening moves in
other Socratic dialogues, including the first part of the Meno. When asked what virtue
is, Meno lists different virtues of man, woman, child, and slave, occasioning Socrates to
object that he did not ask for a whole swarm of virtues but for one character that makes
them all virtues (Meno 71e1–72d1). Socrates typically rejects the list and asks what
features those items share to justify the collection. Even though he rejects the list, it
serves a useful purpose by focusing attention on a kind with relevant features shared by
its subkinds and members.14 This first move enables the inquirers to direct their
attention toward the right target, however inadequate its initial description, and then
to look for its essence. In our passage in the Theaetetus, Socrates protests that arts such as
cobbling and carpentry are knowledge of different objects: he is not looking for species
of knowledge but wants to know what knowledge itself is—what it is that makes
geometry, arithmetic, cobbling, and the rest, all branches of knowledge.15 To put the
point as Socrates does in a similar passage in the Euthyphro, he wants to know that form
itself (ekeino auto to eidos) by which (hōi) all the branches of knowledge are knowledge
(Euthphr. 6d10–11). One might think that what one learns from Theodorus is a body of
knowledge—the contents of a discipline, a science—but Theaetetus’ mention of
technai (arts) indicates that at least some of Theaetetus’ examples are types of expertise
and suggests that his whole list collects cognitive skills of various sorts, some of which
he is learning from Theodorus.16 The form of knowledge makes all branches of
knowledge count as knowledge and also makes the knower knowledgeable and wise
(Tht. 145d7–e7). Socrates wants Theaetetus to tell him that feature or set of features,
common to and explanatory of all types of knowledge, in virtue of which people are
knowledgeable and wise.
To help Theaetetus understand the sort of answer he wants, Socrates offers a model.
If he asked, “What is clay?” he would not want a list of types of clay differentiated by
their uses—potters’ clay, brick-makers’ clay, doll-makers’ clay, and so forth. He wants
a single answer that states what all clays have in common, the character that makes all of
14
Cf. Nehamas (1984: 33).
15
Although Socrates rejects Theaetetus’ list because it does not answer his question—what knowledge
itself is—Heitsch (1988: 25) rightly observes that the list of examples of knowledge is never called into
question.
16
Cf. Burnyeat (1981) on the distinction in Aristotle between a systematic body of knowledge and
expertise.
106 PHILOSOPHOS
them types of clay and whose presence in things makes them instances of clay. He gives
a sample definition: “clay is earth mixed with liquid” (147c4–6).17 Several pages follow
before the question about knowledge is raised again, during which Theaetetus de-
scribes a mathematical discovery he and Socrates the Younger recently made. He
mentions it because he thinks that they applied Socrates’ recommendation in that
instance, evidence that he understands what Socrates wants him to do (147c7–
148c1).18 When Socrates returns to the question about knowledge, Theaetetus replies:
“It seems to me that a man who knows something perceives the thing that he knows,
and as it appears at present, at any rate, knowledge is simply perception” (151e1–3).
This proposal shapes the first main part of the dialogue.
Theaetetus’ first official definition is puzzling in light of his earlier answer. The
definition of knowledge as perception treats knowledge as direct awareness of percep-
tible objects, whereas the previous list treats knowledge as a capacity to perform some
activity—a mental competence—what we nowadays call “knowing how.” On the
face of it, Theaetetus’ present attempt abandons the idea that unified his original list.
We can, however, reconcile the two passages by supposing that, in proposing that
knowledge is perception, Theaetetus is trying to follow Socrates’ advice. He has asked
himself: What do all skillful people have in common—the geometer, the arithmeti-
cian, the doctor, the cobbler, the carpenter, and others? He answers that whoever
knows something perceives the thing that he knows—for instance, the cobbler
perceives pieces of leather, his cobbling tools and products; the arithmetician perceives
numbers; and the geometer perceives shapes and solids—and from that observation he
concludes that knowledge is simply perception. Whereas he previously spoke of the
capacity that enables some skilled activity, a competence one might learn from an
expert, his current answer concerns the corresponding activity, which occurs on
particular occasions in acts of knowing. Anyone who actively knows something
perceives the thing that he knows. Theaetetus’ proposal fails, as Part I will show, but
it fails because he thinks that perception is sufficient for knowledge and hence that
knowledge is simply perception. Although the dialogue rejects the identification,
I shall argue that Plato preserves the insight that perception is a necessary component
of knowledge.
17
Aristotle complains (Top. IV.5, 127a12–17) that this definition is not in terms of genus and differentia,
since earth is not the genus of clay. Sedley (1993: 147), while discussing the Anonymous Commentator on
the passage about clay in the Theaetetus, mentions Aristotle’s occasional own interest in definitions of the form
“a=b + c” (Top. VI.13) (i.e., definitions by analysis). Bostock (1988: 251 n. 54) mentions that the definition
of knowledge as true judgment plus an account could be seen as conforming to the definition of clay.
18
This passage indicates what Theaetetus takes himself to be doing in his upcoming definition of
knowledge as perception. Apparently Theodorus had some procedure to generate the primes and used it
to reach number 17, but Theaetetus and Socrates the Younger found a way to describe what those numbers
all have in common, in contrast to other numbers (147d8–e1; cf. 148d4–7). Finding a way to characterize the
list is a first step in the search for a definition explaining their common features. On this topic I have profited
from reading Heike Sefrin-Weis, “The Powers of Theaetetus” (unpublished).
Socrates’ definition of clay, “earth mixed with liquid,” mentions two physical
components which, in proper combination, yield clay (as opposed to, say, a puddle).
This definition is a good model of the sort Plato’s Eleatic Stranger advocates in the
Statesman and uses in both the Sophist (with the angler) and Statesman (with the weaver).
A model involves a mundane and uncontroversial example, something one can observe
and picture, and it displays a structure uncovered by a certain procedure (Stm. 285d9–
286b1).19 Clay is a combination of physical elements discoverable through a physical
analysis of clay, and its definition models a structure Socrates encourages Theaetetus to
reproduce in his definition of knowledge. The embodied structure in the example and
in the target is, of course, very different, since knowledge is a cognitive capacity and
cannot be pictured, its identity is disputed, and its components are capacities, not
physical parts; but the model suggests that Theaetetus should work out what compo-
nents knowledge consists of and how they fit together.
We shall examine each of the three components in turn—perception, true judg-
ment, and account—the topics of the three main sections of the dialogue. We start
with the Final Argument in Part I against Theaetetus’ proposal that knowledge is
perception and discuss it in some detail, because in the course of limiting the powers of
perception in this section, Plato also clarifies his conception of judgment, the topic of
the second main part of the dialogue.
4.3 Limits of Perception

In Chapter 3 we discussed Socrates’ first argument against Theaetetus’ definition of
knowledge as perception via the theses of Protagoras and Heraclitus, and we turn now
to his second argument against that proposal (184a9–186e12). In the final section of
Part I Socrates argues again that perception is not the same thing as knowledge, but this
time on the ground that perception cannot grasp being and so cannot attain truth
(186c7–10).
The Final Argument of Part I does not continue the attack on Protagoras from
earlier in Part I, because Protagorean perception was supposed to satisfy the very
criteria for knowledge that perception in this final argument fails to meet. Recall
that Protagorean perception is always of what-is (being) and without falsehood (i.e.,
true) (152c5–6). Socrates identified Protagorean perception with phantasia (response to
an appearance) and in so doing treated perception as intrinsically judgmental: what
appears sweet to me is sweet for me—in the very act of perceiving I identify what
appears to me and cannot be mistaken about the appearance.
Toward the end of his refutation of Protagoras, before delivering his final blow to
the Heracliteans, Socrates prepares the way for the view of perception relevant to the
Final Argument of Part I:
19
I discuss Plato’s use of models in Gill (2006) and further below in Chapters 5 and 6.
108 PHILOSOPHOS
But concerning the present affection for each person, from which arise perceptions (hai aisthēseis)
and perceptual judgments (hai kata tautas doxai), it’s more difficult to prove that they [Protagorean
perceptions] are not true. (179c2–5)
Here Socrates separates Protagorean perceptions into two components previously

combined in the equation of perception with phantasia: perception proper and percep-
tual judgment. As soon as judgment is separated out of the perceptual experience,
perception becomes less potent, and attaining truth depends on a separate act of
judgment. Whereas on the earlier view the perceiver both grasps something and
identifies it as sweetness in a single act, once the act is broken down into two
conceptually distinct acts—the act of grasping something and the act of identifying
that something as sweet—it becomes possible for the perceiver to mistake what he
grasps. Thus attaining truth ceases to be automatic and becomes an achievement. The
Final Argument, as I understand it, abandons the Protagorean view of perception as
phantasia and the Heraclitean view of being as becoming, and now perception cannot
grasp being and so cannot attain truth either.20 In this section Plato distinguishes sense
perception, which cannot grasp being or attain truth, from an activity of the soul on its
own capable of both, identified at the start of Part II as judgment.
The Final Argument marks off sensible qualities accessible to only one sense from
what Socrates calls “common” (koina) features out of perception’s reach, including
being, sameness, difference, oneness, and number. Socrates’ denial that the common
features are perceivable might seem to tell against my argument in Chapter 3 that Part I
accommodates both sense perception and mental perception, inasmuch as being,
sameness, difference, oneness, and number should be objects of mental perception as
I characterized it.21 The Final Argument does not discuss mental perception, but
nothing said rules out my previous interpretation, because Socrates speaks of the
being of sensible qualities, the difference between one sensible quality and others, and
the being of that difference, rather than of these features by themselves apart from
things to which they belong.22 To be sure, insofar as the Final Argument restricts sense
20
Some commentators regard the Final Argument in Part I as still directed against Theaetetus’ definition
via Protagoras, but I side with Burnyeat (1990: 52–3) that it is an independent direct argument against
Theaetetus’ proposal based on Plato’s own assumptions—though Plato appears to have revised his view of
perception since the Republic, where perception seems more Protagorean in having judgmental powers. See
Rep. VII, 523a10–525a5, and X, 602c7–603a9, and the discussion in Burnyeat (1976: 34–5) and Lorenz
(2006: 55–7 and ch. 5).
21
Had Theaetetus thought of mental perception, he might have resisted Socrates’ objection in the Final
Argument that people cannot grasp the common features with the senses, by responding that they do grasp
them by mental perception. In that case Socrates would have had to do more work to show that, even if
perception can grasp being, it still cannot attain truth, because truth depends on correctly identifying what is
perceived as something or other. Since Theaetetus agrees that perception cannot grasp being, Socrates simply
points out that in that case it cannot attain truth either.
22
Cornford (1935a: 102–9) believes that the common features (koina) are separate forms (though not
called “forms,” since in his view Plato downplays forms in the Theaetetus), and that they are grasped by an act
of the mind on its own. Cornford’s view seems to require only what I call “mental perception,” the direct
awareness of stable objects beyond sensation’s reach. While such apprehension is (in my view) a precondition
perception, it restricts mental perception too: if sense perception merely grasps sensible
qualities without identifying them, then mental perception grasps the common features
in a similar manner, and a distinct mental act is required to identify them. This passage
leads into the second part of the dialogue on true judgment and shows that knowledge
demands more than perception, whether sense perception or mental perception:
knowledge also requires judgment to identify things perceived.
The soul as perceiver

I shall ignore one controversial issue in the Final Argument in Part I, the interpretation
of being and other common features (koina), such as sameness, difference, oneness,
number, likeness, and unlikeness.23 I have said a good deal about some of these
structural forms in discussing the Parmenides and shall say more about being, sameness,
and difference in connection with the Sophist; here I assume that they match their
counterparts in the second part of the Parmenides. In particular, being—a single form—
can operate in two ways, both on its own as a monadic property of something, and as a
link between the subject and some feature it has.24 Since our project in this chapter is to
define knowledge, the genus to be differentiated into species in the search for the sophist
and statesman, I postpone further discussion of being—the philosopher’s object—until
we start marking off branches of knowledge from one another. We focus now on Plato’s
treatment of sense perception and the activity of the soul on its own, apart from sense
perception, later identified as judgment, and I aim ultimately to show that the capacities
for these two activities are components of knowledge conceived as expertise.
At the beginning of the section Theaetetus agrees to several claims about perception.
Socrates recommends that Theaetetus think of the sense organs not as though they
were a band of warriors stationed in a wooden horse, each operating as an independent
agent. On the contrary, human and nonhuman perceivers see with (instrumental dative)
the soul through (dia) the eyes, and hear with the soul through the ears (184b7–d5).
Myles Burnyeat has argued that what we perceive with—the soul—is the perceiving
subject in all acts of perception and coordinates the five senses, while what we perceive
through—the senses (and organs)—are its means of gaining access to perceptible qualities
outside the mind.25 As we shall see in more detail later, the goings-on in the sense
for making any judgments, it is not the topic of the Final Argument in Part I. The repeated use of peri autōn
(“about them”) and similar expressions (185b7–9, c4–7, c9–d1, d8–e2) indicates that the soul considers the
common features of the perceptibles. This point is stressed against Cornford by a number of scholars,
including Cooper (1970: 123–6, 135–6), Bostock (1988: 120–1), and Heitsch (1988: 95–6).
23
In the extensive literature on this topic, see the different views of Cornford (1935a: 102–9), Cooper
(1970), Kahn (1981: 119–27), D. Frede (1989: esp. 22–4), and Broackes (unpublished).
24
On being in the Parmenides, see Chapter 2 secs. 2.2 and 2.8 above.
25
Burnyeat (1976: secs. 1–3). I have also profited from reading a forthcoming paper by Justin Broackes
(“Plato and the Grammar of Perception”), analyzing the grammatical locutions in detail. Broackes argues
that, while Burnyeat is right about the distinction Plato intends, he is wrong about its relation to Greek
grammar, which he takes Plato to be revising in this passage. A reader for the Press has suggested that the
dative could be locative (“in the soul”). A locative dative would have the advantage over an instrumental
110 PHILOSOPHOS
organs are not themselves seeing or hearing, but the proximate (material and efficient)
causes of those acts of the soul.
Socrates says that the soul perceives through the bodily organs (184c5–9), such as
eyes and ears, and also through the capacities (dunameis) of those organs, such as sight
and hearing. He uses the “through” idiom in the second way when he claims that what
we perceive though one sense modality we cannot perceive through another:
Do you wish to agree that the things which you perceive through one capacity (di’ heteras
dunameōs), it is impossible to perceive through another [capacity], for instance, what you perceive
through hearing [it is impossible to perceive] through sight, or what you perceive through sight
[it is impossible to perceive] through hearing?—How could I not admit that? (184e8–185a2)
While each sense/organ is restricted to its own proper objects, the soul can grasp the
full array of sensible qualities by operating through its several organs.26
Perception and judgment

Take two sensible qualities, an instance of the color red (perceived through sight) and
an instance of the sound C# (perceived through hearing).27 Theaetetus agrees that we
can think various things about red and C#—that they both are, that each is different
from the other and the same as itself, that together they are two and each is one, and
(with more hesitation) that they are unlike or like each other (185a4–b6). Socrates
wants to know through what instrument (dia tinos) the soul grasps all these common
features about red and C# (185b7–9). After a key paragraph in which he offers an odd
illustration to demonstrate what he means, Socrates repeats his question:
Through what [instrument] does the capacity reveal to you what is common both to all things
and to these [red and C#] . . . [W]hat sorts of instruments will you assign through which the
perceiving part of us perceives each of them? (185c4–8)
dative in avoiding the appearance that the soul is a mere instrument as opposed to the subject of all perceiving,
but a locative dative in prose tends to be restricted to proper names, e.g., Athēnēsi (“at Athens”): Smyth (1984:
}1534). It does not so much matter how we parse the dative, as long as we recognize that it specifies the
subject and not merely an instrument of perception.
26
Burnyeat (1976: 47–8; cf. 1990: 56–7) thinks that Plato adopts a stronger principle than he needs by
ignoring what Aristotle calls the common sensibles, such as shape, size, change, and rest, perceived by more
than one sense (Aristotle, De An. II.6, 418a16–20). Yet Plato seems to have a point in that when we perceive
shape though sight, we perceive its visible aspects (its look), whereas when we perceive shape through touch,
we perceive its tangible aspects (its feel). Cf. the similar treatment of sight and hearing at Rep. V, 477c1–d6—
there, too, different sense capacities are set over different objects. Putting visible, audible, and tangible aspects
together will (for Plato) require more than sense perception. Heitsch (1988: 99–100) discusses the soul’s use
of the common features to synthesize the evidence of the senses into whole objects. For a defense of Plato’s
principle different from my own, see Modrak (1981: sec. 1).
27
I agree with Burnyeat (1976: 48 n. 55) that in this section Plato is talking about instances of qualities
rather than types of qualities. As we shall see in Chapter 7 when we discuss the Philebus, the qualities of which
my two examples are instances are not on a par for Plato. Whereas red is a species of color, C# is a compound
of sound and a certain degree of pitch. Nothing in what I say now turns on that ontological difference.
Having made sure that Socrates is talking about being, not-being, sameness, difference,
and other common features, Theaetetus replies that there is no special instrument in these
cases; instead the soul considers them itself through itself (autē di’ hautēs) (185e1–2).
Socrates applauds Theaetetus and thanks him for saving him a lot of trouble (185e3–9).
Scholars have asked how much the soul can achieve through the senses in percep-
tion. When must the soul first act through itself and go beyond sense perception? Can
the soul make rudimentary judgments through perception—for instance, identify a
flavor as sweet? Some help toward answering these questions comes from the curious
illustration sandwiched between the repeated question about the soul’s instrument in
considering the common features of things. I quote the passage in full, including the
surrounding bits to which I have already referred. (In reading the passage, pay close
attention to Socrates’ use of the “with” and “through” idioms.)
Through what do you think all these [being, difference, sameness, twoness, oneness, unlikeness,
likeness] about the two of them [red and C#]? For you are not able to grasp the common feature
of them through hearing or through sight. Moreover, the following too is proof of what we are
saying: If it were possible to inquire whether both [red and C#] are salty or not (eston halmurō ē
ou), you would be able to say with what (hōi) you will consider them, and this is evidently neither
sight nor hearing, but something else.—Yes, of course, it’s the capacity (hē . . . dunamis) through
the tongue (dia tēs glōttēs).—Well said. And then the capacity (hē . . . dunamis) through what
[instrument] (dia tinos) clarifies to you that which is common both to everything and these
[red and C#], to which you apply the words “is” and “is not,” and what we asked about them
just now? For all these, what sorts of instruments will you assign through which the perceiving part
of us perceives each of them? (185b7–c8)
Most commentators think that Socrates is sloppy when he says that Theaetetus will
readily be able to say with what he will consider whether red and C# are salty or not,
because he adds that this is evidently neither sight nor hearing, and Theaetetus replies
“the capacity through the tongue,” an answer Socrates approves. Socrates should have
used the “through” idiom, because he is saying that Theaetetus can readily tell him
through what he will examine whether red and C# are salty or not, and that is the
capacity through the tongue, namely taste.28
Getting the right interpretation of this passage is important because it has been taken
as evidence that the senses can make simple perceptual judgments by labeling the
content of perception.29 Socrates does not blur the grammatical distinction he has
28
E.g., Burnyeat (1976: 42, 48–9), Kanayama (1987: 39–40), Bostock (1988: 111, 121 n. 35, though cf.
n. 36), and Lorenz (2006: 78–9). Cooper (1970: 131–2) and Modrak (1981: 42–3, 52 n. 4) do not mention
the sloppiness, but they evidently interpret “with” at 185c1 as “through.”
29
Cooper (1970: 132) finds two distinct views of perception in the Final Argument and takes the present
passage as evidence for labeling. Cf. Modrak (1981: 42–8). Other interpreters end up with a threefold
distinction: (1) pure perception which is not judgmental (we do this with the soul through the senses);
(2) perceptual judgment of sensible qualities (we also do this with the soul through the senses); and (3) pure
judgment (we do this with the soul through itself). But the Final Argument quite clearly makes a twofold
distinction, between (1) perception (with the soul through the senses) and (2) judgment (with the soul
112 PHILOSOPHOS
just introduced and on whose precise use he insisted (184d7–e3), but speaks very
precisely.30 Theaetetus’ ambiguous answer probably betrays his misunderstanding, but
Socrates’ response disambiguates the answer so that it comes out correct. We shall
discuss the details in a moment.
Let me state my conclusions in advance. Socrates introduces the hypothetical example
to demonstrate his previous claim that we cannot grasp the common features through
sight or through hearing, and his example implicitly invokes all the common features just
enumerated: In order to determine whether red and C# are salty or not, one must first
determine what each of them is (red or C#), that they are different from each other and
the same as themselves, that both together are two and each is one. Furthermore, in
deciding whether they are salty or not, one must also determine whether they are like or
unlike each other in either respect (185a8–b5). The odd illustration focuses on likeness
and unlikeness, because Theaetetus accepts them as common features only with some
hesitation (185b6: “Perhaps”). One examines two individual perceptible qualities, red and
C#, and asks if they are like or unlike in both being salty or not. The answer is
problematic, since red and C# have no flavor at all, but the peculiarity of the example
is precisely the point. This is a thought experiment, something the soul will have to
consider through itself. Socrates, having exercised in his youth with Parmenides, would
approve an answer one must arrive at by reflection: red and C#, though different from
each other in being red and C#, are like each other in not being salty.31
Now the details. Socrates says that it is easy to say with what we address the question
about saltiness. That answer is easy, because Theaetetus and Socrates have already
agreed that all perceiving is done with the soul (184d1–6), not sight or hearing (185c1–
2). To Socrates’ easy question, “With what do we answer the question about saltiness?”
Theaetetus replies “the capacity through the tongue” (hē ge dia tēs glōttēs dunamis)
(185c3). His answer is ambiguous, because “capacity” could refer to either of two
things: (1) the soul, the capacity engaged in all perception and judgment, which
operates through the tongue in perceiving saltiness; or (2) taste, the capacity of the
tongue in tasting. If Theaetetus means the second, he has misunderstood Socrates’
question, for that question was not “through what do you perceive saltiness?” but “with
what do you perceive saltiness?”
through itself). On which side of that line should we put perceptual judgment—is it perception or judgment?
In my view it is judgment but depends on the senses to supply the object of judgment.
30
Sedley (2004: 106–7 n. 29) is the only author I know of who rejects the idea that Socrates is being
careless here, but he thinks that Socrates now proposes that if (counterfactually) we could determine whether
red and C# are salty or not, taste would take over from the soul the unifying role of judging agent. I do not
think that this can be right, given what Socrates previously said about the correct use of the “with” idiom: we
do all our perceiving with the soul.
31
Cf. Prm. 147c1–148d1. In Chapter 5 secs. 5.4 and 5.6, I discuss Plato’s theory of negation and
falsehood, and attribute to him a view (which I shall call the “Incompatibility Set” interpretation of negation),
according to which the true statement “red and C# are not salty” might be taken to imply that they have
some other flavor instead, but I think that it need not have that implication. See below, Chapter 5 note 70.
Whatever Theaetetus thinks he is saying, Socrates takes him to have answered the easy
question he actually asked and to have answered it correctly: the soul—the capacity which
in tasting operates through the tongue—is that with which Theaetetus would answer the
question. In returning to the hard question (“what do we perceive through?”), Socrates
picks up on Theaetetus’ word dunamis and asks (I requote with supplements):
And then the capacity (hē . . . dunamis) through what [instrument] (dia tinos) clarifies to you that
which is common both to everything and these [red and C#], to which you apply the words “is”
and “is not,” and what we asked about them just now [i.e., “are they salty or not?”]? For all these,
what sorts of instruments will you assign through which the perceiving part of us perceives each
of them? (185c4–8)
Socrates refers to the same capacity he took Theaetetus to refer to, namely, the capacity
with which we consider questions such as being, not-being, likeness, and unlikeness,
and that is the capacity he refers to at the end of the passage as “the perceiving part of us,”
namely the soul. He then re-asks the hard question: “through what” does that capacity
(the soul) consider these questions? And now Theaetetus, in making sure he understood
the question, restates it: “you are asking through what [instrument] of those in the body
we perceive [being, not-being, likeness, unlikeness, etc.] with the soul (tēi psuchēi)”
(185d2–3). Theaetetus’ response to that question is unambiguous and correct: there is
no special instrument (organon idion) in this case, but instead the soul (hē psuchē) considers
the common features of everything itself through itself (autē di’ hautēs) (185d6–e2).
The odd illustration indicates that Plato places some definite limits on perception. As
I have interpreted the illustration and the surrounding context, the assertion or denial
that some sensible quality belongs to two things (e.g., saltiness to red and C#) requires a
number of psychic acts in which the soul operates on its own through itself. In
answering the question about saltiness, the soul must use the common features to
identify and distinguish two sensible qualities and then compare them in answering the
question: are they like or unlike in being salty or not?
I have so far argued that the soul must act on its own to determine whether two
sensible qualities are salty or not, but how much can perception do without such
intervention? Otherwise put: what is the lowest level at which the soul must act
through itself? Can the soul grasp a single instance of a quality, say hardness, and
identify it as hard through touch, or must the soul act through itself even at this
fundamental level? In my view the soul must act on its own even at this most basic
level. Though I am by no means alone in this conclusion, I differ from others in my
reconstruction of the upcoming argument establishing it.32
In the next stretch of text, Socrates invites Theaetetus to assign various sorts of
properties either to the class of things the soul grasps through itself or to the class it
grasps through one of the senses. Here he moves beyond the features common to
everything and asks about aesthetic and moral values. Theaetetus has just announced
32
See McDowell (1973: 190–93) and Lorenz (2006: 56 and ch. 6, esp. 83–91).
114 PHILOSOPHOS
that the soul considers the common features of everything by itself, and Socrates cheers,
using a phrase that will prove significant a few lines later: “You are beautiful, Theae-
tetus, and not ugly, as Theodorus said, for a man who speaks beautifully is beautiful and
good!” (185e3–5). Then he repeats the distinction Theaetetus has just recognized, that
the soul considers some things through itself, others through the capacities of the body
(185e6–7), and asks Theaetetus to decide in which of the two groups (poterōn) he puts
the being (tēn ousian) that accompanies everything (186a2–3). Theaetetus replies that
being is among the things the soul grasps by itself, and similarly likeness and unlikeness
and sameness and difference (186a4–8). Then Socrates asks: “What about beautiful and
ugly, good and bad?” (186a9), to which Theaetetus replies:
In fact it seems to me that in these cases especially the soul considers their being (toutōn . . . tēn
ousian) in relation to each other, calculating within itself the past and present in relation to the
future. (186a10–b1)
“Hold on!” (Eche dē ) Socrates interjects (186b2).33 He stops Theaetetus because the youth
missed the point of the question, which was not: “Through what instrument does the soul
grasp the being of the beautiful and of the ugly in relation to each other?” but “Through
what instrument does the soul grasp the beauty or ugliness of Theaetetus?” as in his
exclamation a few lines before: “You are beautiful, Theaetetus, and not ugly!” and as the
parallel questioning about being, likeness and unlikeness, sameness and difference makes
clear.34 Theaetetus correctly answered the questions about the common features in
responding that the soul considers them through itself, but as soon as Socrates takes a
step beyond the common features to beauty and ugliness, which apply to some things and
not others, the boy becomes confused and takes Socrates to be asking about the being of
those features. But Socrates is asking about beauty and ugliness, goodness and badness as
attributes of things—for instance, the beauty of Theaetetus—and he wants to know
whether the soul grasps them through itself or through the senses.
Since Theaetetus missed the force of the question, Socrates does not proceed to the
next question in the line of questioning he was pursuing, which would have been:
“And what about the hardness of a hard thing and the softness of a soft thing?”35 No
point in asking that question, because Socrates can now guess how Theaetetus would
have answered the previous question about the values of things had he understood it
33
Contrast Levett-Burnyeat’s (1990) translation: “Slow down,” which suggests that Theaetetus jumped
too quickly to the conclusion. For interpretations of “Hold on!” different from my own, see McDowell
(1973: 190), Kanayama (1987: 77–8), Bostock (1988: 122–3), and Lorenz (2006: 86 n. 41).
34
Bostock (1988: 122 n. 37) wonders why Socrates introduces the question “What about beautiful and
ugly, good and bad” with adjectives instead of abstract nouns or adjectives with definite articles. Answer:
Socrates picks up the predicates in “You are beautiful, Theaetetus . . . ” and is asking about the beauty of
Theaetetus, not about beauty in its own right. Cf. Cooper (1970: 137) and Lorenz (2006: 85–6).
35
I take it that McDowell (1973: 190) would not agree with me about the continued line of questioning,
since he thinks that Theaetetus’ previous answer about beauty and ugliness has some merit because they are
features of objects of more than one sense. In my view Socrates uses this line of questioning to get Theaetetus
to see that the soul must act through itself even in applying sensible qualities to things, and sensible qualities
are proper to only one sense.
(the youth, still in the grip of Protagoras, would have said that the soul grasps the
beauty of Theaetetus through the senses), and that, I suggest, is not the answer Socrates
is looking for, and not the answer he is looking for in the more controversial case of
hardness and softness and other sensible qualities of things.36 Instead Socrates goes back
to the basic distinction already agreed on, between perception of sensible qualities
grasped with the soul through the senses, and judging common features of perceptible
qualities grasped with the soul through itself:
Hold on! Wouldn’t you say that through touch it [the soul] will perceive (aisthēsetai) the hardness
of the hard (tou men sklērou tēn sklērotēta), and likewise the softness of the soft (tou malakou tēn
malakotēta)?—Yes.—But with respect at least to the being (tēn de ge ousian) [of hardness and
softness]—what they both are (hoti eston)—and the opposition between them, and again the
being of that opposition, the soul itself rises up and, comparing them to each other, attempts to
decide for us.—Of course. (186b2–10)
Precisely what Theaetetus agrees to about perception in the first part of the passage is
underdetermined. Socrates’ question could allow the soul, operating through the
senses, to make simple perceptual judgments about sensible things (the hard or the
soft), and in that case the soul, acting though touch, can identify the hardness of
the hard as hard and the softness of the soft as soft.37 But Socrates could well envisage
something less—that through touch the soul grasps the hardness of the hard without
yet identifying that hardness as hard.38 This second interpretation fits the line of
questioning I claimed Socrates broke off with his “Hold on!” He broke it off,
I suggested, because Theaetetus was not yet prepared to recognize that the soul must
operate on its own to identify (or attribute properties to) anything in making such basic
identifications as “this (hardness/hard thing I touch) is hard.”
The second part of the passage presents the activities of the soul on its own as distinct
from its perception through touch (marked by the men . . . de contrast at 186b2 and b6).
We decide about the being of hardness and softness, what they are, the opposition
between them, and the being of that opposition with the soul through itself.39 How
36
Although Socrates does not explicitly return to values, such as beauty and goodness, which caused
Theaetetus’ confusion, in an upcoming passage (186b11–c5) he mentions calculations in relation to being and
benefit (goodness), which people achieve only through a lot of hard work and education. This passage
supports the idea that Plato’s Socrates thinks that we grasp the beauty of Theaetetus with the soul through
itself. The mention of future benefit, together with Theaetetus’ earlier claim that the soul calculates about the
past and present in relation to the future, also increases the impression that the Final Argument focuses on
instances of qualities and values. I owe this observation to a reader for the Press.
37
The Greek in “the hard” (and “the soft”) is ambiguous between “the hard thing” (say a stone) or
“hardness” (a tangible quality). In either case Socrates is talking about some external object, and at this point
nothing turns on which sort of entity is at issue (sensible quality or thing that has that quality).
38
Cooper (1970: 130–1) entertains but rejects this interpretation.
39
I accept McDowell’s (1973: 69, 191) translation of ‹Ø K at 186b6 as “what they are,” instead of the
more usual translation: “that they are.” Bostock (1988: 139–40 and n. 55) objects that on McDowell’s construal
the phrase is ungrammatical, since Plato should have used the dual u Ø with the dual K. But as Broackes
(unpublished) shows, the contested ‹Ø on McDowell’s construal serves as the grammatical complement of
116 PHILOSOPHOS
much is envisaged in the lowest of these higher order operations, concerning the being
of hardness and softness, what they are? While it could be some elevated operation such
as determining the essence of hardness and softness, I take it to be the ground-level
identification of the hardness of the hard as hard and of the softness of the soft as soft,
the very first step toward determining the opposition between hardness and softness
and the being of that opposition. Determining the essence of hardness and softness
should come only at the third step, when one considers the being of the opposition.40
I propose this interpretation—that judging the hardness of the hard as hard is already
an act of the soul through itself—as one among other possible interpretations, but the
earlier thought experiment about judging the saltiness of red and C# strongly bolsters
my proposal. Recall that in order to decide whether red and C# are salty or not, the
inquirer has to invoke various common features. Similarly, to recognize the hardness of
the hard as hard, the soul must use the common features, since it must classify the
quality experienced and recognize that it is something (namely, hard). This determin-
ation already calls for the soul to make comparisons with previous perceptions of
hardness, which the present quality resembles.
The next section excludes from perception any judgment requiring the possession of
language:41
So human beings and animals as soon as they are born can by nature straightaway perceive those
affections (pathēmata) [e.g., hardness and softness] that extend through the body to the soul, but
calculations about them in relation to being and benefit come to those to whom they come, only
in time as a result of much trouble and education. (186b11–c5)
Even with perception narrowed to what animals and infants can do as soon as they are
born, this passage allows a spectrum of ideas about Platonic perception, at one end of
which is the view that he conceives of perception in the Final Argument as the soul’s
mere passive experience of those affections that reach the soul through the body.42 This
interpretation relies heavily on Socrates’ conclusion a little further on:
K, not the subject, and we can certainly ask what (singular) hardness and softness are, and answer that they
are tangible (the one hard, the other soft).
40
Lorenz (2006: 86–7 and n. 44) discusses the third step—grasping the being of the opposition (between
hardness and softness)—and appears to envisage something less than the investigation of essence. The text
does not say enough to decide how much is accomplished at the third step.
41
As I stated above (note 29), Cooper (1970: 132) favors an interpretation of perception that includes
labeling the data of sense with elementary color, taste, etc., descriptions, and claims that there is evidence in
the Final Argument for two distinct notions of perception, of which one is mere discrimination without the
application of concepts, and that is what we have here. Kanayama (1987: 31, 47–8) thinks that for Plato
perception includes nonconceptual discrimination, which he calls “implicit judgment,” and that animals as
well as human infants have that capacity. This may well be the correct view about perception, and there is a
lively current debate about nonconceptual content—e.g., Fodor (2007) and Heck (2007)—but I doubt that
Plato had this view of perception.
42
M. Frede (1987b).
So knowledge is not in the affections (en tois pathēmasin), but in our reasoning about them. For
here, as it seems, it is possible to grasp being and truth, but impossible there. (186d2–5)
Although Socrates does not identify perception with the affections here, he goes on to
give examples—seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling cold and feeling warm—and asks
Theaetetus what he calls them, prompting the boy to call them perceiving (186d10–
e1); and then Socrates himself calls them all together perception, an identification
Theaetetus confirms (186e2–3). This discussion supports the idea that perception in the
Final Argument is a mere passive experience.
Several considerations tell against that conclusion, however. First, recall that prior to
his final refutation of Protagoras via Heraclitus, Socrates divided Protagorean percep-
tion into two components, perceptions (proper) and perceptual judgments. There he
also mentions a third item, which I have not previously stressed:43
But concerning the present affection for each person (paron hekastōi pathos), from which arise (ex
hōn . . . gignontai) perceptions (hai aisthēsies) and perceptual judgments (hai kata tautas doxai), it’s
more difficult to prove that they [Protagorean perceptions] are not true. (179c2–5)
This passage distinguishes perceptions from passive affections and describes perceptions
as arising from the affections, suggesting that perceptions originate from affections but
are not identical with them. Of course, this passage stands outside the Final Argument,
reducing its weight for the interpretation of that section.
Scholars opposing the idea that perceptions are identical with the passive affections
cite the passage about infant and animal perception, where the pathēmata (affections) are
plainly not the perceptions themselves, since Socrates treats them grammatically as the
objects of perception. This evidence is more significant, and I requote:
So human beings and animals as soon as they are born can by nature straightaway perceive those
affections (pathēmata) that extend through the body to the soul.44 (186b11–c2)
This passage has encouraged some scholars to propose that Plato had a representation-
alist theory of perception, according to which we perceive the inner pathēmata that
reach the soul, and on the basis of them make inferences about the external world.45
But this interpretation cannot be right, because the present passage continues the earlier
one in which Socrates said that the soul perceives the hardness of the hard and the
softness of the soft through touch (186b2–4). Although “the hard” and “the soft”
43
On the implications of the passage for the interpretation of the Final Argument in Part I, cf. Kanayama
(1987: 47–9, 54–60) and Bostock (1988: 116–17).
44
McDowell (1973: 69, 111) translates the line in a different way, with the result that the pathēmata are
features of external objects, such as the hardness of a stone. This construal has the consequence that the word
pathēmata has a different meaning here from its meaning a few lines later at 186d2. I follow most commenta-
tors in taking the affections in both passages to be the inner motions that reach the soul, but I argue below that
the object of perception is indeed the external object, not the inner affection that reaches the soul. For this
sort of view, see also Burnyeat (1976: 42–3 and n. 39, and sec. 4).
45
Crombie (1963: II.26) and Bostock (1988: 117–18).
118 PHILOSOPHOS
admit more than one interpretation (the hard/soft thing or the hardness/softness of
something), either way the objects of perception are located outside the perceiving
soul. Someone might reply that the only pathēmata mentioned in our passage are inner
ones, and while that is true, we should notice the direction of their travel: these
pathēmata extend through the body to the soul, from outside in.
A passage on perception in the Timaeus fills out the picture. Timaeus gives a detailed
account of the mechanics of sense perception, sense organs, and sensible qualities
(tangible qualities, flavors, smells, sounds, colors), and claims that these external pathē
are transmitted through the body by means of a series of motions—parts affecting other
parts in the same way as they were affected—until they reach the soul (to phronimon)
and “announce” (exangeilēi) the capacity (tēn dunamin) of that which produced them
(tou poiēsantos) (Ti. 64b3–6).46 In light of this passage in the Timaeus, there is some
causal story to tell about the transmission of an external pathos through the body to the
soul, and according to that account the innermost link “announces” the pathos that
started the chain, and a completed chain “gives rise” to perception by stimulating the
soul to perceive the external pathos that initiated the series.
As I understand Plato’s theory of perception, underlying every sense perception is a
chain of pathēmata extending inward to the soul from outside it, and in the case of those
chains that reach the soul, the soul directly perceives something outside itself. The
pathēmata mentioned (at 186c2 and d2) are the material conditions necessary for sense
perception.47 In the passage about children and animals (186b11–c2), though pathēmata
(“affections”) is the grammatical object of the verb “to perceive,” the word does not
refer to the objects of perception but to the inner material stimulus from which
perception of external qualities arises. The pathēmata that reach the soul simply “an-
nounce” the object that initiated the motions, an object external to the perceiving
subject, typically in the outside world though not always: Plato reasonably thinks that
when you stub your toe and feel it, you directly perceive the pain (pathos) in your toe,
not the pathēma that reaches the soul and announces its occurrence.
I propose that Platonic perception is noticing, attending to or being aware of
something outside the mind, without yet identifying it. An earlier passage in the
Final Argument suggests that the soul plays an active role in perception.48 In explaining
why he insists on precision in the use of the “with” and “through” idioms, Socrates
says:
46
The theory of perception in the Timaeus is discussed by Silverman (1990: 149–58). See also Johansen
(2004: ch. 8, esp. 170–1).
47
Plato calls the necessary material conditions “helping causes” (sunaitia) at Ti. 46c7–e6; Ti. 46e6–7 refers
back to Timaeus’ account of the material conditions for seeing (Ti. 45b2–d3). Cf. Socrates’ intellectual
autobiography in the Phaedo, in which he speaks of the material conditions “without which the cause [of his
sitting in prison] could not be a cause” (Phd. 99b2–4). In our Theaetetus passage, the cause of seeing is the soul,
and the material affections are necessary conditions for its perceptual activity. On helping causes, see also
48
Cf. Burnyeat (1976: 42–3).
I want to know if it is with some same part of ourselves that we reach (ephiknoumetha) whites and
blacks through the eyes, and in turn [reach] other [perceptible qualities] through other [organs].
(184d7–e2)
He has already said that we perceive with the soul through the sense organs, so that is
how we reach whites and blacks. But on the interpretation I have given, the soul
reaches outward not by peering through the eyes as though they were telescopes, but
rather by depending on the eyes to convey information inward.49 If the information
arrives, the final affection stimulates the soul to see, to notice the colors of things
outside itself.50
The Philebus contains a passage similar to the one about infants and animals in the
Theaetetus, and here Socrates speaks of perception as noticing:
Assume that among the various affections (pathēmatōn) of our body, some are extinguished in the
body before they reach the soul, leaving it [the soul] unaffected (apathē ), while others go (ionta)
through both [body and soul] and provoke as it were an upheaval (hōsper siesmon entithenta) both
peculiar to each and common to both [body and soul].—Let it be assumed.—Will we speak
correctly, if we say that the soul fails to notice (lanthanein) the ones that do not go through both,
but notices (mē lanthanein) those that go through both?—Of course. (Phlb. 33d2–e1)
This passage does not mention an external pathos that initiates a chain through the body
to the soul, but it does indicate the direction of travel, through the body to the soul. An
affection that reaches the soul stimulates the soul’s perception (“provokes as it were an
upheaval”), so that the soul notices the affection that initiated the series and fails to
notice those that set up truncated chains.
Perception is a simple unstructured act in which the soul either notices some
perceptible quality outside itself or fails to notice. Any attribution of being, however,
whether the identification of a quality perceived as red or salty, hard or soft, or any
higher level ascription, requires the soul to compare what it perceives now with earlier
perceptions of that sort of thing stored in its memory. This further act leaves room for
mistakes. Attaining truth demands two acts, first a perception, then a judjment about
what is perceived. Even a claim as simple as “this is red” requires the soul operating
through sight to notice something visible (the referent of “this”), and then, operating
through itself, to identify it correctly or incorrectly as red.51
According to my construal of Platonic perception, sense perception and mental
perception are the same sort of psychic event—direct awareness of something outside
49
Burnyeat (1976: 40–3) presents evidence of the spatial use of dia (“through”) in perceptual contexts,
and most of the evidence indicates travel of sensible qualities inward through the sense organs—e.g., music
pours through the ears as through a funnel (Rep. III, 411a6)—though there is also some evidence of the soul
peering outward through the organs as through the bars of a prison (Phd. 82d9–83b4).
50
Cf. Burnyeat (1976: 43).
51
Cf. Crat. 385b7–8. Thanks to Daniel Hagen for this reference. These lines are part of a longer section
(Crat. 385b2–d1) that was probably displaced from its proper location. See Schofield (1972), whose conclu-
sions are accepted in Reeve’s translation of the Cratylus in Cooper (ed.) (1997), and by Barney (2001: 28 n. 9).
120 PHILOSOPHOS
the mind—but differentiated by the sort of object noticed. Sense perception depends
on the senses and sense organs for the stimulus to notice something, and so the soul
engages in perception through the senses. Mental perception may also depend on the
senses for stimulus (the geometer looks at a diagram and mentally notices the circle it
imperfectly represents), but can also be prompted by inner reflection, especially
through puzzles. Sense perception and mental perception single out things and attri-
butes by noticing them, and that noticing provides a stimulus to ask, what was that? For
instance, one notices a disturbance in the body, and then asks: was that pain or merely
hunger? Or one detects a sound not previously noticed, and then asks: was that the
clock striking twelve? The identification of the perceived object as something or other
is an act of the soul on its own—a judgment—even in the simplest type of case, “this
(sweetness) is sweet” or “this (hardness) is hard.” We now turn to the official treatment
of judgment.
4.4 True Judgment

Part II makes a promising start. Having shown in the Final Argument of Part I that
knowledge is located not in sense experience but in our reasoning about it, Socrates
urges Theaetetus to leave perception aside in his search for knowledge and to look for
knowledge instead in that activity of the soul when it is busy by itself (autē kath’ hautēn)
about the things-that-are (ta onta) (187a3–6), an activity Theaetetus now identifies as
judging (doxazein) (187a7–8). Since there are two types of judgment, one true and one
false, he proposes that knowledge is true judgment (alēthēs doxa) (187b5–6), a proposal
that orients the second main part of the dialogue.
Much of Part II of the Theaetetus is frustrating, however, because we expect it to
build on the insights about judgment from the Final Argument of Part I, but Socrates
advises Theaetetus to “wipe away” everything previously said and to start again from
the beginning (187a9–b3), and then spends the bulk of Part II (up until he offers the
constructive Wax Block model) trying to account for false judgment while ignoring
the earlier discussion. Socrates calls attention more than once to what he is deliberately
forgetting. At the start of his effort to explain false judgment in terms of being and not-
being (188c10–189b9), he mentions two ways to judge not-being: we judge what-is-
not either about some one of the things-that-are (peri tōn ontōn tou) or itself by itself (auto
kath’ hauto) (188d9–10). The first alternative recalls the treatment of judgment in the
Final Argument of Part I, where the soul, correctly or incorrectly, identifies an entity as
something. But Socrates passes over that option in the discussion of false judgment in
terms of being and not-being, and recalls it only at the end of the passage, as though he
had discussed it (189b1–2). Instead he focuses on judging what-is-not itself by itself,
and in so doing treats judgment as though it were Protagorean perception (which
combines perception proper and perceptual judgment in a single act). On this concep-
tion a person can never be wrong, because either he has grasped an object pre-
identified, in which case he cannot mistake it, or he has not, and in that case no
judging occurs. Every judgment—if it is a judgment at all—is automatically true. To

repeat: at the beginning and end of the passage attempting to explain judgment in terms
of being and not-being, Socrates calls attention to what he has been forgetting,
something he already discussed in the Final Argument of Part I, that judgment is a
structured act that depends on perception to supply its object and then identifies that
object as something. Mistakes occur in the identification.
Socrates again recalls that previous conception in the midst of another attempt to
explain false judgment (as “other-judging”), where he characterizes judgment (doxa) as
a silent statement, the affirmation of a conclusion at the end of a process of thinking.
The soul thinks by conversing (dialegesthai) with itself about something, asking itself
questions and answering, affirming and denying, and when it arrives at something
definite, whether slowly or by a sudden leap, the very thing it asserts without hesitation
is its judgment. To judge (doxazein) is to state (legein), and a judgment (tēn doxan) is a
statement (logon), not addressed to another person or voiced, but in silence to oneself
(189e6–190a7).52 This characterization of judgment fits the description at the end of
the Sophist, where the Stranger claims that a judgment is structured like a statement,
with a subject and a predicate that perform different functions (Sph. 263d6–264b5; cf.
Phlb. 38b12–e8).
Myles Burnyeat has made a provocative suggestion, that Part II on true judgment is
an exercise in true judgment stimulating the reader “to diagnose the false judgement
which makes it appear that false judgement is impossible,” and he thinks that the false
judgment we are meant to spot and diagnose is Theaetetus’ proposal about knowledge,
that knowledge is true judgment.53 I agree with Burnyeat that Part II on true judgment
is an exercise in true judgment (his suggestion fits nicely with my claim in Chapter 3
that Part I on perception is itself an exercise in perception), but I disagree about the false
judgment we are meant to spot and diagnose. In my view, Theaetetus’ proposal that
knowledge is true judgment is true but incomplete, since true judgment is still only part
of what knowledge is, inasmuch as knowledge calls for more than getting things right.
Instead I think that the false judgment we should notice and diagnose is the conception
of judgment as an unstructured act of grasping something pre-identified. Plato hides
the true judgment about judgment by having Socrates make a fuss about wiping away
the earlier discussion, as though it were irrelevant to the present one, when in fact the
Final Argument of Part I has already shown that judgment is a structured act.
I shall discuss two passages in Part II, the Wax Block and (very briefly) the Jury. The
Wax Block presents a constructive model to explain false judgment, building on the
Final Argument in Part I, and it also contributes to the third of three conceptions of
account spelled out in Part III. The Jury shows why perception should be reincorpor-
ated into the conception of knowledge.
52
On this passage and its implications, see D. Frede (1989).
53
Burnyeat (1990: 66, 68).
122 PHILOSOPHOS
Wax Block
Think of the soul as a lump of wax, which takes impressions as if from signet rings and in
this way records information and learns from its experience of things it has seen or heard
or thought of. A person remembers and knows things of which the soul has taken an
impression, but forgets those whose impression becomes obliterated (191c8–e1).
The wax can be of various consistencies, better or worse able to take and preserve
impressions, and the condition of the wax accounts, at least in part, for variations in the
clarity, depth, and longevity of the impressions (194a6–195a9).54 An impression of
something enables the person to recognize that thing when he encounters it again—
for instance, someone might have impressions of both Theaetetus and Theodorus from
previous perceptual encounters, see someone in the distance, and either match the
present perception to the right impression (and so identify Theaetetus correctly) or to
the wrong one (and so make a mistake). Socrates claims that mismatching occurs when
we are in a hurry and crisscross the perception with the wrong imprint, much as we
might put shoes on the wrong feet (193b9–d2).
The Wax Block helps to explain the activity of recognition through its notion of an
impression, which can be clear and deep or unclear and without depth. Depending on
the quality of the representation, one is more likely or less likely to fit the present
perception to the correct imprint. As we shall see in Part III of the dialogue, Socrates
reuses the imagery of impressions (sēmeia) to characterize an account that enables a
person to distinguish something from all other things (208c7–8). Since impressions can
differ in their clarity, the quality of the impression is in large part responsible for the
accuracy of identifications (though impediments in the perceiver’s perceptual apparatus
or the perceptual conditions in the environment affect accuracy as well).
Connecting the Wax Block image with the earlier treatment of perception in the
Final Argument of Part I, I suggest that an impression results from a series of affections
that reach the soul through the body; the affections imprint information about an
external object, and the soul combines them over time into a relatively lasting
representation of it.55 An impression serves two functions: it represents something
54
In envisaging a role for the quality of the wax in concept formation, I differ from Woolf (2004:
esp. 597–8), who thinks the quality of the wax and of the representations is irrelevant to the main thesis
Socrates develops.
55
In the Wax Block Socrates says that we take impressions of everything we wish (boulēthōmen) to
remember among the things we have seen, heard, or thought of ourselves (191d5: passage quoted below
in my main text), and this suggests that the soul actively memorizes things perceived that it wants to
remember, with the unfortunate implication that animals and infants will not develop impressions simply
as a matter of course. Lorenz (2006: 161–2 n. 34) mentions this passage as indicating a significant difference
between Plato’s and Aristotle’s views on the generation of impressions. In my view the phrase need not be
taken literally, since it comes up as part of Socrates’ elaborate metaphor of taking stamps from signet rings, but
I think the word is important for Plato. Perhaps at the outset children and animals develop impressions
automatically, but at some point the soul learns to pay attention to some things and to ignore others, and then
develops impressions from those things it attends to. As we shall see in sec. 4.7 below, knowledge depends on
adequate impressions, and the budding knower acquires them by developing acute perception able to
discriminate the essential features of things.
perceived, and the representation resembles the perceptible object to a greater or lesser
degree (like the stamp of a signet ring, it can be sharp or blurred); and it equips its
possessor to recognize (more or less well, given the quality of the representation) the
object again on future encounters, and is thus a capacity for recognition.56 I call the
impression a capacity and not merely a representation, because the impression stores
within itself a history of past encounters and anticipates future ones. The impression is
intrinsically relational: it is about a perceptible object and stores information from a
person’s previous encounters with it, and when stimulated by a new encounter the
impression enables the judger to recognize the object again. On this interpretation, the
impression plays a complex causal role in perception and judgment and in linking them
together. In perception affections (seminal impressions) reach the soul through the
senses and stimulate it to notice the external object that produced them. The percep-
tion in turn stimulates the soul to match what it has noticed to a stored impression. The
impression serves as a capacity for recognition by linking perception to judgment,
enabling the soul to re-identify something it perceives as something it has perceived
before. This causal role is conceptually distinct from the content of the representation
itself, though capacity and content characterize the same impression.
Socrates rejects the Wax Block model not because it cannot account for mistakes, but
because he claims it cannot account for all mistakes. He asks how we can make mistakes
about things we merely think of and do not perceive through the senses, such as numbers.
For instance, can I mistake 11 for 12 when I ask myself the sum of 5 + 7? Socrates focuses
on the records of the numbers stamped on the wax, and suggests that I have these records
before my mind. But then, if I am thinking of 11 and 12, both stored in my mental wax, it
seems impossible to mistake one for the other, for either I have them before my mind and
so cannot make a mistake, or I do not, and in that case no judging takes place.
Socrates’ objection should not undermine the Wax Block model. In the first place
he made a provision for impressions of intelligible objects, as well as sensible, when he
first introduced the image:57
If there is something we wish to remember among the things we see or hear or think of ourselves
(autoi ennoēsomen), we hold it [the wax block] under the perceptions and thoughts (ennoiais) and
imprint them on it, as though we were taking impressions (sēmeia) from signet rings. (191d5–8)
Secondly, thoughts in the mind are about things outside the mind, just as sense impres-
sions are about external sensible things. We skipped over the fourth movement in the first
part of the Parmenides (Prm. 132b3–c11), in which Socrates proposes that forms are
thoughts in the mind, an idea Parmenides immediately lays to rest by pointing out that
thoughts are about things outside the mind, things-that-are. Contrary to Socrates’
56
Woolf (2004: 588) also speaks of two aspects of the impression, and we coincide on the first. The
second he mentions is permanence, or at least a degree thereof. He thinks this permanence endows the soul
with a capacity, whereas I regard the impression itself (which has some degree of permanence) as a capacity.
57
On thoughts (or conceptions) in the Wax Block, see Crivelli (2003: 177–9), who lists conceptions of
various types, including conceptions of numbers. Cf. Ackrill ([1966] 1997: 62–4).
124 PHILOSOPHOS
suggestion that forms are thoughts in the mind, Parmenides argues that forms are external
objects—things-that-are—which thoughts are about. Given that argument, Socrates
could have answered his own objection in the Theaetetus by replying that the Wax
Block can handle errors of pure thought.58 You ask yourself the question: “How many
are 5 + 7?” Stimulated by the question, you think of something outside the mind, a
number described as “5 + 7,” and you want to identify (judge) how large the number is.
Suppose you have inadequate impressions of the numbers—you never heard this question
before, having learned the number 12 as the answer to the question “How many are 3 +
9?” and the number 11 as “How many are 2 + 9?” and so forth. Then it would be very
easy to match 12 (outside the mind), encountered under the description “5 + 7,” to the
wrong imprint. If your impressions of 11 and 12 lack sufficient depth and distinctness, you
can easily in your hurry match 12 (outside the mind) to your imprint of 11. This scenario
replicates Socrates’ example about mismatching Theaetetus seen in the distance with
one’s imprint of Theodorus. Socrates ignores this way of saving the Wax Block model,
however, and instead introduces a new image—the Aviary—to handle mistakes about
abstract objects such as the numbers 11 and 12. He need not have done so, because the
Wax Block could have handled them.59
Jury
The final argument of Part II gives a counterexample to prove that true judgment is not
the same thing as knowledge (200d5–201c6), and it advances my argument by making
plain that, in some cases at least, first-hand sense perception is required for knowledge:60
So when jurymen are justly persuaded about things that only an eye-witness could know, and
not otherwise, didn’t they come to their decision at that time upon hearsay, forming a true
judgment, and decide without knowledge, but since they judged well, being correctly persuad-
ed? (201b8–c2)
The Jury passage originally raised the possibility that the jury could know, if the
litigants were not constrained by the clock and so had enough time to teach the
truth (201a10–b4), but in the quoted passage Socrates excludes that possibility: all the
time in the world would not permit the litigants to convert the jury’s true judgment
into knowledge, if only an eye-witness to the crime could actually know. This
counterexample reminds the reader that perception, and in some cases sense percep-
tion, is required for knowledge. Even though perception on its own is not sufficient for
knowledge (Theaetetus’ mistake in Part I), it nonetheless contributes to knowledge, as
we shall see further in the final part of the dialogue.
58
Contrast Bostock (1988: 180–3) who claims that the Wax Block cannot deal with such errors, since we
do not acquire imprints of numbers from (sense) perception.
59
The Aviary seems designed to fail—Socrates warns Theaetetus of its inadequacy at the beginning and
end of the section (196d2–197a6 and 200c7–d2). Perhaps this section aims to prod the youth to think again
about how to explain errors of pure thought by means of the Wax Block.
60
On the Jury, see Burnyeat (1980) and Bostock (1988: 200–1).
Theaetetus does not take this lesson from the Jury passage, however. Instead of
reintroducing perception in his final definition in Part III, he proposes that knowledge
is true judgment with an account—an idea he got by hearsay (201c7–d3). The
counterexample about the jury evidently convinced him that true judgment on its
own is insufficient for knowledge, but had he understood the problem, one wonders
how he can now think that adding an account corrects the deficiency. The jurymen
have a true judgment with an account, since they have heard the arguments and
testimony on both sides of the case and can state the reasons that justified their verdict.
What they lack is first-hand perceptual experience, and they can never acquire it,
because they cannot become eye-witnesses to the historical event after the fact.61 The
jury passage bids Theaetetus (and the reader) to reconsider the contribution of percep-
tion to knowledge, a mandate to which Socrates himself responds in elaborating
Theaetetus’ final proposal in Part III. Perception not only stimulates acts of judgment
on particular occasions, as we learned in the Final Argument in Part I and Wax Block in
Part II, but also presents the features of external things, thereby furnishing all the
ingredients of our impressions of them.
4.5 Elements and Complexes

Asked once more what knowledge is, Theaetetus says at the start of Part III that he
heard somewhere that knowledge is true judgment with an account, and Socrates then
develops the proposal in a theory he calls his Dream (201d8–202c5). According to
Socrates’ Dream, we and everything else are composed of elements (201e2), which are
unknowable and lack an account, but can be named and are perceptible (201e3–
202b3, 202b6–7). By contrast, complexes of elements are knowable, expressible in an
account woven together out of the names of the elements, and can be the object of a
true judgment (202b3–6, b7–8). True judgment relies on perception, since perception
discloses the elements of a complex, which can then be the object of a true judgment.
The interpretation of Part III of the Theaetetus is controversial, and I cannot evaluate
the alternatives here but shall contend that, contrary to the Dream, Socrates shows that
the elements are not only perceptible but also knowable and have an account. He paves
the way to rejecting the Dream by declaring immediately afterward that he dislikes one
feature of it, the idea that the elements are unknowable and the complexes knowable
(202d8–e1). He first argues (203c4–205e8) that the elements and complexes are
61
This case is interestingly different from the one at the end of the Meno (97a6–98a9), where a person
with true belief about the Road to Larisa can convert his true belief into knowledge by traveling the road.
Plato evidently thinks that one cannot acquire knowledge of historical events because one cannot travel back
and be an eye-witness. This observation is important for understanding the Timaeus, where the main speaker
draws a sharp distinction between knowledge and belief and between true and likely accounts, and promises
only a likely account about the origins of the cosmos (Ti. 29b3–d3, 51d3–e6). The Timaeus is natural history,
not physics. Philosophical physics, if it appeals to forms in its explanations of the natural world, is not ruled
out, and in my view is one of the sciences a philosopher might study when she returns to the cave.
126 PHILOSOPHOS
equally knowable (or unknowable) (205d7–e7).62 He then appeals to Theaetetus’

experience to show that the elements are in fact much more clearly known than the
complexes. Only later does it become evident that the elements also have an account.
We start with his Argument from Experience showing that the elements are more
knowable than the complexes (206a1–b12). This passage reads in part:
When you were learning, you kept trying to distinguish (diagignōskein) the letters, by both eye and
ear, each letter itself by itself (auto kath’ hauto), so that their position in spoken and written words
wouldn’t trouble you . . . Then if we are to make an inference from the elements and complexes
which we ourselves experience to other things, we shall say that knowledge of the class of elements is
much clearer and more authoritative for perfectly grasping each discipline than knowledge of the
complex, and if anyone says that a complex is naturally knowable and an element unknowable, we
shall take him to be joking, whether willingly or unwillingly. (206a5–b11)
According to this argument the elements are not only perceptible but also knowable.63
Opinions differ as to whether the experience of learning one’s letters is supposed to be
one-by-one (ABCs listed on a chart or chanted) or in the context of words.64 The
second view seems to me clearly favored by Socrates’ claim at the start that in learning
the letters Theaetetus kept trying to “distinguish” them “so that their position in
spoken and written words wouldn’t trouble you” (206a5–8). According to Socrates,
Theaetetus and other boys learned the letters and sounds by abstracting them from
words, and having singled them out could re-identify them in other words.65 A similar
passage in the Statesman plainly indicates that children learn their letters in the context
of syllables and words:
62
Both alternatives in this dilemma assume that a whole is the mere sum of its parts. See Burnyeat (1990:
191–209) and Harte (2002: 32–47). I think that Plato knows that the assumption is false, since Deduction 3 of
the Parmenides (Prm. 157b6–159b1) treats a whole as more than the sum of its parts. I therefore disagree with
McDowell (1973: 113, 243–4) that the shortcomings of the argument about parts and wholes show that the
Theaetetus predates the Parmenides: Plato could easily have repaired the argument when he arranged the
Theaetetus into the series Theaetetus–Sophist–Statesman and includes references back to the Parmenides. Why is
the argument here, if Plato knew better? In light of Plato’s strategy in the Parmenides and Theaetetus, I take this
argument to provoke Theaetetus and the audience to recognize the mistake. If I am right that knowledge is to
be defined as some combination of perception, true judgment, and account, Theaetetus and the reader need
to recognize that knowledge—the target to be defined—is not merely the sum of its parts. It is the parts
combined in a particular way. I thank Thomas Fisher for stimulating me to think more about this passage and its
function in the Theaetetus. Fisher (unpublished) has a different, though compatible, explanation of its presence
in the dialogue.
63
Cf. D. Frede (1989: 36). I disagree with Sedley (2004: 167) that Plato is saying that the elements are
merely more self-evident than the complexes without being more knowable.
64
Marrou (1956: 150–3) gives extensive evidence from the Hellenistic period that learning to read was
bottom up, from letters alone to syllables to words, though he does not discuss practices in the Classical
period. For this sort of view, see N. P. White (1976: 178), and Harte (2002: 146–9). For the second view, see
Burnyeat (1990: 209–12). Thanks to Thomas Fisher for impressing on me that the children abstract the letters
in a particular order. Owen (1970: 365) is sometimes cited as a proponent of the first view, but he appears to me
to be noncommittal between the two alternatives. Fine (1979: 385–6) advocates a third view, that one learns
the letters in a whole interrelated system of letters. I shall question that idea below.
65
Even learning one’s ABCs from a chart, as modern children do in school, involves learning them in a
particular order: first A, then B follows A and is followed by C, and so on.
We know perhaps that when children are just becoming experienced in their letters . . . they
adequately distinguish (diaisthanontai) each of the letters in the shortest and easiest syllables, and
become able to state the truth about them. (Stm. 277e6–8)
If children learn letters by abstracting them from syllables, they first experience them
surrounded by other letters or sounds and pick out individual letters in a particular
order different from syllable to syllable.66 The Theaetetus has already given one example
to be discussed below: Theaetetus is asked to analyze the first syllable of Socrates’ name,
and does so by listing the letters sigma and omega in that order (202e3–203c3). He will
go on to analyze his own name in the same way (207e7–208a11).
The claims about learning letters are singularly important, because the Eleatic
Stranger says in the Statesman that the way children learn their letters is the way people
learn everything (Stm. 278c8–d6). Think now about the main topic of the Theaetetus:
Socrates and Theaetetus started from Theaetetus’ list of sorts of expertise, and Socrates
asked the youth to think about what the items on his list all have in common.
Reflection on the list gave the inquirers a crude description of the complex they
were trying to understand. The task of the dialogue has been to distinguish the
elements of knowledge of which they have a rough conception, starting with percep-
tion, moving on to true judgment, and turning in Part III to accounts. They have been
separating out the elements in a particular order and, according to the Argument from
Experience, knowledge of the elements is much clearer and more authoritative than is
knowledge of the complex—the complex in this case being knowledge itself. Theae-
tetus is supposed to put the elements of knowledge back together into a complex
whole, which he will then know by knowing the elements and how they fit together.
Socrates does not say whether the elements are knowable with or without an
account, but he turns to accounts next, advising Theaetetus not to let the elements
distract him from the main task (206c1–5). Plato’s dramatic strategy in Parts I and II
should put us on the alert here: if further talk about the elements might distract
Theaetetus from his main business—accounts—he (and we) should pay careful atten-
tion to the elements in that connection.
4.6 Accounts
Knowledge in Part III is defined as true judgment with an account, and so the addition
of some sort of account ought to distinguish knowledge from true judgment. Socrates
discusses three sorts of account (logos), starting with one that simply expresses a
judgment; but since voicing a true judgment adds nothing more to a true judgment
than the judger already has, he immediately sets this sort of account aside (206d1–e3)
(I shall return to it briefly at the end of this chapter).
66
On the treatment of learning letters in the Statesman, see El Murr (2006: 2–3).
128 PHILOSOPHOS
Analysis into elements

A second type of account analyzes a complex into its elements (206e6–207a1), and
knowledge is, on this view, a true judgment about something plus a complete analysis
of it. Socrates mentions that one can have a true judgment about Hesiod’s wagon based
on a partial analysis, a list of the wagon’s main components—wheels, axle, body, rails,
and yoke—but knowledge of the wagon requires a complete analysis of the wagon
into its one hundred timbers, the elementary parts (207a3–d2). If knowledge depends
on an analysis into elements, the elements lack such an account, and so are unknow-
able. Earlier in Part III, right after Socrates mentioned his objection to the Dream—
that the complexes are knowable and the elements unknowable—he discussed the
models (paradeigmata) used for elements and complexes in the Dream, letters and
syllables (202e3–203c3). To demonstrate the Dream thesis that an account can be
given of the syllables but not of the letters, he takes as an example the first syllable of his
own name. Whereas the account of is “sigma and omega” (notice that the order of
the letters is preserved), there is no account of in the same way—“How can you give
the letters of a letter?” asks Theaetetus: “Sigma is one of the voiceless letters, a mere
sound as of the tongue hissing.” He goes on to characterize other letters including the
seven vowels, which have only voice but no account at all (203b2–8). If an account
analyzes a complex into its elements, the elements themselves have no account.
Socrates then shows that an account of the second kind does not suffice for
knowledge even of the syllable (207d3–208b10). Suppose that you can give a complete
analysis of a complex, say the name “Theaetetus”—you break it down, not merely into
its four syllables (in order), but into the nine Greek letters (in order) that compose the
syllables to yield a correct judgment about the spelling of the name plus a complete
analysis into the elements (208a9–10).67 Socrates contends that your true judgment
plus a complete analysis would still fail to be knowledge, if you sometimes mistake a
letter or syllable of that name when it occurs in another context. For example, you
might think that the first letter in the first syllable of the name “Theodorus” is rather
than ¨, and if so, your mistake about “Theodorus” shows that you do not know the
letter ¨, and so do not know the complex name “Theaetetus” either, even though you
identified all the letters correctly and in the right order in that name. To know the
name “Theaetetus,” you must be able to spell not only that name but any name in
which the letter ¨ occurs. To grasp the letters in the right way, you need an account of
the elements—not, of course, an account of the second sort, since there is no such
account, but one of the third sort.
Telling the difference

Socrates characterizes the third sort of account as follows: “What most people would
say: to be able to state some mark (sēmeion) by which the object in question differs from
67
I previously discussed this example in Gill (2003a).
all other things” (208c7–8)—for example, Socrates marks off the sun from everything
else as “the brightest of the things in the heavens that move round the earth” (208d1–3).
Scholars have interpreted the third notion in two main ways. On one view, accepted
by many interpreters, someone has knowledge of the sun if he has a true judgment about
the sun and can cite a uniquely individuating description of it.68 On the other view,
advocated by Myles Burnyeat, the final notion of account concerns how one recognizes
something as the thing that it is, and he argues that observable features constitute the
basis for recognition.69 In this connection, note that Socrates’ account of the sun gives a
uniquely individuating description of it, and moreover provides a basis for recognizing
the sun by its visible features whenever you see it. Socrates’ description of the third sort
of account recalls the Wax Block model from the second part of the dialogue, since the
word sēmeion (“mark”) was there used for imprints of perceptible objects on a person’s
mental wax.70 An impression acquired through perception is a mental representation
that equips a person, when he perceives the object again, to match the perception to that
representation, and thus to recognize it. In discussing the third sort of account, Socrates
asks what sort of record (mnēmeion) of Theaetetus enables him to pick out the youth
from everyone else when he meets him again the next day, and replies that it is not
enough to describe him as a man with a nose and eyes and mouth, because that
description would not differentiate him from any other person; nor is it enough to
think of him as the man with the snub nose and prominent eyes, since that description
would still not mark him off from Socrates or anyone else with those sorts of features.
Instead Socrates needs a record of Theaetetus’ distinctive snub nose and other features
impressed upon his memory (209b2–c11). The emphasis on sensible features supports
Burnyeat’s claim that the third account concerns perceptual recognition.
If the third notion of account concerns recognition by sense perception, certain
kinds of uniquely individuating features are irrelevant, such as the initial identification
of Theaetetus as the son of Euphronius of Sunium (144c5). Other descriptions, though
specifying perceptible features, are inadequate. For instance, at the start of his conver-
sation with Theodorus, Socrates picks out Theaetetus as the boy in the middle of the
group of young men approaching (144b8–c5); knowing Theaetetus by that descrip-
tion, though it picks him out uniquely and by observable features, would not help
Socrates recognize him the next time they meet. Features relevant for recognition must
allow one to pick out the same object repeatedly, and so must be general features even
if they (or the combination of them) are so specific that a single individual alone
68
See, e.g., Cornford (1935a: 161), McDowell (1973: 255–6), and Fine (1979: 388–92).
69
Burnyeat (1990: 219–34). Whereas Burnyeat (233–4) denies that the third sort of account accommo-
dates type-recognitions, Sedley (2004: 174–5), while emphasizing that it captures a low-level and familiar
criterion for knowledge, thinks it heralds Plato’s method of division in later dialogues.
70
For sēmeion, compare 208c7 (in the characterization of the third account) with 191d8, 192b3, 193c7,
194a6–7, d4 (from the Wax Block), and see Burnyeat (1990: 229 n. 116). The word mnēmeion (“record”) also
occurs in both contexts: compare 209c7 with 192a2.
130 PHILOSOPHOS
instantiates them. At least that individual must instantiate them on numerous

occasions, if they are to provide a basis for recognition.
I am persuaded that the third notion of account provides a basis for recognition, but
I believe that the account can be extended beyond sensible features. Although Socrates
focuses on sensible features of concrete particulars—the sun and the boy Theaetetus—and
reuses the imagery of taking and retaining impressions of sensible particulars from the Wax
Block, we should recall that the Wax Block made a provision for imprints of things we
think of ourselves (191d4–e1). To be sure, Socrates later ignored that provision and
moved on to the Aviary to explain errors of pure thought (such as mistaking 11 for 12),
but the Wax Block itself allowed for impressions beyond those that arise from sensation.
Also recall that the philosopher of the Digression looks for definitions of things and that
the ones stated have the general shape of accounts of the third sort. The philosopher asks,
“what is man, and what belongs to such a nature to do or to suffer different from other
things?” (174b1–6), and he asks the clever advocate to examine justice itself and injustice,
“what each of them is and how they differ from everything else and from each other”
(175c1–3). These examples suggest that despite Socrates’ focus on mundane things and
their sensible features, the third notion of account need not be limited to the sensible
features of concrete particulars, but can be extended to the features of perceptible types,
such as the letter-type ¨, and intelligible kinds, such as justice.
Let us now return to the letter ¨, a perceptible type, which the novice gets right in
the name “Theaetetus” but mistakes in the name “Theodorus.” Someone who has
encountered the letter only in Theaetetus’ name has a uniquely individuating descrip-
tion of ¨ as the first letter of Theaetetus’ name, and that description enables him to pick
it out reliably in that name, but the scope of that description would not ensure his
recognition of it in other words. He needs to grasp the letter in such a way that he can
recognize it in any word in which it occurs. Remember that when Socrates gave his
Argument from Experience to show that the elements are more knowable than the
complexes, he reminded Theaetetus that “When you were learning, you kept trying to
distinguish the letters, by both eye and ear, each letter itself by itself (auto kath’ hauto), so
that their position in spoken and written words wouldn’t trouble you” (206a5–8).
Given the emphasis on learning to distinguish the letters, the elements should not only
be perceptible and knowable but also have an account of the third type, as indeed
Theaetetus himself might have noticed when he gave an account of sigma as a voiceless
letter, a mere sound like a hissing of the tongue (203b3–4).
What distinguishing mark prepares the speller to recognize ¨ every time it occurs—
not merely in the name “Theaetetus,” but in any word containing the letter? As long as
we lack a satisfactory answer to that question, the third notion of account fails to
distinguish knowledge from true belief (by “true belief ” in this context I mean the
capacity to judge correctly, rather than the state of having judged correctly), for
Socrates observes that one needs an account of the third sort (the capacity to tell the
difference), not only to know it, but even to make a true judgment about it—that is, to
recognize the object one correctly judges (209c5–d2). If an account of the third sort is
required to make a true (or indeed even false) judgment, how does adding such an
account to a true judgment convert it into knowledge (209d4–5)? Either the knower
adds what he already has (209d5–e5), and so knowledge is the same as true judgment
(an identification already rejected in Part II); or “adding an account” means that one
must know, and not merely correctly judge, an object’s distinctness, and in that case the
third definition of knowledge is circular: “Knowledge is true judgment, with knowledge
of the differentness” (209e7–210a9). Either way, we still do not know what know-
ledge is. Since Theaetetus’ third definition has now suffered the same fate as the
previous two, Socrates concludes that knowledge is neither perception, nor true
judgment, nor an account added to true judgment (210a9–b2).
4.7 Knowledge and True Belief

Theaetetus’ final definition fails, but I suggested at the outset that this failure leaves
open a possibility—the possibility that, like the definition of clay as a combination of
earth and liquid, knowledge is a combination of the three items investigated in the
dialogue: perception, true judgment, and an account. I claimed at the start that the
whole investigation is controlled by Theaetetus’ initial proposal that knowledge is a
skill or expertise, a capacity realized in acts of knowing.71 Each of his three definitions
states what all experts have in common when they exercise their knowledge: they
perceive what they know by noticing it, they truly judge that same thing by identifying
it correctly, and they have an account of it that guides that identification. But regarding
knowledge as expertise does not solve the problems Socrates notices at the end of the
dialogue. The conditions for actively knowing something—say the letter ¨—seem
insufficient to mark off active knowledge from true judgment, since someone who
merely judges ¨ correctly must also perceive it, correctly identify it, and have an
account of the third sort grounding the true judgment.72 How can we distinguish
knowledge from true belief, also a type of competence? I shall argue that true belief is
the competence to match an object perceived to the correct imprint, whereas know-
ledge adds to that competence a special brand of perception and account.73
71
Socrates flirts with expertise in various parts of the dialogue, especially in Part I in his critique of
Protagoras (161d1–162a3, 170a6–b7, 178a5–179b5). He returns to the conception of knowledge as skill in
Part III, when he claims that one does not know the letter ¨ in the name “Theaetetus,” unless one can
recognize and use the letter reliably in any context in which it occurs (207d3–208b10).
72
D. Frede (1989: 39) points out that a person with knowledge and a person with true belief may utter the
same statement about the sun, and we cannot tell from that one statement, taken in isolation, whether the
statement is embedded in knowledge of astronomy or in a lay-person’s mere true belief.
73
As I said in my Introduction (pp. 8–9), a number of scholars, including Cornford (1935a: 7, 28, 162–3),
Ross (1951: 101–3), Dorter (1994: 15, 118–20), and Sedley (2004: esp. 178–81), would say that knowledge
and belief are differentiated by their objects, since Rep. V, 475b8–480a13, argues that knowledge is directed
toward what-is and belief toward what-is-and-is-not, and they take what-is to be forms, and what-is-and-is-
not to be mundane, sensible things. I differ from these scholars chiefly in regarding forms in the Theaetetus as
immanent in mundane things, and in thinking that only knowledge must be defined with reference to its
characteristic objects.
132 PHILOSOPHOS
Let us try to answer two questions using resources from the Theaetetus: we aim first to
give a noncircular definition of knowledge differentiating it from true belief; and
second to show that a person can attain knowledge without needing an infinite
number of accounts. I propose now to go beyond Plato’s text but to use materials he
provides in the dialogue. Like Part I on perception, itself an exercise in perception, and
Part II on true judgment, itself an exercise in true judgment, Part III on accounts
stimulates Plato’s audience (including us modern readers) to formulate accounts to
overcome the difficulties at the end of the dialogue.
Distinguishing knowledge from true belief

To avoid the problem of circularity, let us consider each of the components of knowl-
edge, starting with true judgment (active belief ). One might think that true judgment is
a complex act involving both perception and correct identification based on an account,
and so knowledge is that plus something more. But this is not Plato’s view. While active
knowledge is complex, consisting of an act of perception and an act of true judgment
based on an account, true judgment itself, though it depends on perception and an
account, is a simple act of matching the object perceived to a mental impression (the
cognitive correlate of an account). Perception supplies the object of judgment, and an
account specifies the impression, but judgment simply maps one to the other. I argued
on the basis of the Final Argument in Part I that perception presents to the judger the
object of his judgment without identifying it. The Wax Block shows that in making a
judgment the judger matches the object perceived to a mental impression; a judgment is
true if the judger matches the perception to the correct impression, false if he matches it to
the wrong one. A judgment, though simple, is structured like a statement, since it
identifies a given object or ascribes a feature to it. True belief is the capacity to link a
predicate to a subject correctly, and as such is an element of knowledge.
Knowledge also includes perception and an account, because it picks out objects
in a certain way and maps them to impressions of a particular sort. Consider
perception. The knower notices things in her perceptual field missed by the mere
judger. In the first part of the dialogue Socrates gives a nice example: You and I both
hear someone speaking a foreign language that you understand and I do not;
although we hear the same sounds, they are nonsense to me, meaningful to you.
Socrates asks Theaetetus whether we hear and know the sounds or neither hear nor
know them, and Theaetetus answers reasonably that we know precisely that aspect of
them (auto ge . . . touto autōn) we hear (163b1–c4). While he is wrong that both of us
count as knowers, since one of us understands, the other not, he is right that we grasp
different aspects of the sound we both hear.74 The first part of the Theaetetus is in large
part an exercise in perception, training the audience to attend to matters of importance,
74
Note that a person ignorant of the language might still be able to re-identify the sounds on another
occasion—in fact, the cave-dwellers in the Republic become highly skilled at that (Rep. VII, 516c8–d2).
and the Digression makes much of the different things noticed by the philosopher and
the worldly man. Clearly different people can perceive the same thing yet notice
different aspects of it (think of the wine connoisseur and the layman drinking the
same wine: the connoisseur has trained himself to notice features the layman misses).
The Allegory of the Cave in Republic VII gives a vivid image of the difference
between the person who knows and someone with a lesser competence, and the
difference largely concerns what they see. Socrates says that the philosopher-king, who
has traveled out of the cave and has seen the forms in the light of the form of the good,
must later return and rule the prisoners in the realm of shadows:
Down you must go, then, each in your turn to the common dwelling place of others and grow
accustomed to observing (theasesthai) the dark things there. For once you have become accus-
tomed to the dark, you will see (opsesthe) ten thousand times better than the prisoners there, and
you will know (gnōsesthe) the images severally, what they are, and of what they are images (hekasta
ta eidōla hatta esti kai hōn), because you have seen (heōrakenai) the truth about things fine, just, and
good. (Rep. VII, 520c1–6)
According to the image, the shadows on the wall of the cave are shadows of artifacts carried
along a road in the firelight behind the prisoners. A chained prisoner is adept at sighting the
shadows and predicting their sequence, and he thinks the features and relations he grasps
determine what the shadows really are. In taking the shadows to be as they appear, the
prisoner is confused and mistaken. The traveler who escapes from the cave, beholds the
form of the good, and returns, sees those same shadows. Once he has become accustomed
to the dim light cast by the fire, he sees in the shadows features the prisoner overlooks, and
in particular he recognizes them as what they are—shadows of higher objects. Given the
evidence in the Theaetetus about training our perceptual capacity, perception should be
included as a distinct component in the definition of knowledge, because the knower
notices things missed by the person with mere true belief.
The knower also differs from others in the quality of her impressions, and accord-
ingly in the status of her corresponding account. In his treatment of the second type of
account (analysis of a whole into its parts), Socrates distinguishes more and less adequate
accounts of the same physical object and associates one with knowledge, the other with
true judgment. Using the example of Hesiod’s wagon, he distinguishes an intermediate
analysis sufficient for a true judgment from a complete analysis required for knowledge,
saying that a true judgment about Hesiod’s wagon is typically accompanied by an
analysis of the whole into the main components (wheels, axle, body, rails, yoke)
(207a3–7), but knowledge demands an analysis into the elements, the one hundred
timbers (207b8–c4). We can apply that lesson to the third notion of account and in this
case, too, contrast an account sufficient for a true judgment from one required for
knowledge. Think again of the novice speller whose mistake about ¨ undermined
the second type of account—the person spells the name “Theaetetus” correctly but
mistakes the letter ¨ in other words. When she spells “Theaetetus” correctly,
the speller has a true judgment about the name and its letters, and possesses an account
134 PHILOSOPHOS
of the third sort, since she can point to a feature that distinguishes the letter from all
others—¨ is the first letter of the name “Theaetetus”—and that account (which
describes her mental impression) enables her to spell the name correctly every time
she is asked. Yet the mark she is using, though it specifies ¨ correctly, gives her no
flexibility in using the letter, because it will not enable her to identify the letter reliably
except when it turns up in that particular name, and so she may make a mistake when
called upon to spell the name “Theodorus” or other words that contain the letter. Thus
a mark (mental imprint) equipping a speller to recognize and use the letter ¨ early in
her studies may not be the one that grounds her later knowledge.
As the student encounters the letter ¨ in new contexts, she will come to realize that her
earlier mark fell short and was trustworthy in one context but not in others. The mark
needed, whose content can be articulated in an account of the third type, must be such
that she can recognize the object across contexts, including contexts not encountered
before. One does not need to go through a complete inventory of actual uses, though
learning lots of words that employ the letter ¨ no doubt contributes to learning the letter.
The ability to use the letter correctly in new situations demands that the expert speller
grasp what the letter ¨ essentially is—itself by itself (auto kath’ hauto)—or as Plato often
puts it, know ¨, what it is.75 What is the essence of the letter ¨? A linguist might say that ¨
is a voiceless aspirated dental stop. One need not have the linguist’s account to know ¨ in
the appropriate way, but one does need to be able to recognize the sound as that sound in
order to hear and use the letter correctly in new situations. Knowledge of ¨ can be
defined without circularity as perception of ¨ itself by itself, correct matching of ¨
perceived to the mental imprint of ¨, guided by an account of the essence of ¨. Both
the knower and true judger match the object perceived to the correct imprint, but only
the knower picks out the object by itself and maps it to an adequate imprint.
Levels of knowledge
I have argued that all knowledge, even of the elements, requires an account, but if the
elements have an account of the third sort, must the knower have an account of the
conceptual components of their account, and then an account of their components,
and so on in an infinite regress?76 As we shall see in discussing the Sophist and Statesman,
accounts of the third sort, based on division, can be highly complex. Some scholars
avoid the regress problem by allowing some things (the elements) to be knowable
75
See e.g., Tht. 146e9–10: gnōnai epistēmēn auto hoti pot’ estin (“to know knowledge, what it itself is”); cf.
147a2. On this topic, see Nehamas (1984) and Bostock (1988: 28, 208). Sedley (2004: 120–1) points out that
this locution combines acquaintance knowledge (“I know X”) and propositional knowledge (“I know what
X is”). McDowell (1973: 115–16) thinks that combining acquaintance knowledge with propositional
knowledge as in the quoted statement is risky for Plato, posing an obstacle to his clarifying the difference
between knowing objects (as in French connaı̂tre) and knowing that something is the case (French savoir). Fine
(1979: 366–7) rightly denies the hazard.
76
Plato is of course not alone in facing the threat of a regress of accounts. Anyone who defines knowledge
with reference to an account or evidence is in a similar position, since one needs a further account or evidence
to ground the first.
without an account and then use them in an account of other things.77 Gail Fine has
forcefully argued that all knowledge requires an account, but she thinks the regress is
benign because Plato is committed to what she calls an “interrelation” model of
knowledge, according to which knowledge involves mastering a field and grasping
the elements in their systematic relations to one another within that field.78
In my view the Theaetetus points in a different direction, and there are two main
pieces of evidence: the Argument from Experience about learning to spell (206a1–b12)
and the passage about misspelling Theodorus’ name (207d3–208b10).79 As I have
interpreted the passage on learning to spell, the student learns to pick out letters
individually in words—not separately on a chart—and so learns a letter in relation to
its immediately surrounding context. Equipped with an imprint of a name, say
“Theaetetus,” acquired through learning to spell it, the beginner can re-identify ¨
consistently in that name; but only when she has abstracted the letter from the
surrounding letters and can identify it apart from them will she cease to be confused
by its position in other words. As the passage on misspelling shows, one easily makes
mistakes when one has not yet isolated the letter in its own right (auto kath’ hauto), so as
to recognize and use it correctly in other contexts.80 These passages do not recommend
the interrelation model requiring mastery of a whole field to be master of any of it,
because Socrates claims that our knowledge of the elements is “much clearer and more
authoritative (enargesteron te . . . kai kuriōteran) for perfectly grasping each discipline than
knowledge of the complex” (206b7–9). A discipline as a whole is a large complex, and
the student builds up to that complex from the simple elements (abstracted from a
context), combining the elements into syllables, and then into larger complexes, until
she eventually grasps the whole complex system constituting a body of knowledge.
Although people come to know the elements starting from a complex inadequately
grasped and break it down, they come to know the complex in an adequate way by
building it back up from the elements with attention to their arrangement.
Since I believe that the elements at the bottom have an account and reject the
interrelation model, I am now obliged to suggest an alternative. In my Introduction
77
Many scholars who take this route think that for Plato the elements are knowable by some sort of direct
apprehension—sense perception or intuition (what I call “mental perception”). See Bostock (1988: 239,
243–50, 262, 265–7, 273); cf. R. Robinson ([1950] 1969: 55) and N. P. White (1976: 178–9).
78
Fine (1979). The best evidence for her view is not in the Theaetetus, but in the Philebus, where Socrates
says that people do not learn an individual letter apart by itself (auto kath’ hauto) without all of them (Phlb.
18c7–8). I discuss the Philebus passage in Chapter 7 sec. 7.4 and argue that, read in its context, the passage
accords with the Argument from Experience in the Theaetetus, which tells against the interrelation model of
knowledge.
79
Fine (1979: 385–6) uses the Argument from Experience to support her interrelation model, but she
overlooks Socrates’ claim that knowledge of the elements is much clearer and more authoritative for perfectly
grasping each discipline than knowledge of the complex. For objections to Fine’s reliance on the Argument
from Experience for her thesis, see Nehamas (1984: 35 n. 61) and Bostock (1988: 244, 249).
80
The passage on spelling in the Statesman (277e2–278c2) emphasizes that comparing words enables the
student to learn that a particular letter is the same in both contexts yet also different because it is located in a
different surrounding.
136 PHILOSOPHOS
I noted that training in many disciplines involves learning rules. A freshly minted MD
can state the rules that govern her practice, and she appeals to those rules to ensure that
she takes the right steps in the right order in performing some complex procedure on a
particular occasion. A seasoned doctor has internalized the rules, which help to
structure her expertise, and she need not explicitly appeal to them in performing an
operation, since she has gained the versatility through practical experience simply to
use them and make exceptions. If someone asks her after the fact why she did what she
did, the expert should be able to think through the steps and explain why she took
those she did, but she need not have thought them through in advance.
The most basic sort of knowledge, knowledge of one’s native language, starts in the
opposite place. We learn the rules of language in the first place by conforming to them in
practice without using them at all.81 When a person has experience of the letters, her
cognitive capacity is activated in response to a perceptual stimulus—for instance, upon
hearing a word containing the letter ¨ she automatically recognizes that sound. A regress
would loom if recognizing the letter required an inference based on an account, but
someone who has learned a first language need not engage in further acts of knowing to
activate her knowledge of it. Recognition of the letter ¨ is non-inferential. If someone
has learned to use the letter and can reliably identify it in a wide range of cases, including
contexts not encountered before, the account of ¨ and rules of Greek phonetics govern
her use of the letter, even if she cannot articulate them.82 Aroused by an expressed sound,
a person responds directly or, if the perceptual conditions on some occasion conflict with
her experience of normal conditions, she refrains from making the judgment that the
sound heard is ¨. As Socrates indicates in his Argument from Experience, active recogni-
tion of a letter hinges on prior exercise and training: “you kept trying to distinguish the
letters, by both eye and ear, each letter itself by itself, so that their position in spoken and
written words wouldn’t trouble you” (206a5–8). In the Argument from Experience
Socrates does not say whether or not the knowable elements have an account. I have
argued that they have an account of the third sort, but a person can reliably use the letter
without being able to state its account and the rules for its combination with other letters.
An expert observer can state what explains the person’s success, even if the speaker cannot
do so. Only later, and often through learning a foreign language, a person learns to state
the account and rules that govern her linguistic practice. The first notion of account in the
Theaetetus—voicing a judgment—proves relevant to a higher level grasp of language than
simple grammatical competence.83
81
This idea pervades Part I of Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations.
82
My proposal parallels the idea of “pattern governed” behavior defended by Sellars ([1954] 1963: 321–7).
Plato’s explanatory model corresponds to Sellars’s evolutionary model, and both discuss language learning
through play and repetition with variation (327).
83
Rep. VI, 509d1–511e5, presents levels of belief and knowledge using the image of a Divided Line, and
marks off the top two portions of the line as levels of knowledge. So positing levels of knowledge in the
Theaetetus, as I am now doing, accords with the Republic.
While someone learning a language and someone learning medicine start in different
places, they end up in much the same place, with rules of their art internalized as second
nature and the ability to apply them successfully in particular situations. A person
demonstrates her knowledge through intelligent and consistent action of a certain sort,
and as her expertise increases, she gains the ability to explain and justify why she applied
a certain rule or made an exception in a particular case.
I have argued that knowledge is a complex capacity to be defined on the model of
clay: Knowledge is analyzed into its conceptual parts—perception, true judgment, and
an account—according to the second type of account discussed in Part III of the
Theaetetus: analysis of a whole into its elements. With the three elements clarified,
knowledge can be defined without circularity by specifying that perception picks out
the object itself by itself and judgment matches it correctly to an impression of its
essence. The Platonic knower can attain knowledge without an infinite number of
accounts, if we distinguish levels of knowledge. A person has knowledge, if she can
identify an object correctly across contexts, and she need not be able to state the
account that enables her practice. The person knows in a higher way when she can
make the account explicit.
We bring the conception of knowledge as expertise to the Sophist and Statesman: this
is the genus to be divided in the search for the special expertise of the sophist, the
statesman, and the philosopher.
5
Appearances of the Sophist
ç Ø Œæ ŁÆØ çØºE.
Nature loves to hide.
At the beginning of the Sophist Theodorus comes as arranged in the final lines of the
Theaetetus to continue the conversation with Socrates and he brings with him, in
addition to Theaetetus and Socrates the Younger, a visitor from Elea and follower of
Parmenides, who leads the discussion in the Sophist and Statesman. Socrates sets the
Stranger the task of defining the sophist, the statesman, and the philosopher, and the
Stranger takes up the sophist first.
Using the wide kind defined in the Theaetetus as shared genus, called technē (“art” or
“expertise”) in the Sophist, epistēmē (“knowledge”) in the Statesman, the Sophist and
Statesman present elaborate dichotomous divisions—progressive division of a generic
kind into two subkinds—to bring into view the special puzzle of the sophist and statesman.
The puzzle of the sophist emerges in a series of steps: First the sophist eludes efforts to define
him, because he appears to have too many sorts of expertise. The inquirers then realize that
he appears in so many ways because his real expertise is the ability to make others think he
knows everything, when he does not. He deceives people by producing appearances that
distort reality, and does so by making false statements, his characteristic mode of appear-
ance-making. Since false statements state what-is-not, the heart of the puzzle of the sophist
is the puzzle about not-being. Once the inquirers locate and untangle the puzzle about
not-being, the solution permits them to explain false statements and their production, and
finally to define the sophist as someone who deceives people with false statements.
Dramatic features of Plato’s dialogues often prefigure issues of philosophical substance,
and there are many significant details at the start of the Sophist, some foreshadowing issues
relevant to the sophist, though many bear on the philosopher, and so I reserve them until
we reach the philosopher. One detail is, however, important for the whole series of
dialogues—Theaetetus, Sophist, Statesman, and missing Philosopher—that rely on the Par-
menides. Socrates asks the guest whether he would prefer to go through his presentation in
a long speech or through question and answer, the way Parmenides did with him, when
they met long ago (Sph. 217c3–7).1 The Stranger replies:
1
All citations in this chapter unless otherwise noted refer to the Sophist.
APPEARANCES OF THE SOPHIST 139
With a compliant and manageable respondent, it’s easier in the second way, by speaking to him
(to pros allon); otherwise, by oneself (to kath’ hauton). (217d1–3)
Socrates’ question explicitly recalls the dialogue Parmenides, in which he conversed as

a youth with the venerable Eleatic philosopher. It also echoes the Theaetetus, in
which Socrates recalls the meeting in similar words while refusing to examine Parme-
nides’ position (Tht. 183e5–184a2). The Sophist finally confronts Parmenides, and
we discussed part of that confrontation in Chapter 3. We shall continue it here with
a focus on not-being and the sophist, but that confrontation is part of a larger exercise
not yet completed—the exercise about being and the philosopher—which I still
postpone.2
In his reply the Stranger mentions two ways in which he might proceed, by himself
(to kath’ hauton) or in dialogue with an interlocutor (to pros allon), and in this way
casually introduces two expressions that will prove to be technical terms later in the
dialogue, auto kath’ hauto (“itself by itself ”) and pros alla (“in relation to others”), used in
marking off the two great kinds, being and difference. The distinction also bears on the
upcoming discourse. In choosing to speak to his respondent, as Parmenides did long ago
with Socrates, and not by himself, he indicates that his interlocutor’s conceptions, as well
as his own, will figure in the present discussion.3
5.1 The Angler and the Sophist

The visitor tackles the sophist first, but cautions Theaetetus, whom he selects as his
respondent, that they may disagree about what a sophist is:
You must seek in common with me and start first, as it now appears to me, with the sophist,
seeking and revealing by means of an account (logōi) what he is (ti pot’ esti). For at the moment
you and I possess only the name (to onoma) in common. The work (to ergon) to which each of us
gives that name we may perhaps each have privately ourselves, but we should always in every
case agree about the thing itself (to pragma auto) through accounts (dia logōn), rather than agree on
2
Until Chapter 7.
3
Theaetetus does not himself propose alternatives in the Sophist, as he does in the Theaetetus, and in this
respect he more closely resembles young Aristotle in the second part of the Parmenides than young Socrates in the
first, but the Stranger proposes alternatives for him—the Stranger does not simply present his own conception of
the sophist at the start (that would be to speak by himself ). I disagree with Stenzel (1940: 76–8), who takes the
Stranger’s preference to speak on his own, unless the respondent is pleasant and cooperative, to indicate that the
respondent is entirely debarred from taking an active role in the proceedings. In his view the dialogue form is
merely an external trapping, and Plato could have presented the Sophist as a dogmatic speech. M. Frede (1996:
esp. 140) has a similar view, though he thinks that Plato continued to use the dialogue form in the Sophist because
in a treatise he would have had to claim authority he did not wish to claim, even for his solution to the relatively
modest problem of false statement. I maintain that the Sophist and the Statesman, like the Theaetetus (and
Parmenides), are philosophical exercises designed to stimulate Plato’s audience (including us modern readers) to
do a lot of the work. The interlocutor is vital to the enterprise, since the audience must constantly consider
whether their own response matches his, and if not why not.
140 PHILOSOPHOS
the name alone without an account. It is not the easiest thing in the world to grasp the tribe we
now intend to seek—the sophist—what it is.4 (218b6–c7)
The inquirers ought to recognize at the outset that people use the name “sophist” in
conversation and think they mean the same thing by the name, when in fact they may
mean quite different things. To ensure mutual understanding, speakers need to have
more than the name in common and to agree on the individual or kind specified by the
name. Furthermore, as the upcoming conversation will demonstrate, they must un-
derstand that individual or kind in a particular way. The Stranger wants to grasp the
thing itself (to pragma auto), what it is (ti pot’ esti): its nature or essence.5
Where does an investigation into a topic such as sophistry begin? Because the
inquirers both know and use the word “sophist,” they have some idea about the
kind they are trying to define, even if they attend to different features of it. That initial
conception, even if it is inadequate in the final analysis, allows them to pick out certain
people as sophists—for instance, Protagoras, Gorgias, Hippias, and Prodicus—and to
think about the features they have in common.6 But the Stranger, who sees in advance
the direction the inquiry will take and has a strategy to get there, tells Theaetetus that
they need a model (paradeigma) to aid their investigation. He begins:
When great things need to be elaborated well, it has seemed to everyone even long ago that one
should practice them first in small and relatively easy things, before [practicing them] in the
greatest things themselves. So now, Theaetetus, that is my advice to us: Since we think the kind,
sophist (to tou sophistou genos), is difficult and hard to catch, we ought to practice the pursuit of
him on something else relatively easy, unless you have some other route to suggest, easier to
pursue.—No, I have none.—Then shall we pursue one of the lesser things and try to make it a
model (paradeigma) of the greater thing?—Yes. (218c7–e1)
In the Parmenides and elsewhere Plato speaks of forms as patterns (paradeigmata), and
sensible particulars as likenesses of them, which somehow fall short of the original,
4
The Stranger first speaks of the work (to ergon) and then of the thing itself (to pragma auto), and this makes
sense, because the work manifested in some characteristic activity makes the expert the sort of expert he is.
Recall: “It is by wisdom that wise men are wise” (Tht. 145d11). Cf. 221b2, where auto tourgon refers to the
angler’s expertise displayed in his characteristic activity (praxis). In the angler’s case the characteristic activity
expresses the angler’s nature, but that is not always the case, as the efforts to define the sophist show.
5
Plato sometimes uses the word phusis (“nature”) in speaking of what a thing is in its own right (auto kath’
hauto)—e.g., “What is man (ti pot’ estin anthrōpos), and what belongs to such a nature (phusei ) to do or to suffer
different from other things?” (Tht. 174b1–6). The word occurs in two significant contexts later in the Sophist,
when the Stranger speaks of the nature of being (250c6–7) and the nature of difference (258d7). Since the
correct definition of something specifies its nature, a thing’s nature can also be designated as its essence, the
ontological correlate of a definition. As we shall see in more detail in Chapter 7 below, the essence or nature
of something is its being (ousia).
6
Sophists were itinerant teachers who taught anyone able to pay their fees, and although they taught
various topics, their specialty was public speaking—rhetoric—an art that equipped young men to get ahead in
public life and gain power in the Assembly. The sophistic movement was fostered in fifth century Athens by
Pericles and other democratic statesmen, but conservative Athenians—members of the old aristocratic
families—disliked them, because the sophists took on students from the rising middle class, and thus aided
upward mobility and social change. On the sophistic movement, see Kerferd (1981) and Barney (2006).
and the notion of paradeigma in the pattern and copy metaphor recurs in the Sophist’s
discussion of imitation (235d7). But the Sophist and Statesman use a different conception
of paradeigma as well, introduced by the Stranger in the passage quoted here.7 In the
Sophist and Statesman, a model involves an everyday example with a feature relevant to
the more difficult topic under investigation, the target. The most important models in
the Sophist and Statesman are the angler as model for the sophist, and the weaver as
model for the statesman. Because the example is trivial and can be observed and readily
pictured, the instructor can use visual aids if the student has trouble following the verbal
account. The inquirers practice giving and receiving an account on the example, and
then apply the method to a more difficult case, which cannot be pictured and so can be
understood only by verbal means (Stm. 285d9–286b1).
A model is not merely an example (or paradigmatic example) of some general kind.8
We should not focus merely on the essence of the model—for instance, on angling as a
sort of hunting (relevant to the sophist), or on weaving as a sort of intertwining
(relevant to the statesman). Though essential features often matter, the definition of
the example also displays a particular structure discovered by a certain procedure,
which can be transferred to the more difficult case. Sometimes the structure is the
only feature modeled. The definition of clay in the Theaetetus is a case in point
(assuming I am right that Socrates introduces the definition of clay as a model for
Theaetetus’ definition of knowledge). Like a model house or housing project, which
shows on a small scale how the parts of a house fit together or how a house fits into a
community, Plato’s models reveal the structure of the target or its place within some
larger structure. But unlike a model house or housing project, which aid the construc-
tion of actual houses or communities, Plato’s models reveal how the conceptual
components of the target should fit together or how the target itself relates to other
entities within a larger framework, and those structural features shape its definition.
The Stranger introduces models at key moments of his investigations, either at the
outset or when the investigation has stalled, and his models enable the inquirers to
continue the inquiry, often guiding them past a barrier. For this reason, different
models revealing different features of the target or procedures for its discovery can
apply to a single target at different stages of the investigation. Each model falls short
of its intended goal. The inquirers need to recognize not only the feature that is
the same in the model and the target, but also the difference between the two
7
A previous use of this notion occurs at Meno 77a9–b1, where Socrates gives three sample definitions of
shape and color (and calls the definitions paradeigmata) to show Meno what is wanted in a definition of virtue.
I thank Glenn Rawson for this reference. On the model definitions of shape in the Meno, see Tuozzo (2003).
As we have seen, Socrates uses letters and syllables as paradeigmata for elements and complexes at Tht. 202e3–
203b8. In Chapter 4 I also argued that Socrates introduced the definition of clay as a model for Theaetetus’
definition of knowledge, though he did not explicitly call that definition a paradeigma.
8
I differ from Lane (1998: esp. 61–70), who construes paradeigma in the Statesman simply as example, a
special case revealing a common element shared with the target. For a helpful discussion of the distinction
between models and examples, see Rosen (1995: 81–8), and on paradeigma more generally in Plato, see
Patterson (1985).
142 PHILOSOPHOS
embodiments. That difference will force them finally to abandon the model to reach
their goal.
The example of an angler, defined as a sort of hunter, guides the first attempt to
locate the sophist, who is also defined as a sort of hunter. At the same time, the model
reveals a procedure that can be transferred to the harder case, independent of content.
The model displays in a straightforward way the method of dichotomous division to be
used in the upcoming search for the sophist. The definition of the angler recounts step
by step the right-hand side of the division that led to its discovery, and this structure
reappears in the definition of the target kind, the sophist.9 An angler has a humble
profession familiar to everyone (218e2–5)—he hunts fish using a special sort of hook.
The visitor arrives at his definition by first locating the angler’s profession in a wide
kind—art or expertise (technē )—and immediately divides the kind into two subordi-
nate kinds, productive art (such as farming, carpentry, or weaving) and acquisitive art
(such as hunting or trading); he then continues to divide the acquisitive branch until he
ART OR EXPERTISE (technē )
productive acquisitive
(poiētikē ) (ktētikē )
by exchange by subduing
by combat by hunting
of living things
of lifeless things
(= animal-hunting)
terrestrial aquatic
that swim
with wings
(= fishing)
with enclosures by striking
at night by day
(= torch hunting) (= hooking)
downward upward
from above from below
(= spearing) (= Angling)
FIGURE 5.1 Division of Angling
9
The terminology of “right-hand” and “left-hand” is introduced in the Phaedrus in its discussion of
division (Phdr. 265e1–266b1).
reaches the terminus, where he locates angling marked off as what it is apart from
everything else (see Figure 5.1).10
Concluding his discussion of the angler, the Stranger finally shows Theaetetus
the relevance of the example. Just as the angler has a certain expertise, so we expect
the same of the sophist, a connection the visitor first establishes by reflecting on the
sophist’s name:
Should we say that the angler is a layman or has some expertise (technē )?—Yes [some expert-
ise].—And now shall we set this [other] one down as a layman or as altogether truly a sophist
(sophistēn)?—In no way a layman, for I understand what you mean, that in having this name
[“sophist”] he is very far from being that [i.e., a layman].—So, it seems, we have to take him as
having some expertise (technēn). (221c9–d6)
By reflecting on the sophist’s name, which shares the same root as sophos (“wise man”),
the Stranger and Theaetetus agree that the sophist belongs in the same wide kind as the
angler, on the ground that both have an expertise.11 The Stranger next declares that the
two experts have a more intimate connection (sungenē ) in that both are hunters
(221d8–13). Thus the angler guides the first division of the sophist down to hunting,
after which the branches diverge, with the sophist hunting land animals, the angler
aquatic. By this division the sophist emerges as a hired hunter of rich young men (see
Figure 5.2: division leading to Definition 1).12
So far the angler seems admirably well-suited to reveal a correct procedure and to
guide the inquirers some distance toward their goal. Set on the right track, they readily
complete the rest of the division. Yet the model is also misleading, because it suggests
that the sophist has a simple expertise and activity like the angler, but he does not. At
the end of this first division, the Stranger says:
Still, let’s look at it also in the following way, since the thing now being sought partakes of no
ordinary art, but one that is really quite complicated (poikilēs). For even in what we said earlier it
presented an appearance that it is not what we are now saying but some different kind. (223c1–4)
10
The definition of angling: “Of art (technēs) as a whole, one half portion was acquisitive, and of
acquisitive half was taking-possession, and of taking-possession half was hunting, and of hunting half was
animal-hunting, and of animal-hunting half was aquatic-hunting, and of aquatic-hunting the whole segment
from below was fishing, and of fishing half was striking, and of striking half was hooking. And of hooking the
half concerned with a blow drawn up from below—its name assimilated from the action itself—has proved
by name to be the thing sought: angling” (221b2–c3).
11
See 268b10–c4, where Theaetetus, in response to the Stranger’s question whether the kind located at
the terminus stemming from productive art is wise (sophos) or sophistic (sophistikos), identifies the sophist as the
imitator of the sophos. Cf. Notomi (1999: 76, 285–6). Later we shall see that assigning the sophist to the wide
kind technē at the outset was a mistake.
12
Definition 1: “So, Theaetetus, according to the present account, it seems, the hunt for rich and
reputable young men, which belongs to appropriative art, hunting, animal-hunting, on dry land, human
hunting, <hunting by persuasion>, hunting privately, money-earning, seemingly educative, must be called,
as our present account turns out: sophistry” (223b1–6). Cf. 231d2–3.
144 PHILOSOPHOS
ART OR EXPERTISE (technē )

productive acquisitive separative
(poiētikē ) (ktētikē ) (diakritikē )
by exchange by subduing Def.6
Def.7
(The Noble Art
by giving by selling by combat by hunting of Sophistry)
selling of living things
bartering of lifeless things
own wares (= animal-hunting)
Def.5
retailing commerce terrestrial aquatic
Def.4 for use for use
wild tame Angling
of body of soul
Def.3 by force by persuasion
for display
for learning
(= oratory) in public in private
learning
with gifts with wages
expertise selling about virtue
(= Sophistry)
Def.2 claims for the
with flattery sake of virtue
(= Sophistry)
Def.1
FIGURE 5.2 Divisions of the Sophist (Divisions 1 and 2)
Now the visitor attends to a feature of the sophist mentioned toward the end of the first
division: the sophist earns wages from those he hunts and has a product to sell. Returning
to acquisitive art, the Stranger this time ignores the branch that leads to hunting, and
instead follows the other branch, beginning from the art of acquisition by exchange, and
defines the sophist as someone engaged in commerce, who sells products for the
soul, lessons about virtue (see Figure 5.2: division leading to Definition 2).13 In the
subsequent pages the Stranger focuses on various activities of the sophist and defines him
in five different ways, with the sophist turning up each time at the tips of branches that
stem from acquisitive art. Then on a sixth round he makes a fresh initial division of
expertise by marking off the art of separation and finds the sophist at the terminus of a
branch originating from there. We shall return to the sixth division.
We should reflect on the reasons why the sophist turns up at the tips of branches all
over the tree, and not at a single terminus like the angler. The angler differs from the
sophist in two main respects. First, the essence of the angler is evident from his activity,
since we can observe him fishing with a hook, and his essence is easy to spell out using
dichotomous division. The essence of the sophist, too, might seem easy to recognize
from his activities, but he is complicated (poikilēs) and, because he engages in a variety
of activities, one might define him in several different ways. The essence of the sophist,
as we soon discover, is none of those things: the sophist’s essential activity cannot be
observed and pictured, as angling can. Second, the angler’s nature is uncontroversial,
13
Definition 2: “Sophistry has been revealed a second time as the selling that belongs to the acquisitive art,
exchange, trading, commerce, soul-commerce concerned with accounts and sorts of learning about virtue”
(224c9–d2). Cf. 231d5–6.
witnessed by the Stranger’s and Theaetetus’ use of the name “angling” to designate the
same essential activity from the start (218e2–5, 221a7–b2). By contrast, people con-
ceive of sophistry in different ways, exhibited in the numerous divisions. Because the
nature of sophistry is not obvious, speakers may disagree about what it is, and some
conceptions of the sophist may be simply mistaken.
5.2 Puzzle of the Sophist

The sophist is not unique in his tendency to turn up all over a divided tree. Anything,
including very simple things, can do the same, because people experience them in
different ways and so have different conceptions of their defining features. In Chapter 4
we discussed the example of the letter Y, which someone might initially grasp by an
accidental property, for instance, as the first letter of Theaetetus’ name. A thing’s nature
is often hidden, and the method of division does not itself guarantee attention to
essential features. Furthermore, disputes might arise about the identity of virtually
anything, but disagreements can often be resolved by perception or by some recog-
nized test (disputes about number by counting, those about size or weight by measur-
ing or weighing, Euthphr. 7b7–c9).14 Our series of dialogues investigates disputed
kinds, disagreements about which are not so readily settled.
The anomalous sixth division of the sophist (226b1–231b8) reveals that sophistry is a
disputed kind. Whereas the first five divisions locate the sophist somewhere under
acquisitive art, the sixth division locates him in a quite different place, under the art of
separation, marked off expressly from productive and acquisitive art, as a third subkind
under technē, to deal with this case (see Figure 5.3). The sixth sophist purifies souls of
beliefs that interfere with learning, and he looks a lot like Socrates. The visitor queries
using the label “sophist” in this case, calls the art he has just uncovered the “noble” art
of sophistry, and says that the noble sophist resembles the others as a dog resembles a
wolf. The sixth division exploits the fact that many people regarded Socrates as a
sophist, but Plato wants to differentiate him.15 As the Stranger presents the division, he
has snared a distinct kind of expert called by the same name owing to a superficial
resemblance.16
14
Phdr. 263a2–c12 differentiates words such as “iron” and “silver” from words such as “just” and “good.”
Whereas straightforward procedures allow one to decide whether something is iron or silver, there is no easy
way to decide whether an action is just or good.
15
Aristophanes’ Clouds parodies Socrates as a sophist. Socrates acknowledged that familiar characterization
at his trial (as represented by Plato in the Apology) and tries to differentiate himself from the sophists, especially
on the matter of charging fees. I disagree with C. C. W. Taylor (2006) that in the Sophist Plato concludes that
Socrates shares the distinctive marks of sophistry and lacks the most distinctive marks of philosophy. Nehamas
(1990: 13) and Long (1998: 130–1), in discussing this passage, independently argue that the Socratic elenchus
prepares the student but is not sufficient for philosophy as Plato now envisages it.
16
The Phaedrus presents a similar case. After the first part of the dialogue discusses two quite different
things called “love,” one characterized as a human sickness, the other as divine inspiration, the second part of
the dialogue locates both under a higher kind, madness (Phdr. 265e1–266b1). Though both conditions are
called “love” and fall under the same wide kind, they are distinct subkinds.
146 PHILOSOPHOS
ART OR EXPERTISE (technē)

(poiētikē) (ktētikē) (diakritikē)
separates like from like separates better from worse
purifies body purifies soul
of disease of ugliness of wickedness of ignorance

(medicine) (gymnastic) (chastisement) (teaching)
education
technical (paideia)
by admonition by cross examination (elenchus)

(= Noble Art of Sophistry)
Def. 6
FIGURE 5.3 Divisions of the Sophist (Division 6)
By the end of the sixth division, with the sophist appearing in so many guises,
Theaetetus is perplexed (231b9–c2), and his perplexity prepares him to make a
discovery. The sophist is special not because he turns up in so many places, or because
some conceptions pick out different kinds altogether which are merely called by the
same name, but because the multiplicity reflects something about him and his art. The
Stranger restates the six definitions of the sophist (231d1–e7), and then observes:
Do you know that, when someone appears to know many things, and is called by the name of
one art, this appearance (phantasma) is not sound, but it is clear that the person experiencing (ho
paschōn) it in relation to some art is unable to see that [feature] of it toward which all these sorts of
learning look, and so he addresses the person having them by many names rather than one?
(232a1–6)
The Stranger has defined the sophist as a hired hunter of rich young men, as someone
engaged in selling his own and other people’s wares for the soul, as an expert in
disputation about justice and injustice, and so on—six times he called the kind
uncovered a “sophist,” but he also called it by many names rather than one, a “hunter,”
a “merchant,” an “eristic,” a “teacher,” and so forth.17 The sophist’s appearance of
manifold expertise reveals that the inquirers, as well as ordinary speakers, have made a
mistake by failing to recognize that feature of his art “toward which all these sorts of
learning look,” something about the sophist that explains why he seems to know so
much, something about him that would justify calling him by one name, “sophist.”
This is the outer layer of the puzzle about the sophist.
17
I thank John Ferrari for helping me see this point. Cf. Notomi (1999: 80). Franklin (2011: 5–7)
interprets the passage in a different way.
What is that one thing still missing? The Stranger suggests that he and Theaetetus
take up an earlier point about the sophist, one that reveals him especially clearly. The
fifth definition characterized the sophist as someone skilled in dispute (antilogikon), who
claims that he can teach others to do the same thing. About what topics (peri tinos) do
sophists dispute? asks the Stranger (232b1–12), and then replies that they dispute about
divine matters and profess to make others competent to do so, and about things on
earth and in the heavens, and about generation and being, and about laws and all sorts
of political issues—in short, their capacity seems sufficient to engage in controversies
about everything (peri pantōn) (232b12–e5). But how can anyone know and dispute
about everything (232e6–233a4)? The sophists’ secret is their ability to make people
think they are wise about everything—otherwise no one would pay them fees. The
Stranger has so far ignored the feature of sophists that explains how they can success-
fully appear wise (sophoi . . . phainontai) in all things to their students, when they are not
in fact wise (ouk ontes ge) (233c6–8). He and Theaetetus carefully defined the sophist in
terms of many of his activities but none of those make him what he is. They have so far
missed the essence of the sophist, and for that reason they mistakenly call him by many
names instead of one.
The Stranger introduces a new model (paradeigma, 233d3–4) to unmask the special
nature of the sophist’s art: the art of imitation. By means of imitation a painter can make
products with the same names as the originals and fool children into thinking he can
make anything he wants (234b1–c1). The sophist, a sort of wizard, achieves the same
result with statements (logoi), making large things appear small, and easy things hard,
and could fool young people (234c2–235a9). All the appearances of the sophist are
linked together by the sophist’s skill at imitating people who truly know the things he
seems to know.18
With that insight, the Stranger announces that they have nearly caught the sophist
and sets out in pursuit (he finally completes this seventh division at the end of the
dialogue). This time ignoring the entire branch of acquisitive art from which the first
five divisions set out, he instead takes the branch of productive art down to image-
making and divides it into two parts, copy-making (eikastikē ), and appearance-making
(phantastikē ). Whereas a copy-maker preserves the proportions of the model (parade-
igma in its more usual sense), and keeps the appropriate colors and other details, an
appearance-maker distorts the proportions of the original, so that the image appears
beautiful from a distance (235c9–236c8).19 The Stranger’s declared uncertainty about
18
This passage relates closely to a discussion of imitation in Republic X, especially the distinction between
(1) someone who uses an instrument such as a flute and knows its function (knows, that is, what it is to be a
good flute); (2) someone who makes a flute and has true belief about its function based on instructions from
the user; and finally (3) the imitator (a painter), who neither knows nor has true belief about the goodness or
badness of the things he imitates, but simply copies the look of the thing (Rep. X, 601c3–602c3). See the
excellent discussion of this passage in connection with Plato’s critique of poetry in Moss (2007).
19
Think of the statues on medieval churches, which look ill-proportioned when seen from close up in a
museum: their large heads and small legs are designed to look right when viewed from the ground high up on
148 PHILOSOPHOS
which group includes the sophist takes him into the dialogue’s main project, the
investigation of not-being.20 He has to make sense of appearances and false statement,
the next layers of the puzzle about the sophist:
This appearing (to . . . phainesthai touto) and seeming (to dokein), but not being (einai de mē ), and
stating things (to legein men atta), but not true [things] (alēthē de mē), all these were always full of
difficulty in the past and they still are. It is very hard, Theaetetus, to find terms in which to say
that there really is false stating or judging, and to utter this without being caught in a contradic-
tion. (236e1–237a1)
In essence the sophist produces appearances, and more precisely false appearances—
things that are not as they appear to be. So to understand the sophist, the inquirers have
to make sense of appearances and their production, and to do that, the Stranger must
take on Parmenides, who asserts in his poem:
Never shall this be proved, that things-that-are-not are (einai mē eonta). When you inquire, keep
your thought from that route. (237a8–9; cf. DK 28B7.1–2)
The problem of not-being is the inner core of the puzzle about the sophist, and to solve
it the Stranger will ultimately contradict Parmenides and show that things-that-are-not
are.
He starts with a series of puzzles to demonstrate how confused people are about not-
being, and then demonstrates that they are equally confused about being. We consid-
ered those puzzles in Chapter 3, and we shall look again at the final pair of puzzles
about being in Chapter 7, but let us simply take away from them several assumptions
that will be corrected, and one that will stand throughout the rest of the Sophist. The
Stranger will later correct the mistake of the Late-Learners (251b6–c2) that there is a
one-to-one correlation between a name and a thing, and will also correct the mistake
that not-being and being are opposites (enantia).21 On the other hand, his claim in the
Aporia about Being (249d9–250d4)—that change and rest are mutually exclusive
opposites (250a8–9)—will stand for the remainder of the Sophist. Both change and
rest partake of being (250a11–c2), and being is some mysterious third thing which
partakes of neither of them (250c3–d4). After the Aporia the Stranger expresses his
hope that since he and Theaetetus are now equally confused about being and not-
being, they may be able to achieve joint illumination and thus gain clarity to the same
extent about both at once (250d5–251a4).22 Parity we get, but as I demonstrated in my
a building. Cornford (1935a: 197 n. 1) mentions the Epicurean inscription on a wall at Oenoanda, with letters
in the top lines cut larger than those in the lower, so that they appear the same size from below.
20
On this question as the key uncertainty, see 235d2–3, 236c9–d3; cf. 264b11–c9.
21
We discussed both issues briefly in Chapter 3 sec. 3.4. Recall that the Late-Learners insist that each
thing be called only by its own name and not by any other—we can call man “man,” and good “good,” but
not man “good.” The Stranger needs to show that a single thing can be called by many names.
22
As I mentioned in my Introduction (note 14), this hope is called by Owen (1971: 229–31) the “Parity
Assumption.”
Introduction, clarity sufficient for not-being and the sophist does not suffice for being
and the philosopher.
5.3 Great Kinds

In the section on great kinds (megista genē ) (254b8–257a12), the Stranger aims to show
that a kind can be called not only by its own name, but also by names derived from the
names of other kinds, which are attributes of it. This discussion prepares the ground for
his interpretation of not-being as difference, a revision the Stranger needs in order to
explain false statement, the sophist’s major weapon. The second half of the Sophist is
difficult and controversial, so let me state at the outset that I take the whole discussion
to serve a single goal, the analysis of false statement (the Stranger’s example, “Theae-
tetus is flying”). To clarify false statement, the Stranger needs negative predication,
since “Theaetetus is flying” is false, because the negative predication “Theaetetus is not
flying” is true. To explain negative predication, the visitor has to make sense of not-
being, and he does so by restricting the meaning of “not-being” to difference. It is
important to realize that, although the Stranger distinguishes five great kinds—change,
rest, being, sameness, and difference—he analyzes only one of those kinds: differ-
ence.23 If we expect to learn about the nature of being, as well as difference, we shall be
disappointed. Still, on the assumption that the Sophist, like the Parmenides and Theae-
tetus, presses the audience to build on its analysis using the tools it provides, later in this
chapter I shall use the Stranger’s treatment of difference as a model to make headway
on the natures of sameness and being. Although that step goes beyond the text, in my
view Plato encourages his readers (including us) to take it.
The Stranger begins his project by pinpointing one mistaken assumption behind
several of the puzzles about not-being—namely, that a name and a thing stand in a
one-to-one correspondence. The earlier puzzles can be avoided by recognizing that
different names specify a thing in different ways, that one name picks it out as what it is
in its own right, while others pick it out through its other attributes.24 An entity can be
correctly called by many names because it associates with (partakes of) various kinds
(251a5–252e8).25 To determine which names correctly apply to a thing, we need to
23
We easily forget that only difference is analyzed in the Sophist, because of the scholarly attention given
to being and the Parity Assumption.
24
In Chapter 4 sec. 4.7, I argued that the person with knowledge focuses on an object’s essential features.
Although someone with true belief might happen to attend to those same features, he lacks discrimination
and might mistake accidental features for essential ones. In the Sophist the Stranger approaches the distinction
between essence and accident with a focus on the object, which can be called by its own name (which
designates its nature) and by other names designating its other features.
25
The Stranger uses a great many expressions for the association of kinds, but most of them—at least in
the section on great kinds—appear to be variations on “participation” (methexis), used here in reference to the
relation between a subject-kind and some attribute it has. Ross (1953: 228) gives a useful table including
many of the expressions, though he restricts his list to the relation between sensible particulars and forms, and
he thinks that some of the words imply or suggest the immanence of the forms, while others imply or suggest
their separation. As we might expect, all the words used in the section on great kinds come from Ross’s first
150 PHILOSOPHOS
know how kinds (forms) associate with one another. Some forms associate, whereas
others do not, and certain great kinds make possible the association of others, much as
vowels allow consonants to fit together into words (252e9–253a12). Just as one needs
expertise to know how letters combine, so one needs expertise to know how forms
combine—an expertise the Stranger calls “dialectic” and attributes to the philosopher
(253b9–e5).26 In the upcoming passage the visitor focuses on five great kinds—change,
rest, being, sameness, and difference (and will later identify not-being with difference).
Although he mentions only five great kinds, there are others, including likeness,
unlikeness, oneness, and multitude.27 He selects the five he does in the Sophist because
they are the ones he needs in order to solve the upcoming problem of false statement.
Their behavior shows that forms can associate with other forms, and so can be called
after them. He uses change and rest as opposites—mutually exclusive consonant
forms—and being, sameness, and difference as all-pervasive vowel forms, the first
two enabling forms to fit together, and the third allowing them to be marked off
from one another.
Forms and their features

Before continuing, I pause to make several distinctions regarding forms and their features,
some of which have been introduced in the course of my earlier discussions, and all of
which will prove useful as we go on. We start with the new distinction introduced in the
Sophist between consonant and vowel forms (252e1–253c3, 254b8–d2). Consonant
forms combine with some forms and not others, and particularly important for the
upcoming discussion, opposite consonant forms cannot combine with each other.
Vowel forms link consonant (and vowel) forms to one another or differentiate them—
to quote Gilbert Ryle, vowel forms “function not like the bricks but like the
arrangement of the bricks in a building.”28 Ryle’s analogy, though apt, is slightly
misleading, because vowel forms not only permit kinds to relate to one another, but
can themselves combine with or be differentiated from other forms, as though they
group implying immanence. Cornford (1935a: 255–7) claims that the combination of kinds, though called in
this passage “participation,” is a symmetrical relation, but Ackrill ([1957] 1965: 212–18) shows that partici-
pation here, too, is an asymmetrical relation between a subject kind and an attribute of it.
26
A topic I defer until Chapter 7 secs. 7.3 and 7.5.
27
Cornford (1935a: 273–4 n. 2) corrects earlier mistranslations to indicate that the great kinds in the
Sophist are very important, but not the only ones. Presumably all the kinds included at step one of the Scope
of Forms in the Parmenides could be included (Prm. 130b1–6). Cf. Prm. 129d6–e4. McCabe (1994: 224–34)
calls the five great kinds the mesh of identity and thinks that being, sameness, and difference determine the
oneness of something. But the context of the discussion of great kinds and the absence of oneness from the list
of great kinds in the Sophist suggest, on the contrary, that this section is about something other than
individuation.
28
Ryle ([1939] 1965: esp. 131, 143–4). For Ryle, mistaking a vowel form for a consonant form is a
category mistake of the sort he describes in Ryle (1949: 16): A foreigner on his first visit to Oxford or
Cambridge, having been shown the colleges, libraries, playing fields, and other facilities, asks: “But where is
the University?”
were bricks. For instance, the sentence “sameness is different from change,” treats
sameness as a brick, not as an arrangement.
In Chapter 1 I distinguished between categorial and structural forms, and we observed
the behavior of one main structural form—oneness—in Chapter 2 when we discussed the
third deduction in the second part of the Parmenides. Many forms have determinate
categorial content and can be arranged in genus–species trees in the way that Aristotle
arranges entities in his categories (man is a species of animal, animal a species of living thing,
and so on up the tree of substance; similarly, blue is a species of color, and justice a species of
virtue, and both ultimately fall under the wide kind quality). Tree structures articulate the
natures of categorial forms. The earlier division of the angler and the various divisions of the
sophist dealt with such categorial kinds, arranging them into genus–species trees. Other
forms are empty of categorial content but have structural content, and cannot be so
arranged. Oneness and multitude, sameness and difference, likeness and unlikeness have
structural natures dictating the way they operate on other, ultimately categorial entities.
The so-called “common features” (koina) discussed in the Final Argument of Part I of the
Theaetetus (Tht. 184a9–186e12) are structural kinds. These features, there treated as
common to the objects of more than one sense, belong to things very broadly, and the
greatest of the structural kinds—being, sameness, difference, likeness, unlikeness, oneness,
multitude, and some others—apply to everything, including their own opposite.29 By
contrast, categorial kinds, such as heat and coldness, hardness and softness, beauty and
ugliness, though they partake of their own nature and other kinds, cannot partake of their
own opposite. In making a distinction between categorial and structural kinds, I do not
mean to suggest that categorial forms lack structure, only that structural forms have
exclusively structural content and lack categorial content. Structural forms derive categorial
content through their applications. For instance, the not-large (later designated as a part of
difference) has categorial content, whereas difference itself has none.
My distinction between categorial and structural forms concerns a form’s nature, the
way it operates and what it explains, whereas the new distinction in the Sophist
between consonant and vowel forms concerns a form’s relationality, how it connects
with other kinds and is marked off from other kinds. I take it that all structural forms are
vowel forms, and that all categorial forms are consonant forms. The Stranger uses
vowels and consonants to model vowel and consonant forms, but the vowels, though
they relate consonants to one another, are not vowel forms in the Stranger’s sense: all
the letter-types are categorial forms.
I have previously appealed to a distinction discussed by Aristotle in the Topics (Top.
V.7, 137b3–13) between ideal features of forms and proper features of them.30 Ideal
features are those properties a form has in virtue of being a form (hēi idea), such as
eternity, intelligibility, and rest (to ēremein) (the last is Aristotle’s example), and such
29
The notable exception is being and not-being, which apply to each other but not, according to the
Sophist, as opposites.
30
In my Introduction, note 46.
152 PHILOSOPHOS
features figure in the section on great kinds in the Sophist only implicitly.31 Many of the
upcoming arguments depend on the governing assumption that change and rest cannot
partake of each other, but any Platonist should find jarring the implication that change is
not resting, given the Platonic view that all forms—including change—rest insofar as they
are forms.32 A form’s proper features (singular: idion) are those which belong to the form in
virtue of its being the particular form that it is. Depending on whether a form is itself
categorial or structural, proper features are categorial or structural; thus justice is just, and
beauty is beautiful, but also oneness is one, and difference is different—self-predications
Plato continues to state in the Sophist (258b9–c4). Some proper features of a kind are
essential features of it—features it must have to be the particular kind it is—and these are
part (or all) of its nature. But not all proper features are essential features.
We need to make a broader distinction than the usual one between essence and
accident, one to which I appealed in discussing the second part of the Parmenides. Some
features are inside the subject, because an analysis of the subject will reveal them, but not all
features inside the subject are essential ones, because essential features explain the presence
of certain other features. For instance, human rationality explains our capacity for
laughter, and so the capacity for laughter is not part of our human essence, but nonetheless
inside human nature, because an analysis of human nature will reveal and explain it. Other
features belong to a subject but are outside its nature, because an analysis of the subject will
not reveal them. Some of those features are accidental properties, features a thing has but
need not have to be what it is. The first part of the Sophist vividly shows that locating
the essential features of the sophist is by no means as straightforward as locating those of the
angler, and the first five divisions, though they analyzed features of the sophist, missed the
essential ones, highlighting instead various features individual sophists have but need not
have to be what they are, and so accidental to the nature of the sophist. Since the nature of
the sophist will ultimately be tracked down the branch stemming from productive art,
whereas the first five attempts originated from acquisitive art, those features are not likely
to be explained by the nature of the sophist.33
Accidents are not the only features that belong to forms while standing outside
their nature. In addition, some features necessarily belong to a particular form but are
nonetheless outside its nature.34 I call these features “necessary external attributes,” and
some passages in the Parmenides help to clarify them. Deduction 1 argues that the one
is not different from anything, because to be different from something it would have
31
In this section the Stranger treats rest as the subject of properties, and as an attribute only when he
derives the apparent absurdity: “change would rest” (256b6–8).
32
The Gods (friends of the forms) in the Battle of the Gods and Giants stress that forms are resting
(248d10–e5), though the Gods exclude change and changing things from the realm of being. The stability of
forms is called into question in the Aporia about Being immediately following (249d9–250d4), and we shall
discuss that argument in Chapter 7. M. Frede (1967: 33–4, 67–8) discusses ideal features of forms in the
Sophist as examples of his “is2” (features that belong to a subject but are not definitional).
33
For a different view, see Franklin (2011: 5–6).
34
Cf. Peterson (1996: 172), who points out that all features internal to a thing’s nature are necessary, but
other features, such as sameness, are necessary though not internal (except to that feature itself ).
to be so by difference, not by oneness (Prm. 139c3–d1). Similarly, Deduction 2 argues

that oneness and being are different from each other, but they are different not by the
one being one or by being being being, but by difference, which is not the same as either
of them (Prm. 143b3–8). The same idea recurs in the Sophist. Difference is a distinct kind,
and it pervades the other great kinds, since each kind is different from the others, “not
because of its own nature (ou dia tēn hautou phusin), but because it partakes of the form of
the different (dia to metechein tēs ideas tēs thaterou)” (255e3–6). Thus difference stands
outside the natures of the other kinds, though they must all partake of it. Each of the five
great kinds is treated in the upcoming section as outside the others, but we shall need to
reconsider their status in that respect when we discuss being, change, and rest in
Chapter 7. Later in this chapter we shall consider whether sameness is rightly treated as
outside the nature of being.
As we turn to the section on great kinds, let me reiterate what I take to be its main
point: the section sets out to demonstrate, using five great kinds, that a kind can be
called, not only by its own name (the name that belongs to it in virtue of what it is in
itself ), but also by names of other kinds in which it participates (251a5–252e8). This is
the first step in the larger project of analyzing difference and then using that analysis to
solve the problem of false statement. The visitor asks two questions about the five great
kinds: of what sort is each of them (poia hekasta estin), and what capacity (pōs echei
dunameōs) do they have to associate with one another? (254c4–6). He will undertake to
show, first, that each kind is distinct from the others; and second, for one specimen
kind—change—that it partakes of some of the others but not all.
Distinguishing the five great kinds

The Stranger answers the first question—what sort is each of them?—without spelling
out the nature of any of the five, but by arguing that each of them is distinct from the
other four (254d4–255e7). Several of his arguments turn on the earlier agreement
(250a8–9: in the Aporia about Being) that change and rest are opposites, and so cannot
partake of each other. He first argues that being is distinct from change and rest: if
being, which applies to both opposites, were the same as either of them, say change,
then when being applies to rest, substitute “changes” for “is,” and rest would partake of
its own opposite—an impossibility (254d4–13). He uses a similar argument to show
that sameness and difference are distinct from change and rest (254d14–255b7), and
then argues that sameness is distinct from being because, otherwise, when we say that
change and rest both are, we could substitute “are the same” for “are,” and conclude
that change and rest are the same (255b8–c8), which they are not. Scholars have rightly
faulted this argument, because “the same” is an incomplete predicate, and once the
proper completion is added, the outcome need not be that change and rest are the same
as each other, but could be that each is the same as itself—no absurdity at all.35 This
35
Cf. Bostock (1984: 91–2) and Silverman (2002: 164). The argument has been defended by de Vries
(1988: 386–7).
154 PHILOSOPHOS
flaw should alert us that the Stranger has not given the best argument available to
distinguish sameness from being. Later we shall consider a better one he might have
used based on his argument distinguishing difference from being.
The Stranger cannot mark off difference from being by the previous technique,
because if you substitute “are different” for “are,” no falsehood results: make the
substitution in “change and rest are,” and the result is true, since change and rest are
indeed different (from each other).36 He uses another strategy to distinguish difference
from being, and here introduces the much-debated distinction between auto kath’ hauto
(itself by itself) and pros alla (in relation to other things). Because my interpretation
builds on that controversy, I discuss some of the main interpretations in my Appendix
to Chapter 5.37
Although the passage is difficult, its main point seems clear enough: difference is
distinct from being because difference operates in only one way—pros alla—whereas
being operates both auto kath’ hauto and pros alla. Let us have the text before us:
But I suppose you agree that whereas some things are themselves by themselves (auta kath’ hauta),
others are always said in relation to other things (pros alla).—Of course.—But isn’t difference
always in relation to something different (pros heteron)?—Yes.—And this would not be the case if
being and difference were not distinct. For if difference partook of both forms [auto kath’ hauto
and pros alla], as being does, then something even among the different things could be different
without being different in relation to something different. But in fact it has turned out that
necessarily whatever is different is the very thing that it is from something different.—It is as you
say.—So we must posit the nature of the different (tēn thaterou phusin) as being a fifth kind among
the forms we are selecting.—Yes.—Furthermore, we shall say that it pervades all of them, since
each one is different from the others not because of its own nature, but because it partakes of the
form of the different.—Just so. (255c13–e7)
In his discussion of Plato in Lives of Eminent Philosophers, Diogenes Laertius discusses a

similar distinction between two prepositional phrases, though he replaces the expres-
sion “in relation to other things” (pros alla) with “in relation to something” (pros ti ).
Some scholars would dispute the usefulness of Diogenes’ version, but I think he
articulates the basic Platonic idea, and his version is more accessible than Plato’s because
he illustrates the distinction with categorial kinds:38
Of things-that-are, some are by themselves (kath’ heauta), whereas others are said in relation to
something (pros ti ). Things said by themselves are ones that need nothing further in their
interpretation. These would be, for instance, man, horse and other animals, since none of
these gains through interpretation. All the things said in relation to something need in addition
36
Cf. Malcolm (2006a: 276).
37
See esp. Ackrill ([1957] 1965), M. Frede (1967, summarized in 1992), Owen (1971: 251–8), and Brown
(1986); see also, more recently, Malcolm (2006a and 2006b), and Leigh (2008). On the ancient discussion, see
Fine (1993: chs. 12 and 13) and Dancy (1999). My Appendix focuses mainly on the contributions of M. Frede
(1967 and 1992), Owen (1971), and Brown (1986).
38
some interpretation, for instance, that which is greater than something and that which is quicker
than something and the more beautiful and such things. For the greater is greater than something
less and the quicker is quicker than something. So of things-that-are, some are said themselves by
themselves (auta kath’ hauta), whereas others are said in relation to something (pros ti). In this way,
according to Aristotle, he [Plato] used to divide the primary things. (Diogenes Laertius 3.108–109
[= Hicks])
Diogenes illustrates the distinction with categorial substantive kinds and relational
properties. The species man is said by itself (kath’ heauto), as a monadic property,
because when you say “Simmias is (a) man,” you need not add anything further to
complete the meaning. On the other hand, greater than something is a relational
property, and so understanding the meaning of “12 is greater than something” requires
completing the predicate by mentioning what twelve is greater than, say 11.
Plato uses the distinction between auto kath’ hauto and pros alla in the section on great
kinds to mark off two vowel forms which have structural but no categorial content.
Since difference is always relational, a sentence such as “change is different” is true,
only if there is something change is different from—for instance, rest or sameness.
Being, on the other hand, operates in both ways, both by itself (auto kath’ hauto) and in
relation to other things (pros alla). Because being operates in both ways, and difference
in only one, the Stranger has a criterion to isolate the two forms from each other. We
leave more detailed analysis of difference and being until later, but for now let us simply
note that, in saying that being operates in two ways, the Stranger appears to treat being
as Parmenides did in the Parmenides, both as a monadic property and as a relational link
to further properties an entity has.
Association of kinds
As for the second question—what capacity do the kinds have to partake of one
another?—the Stranger carries out the analysis for one sample kind, change, and argues
systematically that change is non-identical with each of the other four kinds (change is
not rest, not the same, and so forth), but partakes of three of the four, all but rest
(255e8–256d10).39 Thus it turns out that change both is and is not each of the others
(the visitor even adds the counterfactual: “So if indeed change itself somehow partook
of rest, it would be in no way strange to call it resting?” 256b6–8). According to the
Stranger’s analysis, the sentence, “change both is the same and is not the same,” is not a
contradiction, because the two predicates mean different things and are analyzed in
different ways. “Change is the same” is a predication attributing sameness to change
and is analyzed as follows: change is the same, because change partakes of sameness in
relation to itself (i.e., change is identical with itself). “Change is not the same,” on the
other hand, expresses the non-identity of change and sameness, parsed as follows:
39
See Brown (2008: 444–5) for a comprehensive analysis of this section.
156 PHILOSOPHOS
change is not the same, because change partakes of difference, which sets it apart from
sameness (256a10–b4).
I have restricted myself to one case, but the passage on the association of kinds has
the following overall structure: Change is (partakes of ) three of the other four kinds, all
but rest; and change is not (is non-identical with/different from) each of the other four
kinds. The visitor implements his entire analysis of association with two basic relations:
he parses (1) participation, expressed in a positive predication, “X is F,” as X partakes of
F-ness; and (2) participation in difference, expressed in a statement of non-identity, “X is
not F-ness,” as X partakes of difference from F-ness.40 Although the Stranger could
have introduced identity as a third basic relation, he does not, but instead captures
sameness within the first relation: “Change is the same” is true, because change partakes
of sameness in relation to itself. The Stranger’s failure to treat sameness as a third basic
relation reflects his limited goal, to clarify difference. In the section on great kinds he
focuses on the operation of difference specified in statements of non-identity, and in
the next section he will turn to its function in negative predications. He virtually
ignores sameness, and later we shall discuss that peculiar fact.
The section on great kinds shows what the Stranger set out to show, though he has
demonstrated the point for only one specimen kind—change—namely, that a kind can
be called not only by its own name, but also by many other names through its
participation in forms other than its own nature.41 That demonstrated, he turns to
the problem of negative predication, whose solution will permit him to deal with false
statement.
Problem of negative predication

Scholars have observed that the Stranger’s machinery, as so far articulated, seems too
meager to address the upcoming problem of false statement instanced in “Theaetetus is
flying.” The visitor has provided an analysis of predication (via partaking), statements of
non-identity (via partaking of difference), and, after a fashion, identity (via partaking of
sameness), but the Stranger needs negative predication as well, since the statement,
“Theaetetus is flying,” is false precisely because the negative predication, “Theaetetus is
not flying,” is true.42 Some experts think that the Stranger has extended his machinery
to deal with negative predications, as well as statements of non-identity by the end of
40
As before, I use “X” as a substantive expression to designate a subject, something that participates in a
kind (in this section “X” refers only to great kinds), and I use “F-ness” as a substantive expression naming a
kind designated by a predicate, a kind X partakes of or is differentiated from. I use “F” to stand for an
adjective applicable to X when it partakes of F-ness (in the sentence “Socrates is brave,” Socrates is called
“brave” after “bravery,” which names the kind bravery in which Socrates participates). In discussing
negations below, I follow Plato’s practice of turning an adjective into a substantive expression by adding a
definite article, as in “the not-large.”
41
The section on the association of kinds is followed by a brief passage on being (257a1–12), in which the
Stranger triumphantly concludes that being is not. He simply means that being is different from (non-identical
with) all the other kinds but tells us nothing about what being is.
42
Not everyone would agree with this claim: van Eck (1995) dissents.
the great kinds section, because he ends the second part of the section by saying: “So about
(peri) each of the forms the being is much and the not-being is unlimited in multitude”
(256e6–7).43 Here the visitor appears to have switched his focus from the subject to the
attribute, since he speaks of the being and not-being “about” the subject. This interpret-
ation gains support from the immediately preceding passage summarizing the conclu-
sions about change, where the Stranger generalizes to other forms, “And so necessarily
not-being applies to (epi) change and to (kata) all the other kinds” (256d11–12), again
spotlighting the attribute rather than the subject. This switch of focus from the subject to
the attribute designated by the predicate, with the negation attached to the predicate,
suggests that the Stranger has already dealt with negative predication in the great kinds
section, but it has proved exceedingly hard to show this.
In my view the passage on great kinds relies on negative predication, but because the
analysis of negative predication is complex, the Stranger does not provide it in that
section but waits until the next (257b1–258c6). He sets the stage for the analysis,
however, because negative predication lurks everywhere in the background of the
section on great kinds. In the first part of the passage, where the five great kinds are
distinguished from one another, the Stranger claims that change and rest do not partake
of each other (254d7–8); hence change is not resting, and rest is not changing—and the
corresponding statements are negative predications. Then he relies on those negative
predications to demonstrate that each of the vowel forms, which apply to both change
and rest, must be distinct from them (254d10–255c8)—otherwise change and rest
would partake of each other (and so change would rest or rest would change) or be
identical with each other. He recalls the two negative predications again in the section
on the association of kinds, where he focuses on change and its capacity to partake of
each of the others, with the exception of rest: “So if indeed change itself somehow
partook of rest, it would be in no way strange to call it resting?” (256b6–8).44 He states
the question counterfactually, because change does not partake of its opposite. Thus he
drives home the point: Change is not resting.
In this way the passage on great kinds prepares for the analysis of negative predica-
tion but does not give it. For the account of negative predication, we turn to the
Stranger’s treatment of negation and analysis of difference.
43
The Stranger appears to refer back to this statement much later in the dialogue (263b11–12), after he
has completed his analysis of false statement. M. Frede (1967: 52–5, and 1992: 403–5, 422–3) and Owen
(1971: 254–5, 259–60) claim that the machinery has been extended to deal with negative predication by the
end of the section on great kinds. On 256e6–7, see also McDowell (1982). Bostock (1984: 111–13) discusses
the issues at stake. Against these scholars, van Eck (1995: 40–1) argues that the sentence concerns non-
identity alone.
44
Cornford (1935a: 286–7 and n. 3) thinks there is a lacuna after 256b8 and explicitly supplies what I take
the passage to imply. A lacuna was earlier suspected by Heindorf: see the critical apparatus of Duke et al.
(1995: ad loc.). There is no need to make the implication explicit.
158 PHILOSOPHOS
5.4 Difference
The Stranger made a serious mistake about negation in the puzzles about not-being
earlier in the dialogue (240b5, d6–7), in supposing that the negation in “not-being”
indicates the opposite (enantion) of being. The opposite of being is nothing, and while
Parmenides was right that we cannot speak or think about nothing, he was wrong to
suppose that all talk about not-being is attempted talk about nothing.
Negation
The Stranger solves the problem of not-being by proposing, first, that the negation
operates on the predicate, not the subject—a point revealed already at the end of the
passage on the association of kinds (256d11–e8)—and second, that the negation need
not specify the opposite of the item whose name is negated but only something
different from it (257b3–4).45 He calls attention to these two points in his proposal.
Notice his focus on the predicate:
When we say “not being” (mē on), as it seems, we don’t mean something opposite to being, but only
different.—How?—For instance, when we call something “not large,” we don’t indicate by the
expression the small any more than the equal.46—Of course.—So we shall not agree when someone
says a negation signifies an opposite; we shall agree only to this much, that the “not” when prefixed to
the names following it reveals something different [from the names], or rather from the things (tōn
pragmatōn) which the names uttered after the negation designate.—Absolutely. (257b3–c4)
Apparently, when you say, “Simmias is not large,” you indicate by the “not” merely
something different from large. Simmias could be equal or small in comparison with
someone else.
Given the Stranger’s proposal to understand negation in terms of difference, one
might think that in the statement “Simmias is not large” the speaker states that largeness
is different from every attribute Simmias has (manhood, bravery, red-hair, blue-eyes,
and so on), but the discussion of “not large” itself suggests otherwise.47 “Different from
large,” while not meaning the opposite of largeness (the polar contrary smallness),
45
Cf. 258a11–b4, 258e6–259a1.
46
Owen (1971: 232 and n. 19) takes the discussion of not large to be an analogy for difference,
whereas I, along with most other interpreters, understand it as an example of difference. Thus Owen
translates hoion at the beginning of this sentence as “just as,” instead of “for instance.” E. N. Lee (1972:
270 n. 5) points this out in his discussion of the important analogy, following this passage, between difference
and knowledge.
47
Keyt (1973: 293–302) discusses various interpretations of negation in Plato and labels this one the
“Oxford interpretation.” See also Brown (2008: 455–8). This sort of view is advocated by Ross (1953: 116),
Owen (1971: 237–8 and 260), and many others. M. Frede (1967: 86–90, and 1992: 409) adopts a variant of
the Oxford interpretation: “the small is different from what is big,” where “what is big” specifies all the big
things. This version of the Oxford interpretation faces a problem at 257d11–13, where Theaetetus says that
what we call on each occasion “not beautiful” is different from none other than the nature of the beautiful (tēs
tou kalou phuseōs). Unless Theaetetus has misunderstood the Stranger (and the Stranger gives no indication of
that), the not-beautiful is different from the beautiful itself and not merely from the class of beautiful things.
Bostock (1984: 115–16), who endorses Frede’s view, defends reading “the nature of the beautiful” as the class
means some size other than largeness (smallness being one possibility among others).
The negation designates something within a wider kind, and the predicate negated (say
“large”) indicates that wider kind.
Parts of difference
In characterizing the nature of difference, the Stranger compares it to knowledge, and
this analogy reveals something important about knowledge as well as difference.48 As
we saw in Chapter 4, knowledge has categorial content independent of its special
subject-matter (independent, that is, of what I call the “object” of knowledge). None-
theless, branches of knowledge are differentiated from one another by their objects (to
repeat: shoemaking is knowledge of shoes, arithmetic is knowledge of numbers, and so
on), a point Socrates emphasized when he criticized Theaetetus’ original list of arts in
the Theaetetus (Tht. 146d4–147c6). Theaetetus was wrong to list branches of knowledge
when Socrates asked what knowledge itself is—what all the kinds on the list have in
common—but Theaetetus was right that many branches of knowledge can be differ-
entiated from one another by their objects.49 The Stranger exploits this point in the
Sophist in order to clarify his conception of difference:
The nature of difference appears to me chopped up, just like knowledge.—How?—Knowledge,
too, is one thing, but each part of it, by being set over something (epi tōi), is marked off and has its
own proper name derived (epōnumian) [from that object]. Hence there are many so-called arts
(technai) and sorts of knowledge (epistēmai).—Of course.—So although the nature of difference is
one, the parts of it also have that same feature. (257c7–d5)
Although difference itself has only structural content, the parts of difference have
categorial (or some other structural) content supplied by each attribute whose name is
negated. That attribute marks off a part of difference in much the same way that the
special object of knowledge marks off a branch of knowledge, and so we can distinguish
parts of difference from one another, as we can distinguish branches of knowledge.
Despite the helpfulness of the Stranger’s analogy, it could be confusing. Whereas
knowledge is a categorial kind and the parts of knowledge are species of knowledge
differentiated from one another by the subject-matter studied, difference is a structural
kind, and structural kinds typically have no species.50 The parts of difference are not
of beautiful things, but Plato could easily have had Theaetetus say pantōn tōn kalōn had he meant that. See Szaif
(1996: 439–40 and nn. 131 and 133).
48
E. N. Lee (1972) discusses the analogy in detail.
49
As I noted in my Introduction and discuss more fully in Chapter 6, the object of knowledge often
provides only an intermediate partition, because several arts can deal with the same object (e.g., weaving,
spinning, and carding all deal with clothes). In such cases a further partition is required to determine the
expert’s perspective on the object and manner of dealing with it. This complication about the partition of
knowledge does not undermine its usefulness as an analogy for difference, since the difficulty does not arise in
the latter case.
50
As we shall see below, difference and sameness turn out to be species of pros ti (in relation to something),
but this subordination among structural kinds does not constitute an ordinary categorial tree.
160 PHILOSOPHOS
species of difference but compounds of a certain structure (difference) plus categorial

content supplied by the items negated (largeness, beauty, etc.). In the terminology I use
in Chapter 7, difference is the structural core that runs through all its parts, and its parts
combine that core with categorial (or other structural) information.
The Stranger then focuses on one part of difference, and the example helps to clarify
his proposal. A part of difference called “the not-beautiful” is set in opposition to the
beautiful and differs from the nature of the beautiful (tēs tou kalou phuseōs) (257d7–13).
The visitor says:
Doesn’t it turn out in this way that the not-beautiful, having been marked off from (aphoristhen)
some one kind among beings, is also again in turn (kai . . . au palin) set in opposition (antitethen) to
some one of the things-that-are?—Thus. (257e2–5)
He mentions two kinds in addition to the not-beautiful when he marks it off: first he
marks it off from some one kind among beings, and then sets it in opposition to the
beautiful. The not-beautiful is not just anything other than the beautiful, but some-
thing other than the beautiful within a kind that covers both (call it “the aesthetic”).51
In my view a part of difference gets its categorial content in two ways from the entity
whose name is negated. First, the part falls within a wider kind (such as size, tempera-
ture, the aesthetic) determined by the attribute F-ness, and that wider kind is divided
into subkinds which exclude one another and jointly exhaust the genus. All individuals
located under the genus occupy one and only one subkind, and there is no empty
subkind. The subkinds can form an incompatibility range—an ordered continuum under
a covering kind, such as degrees of coldness and heat under temperature or degrees of
smallness and largeness under size—but they need not constitute an ordered series.
They can instead constitute an incompatibility set, such as circle, square, triangle, and
other species under shape; or man, ox, horse, and other species under animal. The
earlier mistake about negation to which the Stranger calls attention was the assumption
that “the not-F” specifies the opposite of F-ness. According to the new proposal “the
not-F” specifies the complement of F-ness under a wider kind—that is, all the disjoint
subkinds under that kind other than F-ness, which together with F-ness exhaust the
wider kind. Any individual characterized as “not F” falls under the complement of
F-ness and has some feature other than F-ness within the wider kind. Thus, for
example, when you say “Simmias is not large,” you indicate that Simmias has some
definite size other than largeness, but it could be the polar contrary smallness or some
51
Cf. Pinotti (1995: 160–1). Aristotle says that the not-odd (even) is the privation of the odd, and that
both belong to the wider kind number (APo. I.4, 73b16–24); see Ferejohn (1989: 271) on the Aristotelian
example. Some scholars, e.g., de Rijk (1986: 172), think that the Stranger makes the same point twice in our
passage. Crombie (1963: II.408–9) rightly points out that the emphatic kai . . . au palin (rendered by him as:
“then again”), indicates that two points are being made and not the same point twice. A number of scholars
claim that the not-beautiful is here marked off from two kinds and agree that one of those is the form of
beauty, but take the second to be difference rather than the aesthetic. See Diès (1955: ad loc. n. 2), E. N. Lee
(1972: 279–80), Pelletier (1975: 145), and Szaif (1996: 442). I do not think that this can be right, because
difference is a structural kind, not a categorial kind, and so its parts are not species of it.
intermediate size. Let us call this conception of negation the “Incompatibility Set”
view. According to this view of negation, a genus is divided into subkinds, which are
mutually exclusive and jointly exhaust the genus. The phrase “the not-F” specifies the
complement of F-ness (all subkinds other than F-ness under a wider kind), and any
subject designated as “not F” partakes of some subkind other than F-ness.52
Not-being is itself empty of categorial content, but conceived as the great kind
difference its structure can be defined as the complement of some positive term under a
wider kind. Thus “not being” always takes as a further completion the positive term
negated. In statements of non-identity, such as “Simmias is not Socrates,” the state-
ment indicates that Simmias is something different from Socrates within the domain of
all things or within the domain of human beings. In negative predications, such as
“Simmias is not large,” the statement indicates that Simmias has some property
different from largeness within the wider kind size. Either way, not-being always
operates pros heteron/allo (in relation to something different) (255d1), that is, in relation
to the item whose name is negated. Not-being pervades everything, since everything is
different from something—indeed different from everything other than itself.
The Stranger proclaims that he has uncovered the form of not-being: it is not the
opposite of being (nothing), but simply different from it, and is one form among others
with its own distinctive nature (tēn hautou phusin) (258b11). His summary states a series
of self-predications culminating with not-being itself (a passage quoted once before at
the end of Chapter 2):53
Just as the large is large and the beautiful is beautiful and the not-large is not large and the not-
beautiful is not beautiful, so too in the same way not-being was and is not being, one form (eidos)
numbered among the many beings. (258b11–c4).
He claims to have gone beyond Parmenides’ prohibition and proved something to him
(258c10–11). Not only has he proved that things-that-are-not are, he has also revealed
the form of not-being (to eidos . . . tou mē ontos) (258d5–7).
We should pause to discuss a matter of some consequence for the assessment of
Plato’s later metaphysics. The Stranger announces that there is a form of not-being and
52
This interpretation has a significant advantage over the once favored “Incompatibility” interpretation of
negation, according to which “large” in the sentence “Simmias is not large” says about Simmias something
incompatible with what is true about him (his smallness). The Incompatibility interpretation takes the
Stranger to introduce without warning a new meaning of heteron, which has so far meant “different.” The
Incompatibility Set view, by contrast, preserves the meaning of heteron. E.g., “large” in “Simmias is not
large,” says about Simmias some size different from his actual size. I thank Alan Code for help as I was starting
to think about this solution. Brown (2008: 455–8) labels the view of negation she and I favor as the
“Incompatibility Range” interpretation and defends it against alternatives. Those who favor the view include
Ferejohn (1989), Pinotti (1995), and Szaif (1996: 487–99); cf. Gill (2005/9). Brown points to some twentieth
century adherents—in particular, Mabbott and Ryle at an Aristotelian Society Symposium on Negation with
Price (1929). On that debate, see below, note 70. I have modified the label because “Incompatibility Range”
leaves out incompatibility sets, which do not form ordered continua.
53
On self-predication in the Sophist, see Heinaman (1981: esp. 63), who mentions but surprisingly does
not discuss this passage.
162 PHILOSOPHOS
has stated a series of self-predications referring to negative attributes (the not-large and
the not-beautiful), and earlier he spoke of the nature of a part of difference (258a11).
These claims might suggest that Plato in his later period accepted forms of negations,
justifying Aristotle’s criticism on that score (Met. `.9, 990b13–14).54 If one allows
forms of negations, there is no limit to the extent of forms, and Plato will end up
positing a form whenever a number of things are called by the same name, including
negations.55 A passage in the Statesman in which the Stranger rejects a form of barbarian
tells against such rampant proliferation (Stm. 262a3–263a1). In the Sophist, too, he
assiduously avoids calling the parts of difference “forms” (eidē ) and reserves that title for
difference/not-being itself. His discussion of difference suggests that its parts can be
analyzed by appeal to other forms, and in particular by appeal to the form designated by
the term negated, such as beauty, and the form of difference. Analysis of the form of
beauty will reveal the generic kind covering it and its complement. The Stranger’s
analysis of difference suggests that the scope of forms is determined by the requirements
of explanation, and accordingly many features can be explained by appeal to other
forms, and so need no independent form of their own.56
As for the form of being—of chief interest in this book—the Stranger claims to have
shown that being partakes of not-being, and so is different from all the other kinds:
being is not (is different from, non-identical with) those others, but simply itself (259b1–7;
cf. 257a1–12). Both being and difference pervade everything (dia pantōn . . . dielēluthote)
and each other (259a1–b7). Here the Stranger offers the joint illumination he earlier
promised (250e5–251a3), and clarifies being via not-being. But as I have noted more
than once before, we still do not know what being is in its own right (auto kath’ hauto).
Equal illumination reveals part of what being is, namely what it is pros alla: it is different
from all other kinds, pervades everything, and enables them to associate with one
another. But what is the nature of being that allows it to do those things? We can say
this much about the relation between being and not-being based on the Stranger’s
analysis of not-being. Being and not-being do not themselves constitute an incompati-
bility range or set, because they do not have categorial content and do not fall under a
wider generic kind. Recall that the parts of difference do have categorial content
supplied by the categorial kind negated (largeness, beauty) and together with that
form compose such ranges or sets. By examining the structure of those parts one can
54
A number of scholars have attributed to Plato a commitment to forms of negations, such as the not-
beautiful, in the Sophist, including Moravcsik (1962: 68–72), M. Frede (1967: 92–4, who takes Plato to revise
his view in the Statesman), and Szaif (1996: 439–45). Bluck (1975: 165–70) considers both sides of the
question. Fine (1993: esp. 108–10 and 113–16) argues against forms of negations in Plato and discusses
Aristotle’s objections to such forms. I thank a reader for the Press for urging me to think more about this issue.
55
Thus Plato would be committed to the infamous “One over Many” principle, an idea he appears to
have toyed with at Republic X, 596a5–7.
56
In the Statesman the Stranger calls the complement of a form a “part” of the covering kind and denies
that it is a form, because items in that group have as their common feature (within the complement) only their
difference from the positive item. For example, barbarian is a part of humankind but not a form because its
members simply speak languages other than Greek. We shall discuss this passage in Chapter 6 sec. 6.1.
learn a good deal about the nature of difference and how it operates. The visitor’s
strategy of clarifying the nature of difference via its parts also provides a model helpful
in clarifying the nature of being. I shall now go beyond what the Stranger says in the
Sophist and use his treatment of difference as a model for the analysis of sameness and
being.
5.5 Sameness and Being

The section on great kinds is highly systematic but by no means comprehensive. The
visitor has marked off five great kinds from one another and then shows for one sample
kind, change, that it partakes of three of the other four, all but rest, and so can be called
by names derived from the names of those three (as well as its own). Change is (and can
be called “[a] being”) because it partakes of being (256a1); it is the same (and can be
called “the same”), because it partakes of sameness in relation to itself (256a7–8,
a12–b2); and it is different (and can be called “different”), because it partakes
of difference in relation to all kinds other than itself, including difference (256b2–4,
c4–5). In this way the visitor shows what he set out to show—namely, that we can call
a thing (in this case change) by names other than its own because the subject kind,
though distinct from those other kinds, can partake of many of them. This discussion
scarcely exhausts what we want to know about the five great kinds, since the Stranger
goes on to clarify the nature only of difference.
The Stranger economizes, restricting himself to the machinery and analysis needed
to make sense of predications, non-identity statements, and negative predications to be
used in his upcoming analysis of false statement. At the same time he provides the tools
to take his analysis further. Difference is a structural kind, empty of categorial content,
and it always operates pros alla, in relation to other things. We have seen that it
functions pros alla in two contexts, expressed in statements of non-identity and in
negative predications. I suggest that the treatment of difference in the first context
provides a model for the analysis of sameness (expressed in statements of identity), and
that its treatment in the second context guides us some way toward an analysis of being
(expressed in predications). We start with sameness.
Sameness (modeled on difference)

Sameness gets short shrift in the section on great kinds, evidenced in the first place by
the bad argument noted above to distinguish sameness from being (255b8–c8).57 The
Stranger also neglects to argue for the obvious distinction between sameness and
difference.58 He could easily have done so with an argument similar to the one he
used to show that sameness is distinct from being, and more persuasively, starting again
from the premise that change is different from rest. If sameness were identical with
57
See above, sec. 5.3, pp. 153–4.
58
164 PHILOSOPHOS
difference, one could substitute “are the same (as)” for “are different (from),” and
change would be the same as rest, which it is obviously not. So sameness is distinct from
difference. This argument, like the others distinguishing the five great kinds, shows
nothing about the nature of sameness in its own right, only that it is different from
difference.
The distinction between auto kath’ hauto and pros alla also leaves sameness in the
lurch. Sameness is a relational entity, but it does not relate the subject to something
other than itself (pros allo), as difference does, but to the subject itself (pros heauto), as in
the Stranger’s statement: “change is the same, because of participation in the same
in relation to itself (pros heautēn)” (256a12–b2).59 In my view the dichotomy between
auto kath’ hauto and pros alla in the Sophist is not exhaustive.60 There is no reason why it
should be, since the Stranger uses the distinction only to mark off difference from
being, not sameness from difference or sameness from being. We have observed that
Diogenes Laertius uses the expression pros ti (“in relation to something”) when he lays
out the Platonic distinction among primary things.61 The expression pros ti designates
the general kind, and pros allo (“in relation to another”) and pros heauto (“in relation to
itself ”) designate two species of it. Make that distinction, and both difference and
sameness are relatives (pros ti) but can be distinguished from each other on the ground
that difference always operates pros allo (in relation to something other than the
subject), whereas sameness always operates pros heauto (in relation to the subject
itself ).62 This distinction has a pleasing symmetry, as we should expect for the structural
opposites difference and sameness.
Being (modeled on difference)

To make progress on being, we should consider again the analogy between the parts of
difference and the parts of knowledge. Knowledge is a categorial kind (analyzed in the
Theaetetus), but branches of it can be distinguished by singling out the subject-matter—
the object—of specific kinds of knowledge. Although difference is a purely structural
59
Owen (1971: 255–8), who interprets being auto kath’ hauto as identity, argues that sameness should go
into that group (being auto kath’ hauto), but Bostock (1984: 92–3) rightly points out that had Plato intended to
contrast two incomplete uses of the verb “to be,” one of which relates the subject to something other than
itself (pros allo), and the other to the subject itself, he should have used pros hauto, not kath’ hauto, to express the
idea.
60
In this I agree with Malcolm (2006a: 282); cf. de Vries (1988: 388).
61
Diogenes Laertius 3.108–109, quoted in sec. 5.3 above. Some scholars have suggested that the Stranger
uses pros alla as Diogenes uses pros ti (“relative”). This idea seems initially plausible, because after stating the
distinction between auto kath’ hauto and pros alla, the Stranger says that difference is always pros heteron (in
relation to a different thing), opening up the possibility that pros alla is a generic kind of which pros heteron and
pros heauto are species. But Owen (1971: 256 n. 58) cites evidence from the surrounding context to show that
Plato intends no distinction between heteron and allo: at 256c4–5 they are clearly synonyms. Bostock (1984:
93) suggests that pros alla is a slip for pros ti, but it would be most unfortunate (and seems unlikely) that Plato
was careless in the key passage at 255c13–14.
62
Aristotle, Met. ˜.15, 1021a8–14, treats sameness as a pros ti. On this point cf. Dancy (1999: 48) and
Malcolm (2006a: 283). Heinaman (1983: 14–15) discusses these issues in his critique of M. Frede (1967).
kind, it too can be divided into parts by appeal to the various kinds whose names are
negated. Thus the parts of difference have categorial content depending on the item
designated (such as largeness or beauty). Similarly, on the assumption that being—like
difference—has purely structural content, the parts of being should have categorial (or
further structural) content supplied by whatever being applies to.
The Stranger does not speak of parts of being, and we can discuss parts of being only
by analogy with his treatment of difference.63 The analogy suggests that, while being
has only structural content (we still do not know what that structural content is), the
parts of being have some determinate categorial or other structural content, as the parts
of difference do. The parts of being will be definite beings, such as largeness, beauty,
man, ox—indeed any definite thing (categorial or structural, particular or general)
there is. All these things (parts of being) have some common structural feature—their
being—just as do the parts of difference (all of which are different from something).
They also have some definite categorial (or other structural) content (largeness, beauty,
man, ox), as do the parts of difference (the not-large, the not-beautiful, and so on).
Here is my proposal about being, modeled on the Stranger’s treatment of parts of
difference, though note that the proposal is anticipatory, because it assumes that being
is inside the beings, and we are not entitled to that result until we find our way back to
the definition of being as dunamis proposed in the Battle of the Gods and Giants. Any
part of being (particular or general) has a feature of some definite sort, and that is its
nature. The statement, “change is, because it partakes of being” (256a1), states of
change something quite definite, spelled out by the phrase auto kath’ hauto (literally,
“itself by itself ”): Change is itself (changing) by itself (in virtue of change). That is what it
is for change to be auto kath’ hauto, and also what it means to say “change is” (full stop)
or “change partakes of being.” The “is” is complete, since we need not look outside the
subject to determine what change is; instead we analyze the subject—look inside it—to
uncover its nature. Such analysis will reveal the attribute stated in a self-predication and
also, in the case of categorial kinds, a tree structure articulating the entity’s essence, as in
the earlier definition of the angler.64 Any instance of being (particular or general) is a
63
Many editors and translators insert the word “part” in the genitive (æı) at 258a11–b1—on one
version to yield “the opposition of the nature of a part of difference and of the nature <of a part> of being”
(see e.g., N. P. White [1993: 52]); others, e.g., Cornford (1935a: 292 and n. 1), insert æı in a different
location to yield: “<of part> of the nature of being.” Owen (1971: 239–40 n. 33) rightly objects to inserting
æı; cf. E. N. Lee (1972: 282–3). The Greek says literally: “the opposition of the nature of a part of
difference and of the nature of being.”
64
My proposal combines aspects of Brown (1986) and M. Frede (1967, summarized in 1992). For details
of their views, see Appendix to Chapter 5 below. I agree with Brown that one semantic notion operates in
the sentences “X is” (complete “is”) and “X is F” (incomplete “is”), that being is a monadic property, and
that “X is” entails “X is something” (Brown [1986: 69]), though in my view that “something” is not just any
property X has, but its nature. In this respect my proposal is in the spirit of Frede concerning the
interpretation of being auto kath’ auto, but I disagree with his restriction of such being to forms. In my
view Plato allows sensible particulars, as well as forms, to have natures. My interpretation has an advantage
over Brown’s in that not everything describable exists. Impossible objects such as round squares do not exist,
because nothing has a nature characterized by incompatible properties. It will be harder to exclude such
166 PHILOSOPHOS
part of being, much as the not-beautiful is a part of difference. We can find out a great
deal about being by examining its many parts to see what structural feature(s) they have
in common, but Plato has in fact already told us in the Battle of the Gods and Giants,
where he defines being as dunamis, a definition then refined in the children’s plea.65
As for being pros alla modeled on the analysis of difference, being pros alla relates a
thing only to kinds other than itself. Once we identify a part of being, say man, that
entity can relate to other things (pros alla) outside its nature, entities it participates in, as
expressed, for instance, in the sentence “a man is wise.” A man partakes of wisdom, not
in virtue of what he is (a human being), but by partaking of wisdom, a feature outside
human nature. Being pros alla will not cover a subject’s relation to itself expressed in an
identity statement, such as “Change is change.” For that we need sameness.
Relation between sameness and being

We were dissatisfied with the Stranger’s earlier argument distinguishing sameness from
being (255b8–c8), and we can now furnish him with a better argument by analogy
with his distinction between difference and being, and along the same lines I used to
distinguish sameness from difference. Above I introduced a third alternative in addition
to auto kath’ hauto and pros alla, namely pros heauto, and proposed that we distinguish
sameness from difference on the ground that, while both are pros ti, difference is always
pros alla (in relation to things other than the subject), whereas sameness is always pros
heauto (in relation to the subject itself ). We can now repeat the Stranger’s argument
distinguishing difference from being: by substituting “sameness” for “difference” and
pros heauto for pros alla, we can show that sameness is distinct from being. Sameness is
distinct from being because sameness always operates pros heauto, while being operates
in both ways—both auto kath’ hauto and pros heauto (cf. 255c13–e7, quoted above). 66
Thus we can see that sameness is after all one aspect of being, yet can be marked off as
distinct because being operates in several ways—auto kath’ hauto, pros alla, and pros
heauto—whereas sameness operates in just one, that designated by the “is” of identity.
“Sameness” names one function of being, a function of being pros ti, and more
specifically of being pros heauto (i.e., in relation to the subject itself ). Sameness and
being, though distinct, are not external to each other, because an analysis of being will
reveal sameness as one of its intrinsic functions, and an analysis of sameness will reveal
being as the subject that can perform that function.
things as Pegasus and Sherlock Holmes, but I believe that once we grasp the nature of being (and we have not
yet attempted that), there will be a way to show that such imaginary objects do not have natures and so do not
exist (working out the details is a project beyond the scope of this book). For a resourceful discussion of the
various ways in which Plato treats mythical and fictional entities, see Thomas (2008: sec. 4).
65
I discussed the definition on a first round in Chapter 3 and return to it in Chapter 7 sec 7.7.
66
See sec. 5.3 above, p. 154. If one follows through to the end of the passage, making the relevant
substitutions, sameness is a distinct kind, which pervades all the others, since each kind is the same as itself, not
because of its own nature but because it partakes of the form of sameness.
5.6 False Statement

The Stranger needs to explain false statement in order finally to capture the sophist,
who devotes his career to making such statements. Making a statement (true or false)
requires three steps: first, the speaker must pick out an individual or kind to say
something about, since a statement must be about something to be a statement at all;
second, he must pick out an individual, kind, or feature to relate to the original entity;
and third, he asserts a relation between the two items—identity, non-identity, attribu-
tion, or negative attribution.67 A statement consists minimally of two parts, with one
part (the grammatical subject) referring to the entity the statement is about, and the
other (the predicate) asserting something that is or is not the case about that entity.
Only if the predicate states something (that is or is not the case) about a subject is there a
complex—a statement—that can be true or false (262e4–263d5). The Stranger distin-
guishes between names and verbs (261d1–262a8), saying that a verb is a sign set over
actions, and a name a sign set over things that perform the actions. No statement
consists simply of a string of names or a string of verbs but must minimally fit a name
together with a verb (262a9–c7).
The main idea about statements is simple: a statement has structure and its parts
perform different functions. The name (grammatical subject) refers to something, and if
it fails to pick out anything the statement does not come off (262e6–7); the verb
(predicate) ascribes to that thing an action (or property) or identifies it. If someone
asserts of a subject a predicate ascribing to it something that is (the case) about it (an
activity the thing is actually performing or an attribute it actually has), the statement is
true; whereas if he asserts of it a predicate ascribing something that is not (the case) about
it (something different from what is the case about it), then the statement is false
(263b2–13). For instance, when the Stranger says of Theaetetus, who is currently
sitting, “Theaetetus is sitting,” his statement is true because it states something that is
the case about Theaetetus; but when he says of Theaetetus (still sitting), “Theaetetus is
flying,” his statement is false, because “flying” specifies something different from what
is the case about Theaetetus (namely, sitting).68
The statements the Stranger considers, “(a) man learns,” “Theaetetus is sitting,” and
“Theaetetus is flying,” are all positive statements, the first two true, the third false. As
I claimed above, the Stranger needs negative predication to explain why the statement
“Theaetetus is flying” is false, because its falsehood hinges on the truth of the negative
predication “Theaetetus is not flying.” Plato can handle negative predication on the
67
On this topic I have profited from reading Geach (1965). I believe that Plato’s notion of assertion is
designed for simple sentences and probably not suited to handle statements with unasserted parts (as in
conditional or counterfactual statements). Plato of course uses such statements, e.g., the important one: “If
indeed change itself somehow partook of rest, it would be in no way strange to call it resting” (256b6–8). The
Stranger asserts the whole counterfactual, but neither of its parts.
68
The Stranger states the falsehood thus: “Theaetetus (to whom I’m now speaking) is flying” (263a9). See
the excellent discussion of Plato’s treatment of truth in the Sophist, with a focus on this passage, by Hestir
(2003). I regret that Crivelli (2012) appeared too late for me to take it into account.
168 PHILOSOPHOS
Incompatibility Set interpretation of negation, according to which one need not

consider all of Theaetetus’ properties to explain the falsehood of “Theaetetus is flying.”
As I have already explained, the analysis of negative predication is complex: the item
negated in “Simmias is not large” indicates that there is a division of the genus size, and
the negation designates something different (non-identical, distinct) from largeness
within that genus. In the case of Theaetetus’ imagined flight, we must simply find that
activity different from flying within the relevant incompatibility set, and that appears to
be our pair of consonant forms: change/rest.69 Since Theaetetus is currently sitting (a
species of rest), his current rest excludes flying (a species of change). One can explain his
not flying by appeal to his sitting.70
Commentators on Plato find it notable that in the section on false statement the
Stranger shifts from talk about kinds to talk about sensible particulars (including
truths about them), but Plato has been talking about sensible particulars, as well as
perceptible and intelligible kinds, since the Theaetetus. The switch itself is unre-
markable in the context of the Theaetetus–Sophist–Statesman series. Think of recog-
nizing Theaetetus and the spelling of his name. The focus on concrete particulars is
striking, however, in light of the familiar conception of Plato’s Platonism based on
the Phaedo and Republic, where scholars have taken Plato to limit the objects of
knowledge to forms. Plato’s interest in mundane knowledge and in truths about
concrete particulars should spur us to rethink the shape and goals of his later
Platonism.
69
I say “appears,” because it will turn out that change and rest are not opposite consonant kinds and so
cannot specify an incompatibility set. Flying need not be opposed to some mode of rest, but could be
opposed instead to some other kind of motion, such as running (thanks to the members of the Yale Working
Group in 2007 for this point). The difficulty concerns change and rest, which Plato treats in the Sophist as
opposite consonant kinds with categorial content, but as we shall see in Chapter 7, they are not categorial
kinds at all, but structural kinds.
70
Brown (2008: 458) discusses an Aristotelian Society Symposium on Negation (1929), in which
Mabbott and Ryle defended versions of what I am calling the “Incompatibility Set” view of negation
(labeled by Brown “Incompatibility Range”) and were taken to task by Price, with examples such as “virtue
is not square,” and “the soul is not a fire shovel.” These sentences are true, and Brown thinks they reveal a
flaw in the interpretation, because from the fact that virtue is not square it does not follow that virtue has
some other shape instead. I think that an essentialist like Plato can salvage the Incompatibity Set interpretation
by amplifying it to deal with these problem cases (which clearly interested him—think of his own example in
the Theaetetus: “red and C# are not salty”). These negative statements are meaningful and true, and their
positive counterparts are false, because they assert something that is or is not the case about a subject or
subjects (virtue, a soul, red and C#). In analyzing such statements, it is not enough to focus on the attribute
and the incompatibility range/set of which it is a part. One must also analyze the subject—discover its
nature—because that nature excludes certain ranges/sets entirely. Given the nature of virtue, any shape
ascription is false and denial true; and given the nature of red (a color, something visible) and nature of C# (a
sound, something audible), one can determine that “red and C# are not salty” is true, because what red is and
what C# is rule out their having any flavor at all. Thanks to the students in my Plato class in the spring, 2011,
and especially Zachary Segal and Justin Kuritzkes, for an illuminating discussion of the 1929 Symposium on
Negation.
5.7 Producing Appearances

Recall that the search for the sophist broke off with the question whether the sophist is
a copy-maker or appearance-maker. To complete his preparations for the final (sev-
enth) division, the Stranger needs to make sense of appearances, a task that proves to be
relatively straightforward now that he has analyzed statements. He distinguishes
thought, judgment, and phantasia (response to an appearance), and claims that these
resemble statement (logos) in that some instances of them are false. His description of
thought and judgment recalls the passage in the Theaetetus in which Socrates char-
acterized thought as the soul’s inner dialogue, and judgment as a silent affirmation or
denial of a conclusion at the end of such a dialogue (Tht. 189e6–190a7). In the Sophist,
too, judgment (doxa) is the soul’s silent affirmation or denial completing an inner
conversation (263d6–264a3). Like the word “statement” (and logos in Greek), “judg-
ment” (doxa) can refer either to an act of affirming or denying something (making a
silent statement) or to the proposition affirmed or denied. Acts of judgment are
structured, involving a reference to something and an assertion of something (that is
or is not the case) about the subject, and the resulting assertion (a proposition) has a
subject–predicate structure.
The Stranger characterizes phantasia as a special sort of judgment, a judgment “not by
itself (mē kath’ hauto) but through perception (di’ aisthēseōs)” (264a4–6), and as a
combination (summeixis) of perception and judgment (264b1–2). By distinguishing
the response to an appearance from a judgment “by itself,” the Stranger apparently
excludes those judgments that complete an inner conversation—affirmations or denials
terminating a process of thinking. We saw in discussing the Wax Block and Part III of
the Theaetetus that every judgment relies on perception insofar as perception (whether
sense perception or mental perception) supplies the elements that compose a person’s
impressions—impressions then used in re-identifying things. That is not the relevant
role of perception in the Stranger’s definition of phantasia as judgment through
perception, since perception yields impressions grounding all judgments. A phantasia
differs from an act of judgment “by itself ” in that a phantasia is stimulated directly by a
sensation of something which the perceiver judges to be this or that. The Stranger
characterizes phantasia in the Sophist as a perceptual judgment, a non-inferential
affirmation that the object perceived is something or other. Like statement and
judgment, the content of such a response has a subject–predicate structure, and so
like them, some responses to appearances are false (263d6–8, 264b2–4).
The content of a phantasia displays the same structure as a statement, and so has parts
that perform different functions. Every phantasia is of or about something (in this
dialogue the responses are mainly about the sophist), and a phantasia is true or false
depending on whether the entity in fact has the feature it appears to have. The many
appearances of the sophist early in the Sophist reflect Theaetetus’ and others’ untutored
responses to the sophist’s many appearances, responses the Stranger spells out in great
detail in the various divisions and definitions of the sophist. All but the sixth definition
170 PHILOSOPHOS
(the noble sophist) were true responses to the sophist’s appearances, though all but the
seventh captured him by accidental features. The sixth definition spelled out a response
Plato apparently regards as false and due to the misidentification of Socrates as a sophist.
If this is indeed Plato’s view, the response is false both with reference to the sophist (a
real sophist does not behave as Socrates does) and with reference to Socrates (who is
not a sophist at all).
The final definition articulates a true judgment about the essence of the sophist: he
produces false appearances, especially by means of statements, causing things to appear
other than they actually are. This final definition goes well beyond the simple responses
to appearances detailed in the first part of the Sophist. This final definition, though
stimulated at the outset by perceptions of sophists engaged in their various activities,
comes as the result of a long and arduous conversation which uncovered something
that cannot be observed or pictured, and whose main stimulus was the recognition,
itself a long time coming, that the nature of the sophist is puzzling (231b9–c3). After all
that hard work, Theaetetus affirms the final definition in a judgment “by itself,” and
not as a mere response to an appearance he unreflectively accepts.
The analysis of appearance, via the inquiry into not-being and false statement,
enables the visitor to locate the sophist’s art in the kind phantastikē (appearance-
making). He finishes the division fairly easily (see Figure 5.4), separating off the sophist
in steps from other appearance-makers—appearance-makers who use other things as
tools, then informed imitators, simple imitators, and demagogues. Division 7 termin-
ates with a definition of what the sophist essentially is, and the structure of the
definition echoes that of the angler at the start.71 In essence, the sophist creates the
false appearance that he is wise, and thus imitates a man who really is wise (268b10–c4).
The final definition seems complete but is marred in a crucial respect, because the
sophist has the mere appearance of expertise. The Stranger selected the wrong genus at
the start, because the sophist proves to be ignorant of the truth about his subject-matter
and merely imitates the knower by pretending to know what he does not know.
Sophistry is therefore not an expertise (technē ) at all, since the art fails to satisfy the
requirements for expertise in the Theaetetus.72 In the Gorgias (Grg. 462b3–466a8)
Plato’s Socrates defines sophistry and its product—rhetoric, persuasion—as a sort of
flattery (kolakeia), experience (empeiria), or knack (tribē ), practiced by someone ignorant
of the truth, with the aim of gratifying an ignorant audience. Flattery, says Socrates,
ignores what is best for the body or soul and lures people by appealing to their
immediate pleasure, not knowing but guessing (stochasomenē ) at what is pleasant
71
Definition 7: “The imitator who belongs to the insincere part [of the art] of conjectural contradiction-
making, the part that conjures in words, which belongs to the appearance-making kind of image-making,
marked off in the human, not divine, portion of productive [art]—whoever says that the real sophist is of this
blood and lineage will, as it seems, speak things most true” (268c8–d4). It is worth noting that the Stranger
avoids using the word technē in this definition.
72
See Brown (2010: 164–8) for reasons why the sophist lacks an expertise (she does not discuss the
conflict with the Theaetetus). See also Franklin (2011: 12 and 19 n. 23).
ART OR EXPERTISE (technē)

(poiētikē) (ktētikē) (diakritikē)
divine human
of originals
of images, of images
that come to of originals,
reflections, (eidōla),
beso-called artifacts
shadows image-making
by nature
copies/eikona appearances
(eikastikē) (phantastikē)
with oneself as tool

with tools (= mimēsis)
knowing what not knowing, but having some

one is imitating beliefs, about what one is
(informed mimēsis) imitating (doxo-mimēsis)
thinks he knows fearful he does not know but

what he believes pretends to others that he knows
(simpleimitator) (insincere imitator)
givesshort logoi inprivate

giveslong logoi toacrowd forcing his interlocutor to
(demagoguery) contradict him self and imitates
the wise man (sophos)
(= Sophistry )
Def. 7
FIGURE 5.4 Divisions of the Sophist (Division 7)
without considering what is best. Sophistry—a sort of flattery—is not an expertise

(technē ), because it can give no account of the nature of the things it talks about (Grg.
465a2–5). Once the Stranger in the Sophist marks off the sophist from the informed
imitator and characterizes the sophist as someone who does not know but has some
beliefs about what he is imitating, he has in effect excluded the sophist from the entire
genus from which the division set out, since anyone with a genuine technē has true
beliefs about his subject-matter and a special sort of account.73
Although the sophist should be banned from the genus of experts altogether, his
placement relative to others in the division serves an important purpose, because he
closely resembles practitioners of genuine arts. We should notice that the final division
marks off the sophist from a more legitimate kinsman, the informed imitator, who also
practices the art of appearance-making (phantaskikē) but knows the truth about his
subject-matter (267b4–e4). Is that the wise man imitated by the sophist?74 One might
think that the wise man is the philosopher, but the upcoming Statesman reveals that
there are wise men and ignorant pretenders in any field that deals with humans and
73
See Chapter 4 sec. 4.7 above.
74
We shall return to this question in Chapter 7 sec. 7.9, since the informed imitator might be or include
the philosopher.
172 PHILOSOPHOS
their welfare. The statesman has many imitators who rule various sorts of degenerate
states, whom the Stranger calls “the greatest sophists among the sophists” (Stm. 303c4–5).
There are other wise men and fakes as well: the true doctor as opposed to the quack who
charges large fees and has no business treating the sick; and the true navigator as opposed
to the incompetent steersman who risks sinking the ship, losing the cargo, and drowning
the sailors (Stm. 298a1–e3). So the philosopher will have plenty of competition from
other wise men for the name “wise.” We turn now to one such sophos—the statesman—
an individual, like the sophist, with whom the philosopher is often confused.
Appendix to Chapter 5
Assessment of the Debate: Being
auto kath’ hauto and pros alla
Scholars of the last century up until the 1960s believed that Plato distinguished at least two kinds of
being: (1) a monadic property—existence—taken to be being auto kath’ hauto, and (2) one or more
relational notions, being pros alla, which links kinds together, designated by the copula or the “is” of
identity.1 The focus of the debate shifted dramatically with the publications of Michael Frede (1967)
and G. E. L. Owen (1971), who challenged the received view and claimed that Plato distinguished
instead two uses of the verb “to be” in two contexts involving a single relational notion. Owen
believed that the “is” of identity designates being auto kath’ hauto in statements such as “man is man,”
while the copula designates being pros alla in statements such as “(a) man is wise.”2 Frede agreed with
Owen that the copula designates being pros alla, but argued that the “is” of essential predication
designates being auto kath’ hauto in self-predications such as “beauty is beautiful” and “change is
changing,” and in classifications such as “man is (an) animal,” or “white is (a) color.”3 Both scholars
claimed that Plato had a single semantic notion and that the verb “to be” simply operates in syntactically
different ways in different contexts. Plato uses the verb “to be” in various ways, they claimed, but does
not distinguish different meanings that would call for more than one form of being.4
Since the 1970s scholars have debated whether Frede and Owen were right to exclude a
monadic notion of being, identified by earlier scholars as existence. Critics have called attention
to statements in the Sophist such as “change is, because it partakes of being” (Sph. 256a1), which
seem not to be mere ellipses expecting a completion of the verb “to be” from the surrounding
context but instead to treat being as a monadic property.5 Lesley Brown (1986) raises that
objection most prominently and offers a new interpretation. Before we turn to Brown’s
alternative, let me register some concerns about Owen’s and Frede’s proposals.
As I said, Owen thinks that being auto kath’ hauto is designated by the “is” of identity, being
pros allo by the copula. Yet against his view of being auto kath’ hauto, we should note that the
Stranger plainly marks off the form of sameness from the form of being (255b8–c8—a dubious
argument discussed above in Chapter 5), and so there is a form distinct from being to serve as the
1
Cornford (1935a: 296) takes Plato to distinguish two meanings of the verb “to be,” existence and
identity; Ackrill ([1957] 1965: esp. 218) takes him to distinguish three meanings: that specified by (1)
existential estin (analyzed as metechei tou ontos), copula (metechei . . . ), and identity-sign (metechei tautou . . . ).
2
Owen (1971: 252–8).
3
M. Frede (1967: 31 and 1992: 400–1). In his 1967 book Frede thought that identity could also be
captured by being auto kath’ hauto (71–2). He evidently revised his view (1992: 402) in response to a worry
raised by Bostock (1984: 92).
4
M. Frede (1992: 401–2); Owen (1971: 257–8).
5
Heinaman (1983: 7) lists similar passages (I revise the numbering to match Duke et al. [1995] and add a
second citation from the Aporia about Being): 250a11–12, 250b8–11, 254d10, 256d8–9, 256e3–4, and
259a6–7.
174 PHILOSOPHOS
referent of the “is” of identity.6 John Ackrill (1957) convincingly shows that the visitor analyzes
identity statements such as “change is change” as “change partakes of sameness in relation to itself
(pros heautēn) [change]” (256a12–b2).7 If Owen were right about being auto kath’ hauto, then
statements of identity would be parsed in two different ways in the section on great kinds—“X is
X” would be analyzed on the one hand in terms of being auto kath’ hauto (X is X in virtue of
itself ) and on the other hand in terms of sameness (X is X by partaking of sameness in relation to
itself ). The second analysis is pros allo, since sameness is different from X (unless the subject-
expression designates sameness itself ). This duplication is uneconomical—Plato tends to be
economical—but worse, the two analyses conflict with each other, since one is auto kath’
hauto, the other pros allo.
Frede claims that Plato uses the verb “to be” in two ways without distinguishing two
meanings, and he interprets being auto kath’ hauto as the being expressed in essential predications,
and being pros alla as that expressed in non-essential predications. These two contexts could
involve a single sort of relational tie that plays different roles depending on the sorts of items tied,
but Frede—his claims to the contrary notwithstanding—clearly distinguishes two meanings. He
says when he revisits the issues of his 1967 book:
The being that we attribute to things is of two kinds . . . Some of the things we say something is, it
is by itself; other things we say something is, it just is with reference to something else, it is by
standing in the appropriate relation to something else. Thus Socrates is or is a being, for instance,
in being white. But white is not something Socrates is by himself; it is something he only is by
being appropriately related to something else, namely the color white. He only is a being in this
particular way, or respect, namely in being white, by standing in a certain relation to something
else, namely white. He is white, not by being this feature, but by having this feature. He is white, as
we may say, by “participation” in something else. The color, on the other hand, is said to be white,
not by participating in, by having this feature, but by being it. (1992: 400–1, my emphasis)
Here Frede plainly distinguishes two relational kinds of being—having, analyzable in terms of
participation, and being, which is not to be so analyzed. He misrepresents what he has just said
when he asserts shortly thereafter that, “it should be noted that the distinction is not supposed to
be a distinction of two senses of the incomplete use of ‘ . . . is . . . ’” (1992: 401–2). Frede’s two
relations look a lot like the converses of two relations Aristotle defines in the Categories, one of
which holds between a higher kind and lower kind (or individual) in a single category (animal is
said of man, color is said of white), the other between a nonsubstantial property and something in
the category of substance (wisdom inheres in [a] man, whiteness inheres in [a] horse).8 Aristotle
6
Cf. Runciman (1962: 63). I argue in Chapter 5 sec. 5.5 that sameness is in fact one operation of being,
the operation of being pros heauto, an operation for which the Stranger makes no explicit provision. Even
though sameness is an operation of being, the two can be distinguished, because being operates in many
more ways than sameness does.
7
Ackrill ([1957] 1965: 209–10).
8
Although the details of the Categories account are disputed, all interpreters I know of think that Aristotle
distinguishes two relational ties in that work. For a Categories-type interpretation of both Plato and Aristotle,
see two influential papers by Code (1985: esp. 103–4; and 1986), who distinguishes between Being and
Having. See also Nehamas (1979: esp. 98–9; and 1982). Silverman (2002: esp. 78–103) works out the being/
having distinction for Plato in detail, though he gives it up at the end of his interpretation of the great kinds
section in the Sophist (2002: 181).
distinguished two distinct relational ties in the Categories, and so does Frede in his interpretation
of Plato. If there are two distinct relational ties, identified as being auto kath’ hauto and being pros
alla/heteron, then it is not the case that one form of being operates in two ways, contrary to the
implication at 255d4–6 (which says difference operates only pros heteron, whereas being operates
both auto kath’ hauto and pros heteron). Instead Plato needs two distinct forms, being auto kath’
hauto and being pros alla, yet he speaks of only one.
In her influential paper (1986), Lesley Brown defends an interpretation of Plato’s distinction,
which accommodates statements in the Sophist of the sort “change is, because it partakes of
being,” while confining being to a single meaning as Owen and Frede wished (but did not
achieve). She argues that Plato envisages no sharp semantic distinction between the two
syntactically distinct uses of the verb “to be” in “X is F” and “X is.” Brown contrasts two
pairs of sentences:
(1a) Jane is growing tomatoes.

(1b) Jane is growing.
(2a) Jane is teaching French.
(2b) Jane is teaching.
In (1a) the verb “is growing” is transitive because it takes a direct object. Call it an incomplete use
of the verb “is growing,” since the verb calls for something further to complete its meaning. In
(1b) the verb “is growing” is intransitive since it is complete as it stands without a direct object—
indeed we have misunderstood (1b) if we ask “is growing what?” because the intransitive use of
“is growing” does not allow a further completion. There is, then, a sharp semantic distinction
between (1a) and (1b) corresponding to the syntactic distinction. Now consider (2a) and (2b).
Again the use of the verb “is teaching” in (2a) is transitive, that in (2b) intransitive. But if
someone says “Jane is teaching,” we can correctly ask “is teaching what?” The use of “is
teaching” in (2b) is complete as it stands but allows a further completion, because there is
something Jane is teaching. Brown recommends that we understand Plato’s complete use of
“is” in “X is” on analogy with (2b)—that is to say, she advises us to understand the “is” as
complete but allowing a further completion.9 If Brown is right, Plato needs only one form of
being (bracketing sameness specified by the “is” of identity) and can at the same time handle such
claims as “Change is, because it partakes of being” (256a1). Change is (exists), because it is
something or other.
Brown’s proposal is attractive in many respects, but it has the troubling implication that the
complete use of “is” in Greek does not permit Plato to distinguish things that exist, such as horses
and cows, from things that do not exist, such as Pegasus and centaurs.10 Nor does it permit Plato
to say that Socrates existed at one time but no longer exists. On Brown’s interpretation anything
9
Brown (1986: esp. 54–5).
10
I previously endorsed Brown’s view in Gill (1996: 69–71 and 99; and 2005/9), but thanks to hard
questions raised about existence in response to a pair of seminars I gave on the Sophist for the Yale Working
Group in 2007, I develop a related but distinct view in my main text, which keeps the basic idea of Brown,
but restricts the possible completions of “is.” I use M. Frede’s idea that being auto kath’ hauto introduces
essential properties of the subject, properties the subject has in virtue of itself and revealed by an analysis of the
subject. For detailed criticisms of Brown, see Malcolm (2006b); for criticisms of both Brown and Malcolm,
see Leigh (2008). See also Thomas (2008), who takes issue with Brown (and me in Gill [1996]) and develops
an attractive view about Plato on existing and non-existing things.
176 PHILOSOPHOS
describable is (exists): Pegasus is (exists), since we can describe him as a winged horse; and
Socrates is (exists), because we can describe him as a man, son of Sophroniscus, teacher of Plato,
wise, snub-nosed, and so on.11 The only thing that does not exist is something indescribable,
something with no features at all: nothing—or to use Owen’s colorful phrase, “a subject with all
the being knocked out of it and so unidentifiable.”12 I take it that not-being, so understood, is
the focus of the first three puzzles about not-being in the Sophist and of the sixth deduction in the
Parmenides, so it could be that Plato restricts non-existence to an unidentifiable non-thing: Plato’s
notion of existence need not correspond to our own. Even so, he talks about fictional entities in
several dialogues (centaurs and other mythical creatures), and the Sophist itself begins and ends
with a discussion of production, defined by the Stranger as bringing into being something that
previously was not (219b4–6, 265b8–10).13 Furthermore, the Battle of the Gods and Giants at
the center of the dialogue treats two distinct views about what is real (tangible things or
immaterial forms), a dispute that surely concerns actual being or existence (a monadic property),
what things have it and what things do not. The items rejected on each side are describable, even
as the opponents on the other side (Gods or Giants) deny their being. The Stranger tries to settle
the feud with his definition of being as dunamis (the capacity to act on or to be affected by
something else). Moreover, this same monadic being—the nature of being (250c6–7)—is the
property that becomes mysterious in the Aporia about Being (249d9–250d4) directly following
the Battle of the Gods and Giants.14 Plato is clearly interested in monadic being in the Sophist—
what things have this feature, and what things, though describable, do not. In Chapter 5 I take
the first steps toward an alternative interpretation of being, one indebted to Lesley Brown and
Michael Frede, which aims to preserve the virtues of their different proposals without the
shortcomings.
11
Brown (1986: 61 n. 16) acknowledges this feature of her account and says that Plato failed to treat
existence puzzles, not—as Owen (1971: 228–9) suggests—due to lack of interest, but because he was unable
to distinguish non-existence from not being anything at all.
12
Owen (1971: 247).
13
Cf. E. N. Lee (1972: 300) and Heinaman (1983: 12).
14
Discussed below in Chapter 7 secs. 7.2 and 7.6.
6
Refining the Statesman
£ e ç· KÆŁÆØ ªÅ, ‹ŒÅ ŒıæAÆØ Æ Øa ø.1
(Heraclitus, DK 22B41)
Wisdom is one thing, to know wise judgment, how all things are steered through all.
The Statesman, like the Sophist, seeks a definition of a disputed kind, and like its
predecessor, it opens with an intricate dichotomous division, which uncovers a puzzle
about the target. Unlike the sophist who turned up all over the tree, the statesman is
located at the tip of a single branch but has many rivals at the terminus. The dialogue
demonstrates how hard it is to locate the feature or collection of features that distin-
guishes the true statesman from experts in other fields who work in the same domain
and pretenders who masquerade as statesmen. This problem will impede the search for
the philosopher too, and the Statesman contributes to that further search by showing
that, when a target art competes with others in the same domain, identifying the object
of the expertise, though isolating the target from arts working in other domains, does
not single it out from those dealing with that same object; so one must investigate the
perspective from which the target art deals with its object. Even specifying the perspec-
tive may not suffice, because different arts can deal with the same object and view it
from the same perspective, and in that case the inquirers must investigate how the target
art deals with the object, its special manner of dealing with it different from theirs.
Before choosing the sequence of remaining topics, the Stranger suggests replacing
Theaetetus in the upcoming discussion with his friend Socrates the Younger, namesake
of the elder Socrates. Theodorus approves the idea, saying that each youth will perform
better if he takes a rest between turns. The elder Socrates’ reply captures in a nutshell
the puzzle of the statesman:2
Furthermore, both of them look like they somehow have a certain affinity (sungeneian) with me.
For you say the one appears similar (homoion) to me in the nature of his face; but the name and
form of address of the other one, since it is the same as mine (homōnumos), provides a certain
kinship (oikeiotēta). Indeed, we must always be ready to recognize our kin through talking to
them (dia logōn).3 (Stm. 257d1–258a3)
1
On the wording of this fragment, see Kirk, Raven, and Schofield (1983: 202 note on Heraclitus frag. 41).
2
For interpretations of this passage, see Blondell (2002: 329–37), Miller (2004: 5–8), and Rosen (1983:
12–13).
3
All citations in this chapter unless otherwise indicated refer to the Statesman.
178 PHILOSOPHOS
Suppose you are trying to pick out Socrates in a crowd: you know his features—his
snub nose and prominent eyes—but those features belong to Theaetetus, too, and
anyone else with similar features.4 Or you call Socrates’ name, but anyone with that
name might respond, including his namesake, Socrates the Younger. How do you
name and characterize Socrates the philosopher so as to pick out only him? The
Theaetetus considered this question in connection with its third notion of account
(telling the difference) and aimed to provide a basis for recognizing concrete particulars,
such as the sun or Theaetetus. The Statesman embarks on a similar project but searches
for features that mark off a general kind—the statesman—from all other kinds, and
whose account would enable one to pick out all and only individuals who fall under
that kind. The Stranger approaches his goal by focusing ever more sharply on the
target, step by step excluding those who are, or seem to be, more and more closely akin
to him. He reaches progressively closer approximations by examining the statesman in
relation to those he rules and directs, and finally at the end of the dialogue peers inside
the statesman’s expertise using the second type of account in the Theaetetus (employed
there to define knowledge itself ): analysis of a kind into its conceptual parts.
The Stranger starts the main discussion by saying that after the sophist they must
investigate the statesman next, and immediately makes a mistake, though no one in
attendance comments on it: “And tell me, should we posit this one too (kai touton) as one
of those with knowledge (tōn epistēmonōn tina), or how shall we phrase it?” (258b3–5).
The Stranger never credited the sophist with knowledge, only with art or expertise
(technē), and as we saw, even that generic description gave the sophist too much credit.
Ignoring that problem entirely, the visitor ensures that we remember the earlier division
and notice the liberties he is now taking. He says that he will mark off the branches of
knowledge (tas epistēmas) as he did in the search for the previous individual but cut the
kind in a different place (258b7–11), and thus suggests that the wide kind divided in the
Sophist was knowledge (epistēmē ) and that cutting up the same kind in different ways in
the search for different targets is acceptable practice.5 Consistent with this blurring of
differences, the Stranger speaks of knowledge (epistēmē ) and expertise (technē ) inter-
changeably in the Statesman. The opening division is riddled with errors, large and
small, some of which are noticed and discussed, while many go unremarked. The
frequent interruptions to talk about proper method are treated as digressions in the
Statesman, and the Stranger breaks them off to get back to the topic, as though full and
adequate treatment belonged somewhere else.6 These digressions concern the methods
4
Recall the fuss made of Theaetetus’ physical resemblance to Socrates at Tht. 143e4–144a1 and 209b2–c11.
5
Cf. Brown (2010: 157, 167–8). As we shall see later in this chapter, Plato allows considerable flexibility
in the dichotomous division of kinds, permitting the target to dictate divisional choices higher up the tree.
Sometimes the Stranger displays flexibility, as he does here, and sometimes rigidity, as in his lecture to
Socrates the Younger about parts and kinds (262a5–263b12).
6
Among the philosophical topics broached and then deferred are parts and kinds (briefly discussed with
details deferred: 263b1–2) and the notion of precision itself (284d1–2).
R E F I N I N G T H E S TAT E S M A N 179
of dialectic and hence the philosopher, but sometimes they also shed light on a significant
facet of the statesman’s knowledge.
6.1 The Statesman and the Herdsman

The Statesman embarks on its division without a model, apparently relying on the
angler from the previous dialogue to guide the dichotomous division itself.7 The visitor
starts with a collection procedure, the gathering of instances with one or more relevant
features in common. In practice, collections can yield a wide kind to be divided into
subordinate kinds, but in this case the collection yields a rough characterization of the
target kind whose essence the inquirers will pursue:8
Shall we posit the statesman, the king, the slave-master, and further the household manager, as
one thing, although we call them all these names, or should we say there are as many arts as the
names used? (258e8–11)
The guest points out that, despite the difference in names, all these people have in
common a power to maintain their rule (archē ) by the strength of their understanding
with little use of their hands and bodies (259c6–8).9 This group of features allows a
rough and ready description of the kind to be defined, which the inquirers hope to
locate at the terminus of their division and define more precisely.10 Since the members
of the target group can direct and control other people by means of their understanding
without physical manipulation, the Stranger begins his division from the wide kind,
knowledge (epistēmē ), immediately divides it into practical and theoretical, and then
seeks the target at a terminus stemming from theoretical knowledge. The opening
7
In retrospect the herdsman is called a model (paradeigma) (275b3–7), but the herdsman is not introduced
as such.
8
We discussed collection at the beginning of Chapter 4—Phdr. 265d3–5 describes it—and I argued that
the Theaetetus, like the Statesman, starts with a collection to allow a rough description of the target to be
defined: knowledge as expertise (Tht. 146c7–d3). The Sophist uses the technique to characterize a kind to be
divided, and often the items collected are so diverse that virtually the only feature shared is the one singled
out. Among the many collections in the Sophist, productive art is reached by collecting farming and all care of
mortal body, manufacture, and imitation (Sph. 219a10–c1); acquisitive art by collecting learning, recognition,
money-making, combat, and hunting (Sph. 219c2–9); cf. the collection at Sph. 226b2–c9 to yield the art of
separation. Collections can occur at any stage of a division (e.g., there are intermediate collections at Sph.
222c5–d2). Given this evidence, I disagree with Lane (1998: 14–15), who denies a role to collection in the
Sophist and Statesman, and Cornford (1935a: 170–1, 177, 187), who thinks that only the sixth division of the
sophist—the one for the sake of the noble sophist—is preceded by a collection. On this topic, see Henry
(2011: 231–4).
9
At the start of the Politics, Aristotle recalls the collection and objects to Plato’s treatment of the
statesman, king, household manager, and slave-master as differing merely in the number of their subjects
(259b9–10), because he thinks they differ in kind (Pol. I.1, 1252a7–23). Given how seriously Aristotle takes
Plato’s proposal, one suspects that he may have missed the preliminary nature of the collection, whose
purpose is simply to reveal some common features characterizing the target kind, the statesman. This is the
very beginning of Plato’s investigation, not his conclusion.
10
The idea of ruling/controlling (archein) recurs throughout the dialogue, and especially at the end:
260e8–9, 275a3–5, 304b11–c6, 305a1–2, d1–e7, 311b7–c7.
180 PHILOSOPHOS
KNOWLEDGE
Stage 1
(epistēmē)
practical theoretical
(praktikē) ( gnōstikē)
recognizes difference & recognizes difference &

judges things recognized, judges things recognized,
then leaves off then directs (epitaxis)
passes on passes on own directions

directions of others for the sake of production
(genesis)
rearing (trophē)
of inanimate things
of animate things
Young Socrates’ Mistake
singly in herds rearing in herds
Stage 2 acquatic terrestrial beasts humans
Long Route winged footed*
horned hornless
interbreeding non-interbreeding
two-footed
four-footed (= Statecraft)
Short Route *footed
four-footed two-footed
featherless
feathered (= Statecraft)
FIGURE 6.1 Dichotomons Division of Statecraft
division takes place in two stages, a first stage focusing on the statesman’s knowledge,
followed by a lecture on method, and a second stage on the object of that knowledge
(see Figure 6.1). Both phases of the division are peculiar but in different ways.
Consider stage one. Having set off down the theoretical branch in search of the
statesman, the Stranger divides theoretical knowledge into two subkinds, of which one
recognizes difference, judges things recognized, and then beholds the results (the art of
calculation is here), while the other recognizes difference and judges things recognized,
and then directs on the basis of that judgment (statecraft is here) (259d7–260c5).
Directing suggests practical, if not hands-on, knowledge, so keep in mind that practical
knowledge was marked off and abandoned at the start.11 Next he divides directive
knowledge into two sorts, of which one passes on the directions of others (heralds are
here), while the other passes on its own directions for the sake of a generation (geneseōs)
(the statesman is here) (260c6–261b3).12 Knowledge for the sake of generation again
suggests practical knowledge, and the statesman’s knowledge looks ever more practical
as the division continues.13 At the next division one kind passes on its own directions to
generate inanimate things (the master-builder belongs here), while the other does so to
generate animate things (the statesman belongs here) (261b4–d3). The Stranger then
divides this latter kind into those who generate and rear single animate things (ox-
drivers and grooms are here), and those who generate and rear them in herds (the
statesman and herdsman are here) (261d4–11). Once the statesman merges with the
herdsman, the theoretical branch has become thoroughly mixed up with the practical
branch originally discarded, since the knowledge of horse-breeders, cowherds, shep-
herds, and swineherds is practical and scarcely theoretical.14 No wonder the statesman
will prove to have company at the terminus: farmers, millers, physical trainers, doctors,
and other experts also take care of practical aspects of human life (267e1–268a4).
At the end of the first stage of the division, when the inquirers have reached herd-
rearing, the Stranger invites Young Socrates to make the next division himself. By now
the boy sees where the division is heading and proposes to mark off the rearing of
humans (statecraft) from the rearing of other animals (thēriōn) (ordinary herding)
(262a3–4). The Stranger stops him, objecting that such a division is like dividing the
11
The visitor’s claim at the outset (258e4–5), that one sort of knowledge is practical, the other only
theoretical (tēn de monon gnōstikēn), supports Cavini’s (1995) provocative treatment of diaeretic arguments in
the Statesman, according to which the two branches are exclusive—the statesman has either practical or
theoretical knowledge, and since he has theoretical knowledge, he does not have practical knowledge (1995:
127). But Cavini ignores the division after the first two steps of the division, and the next steps pose a problem
for his proposal, because the Stranger starts mixing practical knowledge into the theoretical branch. He has
made a provision for this development, because he asks Young Socrates at the start whether the king is more
akin (oikeioteron) to theoretical knowledge than to practical knowledge (259c10–d2): the king’s expertise may
be more akin to the one than the other, and still involve both.
12
The Stranger has shifted from arts to experts in those arts, but this shift is not in fact problematic, because
the art makes the expert the sort of expert he is (again recall: “It is by wisdom that wise men are wise” [Tht.
145d11]). At 259d4–5 the Stranger combines statesmanship and statesman and kingship and king into one
group.
13
Compare the original characterization of practical knowledge: “The sorts of expertise concerned with
carpentry and all manufacture have their knowledge contained as it were in their actions, and use it to
complete the bodies generated by them that previously were not (ta gignomena . . . sōmata proteron ouk onta)”
(258d8–e2 with e4–5).
14
The association of statesman with herdsman was probably conventional, rooted in the Homeric epithet
of Agamemnon as shepherd of the people (e.g., Il. 2.243, 254: poimēn laōn) [= Monro and Allen]). Cf. Miller
(2004: 40–3). The link goes further back and is not exclusively Greek—see the Babylonian Epic of Creation
(Enuma Elish), Tablet VII.148 [= Foster, and see 400 n. 6]); cf. the epic Anzu (Late version, Tablet III.129
[= Foster]), where the god Ninurta is assigned shepherdship of the people. The link also occurs in Biblical
imagery.
182 PHILOSOPHOS
human race into Greek and barbarian. Barbarian is not a proper kind because its
members have merely a negative feature in common: being non-Greek speakers.
The mistake is similar to marking off all numbers other than 10,000, since those
numbers, too, compose a collection simply by sharing the negative feature of being
numbers other than 10,000 (262c10–263a1). The Stranger advises Young Socrates to
divide through the middle of things and not to break off one small part from a large part
without a form (eidous chōris). Someone hoping to encounter forms (ideais) should, he
says, make divisions into parts that also have a form (262a9–c1).
Although the Stranger admits that he is wandering from the topic and should put off
discussion of method until another occasion, he tarries a little longer to give a lecture
on the difference between mere parts of a kind and parts that are themselves genuine
kinds (263b6–11). Apparently real kinds include only members that have some positive
feature in common, while mere parts can have members that simply share a negative
feature. Scholars have taken the Stranger’s lecture very seriously as indicating Plato’s
views about proper procedure and the metaphysics on which division relies.15 Before
we assess Young Socrates’ mistake and the Stranger’s lecture, we should consider the
second stage of the division, which purports to demonstrate correct procedure. While
the Stranger takes both a long route and a short route to the same destination, I limit
my exposition to the long route.
First the visitor retraces his steps and points out that in speaking of rearing animate
things, he and Young Socrates had already in effect divided living creatures into wild
and tame (264a1–3). All rearing deals with tame animals, and some of that rearing
devotes itself to tame animals in herds. He then divides herd-rearing into aquatic and
terrestrial (the branch he pursues), next marks off the winged from the footed (the
branch he pursues), then the horned (oxen, sheep) from the hornless (the branch he
pursues), then the interbreeding (horses, donkeys) from the non-interbreeding (the
branch he pursues), and finally the four-footed ( just pigs are left) from the two-footed
(humans). He now defines statecraft as rearing the two-footed, non-interbreeding,
hornless, terrestrial, tame herd: humans (267a8–c3).
This division has given Platonic division a bad name, and there is much to query.16
When the Stranger takes a short route to the same destination, why does Young
15
See the subtle and resourceful discussions of Moravcsik (1973), Cohen (1973), and Wedin (1987).
16
For a detailed critique, see Dorter (1994: 181–91). Because the divisions in the Sophist and Statesman
seem so clumsy and yield such unsatisfactory results, some scholars think that Plato cannot have taken division
seriously as a method of discovery. Ryle (1966: 135–41), exasperated by the technique, suggests that it is at
best a preliminary to dialectic for philosophical novices. Crombie (1963: II.380–3) also finds division useless
in discovering correct definitions and suggests that it is merely used in the exposition of them. Cf. Moravcsik
(1973: 344). By contrast, Henry (2011) argues that division is useful in generating real definitions and in
discovering natural kinds in a given domain, though in his view it occupies a preliminary stage of inquiry.
I shall argue, as I did in Chapter 5, that apart from the simplest cases (such as the angler), division identifies a
puzzle about the target kind, whose solution reorients the search by pointing the inquirers in a new direction
leading to the essence of the target. For an alternative proposal giving dichotomous division a more
comprehensive role in inquiry than I do, see Franklin (2011).
Socrates not object that the long route marks off the terrestrial kind into the hornless,
non-interbreeding, two-footed kind, whereas the short route marks off the same kind
into the two-footed featherless kind (266e4–11)? Why does the short route require a
final division into feathered and featherless, given an earlier division (common to both
divisions) into winged and footed (264e6)? (Do people herd some feathered two-
footed wingless creatures?) More seriously, the long division appears to replicate the
same error the Stranger chides Young Socrates for making—of breaking off a small part
and leaving a large one behind—except on the right-hand side of the division, the one
he is pursuing. For instance, he marks off the horned (oxen, sheep) on the left from the
hornless herds on the right, then the interbreeding (horses, donkeys) on the left from
the non-interbreeding herds on the right: members of the groups on the right share
only a negative feature in common.
The Stranger’s division becomes less puzzling (though still odd) once we realize that
the intermediate cuts need not reflect the Stranger’s advice, only the final pair.
These alone seem to matter, since he claims that the short route fails to carry out his
advice (with its final division of bipeds into feathered and featherless), while the long
route (into pigs and humans) adheres (265a1–5). The Stranger’s flexibility in the
middle stages of the process suggests that intermediate divisions can mark off parts
that are not forms, while the final division should mark off a pair of genuine forms. His
procedure also sheds light on an anomaly we noted at the outset, that the wide kind
from which the division begins, in this case knowledge, can be divided up in different
ways in different inquiries (one way to find the angler and sophist, another way to find
the noble sophist, and yet another way to find the statesman). Such permissiveness
contrasts sharply with the procedural advice of the elder Socrates in the Phaedrus, who
in introducing and illustrating collection and division claims that we should divide a
kind at its natural joints and not hack off bits like a bad butcher (Phdr. 265e1–3).17 The
Stranger’s habit of ignoring groups on the left once marked off suggests that the
dichotomous divisions in the Sophist and Statesman do not aim to give hierarchical
classifications of kinds. Although the visitor describes intermediate groups, he often
leaves them nameless, or says the name does not matter (more often this happens with
groups excluded, but sometimes with groups he goes on to divide).18 Instead he uses
dichotomous division to define a single kind at the bottom of the right-hand branch of a
17
Many scholars take the prescription in the Phaedrus to explain the Stranger’s rebuke of Young Socrates
in the Statesman and think that divisions in the Sophist and Statesman should at each stage mark out genuine
kinds. In my view the Phaedrus is engaged in a different type of divisional project from that in the Sophist and
Statesman. Whereas our dialogues undertake to define a kind at the bottom of a genus–species tree, the
Phaedrus (Phdr. 265a5–266b2) aims to sort out an ambiguity, and in so doing presents a classification of real
kinds. Two distinct entities are called “love” (erōs), one vulgar, the other divine. People easily mistake one for
the other, because vulgar love and divine love share a distant similarity in that both fall under the same wide
kind, madness. Since the purpose of division in the Phaedrus differs from the definitional project in the Sophist
and Statesman, the Phaedrus prescription should not constrain our interpretation of division in the Statesman.
18
See Sph. 220c10–d4, 225b13–c6, 226d1–11, 227b6–c4, 267a10–b2. In the Statesman, see 260d11–e9,
261e1–7, 265c2–4.
184 PHILOSOPHOS
tree, and for that task intermediate groups need not be genuine forms. The target
suggests the appropriate wide kind (a genuine form) to divide at the start, then a useful
first cut and relevant next steps.19 Different target kinds (the angler, the sophist, the
statesman) prompt the investigators to divide the wide kind in different ways, and
intermediate cuts are often mere parts rather than forms.20 Correct procedure in these
two dialogues appears to demand only that the wide kind at the top and the specific
kind at the bottom be genuine forms.
We should question the Stranger’s preference for a final division into a pair of
genuine kinds, since the longer division terminated with the herding of pigs and the
herding of humans, and this conclusion misleadingly suggests that the swineherd has
more in common with the statesman than he has with the cowherd and shepherd.
Later the visitor says that the statesman differs from all other herdsmen (including the
swineherd) in a crucial respect, in that no one disputes with the cowherd his claim to
look after all aspects of the life of his herd—he rears them; he is their doctor, their
match-maker, their breeder and trainer—and the same is true of all other herdsmen,
with one exception: the herdsman of humans, the statesman. In his case alone many
rivals compete for the title of caretaker (267e1–268d1). Given the similarity among
other herdsmen and the statesman’s salient difference from them, it would surely have
been better to mark off all the other herdsmen from the statesman at once, as Young
Socrates proposed.
In retrospect Young Socrates’ division of herding into the herding of humans and
the herding of other animals seems to have considerable merit, and indeed to apply two
lessons from earlier in the day. First, the Stranger said in the Sophist that parts of
knowledge derive their names from the objects they are set over (Sph. 257c7–d3), and
that justifies identifying statecraft—a mode of herding—as human herding. Second,
according to the Sophist, a negation specifies the complement of a form within a wider
kind, and kinds designated by a negation, such as the not-large and the not-beautiful,
are treated as having their own distinctive feature, even though they are not called
forms (Sph. 257e9–258c6). Thus the discussion in the Sophist seems to encourage a
division of animals herded into humans and other animals, especially since the negative
group has a positive name: “beast” (thērion).21 To be sure, the herding of beasts is a
mere part of a kind and not a genuine form, but the same is true of the herding of
feathered bipeds—the kind marked off on the left in the Stranger’s short division.
19
Cf. Ackrill (1970: 384). Recall that the name of the sophist, with its connection to sophos (“wise man”),
suggested that the sophist has some sort of expertise, and technē was selected as the wide kind to divide (Sph.
221d1–6). Since the sophist ultimately lacks expertise, this example shows how much trial and error is
involved in dichotomous divisions.
20
Cf. Lane (1998: 34–8) and Cavini (1995: 131).
21
For different views on the relationship between this section of the Statesman and the discussion of
negative features in the Sophist, see Moravcsik (1962: 71–2), M. Frede (1967: 92–4), Wedin (1987: 223–4 and
n. 20), Pinotti (1995: esp. 159–61), and Szaif (1996: 441 n. 136).
Young Socrates’ error is more subtle. In his zeal to reach the destination he makes
two related mistakes, one about the objects of human herding, and the other about the
associated art. The Stranger exploits the first mistake in the second stage of the division
by relying on the boy’s assumption that herding is a single undifferentiated activity with
branches marked off by the physical traits of the animals herded. The upcoming myth
will show that the aspect of humans relevant to statecraft is not their biological features
but their way of life—their mode of getting and preparing food, their culture, their
expertise, and how they care for themselves (274b1–d8). But even if one characterizes
the objects of statecraft by relevant features, that will not differentiate statecraft from
other crafts that look after the needs of humans, since many experts vie with the
statesman, claiming that they look after the various needs of humans who live in a
city—farmers produce their food, doctors cure their diseases, physical trainers guide
their exercise, and so on (267e1–268a4). The manner of the statesman’s art, and not
merely its perspective on the objects, distinguishes statecraft from other arts that look
after aspects of human life.22
To repair the incompleteness, the Stranger proposes to take a different route and tells
a story. He will criticize the story after the fact on two grounds: first, it still fails to
isolate statecraft in the appropriate way (274e9–275a6); and second, the myth is a
bloated image when inquiry needs a simple, manageable model (277a3–c6).
6.2 The Age of Cronus and the Age of Government

The opening two-stage division fails, because (its abundant detail notwithstanding) the
resulting definition is too general, unable to differentiate the statesman from others
who also rear the human flock—the merchants, the farmers, the millers, the physical
trainers, the doctors, and many others who claim to look after humans. The Stranger
aims to remove those surrounding the statesman and to reveal him separated off from
them “alone pure” (katharon monon) (268c5–11). He tells a story and also indicates how
the audience should understand it, saying that it will be playful (paidia), and that only
part of it bears on the search for the statesman (268d8–e2); along the way he also signals
the main point to notice, and at the end he explains how the myth relates to the
mistake in the earlier division. Before we look at his commentary, we need the story.
The cosmos experiences two great phases, marked by a switch in the region of the
rising and setting of the sun and stars, and during the two periods the cosmos revolves
in opposite directions.23 In the period opposed to the present one the god accompanies
the turning and guides the circular motion, much as a helmsman steers a ship; but then
he lets the rudder go and withdraws to his observation post, allowing the cosmos to
revolve spontaneously back in the other direction (the direction we know). This
22
Cf. Lane (1998: 44).
23
I do not accept the view of Brisson (1974: 478–96), developed by Rowe (1995: 13, 189), that there are
three periods. For defense of the traditional two-period view, see Ferrari (1995: 394 n. 17).
186 PHILOSOPHOS
“backward” motion is natural, because the bodily make-up of the world naturally
moves in a disorderly way.24 Great turbulence marks the beginning of each period,
when the cosmos reverses direction, with many species dying off. In our period relative
order is soon restored, because the cosmos takes charge of itself and its contents. The
cosmos has intelligence and at first obeys the advice of the god, its creator and father,
but then gradually forgets, allowing chaos to increase toward the end of our period and
the material element to dominate more and more. Finally, when the disorder almost
destroys the cosmos, the god once more steps up, takes his place at the helm, reverses
the direction of movement, and guides the rotation as a whole again.
During the god’s rule in the Age of Cronus, development takes place in reverse from
that in our period. Humans and other animals, having sprung from the earth with gray
hair, become progressively younger until they disappear. The god controls the whole,
but he distributes the various regions to lesser gods, who divide things up among
themselves according to kinds, and like herdsmen tend all the needs of their flocks
(271d6–e2). The god himself takes charge of humans (271e3–7). Since human life was
carefree in that period and all their needs met, constitutions, wives, and children were
unnecessary (271e7–8).
Having described one full cycle up to the moment when the god reclaims control,
the Stranger says that it suffices for the project at hand to take up the tale from an earlier
point. Returning to the beginning of our period, with its massive extinctions and
changes (273e4–6), when the god instructed the cosmos to control itself, the Stranger
announces that he has reached the crux of the story (274b1–2). In that time of
upheaval, humans were weak and defenseless, without expertise (atechnoi), until Pro-
metheus gave them fire, Hephaestus and Athena gave them the arts (technai), and other
gods gave them plants to cultivate. These divine gifts made education possible, and
indeed everything that makes human life what it now is derives from these gifts
(274b4–d8). This tale indicates that humans overcame their helplessness thanks to
divine gifts, which equipped them to take charge of their own affairs. The difference
between humans and other animals relevant for statecraft, the herding of humans, is not
a biological difference but human culture, possession of the arts, cultivation of the land
and use of tools. Young Socrates failed to notice that difference when he distinguished
the herding of humans from the herding of beasts, and the Stranger relied on that
misconception in the second part of the division, distinguishing humans from other
animals by their biological features. The objects of statecraft are indeed humans, but the
competition at the terminus stems from our human way of life and the fact that the
statesman is not the only person with expertise in rearing humans.
24
Body is a source of disorder in the cosmos from necessity (ex anankēs). This account can be usefully
compared with the Timaeus, in which the title speaker says that the god set the cosmos in an orderly rotation
by taking away six of the seven motions that were already there, and freed the world from its wandering (Ti.
34a1–7).
At the end of the myth the Stranger offers this commentary on how the story bears
on the earlier division:
Let there be an end of our story, and we shall make it useful toward seeing how greatly we erred
in revealing the king and statesman in our earlier argument.—How do you say we made a
mistake, and how great was it?—In one way the error was less great, in another way it was very
noble and much greater and more extensive than the other.—How?—Because when we were
asked about the king of the present revolution and generation, we spoke of the statesman-
shepherd of the human herd from the opposite period—and that a god instead of a mortal. In that
way we went very far astray. Yet because we revealed him ruling the whole city, without spelling
out in what manner (hontina . . . tropon) he ruled, in that way what we said was true, yet it was not
said wholly or clearly. So we erred less than in the other respect. (274d8–275a6)
The big but noble mistake was defining the statesman as the god in the Age of Cronus,
who looks after all the affairs of humans, much as the lesser gods in that period and
ordinary herdsmen in the present period look after all the needs of their flocks. Humans
in that period were on a par with the other animals as mere biological objects, and the art
of human rearing was distinguished from other sorts of herding simply by the exaltation
of the herdsman. The lesser mistake was something the inquirers got right in the earlier
division, yet they left the account incomplete and unclear. They were right that the
statesman rules the whole city, but they failed to articulate the manner of his rule.
Although the myth isolates the feature of humans relevant to human herding
different from other animals, that isolation does not actually address the problem
noticed at the end of the earlier division: Why does the statesman alone deserve the
name “statesman,” when the farmers and doctors and physical trainers also tend
the needs of humans who live in a city (275b1–7)?25 This is the puzzle of the statesman,
the rivalry he faces from other experts who also tend the human flock. To solve it the
inquirers must grasp the manner (tropos) of the statesman’s rule (275a4), since that is
what differentiates him from others engaged in the care of humans.
The myth was excessive and failed to address the main issue, the manner of the
statesman’s care.26 The Stranger compares his story-telling to sculptors hurrying to
25
The Stranger talks at length about whether the first stage of the division made a mistake in identifying
the manner of the statesman’s activity as “rearing” human beings, a term suggesting that he looks after all their
needs. Since many of the functions of rearing (feeding, training, healing) are done by other experts and not
personally by the statesman, the Stranger decides that the word “rear” is too definite a term to apply to the
statesman, and settles on several more general words meaning “care for” and “tend” (275c9–276c3). This
parsing of words proves to be beside the point, since the more general words afford no help at all with the
problem at hand—how to separate out the rivals (who also care for the needs of humans). By the end of the
dialogue the rejection of the word “rear” also proves to have been premature, because the statesman, in
looking after everything in the city, can be said to rear the citizens, even though he delegates the various
aspects of rearing to other experts. For the continued use of the imagery of herding in the later parts of the
dialogue, see 294e9–295a3, 295e4–296a3, and esp. 310a1–5; and for evidence that the Stranger regards
himself as refining the original division, see 292b12–c3.
26
The Stranger first broaches the manner (tropos) of the statesman’s care by adding a final step to the earlier
division, between enforced and voluntary human herding (and puts the tyrant in the first group, the genuine
statesman in the second) (276d8–277a2). Later in the dialogue (291a1–303d3) he rejects this common pair of
188 PHILOSOPHOS
finish their work who make the statue too big and thus lose time. In the same way, he
says, in order to give a grand as well as quick demonstration of the mistake in the original
division, he produced an oversize model (paradeigma), including a mass of irrelevant
material, acceptable in its superficial outline but lacking clarity and depth. Instead of a
big superficial picture, we need clear speech and argument (277a3–c6) and a proper
model, something small and insignificant, like the angler in the previous dialogue, suited
to reveal what is special about the statesman’s way of caring for humans.
6.3 Model of a Model

The shortcoming of the Myth of Cronus as a model prompts the Stranger to discuss
models as such before introducing the model of weaving to aid inquiry into the
statesman.27 He presents a model of a model and takes as his example children learning
their letters (277d1–278d7). This passage clarifies Plato’s conception of a model, and in
addition reveals something important about learning in general, since the way children
learn their letters is the way people learn everything (278c8–d6). The Stranger uses the
example of children learning their letters to show how an instructor turns an example
into a model: Children learn their letters in simple syllables and can identify them
correctly in those contexts, but when they see the same letters in longer complexes,
they often make mistakes.28 To teach the children to recognize the letters in the longer
complexes, the instructor sets the short syllable, in which the letter is correctly judged,
beside (para) the long complex, where they have made a mistake. By setting the short
syllable and long complex side-by-side, the children come to recognize that a certain
letter is both the same and different in the two cases. The instructor has produced a
successful model when the children can correctly judge the letter as the same in both
contexts and also recognize its distinctive relations to the surrounding letters.
The Stranger’s model of a model admits a more specific and a more general
interpretation. The specific interpretation makes it a model for weaving, much as
differentiae (among others) as irrelevant to genuine statecraft, and at the end of the dialogue he gives a quite
different account of the statesman’s mode of caretaking.
27
El Murr (2006: 5–7) calls attention to a difficulty not explicitly addressed in the Sophist and Statesman:
How do the investigators choose an adequate model without knowing the target in advance? Some scholars,
including Goldschmidt (1947: 53–61, 111–13) and Bluck (1975: 36–40), have thought that Plato at 277d1–7
relies on the doctrine of recollection from the Meno and Phaedo. If the inquirers already have some vague
conception of the target, because their souls have previously experienced it when disembodied, that
conception would prepare them to select a model appropriate to the target. I agree with Kato (1995:
esp. 163 and n. 4, 167) and El Murr (2006: 5–7) that the Statesman does not rely on the doctrine of
recollection—in my view there is a good deal of trial and error in the Sophist and Statesman, including the
selection of models. The model of the angler in the Sophist introduces the method of dichotomous division,
but the example misleads the inquirers about the essence of the sophist. The model of weaving in the
Statesman is better, but it is introduced much later in the investigation in response to the initial abortive
attempt to define the statesman by dichotomous division.
28
Cf. the Argument from Experience at Tht. 206a1–b12. As I mentioned in Chapter 4, the present
passage is evidence that children in Plato’s day learned their letters in context, not one-by-one.
weaving itself then serves as a model for statecraft. Like the children, Young Socrates
recognizes the essence of weaving, the intertwining of warp and weft, and can observe
weavers practicing their craft at their looms; but weaving becomes a model only once
he grasps its essence in a verbal account, and that requires differentiating weaving from
the various kindred and subsidiary arts, such as carding and spinning, all of which deal
with the same object, clothes. The method used, to be discussed below, is “division by
limbs” (287c3–5), the division of some whole into its parts, all of which are closely
related since they work in the same domain, though the target art oversees the others.
The Stranger then uses weaving as a model for statecraft, a topic about which Young
Socrates is still at sea in that he has only a general conception of the statesman as
someone who tends the human flock. The model of weaving shows that he must
isolate the target by recognizing the essence of statecraft as distinct from the various arts
(farming, medicine, physical training, and others) which also tend the needs of humans.
Those other arts turn out to be helping causes subordinate to statecraft in various ways,
and the Stranger demonstrates this by using the technique that helped with weaving,
division by limbs. Once the relevant differentiations have been made, Young Socrates
grasps the same essence in the model and the target—a sort of intertwining—and also
the different ways in which that essence relates to the kindred arts with which weaving
and statecraft were initially confused.
The passage also admits a more general interpretation allowing it to be a model for
any successful model.29 On the more general interpretation, the item modeled need
not be the essence of the model and target, but can be a certain structure common to
both. Whether the common factor is a categorial feature or a structural feature, it is the
same in both model and target, but also different, because it stands in relation to
different things in the two contexts. On this interpretation the model of a model shows
what it is to be a model and applies to any sort of model, not just weaving as a model for
statecraft. For instance, it tells us something about clay as a model for knowledge, and
angling for sophistry, as well as weaving for statecraft. The essence of clay—earth
mixed with liquid—has no bearing on knowledge, but the structure captured in its
definition is highly germane, since both clay and knowledge are defined by analysis as a
combination of elements, or so I argued. Similarly, the essence of angling—a sort of
hunting—though relevant to the first definition of the sophist, is irrelevant to his
essence; nonetheless the method of dichotomous division used in investigating the
angler and the definition recounting one side of that division provide a structural
model for the various divisions and definitions of the sophist.
29
In Gill (2006) I thought that the specific and general interpretations required different construals of the
claim that the item modeled be the same and different in the example and target, but I now think the claim
can be understood in the same way on both interpretations. The second interpretation is more general than
the first, because it allows structural as well as categorial content to be modeled.
190 PHILOSOPHOS
THINGS MADE OR ACQUIRED

for the sake of doing for the sake of preventing
something something (= preventives)
charms for defense
ways of arming other forms

for war of protection
screens other means of warding

off heat and cold
shelters other coverings
things spread things spread

under around
cut in
compound
one piece
bound together
perforated
without perforation
out of sinews
out of hair
for plants
stuck together with
stuck together with themselves (= clothes)
water and earth (Weaving: the art
of clothes-working)
FIGURE 6.2 Dichotomous Division of Weaving
6.4 The Weaver and the Statesman

The first stage of the earlier division tangled the threads of theoretical and practical
knowledge, and that difficulty arose because, as we finally learn, the art of the statesman
is not only theoretical but also practical, inasmuch as he applies his theoretical knowledge
to concrete situations.30 Owing to the nature of his art, the statesman shares a close
connection with everyone engaged in the care of humans, and in looking out for the good
of the city as a whole and coordinating the activities of its citizens, their business is also his
business. The tangling of threads suggests a model: perhaps the statesman somehow
combines theoretical and practical knowledge in managing his flock; indeed, perhaps
his essence is or includes the art of combining, like a weaver. The second half of the
dialogue recognizes this connection and takes weaving as its model. Weaving shares with
statecraft the same business (pragmateia) but on a small scale (279a7–b6).31
The Stranger quickly presents a dichotomous division to yield the art of weaving. As in
the second stage of the earlier division of the statesman, he targets the object of weaving—
30
289c8–d2 describes the statesman as concerned with practical activity; cf. 284b4–c4. At 305d1–5 the
Stranger denies his practical knowledge but also mentions the statesman’s use of timing, thus suggesting that
statecraft is in some sense practical. At the end of the dialogue the Stranger once again speaks of the
statesman’s practical expertise (311b8).
31
On the model of weaving, see El Murr (2002) and Blondell (2005).
Weaving
intertwining warp & weft weft-spinning warp-spinning
twisting separation
combination (sorts of carding)
arts that look after clothes:
acts of the fuller (cleaning, mending, etc.) art of wool-working
causes
(aitiai)
THE ART OF CLOTHES-WORKING
contributory causes
(sunaitioi)
Arts of tool-making:
spindle shuttle, etc.
FIGURE 6.3 Division of Weaving by Limbs (kata melē )

clothes—and defines weaving as the art in charge of clothes (279c7–280a7) (see
Figure 6.2), and this definition too suffers from being too general, since many arts
compete for the same title: carding, spinning, spindle-making, mending, clothes-cleaning,
and other arts that deal with clothes. The dichotomous division fails to isolate the special
way in which weaving deals with its object. The Stranger then reorients the investigation
of weaving and in so doing turns weaving into a useful model for statecraft.
The model of weaving serves two main functions. First, weaving—the intertwining of
different kinds of threads—exemplifies on a small scale the essence of statecraft to be
examined by the Stranger at the end of the dialogue. Second, the model introduces a new
procedure, enabling the inquirers to mark off the target art from others akin to it, all
located in the lowest kind reached by the earlier dichotomous division (see Figure 6.3).
The Stranger later characterizes the new procedure as division “by limbs (kata melē), like a
sacrificial animal” (287c3–5).32 Whereas dichotomous division separates by halves, and
then ignores at each step the branch that does not lead to the goal, division by limbs breaks
off parts of an original whole, whose members are interrelated and cooperate in tending
their common object (280a8–281d4).33 All the arts of clothes-working have clothes as
32
I am grateful to Dimitri El Murr, Mitchell Miller, and David Charles for stimulating me to think more
about division by limbs and how it relates to dichotomous division. El Murr (2005: esp. his chart, 320–2) sees
more similarity between the two sorts of division than I do, and he argues that the Statesman is unified by the
development of a single division.
33
On the image of the sacrificial animal and essential interconnection of all the parts, see Miller (2004: 76).
192 PHILOSOPHOS
their object, but they differ in their perspective on clothes and in the manner of their care.
The Stranger divides these arts (dichotomously) into helping causes (sunaitioi) and causes
(aitiai) (281d5–282a5).34 All the competing arts of clothes-working, whether helping
causes or causes, somehow serve the art of weaving by providing its materials and tools or
rendering other services. Some subordinate arts relate to weaving more closely than
others: the Stranger divides the art of wool-working (dichotomously) into arts that
separate and those that combine, and identifies carding as an art that separates the wool,
and both spinning and weaving as arts that combine it; once spinning has twisted the wool
into the warp and weft, weaving intertwines the two (282a6–283a9). Weaving is a master
craft, and the Stranger defines it in relation to the arts whose activities it oversees and
whose products it uses.
The same procedure defines the statesman’s art in relation to its subordinate arts.
Corresponding to the second division of weaving, the Stranger uses division by limbs to
mark off the statesman’s rivals who, like him, care for human beings and were caught in
the same net at the end of the dichotomous division (see Figure 6.4). First he divides the
whole (dichotomously) into helping causes (sunaitioi) and causes (aitiai) (saving discussion
of the causes for later). The helping causes produce goods used in the city which support
the statesman’s activity: materials, tools, vessels, vehicles, defenses (including clothes,
armor, walls, houses), playthings (including painting and music), and nurture (287b4–
289c3). The earlier rivals chiefly populate the last group, providing various care for the
human body (288e9–289a5). After marking off the helping causes and their products from
the practical activity of statesmanship (289c8–d2), and then separating further subordi-
nates, including slaves, merchants, heralds, seers, and priests (289d4–290e9), the Stranger
notices a large and ominous group with no threatening counterpart in the case of weaving.
6.5 Imitators
The section of the Statesman on imitators (291a1–303d3) excludes as irrelevant various
differentiae typically associated with statecraft, such as rule by one, few, or many, rule by
the wealthy or poor, rule with the consent of the ruled or by force, and rule with or
without laws. Before turning to the statesman’s imitators, the visitor discusses two other
sorts of experts, the doctor and the steersman, whose expertise can also be imitated, and
announces that it makes no difference whether the doctor cures the sick with or without
their consent, according to written rules or without them, or as a rich man or poor man;
it only matters that he cares for the good of their bodies, making them better than they
were, and so preserving what is in his care (293b1–c3). Similarly the steersman cares
for the good of the ship and the sailors, and thus preserves them, and without
writing things down he offers his expertise as law (296e4–297a2). The feature distin-
guishing the genuine statesman from the pretenders emerges from these comparisons.
34
On helping causes and causes, cf. Chapter 4 sec. 4.3, esp. note 47.
Statecraft
education art of judge generalship rhetoric
causes
(aitiai)
pretenders to statecraft
CARE OF HUMAN HERDS imitators
(greatest sophists)
subordinates religious attendants
slaves heralds contributory causes

seers priests
(sunaitioi)
merchants, etc. Arts that produce:
materials tools vessels vehicles defenses playthings nurture
FIGURE 6.4 Division of Statecraft by Limbs (kata melē )

The truest criterion (horos) of correct management of a city is that according to which
the wise and good man manages the affairs of the ruled, for their benefit, using the
power of his expertise, which supersedes the laws (296d7–297b3).35 Although Plato
does not discuss the form of the good in our series of dialogues—the preeminent form in
the Republic—one finally sees its relevance here, since any art concerned with human
well-being aims to bring about and preserve the good of those in its care. In this respect
pretenders differ fundamentally from genuine experts.36
The Stranger presents an image of fake doctors and steersmen, who may harm those
in their care (298a1–e3), and then describes the true doctor and steersman as perceived
by the ignorant masses (299b2–e5). Whereas people call the first lot “doctors” and
“steersmen,” though in fact they are not, they call a true practitioner a “stargazer”
(meteōrologon) and “babbling sophist” (adoleschēn tina sophistēn) (299b6–8).37 These
analogies show that without careful division one risks mixing imitators with the
genuine experts, and mistaking sophistry for true expertise.38 Unlike other rivals
who care for the human flock, the rulers of various degenerate states merely appear
to do so, and since they lack the genuine expertise of statecraft, they must be excluded
35
Cf. 293d8–e2, 301c11–d2.
36
I agree with Dorter (1994: 16, 216, 220, and 228–9) that the Statesman’s introduction of goodness is a
key move in Plato’s project. I return to this topic in Chapter 7 sec. 7.9.
37
Cf. Phdr. 269e4–270d8, where Socrates says that all the greatest arts need ÆºåÆ ŒÆd
øæºªÆ about nature. The evidence suggests that Plato uses these terms in reference to genuine
experts whose expertise is denigrated as useless by the populace. I discuss the evidence in Gill (2003b: 312
n. 32). On adoleschia, see Natali (1987).
38
Note the reverse situation with the noble art of sophistry in the Sophist.
194 PHILOSOPHOS
from the whole division leading to the statesman. They are, in fact, appearances of the
sophist, indeed the greatest sophists of all (303c4–5).39
6.6 Refining Gold

The Stranger has by now marked off the statesman from many experts and pretenders but
not from his closest kin, other causes. Let us review our progress so far. The visitor first
gives a rough idea of the target to be defined by collecting the statesman, the king, the
household manager, and the slave-master, on the ground that they rule over others by
means of their knowledge rather than hands-on activity. At the end of the dichotomous
division, the statesman appears as a herdsman of human beings distinguished from
everyone who deals with nonhuman objects, but not from others who look after various
aspects of human life. The myth points to the difference between humans and other
animals relevant to statecraft viewed as herding (human possession of culture and exper-
tise) and emphasizes the statesman’s rule over the whole city (275a3–6) (thereby differ-
entiating him from the household manager and slave-owner).40 Yet the myth does not
confront the real issue, the difference between the statesman and his rivals, who also
profess to look after humans in a city. To distinguish the statesman from other caretakers of
human life, the inquirers need to understand the manner of his care as distinct from theirs.
The model of weaving shows how to mark off the target kind from other arts that
treat the same object. Division by limbs distinguishes weaving from other related arts
by isolating the manner of their respective care of clothes and by showing how the
subsidiary arts (helping causes) contribute materials and tools for the weaver’s own
activity. Similarly in the case of the statesman, the experts who care for various aspects
of human life in a city and rival him as caretaker are separated off as helping causes,
providing the goods and services he uses for his own further purpose. The model also
reveals the essence of statecraft as a sort of intertwining.
The model of weaving cannot handle all of the statesman’s competition, however,
because those without expertise may imitate weaving in artistic representations, but an
artless weaver can do no worse than damage a piece of cloth. Imitators are dangerous in
spheres that concern the lives of human beings, and especially their safety and prosper-
ity. To split off the imitators, the Stranger introduces two analogies, the doctor and the
steersman, and points to the risk of medical quacks ignorantly killing their patients and
of incompetent pilots sinking the ship, losing cargo and lives. These two analogies
enable the Stranger to exclude the popular criteria for distinguishing sorts of states-
39
Recall that at the end of the Sophist there was reason to oust the sophist from the genus technē. Although
there is disagreement about whether sophists in the Statesman should be excluded from the genus or not, I side
with Rowe (1995: 216, 219–20) and El Murr (2005: 315) that they should be ousted. Cf. Miller (1992: 342
n. 42). On the other side, Dorter (1994: 215–23) and De Chiara-Quenzer (1998: 109–15) locate the imitators
in the class of servants (subordinates in my Figure 6.4).
40
The Stranger does not explicitly exclude the household manager and slave-owner, but they do not rule
over the whole city, only over their small fiefdoms.
men—number of rulers, degree of wealth, manner (by consent or by force), and the role
of laws—and to isolate the true criterion: the statesman must be good and wise and use
his expertise to make fair distributions that preserve the citizens and make them better, as
far as possible. That approximation sets the statesman apart from his imitators.
Having removed the statesman’s chief rivals, the Stranger must still distinguish him
from his closest and most precious kin—designated as causes in the previous division by
limbs—including the orator, general, judge, and teacher, also his subordinates (303e7–
305e7).41 He starts this final differentiation by appeal to another little model, refining
gold. Separate gold first from the dross (already done), and then from the other precious
metals—copper, silver, and adamant (303d9–e5)—a task still to do. The statesman directs
the experts who are, as it were, the practical arms of his expertise: teachers have
knowledge of various fields and train their students therein, but the statesman decides
which topics the students should learn (304a6–c6); the orator can persuade people, but
the statesman decides whether the orator should persuade them of something or not
(304c7–e2); the general determines the strategy for waging war on any target selected,
but the statesman decides whether the army should go to war or retreat in a friendly
manner (304e3–11); and the judge knows how to reach correct verdicts, but he imple-
ments the statesman’s prescriptions about justice and injustice (305b1–c9). In all these
cases the statesman rules the other experts and they submit to him. The Stranger says:
True kingship must not act (prattein) but rule (archein) those who are able to act, by recognizing
the right time and the wrong time to begin and set in motion the greatest things in cities, while
the other [arts] must do the things prescribed to them. (305d1–5)
This passage suggests that the statesman stands at one remove from practical activities
in the city, ruling and directing those who exercise practical knowledge, and yet the
passage also describes him as an expert in timing who determines the right time and
wrong time to fight or make peace.42 In fact, the statesman not only rules and directs
his subordinates, but is also busy with his own higher order practical activity.
The Stranger refines the definition yet again, bringing together aspects from many of
the preceding attempts, and this time includes the key component from weaving:
The expertise that rules all of these [other arts] and the laws and cares for all things in a city, and weaves
everything most correctly—[this expertise], should we comprehend its capacity (dunamis) with the name
of its common object (tou koinou), would, as it seems, most rightly be called statesmanship. (305e2–6)
These progressive approximations define the statesman in relation to his subjects: he

rules them, cares for them, and coordinates their arts to serve his own goal of preserving
41
The Stranger explicitly mentions only the first three sorts of experts as the statesman’s closest kin
(303e7–304a4), but the partitive genitive toutōn (303e10) allows other sorts of experts to belong to that group.
Since he turns immediately to the role of the teacher before discussing the rhetorician, general, and judge,
I include the teacher in this group. Cf. Cooper ([1997] 1999: 181) and El Murr (2005: 322).
42
See Lane (1998: 3, 139–46, 163, 182–202) on the role of timing in the statesman’s art and her discussion
of the kairos, the timely (132–6).
196 PHILOSOPHOS
and benefiting them. The Stranger aims to isolate the statesman apart from everyone
else, and he has done so, but has not yet spelled out the precise nature of his art. The last
pages of the dialogue peer inside his expertise and analyze it into its elements, according
to the second notion of account in the Theaetetus.
Before we turn to that analysis, we need to go back to two passages we have so far
overlooked.
6.7 Arts of Measurement

After his detailed differentiation of weaving from related subordinate arts, the Stranger
defines the art as the intertwining of warp and weft (283a3–8), and then abruptly stops
and muses: why did I not just say that at the start, instead of defining all those other
kindred arts along the way? (283b1–3). Was this discussion too long, containing
superfluous material, as the earlier myth was too long? The visitor proposes to examine
all excess and defect so that, when he and Socrates the Younger praise or fault speeches
which are longer or shorter than they should be, they will do so reasonably (283c3–6).
The section on excess and defect (283c3–287a6) looks like a digression, and once again
seems too long.43 Why does Socrates the Younger need another lecture from the
Eleatic Stranger on dialectical method, when the topic is statecraft? Readers interested
in the dialogue’s main business—the nature of the statesman’s knowledge—will be
tempted to skip ahead, back to the main topic, as I have done in my exposition, but
those who hasten past will miss something, because the guest informs Socrates that this
issue is as important for understanding statesmanship, and indeed all practical arts, as the
investigation of not-being was for understanding the sophist. In fact, he says, it is even
more important because without this sort of measurement the art of statesmanship will
disappear, and there will be no way forward in the search for kingly knowledge
(284b4–c4). So the art of measurement is highly relevant to the statesman’s knowledge.
The Stranger divides the art of measurement into two sorts. The first measures two
lengths, a longer and a shorter, against each other, whereas the second measures a longer
and shorter length against a third thing, which he characterizes in several ways and
summarizes thus: Excess and defect are measured “in relation to (pros) the well-measured
(to metrion), the fitting (to prepon), the timely (ton kairon), the necessary (to deon), and all
things that have moved house from the extremes to the middle” (284e2–8). Earlier he
also claimed that excess and defect are measured “in relation to the generation of the
well-measured” (284c1).44 All practical arts, including weaving and statecraft, depend on
this second type of measurement to produce excellent products:
43
A variety of interpretations have been given of the section on the arts of measurement, including
Lafrance (1995), Lane (1998: 125–32), and Sayre (2006: the main topic of Part II of his book).
44
Cf. 284d6. More provocatively: “[measurement] according to the necessary being of the becoming”
(283d8–9).
For all such arts, I suppose, guard against what is more or less than the well-measured, not as
something that is not, but as something difficult concerning actions (peri tas praxeis), and by
preserving the measure (to metron) in this way, they produce all good and beautiful things.
(284a8–b2)
What sort of ideal is the Stranger talking about when he speaks of the “well-measured”
(metrion), something that preserves the “measure” (metron)? The characterization of the
well-measured as “generated” suggests that it is not an eternal unchanging form, but
something produced through a well-performed practical activity. “Timely” and “fit-
ting” also suggest that the rightness of the ideal is context-dependent. A certain kind of
action (say a declaration of war) might be timely and fitting in one situation but
untimely and unfitting in another.45 As I understand the section on the arts of
measurement, the expert uses the second art when he applies his expertise to practical
situations. The well-measured action is one perfectly suited to the occasion once all the
variables of the situation are taken into account.
The digression on measurement and dialectical method, occasioned by the Stranger’s
question whether his treatment of weaving was too long, has more to do with the
philosopher, his methods and aims, than with the statesman, but we should take from
this section one chief lesson for statecraft: the statesman uses the second art of measure-
ment to determine what is timely or necessary or appropriate in governing the state.
6.8 Laws and Expertise

During the discussion of the statesman’s imitators, Young Socrates resists the idea that a
true statesman may rule without laws (293e7–9), since in that respect the statesman
seems no different from a tyrant (301b10–d7). The Stranger replies that preferably the
laws should not take precedence—even laws established by the statesman—but the
kingly man with prudence (meta phronēseōs). Expertise should prevail over laws, because
laws hold only for the most part (hōs epi to polu) (295a5) and cannot adjust to each
particular case (294a10–b6). The expert doctor often treats different individuals with
the same ailment in different ways, because details of the total situation call for distinct
approaches, and he revises the therapy when the patient’s symptoms improve or
deteriorate or when some other aspect of the picture changes. Similarly the statesman
must pay attention to the details of each situation and be prepared to revise his plans
with shifting circumstances. Rule by law is second best—a mere imitation of genuine
expertise—and should be adopted only in the absence of a true statesman.46
45
Plato seems to be presenting something very like Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean (EN II), and in
particular the ideal of an intermediate activity. On Aristotle’s doctrine, see Young (1996).
46
Plato’s Laws expresses a similar view but seems more pessimistic than the Statesman about the possibility
of finding a true statesman: “Neither law nor any ordinance is master of knowledge (epistēmēs); nor is it right
that reason (noun), if it is true and really free by nature, should be subject or slave to anything else: it should be
ruler of all. But as it is, reason is nowhere to be found, except a hint of it here and there. That is why we need
198 PHILOSOPHOS
Both the tyrant and the true king stand above the laws but, unlike the tyrant, the true
king—should one ever emerge—would be willing and able to rule with virtue and
knowledge (epistēmē), and make appropriate distributions to everyone (301c11–d2).
The visitor still has not said what the knowledge is that would prepare the statesman to
rule in this way, without laws, and he turns finally to that topic at the end of the dialogue.
6.9 The Statesman’s Knowledge

Having discussed the statesman in relation to other groups in the city, the Stranger
proposes finally to examine the nature of his expertise: his type of intertwining (poia esti),
its manner (tini tropōi), and the sort the fabric he weaves (poion huphasma) (306a1–3).
He cautions that his demonstration will be difficult and that his claim that two parts of
virtue often conflict will likely arouse dispute (306a5–c2).
Two dispositions—courage (andreia) and moderation (sōphrosunē)—both parts of
virtue, can be at odds in a city and frequently do occupy opposite positions. This
claim may surprise readers of Plato, accustomed as we are to think of the Platonic
virtues as harmonious with one another and hostile to the corresponding vices—
courage opposed to cowardice, moderation to self-indulgence—but the Stranger claims
that things called “beautiful” or “fine” fall into two groups opposed to each other.
People praise mental and physical sharpness, speed, intensity, and quickness of speech,
whether in real life or representations, and call it “courage” (306c10–e13); but the same
people also praise the opposite qualities—gentleness, slowness, smoothness, and
depth—when they occur at the right times, and call them “orderliness” (307a1–b4).
They also fault those same qualities in both groups when they occur at the wrong times
and label them with the opposite names, calling sharpness and quickness “violent and
mad,” and depth, slowness, and softness “cowardly” and “stupid” (307b5–c2). Because
citizens with dispositions of one sort usually like and praise others similar to themselves
and tend to dislike and criticize those with the other disposition, the two groups often
clash, and while the conflict is benign in some situations, it is a scourge in cities. The
orderly people are reserved, keep to themselves, avoid warfare, and teach their children
to do the same, and consequently fall easy prey to aggression; before long, without even
noticing, they become slaves to their attackers. The courageous types go too far in the
other direction, making war at the wrong times on some minor pretext and risk
destroying their city or losing control of it to their foes. While courageous types are
prone to excessive violence, and that excess is the vice opposed to moderation,
moderate types tend toward over-caution and cowardice, and that deficiency is the
vice opposed to courage. Ordinary people, who naturally incline in one direction or the
other and who use the first art of measurement, contrast the two virtues with each
other, and mistakenly regard them as opposites, when in fact only the excessive form of
to choose the second best, ordinance and law. These see and look to most things (hōs epi to polu), but are
powerless to see and look to all (epi pan)” (Laws IX, 875c6–d5).
courage is the opposite of moderation, and only the deficient form of moderation is the
opposite of courage.
Statecraft combines things, and like all arts of combining it first weeds out inferior
elements. Then it brings together the good materials, some similar, some dissimilar, to
produce some one capacity (dunamin) and character (idean) (308c1–7). Like weaving,
which oversees the work of the carders and others who prepare its materials, prescrib-
ing to them the sorts of threads needed for its own project, statecraft keeps watch over
the caregivers and teachers and prescribes to them the sorts of characters suited to its
own mixing, ensuring that people of both sorts responsive to education are nurtured,
while those who fail are excluded (308d1–e3).47 People disposed toward courage serve
as the sturdy warp of his fabric, while those disposed toward orderliness provide the soft
and abundant weft. Thus the Stranger answers his first question, characterizing the sort
of weaving the statesman undertakes.
As for the manner of his weaving, the Stranger claims that the statesman weaves in
two ways, one divine and one mortal. The statesman carries out his divine task with the
help of the tutors and teachers, and manages his mortal task with the aid of the people
once they have been properly trained. He enjoins the teachers to instill in the souls of
their students—both the courageous and the orderly—a “divine psychic bond”
(309c1–2), in the form of a shared true belief (alēthē doxan), firmly held, about what
is fine, just, and good (309c5–8). Whereas people lacking the appropriate education
gravitate toward mates like themselves, with the result that after a few generations the
courageous sorts become violent and mad and the moderate ones overly sluggish and
finally crippled; those of both sorts who have reached a shared belief about things fine
and good select mates of the other sort, and their choices preserve balance and harmony
in the city (310e5–7). Equipped with true belief, the soul inclined toward courage
becomes tame and welcomes justice, while the soul inclined toward orderliness
becomes truly moderate and prudent. The people themselves, based on their shared
belief, choose the right human bonds in their marriages.
The statesman weaves all the good but diverse elements together into a smooth and
well-fashioned fabric, and his flourishing city is an ongoing project, not a finished
garment he sets aside and admires. His knowledge is guided but not constrained by
rules, because he always looks to the particular situation and uses the second art of
measurement, deciding which materials and tools to use when, and which part of his
weaving needs attention. He constantly attends to particulars of the situation, so that
actions are timely, necessary, and fitting for the city to prosper. He decides, for
47
It is worth noticing a significant disanalogy between the weaver/weaving and the statesman/statecraft.
Whereas the statesman appoints and directs his subordinates to serve his own purpose according to the
requirements of his art, the weaver does not herself oversee the activities of other experts. The art of weaving
puts constraints on the subordinate arts, prescribing lengths and degrees of tautness in spinning, thoroughness
in carding, and so on: 308d6–e2 focuses on the art of weaving, not the weaver. I thank Paul Ryan for this
observation. Models always fall short of the target in some respect, and weaving falls short of statecraft both in
failing to capture the oversight role of the expert (as distinct from the art) and in lacking treacherous imitators.
200 PHILOSOPHOS
example, which individual with a well-blended character should perform a job

that calls for a single director, or which pair of individuals—one courageous, one
moderate—should share some civic project so as to achieve the proper blend of drive
and caution (311a4–9).
Earlier it appeared that the statesman need not act but rules those who act, at one
remove from the day-to-day practical affairs of the city (305d1–5), and at that time he
seemed different from the weaver who engages in her own practical activity at the loom
(308d6–e2). Yet once the Stranger analyzes statecraft by spelling out the type and
manner of intertwining and the fabric produced, the statesman’s work proves to be
practical, as well as theoretical. Although the statesman oversees the practical activities of
his subordinates and works things out theoretically, he has his own higher order practical
knowledge as well, and applies it in managing the city. In the final summary, the visitor
speaks of the end of the web of political action (politikēs praxeōs) (311b8). This final
section of the Statesman re-invokes numerous images from earlier in the dialogue. The
original association with the herdsman has not been left behind: the statesman cares for
all aspects of the life of his flock, arranging for marriages that yield noble children and
overseeing their education, and he has the remedy (pharmakon) to cure what ails them
and the city (310a1–5).48 Like the divine herdsman in the myth, the statesman looks
after all the affairs of the city, though he delegates particular jobs to his subordinates and
directs their activities. An expert in timing, he knows when to set parts of his agenda in
motion, in order to preserve and enhance the lives of the citizens and the well-being of
the city as a whole. His city survives and flourishes, because he keeps generating
something well-measured, a finely woven fabric he continues to weave.
6.10 Socrates’ Name

The Statesman ends with a subtle reminder that the Sophist and Statesman are incomplete.
Socrates says: “Stranger, you have in turn completed most finely the kingly man, the
statesman” (311c9–10), a fitting conclusion for the dialogue. But which Socrates makes
the comment?49 One expects the speaker to be the elder Socrates, who asked the
Stranger to define the three kinds in the first place, who thanked Theodorus for
introducing him to Theaetetus and the visitor at the beginning of the Statesman, and
whose debt increases proportionately with each more valuable portrait.50 Yet the elder
Socrates has been silent since the opening exchange in the Statesman, listening to the
48
I agree with Weiss (1995) and El Murr (2005) that the association with the herdsman has not been
abandoned. See citations at the end of note 25 above.
49
The manuscripts do not mention the names of the speakers (see the critical apparatus of Duke et al.
[1995: ad loc.]). The question about the final speaker has been much debated, and scholars have lined up on
one side or the other. For a provocative defense of Young Socrates as the speaker, see Friedländer (1969:
III.304–5), who argues that the Elder Socrates remains silent at the end, because of tension between him and
the Stranger—Socrates would not have liked the Stranger’s portrait of the statesman, because it conflicts with
the one he gave of the philosopher-king in the Republic.
50
These topics are discussed below, Chapter 7 sec. 7.1.
visitor’s conversation with Socrates the Younger. That would not rule out his making
the final comment, of course, but if he does so, then his young namesake has no
enthusiastic reply to the Stranger’s final description of the statesman’s fabric and
weaving, contrary to Plato’s usual treatment of interlocutors in his Eleatic dialogues.51
We noticed at the start of this chapter that early in the Statesman the elder Socrates
claims that Theaetetus and Young Socrates both have a certain kinship to him,
Theaetetus because of his looks, and Socrates because of his name (257d1–258a3).
The last line of the Statesman reminds the audience how easy it is to confuse people
called by the same name, since one cannot tell without seeing or hearing which
Socrates is speaking.52 The new Oxford Classical Text of the Statesman removes the
puzzle by adding a line with Young Socrates’ applause and then hands the final line to
the elder Socrates, thus giving the Statesman a false appearance of closure.53 Plato
himself leaves his readers with a question: Are the final words of the Statesman those
of Socrates the philosopher or those of the novice, his young namesake? We easily
mistake people called by the same name, and the philosopher is no exception. The
Statesman ends with a puzzle to alert Plato’s audience (including us readers) that the
inquiry is still in progress, with the most valuable portrait still to come.54
51
E.g., the exercise in the second part of the Parmenides ends with young Aristotle’s Alēthestata (“Most
true”) (Prm. 166c5). The Sophist ends with Theaetetus’ Pantapasi men oun (“Absolutely”) (Sph. 268d5).
Relative to those minimal exclamations, the final line of the Statesman is a more expansive reply than scholars
expect from Young Socrates in this context.
52
Ryle (1966: 27–32) speculates that in the Theaetetus alone Plato gives us a single gramophone whereas
elsewhere (including the Sophist and Statesman) the dialogues were enacted in direct speech by a plurality of
voices, with Plato taking the main role (of Socrates) until he got too old and sick, and so replaced Socrates
with the Eleatic Stranger performed by someone else.
53
Duke et al. (1995: 559). D. Robinson (1995: 39) claims responsibility for the editorial decisions and
judgments in the new OCT of Plato vol. 1, but says very little to justify his decision: “Schleiermacher seems
very likely right to give the final words to the Senior Socrates; Campbell seems equally likely right to want to
restore a formal reply by the Younger Socrates. A repeated ŒººØÆ might account for the omission” (1995:
41). In the new OCT Young Socrates says: Kallist’ eirēkas (“You have spoken most finely”) (311c8).
Campbell (1867: ad loc.) did not in fact advocate an emendation but only said that those who think the
praise in the final line is more becoming in the mouth of the philosopher may suppose that the answer of the
younger Socrates has dropped out. He himself attributed the final line to Socrates the Younger.
54
Scholars have wondered who the speakers would have been in the final dialogue: the Stranger and
Theaetetus (once Theaetetus has had a rest after the Statesman) (257c10–11)? The Stranger and Old Socrates?
Not likely, since Old Socrates would scarcely be docile, and the Stranger prefers to speak on his own rather
than contend with a troublesome respondent. Cornford (1935a: 168–9) thinks the speakers would be Old
Socrates and Young Socrates, based on a hint in the Statesman. Socrates, continuing his statement about his
kinship to Theaetetus and Socrates the Younger, says that he spoke to Theaetetus yesterday (Tht.), the
Stranger spoke to Theaetetus today (Sph.), recommends that the Stranger now speak to Young Socrates
(Stm.), and adds that he himself will speak to Young Socrates hereafter (258a3–6). See also Diès (1923: xii–
xvii). Against the hypothesis of Diès and Cornford is the fact that Socrates asked the Stranger what the Eleatics
mean by “sophist,” “statesman,” and “philosopher” (Sph. 216d3–217a4), which suggests that the Stranger
will himself carry on to the end; but the hypothesis yields a nice symmetry—Socrates + Theaetetus (Tht.),
Stranger + Theaetetus (Sph.), Stranger + Young Socrates (Stm.), Socrates + Young Socrates (Philos.). The
awkwardness of staging a dialogue with two speakers with the same name is perhaps also hinted at in the
puzzle of the final line of the Statesman. If Plato promised the Philosopher and left it unwritten on purpose, the
puzzle about speakers in the Philosopher is entirely fitting.
7
The Philosopher’s Object
KØÇÅÅ Køı.

I searched out myself.
We come finally to the missing Philosopher, the third member of the trilogy Sophist–
Statesman–Philosopher, and the fourth member of the tetralogy beginning with the
Theaetetus. Philosophy, introduced as one of three topics to be discussed at the start of
the Sophist, pervades both the Sophist and the Statesman, though explicit discussion of
the philosopher is repeatedly deferred.
We start with a passage I mentioned in my Introduction. The Stranger announces in the
Statesman that he has tackled the statesman not primarily for the sake of the statesman but for
the sake of some greater project. While treating the arts of measurement, he speaks of that
more important project and recalls his earlier discussion of children learning their letters:
Suppose that someone should ask us about the children sitting together learning their letters: when
we ask one of them of what letters some word or other is composed, do we ever say that the inquiry
is more for the sake of the one problem set before him or for the sake of his becoming a better speller
in all such cases?—Clearly for the sake of his becoming a better speller in all such cases.—And what
in turn about our inquiry now into the statesman? Is it set before us more for the sake of that thing
itself [the statesman] or for the sake of our becoming more dialectical about everything?—That too is
clear: it is for the sake of our becoming more dialectical about everything. (Stm. 285c8–d7)
Next the Stranger talks about examples, such as weaving, with sensible likenesses easy to
understand, which an instructor can point to when a student has trouble grasping a verbal
account. Young Socrates can see and picture an angler angling and a weaver weaving, but
there are other cases, the greatest and most valuable, which cannot be visualized. For the
sake of these harder topics students practice giving and receiving an account on simple
examples, where they can fall back on visual aids (Stm. 285d9–286b1).1 After they practice
1
This passage is discussed in detail by Owen (1973), but he mistakenly takes modeling to be a sort of
depicting and repeatedly speaks of “pictures and models” in tandem. See Kahn (1995: 57–8) for criticisms.
I disagree with Kahn’s main thesis that the Statesman still rests on the ontological dualism of being and
becoming familiar from dialogues such as the Phaedo. In my view the essences of sophistry and statecraft are
undepictable and immaterial but embodied (cf. Aristotle’s substantial forms which are both immaterial and
embodied). The immanence of Platonic forms is clear in the Final Argument of Part I of the Theaetetus, in the
THE PHILOSOPHER’S OBJECT 203
giving and receiving an account on examples like angling and weaving, they take on
difficult cases, such as the sophist and statesman, and using the earlier examples as models
try to give and receive an account without images.2 The Statesman presents a remarkable
verbal portrait of the statesman. At the same time, the process of discovery leading to that
portrait illustrates dialectic, the philosopher’s method. Because the dialogue aims to make
students better dialecticians, able to deal with all such topics including the philosopher
himself, we expect the missing dialogue to use dialectic to uncover the expertise displayed
in dialectic itself.
7.1 Intimations of the Philosopher

The Sophist and the Statesman repeatedly herald a final dialogue. At the beginning of
the Sophist, Theodorus introduces the Eleatic visitor to Socrates and describes him as a
keen philosopher, and that introduction prompts a conversation about philosophers.
Socrates remarks that philosophers appear in several guises—sometimes as sophists,
sometimes as statesmen, and sometimes they appear completely mad (manikōs) (Sph.
216a1–d2).3 We have seen that people easily make such mistakes, and one instance
occurs in the Sophist’s sixth division depicting the philosopher Socrates as a sophist.
Socrates wants to know how the Stranger’s colleagues in Elea use the names “sophist,”
“statesman,” and “philosopher”—do the names refer to one kind, two kinds, or three?
The answer itself is easy, says the Stranger, because the three names label three distinct
kinds, but defining the kinds is not at all easy (Sph. 216d3–217b4). He then sets out to
define the sophist. The Statesman opens with Socrates thanking Theodorus for intro-
ducing him to Theaetetus and the visitor; Theodorus asserts that Socrates will be three
times as grateful once the Stranger completes the statesman and the philosopher, a
comment Socrates playfully rebukes: how can Theodorus—a mathematician—assign
the three figures equal worth, when they differ so greatly in value? (Stm. 257a1–b7).4
section on great kinds in the Sophist, and in a passage in the Philebus on dialectic to be discussed below. Kahn
(1995: 58) takes as decisive evidence for his view Phlb. 57e6–58a5, where Socrates says that the capacity for
dialectic is concerned with eternal, uniform being. In my view, Plato’s later metaphysics hinges on his
conception of being, and this chapter aims to work out what that conception is.
2
For the characterization of the statesman as one of the greatest and most important things, see Stm.
278e8. The sophist, too, is something great and difficult: Sph. 218c5–d9.
3
The reference to madness might point to the Thracian girl’s reaction to Thales when he fell into a well
while gazing at the heavens (Tht. 174a4–b1), and might recall popular opinion about true expertise at Rep.
VI, 488d4–489a2, and anticipate Stm. 299b2–8, where the true expert is said to engage in adoleschia (babbling)
and meteōrologia (star-gazing), but madness is not mentioned on those occasions. It seems more likely that the
word manikos invites the audience to think of the Phaedrus and Socrates’ magnificent Palinode (his second
speech about love retracting his first speech), in which he characterizes the philosopher as inspired by divine
madness (esp. Phdr. 245b1–c1 and 249d4–e4). I shall not pursue this thread, though it would be worth
pursuing.
4
This appears to be another reference to the Phaedrus. At Phdr. 248d2–e3, in his second speech about love,
Socrates ranks nine kinds of lives, locating the philosopher and lover of the beautiful in the highest group,
some statesmen in the second group, others in the third, and places the sophist in the eighth group, just ahead
204 PHILOSOPHOS
Theodorus invites the Stranger to choose the sequence of remaining topics, the
Stranger states that the project must be carried through to the end (Stm. 257c3–5),
and that after the sophist they must investigate the statesman next (Stm. 258b2–3).5 So
we expect the Philosopher to follow, based on these advertisements.
Moreover, the Stranger encounters the philosopher by surprise during his account of
dialectic in the middle of the Sophist and exclaims:
What, Theaetetus, shall we call this knowledge? Or, by Zeus, have we stumbled on the
knowledge of free men without noticing it, and chanced in our search for the sophist to have
found the philosopher first? (Sph. 253c6–9)
And after completing his account of dialectic, he says:

But you will not grant dialectical skill (to ge dialektikon) to anyone else, I suppose, except to the
truly and justly philosophical person.—How could one grant it to anyone else?—We shall find
the philosopher in some such place both now and hereafter if we look for him. This man too is
hard to see clearly, but the difficulty in his case differs from that of the sophist.—How?—The
sophist runs off into the darkness of not-being, and gropes around in dealing with that, and because
of the darkness of the place he is hard to see.—It seems so.—The philosopher, on the other hand,
always devotes himself through reasoning to the form of being (tēi tou ontos . . . ideai), and is not at all
easy to see because of the brightness of the place. For the eyes of the soul of most people cannot
bear to look upon the divine.—This seems so no less than the other.—Accordingly, we shall
presently investigate the philosopher more clearly, if we still want to. (Sph. 253e4–254b4)
This passage gives a vital clue about the region in which the philosopher is located.
Whereas the sophist lurks in the darkness of not-being and feels his way around, the
philosopher attends to the form of being and is hard to see because people are blinded
by the light, but he inhabits that bright place, the region of being. As I said in my
Introduction, this unexpected meeting with the philosopher has encouraged some
scholars to think that the Sophist itself presents the philosopher, since a few pages earlier,
after showing that being is just as puzzling as not-being, the Stranger promises joint
illumination (Sph. 250d5–251a4).6 He does illuminate not-being and being to the
of the tyrant in last place. On the significance of the ratios in the Statesman, cf. the different proposals of
Delcomminette (2005: 357) and Migliori (2007: 95).
5
The Stranger’s emphasis on the necessity (anankaion) of investigating the statesman after the sophist
suggests that this search is a prerequisite for the investigation into the philosopher. Thanks to Dimitri El Murr
for this observation. In sec. 7.9 below I discuss the main respects in which the definition of the statesman
sheds light on the philosopher.
6
Many scholars take the Parity Assumption—as Owen (1971: 229–31) called the Stranger’s hope for joint
illumination—to place constraints on one’s interpretation of being and not-being in the rest of the dialogue. For
a full discussion of the paragraph containing the Parity Assumption, see Notomi (2007: 257–62), who argues
that we must find a way between two monsters, which share a common root: “those conclusions are that what is
not is in itself unthinkable and unspeakable (238c–239a), and that what is is both motion and rest (249c–d)”
(2007: 262). While I agree with Notomi that the first monster must be avoided, I disagree about the second,
since in my view Plato’s readers must finally embrace the second one. Thomas (2008: 649–53) takes the Parity
Assumption to impose interpretive constraints, though she argues for a moderate version of that assumption.
same extent, but as I argued, clarity sufficient for not-being and the sophist falls short
for being and the philosopher.
In Chapter 3 we examined the contest between Heraclitus and Parmenides about
the nature of being, and I argued that in the Battle of the Gods and Giants Plato’s
Stranger brings the conflict to a temporary halt when he claims that the philosopher
reconciles the two sides with the children’s plea that being is all things changed and
unchanged, both together (Sph. 249d3–4). The children beg for both—and not merely
for both the changing sensibles of the Giants and the stable intelligibles of the Gods, but
for both sorts of things with both sorts of features. They want things to have sufficient
stability that sensation and cognition can grasp them, and sufficient changeability to be
affected in those encounters. At the time the Stranger exulted at having captured being
with an account (tōi logōi to on) (Sph. 249d6–7), but immediately after that boast he
noticed a problem, that change and rest are opposites, and so cannot partake of each
other. When one says of change and rest that they both are and each is, the being they
partake of must be some third thing distinct from them. In the Aporia about Being
(Sph. 249d9–250d4), the Stranger rules out the solution in the Battle of the Gods and
Giants and shows that being is utterly puzzling, indeed as puzzling as not-being. To
find our way back from that argument to the positive proposal in the Battle of the Gods
and Giants, we must examine the Aporia about Being, which bars our access.
My present chapter adopts a “pedimental” structure, with puzzles up one side of the
triangular face and resolutions down the other side, and a centerpiece to serve as a bridge
from the puzzles to their solutions.7 First we shall examine the Aporia about Being,
which undermines the proposal about being in the Battle of the Gods and Giants, to see
why being turns out to be so puzzling. Then we shall take a preliminary look at the
passage on dialectic, the philosopher’s method (Sph. 253b9–e2), a passage interlaced
with discussion of the philosopher’s knowledge and his object quoted at the start of this
chapter. The passage on dialectic contains a mysterious claim (Sph. 253d8–9),
which I regard as key to understanding the philosopher’s investigation of the structural
kinds difference and being. To understand it, I shall interrupt my discussion of dialectic
in the Sophist to consider dialectic in the Philebus and its helpful illustration, sound.
With the model of sound in hand, I shall return to dialectic in the Sophist and argue that
the investigation of sound in the Philebus matches Plato’s investigation of difference and
its parts in the Sophist and can also guide the investigation of being. Still without
finishing our analysis of the passage on dialectic, we shall go back to the Aporia
about Being to diagnose its mistake, and with that diagnosis in hand reassess the status
of being in the passage on dialectic. Finally, having neutralized the Aporia which
7
I owe this structuring idea to Notomi (1999: 40–1), who characterizes the Sophist as having such a
structure. On Plato’s use of this sort of dialogical structure, see Thesleff (1967: 34–5 n. 3). My pedimental
composition does not duplicate the one Notomi finds in the Sophist (he locates the passage on dialectic as the
centerpiece of the Sophist). I have made the Philebus investigation of sound my centerpiece and treat dialectic
on the way up and down. In my view the centerpiece of the Sophist is the Battle of the Gods and Giants, a
section to which we shall return in secs. 7.7 and 7.8 below.
206 PHILOSOPHOS
blocked our return to the dunamis proposal in the Battle of the Gods and Giants (the
proposal that being is the capacity to act on or to be affected by other things), we shall go
back to that definition and discuss the structure of being. We start, then, with the Aporia
about Being.
7.2 Aporia about Being in the Sophist

No sooner does the Stranger boast that he has a definition of being (Sph. 249d6–7) than
he expresses dismay (249d9–11).8 He can ask the same question about change and rest
he earlier asked the people who claim that the all is two things, say hot and cold
(at 243d8–244b5), namely what is this being they attribute to both?9 Now he asks,
“What is this being we attribute to change and rest?” and contends that being is a third
thing, distinct from both change and rest. They partake of it, while it partakes of
neither of them. The argument has two parts, and we consider them in turn.
The relation of change and rest to being

Well, then, don’t you say that change and rest are completely opposite to each other?—
Certainly.—And yet you say that they both similarly are and each is?—Yes, I do.—Do you
mean that both and each change, when you agree that they are?—Not at all.—Well, do you
mean that they rest when you say that they both are?—How could I?—Then do you conceive of
being (to on) as some third thing on the ground that you collected rest and change, surrounded
(periechomenēn) by that [being], and looked at their association with being (autōn pros tēn tēs ousias
koinōnian), and for that reason say they both are?10—We seem truly to have divined being as some
third thing when we say that change and rest are.—So being is not change and rest both together,
but something different from them.—That’s likely. (250a8–c5)
This argument assumes that change and rest are opposites (enantiōtata) (250a8–9) which
exclude each other, and so it follows that whatever they partake of in common must be
some third thing different from them—for if it were the same as either of them, say rest,
then substitute “rests” for “is,” and change would rest, which is impossible, since
opposites cannot partake of each other. A parallel argument shows that being must be
distinct from change, for otherwise rest would change (250a11–b7). Being is therefore
a third thing different from both. Nonetheless, change and rest have an association
(koinōnian) with being, since we say they both “are” and each “is.” The Stranger offers
8
All citations from here on, unless and until otherwise noted, refer to the Sophist.
9
On that earlier occasion the Stranger was concerned with the number of beings and argued that it is one,
not two. He discussed three alternatives: (1) If being is the same as either hot or cold, that one alone is being
and not the other; (2) if being is the same as both of them, obviously there is just one being. Alternatively, (3)
if being is some third thing different from them, once again there is just one being. Whichever option the
pluralist takes, Parmenides is right. We discussed this passage above in Chapter 3 sec. 3.4.
10
The syntax is improved by adopting the punctuation in Campbell (1867: ad loc. and note): delete the
comma after æØå
Å and place it after ıººÆ. I thank Paul Ryan for alerting me to Campbell’s
solution.
Theaetetus a way of conceiving of being as a third thing while allowing change and rest
to associate with it—Theaetetus takes change and rest together and supposes that they
are surrounded by being, and then focuses on their association with it (250b8–c2). On
this conception being is not change and rest, both together (250c3–4), contrary to the
children’s plea in the Battle of the Gods and Giants.11
To understand the Stranger’s proposal, we need to make sense of his spatial
metaphor, the idea that being surrounds change and rest. In the upcoming passage
on dialectic, he uses the same metaphor but adds a further idea. The philosopher, he
says, must adequately discern “many [forms] different from each other surrounded
from outside (exōthen periechomenas) by one form” (253d7–8). Later in the Aporia itself,
in discussing the relation of being to change and rest, he also concludes that being is
outside (ektos) change and rest (250d2–3). So we should try to make sense of the idea
that being surrounds change and rest and is located outside them.
A survey of the verb periechō (“surround,” “embrace,” “contain”) in Plato indicates
that he uses it in three ways. First, a whole embraces or contains its parts, as the ideal
living creature in the Timaeus contains all the intelligible creatures.12 In the Timaeus
passage the container includes its contents as parts of it, an idea ruled out in our passage
by the imagery of surrounding from outside. A whole is not outside its parts, since they
are parts of it. Second, the limits of a thing surround and contain the thing, as the
circumference of a circle surrounds a circular space, or four equal lines joined at four
equal angles surround a square space (Meno 85a2–3). The spatial metaphor of surround-
ing from outside in our passage excludes this idea too, since Plato regards the limits of a
thing as parts of it, and so not outside it (244d14–e8).13 Third, and perhaps most usual,
one thing surrounds another, as dry land surrounds a lake or mountains surround a
plain.14 This third use figures in Aristotle’s conception of place, defined as the first
changeless limit of the surrounding body (tou periechontos); the place of a thing is the
inner surface of the body encompassing it.15 This third manner of surrounding fits the
imagery of surrounding from outside, since the contents are not parts of the container,
11
Cornford (1935a: 250) says that this claim—being is not change and rest, both together—is supposed to
recall the one at 249d3–4 (= the children’s plea), but given his interpretation of the children’s plea (“the
real . . . includes both things that are changeless and things that change”), he takes the present passage not to
contradict it but to harmonize with it. I take the present passage to contradict the earlier one.
12
Ti. 31a2–8, 33b2–7; cf. Prm. 145b6–c7.
13
Cf. Prm. 137d4–138a1.
14
Ti. 25a2–5 and Critias 118a2–5. A. E. Taylor (1928: 86) in a note on Ti. 31a4 points to testimony about
the early Ionian natural philosophers Anaximander (Aristotle, Phys. III.4, 203b10–15 = DK 12A15) and
Anaximenes (DK 13B2). The evidence suggests that they believed that once the cosmos was generated from
an original stuff, that stuff surrounds the whole cosmos on the outside. (The use of to periechon Taylor is
commenting on belongs to the first group, not the present one.)
15
Phys. IV.4, 212a20–21. The second deduction in the second part of the Parmenides presents a similar
idea: if the one is in itself, it would be around itself from the outside (peri heauto an eiē exōthen), and by
surrounding (periechon) it would be greater than itself, and by being surrounded (periechomenon) less, and thus
the one would be both greater and less (Prm. 150e5–151a2).
208 PHILOSOPHOS
and the container is not part of them. In this way dry land surrounds a lake, a range of
mountains surrounds a plain, or a basket surrounds its contents.
Some scholars in interpreting the similar terminology in the upcoming passage on
dialectic take the language of surrounding to specify a genus in relation to its species,
and so regard being as the genus of change and rest.16 But no evidence I know of in
Plato supports that construal of periechō, and the idea that being surrounds from outside
appears to forbid it. The Stranger’s many definitions of the angler and the sophist earlier
in the dialogue suggest that a genus extends through its various species and is men-
tioned in their definitions. A genus is therefore inside its species as a conceptual part of
them.17 The Stranger captures this latter idea in a different claim in the upcoming
passage on dialectic, when he speaks of “one form extending in every way (pantēi
diatetamenēn) through many (dia pollōn), each one [of the many] lying apart” (253d5–7).
The spatial metaphor in the Aporia recommends instead that we think of being in the
third way spelled out above, that being surrounds change and rest from outside them—
neither is it part of them, nor are they parts of it.
Let us consider what it might mean to say that change and rest associate with being as
a third thing surrounding them from outside. “Association” (koinōnia) is one of Plato’s
words for participation, and he evidently thinks that change and rest both partake of
being, since the Stranger claims they both are and each is (250a11–12, b11), and later
says: “Change is, because it partakes of being” (256a1).18 According to the theory of
forms presented and criticized in the Parmenides, participants partake of a form that
exists apart from them, but the section on great kinds in the Sophist aims to show that
one kind can be called by many names derived from the names of the various kinds it
partakes of, which are attributes of it. We therefore have reason to suppose that in the
Aporia about Being being stands outside the natures of change and rest, but is
nonetheless an attribute of them.
In my discussion of forms and their features in Chapter 5, I distinguished two ways in
which an attribute can belong to a subject while standing outside its nature—either as an
accidental feature (a feature a kind has but need not have), or as a necessary external
attribute (a feature an entity must have, though the feature stands outside its nature).19
It seems doubtful that being is a mere accidental feature of things to which it belongs,
since later in the dialogue the Stranger says that being pervades everything (dia pantōn . . .
dielēluthote), as difference does (259a5–6). Plato’s Parmenides and the Eleatic Stranger
speak of difference as a necessary external attribute of things, for recall that the
Stranger says that each thing is different from other things, not because of its own nature,
but because it partakes of the form of difference (255e3–6).20 This claim suggests
16
E.g., Stenzel (1940: 102–5) and Cornford (1935a: 267–8).
17
Cf. Aristotle, Met. ˜.25, 1023b22–25.
18
See note 5 of the Appendix to Chapter 5 above for references to similar claims.
19
See sec. 5.3 above, esp. pp. 152–3.
20
Cf. Prm. 139c3–d1 and 143b3–8.
that difference stands outside the natures of other things, while necessarily belonging to
them. We noted in Chapter 2 that puzzles in the second part of the Parmenides spring
from a conception of being as standing outside its participants. I suggest that in the Aporia,
too, being is regarded as a necessary external attribute of things, as difference is. The
Parity Assumption (250e5–251a3) following the Aporia encourages the expectation that
being and difference are similar in some important respects, and their all-pervasive
application to things appears to be one of those respects. If I have interpreted the Aporia
correctly so far, change and rest partake of being as a necessary external attribute of them.
In terms of the spatial metaphor, being surrounds change and rest from outside.
The relation of being to change and rest

We now turn to the second part of the Aporia about Being, and I repeat the final line of
the earlier section, which rejects the children’s plea from the Battle of the Gods and
Giants:
So being is not change and rest both together, but something different from them.—That’s
likely.—So in its own nature (kata tēn hautou phusin) being neither rests nor changes.—I suppose
not.—Where should someone turn his thought who wants to secure for himself anything clear
about it?—Yes, where?—I suppose it’s no longer easy to say. For if something is not changing,
how is it not resting? Or how is that which is in no way at rest not in turn changing? Being has
now disclosed itself as outside (ektos) both of them. Then is that possible?—Most impossible of all.
(250c3–d4)
According to this argument, being in its own nature (kata tēn hautou phusin) neither rests
nor changes—change and rest are not essential properties of it (250c6–7). Not only
that, but whatever being essentially is, it neither rests nor changes: rest and change are
not accidents or necessary external attributes of it (250c12–d3). Encouraged by the
Stranger to reject the conclusion, Theaetetus finds it “Most impossible of all” (250d4):
the conclusion takes him aback, because he has agreed that change and rest are
mutually exclusive—“completely opposite” (250a8–9)—and reasonably thinks that
they are jointly exhaustive, that something not changing rests, and something not
resting changes. Being (whatever its own nature is) should rest. Theaetetus is a novice
and so liable to make mistakes, but the Gods (friends of the forms) in the Battle of the
Gods and Giants have very recently asserted that being rests (248d10–e5), and they
insisted on that because Platonists regard stability as an ideal feature of forms, one
among their necessary external attributes.21 Thus the Stranger’s conclusion (250c3–4)
not only excludes the children’s plea, but also renders being utterly puzzling—a
something, I know not what, subject to neither rest nor change. The guest now
declares that their confusion about being is as great as their previous confusion about
21
Recall Top. V.7, 137b3–13, where Aristotle distinguishes ideal from proper features and lists rest as an
ideal feature of forms.
210 PHILOSOPHOS
not-being (250d5–e5), and this observation gives him hope of making headway about
both at once (250e5–251a3).
How does the Stranger get from the plausible claim that being in its own nature
neither rests nor changes to the startling conclusion that being (whatever it is) neither
rests nor changes but lies outside change and rest? Could not being be in virtue of its
own nature, but rest or change by partaking of rest or change?22 Some commentators
think the argument confuses identity statements with predications: from the claim that
being is not identical with change or rest, the visitor mistakenly infers that being cannot
partake of either of them.23 But the Stranger does not confuse identity statements and
predications, because in the first part of the argument he demonstrates that being is not
identical with either change or rest, and then claims that both change and rest associate
with being, since people say they both are.
Instead the Stranger appears to arrive at his conclusion by relying on a dubious
principle, the transitivity of participation. If Socrates partakes of man, and man partakes
of animal, then Socrates partakes of animal. The principle is dubious, because Socrates
partakes of man, and man partakes of indestructibility (an ideal feature of forms), but
Socrates does not partake of indestructibility—at any rate embodied Socrates (as
opposed to his soul) does not. Suppose we grant this dubious principle: change partakes
of being; if being in turn partook of rest, then by the transitivity of participation change
22
Lewis (1976: 140 n. 18) thinks that the Stranger gets his paradoxical result at 250c9–d3 simply by
suppressing the qualification kata tēn hautou phusin (“in its own nature”) mentioned just before at 250c6–7.
But then the argument is a piece of sophistry, and there is no reason why being should seem so puzzling—
indeed as puzzling as not-being.
23
E.g., Owen (1971: 261), Reeve (1985: 60), and Brown (2008: 443 and n. 19). M. Frede (1967: 67–8)
thinks the argument confuses the “is” of essential predication and the “is” used in ascribing ideal features (such as
rest) to forms. I agree with Roberts (1986: 230–6) in rejecting both diagnoses. Roberts herself (1986: 236–7)
proposes that Theaetetus is confused about the nature of things, and so the statement “in its own nature being
neither rests nor changes” seems paradoxical to him, since he thinks that being rests. According to Roberts, at
first he accepts the claim about the nature of being, but when the Stranger repeats it, the youth is taken aback
and rejects it. In her view Theaetetus must eventually accept the claim about the nature of being. I disagree. It
seems highly unlikely that at this stage in the Sophist Theaetetus still cannot tell the difference between
definitional and non-definitional features. Recall that after the six abortive attempts to define the sophist
Theaetetus declared his puzzlement about what a sophist really is (ontōs einai ton sophistēn) (231b9–c2). The
Stranger then listed the foregoing definitions and announced that he and Theaetetus have so far missed the key
feature of the sophist (232a1–6), a feature they have been seeking ever since (and will eventually find, once they
grasp the nature of difference [tēn . . . thaterou phusin]: 258d7). Assuming that Theaetetus can differentiate
definitional from non–definitional features, he should find nothing paradoxical about the claim that in its
own nature being neither rests nor changes (the paradoxical claim is the one contradicted [= the children’s plea]
[249d3–4], and in my view that is the one Socrates and the audience must eventually accept). The claim
Roberts takes to reiterate the statement about the nature of being (250c12–d3) does not speak of its nature and is
indeed paradoxical, if one assumes, as the Stranger does in the Aporia about Being, that change and rest are
mutually exclusive and jointly exhaustive categorial opposites. This claim is paradoxical, because something not
changing is resting, and something not resting is changing, and so being (whatever it is in its own nature) is both
resting (since not changing) and changing (since not resting), in violation of the Law of Non-Contradiction. We
have encountered a similar argument before, in the Appendix to Deductions 1 and 2 in the Parmenides (see
Chapter 2 sec. 2.4 above), and this time the contradiction is not even limited to the instant of change. The chief
mistake in the Aporia about Being, as we shall see, is the assumption that change and rest are mutually exclusive
categorial opposites. They are, on the contrary, structural kinds.
would partake of rest. This result is taken to be impossible on the ground that change
and rest are opposites, and opposites cannot partake of each other. A similar argument
shows that rest would partake of change, also impossible. So being partakes of neither
of them. Whatever we think of the argument, it gives the Stranger his desired
conclusion: the nature of being is now totally obscure and, whatever being is in its
own nature, it neither rests nor changes.
We shall return to the Aporia later in this chapter, but let me conclude this first
round with an observation. While it is not odd to think of difference as standing
outside the natures of the things it differentiates as a necessary external attribute, one
gets strange results by thinking of being that way, as we saw in discussing the second
part of the Parmenides. According to the first deduction, the one had to partake of
being—a feature distinct from its oneness—even to have its own nature, and for that
reason the one could not even be one by itself, since it had to partake of being to link it
to its oneness. In the fifth deduction, which I summarized but did not discuss, an entity
has to partake of infinite shares of being to have any feature at all. These problems stem
from thinking of being as standing outside the nature of things. When we eventually
make sense of being, we shall find that it is a structural feature inside their natures, with
operations comparable to those of oneness in the third deduction of the Parmenides.
Let us now turn to the philosopher’s knowledge, displayed in his method of
investigating things.
7.3 Dialectic in the Sophist

At the beginning of the section on great kinds, the Stranger claims that some kinds
combine and others do not. Like consonants and vowels of the alphabet, consonant forms
combine with some forms and not others, while vowel forms enable consonant (and
vowel) forms to combine with other forms.24 Just as expertise in letters is required to
determine which letters combine and which do not, so expertise in dialectic is required to
determine which kinds combine. The Stranger attributes that skill to the philosopher.
I present the Stranger’s account of dialectic in three sections (labeled A–C). The
dialectician should accurately discern six things in order to know which kinds combine
and which do not:
(A) What then? Since we have agreed that the kinds mingle with each other, won’t someone
intending to show correctly which of the kinds harmonize with which and which reject
one another need to proceed through accounts with some knowledge (met’ epistēmēs
tinos)? In particular [shouldn’t the person know]:
(1) whether there are some kinds holding things together through all (dia pantōn), so that
they are able to combine; and again
24
Again recall Chapter 5 sec. 5.3: the distinction between consonant and vowel forms concerns their
respective relationality.
212 PHILOSOPHOS
(2) in divisions (en tais diairesesin), whether there are other causes of division through
wholes (di’ holōn)? (Sph. 253b9–c3)
The visitor next describes the dialectician’s project and the mistakes he should avoid:
(B) Won’t we say that it belongs to knowledge of dialectic to divide by kinds (to kata genē
diaireisthai), and neither to think that the same form (eidos) is different nor, if different, the
same? (253d1–3)
(C) Accordingly, the person who can do that discerns adequately:
(3) one form (mian idean) extending in every way (pantēi diatetamenēn) through many (dia
pollōn), each one [of the many] lying apart (henos hekastou keimenou chōris); and
(4) many forms (pollas) different from one another surrounded from outside by one form
(hupo mias exōthen periechomenas); and in turn
(5) one form (mian), through many wholes (di’ holōn pollōn), united in one (en heni
sunēmmenēn); and
(6) many forms (pollas) marked off in every way apart.
This is to know how (epistasthai) to distinguish (diakrinein) by kind (kata genos) in what way
each is able to associate (koinōnein) and in what way not. (253d5–e2)
There is no consensus about the interpretation of this important passage.25 In my

view the passage describes a variety of relations among forms, relations the Stranger will
use in the upcoming investigation of great kinds and the analysis of difference.26
Section (A) describes two sorts of vowel forms in relation to everything else, one sort
enabling things to combine, the other responsible for division; section (B) describes the
dialectician’s project and mistakes to avoid; and then section (C) describes four relations
between forms. Since the Stranger contrasts one form and many (as opposed to all),
section (C) describes four types of association among (though not exclusive to)
consonant forms, forms that relate to some forms but not all.27
25
Stenzel (1940: 96–106), whose interpretation is accepted by many scholars, takes section (C) to present
in steps the method of division (i.e., division of a kind into subkinds) culminating in the statement I label (5).
He describes a pyramid structure, with a genus at the pinnacle (in [4]) and many forms marked off from the
target kind at the base (in [6]). Cf. Cornford (1935a: 266–8) and Sayre (1969: 177–9). Gómez-Lobo (1977)
objects that this approach ignores the context of the passage, and he argues instead that the passage describes
the combining and distinguishing of kinds mentioned by the Stranger at the beginning and end of the
passage.
26
My interpretation shares the general approach of El Murr in “ ‘The Knowledge that Free People
Possess’: Plato’s Sophist on Dialectic (Sph. 251a–254b)” (unpublished seminar presented at Brown University
in 2008), though we differ in specific interpretations of the groups I label (3)–(6).
27
Plato uses both feminine and neuter expressions in the passage in reference to one and many, and this
has led some scholars to think that he marks off forms on the one hand (feminine idean at 253d5) and concrete
particulars on the other (neuter: confirmed as neuter by hekasta at 253e1). But the context of the passage
indicates that the Stranger is discussing which forms can combine and which not, and how they combine. The
neuter expressions easily pick up the neuter nouns genē (“kinds”) or eidos (“form”), both at 253d1. If both
feminines and neuters refer to forms, no important difference is probably intended, though the variation
allows Plato to make clear that he is talking about different forms. E.g. in (5) one (fem.) form is united in one
Section (A) focuses on vowel forms, and group (1) includes forms “that hold things
together through all things, so that they are able to combine.” In the upcoming section
on great kinds, group (1) contains being and perhaps sameness. Group (2) contains “the
causes of division through wholes” and especially difference, which goes through
wholes dividing them into parts. Various sorts of wholes could be in view, including
determinable generic kinds—for example, animal, divisible into such subkinds as man
and ox; and incompatibility ranges (or sets) such as temperature, size, and the aesthetic,
which can be divided into segments by negating a positive term (e.g. the not-hot/
hotness, the not-large/largeness, or the not-beautiful/beauty). Claim (2) could have in
view other sorts of wholes as well—for instance, a typical whole such as clay divisible
into its component parts—but as we shall see, section (C) makes no provision for such
whole–part relations.
Section (C) claims that the dialectician observes (3) “one form extending in every
way through many (dia pollōn), each one [of the many] lying apart.” Since the kind
extends in every way through many, an analysis of each of the many should reveal that
kind inside it. I take group (3) to relate a single genus or generic essential feature to the
many species into which the genus divides (later I shall add some structural kinds to this
group). Definitions of those subkinds mention the essential feature extending through
them, as in the definitions of the angler and sophist earlier in the dialogue, which
mention the genus expertise (technē ).28 The dialectician further recognizes (4) “many
forms different from one another surrounded from outside by one form.” We encoun-
tered this idea before in the Aporia about Being (249d9–250d4), and we should
interpret (4) in the light of that earlier passage. Group (4) relates many distinct kinds
to some necessary attribute they share, outside their own nature, such as difference.
Claim (5) is perplexing but in my view vital for understanding the all-pervasive forms
difference and being: “one form (fem. mian), through many wholes, united in one
(neu. heni),” and I propose to make sense of it by appeal to a similar statement in the
Philebus (Phlb. 15b2–4), itself a notorious crux but tractable because it comes with a
helpful illustration. I leave the interpretation of (5) on hold until we complete an
excursus into the Philebus. Group (6) includes “many forms marked off in every way
apart.” Looking ahead to the upcoming section on great kinds, we should probably
locate change and rest in this group, though other fully differentiated kinds, such as the
angler, probably belong here too.
Now I interrupt my analysis of dialectic in the Sophist to make an expedition into the
Philebus, the centerpiece of my pediment. The Philebus gives a rather different account
of dialectic from the one we are currently examining, and presents a model—sound—
(neu.) form. Though I take the whole passage to be about forms, I have tried to mark the difference between
feminine and neuter in my translation by using “form” for the feminine.
28
Angler: 221b2–c3. Sophist: (1) 223b1–6, (2) 224c9–d2, (3) 224d4–7, (4) 224e1–4, (5) 226a1–4, (6)
231b3–8. The summary of the six definitions (231d2–e7) is content to mention the final differentia marking
off one appearance of the sophist from others.
214 PHILOSOPHOS
which illustrates the relation I take the Stranger to describe in claim (5). I shall
eventually argue that we can learn a lot about the nature of being and its relation to
determinate sorts of beings by reflecting on sound and its various manifestations.
7.4 Excursus on Sound in the Philebus

The Philebus asks: what state or disposition of soul can make life happy for all human
beings? (Phlb. 11d4–6).29 Philebus champions pleasure, Socrates knowledge. To decide
the dispute, Socrates and Protarchus (who takes over Philebus’ part in the debate) must
first understand the nature of their respective candidates. There is a puzzle about them,
and especially about pleasure, since pleasure—one thing—takes many shapes unlike one
another (12c4–8). Is pleasure always one and the same, as Protarchus maintains (12d7–
e2), even though some pleasures are good, some bad? Or is pleasure like color, a
determinable genus divisible into determinate and opposed species, such as black and
white, as Socrates suggests? (12e3–6). The upcoming discussion will show that Pro-
tarchus is right. I shall focus, not on pleasure, but on sound, Socrates’ model for pleasure.
Problem about one and many

To answer the question about pleasure, Socrates says that they must confront a
remarkable problem about one and many (14c7–10). Protarchus wonders if Socrates
has in mind the problem that he, Protarchus, is one man but also many—large
Protarchus, small Protarchus, heavy Protarchus, light Protarchus (14c11–d3). No,
says Socrates, that problem is commonplace, as is the problem about one Protarchus
with many limbs and other parts (14d4–e4).30 Instead, Socrates is interested in puzzles
about things that do not come to be and pass away—one man, one ox, one beautiful,
and one good. These, too, are one and many, and bitter controversy surrounds their
division (diairesis) (15a1–7). The mention of division has encouraged scholars to take
the new one–many puzzles to concern the typical divisions of kinds into subkinds
similar to the divisions in the Sophist and Statesman, but if Socrates is speaking of
ordinary division, his examples are ill-chosen, because man and ox are determinate
kinds located at the bottom of a genus–species tree, and his purpose would be better
served by listing higher determinable kinds such as animal and plant.31 Socrates has
mentioned division, but as we shall see, division in the Philebus serves a distinctive
purpose, to clarify the kind divided by articulating its subordinate kinds. The divisions in
the Sophist and Statesman aim instead to define a target kind at the bottom of a genus–
29
All references in this section will be to the Philebus unless otherwise indicated.
30
The problem Socrates now finds commonplace is Zeno’s one–many problem in the Parmenides.
Socrates took that problem to allow a solution, on the assumption that forms explain the compresence of
opposites in sensible things (see esp. Prm. 129c4–d6) and Chapter 1 sec. 1.1 above.
31
For the objection, see D. Frede (1993: xxii), who nonetheless takes the upcoming method to be
ordinary division. Barker (1996: 164) responds that ox can be divided into its varieties—Alderney, Hereford,
Aberdeen Angus, and so on. Cf. Meinwald (1996a: 101).
species tree. Given the project in the Philebus, man and ox are well-chosen examples.
Features that differentiate varieties of ox—Alderney, Hereford, and Aberdeen
Angus—though inside the nature of those varieties, are mere accidental properties of
the kind, ox, outside its nature. From the perspective of the kind divided, the subor-
dinate kinds are eternal subject–attribute compounds comparable to perishable subject–
attribute compounds such as tall Protarchus and short Protarchus.32 The one–many
problem mentioned by Protarchus should guide our understanding of the new one–
many problems. Intelligible objects such as man and ox are susceptible to similar
puzzles, because they, too, have many properties and many parts.33 These intelligible
objects are one, many, and unlimited in much the same way that sensible objects like
Protarchus are.
Socrates announces that the division of intelligible objects such as man and ox gives
rise to several controversies. The Greek text edited by Burnet (1901) marks out three
questions, but the second question has seemed so peculiar that some scholars fold it
into the third.34 I think that the upcoming discussion and illustrations of the Divine
Method focus on the second question distinguished in Burnet’s text, and it bears
a striking resemblance to claim (5) in the passage on dialectic in the Sophist (“one
form, through many wholes, united in one”). Fernando Muniz and George Rude-
busch offer a plausible analysis of the second question in the Philebus, and according
to them the passage distinguishes two sorts of ones—on the one hand, man, ox,
the beautiful, and the good, called henads, and on the other, units a henad divides
into, called monads.35 Controversy occurs when a henad is divided into monads. The
32
In Gill (2010b) I argued that the Divine Method in the Philebus does not apply to genus–species
division, but I now believe that on one conception of a genus it does apply, because in Met. Z.12 Aristotle
uses Plato’s example of sound from the Philebus to explain the second of two ways to conceive of a genus: (1)
the genus is nothing over and above the species of the genus (in which case the genus is an indefinite
determinable and so need not be mentioned in a definition of its species, since its content adds no further
information over and above that contained in the final differentia); or (2) the genus is conceived as matter.
Aristotle says: “sound is a genus and matter, and the differentiae produce the species (eidē ) and elements
(stoicheia) from this” (Met. Z.12, 1038a5–8). On the second conception, mention of the genus adds informa-
tion not included in the final differentia, and the various species can be conceived as subject–attribute
compounds, though Aristotle himself—probably criticizing Plato—does not (Met. Z.12, 1037b18–21). On
the passage in Aristotle, see Gill (2010c: 104–9). Even though I now think that the Divine Method can apply
to genus–species division, the Philebus uses it to clarify the kind divided, not to define a lowest kind into which
that kind divides. I thank Constance Meinwald (a reader for the Press) for urging me to reconsider this issue.
33
Meinwald (1996a: 98–101) argues that we should bring to the one–many problem about kinds the
second problem about Protarchus—that he is divisible into limbs—and she takes the new problem to concern
genus–species trees. In my view the first problem about Protarchus is the relevant one for the upcoming
investigation, while division into parts is relevant for the analysis of kinds into their elements according to the
second conception of account (= analysis) in the Theaetetus. Both sorts of investigation aim to clarify the kind
divided, and the examples about Protarchus exemplify two ways of doing that.
34
E.g., Hackforth (1945: 20 and n. 1), Gosling (1975: 5, 143–7), and D. Frede (1993: xxi–xxii, 6–7). Bury
(1897: 13–14 and note ad loc.) discusses older efforts to resolve the issue, and Muniz and Rudebusch (2004:
395–8) discuss a number of recent proposals.
35
See Muniz and Rudebusch (2004: esp. 398–404). The word henas is used at 15a6 for the first time in
extant Greek literature. If Plato intended no distinction between henads and monads, he need not have coined
216 PHILOSOPHOS
passage poses three questions: (1) what status do monads have? (2) how do they relate
to the original henad? and (3) how do they relate to sensible particulars?
I translate the passage as follows, using brackets for interpretive additions, and
starting with Socrates’ statement of the area of controversy.
But when someone attempts to posit man as one (hena anthrōpon) and ox as one and the beautiful
as one and the good as one, much zeal concerning these henads and others like them turns, with
division (meta diaireseōs), to controversy.—How?—First (1) should we suppose that there are
some such monads (monadas) [into which a henad divides] really being? Then (2) how [should we
suppose that] these [monads] in turn, although each is always one and the same and admits
neither generation nor destruction, nonetheless are very securely that one [henad]? And after that,
(3) [must we suppose] that in the things that come to be in turn and are unlimited, one and the
same monad comes to be at the same time in one and many, whether we must posit it as scattered
and multiplied or as a whole separate from itself—which might appear most impossible of all?
These problems about one and many, and not those, Protarchus, cause every difficulty if not
properly settled, and progress if they are. (15a4–c3)
Consider each of the three questions:

Question 1: Should we suppose that there are some such monads [into which a henad divides]
really being? (15b1–2)
The existence of henads such as man and ox generates no controversy, but disputes arise
about the existence of a plurality of intelligible monads into which an original henad
divides. Muniz and Rudebusch give wise man and foolish man as examples, analogous
to tall Protarchus and short Protarchus.36 No wonder such monads give rise to
controversy, since they are the original henad compounded with one or another of
its various attributes.
Question 2: How should we suppose that these [monads] in turn, although each is always one
and the same and admits neither generation nor destruction, nonetheless are very securely that
one [henad]? (15b2–4)
Readers who do not distinguish monads from henads complain that the question makes
no sense, but it does make sense if we observe the distinction. Notice that the main
sentence asks how “these” (i.e., several) eternal monads are “that one.” How, for
example, are wise man and foolish man very securely that one henad man? The
question resembles those one might ask about sensible particulars—for instance, how
are tall Protarchus and short Protarchus very securely one Protarchus? Leave aside wise
man and foolish man, and consider a different example. Many different sciences study
man, but man figures in those sciences in different ways: human biology studies human
anatomy and evolution in relation to other biological kinds; human medicine studies
a new word derived from the adjective hen (“one”), since the ordinary word monas in the next paragraph is
readily available.
36
Muniz and Rudebusch (2004: 399).
human health and disease in relation to various environmental factors; cultural anthro-
pology studies humans in terms of their social customs.37 Each science focuses on
certain features of humans and ignores others. Nonetheless, all deal from their various
perspectives with one and the same entity, man. Question 2 asks: How are the objects
studied by cultural anthropology and human biology very securely that one core
entity, man?
Question 3: Must we suppose that in the things that come to be in turn and are unlimited, one
and the same monad comes to be at the same time in one and many, whether we must posit it as
scattered and multiplied or as a whole separate from itself—which might appear most impossible
of all? (15b4–8)
I spoke of Question 3 in Chapter 1 when we discussed the Whole–Part Dilemma in

the Parmenides (Prm. 130e4–131e7). Parmenides asked how a form can be present in
many sensible particulars and still be one, and he compelled the youthful Socrates to
agree that the form is present in many instances by being divided up into parts, and then
undermined that alternative too. Some scholars think that Socrates favors the scattering
and multiplication of forms here, since he says that the other alternative “might appear
most impossible of all.”38 But saying that the presence of one whole in many instances
might appear most impossible of all does not indicate that Socrates rejects it—quite the
contrary, his use of the potential optative (“might”) with “appear” saps the claimed
impossibility of all its force. More likely the clause gestures back to that occasion in the
Parmenides when Parmenides pressed him to reject it, a concession he now regrets. The
question in this passage concerns eternal monads into which a henad divides, but
the question also applies to henads—forms such as man and ox. Whereas in the
Parmenides Socrates resisted the idea that forms are immanent in things, because he
regarded them as separate, here he assumes their immanence and simply poses the
dilemma about how to understand that notion. Since both alternatives were excluded
in the Parmenides, one might consider a third option, that forms are immanent in many
things as both one and many, one nature but many in other respects. For instance,
Socrates’ description and illustration of the Divine Method suggest that one monad—
vocal sound, a manifestation of the henad sound—is present in the Greek phonemes as
both one (vocal sound) and many (varieties of vocal sound). Vocal sound is also many
insofar as it has many participants.
The Divine Method

Like ordinary collection and division, the divine method in the Philebus consists of two
procedures—a division procedure and a collection procedure—which are separately
described.39 The main passage (16c5–17a5) spells out a division procedure, and the
37 38
Cf. Gosling (1975: 175–6). Fine (1986: 81–2); cf. Allen (1997: 128–9, 133–4).
39
Constance Meinwald reminds me that in introducing the Divine Method Socrates claims (16b5–6) that
there is no finer method and declares himself to be “always a lover of this way” (hodos . . . hēs egō erastēs men eimi
218 PHILOSOPHOS
second passage (18a6–b3) recalls it before briefly describing a collection procedure.

One or two illustrations follow each description, and all the illustrations use the same
example, sound. We begin with the first account of the method (emphasis in the
translation indicates that the method aims to clarify the original henad rather than
monads it divides into):40
A gift of the gods to men, as it appears to me, was thrown down from the gods by some
Prometheus together with a fire exceedingly bright; and the ancients, who are better than we are
and live closer to the gods, passed down this report that all things ever said to be are from one and
many, and have limit and unlimitedness naturally in them. Since things have always been
organized in this way, [they say] that we must on each occasion seek by positing one form (mian
idean) for every thing—for we shall find it in (enousan) [those things]. Then if we grasp it, after
one we must consider two, if there are in some way two, and if not, three or some other number.
And in turn [the inquirer must consider] in the same way each of those ones (tōn hen ekeinōn),
until he sees that the initial one (to kat’ archas hen) is not only one and many and unlimited, but also
how many (hoposa) it is. And he must not apply the form of the unlimited (tēn tou apeirou idean) to
the multitude (plēthos) until he observes every number of it (autou) between the unlimited and the
one, and only then say good-bye to each one of the many by letting it go into the unlimited. The
gods, as I said, passed it down to us to inquire and learn and teach one another in this way. But
clever men nowadays make a one (hen) and many (polla) more quickly or slowly than they
should, any old way, and after the one [they make] unlimiteds immediately, while the inter-
mediates (ta de mesa) escape them. (16c5–17a3)
This method is analytical, like ordinary division, since it starts with a one and divides it
into many, but with the important difference that it aims to clarify the original one and
divides it into many to find out how many it is (16d5–7). In having this goal the divine
method differs from divisions familiar from the Sophist and Statesman, since those
dialogues divide a wide kind in an effort to define a kind at the bottom of the divided
tree.
A page later Socrates summarizes this procedure and adds a second, which operates
in reverse:
aei), and she suggests that the aei (“always”) makes sense if the Divine Method is in fact the (now familiar)
genus–species division project. Let me add that Socrates makes a similar claim after describing collection and
division in the Phaedrus (Phdr. 265d3–266b2): “I am myself a lover (egōge autos . . . erastēs) of these collections
and divisions” (Phdr. 266b3–4). I claimed in Chapter 6 note 17 above that division in the Phaedrus serves a
distinctive purpose, to disambiguate terms that apply to different things falling under the same wider kind,
and in that effort Socrates presents a classification of sorts of madness. In my view divisions come in various
forms and serve various purposes. These different but related methods are all called “division,” and because
they form a family of similar techniques, Socrates in the Philebus describes himself as always a lover of the
method.
40
Gosling (1975: 153–81, 185–206) describes three types of interpretation of the passage on method and
the later fourfold division of kinds (23c1–27c2) and evaluates their success in addressing a series of points
(1975: 155, 186). My interpretation is a version of the third variety, like his, and I think it shares similar
advantages. Sayre (1983: ch. 3 and Appendix C) takes his own approach to be in the Gosling tradition, but the
similarity in his case is Plato’s use of Pythagoreanism, and on that point I follow neither Gosling nor Sayre.
Just as when [an inquirer] grasps some one or other, he must not, as we say, look immediately to a
nature of an unlimited but to some number, so also conversely, when he is forced first to grasp
the unlimited, he must not immediately [look] to the one, but observe some number in each
case, which contains some multitude (plēthos . . . ti), and go in the end from all to one. (18a7–b3)
This method looks like a collection procedure, similar to ordinary collection, since it starts
with a many and arrives at a one. But instead of starting with many distinct determinate
items with some feature in common, as in a typical collection, the inquirer starts with an
undifferentiated (unlimited) manifold and discovers step by step the oneness of that.41
Understandably these abstract descriptions leave Protarchus confused. Socrates illus-
trates both parts of the method and obligingly uses the example of phonology twice.
Phonology and music

Socrates tells Protarchus that he will grasp the method by reflecting on something he
has already learned, the letters. As prescribed in the first part of the divine method, he
posits one form—sound—which he says is both one and unlimited in multitude:
Sound (phōnē ) which goes through the mouth of all and each of us is one (mia), and again
unlimited in multitude (apeiros . . . plēthei ). (17b3–4)
Neither knowing that sound is one nor that it is unlimited suffices to make a person
expert in letters; what makes someone lettered, he says, is knowing how many (posa)
and of what sorts (hopoia) it is (17b6–9). This brief account completes the first treatment
of phonology, but Socrates has added something to the original description. Whereas
the official description of the method emphasized dividing a one and discovering how
many it is, the illustration adds that the inquirer must also know of what sorts it is.
In introducing his second example—music—Socrates claims that it is the same as the
previous example in two respects. First, the same thing (tauton) makes people musical as
makes them lettered (17b11–12); and second, sound (phōnē ) in the art of music is one
(mia) as in the previous art (17c1–2). Apparently phonology and music deal with the
same one entity—sound—and moreover an inquirer knows that entity in the two cases
by knowing how many and of what sorts it is. In the case of music, Socrates proposes
that they posit high and low as two, and homotonon (perhaps middling in pitch) as a
third, and claims that knowledge of these does not make someone wise in music,
though he would have no expertise at all without that distinction (17c4–9).42 Socrates’
41
We should pause to remind ourselves that the word “unlimited” (apeiron, often used with plēthos,
“multitude”) has two main uses: (1) unlimited in plurality (where members of the plurality are definite,
countable things: cf. the many forms of largeness in the first regress argument in the Parmenides); and
(2) unlimited in manyness (where the multitude is indefinite: cf. the treatment of the many in Deduction 3
in the Parmenides). In the present passage the unlimited is an indefinite perceptible multitude (e.g., a stream of
vocal sound), not a countable plurality of things. I translate plēthos as “multitude” to preserve the ambiguity.
42
Barker (1996: 146–7) thinks that homotonon (lit. “even in pitch”) could be ambiguous between
“middling in pitch” and “equal in pitch” (i.e., to something else), and finds the second more likely, whereas
I prefer the first, and in this I follow Miller (1992: 330).
220 PHILOSOPHOS
threefold division of sound into high, low, and homotonon limits sound to one of its
features—pitch—and the expert in harmony focuses on that aspect of sound. Socrates
said nothing quite comparable about sound in phonology, though he did say that
knowledge of the letters concerns sound that comes through the mouth (17b3–4), and
that suggests a spectrum for articulate sound comparable to degrees of pitch in
harmony. Different vocal sounds can be distinguished by the amount of vibration of
the vocal chords, with voiced sounds produced when the vocal chords vibrate, while
voiceless sounds require no such exertion. Socrates’ second discussion of the same
example bolsters the selection of this spectrum for phonology (18b6–d2), because, as
we shall see, he groups sounds as voiced or voiceless or intermediate. The first answer
to the question “of what sorts?” should single out a distinctive spectrum or continuum
of sound—an ordered series—as the special province of phonology or music.
This observation clarifies the divine method in the Philebus and the nature of the
things it investigates. As in my earlier example of the various sciences of man,
phonology and music concern themselves with the same object—sound, one
thing—yet they study it compounded with a particular range of features (voice or
pitch). So the one form posited at the outset by the two sciences is not considered in all
its dimensions by either one. Sound has various features, and different sciences attend
to some of them and ignore others.
Socrates next explains how someone can become expert in music:
Well, my friend, [you will become expert] when you grasp the intervals (ta diastēmata) of high
sound and low, how many (hoposa) they are in number and of what sorts (hopoia) they are, and
[when you grasp] the boundaries (tous horous) of the intervals, and all the combinations (sustēmata)
produced from these—which our predecessors observed and handed down to us their followers
under the name “modes” (harmonias). And again there are other such inherent features (enonta
pathē ) which come to be in the changes of the body and, once measured by numbers, they say
must be called “rhythms” and “meters.” (17c11–d6)
Socrates adds that his predecessors insist that every one and many should be considered
in this way and that in so doing we shall become wise about that one (17d6–e3).
Notice that this passage speaks not only of pitch, divisible into tones and intervals and
their combinations, but also of rhythms and meters, whose varieties divide a feature of
sound other than pitch, probably quickness and slowness.43 Earlier we saw that the
inquirer first answers the qualitative question “of what sorts?” (hopoia) by specifying the
feature of sound to be considered, for instance, pitch. By focusing on pitch, harmonic
science downplays many aspects of sound. Having selected pitch, the music theorist
repeats the question “of what sorts?” and again selects some parts of the continuum and
omits others.44 Pitch is a single continuum of sound, and all tones and intervals on that
43
Cf. 26a2–4. Ti. 80a3–b5 appears to link degree of pitch to quickness and slowness, suggesting that some
continua are built up out of others. On the Timaeus passage, see Cornford (1937: 320–6).
44
Cf. Gosling (1975: 169–70). See also Barker (1996).
continuum have a common character, pitch. At the same time, pitch is unlimited,
because the continuum can be infinitely divided and extended to some extent in either
direction, higher or lower. Harmonic science picks out only some of the possible tones
and intervals and only some of their possible combinations. Later in the dialogue
Socrates says that only good combinations make the grade (25d11–26c1).
Socrates announces that Protarchus will grasp the reverse procedure (18a9) by
considering the letters again (18b3–4). This time he focuses not on the initial oneness
of sound, but on its unlimitedness:
When someone, whether some god or even divine human—tradition in Egypt reports that this
someone was Theuth—observed that sound (phōnēn) is unlimited (apeiron) he first noticed that
the vowel sounds (phōnēenta) in the unlimited were not one but many, and again that others
partake not of voice (phōnēs), but of some noise (phthongou), and that there are a certain number
of those; and he distinguished a third form of letters, which we now call stops (aphōna). After that
he distinguished the noiseless stops (ta aphthonga kai aphōna), up to each one, and the vowel
sounds and the intermediates (ta mesa) in the same way. When he had grasped the number of
them he applied the name “letter”/“element” (stoicheion) to each one and all together. And
understanding that none of us would ever learn one apart by itself (hen auto kath’ hauto) without
all of them, and having reckoned in turn that this bond was one (hena) and made all these [letters]
somehow one (hen), he pronounced it the “art of letters” (grammatikēn technēn), as being one
(mian) [art] set over them. (18b6–d2)
Stephen Menn has argued that this passage illustrates the method of collection, and
that Plato cautions inquirers against proceeding too quickly—they must make careful
divisions in the course of their collections—and Menn also likens what Theuth does to
what children do in the Statesman when they learn their letters (Stm. 277d1–278d7).45
Recall that the children compare words they know with words they do not know and
thus gradually come to recognize familiar letters in unfamiliar contexts. But as Menn
acknowledges, Theuth starts with indefinite sound.46 Unlike the children who com-
pare well-formed words, some of which they already know, Theuth heard a flow of
unbroken vocal sound, and from that flow he grouped similar sounds together. Each
group itself contained an undifferentiated spectrum, which he again divided into finer
spectra, until he isolated each basic type of vocal sound—the letters, which Aristotle
later labeled as “indivisible sound” (phōnē adiairetos) (Poet. 20, 1456b22), and the
pseudo-Aristotelian Problems aptly called “affections of sound” (pathē . . . tēs phōnēs)
(Prob. 10.39 [= Hett]).
The Theaetetus (Tht. 203b2–8) makes a similar threefold division of vocal sound:
those simply voiced (phōnēn monon echei), then voiceless sounds (tōn aphōnōn . . . psophos
tis monon), and finally letters with neither voice nor sound (oute phōnē oute psophos).47
45 46
Menn (1998: 300). Menn (1998: 297–8). See also Harte (2002: 205–6).
47
Cf. Crat. 424c6–d5, and on this passage, see Barney (2001: 93–4). See also Crat. 426c1–427d3. Note
that the phonemes in the Cratylus passage are reached by division rather than collection as in the Philebus.
On division of the phonemes, cf. Aristotle, Poet. 20, 1456b22–34, and Sextus Empiricus, Math. I.99–103
222 PHILOSOPHOS
Theaetetus identifies the seven vowels in the first group, without naming them; sigma
among the voiceless sounds; and beta among those with neither voice nor sound, in a
group including most of the letters. This classification puts the vowels at one end of the
spectrum and the consonants at the other. Included among the intermediates, besides
sigma, are presumably the semivowels (iota, upsilon), and probably the liquids (lambda
and rho) and nasals (mu, nu, and gamma-nasal). Within each of the three main groups,
the various phonemes can be differentiated from one another.48
When Theuth groups similar sounds, the ear contributes to answering the qualitative
question “of what sorts?” The soul uses the ear to pick out the aspects of sound of
interest to a particular science—degrees of voice, pitch, quickness and slowness, or
volume. The soul continues to use the ear to group sounds within the selected
dimension as similar or dissimilar, and to make finer and finer gradations, until it singles
out certain sounds as the basic ones. Those basic sounds still admit variation (think of
differences between English and American pronunciations of vowels and consonants),
and, as before, the art overlooks parts of the original spectrum. Adding up all phonemes
across existing languages (and considering other possible languages), there are several
hundred phonemes, of which ancient Greek recognized only some.49 Just as the
science of Greek phonology ignores or minimizes many aspects of sound in focusing
on voice, so even within its particular dimension it leaves gaps in the spectrum of vocal
sound. The varieties it picks out answer the question “of what sorts?” According to the
first passage on the divine method, an investigator can abandon the intermediate
groupings only once he has fully articulated selected types, that is, once he can answer
the quantitative question: “How many phonemes?” or “How many tones?”50
Theuth gave the basic kinds of vocal sounds one name “letter” (stoicheion), and having
located various vocal sounds in one domain, he called that domain the “art of letters.”
Socrates’ claim in this passage that we humans would not learn one letter on its own apart
from all the others has fostered the idea that Plato had a holistic conception of knowledge:
to know anything within a particular domain, one must know the entire domain.51
I argued in Chapter 4 that the Theaetetus suggests that people learn from the bottom up—
recognizing letters in their immediate context, not the entire domain—and I defended an
[= Bury]. See also Bury (1897: 24 note ad loc.), and Ryle (1960). I thank Jan Szaif for emphasizing to me the
importance of the Theaetetus passage for interpreting the Philebus.
48
Smyth (1984: }4a and }7) in his Greek Grammar differentiates the vowels on a spectrum open–close,
depending on whether the mouth is more open or less open in their pronunciation.
49
I thank Pauline Jacobson (personal correspondence) for helping me understand why the number of
phonemes is limited to several hundred and not a lot more: although there are many “oddball” phonemes,
such as clicks in southern African languages, phonemes tend to cluster around certain stable articulatory (and
perhaps acoustic) positions across languages. Individual phonemes allow variations—e.g., the “p” in “pit”
(aspirated) and in “spit” (unaspirated) are called the same phoneme in some languages, since it is predictable
where there is aspiration and where there is not. In Mandarin, Hindi, and many other languages, these count
as distinct phonemes.
50
Cf. Gosling (1975: 171–3).
51
See esp. Fine (1979). Cf. D. Frede (1993: 10 n. 3) and Harte (2002: 206–8).
interpretation of Platonic knowledge according to which a knower can negotiate the

whole domain of letters before she can state the rules that govern her practice. The
approach in the Philebus is “bottom up” too, though here Theuth does not start from
determinate sounds (in the manner of children learning their letters at school), but instead
from an undifferentiated flow of sound, which he divided up and marked off more and
more precisely until he finally arrived at determinate sounds (the “indivisible” sounds).
Long before children learn determinate sounds at school, they presumably group similar
sounds from a stream of vocal sound, much as Theuth himself did, according to the
Egyptian report, before he invented the art of letters.
Theuth’s procedure articulates the henad sound from a particular perspective (voice),
and therefore as a monad. To isolate the henad itself, the core element common to
several monads, one must study sound (or man or ox or pleasure) from more than one
angle, as Plato does in his illustrations from phonology and music. By exploring a
variety of perspectives on a single entity, the inquirer should learn to recognize the
kernel common to all of them, and thereby see how several related monads (vocal
sound, pitched sound, rhythmic sound, and so on) are compounds with a single henad,
sound, as their core. By this route someone can answer Question 2 (15b2–4) in the
previously mentioned controversy about one and many, but she does it as it were from
below, using a collection procedure. To grasp the henad not only as one core in the
variety but also as fully spelled out in those compounds, she needs to approach the
henad in a different way, by division, and to determine the exact number and sorts of
monads, and monads of monads, into which the henad divides.
We shall now work our way back through the Sophist, returning first to the passage
on dialectic, where I shall use the Philebus to clarify claim (5); then further back to the
Aporia about Being to diagnose its error; and finally back to the Battle of the Gods and
Giants to retrieve the dunamis proposal about being the Stranger offered the Giants and
refined in the children’s plea.
7.5 Dialectic in the Sophist (Revisited)

For ease of reference, let me start by restating the six claims in the passage on dialectic
(Sph. 253b9–e2).52 The dialectician must be able to discern:
(1) whether there are some kinds holding things together through all, so that they
are able to combine;
(2) in divisions, whether there are other causes of division through wholes (di’ holōn);
(3) one form extending in every way through many, each one [of the many] lying
apart;
(4) many forms different from one another surrounded from outside by one form;
52
Citations of Plato from now on, unless otherwise noted, refer to the Sophist.
224 PHILOSOPHOS
(5) one form (mian), through many wholes (di’ holōn pollōn), united in one (en heni
sunēmmenēn);
(6) many forms marked off in every way apart.
Although Question 2 in the passage about one and many in the Philebus does not replicate
claim (5) in the passage on dialectic in the Sophist, I believe the two claims express much
the same idea. As I have interpreted the Philebus, controversy arises when a single henad
such as sound divides into monads, which are compounds of it. Question 2 in the Philebus
speaks of the dispute about “how [we should suppose that] these [monads] in turn,
although each is always one and the same and admits neither generation nor destruction,
nonetheless are very securely that one [henad]” (Phlb. 15b2–4). To illustrate: How are the
eternal monads vocal sound, pitched sound, and rhythmic sound very securely one
henad, sound? Claim (5) in the Sophist says that the dialectician can discern: (5) “one
form (mian), through many wholes (di’ holōn pollōn), united in one (en heni sunēmmenēn)”
(Sph. 253d8–9). The passages are similar in relating a one or ones to some other one. This
is clear in the Sophist’s claim (5), because the Stranger uses the feminine gender for the first
one (together with the feminine singular participle translated “united”), and the neuter
for the one it unites into; and of course the Philebus speaks of several ones being securely
that one. The two claims differ chiefly in the Philebus’ mention of several monads being
securely one, while the Sophist speaks of one form united in (another) one.
Someone might object to my using the Philebus passage to elucidate claim (5)
because of that difference, but the Stranger has a good reason not to use the plural in
claim (5) in the Sophist. Had he said “many forms (fem.), through many wholes, united
in one (neu.),” this characterization would have nicely described the part–whole
relation—for instance, earth and water, which go through many wholes (the many
subkinds and instances of earth and water), are united in one whole, clay. The Stranger
avoids the plural, since the part–whole relation (an issue in the Parmenides and
Theaetetus) is not an issue in the upcoming section on great kinds in the Sophist or
the analysis of difference, notwithstanding the discussion of parts of difference. In my
view there is a relation between a compound (monad) and its core (henad), which can
be discussed with reference to a single monad (say vocal sound) and its core (sound) or
with reference to several monads and their common core.
Claim (5), as I interpret it, is highly relevant to the upcoming discussion of
difference. Alfonzo Gómez-Lobo calls attention to a striking similarity between
claim (5) and claim (2), which is evidently about difference.53 The dialectician must
discern: (2) “in divisions, whether there are other causes of division through wholes (di’
holōn)” (253c2–3); (5) mentions one form, through many wholes (di’ holōn pollōn),
united in one. Whereas Gómez-Lobo takes (5) to single out not-being (later identified
as difference), I take it to describe a relation among kinds of which the prime example is
53
Gómez-Lobo (1977: 39).
the relation of the parts of difference (the not-large, the not-beautiful, and so on) to
their core, the form of difference. The parts of difference, to recall, have determinate
(typically categorial) content supplied by the item designated by the term negated, but
difference itself has only structural content. We can think of the parts of difference as
compounds consisting of a structural core (the form of difference) plus other content
supplied by the item whose name is negated. I am proposing that the parts of difference
relate to difference much as the compounds of sound (vocal sound, pitched sound, and
so on) relate to sound.
An inquirer can get at the core of a group of compounds by investigating the
compounds to see what they all have in common, but at least in the case of sound
one is not limited to investigating it through its various compounds, because the
Timaeus offers a definition of sound in its own right: “the stroke by air through
the ears upon the brain and blood and passed on to the soul” (Ti. 67b2–4). That is
the common core of vocal sound and pitched sound and other compounds of sound.
Maybe an inquirer could get at difference in its own right, but in the Sophist the
Stranger determines its nature entirely through its various compounds.
Let me sum up my interim conclusions about the Sophist’s passage on dialectic. The
dialectician must know about (1) vowel forms that enable forms to combine (being is
the prime exemplar), and (2) vowel forms responsible for division (difference is the
prime exemplar). He must also know about other relations among forms, and
groups (3)–(6) include consonant forms, as well as vowel forms. I argued that claim
(3) describes the relation between one generic form (or other generic essential feature)
and the many species through which it extends. Claim (4) concerns one necessary
external attribute in relation to the kinds of which it is an attribute, and it captures
difference (among others) in relation to all other kinds. Claim (5) describes one
compound entity (such as the not-beautiful) in relation to the core of that compound
(difference); and (6) describes many forms marked off from one another. If the passage
on dialectic has its eye on the upcoming section on great kinds, two main forms belong
in group (6): change and rest. Except for locating being in group (1), I have left it out of
this summary but shall return to it once we have diagnosed the error in the Aporia
about Being.
The passage on dialectic, so analyzed, does not describe everything the philosopher
needs to know to engage in dialectic. All dialectical techniques, such as dichotomous
division, division by limbs, divine method in the Philebus, presuppose the ability to pick
out kinds in their several relations to other kinds, but the six-fold classification of
formal relations in the Sophist’s passage on dialectic scarcely exhausts the possibilities—
for example, though we thought that clay might be a relevant whole for forms in group
(2) to divide up, the part–whole relation is overlooked in groups (3)–(6). A whole such
as clay does not extend through its parts, earth and liquid, as do generic kinds in relation
to their species in (3), nor does clay surround its parts from outside as do necessary
external features in group (4), but rather includes its parts. I have already noted that if
(5) were describing the part–whole relation, the Stranger should have spoken of many
226 PHILOSOPHOS
(parts) united in one (whole), but he speaks instead of one form (a monad), through
many wholes, united in one (form/henad). And of course (6) simply speaks of many
forms marked off apart from one another. The passage also ignores kinds related to
other kinds in the way that weaving relates to subsidiary arts of clothes-working or
statecraft to subsidiary arts that care for humans in a city. The relation between the
target kind and the subordinate but kindred kinds investigated in the Statesman is much
more complex than anything mentioned on the Sophist’s list.54
What should we make of this incompleteness? The passage on dialectic appears to list
only those relations among kinds needed in view of the upcoming discussion of great
kinds and analysis of difference, and treats both topics in order to explain false
statement, a step toward capturing the sophist. Plato characterizes other relations in
other investigations and introduces distinctive methods to articulate them, some of
which we have explored in previous chapters. The rich variety of relations among
kinds, and the methods used to investigate them, contrast sharply with the Sophist’s
partial inventory and should caution against the expectation that Plato’s philosopher
has a storehouse full of all-purpose tools ready for use regardless of topic. Time and
again we have noticed that the topic itself dictates the methods suited to its own
solution. Often the probe begins with dichotomous division, but that method rarely
enables the inquirers to complete their task. In the Sophist and Statesman dichotomous
division reveals something puzzling about the target kind, and that puzzle recommends
some other method to take the inquiry further.
So far our analysis of the passage on dialectic locates being in group (1) as a kind
enabling others to combine with one another, and in group (4) as a necessary external
attribute of other forms. I now aim to rescue being from group (4) and to locate it
instead in group (3), as a structural form inside the nature of all other kinds, and in
54
A passage on dialectic in the Statesman is often mistaken for a description of ordinary division, but it
appears instead to describe in highly abstract terms what the Stranger later calls “division by limbs” (Stm.
287c3–5), a method he has just applied to weaving and the subordinate arts of clothes-working (Stm. 280a8–
283a9) and will later apply to statecraft and its subordinate arts (Stm. 287c6–290e9). The visitor uses this
method to distinguish a master craft from others originally lumped together with it because of their common
object (as weaving and its subsidiary arts all deal with clothes). The length of the treatment of weaving
prompted the digression on excess and defect in which the discussion of dialectic occurs, and it is entirely
appropriate that this passage should characterize the new divisional method:
Because people are not accustomed in their divisions to consider things according to kinds, they throw things
together into the same [kind], thinking they are similar, although they differ a lot. And in turn they do the
opposite of this, dividing other things not according to parts (ou kata merē ). It is necessary, when someone first
perceives the association (koinōnian) of many, not to leave off until he sees all the differences in the association
which are located in kinds; and in turn, when he sees the various dissimilarities in multitudes, not to be able to
stop, abashed, until he has shut in all the kindred kinds within one likeness and encloses them with the being
of some kind. (Stm. 285a4–b6)
We discussed this method in some detail above in Chapter 6 sec. 6.4. The beginning of the passage describes
the situation at the end of a dichotomous division, when the target kind is grouped together with rivals
because they seem similar. Conversely, people err by dividing such things but not in the right way (by parts:
kata merē ). Division by limbs undertakes to mark off all the kindred kinds from the target kind, but still
preserve their kinship with it. Division by limbs is patently more complicated than dichotomous division.
group (5) as a form to be studied through its various compounds. Let us first return to
the Aporia about Being and find out what went wrong.
7.6 Resolving the Aporia about Being

Plato alerts his audience that the Aporia about Being (249d9–250d4) contains a mistake,
when the Stranger announces toward the end that being (whatever it is) neither rests nor
changes (250c12–d3), an outcome he invites Theaetetus to declare “Most impossible of
all” (250d4). The outcome seems to the youth impossible, because he regards change
and rest as mutually exclusive and jointly exhaustive features of things: how can being
have neither feature? The Aporia goes wrong at the very start by assuming that change
and rest are opposites which cannot partake of each other: the assumption is false
because rest is an ideal feature of all forms, and so must characterize both change (the
form) and being.55 If change and rest do not after all exclude each other, then they are
not categorial forms at all, but structural forms similar to oneness and multitude,
sameness and difference, and being and not-being, which apply to each other.
My claim—innocuous as it may sound—is shocking in the context of the Sophist
itself, since the second half of the dialogue relies heavily on the assumption that change
and rest are categorial opposites. Although I did not stress the point in Chapter 5, the
great kinds section briskly distinguishes being from change and rest, simply by recalling
the longer argument to the same conclusion in the Aporia about Being (254d4–13; cf.
250a8–c5). We saw in Chapter 5 that many of the arguments in the section rely on that
premise (254d14–255c8); the Stranger also highlights the point when he systematically
describes how change partakes of all the other great kinds, with the exception of rest,
and even states the counterfactual: “So if somehow change itself partook of rest, it
would be in no way strange to call it resting?” (256b6–8). He asks the question
counterfactually because he rigorously preserves the appearance that change and rest
are categorial opposites which cannot partake of each other.
Not only that, Plato elsewhere fuels the illusion that at least change is a generic
categorial kind. We saw in Chapter 3 that the Theaetetus divides change into locomo-
tion (change of place) and alteration (change of property), and then divides locomotion
and alteration into further sorts (Tht.181c6–d7). The second part of the Parmenides also
treats change as a kind divisible into alteration and locomotion, and further divides
locomotion into motion from one place to another and spinning in the same place
55
I agree with Reeve (1985: 56–7) that this is the premise to question, but I do not see that the Parity
Assumption provides grounds to question it. Reeve discusses the Aporia about Being (1985: 59–60), but
overlooks the Stranger’s claim that being (whatever it is) neither rests nor changes. Reeve arrives at his
conclusion about change and rest mainly on the basis of 254b8–d6, where the Stranger includes these two
forms as great kinds—for that reason, Reeve thinks, they must apply to each other. But he does not discuss
the next line (254d7–8) in which the Stranger reiterates that two of the five great kinds (change and rest) do
not partake of each other. Throughout the second half of the Sophist the Stranger maintains the façade that
change and rest are mutually exclusive opposites.
228 PHILOSOPHOS
(Prm. 138b7–c6). On this conception change belongs in group (3) in the Sophist’s
passage on dialectic, as a genus in relation to its species—a categorial kind that extends
through its subkinds and their subkinds. Plato does not explicitly treat rest in the same
way, though the analysis of false statement in the Sophist depends on the opposition
between change and rest. Theaetetus is not flying (a species of motion, itself a species of
change) because he is sitting (a species of rest).
But Plato’s Eleatic dialogues offer counter-indications as well, by repeatedly listing
change and rest along with other structural kinds. Parmenides includes change and rest
in the first group in the Scope of Forms in the Parmenides, together with the structural
kinds oneness and multitude, and likeness and unlikeness, by extending the list to
everything Zeno discussed in his book—Zeno’s paradoxes about motion are well-
known. Socrates explicitly mentions the pair in his long speech: having said that it is
unsurprising that he, a sensible particular, is both one and many (Prm. 129c4–d2), he
claimed that he would be astonished if Parmenides could show that the forms them-
selves—likeness and unlikeness, multitude and oneness, change and rest, and all such
forms—can mingle together and partake of their opposites (129d6–e4; cf. 129b1–3,
b6–c3). In the Phaedrus Socrates gives another such list, saying that Zeno (whom he calls
“the Eleatic Palamedes”) used to persuade his audience that the same things are both like
and unlike, one and many, and in motion and at rest (Phdr. 261d6–8).56 And in the
prelude to the exercise in the second part of the Parmenides, Parmenides says that after
Socrates completes the exercise about the one, he should repeat it, focusing on likeness
and unlikeness, being and not-being, change and rest, and generation and destruction
(Prm. 136b1–c5). As we saw in Chapter 5, the Sophist demonstrates that being partakes
of not-being, and not-being of being (though that solution hinged on their not being
opposites). Change and rest belong on the lists of structural kinds, and Plato presses his
audience to accept what the speakers in the Sophist, as well as the youthful Socrates in the
Parmenides, find impossible to accept—that change rests and rest changes. Change and
rest are structural kinds, and like other structural kinds, with the exception of being and
not-being, they partake of their own opposite. As I said in my Introduction, Plato could
have written the same, or at least similar, arguments in the second half of the Sophist
using a pair of opposite categorial forms such as hotness and coldness.57 He uses
change and rest instead to provoke his audience into recognizing that change and rest
are full-fledged great kinds on a par with being, sameness, and difference, and pervade
everything, including each another.
Once we reject the premise that change and rest are categorial opposites, the Aporia
about Being collapses, because it ceases to be shocking that change rests. (The converse
idea that rest changes may seem less obvious, but it will—I hope—eventually seem
56
The hero Palamedes was known for his inventiveness and was highly esteemed by both Socrates and
Plato. For details, see Ryan (2012: note on Phdr. 261d6).
57
Cf. Cornford (1935a: 277–8) and Malcolm (1983: 125–7), though in my view Plato’s choice of change
and rest as opposites is not at all innocent.
more plausible.) Deny the premise of the Aporia, and there is no longer any need to
conclude that being surrounds change and rest from outside, as a mere necessary
external attribute they share. Being need not go into group (4) in the passage on
dialectic in its relation to change and rest. As I already mentioned, some scholars think
that being belongs in group (3), as the genus of change and rest and all other kinds.
Aristotle complained that being is not a genus, and probably directed the complaint at
Plato: if being is a genus, then all beings, including change and rest, are species of it.58
But Plato does not regard being as a highest genus of which all the Aristotelian
categories are species—an indefinite determinable so general that all categorial content
has been stripped away.59 Being can be located in group (3) in relation to all other
kinds, but as a structural kind that essentially characterizes them, and as such being
“extends through” all of them: it is inside them. Transferring being from group (4) to
group (3) as a structural kind does not, however, reveal what that structure is. Oneness,
too, belongs in group (3), since it structures the natures of all things and resides inside
them, but being and oneness are not the same (a point stressed in the second part of the
Parmenides). The third deduction in the Parmenides discussed the various functions of
oneness, and stimulates us to ask: what comparable functions does being perform?
To grasp the structure of being, we need to examine it according to the guidelines of
group (5). All beings combine a certain structure, distinctive of being, with categorial
or other structural content. We can learn about that structure by examining the various
sorts of beings and finding what core structure is common to them, much as we can
learn about sound by examining it through its compounds with voice, pitch, rhythm,
and volume. But we may also be able to define being independently, as sound is
defined in the Timaeus. We want to know the nature of being in the way one knows
sound as “the stroke by air through the ears upon the brain and blood and passed on to
the soul” (Ti. 67b2–4).
7.7 The Structure of Being

Plato makes our task easy by giving a definition of being in the Battle of the Gods and
Giants. Having neutralized the argument that blocked our return, we can simply go
back to the definition the Stranger offered the Giants and expanded in the children’s
plea. He originally defined being as the capacity to act on something else or to be
affected by something else (247d8–e4), and at the end of the passage he stated the
children’s plea: “being and the all are all things unchanged and changed, both
together” (249d3–4). In Chapter 3 I argued that the children beg not only for all the
candidates of both groups—the unique, stable, intelligible forms of the Gods and the
manifold, changing, sensible things of the Giants—but also for the stability and
58
Aristotle, APo. II.7, 92b14; Met. ´.3, 998b22.
59
Cf. Allen (1983: 290). In his revised (1997) edition, Allen has regrettably deleted the book’s conclusion,
in which he stated (among a number of bold and provocative claims) that Platonic being is not a genus.
230 PHILOSOPHOS
changeability of the entities in both groups. I proposed an interpretation of this last

idea, that the being of something is its capacity both to remain the same and to act on or
be affected by other things. In Chapter 5 I suggested, in prospect of our return to the
definition of being in the Battle of the Gods and Giants, that the being of something—
its being auto kath’ hauto—is what the thing is in virtue of itself, the nature revealed by
analyzing the subject. The capacity of something both to remain the same and to act on
or be affected by other things is the thing’s stable definable nature, and that stable nature
determines the sorts of things it can act on and/or the sorts of things it can be affected
by—things outside its nature. Thus, for example, gold is the element with atomic
number 79, and because of its nature, it has other properties as well, including some
degree of hardness or softness, malleability, ductility, a certain range of colors, and
excludes certain features, such as oxidation. Human beings are rational animals, and
because of our nature, we share some features with other animals, such as perception,
and have others unique to ourselves, such as our capacity for various sorts of knowledge.
We can talk about being in its own right, but any sort of being is a compound
consisting of a common structural core—being (the capacity both to remain un-
changed and to affect or be affected by things outside itself )—and some feature, either
structural or categorial, which is the thing’s distinctive nature, such as manhood,
beauty, oneness. To put the point another way, the natures just listed have the same
structural core (being) but differ in other content (manhood, beauty, and so on). Since
the Stranger defines being with reference to change and rest, we should now pause to
consider Plato’s conception of those two great structural kinds.
Change and rest

In the Timaeus Plato’s title character says the following about change and rest:
About change (kinēseōs) and rest (staseōs), if one does not agree in what manner (tina tropon) and in
what conditions they come about, much will impede our further reasoning. Now some things
have already been said about them, but to those add the following: change never tends to be
present in [conditions of] uniformity (en men homalotēti). For it is difficult—or rather impossible—
for there to be a changed without a changer or a changer without a changed; if these are absent,
there is no change, and [when they are present] they can never be uniform. Thus let us always
assume rest in [conditions of] uniformity, and attribute change to nonuniformity. Inequality is
the cause of the nature of nonuniformity. (Ti. 57d7–58a1)
This passage emphasizes that change is always relational, involving both a changer
(agent) and a changed (patient), and that without some sort of nonuniformity or
inequality between the agent and patient the patient would remain in a state of rest.
The Stranger makes a similar claim about the relationality of change in the Battle of the
Gods and Giants, when he tries to get the Gods to accept the dunamis proposal about
being. He explains to them that our association (koinōnein) with both sensible and
intelligible objects is “an affection (pathēma) or action (poiēma) from some capacity (ek
dunameōs tinos), which occurs in consequence of things coming together in relation to
one another (apo tōn pros allēla suniontōn)” (248b5–6). Thus change involves both a
changer and changed, and furthermore there must be nonuniformity or (in Sophist
terminology) difference between the changer and changed. I shall attempt to make
sense of Plato’s position by turning first to Aristotle, whose view of change is similar to
Plato’s in these two respects and more fully worked out.
Aristotle’s definition of change

We start with the passive side of change, the experience something undergoes in
response to a changer. Aristotle analyzes passive change in Physics I.7 by appeal to three
principles: a pair of opposites and an underlying subject (hupokeimenon). The pair of
opposites belongs to one of the three categories of quality, quantity, or place; and the
opposites are contraries (e.g., hot/cold) or contradictories (e.g., musical/not-musical)
on a range in one of those three categories. A change along a range of quality (e.g.,
from cold to hot) is an alteration; one along a range of quantity (e.g., from 5 feet tall to
6 feet tall) is growth or diminution; and a change of place (e.g., from Athens to Thebes)
is a locomotion.60 The pair of opposites must be properly opposed, and there must be a
path from one to the other—thus musical and white are not properly opposed, and
although odd and even are opposites, they do not mark off a range with a path from
one to the other.61 Besides the pair of opposites, change requires an underlying subject
(a substance, such as a man), and that substance persists—remains the same substance—
through the transition from one extreme position to the other: the subject entity
initially lacks the positive state, and once it arrives the change is over; the change starts
when the subject leaves its initial position and lasts up to but excluding the end
position, at which point the change is complete and has ended.
Aristotle can redescribe this scheme in terms of potentiality (dunamis) and actuality
(entelecheia or energeia).62 The underlying subject starts out in a privative state (a state
other than the end-state but on a range that includes the goal), and is potentially in the
end-state because it is suited to be in that state, that is, its matter and kind are of the right
sort (De An. II. 5, 417a22–28).63 For example, a man with a fever is potentially healthy
because human beings are living things, and living things are sometimes healthy (stones
lack this potentiality), but the potentiality counts as first-level because the subject is not
in the end-state. Once the subject attains the goal, the first-level potentiality has been
replaced by a first-level actuality (the subject now has the relevant attribute or is in the
target location), but until it reaches the goal—that is to say, at all points on the journey to
60
Aristotle also discusses substantial change—the generation or destruction of a substance—but we need
not broach that topic here.
61
For the first point, see Aristotle, Phys. I.5, 188a31–b8.
62
In Phys. I.8, 191b27–29, Aristotle says that the analysis in Phys. I.7 is one way to handle the problem,
another being in terms of potentiality (dunamis) and actuality (energeia). He does not give this second analysis
in Physics I.
63
Cf. Aristotle, Met. H.4, 1044a27–29: The matter for a particular product must have suitable disposi-
tional properties—one cannot make a saw out of wood or wool. Cf. Met. ¨.7, 1048b37–1049a12.
232 PHILOSOPHOS
that state or location—the subject retains the first-level potentiality to be there.64 With
this much by way of introduction, we turn to the definition of change in Physics III.1–3.
Again Aristotle begins by focusing on the passive side of change and defines change
in Physics III.1 as “the actuality (entelecheia) of that which is in potentiality (tou dunamei
ontos) as such (hēi toiouton)” (Phys. III.1, 201a10–11) or “as potential” (hēi dunaton)
(Phys. III.1, 201b4–5). This definition is highly abstract, so let me use our earlier
example. A man with a fever is potentially healthy, and being healthy is the actuality
of that potentiality. Had Aristotle defined change simply as “the actuality of that which
is in potentiality,” he would have failed to pick out the change, since the actuality of
something potentially healthy is a healthy thing, not the process of recovery. He adds
the phrase “as such” (and later “as potential”) to indicate how to think of the subject.
We should not think of the subject as what it is in its own right (in this case a man),
because the actuality of a man who is potentially healthy, considered as a man, is simply
a man (Phys. III.1, 201a29–34), and that is not the process of recovery either. The
phrase “as such” indicates that we should think of the man as potential—that is, as
potentially healthy but actually not healthy. The actuality of a man who is potentially
healthy but actually not, and considered as such, is the actuality that persists for as long as
the man is progressing toward the goal and not yet there.
This definition does not quite succeed, because it does not exclude the starting
position, when the man is potentially healthy but not yet on the road to recovery; nor
does it ensure that the actuality is the on-going progression from starting-point to end-
point and not merely the subject in some state or location along the path. To define the
actuality as a progression, Aristotle complicates his account by appealing to an agent,
say a doctor, who acts throughout the course of the patient’s recovery. By appealing to
the agent, who initiates, directs, and maintains the process, Aristotle defines change as
an on-going process. Change, he finally declares, is the actuality of both that which is
potentially active and that which is potentially affected as such (Phys. III.3, 202b26–27).
There is a single actuality of the agent and the patient, which he locates in the patient
(Phys. III.3, 202a13–16).65
Aristotle adopts the transmission theory of causation, according to which the agent
possesses the character the patient will possess if the change succeeds.66 More precisely,
the agent either has the feature it transmits to the patient (fire is hot and makes other
things hot, man generates man) or has the feature in mind: a successful doctor need not
be healthy himself but he must have health in mind and look to that form in bringing
someone from sickness to health. As Aristotle puts the idea in On Generation and
64
Aristotle also discusses a second-level potentiality and second-level actuality, but we need only the first-
level ones to account for change.
65
I have discussed Aristotle’s definition of change more fully in Gill (1989: ch. 6). See also Kosman (1969)
and Waterlow (1982: ch. 4).
66
We discussed the transmission theory of causation above in Chapter 1 sec. 1.1.
Corruption, the agent “assimilates” the patient to itself (GC I.7, 324a9–11), causing the
patient to have the character the agent already has.
Platonic change and rest

Change and rest are compound structural kinds, definable with reference to several
other structural kinds. Timaeus mentions the structural kind inequality, but I shall work
with the great kinds sameness and difference from the Sophist and oneness from the
Parmenides. Change and rest also presuppose time, because something resting or chang-
ing is the same as or different from its earlier self in some respect (Prm. 151e3–152a5). To
become older than it was, the subject, whether resting or changing, must remain the
same as its earlier self with respect to its nature. A resting thing can simply remain the
same as its earlier self in that respect, but may also remain the same with respect to some
accidental feature. So, for example, when Theaetetus sits for an hour, he remains the
same as his earlier self both as what he is in his own right (a man) and with respect to his
accidental activity, sitting. He could also rest (remain the same as his earlier self in some
accidental respect) by carrying on some energetic activity, such as running.
A resting thing remains the same as itself over a stretch of time and is constituted as a
subject by oneness, a form that structures the thing into a unified individual whole.67
While oneness itself is a purely structural kind, any instance of oneness is of some
definite sort, for instance, one man or one ox (these could be either sensible particulars
or intelligible kinds). Plato does not need a distinction between sensible particulars and
intelligible kinds to define change, since the Battle of the Gods and Giants defines all
beings, including intelligible kinds, in terms of change. Even so, a distinction between
sensible particulars and intelligible kinds would be useful, and I take it that temporality
cannot be invoked to make it, since all rest and change presuppose time. According to
the Timaeus, sensible particulars differ from forms in being located in space, but the
Timaeus treats forms as separate (existing apart) from sensible particulars, whereas our
series of dialogues treats forms as immanent, and so their instances (immanent forms in
distinct things) will also have locations in space. Instead, sensible particulars should be
distinguished from forms on grounds of their perishability, the sorts of changes they
undergo, and their sensible qualities. Sensible particulars can be differentiated from one
another along the lines Socrates proposed in discussing the third sort of account in the
Theaetetus (telling the difference), by a collection of highly specific features which
enable someone to re-identify the object as, say, Theaetetus. Such an approach still
cannot individuate qualitatively identical objects, and so in addition one would need to
appeal to accidental features, such as a thing’s history.68
67
See Prm. Deduction 3 (Prm. 157b6–159b1), which we discussed above in Chapter 2 sec. 2.5.
68
This is a complex topic, and I cannot pursue it further here. For discussion, see F. C. White (1981),
McCabe (1994), and W.-R. Mann (2000), and criticisms of McCabe in Meinwald (1996b).
234 PHILOSOPHOS
Now change: when an entity changes it remains the same as its earlier self with respect
to its nature but becomes different with respect to some accidental feature.69 Whereas
Plato can define rest in terms of oneness and sameness, he needs difference as well to
define change along Aristotelian lines. We posit an underlying one (call it “X”—X can
be either particular or general). Let us call the nature that constitutes the thing as X in a
self-predication or classification “X-en” (as in “gold is golden”), and let “X-en” stand in
for an adjective (the grammatical complement in “beauty is beautiful”) or a general noun
(the grammatical complement in “Socrates is [a] man”). We also posit an incompatibility
range consisting of a pair of opposites, not-F and F.70 X has a capacity to be F, if and only if
X is X-en, and X-en things are sometimes F (X has that capacity whether it is F or not-F).
X can change to F, if and only if X is X-en and not-F. In a change X remains the same as its
earlier self with respect to its nature (X remains X-en), but becomes different from its
earlier self with respect to some accidental property (on some range not-F/F). In the
Stranger’s discussion of difference in the Sophist, difference is defined with reference to
some positive term F, and specifies the feature(s) designated by the negation—not-F (the
complement of F)—on an incompatibility range (or in a set) under some wider kind
including both F and not-F. A thing designated as “not-F” has some feature on that range
other than F-ness. In the definition of change, “different” needs to negate the comple-
ment (not-F) and specify the state other than not-F which the subject is aiming toward
(namely F). The state F is different from any not-F state that X traverses on its journey
there. Let us now define change for Plato as the actuality of one and the same X, which is
not-F but potentially different from not-F, considered as potentially different from not-
F. A change is a compound and temporally extended entity, and it consists of X, which
remains X-en for the duration, and a series of locations on a range specified by not-F and
F, excluding F. Since F is excluded, the actuality of X, which is potentially F and
considered as such, includes all the not-F positions on the range.
Like Aristotle, Plato must remove the starting position, before X begins to travel,
and his definition needs to capture the progression along a path; he can do so by
accepting Aristotle’s revised definition of change as the joint actuality of an agent and
patient. The passages I quoted above indicate that Plato, too, regards change as
involving both an agent and patient. I requote part of the Timaeus passage:
For it is difficult—or rather impossible—for there to be a changed without a changer or a
changer without a changed; if these are absent, there is no change, and [when they are present]
they can never be uniform (homala). (Ti. 57e3–6).
69
Plato cannot accept the Heraclitean account of change in the Theaetetus, according to which perceivers
and objects are mere aggregates of instantaneous relational entities. Platonic perceivers and objects must
persist over time while changing in their accidental properties.
70
I speak from the perspective of the passive subject X and use the adjectives “F” and “not-F,” but
understand that the names of the kinds/parts on an incompatibility range are “F-ness” and “the not-F,” and
that if X is F, X has (partakes of) F-ness.
When the agent and patient are uniform—have the same attribute F-ness—no change
begins, or the change has already been completed. For a change to occur, the agent and
patient must be in different states on a single range (again, something hot acts on something
cold); once the change has been completed they are in the same state. In Aristotle’s
terminology, the agent “assimilates” the patient to itself—for instance, a hot thing makes a
cold thing hot. As I interpreted Socrates’ theory of forms in the Parmenides, that theory
commits its author to the transmission theory of causation, according to which the cause
has the character it explains in its effects: the form of beauty, which is itself beautiful, makes
other things beautiful through their participation in it (Phd. 100c3–e3).71 In the Phaedo
(probably) and first part of the Parmenides (certainly) Socrates was committed to forms that
exist apart from their participants, but when Plato treats forms as attributes of things, as he
does in our series of dialogues, the form responsible for a change in other things is either an
attribute of the agent (the heat of a fire makes other things hot) or the object of the agent’s
thought, immanent in something else (a doctor looks toward health in someone healthy in
bringing about health in someone sick). Whether forms are separate or immanent, Plato
should be able to accept Aristotle’s revised definition of change as the joint actuality of an
agent and a patient, located in the patient. According to that definition, change is a
progression which lasts as long as the patient responds to the agent—that is, from the
moment the patient leaves its starting position up to and excluding the final position.
The Stranger defines being with reference to change and rest as the capacity both to
remain the same (rest) and to act on other things or be affected by other things
(change). Something is a being if it has such a capacity—a capacity whose categorial
(or other structural) content differs from case to case—and that specific capacity
identifies the thing as what it is in its own right (auto kath’ hauto). A thing’s defining
capacity is its enduring nature, responsible for its acting in particular ways on other
things and/or for its responding in particular ways to other things that act on it.72
One might have qualms about the interdefinability of structural kinds—the defini-
tion of being in terms of change and rest, definitions of change and rest in terms of
oneness, sameness and difference, and the definition of sameness as a function of being
(being pros heauto), and so on.73 We try to avoid circularity in defining categorial kinds,
but circularity seems unavoidable in the case of structural kinds, since these kinds go
through everything and therefore through one another. The need to define these kinds
in terms of one another may explain why Plato often examines structural kinds via their
manifestations in categorial kinds, as in his treatment of difference later in the Sophist.74
By examining various manifestations of structural forms the dialectician can come to
recognize and then articulate the structural core that runs through the categorial
71
Aristotle was not impressed with Plato’s effort to explain change by appeal to separate forms: GC II.9,
335b7–24; Met. .5, 1080a2–8; cf. Met. `.9, 991a8–11 and Z.8, 1033b19–1034a5.
72
Cf. Aristotle’s definition of nature at Phys. II.1, 192b20–23.
73
See Chapter 5 sec. 5.5 above.
74
Discussed above in Chapter 5 sec. 5.4.
236 PHILOSOPHOS
compounds, and then use that structural core as a tool to investigate other categorial
kinds and individuals.
Let us now consider whether, and if so how, Platonic forms satisfy the dunamis
requirement, an idea the Gods resist.
7.8 Being and Knowledge

The Gods flatly reject the Stranger’s definition of being as capacity, because they think
that stable forms cannot be in any way changed, but they need not have rejected the
definition and should not have rejected it. They need not have rejected it, because the
definition of being requires only that something be able to act or be affected, and forms
satisfy that definition of being straightaway, because they act on other things as formal
causes.75 Forms cause changes in other things without their own properties being
affected at all. Furthermore, according to Aristotle, change is the joint actuality of both
the agent and the patient, and located in the patient—so for him and for Plato too,
insofar as Plato’s view is similar to Aristotle’s, a change in the changed counts as a
change of the changer as well, even though the changer undergoes no alteration of its
own properties in the encounter.
Although the Gods (friends of the forms) could have accepted the definition of being
the Stranger offered the Giants, with its implication that the forms are affected because
other things are affected by them, the issue in the Battle of the Gods and Giants is not
the active role of forms.76 The Stranger presses the Gods to recognize a different way in
which forms satisfy the definition of being, namely as objects of knowledge. It is on this
ground that the Gods should not have rejected the definition. Recall what the visitor
initially says to them:
And [you say] that with the body through perception we associate (koinōnein) with becoming,
but that with the soul through reasoning [we associate] with real being, which you say is always
uniformly the same, whereas becoming is one way at one time, another way at another time.
(248a10–13)
“Association” (to koinōnein or koinōnia) is one of Plato’s words for participation, the
relation between a sensible particular (or form) and a form it partakes of. Here,
however, the Stranger uses the word to characterize our relation to the sensible
world through sense perception and to the intelligible world through reasoning. Our
psyches do not partake of sensible qualities or forms through perceiving and knowing
them but grasp things in the world outside ourselves by noticing them or thinking
about them. I argued in Chapter 4 that sense perception is stimulated by an affection
that reaches the soul through the senses (a change) but is not that passive experience
itself. Perceiving is what Aristotle would call an “activity” (energeia), the active mani-
75
This point is stressed by Brown (1998). We discussed the idea above in Chapter 1 sec. 1.1.
76
Here I disagree with Brown (1998).
festation of a stable perceptual capacity: the soul actively notices something outside
itself. Although it took Aristotle to make a clear distinction between change (kinēsis)
and activity (energeia), Platonic perception in the Theaetetus appears to be an instance of
Aristotelian activity.77 Perception of redness is not a change in Theaetetus like turning
red, but an active response to redness in something else. Knowing is more complicated
than perception but seems also to be an activity, not a change. In the simple case of
recognizing Theaetetus in a reliable way, the knower, stimulated by a perception of
him, matches the perception to his own stable and adequate imprint of Theaetetus
preserved in memory. While acquiring an adequate impression of Theaetetus is a
change—learning—which takes place over numerous encounters, recognizing Theae-
tetus on the basis of that imprint is not. In turn, a person who knows the form sophist
has acquired an adequate imprint of the sophist over time and especially through
solving puzzles, but recognizing that form in such individuals as Protagoras, Gorgias,
and Hippias is an instance of an Aristotelian activity, a manifestation of one’s capacity
knowledge.78
The Stranger wants the Gods to recognize that the relations between subject and
object in perceiving and knowing are sufficiently similar to each other to warrant
ascribing being (dunamis) to the objects of both sorts of cognitive acts—both to
changing sensible phenomena perceived through our senses, and to stable forms
reasoned about. He also tries to persuade them that perceiving and knowing have
some sort of impact on the objects perceived and known. The Gods resist the
Stranger’s proposal, claiming that only in the realm of Becoming do things act and
suffer, whereas forms are immune from any sort of change (248c7–9, d10–e5). We do
not hear the response from either the Gods or Giants to the Stranger’s further argument
that things must be stable to be the objects of knowledge, and must be affected in being
known. He claims that unless both sides concede something to their opponents, they
give up the possibility of knowledge, prudence, and reason, since we can have no
cognitive access to things outside ourselves unless they are both stable and somehow
changed in those encounters (248e7–249c9). The Stranger seems to think that the
forms’ very intelligibility depends on their being affected in our reasoning about them
and that, if they are not affected, we can have no contact with them at all.
The Gods apparently think that if the forms are affected in being known, they must
undergo a real change, lose one property and acquire another.79 Yet the Stranger need
not mean that we bring about real changes in forms with an impact on their natures or
other intrinsic properties, though he does at least mean that our interactions with them
have a real impact on us, and that that impact on us has an impact on them in relation to
77
For Aristotle, the capacity for perception is a second-level potentiality, and its manifestation is a second-
level actuality. An activity differs from a change in that the subject does not acquire a property/capacity it
previously lacked but instead preserves and develops one it already has.
78
Again in Aristotle’s terms (cf. previous note), capacity knowledge is a second-level potentiality, and
active knowing is a second-level actuality.
79
On the requirements for being affected, see Waterlow (1970).
238 PHILOSOPHOS
us. In his discussion of the Battle of the Gods and Giants, G. E. L. Owen argued that
forms undergo “mere Cambridge changes” in being known—that is, something be-
comes true of a form that was not true before, without its undergoing a real change.80
To use Owen’s example, when Jones came to know justice last Tuesday, something
new became true about justice, namely that it was glimpsed by Jones on Tuesday: on
this view, our transactions with forms give them a history.81 Plato was himself interested
in such relational changes, because he gives an example in the Theaetetus: last year
Socrates was larger than Theaetetus, but this year smaller, because Theaetetus grew,
while Socrates experienced no loss of bulk himself (Tht. 155b7–c2).82
Owen’s example suggests a straightforward way in which a form can be affected in
relation to us: a form is changed (gains a history) when someone notices or thinks about
it, and this need happen only once. The Stranger might seem to envisage this minimal
credential in his original definition of being:
I say that that which possesses any sort of capacity, whether it be naturally suited to act on
anything else or to be affected to even the smallest extent by the most insignificant thing, even if
only once: all this really is (ontōs einai). (247d8–e3; cf. 248c4–5)
Upon reflection the credential is not minimal at all. Something is a being even if it has
never had an impact on anything and has never been affected, not even once, as long as
it is such that it can have an impact on something or can be affected, even if only once.
The Stranger includes as beings things that have never been noticed or discovered, if
they are such that they could be.
I think that forms gain more than a history through people’s interactions with them,
though this is only to say that mere Cambridge changes are richer and more complex
than we might initially think. Consider some examples we have discussed. Dichoto-
mous division targets a kind to be defined at the bottom of a genus–species tree—
sophist or statesman—and the target (however vague or faulty the inquirers’ early
conception of it) indicates the general kind to divide (called technē in the Sophist,
epistēmē in the Statesman), and then guides the inquirers’ successive divisions. We saw
in Chapters 5 and 6 that the investigators carve up the kind in different ways depending
on the entity they aim to define—one way to find the sophist, another way to find the
noble sophist, and yet another way to find the statesman. The inquirers do not thereby
change the form of knowledge, but they do consider it from different perspectives in
their different projects. In the first part of the Sophist, the sophist seemed to keep
80
On Cambridge changes, see Geach (1969: 71–2) and McDowell (1973: 136–7). For Geach, all changes
are Cambridge changes: some are mere Cambridge changes, while others are real changes. Thanks to Justin
Broackes for calling my attention to this point.
81
Owen (1966: 337–40). See also Moravcsik (1962: 35–41), Runciman (1962: 81–2), and Bluck (1975:
97–101); cf. Reeve (1985: 60–1 n. 43). Keyt (1969: 9–11) thinks that Plato entertains the idea that forms are
changed but does not assert it (though Keyt thinks he should have). I believe that the Stranger asserts the idea
in the children’s plea.
82
Geach (1969: 72) uses this example to clarify his distinction between real changes and mere Cambridge
changes.
changing from one definition to the next, but that was not because the nature of the
sophist changed, only because the inquirers’ perspective on him changed, encouraging
them to divide up the genus in different ways to capture his various features.83
Or think of Theuth’s discovery of the phonemes of Greek. He stopped the flow of
vocal sound by noticing certain sounds as similar or dissimilar, while ignoring other sounds
in the background flow, including certain features even of the sounds he noticed, such as
their pitch and loudness. By attending to some features of sound and not others, he
discovered the Greek system of phonemes. A different god might have picked out
different vocal sounds from the background noise, and might have paid more attention
to pitch at the same time, and then have discovered the quite different phoneme system of
Chinese. Vocal sound consists of some definite number of phonemes but different
languages pick out some of these phonemes and not others.84 Theuth’s discovery does
not alter the phoneme-types or their absolute relations to one another, but it does have a
relational impact on them insofar as they become the phonemes of Greek. Furthermore,
when letters are composed into syllables, syllables into words, words into sentences,
sentences into arguments, and arguments into larger constructs, the elements experience
numerous (mere Cambridge) changes in relation to one another.
In music the pitch of a note maintains the same absolute relation to other pitches, but in
a composition juxtaposed notes are relationally affected by their placement. As Thomas
Mann’s character Kretchmar memorably explains, Beethoven slightly modified his arietta
theme late in the second movement of his piano sonata Opus 111, adding a C# between a
C and a D, and Kretchmar exclaims that this tiny change “is the most moving, consola-
tory, pathetically reconciling thing in the world.”85 The forms of C, C#, and D maintain
their natures and absolute relations to one another, but in that haunting sequence in that
location, the forms are affected, not merely in relation to us, but also in relation to one
another and other sequences of notes, once and for all. We are talking about the Platonic
forms of C, C#, and D, not merely the audible sounds: Beethoven wrote Opus 111 in
musical notation to be performed again and again, and at the time of composition he
could no longer hear the sounds except with his mind’s ear.
The Stranger wants the Gods to understand that unless forms can be affected in
relation to us and in relation to one another, we humans cannot grasp them and use
them in understanding the world. That is the price the Gods pay in refusing the
definition of being the Stranger offered the Giants—they remain stuck with the
Greatest Difficulty in the first part of the Parmenides, unable to answer the objector
who denies that the forms are knowable (Prm. 133a8–c1).86 The children begged for a
83
The fact that the sophist should finally be excluded from the genus is beside the point here.
84
Recall that Socrates says in the Philebus that once one arrives at the indivisible letters, one can toss the
intermediate groupings into the unlimited (Phlb. 16c10–e2). The intermediates labeled as “vowel” and
“consonant” are not Platonic forms, only the original henad (sound) and the various sorts of elements (letters,
tones) are.
85
T. Mann (1948: 55).
86
Thanks to a reader for the Press for reminding me of this connection.
240 PHILOSOPHOS
reconciliation of Parmenides and Heraclitus, and in reconciling them we have found

the philosopher’s object, which organizes his expertise. The form of being dictates a
focus on the nature of things and gives the philosopher a distinctive perspective on any
topic he studies. The philosopher pays attention to what something stably is auto kath’
hauto—its nature, all features inside the subject—and studies how it interacts with things
outside itself (pros alla), given its nature.
Plato needs only one form of being, a form that structures all beings and together
with some other content makes them what they are, thereby enabling them to act on
some things and/or to be affected by others. The Stranger describes kinds in group (1)
in the passage on dialectic as “holding things together through all, so that they are able
to combine (summeignusthai dunata einai)” (253c1–2). The being of something enables
that thing to fit together with some things and not others, and the being of other things
enables them to fit (or not fit) together with it. The second part of the Parmenides
identifies participation—the relation between a subject and a feature it has—with
being, and Parmenides arrives at many absurd conclusions by treating being as an
attribute of things outside their nature. Remember that in Deduction 1 he shows that
the one cannot even be one without partaking of being to link it with its oneness.
Then in Deduction 2 he allows the one to partake of being, a form distinct from
oneness, and shows that the one is everything. And in Deduction 5 he shows—what
my previous two sentences indicate in speaking of “partaking of being”—that to have
its own or any other character, an entity must not only partake of being to link it to that
character, but must partake of another portion of being to link it to the link, and then
another, and so on indefinitely (Prm. 161e3–162b3). All these problems are rooted in
the mistaken idea that being lies outside the nature of things, as difference does. Being is
inside the nature of every being as its structural core enabling it to fit together with
other things outside its specific nature. There is no need for a separate ontological tie,
the referent of the name “participation.” Being need not serve as a special relational
link between things and their attributes once the notion of being auto kath’ hauto has
been secured, because the monadic property itself enables entities to relate to one
another. Thus being—a single form—performs both functions attributed to it in the
Sophist—both auto kath’ hauto and pros alla. We can of course abstract a relation
(specified by the incomplete “is” of predication) from things and their attributes, but
contrary to the Parmenides, participation is not a further property that ties an entity to a
property it has.
7.9 The Philosopher’s Name

We have now seen that the philosopher has an expertise directed toward being and
uses dialectic to study it, but marking him off as someone who deals with being cannot
completely define the philosopher, since a variety of experts investigate being, and
many of them call themselves by the philosopher’s name—philosophos, “lover of
wisdom.”
Socrates exploits the broad use of the word “philosophy” at the start of the Theaetetus
when he says to Theodorus the geometer:
If I cared more about affairs in Cyrene, Theodorus, I would ask you for news about people there,
whether some of the young people are devoting themselves to geometry or any other branch of
philosophy (tina allēn philosophian); but as it is I love those people less than the ones here, and want
rather to know which of our young men is likely to become distinguished. (Tht. 143d1–6)
Here “philosophy” labels a generic kind whose species include the various theoretical
disciplines practiced and taught by Theodorus: arithmetic, geometry, and harmonic
science.87 The Digression on the philosopher and worldly man at the center of the
Theaetetus again recalls the word’s generic use when Socrates includes Theodorus on the
side of the philosopher, and the geometer welcomes that designation (Tht. 173b7–c6).
Plato takes considerable trouble in the Theaetetus to characterize Theodorus as someone
who resists Socratic cross-examination and prefers to listen to Socrates’ rhetorical flight in
the Digression (Tht. 177c3–5).88 By means of dramatic details Plato tries to differentiate
experts like Theodorus from the philosopher. We can set Theodorus and his colleagues
aside on the ground that they study being from a particular perspective (being insofar as it
is numbered or has magnitude) and use techniques other than dialectic.89
The Stranger in the Statesman indicates several ways to mark off a target kind from
others that share the same domain. Arts dealing with the same object take different
perspectives on it, perspectives clearly articulated for the sciences of sound in the
Philebus, with harmonic science focusing on pitched sound, phonology on vocal
sound. The special sciences study being from different angles and ignore attributes of
being irrelevant to their own enterprise. Although Platonic philosophy shares with
other disciplines a focus on being, it studies being as such (in Aristotelian terms: to on hēi
on).90 To say that Platonic philosophy studies being as such is not to say that it is a
generic expertise of which the particular sciences are species (Socrates’ assertion at the
start of the Theaetetus notwithstanding), because being is not a genus of which the
various beings are species. Being is a structural kind, a core that runs through all beings,
and those beings combine that structural core with some definite categorial (or other
structural) content. Whereas specialists in the various sciences carve off part of being as
their proper area of study, Plato’s philosopher is interested in all beings. He shares that
wide-ranging interest with the sophist, but differs from the sophist in seeking the truth
87
Acknowledging this generic use of the term, Cornford (1935a: 18) translates philosophia at Tht. 143d3 as
“liberal study,” and McDowell (1973: 3) as “cultivating wisdom.” Cf. Campbell (1883: note ad loc.).
88
Miller (2004: 4) points out that Theodorus begs off from dialectical debate six times (!) in Part I of the
Theaetetus.
89
According to the imagery of the Divided Line in Republic VI, 509d1–511e5, the mathematician counts
as a knower, but is located at the third level of the Line (counting upward), not the fourth level limited to
those engaged in dialectic.
90
Aristotle, Met. ˆ.1, and ¯.1, 1025b3–18.
242 PHILOSOPHOS
about the things he studies, and more than the truth: he wants to understand the nature
of things.
Plato’s philosopher has company in this enterprise: the true rhetorician depicted in
the Phaedrus, who seeks to persuade his audience of something and knows the truth
about his subject matter. In a famous passage in the Phaedrus, Plato’s Socrates compares
the art of true rhetoric to medicine and ascribes to the true rhetorician a method of
examining the soul (beneficiary of rhetoric) indebted to the Hippocratic method of
examining the body (beneficiary of medicine).91 The method incorporates both the
analysis of a whole into its elements (the second type of account in the Theaetetus) and
the definition of being as capacity from the Battle of the Gods and Giants in the Sophist:
Consider what Hippocrates and the true account (ho alēthēs logos) say about nature (peri phuseōs).
Isn’t it necessary to think about the nature of anything (peri hotououn phuseōs) in the following
way? First, we must consider whether the thing about which we intend to be expert ourselves
and to make others expert is simple (haploun) or complex (polueides); then, if it is simple, we must
consider its capacity (dunamis)—what capacity it naturally has to act in relation to what (pros ti), or
what capacity it naturally has to be affected by what (hupo tou). If on the other hand it has more
forms (pleiō eidē ), we must enumerate these, and what we saw in the case of one, we must observe
for each, namely, with what [capacity] it naturally acts on what [patient] or with what [capacity]
it naturally suffers what [effect] by what [agent]. (Phdr. 270c9–d7)
The true rhetorician has a full storehouse of dialectical techniques. He also uses
collection and division to establish the truth about his subject matter (Phdr. 265d3–
266b2). According to Socrates, the true rhetorician needs to know the truth because he
aims to persuade his audience of something true or false, and even in the second case he
must know the truth because a convincing falsehood resembles the truth (261e6–
262c4).92 Socrates introduces the procedures of collection and division in the Phaedrus
to disambiguate the word erōs (“erotic love”), used earlier in the dialogue for two
distinct emotional states called by the same name (a human mental derangement, and a
type of divine inspiration). The true rhetorician knows that the two sorts of erōs fall
under a common genus—madness—and can use the similarities to construct a con-
vincing but misleading speech.
We might think that Plato’s philosopher differs from the true rhetorician in telling
the truth, but a moment’s reflection on the tactics of Plato’s Stranger in the Sophist and
Statesman should convince us that he frequently misleads his interlocutors rather than
guiding them directly to the right destination. To recall but one example, the Stranger
never raises the question we asked at the end of Chapter 5: does the sophist belong in
the wide kind technē or should he be ousted from the genus altogether, once he has
been shown to be an ignorant imitator of the wise man? Errors large and small go
91
I discuss the Hippocratic method in the Phaedrus in Gill (2003b).
92
On the rhetorician’s use of similarities to mislead, see Cooper ([1986] 2004: 68–71).
unremarked in the Sophist and Statesman, and not because Plato’s Stranger is oblivious
to them.
Some scholars identify Plato’s philosopher with the true rhetorician.93 Before we
accept that conclusion, we should consider the models used in the Sophist and Statesman
to bring the sophist and statesman into view. These models suit the philosopher better
than the designated target, but they also suit the true rhetorician—with one notable
exception. Think of the angler: apart from modeling the procedure of dichotomous
division itself, the example misleads the inquirers in their search for the sophist’s essence,
guiding only the first division to the hired hunter of rich young men. The angler—
essentially a hunter—has much more in common with the philosopher, who hunts for
wisdom about any topic he investigates. The Sophist emphasizes that connection by
repeatedly describing the search for the sophist as a hunt and the sophist as its quarry.94
At the same time, the model also fits the true rhetorician, and not merely because he
hunts for rich young men to teach. More importantly he, too, hunts for the truth about
the topic of his speeches and uses dialectical techniques to find answers. Now consider
the weaver. The philosopher shares with the weaver an essential feature, since he
engages in intertwining, making fabrics from threads spun from the elements of
language—he weaves words into statements, statements into arguments, and arguments
into larger discourses.95 Plato’s dialogues are finely woven fabrics, but then so too are
the speeches of true rhetoricians, whose fabrics must be at least as richly designed,
because the orator adjusts his speech to the needs, interests, hopes, and fears of his
audience, often a motley crowd (Phdr. 277b5–c6). Recall that in the seventh and final
division of the sophist, the Stranger locates the sophist in the art of appearance-making
(phantastikē: an art of image-making that distorts the proportions and true colors of the
original). The sophist turns out to be ignorant of the truth about what he imitates and is
marked off from someone else engaged in phantastikē who knows what he is imitating
(Sph. 267a1–e7; see Figure 5.4, p. 171 above). Both the philosopher and the true
rhetorician are likely to be found down the branch of phantistikē leading to informed
93
E.g., Rowe (2007: vii and ch. 11). At the end of the Phaedrus Socrates praises the youth Isocrates (who
grew up to be Plato’s chief rival with a competing school) and credits him with greater talent than other
orators. Socrates describes Isocrates as blessed by nature with a certain philosophy (tis philosophia), a divine
impulse that may propel him to greater things (Phdr. 278e5–279b3). Especially if commentators are right that
Socrates’ first speech about love earlier in the dialogue parodies Isocrates (M. Brown and Coulter [1971] and
Asmis [1986: esp. 160–2]) and is an instance of true rhetoric misleading Phaedrus about the real nature of
love, the mention of Isocrates at the end of the Phaedrus probably indicates Plato’s desire to differentiate his
own project from that of his rival, who also appropriated the term philosophia for his teaching. Cf. Isocrates, To
Demonicus 3 and Antidosis 270–271 [= Norlin]. On this topic, see Cooper ([1986] 2004) and Nightingale
(1995: ch. 1).
94
E.g., Sph. 218d3–4, 226a6–7, b1–2, 235a10–b3, 236d2–3; cf. 239c6–7, 254a4–6, 260c11–d1. The
imagery of hunting to characterize a philosophical search, though particularly marked in the Sophist, occurs
elsewhere too, e.g., Prm. 128b8–c2.
95
E.g., in the Sophist the Stranger says that “speech (ho logos) comes about for us because of the weaving
(sumplokē ) of forms with one another” (Sph. 259e5–6). In his Dream in the Theaetetus, Socrates says that the
“being (ousian) of speech (logos) is a weaving (sumplokē ) of names” (Tht. 202b3–6).
244 PHILOSOPHOS
imitators, experts who know the truth even when they distort it. So far, then, the
philosopher and true rhetorician seem remarkably similar, but there is one major
difference.
The Stranger uses a pair of images in the Statesman to mark off the true statesman
from his imitators, and here is a criterion powerful enough to set Plato’s philosopher
apart from his closest rival, the true rhetorician. The Stranger distinguishes the expert
doctor and navigator from their imitators and settles on an adequate criterion to single
out the genuine experts: they aim to benefit those in their care, to make them better
than they were (Stm. 293a6–c4, 296d7–297b3). That criterion separates the philoso-
pher decisively from the pretenders, including the true rhetorician. Whereas the true
rhetorician aims to persuade his audience of things, which may or may not benefit
them, Plato’s philosopher aims for the good in two spheres: to understand the nature of
things and to help others find it (Stm. 285d5–8, 286d4–287a6). He hunts, he weaves,
he often distorts, but always with the good in view: to stimulate the audience to
discover things.
The Parmenides, Theaetetus, Sophist, and Statesman examine their topics at a high level
of abstraction and could give the false impression that Plato regards philosophy as an
esoteric discipline mainly interested in structural kinds and abstract general kinds, with
down-to-earth examples introduced as models to make those issues more tractable, but
several of the investigations culminate by applying the apparatus to worldly philosoph-
ical problems. The Theaetetus ends its examination of knowledge by reflecting on the
difference between knowing the boy Theaetetus and merely judging him truly, and
knowing how to spell his name and merely getting it right; and the Sophist crowns its
investigation of not-being by analyzing a false statement about a mundane object,
“Theaetetus is flying.” Solving basic problems about recognition, linguistic compe-
tence, and falsehood constitutes the foundation of Plato’s philosophical project, and
those solutions can then be used to answer harder and more vexing questions: What is a
true statesman? What is a sophist, and why is his teaching so dangerous? Whom should
we trust to answer those questions?
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Index Locorum
Abbreviated titles are listed after the work. Page references in bold indicate a quotation.
Alexander of Aphrodisias III.1, 201a10–11: 232

Alexandri Aphrodisiensis in Aristotelis Metaphysica III.1, 201a29–34: 232
Commentaria (In Met.) [= Hayduck] III.1, 201b4–5: 232
83, 34–84, 7: 36 n. 48 III.2, 202a9–12: 24 n. 17
84, 21–85, 3: 36 n. 48 III.3, 202a13–16: 232
85, 4–13: 36 n. 48 III.3, 202b26–27: 232
99, 27–98, 24: 34 n. 41 III.4, 203b10–15: 207 n. 14
IV.2, 209b13–16: 13 n. 38
Anaxagoras IV.4, 212a20–21: 207 n. 15
DK 59B10: 24 n.18 VIII.5, 257b9–10: 24 n. 17
Anaximander
DK 12A15: 207 n. 14 On Generation and Corruption (GC )
1.7, 324a9–11: 233
Anaximenes II.9, 335b7–24: 235 n. 71
DK 13B2: 207 n. 14
De Anima (De An.)
Anonymous II.5, 417a22–28: 231
Commentatium in Platonis Theaetetum II.6, 418a16–20: 110 n. 26
(Anon. Comm. Tht.)
Col. III, 28–32: 3 n. 8, 103 n. 7 Metaphysics (Met.)
`.6, 987a29–b14: 76
Aristophanes `.9, 990b13–14: 162
Clouds: 89 n. 26, 145 n. 15 `.9, 990b15–17: 21 n. 8, 36 n. 48
`.9, 991a8–11: 235 n. 71
Aristotle `.9, 991a14–19: 34 n. 41
Categories 25 n. 20, 29, 174–5, 174 n. 8 Æ.1, 993b23–26: 24 n. 17
De Interpretatione (Int.) ´.1, 995a27–28: 45
7, 17a39–40: 34 ´.3, 998b22: 229 n. 58
ˆ.1: 241 n. 90
Posterior Analytics (APo) ˜.15, 1021a8–14: 164 n. 62
I.2, 72a29–30: 24 n. 17 ˜.25, 1023b22–25: 208 n. 17
I.4, 73b16–24: 160 n. 51 ¯.1, 1025b3–18: 241 n. 90
II.7, 92b14: 229 n. 58 ˘.7, 1032b2–6: 31 n. 34
Topics (Top.) ˘.8, 1033b19–1034a5: 235 n. 71
IV.1, 121a10–19: 25 n. 20 ˘.12, 1037b18–21: 215 n. 32
IV.5, 126a17–25: 25 n. 20 ˘.12, 1038a5–8: 215 n. 32
IV.5, 127a12–17: 106 n. 17 ˘.13, 1038b11–12: 34
V.4, 132b35–133a11: 25 n. 20 ˘.13, 1038b34–1039a3: 36 n. 48
V.7, 137b3–13: 16 n. 46, 151, 209 n. 21 ˘.16, 1040b25–27: 34
VI.13: 106 n. 17 ˘.17, 1041b11–31: 68 n. 47
˙.4, 1044a27–29: 231 n. 63
Sophistical Refutations (SE) ¨.7, 1048b37–1049a12: 231 n. 63
22, 178b36–179a10: 36 n. 48 .4: 76
.5, 1080a2–8: 235 n. 71
Physics (Phys.)
I.5, 188a31–b8: 231 n. 61 Nicomachean Ethics (EN)
I.7: 231 II 197 n. 45
I.8, 191b27–29: 231 n. 62
II.1, 192b20–23: 235 n. 72 Politics (Pol.)
III.1–3: 232 I.1, 1252a7–23: 179 n. 9
264 I N D E X L O C O RU M
Poetics (Poet.) 424c6–d5: 221–2 n. 47

20, 1456b20-34: 221–2 n. 47 426c1–427d3: 221–2 n. 47
20, 1456b22: 221 Critias
[Aristotle] Problems (Prob.) 118a2–5: 207 n. 14
10.39: 221 Epistles (Ep.)
Babylonian Texts [= Foster] VII, 341a7–344d2: 13
Anzu Tablet III.129: 181 n. 14 Euthyphro (Euthphr.)
Enuma Elish Tablet VII.148: 181 n. 14 6d9–e2: 22 n. 11
6d10–11: 90, 105
Descartes
7b7–c9: 145
Meditations
III.40–41: 24 n. 17 Gorgias (Grg.)
462b3–466a8: 170
Diogenes Laertius 465a2–5: 171
Lives of Eminent Philosophers Hippias Major (Hp. Ma.)
3.56–62: 1 n. 2 287c1–d2: 22 n. 11, 90 n. 30
3.108–109: 154–5, 164 n. 61 289a8–b7: 30
289d2–3: 90 n. 30
Dionysius of Halicarnassus 292e6–7: 23 n. 15
On Literary Composition (De comp. verb.)
Laws 3n. 9
25: 3 n. 8
IX, 875c6–d5: 197–8 n.46
Heraclitus Meno
DK 22B41: 177, 177 n. 1 71e1–72d1: 105
DK 22B84a: 76, 78 n. 5 77a9–b1: 141 n. 7
DK 22B101: 202 85a2–3: 207
DK 22B123: 138 85c9–d1: 48 n.7
DK 22B125: 101 97a6–98a9: 104 n. 10, 125 n. 61
Hippocratics [= Jones] 97e6–98a4: 10
On Ancient Medicine 13–16: 24 n. 18 Parmenides (Prm.)
127b1–c5: 19 n. 2
On the Nature of Man 7: 24 n. 18
127c5–6: 13 n. 37
Homer 127d2–3: 56 n. 30
Iliad (Il.) 127d6–7: 13 n. 37
2. 243: 181 n. 14 127e1–2: 58, 59
2. 254: 181 n. 14 128a8–b1: 19, 58
128b8–c2: 243 n. 94
Isocrates [= Norlin] 128c6–d6: 19
Antidosis 128d1: 58
270–271: 243 n. 93 128d5–6: 58
128e5–130a2: 20
To Demonicus 128e6–129b1: 40 n. 60
3: 243 n. 93 128e6–129a2: 20
Parmenides 129a2–b1: 20
DK 28B1: 89 129b1–3: 17, 20, 46, 228
DK 28B2: 7 n. 17, 93 129b6–c3: 17, 20, 46, 228
DK 28B7.1–2: 93, 148 129b6–c1: 62
DK 28B8.22: 95 129c4–d6: 214 n. 30
DK 28B8.38: 79 n. 10 129c4–d2: 20, 228
DK 28B8.43–45: 95 129d6–130a2: 14, 17, 20, 46, 47, 63
129d6–e4: 29, 100, 150 n. 27, 228
Plato 129d6–8: 26, 29
Cratylus (Crat.) 130b1–e4: 25–6 n. 23, 28–32, 91
385b2–d1: 119 n. 51 130b1–6: 26, 28, 37, 73 n. 55, 74, 91, 150 n. 27
385b7–8: 119 n. 51 130b7–10: 30, 91
I N D E X L O C O RU M 265
130c1–4: 91 136a4–c5: 45
130c1–2: 30 136a4–b1: 58
130c2: 92 136a5–b1: 48, 51
130c3–4: 30 136b1–c5: 3, 48, 228
130c5–d9: 91 136b1–6: 14
130c5–d2: 31 136b1–2: 58
130d3–9: 31 136c4–5: 14, 62
130e1–4: 31 136e1–3: 45
130e4–131e7: 32–35, 217 137b2–4: 56
130e4–131a3: 32 137b4: 59
131a7: 33 137b6–8: 56 n. 32
131a8–b2: 32 137c4–142a8: 62
131b3–6: 33 137c4–5: 59, 61, 62
131b7–9: 33 137c4: 57 n. 33
131c5–7: 33 137d2–3: 59, 60
131c9–11: 33, 35 n. 44 137d4–138a1: 207 n. 13
131c12–e7: 33–4 138b4–5: 62 n. 40
131c12–d2: 34 138b7–c6: 228
131d7–e1: 33 139c3–d1: 153, 208 n. 20
131e3–7: 34 140a1–3: 62 n. 40
131e3–5: 68 n. 48 141e9–142a1: 60, 61, 62, 63
132a1–b2: 35–9, 35 142a1–8: 62
132a3: 35 n. 44 141e12–142a1: 53–4
132a7–8: 36 142a1–8: 62
132b3–c11: 123 142a6–8: 54
132c12–133a7: 33, 39–41 142b1–155e3: 62
132d9–e1: 40 n. 61 142b3: 57 n. 33
132e3–4: 40 n. 61 142b5–c7: 59, 61, 62, 71
133a5–6: 40 142b5–8: 63
133a8–134e8: 41–3 142c7–143a3: 62
133a8–134c3: 41 143a4–144e7: 62
133a8–c1: 239 143a4–9: 37 n. 51
133a8–b2: 41 143b3–8: 153, 208 n. 20
133b4–c1: 41 145b6–c7: 207 n. 12
133c3–134a1: 68 n. 49 147c1–148d1: 55 n. 28, 112 n. 31
133c3–5: 41 148a6–c3: 54 n. 25
133c8–134a1: 42 148d1–4: 55 n. 28
133c8–d5: 42 149e5–150a1: 47 n. 5
134a3–4: 42 150e1–4: 52
134a9–b1: 42 150e5–151a2: 207 n. 15
134b3–4: 42 151e3–152a5: 233
134b9: 42 154a5–155c4: 54 n. 25
134b11–12: 42 155e4–157b5: 64–5
134b14–c3: 42 n. 66 155e4–8: 64
134c4–e8: 41 155e4–6: 49
134c6–8: 43 155e6: 64
134c10–11: 42 155e10–11: 64
134d1–2: 42 156c1–e7: 64
134e7–8: 42 156d1–e7: 65
135a7–b2: 56, 63 156e6–7: 64–5
135b5–c6: 28 157b6–159b1: 32 n. 36, 65–8, 126 n. 62,
135b5–c3: 18, 44, 71 233 n. 67
135c5–6: 18, 18–19 n. 1, 44 157b7: 57 n. 33
135c8–d6: 31, 45 157b8–c1: 66
135d8–e4: 47 157b8–c4: 73
135d8: 47 157b9: 74
135e8–136a2: 47, 58 157c1–8: 66
Plato Prm. (cont.) 102d5–103a3: 27

157c8–d7: 66 103c10–105c7: 22
157d7–e5: 67 103d2–12: 24 n. 17
157e5–158b4: 67 104b6–c1: 35 n. 44
158a3–6: 72, 74 104d1–3: 25 n. 44
158b5–c7: 67 104d5–7: 35 n. 44
158b5–7: 55 105b5–c4: 24 n. 17
158c5–7: 47 n. 5, 55
Phaedrus (Phdr.)
158c7–d8: 67
230e6–234c5: 13 n. 37
158d5–6: 55
245b1–c1: 203 n. 3
158e2–3: 55
248d2–e3: 203–4 n. 4
159b2–160b2: 44, 68–9
249d4–e4: 203 n. 3
159b3: 57 n. 33
261d6–8: 228
159b6–c4: 68
261e6–262c4: 242
159c5–e1: 68
262d8–e6: 13 n. 37
159c5–d4: 68
263a2–c12: 145 n. 14
159e2–160a3: 47 n. 5, 68
263d5–264a3: 13 n. 37
159e5–6: 243 n. 95
265a5–266b2: 183 n. 17
160a4–b2: 69
265d3–266b2: 217–18 n. 39, 242
160b2–4: 51, 54, 69, 69 n. 51
265d3–5: 101 n. 2, 179 n. 8
160b2–3: 50, 63 n. 41
265e1–266b1: 142 n. 9, 145 n. 16
160b3: 69 n. 51
265e1–3: 183
160b5–163b6: 71
265e6–266c4: 242
161a6: 52, 52 n. 17
266b3–4: 217–18 n. 39
161b3–4: 52 n. 17
269e4–270d8: 193 n. 37
161c9–d1: 52 n. 17
270c9–d7: 242
161e3–162b3: 61, 71, 74 n. 58, 240
274b6–278e3: 13
162a8: 74 n. 58
277b5–c6: 243
162b2: 74 n. 58
277d9–10: 59 n. 35
163b7–164b4: 71
278e5–279b3: 243 n. 93
164a2–4: 52
164b5–165e1: 44, 71 Philebus (Phlb.)
165e2–166c2: 44, 71 11d4–6: 214
166b7–c2: 44, 46, 70 12c4–8: 214
166c2–5: 45, 51, 69, 70 12d7–e2: 214
166c2–3: 46 12e3–6: 214
166c5: 201 n. 51 14c7–10: 214
14c11–d3: 214
Phaedo (Phd.) 14d4–e4: 214
59c2: 103 n. 9 15a1–7: 214
64c4–8: 37 n. 51 15a4–c3: 216
82d9–83b4: 119 n. 49 15a4–5: 31 n. 31
99b2–4: 118 n. 47 15a6: 215–16 n. 35
100b1–9: 22 15b1–2: 216
100c3–e3: 235 15b2–4: 213, 216, 223, 224
100c4–7: 22 15b4–8: 34, 217
100c4–6: 23 16b5–6: 217–18 n. 39
100c9–d3: 22 16c5–17a5: 217
100d4–7: 25, 32 16c5–17a3: 218
100d6: 25 n. 21 16c10–e2: 239 n. 84
100d7–8: 22, 90 16d5–7: 218
100e2–3: 22 17b3–4: 219, 220
100e5–101a8: 23 17b6–9: 219
101a8–b2: 23 17b11–12: 219
101b4–c9: 23 17c1–2: 219
102a11–b6: 32 17c4–9: 219
102b3–103a2: 25 n. 23 17c11–d6: 220
17d6–e3: 220 218c5–d9: 203 n. 2

18a6–b3: 218 218c7–e1: 140
18a7–b3: 219 218d3–4: 243 n. 93
18a9: 221 218e2–5: 142, 145
18b3–4: 221 219a10–c1: 179 n. 8
18b6–d2: 220, 221 219b4–6: 176
18c7–8: 135 n. 78 219c2–9: 179 n. 8
23c1–27c2: 218 n. 40 220c10–d4: 183 n. 18
25d11–26c1: 221 221a7–b2: 145
26a2–4: 220 n. 43 221b2–c3: 143 n.10, 213 n. 28
33d2–e1: 119 221b2: 140 n. 4
38b12–e8: 121 221c9–d6: 143
57e6–58a5: 202–3 n. 1 221d1–6: 184 n. 19
57e6–7: 18–19 n. 1 221d8–13: 143
64c1–65a5: 30 n. 30 222c5–d2: 179 n. 8
Protagoras (Prt.) 223b1–6: 143 n.12, 213 n. 28
330c2–e2: 23 n. 15 223c1–4: 143
332a8–b1: 22 n. 11 224c9–d2: 144 n.13, 213 n. 28
224d4–7: 213 n. 28
Republic (Rep.) 224e1–4: 213 n. 28
I, 331c1–10: 23 n. 14 225b13–c6: 183 n. 18
III, 411a6: 119 n. 49 226a1–4: 213 n. 28
IV, 436b8–c1: 26 226a6–7: 243 n. 93
IV, 436c5–d3: 26 226b1–231b8: 145
IV, 436d4–e7: 26 n. 24 226b1–2: 243 n. 94
V–VII: 102 n. 5 226b2–c9: 179 n. 8
V: 8–9 226d1–11: 183 n. 18
V, 475b8–480a13: 7 n. 17, 8–9, 101–2 n. 3, 227b6–c4: 183 n. 18
131 n. 73 231b3–8: 213 n. 28
V, 475e9–476a7: 30 231b9–c3: 170
V, 477b10–11: 9 231b9–c2: 146, 210 n. 23
V, 477c1–d6: 110 n. 26 231d2–e7: 146, 213 n. 28
V, 477c6–d5: 9, 102 n. 5 231d2–3: 143 n. 12
V, 478a6: 9 231d5–6: 144 n. 13
VI–VII: 30 n. 30 232a1–6: 146, 210 n. 23
VI, 488d4–489a2: 203 n. 3 232b1–12: 147
VI, 506d2–509c4: 99 232b12–e5: 147
VI, 509d1–511e5: 136 n. 83, 241 n. 89 232e6–233a4: 147
VII, 514a1–520d5: 44 233c6–8: 92, 147
VII, 516c8–d2: 132 n. 74 233d3–4: 147
VII, 518b6–c2: 11 234b1–c1: 147
VII, 518d9–519b6: 11 234c2–235a9: 147
VII, 520c1–6: 44, 133 235a10–b3: 243 n. 94
VII, 523a10–525a5: 108 n. 20 235c9–236c8: 147
VII, 523a10–524d6: 30 235d2–3: 148 n. 20
VII, 539e2–540b7: 12 n. 35 235d7: 141
X, 596a5–7: 31 n. 32, 162 n. 55 236c6–7: 243
X, 601c3–602c3: 147 n. 18 236c9–d3: 148 n. 20
X, 602c7–603a9: 108 n. 20 236d2–3: 243 n. 94
Sophist (Sph.) 236e1–237a1: 148
216a1–d2: 203 237a8–9: 93, 148
216a1–2: 1 237b7–e7: 93
216d3–217b4: 203 238a1–c12: 93
216d3–217a4: 201 238c8–239a11: 204 n. 6
217c3–7: 2, 138 238d1–239c8: 93
217d1–3: 139 239c6–7: 243 n. 94
218b6–c7: 139–40 239c9–240c6: 94
Plato Sph. (cont.) 250d2–3: 207

240b5: 93, 158 250d3–4: 16
240c7–241b3: 94 250d4: 209, 227
240d6–7: 93, 158 250d5–251a4: 16, 100, 148, 204
241a3–c3: 94 250d5–e5: 100, 210
241d1–7: 94 250e5–251a3: 6, 162, 209, 210
243d8–244b5: 94, 206 251a5–252e8: 149, 153
244b6–245e5: 15 251a8–b4: 93 n. 34
244b6–d13: 95 251b6–c2: 93, 148
244d14–245d11: 95 252a5–10: 81 n. 12
244d14–e8: 207 252b8–10: 93 n. 34
245a8–9: 95 252e1–253c3: 150
245e6–249d8: 16, 95–100 252e9–253a12: 150
246d4–9: 78 n. 6 253b9–e5: 150
247c2–7: 78 n. 6 253b9–e2: 205, 223–4
247d8–e4: 16, 42–3 n. 68, 96, 229 253b9–c3: 211–12
247d8–e3: 238 253c1–2: 240
247e3–4: 99 253c2–3: 224
248a4–249b7: 15 253c6–9: 204
248a10–13: 96–7, 236 253d1–3: 212
248b2–4: 97 253d1: 212 n. 27
248b5–6: 97, 231–2 253d5–e2: 212
248b6–8: 99–100 253d5–7: 208
248c4–5: 238 253d5: 212–13 n. 27
248c7–9: 97, 237 253d7–8: 207
248d10–e5: 97, 152 n. 32, 209, 237 253d8–9: 205
248e7–249c9: 237 253e1: 212–13 n. 27
248e7–249b7: 97 253e4–254b4: 204
249b2–3: 97 253e7–8: 6
249b5–6: 97 254a4–6: 243 n. 94
249b8–10: 97 254a8–b1: 6
249b12–c1: 97 254b3–4: 6
249c3–8: 97 254b8–257a12: 149
249c3–4: 97 254b8–d6: 227 n. 55
249c10–d5: 98, 204 n. 6 254b8–d2: 150
249c10–d4: 16, 81 254c4–6: 153
249d1: 99 n. 47 254d4–255e7: 153
249d3–4: 205, 207 n. 11, 210 n. 23, 229 254d4–13: 153, 227
249d6–7: 16, 99, 205, 206 254d7–8: 157, 227 n. 55
249d9–250d4: 16, 99, 148, 152 n. 32, 176, 254d10–255c8: 157
205, 213, 227 254d10: 173 n. 5
249d9–11: 16, 206 254d14–255c8: 227
250a8–c5: 206, 227 254d14–255b7: 153
250a8–9: 16, 77, 100, 148, 153, 206, 209, 254e3–254b4: 204
210 n. 23 253e7–8: 6
250a11–c2: 148 255b8–c8: 153, 163, 166, 173
250a11–12: 173 n. 5, 208 255b13–14: 164 n. 61
250a11–b7: 206 255c12–13 (Burnet): 7 n. 18
250b8–c8: 77 255c13–e7: 7, 154, 166
250b8–c2: 207 255c13–d7: 61, 166
250b8–11: 173 n. 5 255c13–14: 7 n. 18, 164 n. 61
250b11: 208 255d1: 161
250c3–d4: 148, 209 255d4–6: 175
250c3–4: 16, 99, 207, 209 255e3–6: 153, 208
250c6–7: 16, 140 n. 5, 176, 209, 210 n. 22 255e8–256d10: 155–6
250c9–d3: 210 n. 22 256a1: 163, 165, 173, 175, 208
250c12–d3: 16, 65 n. 44, 77, 209, 210 n. 23, 227 256a7–8: 163
256a10–b4: 156 267a10–b2: 183 n. 18

256a12–b2: 53, 163, 164, 174 267b4–e4: 171
256b2–4: 163 268b10–c4: 143 n. 11
256b6–8: 152 n. 31, 155, 157, 167 n. 67, 227 268c8–d4: 170 n.71
256b8: 157 n. 44 268d5: 201 n. 51
256c4–5: 163, 164 n. 61
256d8–9: 173 n. 5 Statesman (Stm.)
256d11–e8: 158 257a1–b7: 203
256d11–12: 157 257c3–5: 204
256e3–4: 173 n. 5 257c10–11: 201 n. 54
256e6–7: 157, 157 n. 43 257d1–258a3: 177, 201
257a1–12: 156 n. 41, 162 258a3–6: 201 n. 54
257b1–258c6: 157 258a3–4: 1
257b3–c4: 158 258b2–c2: 2 n. 6, 101 n. 1
257b3–4: 7, 158 258b2–3: 204
257c7–d5: 159 258b3–5: 178
257c7–d3: 184 258b7–11: 178
257d7–13: 160 258d8–e2: 181 n. 13
257d11–13: 158–9 n. 47 258e4–5: 181 nn. 11, 13
257e2–5: 160 258e8–259c9: 101 n. 2
257e9–258c6: 184 258e8–11: 179
258a11–b4: 158 n. 45 259b9–10: 179 n. 9
258a11–b1: 165 n. 63 259c6–8: 179
258a11: 162 259c10–d2: 181 n. 11
258b9–c4: 31, 35 n. 42, 152 259d4–5: 181 n. 12
258b11–c4: 73, 161 259d7–260c5: 181
258b11: 161 260c6–261b3: 181
258c6–259a1: 158 n. 45 260d11–e9: 183 n. 18
258c10–11: 161 260e8–9: 179 n. 10
258d5–259b7: 7 261b4–d3: 181
258d5–7: 161 261d4–11: 181
258d7: 140 n. 5, 210 n. 23 261e1–7: 183 n. 18
258e6–259a1: 7, 158 n. 45 262a3–4: 181
259a1–b7: 162 262a5–263b12: 178 n. 5
259a5–6: 208 262a9–c1: 182
259a6–7: 173 n. 5 262c10–263a1: 31, 162, 182
259b1–7: 162 263b1–2: 178 n. 6
259e5–6: 243 n. 95 263b6–11: 182
260c11–d1: 243 n. 94 264a1–3: 182
261d1–262a8: 167 264e6: 183
262a9–c7: 167 265a1–5: 183
262e4–263d5: 167 265c2–4: 183 n. 18
262e6–7: 167 266e4–11: 183
263a9: 167 n. 68 267a8–c3: 182
263b2–13: 167 267e1–268d1: 184
263b11–12: 157 n. 43 267e1–268a4: 181, 185
263c9–11: 94 268c5–11: 185
263d6–264b5: 121 268d8–e2: 185
263d6–264a3: 169 271d6–e2: 186
263d6–8: 169 271e3–7: 186
264a4–b2: 81 271e7–8: 186
264a4–6: 169 273e4–6: 186
264b1–2: 169 274b1–d8: 185
264b2–4: 169 274b1–2: 186
264b11–c9: 148 n. 20 274b4–d8: 186
265b8–10: 176 274d8–275a6: 187
267a1–e7: 243 274e9–275a6: 185
Plato Stm. (cont.) 299b2–e5: 193

275a3–6: 194 299b2–8: 203 n. 3
275a3–5: 179 n. 10 299b6–8: 193
275a4: 187 301b10–d7: 197
275b1–7: 187 301c11–d2: 193 n. 35, 198
275b3–7: 179 n. 7 303b8–c5: 11
275c9–276c3: 187 n. 25 303c4–5: 172, 194
276d8–277a2: 187–8 n. 26 303d9–e5: 195
277a3–c6: 185, 188 303e7–305e7: 195
277d1–278d7: 188–9, 221 303e7–304a4: 195 n. 41
277d1–7: 188 n. 27 303e10: 195 n. 41
277e2–278c2: 135 n. 80 304a6–c6: 195
277e6–8: 127 304b11–c6: 179 n. 10
278c8–d6: 4, 127, 188 304c7–e2: 195
278e8: 203 n. 2 304e3–11: 195
279a7–b6: 190 305a1–2: 179 n. 10
279c7–280a7: 191 305b1–c9: 195
280a8–283a9: 226 n. 54 305d1–e7: 179 n. 10
280a8–281d4: 191 305d1–5: 190 n. 30, 195, 200
281d5–282a5: 192 305e2–6: 195
282a6–283a9: 192 306a1–3: 198
283a3–8: 196 306a5–c2: 198
283b1–3: 196 306c10–e13: 198
283c3–287a6: 196–7 307a1–b4: 198
283c3–6: 196 307b5–c2: 198
283d8–9: 196 n. 44 308c1–7: 199
284a8–b2: 197 308d1–e3: 199
284b4–c4: 190 n. 30, 196 308d6–e2: 199 n. 47, 200
284c1: 196 309c1–2: 199
284d1–2: 178 n. 6 309c5–8: 199
284d6: 196 n. 44 310a1–5: 187 n. 25, 200
284e2–8: 196 310e5–7: 199
285a4–b6: 226 n.54 311a4–9: 200
285c8–d7: 202 311b7–c7: 179 n. 10
285c8–d4: 5 311b8: 190 n. 30, 200
285d5–8: 5, 244 311c8: 201 n. 53
285d9–286b1: 107, 141, 202 311c9–10: 200, 200–1
286d4–287a6: 244
287b4–289c3: 192 Symposium (Smp.)
287c3–5: 189, 191, 226 n. 54 210d3–e1: 36 n. 46
287c6–290e9: 226 n. 54 210e6–211a5: 24
288e9–289a5: 192 Theaetetus (Tht.)
289c8–d2: 190 n. 30, 192 142c5–143b4: 12
289d4–290e9: 192 142c5–6: 2 n. 5, 103 n. 9
291a1–303d3: 187–8 n. 26, 192–4 143d1–6: 241
292b12–c3: 187 n. 25. 143d3: 241 n. 87
293a6–c4: 244 143e4–144b6: 104
293b1–c3: 192 143e4–144a1: 178 n. 4
293d8–e2: 193 n. 35 144a2–5: 89
293e7–9: 197 144b8–c5: 129
294a10–b6: 197 144c5: 129
294e9–295a3: 187 n. 25 145d7–e7: 102, 105
295a5: 197 145d11: 90, 102, 140 n. 4, 181 n. 12
295e4–296a3: 187 n. 25 145e1–7: 91
296d7–297b3: 193, 244 146c7–d3: 9, 105, 179 n. 8
296e4–297a2: 192 146d4–147c6: 159
298a1–e3: 172, 193 146e9–10: 134 n.75
147a2: 134 n. 75 174b1–6: 87, 91, 130, 140 n. 5

147c4–6: 2, 91, 106 174e5–175b4: 88
147c7–148c1: 106 174e5: 87, 89
146c7–147c6: 159 175a1–2: 89
147d8–e1: 106 n. 18 175c1–3: 88, 130
148d4–7: 106 n. 18 175c2–3: 91
149d5–6: 90 n. 27 175c4–8: 88
151e1–3: 106 175c8–d7: 88
151e8–152a4: 81 175d7–176a1: 88
152a2–4: 78 176a8–b2: 88
152a6–8: 81 176e3–4: 88
152b2–8: 81 176e4–177a2: 88
152b2–4: 83 177b8: 86
152b10–c3: 81 177c3–5: 241
152c5–6: 82, 107 177c6–d2: 80
152d2–e1: 82 177c7: 82
152d2–4: 83 177d2–179b9: 80
152d4–6: 83 178a5–179b5: 131 n. 71
152d7–e1: 83 179c2–5: 81, 85, 87 n. 22, 108, 117
152e1–153d7: 79, 82 179d2–180d7: 79
152e2: 79 179d3: 82
153e4–5: 83 n. 15 179e7–8: 85
154c1–5: 90 180d7–181b4: 15
155b7–c2: 238 180d7–181a1: 79
156a2–157a7: 83 180d7: 82
156a4–5: 82 180e1–4: 89
156a5: 99 n. 47 180e1: 99 n. 47
156b2–7: 90 180e5–181b4: 80, 81, 98
156e9–157a1: 83 n. 15 180e5–181a1: 80
157a7–b8: 84 181b1–4: 94
157a7–b1: 83 n. 15 181b4–184a9: 15
157b8–c3: 84 181b6–7: 80
157e1–158d6: 90 181b8–183b6: 80, 84 n. 17, 85
159e7–160a1: 84 181c2–d6: 85
160b5–8: 84 181c2: 82
160b5–7: 82. 181c6–d7: 227
160b10–c2: 83 n. 15 181d8–182a2: 85
160d5–e4: 78 182b4–5: 83 n. 15
160e6–179b9: 80 182c9–10: 86
161d1–162a3: 131 n. 71 183a2–b6: 86
163b1–c4: 132 183b7–c3: 80
166b2–4: 90 183c1–3: 79
166c9–167d2: 90 183c8–d2: 80
170a6–171c7: 80, 90 183e3–184a9: 80
170a6–b7: 131 n. 71 183e5–184a2: 2, 139
171d9–e3: 80 184a7: 86
171e3–9: 80 184a9–186e12: 91, 107–20, 151
172a1–5: 80 184b7–d5: 109
172a5–b2: 80 184c5–9: 110
172b2–8: 80 184d1–6: 112
172b8–177c2: 80, 86–9 184d7–e3: 112
173b7–c6: 241 184d7–e2: 119
173d3–4: 87 184e8–185a2: 110
173d9–10: 87 185a4–b6: 110
173e1–174a2: 87 185a8–b5: 112
174a4–b1: 203 n. 3 185a8–9: 91
174a4–8: 87 185b6: 112
Plato Tht. (cont.) 201b8–c2: 124

185b7–c8: 111 201c7–d3: 125
185b7–9: 108–9 n. 22, 110 201d8–202c5: 125
185c1–2: 112 201e2: 125
185c1: 111 n. 28 201e3–202b3: 125
185c3: 112 202b3–6: 125, 243 n. 95
185c4–8: 110, 113 202b6–7: 125
185c4–7: 108–9 n. 2 202b7–8: 125
185c9–d1: 108–9 n. 22 202d8–e1: 125
185d2–3: 113 202e3–203c3: 127, 128
185d6–e2: 113 202e3–203b8: 141 n. 7
185d8–e2: 108–9 n. 22 203b2–8: 128, 221–2
185e1–2: 111 203b3–4: 130
185e3–9: 111 203c4–205e8: 32, 125–6
185e3–5: 91, 114 205d7–e7: 126
185e6–7: 114 206a1–b12: 126, 135, 188 n. 28
186a2–3: 114 206a5–b11: 126
186a4–8: 114 206a5–8: 37 n. 51, 126, 130, 136
186a9: 91, 114 206b7–9: 135
186a10–b1: 114 206c1–5: 127
186b2–10: 115 206d1–e3: 127
186b2–4: 117 206e6–207d2: 2
186b2: 114, 115 206e6–207a1: 128
186b6: 115, 115–16 n. 39 207a3–d2: 128
186b11–c5: 115 n. 36, 116 207a3–7: 133
186b11–c2: 117, 118 207b8–c4: 133
186c2: 118 207d3–208b10: 128, 131 n. 71, 135
186c7–10: 107 207e7–208a11: 127
186d2–5: 117 208a9–10: 128
186d2: 117 n. 44, 118 208c7–209c11: 2
186d10–e1: 117 208c7–8: 122, 128–9
186e2–3: 117 208c7: 129 n. 70
187a3–6: 120 208d1–3: 129
187a7–8: 120 209b2–c11: 129, 178 n. 4
187a9–b3: 120 209c5–d2: 130
187b5–6: 120 209c7: 129 n. 70
188c10–189b9: 120 209d4–5: 131
188d9–10: 120 209d5–e5: 131
189b1–2: 120 209e7–210a9: 131
189e6–190a7: 121, 169 210a9–b2: 102, 131
191c8–e1: 122 210d2–4: 2 n. 5, 89, 103 n. 9
191d4–e1: 130 210d4: 2
191d5–8: 123
191d5: 122 n. 55 Timaeus (Ti.)
191d8: 129 n. 70 25a3–5: 207 n. 12
192a2: 129 n. 70 28a4–b2: 88 n. 24
192b3: 129 n. 70 28a4–b1: 35 n. 44
193b9–d2: 122 28a8: 88 n. 24
193c7: 129n. 70 28c5–29b1: 88 n. 24
194a6–195a9: 122 29b3–d3: 125 n. 61
194a6–7: 129 n. 70 31a2–8: 207 n. 12
194d4: 129 n. 70 31a4: 207 n. 14
196d2–197a6: 124 n. 59 33b2–7: 207 n. 12
200c7–d2: 124 n. 59 34a1–7: 186 n. 24
200d5–201c6: 124–5 45b2–d3: 118 n. 47
201a4–c6: 103 46c7–e6: 118 n. 47
201a10–b4: 124 46c7–d1: 35 n. 44
46e6–7: 118 n. 47 Proclus

47e3–53b5: 73 n. 57
Procli Commentarium in Platonis Parmenidem
49c2–4: 35 n. 44
(In Parm.) [= Cousin]
50c4–7: 38 n. 53
694, 23–25: 20 n. 5
50c7–e1: 35 n. 44
51b6–e6: 31 n. 31 Sextus Empiricus [= Bury]
51d3–e6: 125 n. 61
51e6–52b5: 38 n. 53 Against the Professors (Math.)
52a2–3: 38 n. 53 I.99–103: 221–2 n. 47
52a4–5: 38 n. 53
57d7–58a1: 230 Simplicius
57e3–6: 234 Simplicii in Aristotles Physicorum Lobros Quattuor
64b3–6: 118 Priores Commentaria (In Phys.) [= Diels]
67b2–4: 225, 229 140, 28–30 (= DK 29B3): 20 n. 6
71a7–b1: 35 n. 44
76c1–d3: 32 n. 35 Zeno
80a3–b5: 220 n. 43 DK 29B3: 20 n. 6
Index of Names
Ackrill, J. L. 123 n. 57, 149–50 n. 25, 154 n. 37, Burnyeat, M. F. 12 n. 36, 13 n. 37, 37 n. 51,
173 n. 1, 174, 184 n. 19 39 n. 55, 104 n. 12, 105 n. 16
Adam C. and P. Tannery 24 n. 17 on Tht. Pt. I 78 n. 7, 80 n. 11, 83 n. 14,
Agócs, P. 13 n. 37 84 nn. 16, 17; 85 n. 19
Allen, R. E. Final Argument of 108 n. 20, 109,
on Prm. Pt. I: 33 n. 39, 34 n. 40, 39 n. 57, 110 nn. 26, 27; 111 n. 28,
40 n. 59, 217 n. 38 117 n. 44, 118 n. 48, 119 nn. 49, 50
on Prm. Pt. II: 49 n. 9, 50 nn. 12, 13; 59 n. 35, on Tht. Pt. II 101–2 n. 3, 121, 124 n. 60
63 n. 41, 66 n. 46, 229 n. 59 on Tht. Pt. III 32 n. 36, 126 nn. 62, 64;
Albritton, R. 36 n. 49 129, 129 n. 69
Annas, J. 9 n. 25 Bury, R. G. 215 n. 34, 222 n. 47
Anscombe, G. E. M. 21 n. 7
Armstrong, D. M. 8 n. 22 Campbell, L. 1 n. 3, 84 n. 16, 98 n. 44,
Asmis, E. 243 n. 93 201 n. 53, 206 n. 10, 241 n. 87
Cavini, W. 181 n. 11, 184 n. 20
Barker, A. 214 n. 31, 219 n. 42, 220 n. 44 Chappell, T. D. J. 101–2 n. 3
Barnes, J. 24 n. 17 Charles, D. 191 n. 32
Barney, R. 77 n. 3, 119 n. 51, 140 n. 6, Cherniss, H. 9–10 n. 26, 34 n. 41, 72–3
221–2 n. 47 Chrysakopoulou, S. 57 n. 34, 59 n. 35
Bastiani, G. and D. Sedley 2 n. 8, 103 n. 7 Code, A. 161 n. 52, 174 n. 8
Bengson, J. and M. Moffett 9 n. 24 Cohen, S. M. 35 n. 45, 182 n. 15
Blondell, R. 2 nn. 4, 5; 104 nn. 11, 13; Cooper, J. M. 69 n. 51, 119 n. 51, 195 n. 41,
177 n. 2, 190 n. 31 242 n. 92, 243 n. 93
Bluck, R. S. 96 n. 40, 98 n. 46, 162 n. 54, on Tht. 108–9 n. 22, 109 n. 23, 111 n. 28,
188 n. 27, 238 n. 81 111–12 n. 29, 114 n. 34, 115 n. 38,
Bobonich, C. 26 n. 24 116 n. 41
Bostock, D. 9–10 n. 26, 22 n. 13, 22–3 n. 13, Cornford, F. M. 79 n. 10, 220 n. 43
49 n. 9 on Prm. 19–20 n. 1, 34 n. 41, 49 n. 9, 50 nn. 12,
on Sph. 93 n. 34, 98 n. 45, 101 n. 2, 13; 56 n. 31, 59 n. 35, 60 n. 37, 69 n. 51
153 n. 35, 157 n. 43, 158–9 n. 47, on Philosopher 1 n. 3, 13 n. 39, 201 n. 54
164 nn. 59, 61; 173 n. 3 on Sph. 93 n. 33, 96 n. 40, 98 nn. 44, 45; 99 n. 48,
on Tht. 84 n. 16, 101–2 n. 3, 106 n. 17, 147–8 n. 19, 149–50 n. 25, 150 n. 2 7,
108–9 n. 22, 111 n. 28, 114 nn. 33, 34; 157 n. 44, 165 n. 63; 173 n. 1, 179 n. 8,
115–16 n. 39, 117 nn. 43, 45; 124 nn. 58, 207 n. 11, 208 n. 16, 212 n. 25, 228 n. 57
60; 134 n. 75, 135 nn. 77, 79 on Tht. 9 n. 23, 77 n. 2, 79 n. 10, 101–2 n. 3,
Bradley, F. H. 41 108–9 n. 22, 109 n. 23, 129 n. 68,
Brisson, L. 57 n. 34, 59 n. 35, 185 n. 23 131 n. 73, 241 n. 87
Broackes, J. 109 n. 23, 109–10 n. 25, Cousin, V. 20 n. 5
115–16 n. 39, 238 n. 80 Crivelli, P. 123 n. 57, 167 n. 68
Brown, L. 83 n. 13, 84 n. 16 Crombie, I. M. 27 n. 26, 33 n. 39, 117 n. 45,
on Sph. 95 n. 39, 96 n. 40, 97 n. 43, 98 n. 45, 160 n. 51, 182 n. 16
99 n. 48, 154 n. 37, 155 n. 39, 158–9 n. 47, Curd, P. K. 19 n. 4, 62 n. 39, 78 n. 5
161 n. 52, 165–6 n. 64, 168 n. 70,
170 n. 72, 173, 175–6, 176 n. 11, Dancy, R. M. 7 n. 18, 24 n. 17, 83 n. 14,
178 n. 5, 210 n. 23, 236 nn. 75, 76 84 nn. 16, 17; 87 n. 22, 90 n. 27,
Brown, M. and J. Coulter 243 n. 93 154 n. 37, 164 n. 62
Burge, E. L. 22 n. 13, 24 n. 17 Davidson, D. 1 n. 3
Burkert, W. 87 n. 22 De Chiara-Quenzer, D. 194 n. 39
Burnet, J. 7 n. 18, 25 n. 21, 50 n. 11, 215 Delcomminette, S. 203–4 n. 4
INDEX OF NAMES 275
Denyer, N. 25–6 n. 23, 84 n. 16 on Sph. and Stm. 107 n. 19, 161 n. 52, 189 n. 29
Devereux, D. 25–6 n. 23, 29 n. 27, 35 n. 44 Gill, M. L. and P. Ryan 18–19 n. 1, 35 n. 44,
Diels, H. 20 n. 6 45 n. 1, 59 n. 35, 69 n. 51
Diès, A. 57 n. 34, 59 n. 35, 96 nn. 40, 41; Goldschmidt, V. 188 n. 27
160 n. 51, 201 n. 54 Gómez-Lobo, A. 212 n. 25, 224
Dillon, J. M. 20 n. 5 Gosling, J. C. B. 27 n. 26, 215 n. 34, 217 n. 37,
Dodds, E. R. 50 n. 12 218 n. 40, 220 n. 44, 222 n. 50
Dorter, K. 1 n. 3, 9 n. 23, 131 n. 73, 182 n. 16, Grote, G. 96 n. 40
193 n. 36, 194 n. 39 Grube, G. M. A. 98 n. 46
Dreyfus, H. L. 10 n. 30, 12 n. 35 Guthrie, W. K. C. 1 n. 3
Duke, E. A. et al. 7 n. 18, 25 n. 21, 157 n. 44,
173 n. 5, 200 n. 49, 201 Hackforth, R. 215 n. 34
Hagen, D. 119 n. 51
Eck, J. van 156 n. 42, 157 n. 43 Hamilton, E. and H. Cairns 56 n. 31
El Murr, D. 25 n. 21, 127 n. 66, 188 n. 27, Hankinson, R. J. 22–3 n. 13, 24 n. 17
190 n. 31, 191 n. 32, 194 n. 39, Hardie, W. F. R. 57 n. 34, 59 n. 36, 60 n. 37
195 n. 41, 200 n. 48, 204 n. 5, 212 n. 26 Harte, V. 32 n. 36, 66 n. 46, 95 n. 37,
126 nn. 62, 64; 221 n. 46, 222 n. 51
Ferejohn, M. 160 n. 51, 161 n. 52 Hayduck, M. 34 n. 41
Ferrari, J. 146 n. 17, 185 n. 23 Heck, R. 116 n. 41
Fine, G. 9 n. 25, 31 n. 32, 34 n. 40, 36 n. 49, Heinaman, R. 8 n. 19, 161 n. 53, 164 n. 62,
154 n. 37, 162 n. 54, 217 n. 38 173 n. 5, 176 n. 13
on Phd. 25–6 n. 23, 29 n. 27, 35 n. 44 Heindorf, L. F. 69 n. 51, 157 n. 44
on Tht. 8 n. 22, 90 n. 28, 101–2 n. 3, Heitsch, E. 105 n. 15, 108–9 n. 22, 110 n. 26
126 n. 64, 129 n. 68, 134 n. 75, 135, Henry, D. 179 n. 8, 182 n. 16
135 nn. 78, 79; 222 n. 51 Hestir, B. E. 167 n. 68
Fisher, T. 126 nn. 62, 64 Hett, W. S. 221
Fodor, J. 116 n. 41 Hutchinson, D. 89 n. 26
Foster, B. R. 181 n. 14
Franklin, L. 146 n. 17, 152 n. 33, 170 n. 72, Irwin, T. H. 23 n. 14, 27 n. 26, 83 n. 14
182 n. 16
Frede, D. Jacobson, P. 222 n. 49
on Tht. 109 n. 23, 121 n. 52, 126 n. 63, Johansen, T. K. 118 n. 46
131 n. 72 Johnson, W. 13 n. 37
on Phlb. 212 n. 31, 215 n. 34, 222 n. 51 Jones, W. H. R. 24 n. 18
Frede, M. 22 n. 12, 87 n. 22, 116 n. 42 Jordan, R. W. 27 n. 25
on Sph. 1 n. 3, 2 n. 5, 51, 139 n. 3,
152 n. 32, 154 n. 37, 157 n. 43, Kahn, C. H. 74 n. 58, 86 n. 20, 90 n. 29,
158–9 n. 47, 162 n. 54, 164 n. 62, 101–2 n. 3, 109 n. 23, 202–3 n. 1
165–6 n. 64, 173–5, 173 n. 3, Kanayama, Y. 79 n. 9, 111 n. 28, 114 n. 33,
175 n. 10, 176, 184 n. 21, 210 n. 23 116 n. 41, 117 n. 43
Friedländer, P. 1 n. 3, 13 n. 39, 49 n. 9, 50 n. 13, Kato, S. 188 n. 27
56 n. 32, 65 n. 45, 80 n. 11, 90 n. 29, Kerferd, G. B. 140 n. 6
96 n. 40, 98 n. 46, 200 n. 49 Keyt, D. 7 n. 16, 97 n. 43, 98 n. 45, 158–9 n. 47,
Fujisawa, N. 42 n. 67 238 n. 81
Kirk, G. S., J. E. Raven, and M. Schofield 177 n. 1
Gavrilov, A. K. 13 n. 37 Klein, J. 1 n. 3
Geach, P. T. 35 n. 43, 167 n. 67, 238 nn. 80, 82 Knox, B. 13 n. 37
Gerson, L .P. 25 n. 20, 98 n. 45 Koethe, J. 9 n. 24
Gettier, E. L. 8 n. 22 Kosman, L. A. 232 n. 65
Gill, M. L. 38 n. 53, 128 n. 67, 193 n. 37, Krämer, H. J. 13 n. 38
215 n. 32, 232 n. 65, 242 n. 91 Kuritzkes, J. 168 n. 70
on Prm. Pt. I 19 n. 2, 33 n. 38, 35 nn. 43, 45;
39 n. 55, 40 nn. 59, 61 Lafrance, Y. 196 n. 43
on Prm. Pt. II 50 n. 13, 52 n. 18, 57 n. 34, Lane, M. S. 104 n. 12, 141 n. 8, 179 n. 8,
59 n. 35, 65 n. 43, 66 n. 46, 70 n. 52, 184 n. 20, 185 n. 22, 195 n. 42,
74 n. 58, 175 n. 10 196 n. 43
276 INDEX OF NAMES
Lee, E. N. 158 n. 46, 159 n. 48, 160 n. 51, Nails, D. 103 n. 8

165 n. 63, 176 n. 13 Natali, C. 193 n. 37
Lee, M.-K. 78 n. 7, 79 n. 9, 83 n. 13, 84 n. 16, Nehamas, A. 72 n. 54, 93 n. 33, 105 n. 14,
90 n. 28 134 n. 75, 135 n. 79, 145 n. 15, 174 n. 8
Leigh, F. 154 n. 37, 175 n. 10 Nightingale, A. 243 n. 93
Levett, M. J. and M. F. Burnyeat 114 n. 33 Norlin G. 243 n. 93
Lewis, F. A. 72 n. 54, 210 n. 22 Notomi, N. 1 n. 3, 7 n. 15, 96 n. 40, 143 n. 11,
Liddell, H. G. and R. Scott (= LSJ) 22 n. 12 146 n. 17, 204 n. 6, 205 n. 7
Lloyd, A. C. 24 n. 17
Long, A. A. 1 n. 5, 145 n. 15 Osborne, C. 102 n. 6
Lorenz, H. 79 n. 9, 108 n. 20, 111 n. 28, 113 n. 32, Owen, G. E. L. 9–10 n. 26, 21 n. 8, 126 n. 64,
114 nn. 33, 34; 116 n. 40, 122 n. 55 202–3 n. 1
on Prm. 49 n. 9, 50 n. 13, 65 n. 43
Mabbott, J. D. 161 n. 52, 168 n. 70 on Sph. 2 n. 14, 93 nn. 34, 35; 96 n. 40,
McCabe, M. M. 27 n. 25, 40 n. 59, 47 n. 5, 98 n. 46, 148 n. 22, 154 n. 37, 157 n. 43,
95 n. 38, 150 n. 27, 233 n. 68 158 n. 46, 158–9 n. 47, 164 nn. 59, 61;
McDowell, J. 10 n. 30, 157 n. 43 165 n. 63, 173–4, 177, 176, 176 n. 11,
on Tht. 78 n. 7, 84 n. 16, 101–2 n. 3, 204 n. 6, 210 n. 23, 238
113 n. 32, 114 nn. 33, 35; 115–16 n. 39,
117 n. 44, 126 n. 62, 129 n. 68, Palmer, J. A. 78 n. 5, 99 n. 48
134 n. 75, 238 n. 80, 241 n. 87 Panagiotou, S. 1 n. 3, 33 n. 39
McKirahan, R. D. 79 n. 10 Patterson, R. 141 n. 8
McPherran, M. L. 42–3 n. 68 Pelletier, F. J. 160 n. 51
Makin, S. 24 n. 17 Peterson, S. 18–19 n. 1, 37 n. 51, 152 n. 34
Malcolm, J. 7 n. 18, 24 nn. 16, 17; 73 n. 55, on Prm. 41 n. 64, 46 nn. 3, 4; 48 n. 8, 49 n. 9,
93 n. 34, 154 nn. 36, 37, 38; 163 n. 58, 50 n. 12, 51 n. 15, 52 n. 19, 53–5,
164 nn. 60, 62; 175 n. 10, 228 n. 57 53 n. 22, 54 nn. 24, 25
Mann, T. 239 Pinotti, G. M. de 160 n. 51, 161 n. 52, 184 n. 21
Mann, W.-R. 233 n. 68 Polansky, R. M. 87 n. 22, 90 n. 27, 101–2 n. 3
Mansfeld, J. 19 n. 2 Price, H. H. 161 n. 52, 168 n. 70
Marrou, H. I. 126 n. 64 Prior, W. J. 38 n. 53, 41 n. 64
Mates, B. 25 n. 20
Matthen, M. 21 n. 8, 83 n. 13, 84 n. 18 Rawson, G. 141 n. 7
Meinwald, C. 233 n. 68 Reeve, C. D. C. 8 n. 19, 98 n. 46, 119 n. 51,
on Prm. 50 n. 12, 51–5, 52 n. 17, 54 nn. 23, 210 n. 23, 227 n. 55, 238 n. 81
25; 56 n. 32, 59 n. 35, 69 n. 51 Rickless, S. C. 35 n. 44, 40 n. 59, 49 n. 9,
on Phlb. 214 n. 31, 215 nn. 32, 33; 217–18 n. 39 52 n. 18, 59 n. 35, 65 n. 43
Mendell, H. 40 n. 59 Rijk, L. M. de 96 n. 40, 160 n. 51
Menn, S. 221 Roberts, J. 93 n. 34, 210 n. 23
Migliori, M. 13 n. 38, 203–4 n. 4 Robinson, D. 201 n. 53
Mignucci, M. 39 n. 57 Robinson, R. 2 n. 7, 60 n. 37, 135 n. 77
Miller, M. 219 n. 42, 241 n. 88 Rosen, S. 141 n. 8, 177 n. 2
on Prm. 19 n. 2, 49 n. 9, 50 n. 12, 52 n. 18 Ross, W. D. 9 n. 23, 57 n. 33, 131 n. 73,
on Stm. 1 n. 3, 2 n. 5, 177 n. 2, 181 n. 14, 149–50 n. 25, 158–9 n. 47
191 nn. 32, 33; 194 n. 39 Rowe, C. J. 9 n. 25, 185 n. 23, 194 n. 39, 243 n. 93
Modrak, D. M. 110 n. 26, 111 n. 28, Rue, R. 88 n. 25
111–12 n. 29 Runciman, W. G. 50 n. 11, 102 n. 5, 174 n. 6,
Moline, J. 24 n. 18 238 n. 81
Monro, D. B. and T. W. Allen 181 n. 14 Russell, B. 50 n. 13
Moravcsik, J. M. E. 93 n. 34, 96 n. 40, 98 n. 46, Ryan, P. 56 n. 32, 59 n. 35, 199 n. 47,
162 n. 54, 182 nn. 15, 16; 184 n. 21, 206 n. 10, 228 n. 56
238 n. 81 Ryle, G. 90 n. 29, 182 n. 16, 201 n. 51,
Morrison, D. 29 n. 27 221–2 n. 47
Morrow, G. R. and J. M. Dillon 20 n. 5 on knowing how 9 n. 24, 10 n. 29, 11 n. 31
Moss, J. 147 n. 18 on negation 161 n. 52, 168 n. 70
Mourelatos, A. P. D. 19 n. 4, 78 n. 5 on Prm. 29–30 n. 29, 41 n. 62, 50 n. 13, 59 n.
Muniz, F. and G. Rudebusch 215–16 35, 150–1, 150 n. 28
INDEX OF NAMES 277
Sayre, K. M. 9–10 n. 26, 13 n. 38, 49 n. 9, Taylor, A. E. 1 n. 3, 50 n. 11, 57 n. 34,

50 n. 12, 52 n. 18, 59 n. 35, 69 n. 51, 96 n. 40, 207 n. 14
99 n. 48, 101 n. 2, 196 n. 43, 212 n. 25, Taylor, C. 12 n. 35
218 n. 40 Taylor, C. C. W. 10 n. 30, 145 n. 15
Scaltsas, T. 36 n. 47 Teloh, H. 24 n. 17
Schofield, M. 34 n. 41, 40 nn. 59, 61; 50 n. 13, Thesleff, H. 205 n. 7
60 n. 37, 119 n. 51 Thomas, C. J. 93 n. 35, 165–6 n. 64,
Scolnikov, S. 49 n. 9, 59 n. 35, 175 n. 10, 204 n. 6
65 n. 44, 74 n. 58 Tuozzo, T. 141 n. 7
Sedley, D. N. Turnbull, R. G. 49 n. 9, 50 nn. 11, 12;
on Phd. 22 n. 12, 22–3 n. 13, 24 nn. 17, 19 52 n. 18, 59 n. 35, 69 n. 51
on Tht. 9 n. 23, 77 nn. 1, 2; 86 n. 21, 89 n. 26,
90 n. 28, 101–2 n. 3, 103 n. 7, 106 n. 17, Usher, S. 3 n. 8
112 n. 30, 126 n. 63, 129 n. 69, 131 n. 73,
134 n. 75 Vlastos, G. 35 n. 43, 72 n. 54
Sefrin-Weis, H. 106 n. 18 Vries, W. de 153 n. 35, 164 n. 60
Segal, Z. 168 n. 70
Sellars, W. F. 35 n. 43, 136 n. 82 Waterlow, S. 232 n. 65, 237 n. 79
Shorey, P. 74 n. 58 Wedberg, A. 25 n. 20
Silverman, A. 118 n. 46, Wedin, M. V. 94 n. 36,
153 n. 35, 174 n. 8 182 n. 15, 184 n. 21
Sinaiko, H. L. 56 n. 32 Weiss, R. 200 n. 48
Skemp, J. B. 1 n. 3 White, F. C. 25 n. 20, 233 n. 68
Smith, J. A. 31 n. 32 White, N. P. 96 n. 40, 99 n. 48, 126 n. 64,
Smith, N. D. 102 n. 5 135 n. 77, 165 n. 63
Smyth, H. W. 109–10 n. 25, Wieland, W. 10 n. 30
222 n. 48 Wittgenstein, L. 136 n. 81
Souilhé, J. 96 nn. 40, 41 Woolf, R. 122 n. 54, 123 n. 56
Spellman, L. 39 n. 58 Wundt, M. 59 n. 35
Stanley J. and T. Williamson 9 n. 24 Wyller, E. A. 1 n. 3
Stenzel, J. 139 n. 3, 208 n. 16, 212 n. 25
Strang, C. 35 n. 43 Yale Ancient Philosophy Working Group
Szaif, J. 158–9 n. 47, 160 n. 51, 161 n. 52, 168 n. 69, 175 n. 84
162 n. 54, 184 n. 21, 222 n. 47 Young, C. M. 3 n. 8, 197 n. 45
Szlezák, T. A. 13 n. 38
Tarrant, H. 1 n. 2 Zuckert, C. H. 2 n. 5
General Index
account (logos) 127–31 Aristotle 34, 68 n.47, 105 n.16, 110 n.26,
as component of knowledge 101–2, 131, 160 n.51, 164 n.62, 179 n.9, 197 n.45,
133–4, 137 207, 221, 241
as definition 2; by analysis 2, 101, 106 n.17, on activity (energeia) 236–7, 237 nn.77, 78
178, 195; by genus and differentia 2, 129 on definition 25 n.20, 106 n.17
n.69, 130 on genus/species 215 n.32
as telling the difference 128–31, 178; by his membership in Plato’s Academy 10 n.27
accidental/essential features 133–4; in on Plato’s theory of forms 16, 36 n.48, 73, 76,
recognizing general kinds 129 n.69, 130, 155, 162, 162 n.54, 235 n.71
178, 237, 244; in recognizing sensible his said-of/inherence distinction (Cat.) 25 n.20,
particulars 129, 178, 233 174–5, 174 n.8
as voicing a judgment 127, 136 his transmission theory of causation 24 n.17,
see also analysis, division, statement 232–3
Alexander of Aphrodisias 36 n.48, 73 see also change: Aristotle’s definition of; nature:
analysis (of complex into elements): Aristotle’s definition of
of Hesiod’s wagon 128, 133 Aristotle (respondent in Prm. Pt. II) 56–7, 56
of knowledge 2, 9, 101–2, 104–7, 127, 131, nn.30, 31, 32; 139 n.3, 201 n.51
132–4, 137 art (technē), see expertise, knowledge
of Socrates’ name 127, 128 association (koinōnia):
of Theaetetus’ name 128 of kinds 149–50 n.25, 155–6
see also under account, division as mode of participation 25, 206–8
Anaxagoras 24 n.18, 34 n.41 in perceiving and knowing 96–7, 236–7
angler/angling: see also participation
his activity 140 n.4 attributes 21 n.9
defined 143 n.10, 213 inside/outside nature of the subject 51,
dichotomous division of 142–3 165–6
essence of 141, 144, 189 audience, see Plato: his audience
as expert 142–3 auto kath’ hauto (itself by itself ):
as hunter 141 meanings of 37, 37 nn.51, 52
as model for dichotomous division 4, 141–3, see also under being: functions of; and under nature
179, 188 n.27, 189 auto kath’ hauto/pros alla 7, 51, 53, 72, 139, 164
as model for philosopher 243 a distinction to mark off difference from
as model for sophist 4, 141–3, 188 n.27 being 154–5
as model for true rhetorician 243 see also being, difference
his name 143 n.10, 144–5 auto to X (the X itself ) 37 nn.51, 52
an undisputed kind 144–5 Aviary (Tht.) 124, 124 n.59
Aporia about Being (Sph.) 16–17, 65 n.44,
77, 99, 100, 148, 176, 205, barbarian 31, 162, 181–2
206–11, 213 Battle of the Gods and Giants (Sph.) 15–16, 17,
diagnoses of its error 210–11, 210 nn.22, 23; 42–3 n.68, 76, 77, 78 n.6, 81, 92, 95–100,
223, 227–9 165, 176, 205–6, 229–30, 236–40
appearance/being 36, 43, 133 as centerpiece of Sph. 205 n.7
appearances 44, 71, 92–3, 148, 169–70 beauty:
false 148, 169–70 as attribute of things 114
production of, see under imitation form of 22–5
Argument from Experience (Tht.) 126–7, 130, see also forms: as causes; forms: of values;
135, 135 n.79, 136, 188 n.28 and values
Aristophanes 89 n.26, 145 n.15 becoming, realm of, see being/becoming
Aristophanes of Byzantium 1 n.2 Beethoven 239
GENERAL INDEX 279
being (to on, ousia): as outside the beings 63, 71, 74, 208–9,
analysis of modeled on difference 8, 164–6 211, 240
antinomy about, see being: contest about Parmenidean (unchanged/resting) 15, 76, 77,
brightness of 6, 18, 204 92, 97–8
children’s plea about 16, 17, 98–100, 98 n.44, parts of 165–6
166, 205, 207 n.11, 223, 229–30, pervades everything 162, 208
238 n.81, 239–40; rejection of 16, 99, puzzles about 6, 148; nature of 15–17, Ch. 3,
206–7, 209 206–11, 227–30, 236–40; oneness/
classification of in dialectic (Sph.) 213, 225, plurality of 94–5, 94 n.36, 206, 206 n.9
226–7, 229 its relation to change and rest 16, 77, 148,
a common feature (koinon) 91, 108 206–11, 210 n.23, 227–9
confusion about 6, 16, 209; see also being and as relational link 41, 57, 61, 62, 71, 72, 74,
not-being: equal confusion about 109, 155, 173, 240
contest about 15, 77, 78, 79–80, 81, as resting 209; see also form(s): as resting; rest:
81 n.12, 92, 98, 100, 205 an ideal feature of forms
defined: as capacity to act or be affected 16, as structural core of beings 229–30
42–3 n.68, 96–7, 96 nn.40, 41; 165, 166, a structural form 211, 226–7, 229, 241
176, 238, 242; as capacity to remain the as such (to on hēi on) 241
same (rest) and to act on or be affected by a vowel form 150, 211–13, 225
other things (change) 99, 230, 235; as see also Aporia about Being, Battle of the Gods
changing and resting 16, 77, 99, 204 n.6, and Giants, being and not-being, “is”/
205, 229 “to be”; nature, Parity Assumption,
distinguished from change/rest 153, 206, 227 participation, philosopher, sameness,
distinguished from oneness 61, 62, 63 sound
enables kinds to combine 162, 213, 225, being/becoming 76, 82, 95, 96–7, 100,
226, 240 202–3 n.1, 237
exercise about (Tht./Sph.) 3, 14–17, 57, being and not-being:
75; dialectical pattern/steps in 15–17, equal confusion about 6, 16, 100, 148, 204,
77–92, 94–100, 206–11, 227–30, 209–10
235–40; lessons of 77, 100, 239–40; joint illumination of 6–7, 16, 148, 162,
modeled on exercise about oneness 204–5; is insufficient to clarify being and
(Prm.) 3, 15–17, 47, 77; takes place philosopher 7–8, 149, 162, 204–5
across Tht. and Sph. 15, 46–7, 77 as opposites, see under not-being
form of 6, 8, 18, 77, 162, 240 see also Parity Assumption
functions of 57, 61, 65, 109, 211, 229; auto belief (doxa):
kath’ hauto (itself by itself) 7–8, 57–61, a cognitive capacity 8, 101–2 n.3; to match
63, 75, 77, 100, 154, 165–6, 173–6, 240; object perceived to an impression 131
pros alla (in relation to other things) 7, fallibility of 9
57–61, 154, 166, 173–6, 240; pros heauto and hearsay 10
(in relation to itself) 166 its objects 9
a generic kind? 208, 229, 229 n.59, 241 true (= capacity to judge correctly) 130,
a great kind 7, 29, 149, 150 132, 199; as component of
and having 24–5, 25 n.20, 72–5, 174, 174 n.8; knowledge 132
see also participation: and being see also judgment, knowledge
Heraclitean (changing) 15, 76, 77, 82–5, 92,
97–8 capacity (dunamis), see being: defined; dunamis;
and identity 72; see also sameness knowledge: as cognitive capacity
as inside the beings 64, 74–5, 96, 165–6, 211, see also under belief, dialectic, nature,
229, 240 potentiality and actuality
as monadic property 57, 61, 109, 155, 165, cause(s) (aition, aitia)/causation 22 n.11
173, 176, 240 and explanation 22, 22 nn.10, 12; 22–3 n.13
nature of 8, 15–16, 77, 92, 98, 100, formal, see forms: as causes
140 n.5, 209, 210 helping 118 n.47, 189, 191–2
as necessary external attribute of things principles of 22–3, 22–3 n.13
207–9, 226 transmission theory of 24, 24 nn.17, 18; 36,
as object of knowledge 8–10, 82, 96–7, 236–40 73, 235
as object of mental perception 108, 108 n.21 see also forms: as causes; forms: and
obscurity of 16, 77, 148, 176, 205, 209–11 explanation; self-predication
280 GENERAL INDEX
Cave, Allegory of the (Rep.) 11, 44, 132 n.74, 133 dialectic (dialektikē, dialegesthai):
change (kinēsis): capacity for 18, 18–19 n.1, 44, 202–3 n.1
Aristotle’s definition of 231–3, 236 clarifies nature of/relations between categorial
Cambridge 237–9, 238 n.80 and structural kinds 211–13, 223–7,
as consonant form 150, 168 235–6
and definition of being 96–7, 98–9, 229–40 interpretations of 212 n.25
exercise about 3 knowledge of how kinds combine (Sph.) 150,
its form rests (or should rest) 99, 151–2, 227 211–14, 223–7
as generic categorial form 227–8; species knowledge of how kinds are differentiated
of 85, 227–8 (Sph.) 212–13, 225
a great kind 7, 29, 149, 150, 228; partakes of learned by exercise 5, 11, 202–3; see also
some kinds but not others 153, 155–6; philosophical exercise
should pervade everything 228 and measurement 196–7; see also
instant of, see instant measurement
and knowledge 96–7, 98–9, 100, 236–40 its technique dictated by definiendum 226
Platonic definition of 230, 233–5 see also division, Hippocratic method,
as structural form 210 n.23, 227–8 philosophical exercise
see also being, change and rest, incompatibility difference/different (to heteron, thateron):
range/set, rest analysis of 8, 149, 153, 158–62, 212
change and rest: a common feature (koinon) 91, 108
as opposites 16–17, 77, 100, 148, 153, 168, and definition of change 233–4
168 n.69, 205, 206, 209–11, 210 n.23, distinguished from being 7, 154–5
227–8, 227 n.55 distinguished from change/rest 153
their relation to being 206–11, 233–6 its function pros alla (in relation to others) 7,
children’s plea, see being: children’s plea about 154–5, 163
clay/mud: a great kind 7, 29, 149, 150
as commonplace 31 lacks categorial content 151
definition of 105–6; as model for analysis 2, as model for being/sameness 8, 163–6
106 n.17, 107, 137; as model for nature/form of 140 n.5, 154, 210 n.23;
knowledge 91–2, 105–6, 131 revealed by investigating its parts 159–63
essence of 189 a necessary external attribute of things 152–3,
form of? 31, 91–2 208–9, 211, 213
collection: and negative predication 156–7, 158–61, 163
of determinate items: to describe and non-identity 155–6, 161, 163
definiendum 179, 179 n.8, 194; to as object of mental perception 108
describe kind to be divided 101, 101 n.2, parts of 159–63, 224–5; analogous to branches
179 n.8 of knowledge 159–60; as compounds of
of indeterminate multitude: to find a structural core (difference) and some
determinate kind 217–19, 221–3 other content 159–60, 224–5
see also lists pervades everything 154, 162, 208
common features (koina): its role in division 212–13, 214
are attributes of things 108, 108–9 n.22, 109, a species of pros ti (in relation to something)
109 n.23 159 n.50, 164
are grasped with the soul through itself 110–16 a structural form 151, 163
are structural forms 151 a vowel form 150, 211–13, 225
complex (sullabē) 125, 128, 135; see also analysis, see also division, not-being, sameness
elements Digression (Tht.) 76, 80, 86–9, 92, 130, 241
contest (agōn) 15, 77 n.3 perception in 87–9
see also being: contest about philosopher in 87–9, 89 n.26
Contradiction, Law of 64–5, 210 n.23 two patterns in 88–9
contradictories/contraries 7 n.16, 65 n.43 Diogenes Laertius 1 n.2, 154–5, 164
see also opposites discourse (logos):
courage/moderation 198–9 excess and defect in 196, 226 n.54
craft, see expertise and teaching 12
see also philosopher: his product; sophist:
day–sail analogy 33, 33 n.39 his product
definition (horos) 96, 96 n.40; see also under disputed/undisputed kinds 145, 145 n.14
account Divided Line (Rep.) 136 n.83, 241 n.89
GENERAL INDEX 281
division (types of ): error:

analysis: defines a specific kind or individual by explained as matching perception to wrong
looking inside its nature 198–200; impression 122–4
defines a wide kind used in division impossibility of: if judgment is unstructured
(Tht.) 2, 101, 137, 138, 215 n.33; see also act 120–1; on Protagorean view of
analysis, and under account: as definition perception 81–3, 107; on radical
collection and division (classification) (Phdr.): Heraclitean view 85–6
disambiguates terms 145, 145 n.16, Euclides of Megara 12, 103–4, 103 n.9
183 n.17, 217–18 n.39, 242; proper Eudoxus 34 n.41
procedure in 183 Euthyphro (dialogue) 103 n.8, 105, 145
dichotomous division (division of a kind into excess and deficiency 196–7, 198–9
two sub-kinds) (Sph./Stm.): defines target see also measurement
at bottom of genus-species tree 3–4, Excluded Middle, Law of 64–5
214–15, 218; discloses puzzle about existence (esti, einai) 60–1, 165–6 n.64, 173,
definiendum 4, 138, 177; discussion of 175–6, 175 n.10, 176 n.11
correct method of 181–2; does not see also “is” (esti)/“to be” (einai)
guarantee focus on essential features 145; expertise (technē) 9–11, 131 n.71
interpretations of 182 n.16; and learned through practice 10–11
names 140, 143, 183, 183 n.18; its target its name synonymous with epistēmē 178
dictates wide kind to divide, perspective, should prevail over laws 136, 197–8
and successive divisions 183–4, 184 its success over layman’s perception 80
n.19, 238–9; trial and error in 178–9, see also knowledge, training
179–85, 184 n.19, 187 n.25; use of
models in, see model falsehood, see statement: false
see also dialectic, difference finger(s) 30–2
Divine Method (Phlb.) 205, 213–14, 217–23, fire, form of 30, 31 n.31, 91–2
217–18 n.39; clarifies kind divided flux, see change; Heraclitus: his flux doctrine
(henad) through its subject–attribute form(s) (eidos):
compounds (monads) 214–23, 215 of artifacts? 31, 31 n.32
nn.32, 33; 224–5; classifies association/combination of 149–50, 155–6
elements 220–3 being of 237
division by limbs (Stm.): isolates target from categorial 29, 151
others operating in same domain 11, as causes 22–4, 22 nn.11, 12;
191–2, 191 n.33, 226 n.54; use of models 22–3 n.13; 36, 44, 90, 102, 105,
in 188–9, 190–2, 194 235, 236
doctor/medicine 136, 137, 194, 197, 242 as changeable 96–9, 236–40
and goodness 192, 244 of commonplace things? 31
his imitators 172, 193, 194, 244 critique of 3, 18, 27–43, 47 n.6
dualists/pluralists 94, 206, 206 n.9 and explanation 20, 22–7, 22 nn.10, 12;
dunamis (capacity) 42–3 n.68, 96 n.41; 31–2, 37–8, 74–5
see also being: defined; and under belief, ideal features of 16, 16 n.46, 151–2
dialectic, knowledge, nature, as immanent 9–10, 32–5, 35 n.44, 90–2,
potentiality and actuality 149–50 n.25, 202–3 n.1, 208, 217,
235
education: as inside/outside the subject 152
turns innate intelligence toward a particular multiplied by division 33
object 11 multiplied by duplication 35–8, 39–41, 74
see also training and names 32, 32 n.37, 149, 153, 156, 163
Eleatic Stranger, see Stranger from Elea of natural kinds 30–2, 31 n.31
elements (stoicheia): as nature/essence of things 9; see also forms:
account of 127, 128, 130 as immanent
and analysis 128 necessary external attributes of 152–3, 206–9,
more knowable than complex 126, 213, 225
126 n.63 need for 44, 71
in Socrates’ Dream 125 of negations? 31, 161–2, 162 n.54, 184,
epistēmē, see knowledge 184 n.21
282 GENERAL INDEX
form(s) (eidos) (cont.) hearing 8–9; see also perception, senses, sound
as objects of knowledge 9, 76, 96–8, henads (= forms) 215–17, 215–16 n.35, 218,
236–40 223, 224
as objects of mental perception 89–92, 108–9, Heraclitus:
108–9 n.22 on being (as changing) (Tht.) 15, 82–5
oneness of 21, 28, 32–5, 35–8 his flux doctrine 76; rejected by Plato 234
ontological status of 28, 33, 34–5, 39 n.69; its support for relativism 78–9, 78
of opposites 20–1, 26–7, 29–31 n.7, 79 n.9, 80–1
partake of other forms 20–1, 46, 149, 153; see historical 15 n.44, 77–8, 78 n.5
also forms: association/combination of and radical flux doctrine 85–6
proper (essential/accidental) features refutation of (Tht.) 15, 80, 81, 85–6
of 151–2; see also forms: ideal features of herdsman/herding:
of relational properties? 41–2, 61, 72–5 as model for statesman 179 n.7, 180–1,
as resting (stable) 16, 97, 151–2, 209 181 n.14, 182, 184, 187, 187 n.25, 200
scope of 28, 161–2; see also Scope of Forms Hippocratic doctors 24
self-predication of, see self-predication Hippocratic method 242
as separate 19, 25–6, 28–9, 33, 35–8, 39–41, hot and cold 206
41–3, 68–9, 149–50 n.25 as opposites 17, 94, 228
structural 29, 91, 151, 235–6 hunter/hunting 142–4, 243, 243 n.94
in Theaetetus 9, 90–2, 90 n.29 hypothesis 45 n.2; see also under oneness/one,
theory of 3, 18–19, 20–7, 47 n.6 exercise about
as thoughts 28, 38–9, 123–4
of values 30, 91 identity–predication confusion 210
vowel/consonant 150–1, 211–13, 225 imitation 147, 147 n.18
and Zeno’s paradoxes 19–27 as appearance-making (phantaskikē) 147,
see also great kinds, henads, immanent 147–8 n.19, 169, 170, 243–4
characters, monads as copy-making (eikastikē) 147, 169
friends of forms (Gods, surrogates of as model for sophistry 147
Parmenides) 15 n.45, 16, 92, 95–7, and painting/poetry (Rep.) 147 n.18
99–100, 152 n.32, 209, 236–7, 239 immanent character(s) 25–7, 35–8, 35 n.44
see also Battle of the Gods and Giants and appearances 36, 43
its difference from immanent form 25
genus: its difference from sensible qualities 27 n.26
as conceptual component of its species 208, in Greatest Difficulty (Prm.) 41–3, 42 n.67
213, 213 n.28, 225 as part of thing to which it belongs 27
defined by analysis 101 scope of 25–6 n.23
described by collecting its species 101 self-predication of 27
divided in different ways dictated by its separation from corresponding form 28–9
definiendum 178, 183–4, 238–9 see also form(s), self-predication
its selection dictated by definiendum 143, impression(s) (sēmeion, mnēmeion) 122–4, 129,
183–4, 238–9 129 n.70
two conceptions of 215 n.32 acquisition of 122–3, 122 n.55, 125, 169, 237
see also division its causal role in perception and judgment 123
genus–species trees 29, 215 nn.32, 33 as cognitive correlate of an account 132
articulate nature of categorial forms 151, as distinguishing mark 122, 122 n.55
215 n.33 features/functions of 122–3
goodness 30 n.30, 91, 192–3, 193 n.36, 244 of intelligible objects 123–4
as attribute of things 114 quality of 122, 133–4
form of 30, 42 n.66, 91, 133 and recognition 122–3, 129, 169, 237
great kinds (megista gene) (Sph.) 7–8, 17, 29, incompatibility range/set 112 n.31, 160–1,
149–50, 150 n.27, 212 161 n.52, 213, 234
their capacity to combine with one incompatibles 7 n.16, 19–20
another 150, 153, 155–6 individuation 67, 150 n.27, 233
stand outside the nature of one another 153–5 instant 65, 210 n.23
Greatest Difficulty (Prm.) 41–3, 68–9, 71, 239 intelligibility:
depends on change and rest 96–9, 237
hair 31, 32, 32 n.35, 91 an ideal feature of forms 151–2
happiness 87, 88, 214 intuition, see perception: mental
GENERAL INDEX 283
“is” (esti)/“to be” (einai): defined (Tht.): as expertise 5, 9, 102, 105, 131;
as complete predicate 57, 60–1, 165–6, as perception 8, 76–7, 78, 81–6, 101,
165–6 n.64, 173 106; as true judgment 8, 77, 101; as true
of identity 60, 72, 166, 173–4 judgment with an account 8, 77, 101,
as incomplete predicate 57, 60–1, 165–6 n.64, 125–31; see also account, perception, and
173–6, 240 under judgment
univocal in meaning 57, 61 defined as justified true belief 8
uses of 60–1, 173–6 a disputed kind 107
see also existence distinguished from belief (Rep.) 8–9, 102 n.5,
Isocrates 243 n.93 131 n.73
distinguished from true belief (Meno) 10,
judgment (doxa): 104 n.10, 125 n.61
as act 101–2 n.3, 169; depends on an divine/human 42–3
account 130–1; depends on eye-witness 10, 103–4, 124–5
perception 131, 169; of matching object form of 43, 67, 90–1, 102, 238
perceived to impression 122–4, 131, a generic kind 2, 137, 138; described by
132; of the soul through itself 108, collection of sub-kinds 101, 179, 179
115–16, 120; structured 121, 169 n.8; divided in different ways dictated by
false 120–1, 122–4 definiendum 178, 238–9
and hearsay 103–4, 124–5 how 9, 102 n.5, 106
as proposition 101–2 n.3, 121, 169 as infallible 9
in Protagorean perception (automatically interrelation model of 126 n.64, 135,
true) 120 135 nn.78, 79
as silent statement 121, 169 levels of 134–7, 136 n.83
true 120–5, 128, 132; as component of mundane 102 n.6, 244
knowledge 101–2, 131, 132, 133–4, objects of 9–10; grasped by trained
137; exercise in, see under philosophical perception 132–3; must both rest and
exercises change 236–40; see also knowledge: its
as unstructured act (automatically true) 121 branches
see also perception, perceptual judgment, practical 181 n.13; see also measurement
knowledge and problem of circularity 8, 131, 132–4, 137
jury (Tht.) 103–4, 121, 124–5 and problem of infinite regress 8, 132,
justice 23 n.14, 80, 87, 88, 91; see also forms: of 134–7
values; values and rules 10, 136
that (propositional) 9, 102 n.5
kind(s), see forms, genus, natural kinds as wisdom 90–1, 102
knowledge (epistēmē): see also account, judgment: true; perception
as ability to analyze an object into elements 128 koina (common features) (Tht.) 91, 108–9
as ability to explain 10, 136–7
by acquaintance 9, 102 n.5 language:
acquisition of 10, 12, 104; see also training, knowledge of 132, 136, 244
philosophical exercise learning of 135–7, 136 n.82
as act 9, 102, 106, 237, 237 n.78 its meaningfulness requires stable objects 85–6
analysis of, see analysis: of knowledge see also letters, statements
its branches differentiated by their object 10, largeness:
10 n.28, 105, 105 n.15, 159; by manner definition of 24 n.19
of dealing with object 10 n.28, 159 n.49, form of 35–8, 47 n.5
185, 191, 241; by perspective on as immanent character 25, 25–6 n.23, 27
object 10 n.28, 159 n.49, 185, 191–2, as monadic property 21, 26
216–17, 220, 241–2 perception of stimulates intellect 30–1
as cognitive capacity (dunamis) 5, 8–9, 102, puzzle about 33–4
102 n.5, 106–7, 237 and smallness, as opposites 26, 27, 30–1
as complex of elements 102, 127, 131, Largeness Regress 35–8, 43, 74; see also Third
132–4, 137 Man Argument
as contents of a discipline (science) 105, Late-Learners 93, 93 n.34, 148, 148 n.21
105 n.16, 135 laws 197–8, 197–8 n.46
criteria for (of what-is and true) (Tht.) 82 Laws (dialogue) 2 n.5, 3 n.8, 197 n.46
284 GENERAL INDEX
learning, see education: impression: model (paradeigma):

acquisition of; training; see also under and dialectical training 140–2, 202–3
language, letters, spelling distinguished from pattern 140–1
letters: as example 141, 141 n.8
art of 221, 222–3 exemplifies structure of definiendum 141
classification of 221–2, 221–2 n.47, 222 n.49 falls short of target 141–2, 143, 194,
discovery of 221–3, 239 199 n.47
as elements of vocal sound 221–3 features/functions of 4–5, 14, 107, 140–2,
expertise in 131, 150, 211, 219 144–5, 187–8, 202–3, 202–3 n.1
learning of 4–5, 126–7, 126 nn.64, 65; 130, introduces a dialectical procedure
188, 188 n.28, 202, 221, 222–3; as model 141, 191–2
for learning everything 4–5, 127, 188, of a model 4, 188–9; as model for any
202; as model for a model 188–9 successful model 189; as model for
recognizing 130 weaving 188–9
and syllables, as models for elements and and search for definitions 141–3
complexes 128, 141 n.7 selection of 188 n.27
vowels and consonants, as models for vowel see also angler, clay, imitation, doctor,
and consonant forms 150, 211 navigator, refining gold, weaver
see also phonology, spelling monads 34
likeness: as eternal subject–attribute compounds
a common feature (koinon) 91 215–17, 223, 224; see also henads
exercise about 3 monism 19, 19n.4, see also under Parmenides
form of 20, 40, 47 n.5, 91 motion, disorderly 185–6, 186 n.24;
and likenesses 39–41 see also change
as monadic property 21, 40 mud 31, 91; see also clay
and participation 39–41 multitude, form of 20, 29, 91
a structural form 151 a structural form 151, 227
as symmetrical relation 39 music 219–21, 239
Likeness Regress 39–41, 74, 74 n.58 myth of Cronus (Stm.) 185–8, 194
its difference from Largeness Regress 40 critique of 185, 187–8
lists (collections), at start of definitional an oversized model 187–8
projects 105, 106, 106 n.18, 127; see also
collection name(s):
logos, see account, statement of attributes 149
love, ambiguity of its name 145 n.16, 183 n.17, groups without 183, 183 n.18
217–18 n.39, 242 one thing can have many 149, 163, 208
its one-to-one correspondence with thing 93,
madness 145 n.16, 183 n.17, 203, 203 n.3, 93 n.33, 95, 148, 149
217–18 n.39, 242 and verbs 167
man: see also Late-Learners
definition of 87, 130, 140 n.5 nature (phusis) 235, 240, 242
features of relevant to statecraft 185, 186–7 Aristotle’s definition of 235 n.72
features of relevant to various sciences 216–17 as the being of something 140 n.5, 230
form of 30–1, 31 n.31, 67, 91 often hidden 138, 144–5
a monadic property 155 as what a thing is auto kath’ hauto
nature of 230 (itself by itself) 53, 55, 65–8,
materialists (Giants: surrogates for Heraclitus) 16, 140 n.5, 235, 240
78 n.6, 92, 95–6, 97; see also Battle of the see also being, form(s)
Gods and Giants navigator/navigation:
measurement 196–7, 198–9, 202 and goodness 192, 244
and practical expertise/statecraft 196–7 his imitators 172, 192–4, 244
timing in 195, 196–7, 198–9 negation 112 n.31, 156–61, 184,
two arts of defined 196–7 184 n.21, 213
medicine, see doctor/medicine false assumption about 93, 158
Meno (dialogue) 105, 141 n.7 interpretations of 158, 158 n.47, 160–1,
mistakes, see error; Socrates the Younger: his 160 n.51, 161 n.52, 168 n.70
mistake; Sophist: mistakes in; spelling: see also incompatibility range/set
mistakes in; Statesman: mistakes in Neoplatonists 25 n.20, 50 n.12
GENERAL INDEX 285
non-identity, see under difference Appendix (= Prm. 155e4–157b5)

Non-Identity Assumption 73 n.55 3 (= Prm. 157b6–159b1)
see also Separation Assumption 4 (= Prm. 159b2–160b4)
not-being (to mē on): summary (= Prm. 160b2–4)
as absence of being 55, 71 5 (= Prm. 160b5–163b6)
and coming-to-be 176 6 (= Prm. 163b7–164b4)
a common feature (koinon) 91 7 (= Prm. 164b5–165e1)
confusion about 6 8 (= Prm. 165e2–166c5)
darkness of 6, 204 summary (= Prm. 166c2–5)
as difference 7, 31, 149, 158–61 see Index Locorum
exercise about 3 dialectical pattern/steps in 13–14, 50–1,
form of 6, 31, 73, 161 55–6, 55 n.29, 57, 62–4, 65–9
judgment about 120 interpretations of 50–6
as nothing 7, 71, 93, 158, 176 lessons of 14, 20–1, 46, 63–4, 71–2, 74–5
Parmenidean 93, 148 negative hypothesis in 45–7, 47 n.6, 49,
as property of things 55, 71 55–6, 70, 71
puzzles about 6, 7, 93–4, 93 n.35, 138, the others in 49 n.10, 66–9, 70–1
148, 176 plan of 47–9
its relation to being 7, 7 n.17, 93, 148, positive hypothesis in 45–7, 45 n.2, 47 n.6,
158, 228 49, 55–6, 57–61, 62–3; saving of 46,
self-predication of 161 70–2
a structural form 227 subject(s) of consequences in 49, 49 n.10
as unthinkable and unsayable 204 n.6 subject(s) of hypotheses in 45 n.2, 49, 50
see also being and not-being, difference, sophist see also philosophical exercises (Parmenidean
nothing 46 model)
see also under not-being one and many, puzzles about (Phlb.) 214–17
numbers: see also under Zeno
as common features (koina) 91, 108 One over Many principle 31, 31 n.32, 162,
as objects of mental perception 90, 108, 162 n.55
108 n.21 opinion, see belief, judgment
opposites (enantia) 7 n.16
oneness/one (to hen): compresence of 19–20, 21–7, 30–1
antinomies about 15, 50, 50 n.13, 55, 62–4, principle of (Rep.) 26
65–9
a common feature (koinon) 91, 108 Parity Assumption (about being and
form of 20, 29, 45 n.2, 47 n.5, 50, 91 not-being) 6–8, 6 n.14, 148–9, 204,
its functions: explanatory 46; 204 n.6, 209; see also being and
individuating 67, 233; structuring 67–8, not-being
72, 211, 229, 233; unifying 66–7, 233 Parmenides (main speaker in Prm., recalled in
Parmenides’ hypothesis about 47, 47 n.6, 58, Tht./Sph.) 2–3, 19, 79–81, 86–92
59, 59 n.35 on being (as resting) (Tht./Sph.) 15, 79, 92;
self-predication of 60, 62–4, 66 could support objectivity of perception
Socrates’ thesis about 14, 20, 27, 46, 62, (Tht.) 80–1, 86, 89
68, 70; refutation of (Prm. Pt. II) 63, 72 historical 7 n.17, 15 n.44, 19 n.4, 77–8, 78 n.5
a structural form 29, 45 n.2, 151, 227, 229 his monism 19, 19 n.4, 79, 95; refutation of
see also oneness/one, exercise about; (Sph.) 15, 15 n.45, 81, 93, 94–5
philosophical exercise (Parmenidean on not-being 93, 148, 158; refutation of
model) (Sph.) 161
oneness/one, exercise about (Prm. Pt. II) 14, 45 his poem 89
anomalies in 48–9 see also Battle of the Gods and Giants, being:
antinomies in 50–1, 55–6: first 62–4; contest about
second 65–9; third 71; fourth 71 Parmenides (dialogue):
its audience 56–7 its dramatic characters 19, 56, 56 n.30
conclusion(s) of 45–6, 46 nn.3, 4; 70, 71 its dramatic date 19 n.2
Deductions/summaries in: parricide 94
1 (= Prm. 137c4–142a8) participation (methexis, metechein) 18, 28,
2 (= Prm. 142b1–155e3) 149–50 n.25, 208
286 GENERAL INDEX
participation (methexis, metechein) (cont.) philosopher (philosophos):

and being 24–5, 25 n.20, 72–5, 240 as appearance-maker (phantastikos) 171,
in definitional contexts 25 n.20 243–4
in Greatest Difficulty (Prm.) 42, 42 n.67 appears in several guises 203
and non-identity/predication 156 in Battle of the Gods and Giants (Sph.) 98–9
pattern–copy interpretation of (Prm.) 33, definition of 239–40, 240–4; by dividing
39–41 wide kind knowledge 101
transitivity of 210–11 in Digression (Tht.) 86–9
unclarity about 25, 25 n.21, 32, 76; resolving and goodness 244
it requires clarifying being auto kath’ a great and difficult kind 5, 203
hauto 41, 75, 77, 240 as hunter 243, 243 n.94
whole–part interpretation of (Prm./Phlb.) his knowledge/expertise 2, 6, 8–11;
32–5, 41, 39, 41, 216–17 acquisition of, see philosophical exercise;
parts/kinds (Stm.) 181–5 practical as well as theoretical 12, 12
parts and wholes 31–2, 66–7, 125–6, n.35; see also knowledge: its branches;
126 n.62, 207, 213, philosopher: his object
224, 225–6 and madness (divine inspiration) 203 n.3
see also elements, complexes his method (dialectic) 11, 150, 203, 211, 226;
perception (aisthēsis, aisthanesthai): see also dialectic
as act 102, 106, 236–7; unstructured 119; see his name 203, 240–4
also perception: as noticing his object (being) 4, 6–8, 10–11, 18, 204,
affections (pathē/pathēmata) as necessary 239–40; his perspective on 241; see also
material conditions for 117–19, 236 being
as capacity 8–9, 102; see also senses his product (discourse) 6, 12–13, 243–4
as component of knowledge 101–2, 106, 109, puzzle about 4, 5, 6, 8, 13–17, 61, 75; see also
124–5, 132–3, 137 being: exercise about
as direct awareness of object 106 his ranking relative to sophist and
exercise in, see under philosophical exercises statesman 203, 203–4 n.4
in Final Argument (Tht. Pt. I) 107–20; cannot his rivals 11, 11 n.34, 240–4
grasp being or attain truth 107–8 seeks truth about nature of things 241–4
Heraclitean theory of 82–5 as teacher 12, 244; see also under Plato
and impressions 125, 169 as weaver 243, 243 n.95
mental 9, 87, 87 n.22, 89–92, 108–9, Philosopher (missing dialogue):
108–9 n.22, 119–20, 135 n.77; can grasp advertisements for 1, 203–5
being 108, 108 n.21; stability of its missing, why? 1–6, 1 nn.2, 3; 6–7, 13
objects 86–9 presupposes Stm. 11, 177, 202–3, 204 n.5
as noticing 87 n.22, 118–20, 122 n.55, its relation to other dialogues 1–3, 200–1,
132–3, 236–7 201 n.54
objectivity of 80–1 speakers in 201 n.54
and perceptual judgment 81, 85, 108, philosopher-king(s) 12 n.35, 18, 89, 133
108 n.20, 115 philosophical exercise:
Protagorean (= phantasia) 81–2, 90 n.27; its aims: to stimulate recognition of
grasps being and attains truth 81–5, 107; mistakes 14, 16–17, 46, 77, 100, 227; to
relativity of 78, 80–1, 85; see also train in dialectic 4–5, 11, 202–3; to train
phantasia in reading 5, 12–13
as sensation 9, 30–1, 87 n.22, 107–20; an act confusion/puzzlement and reorientation
with the soul through the senses in 16–17, 44, 45, 146
109–10, 109–10 n.25 models in 4–5, 14; see also models
see also impressions, and under philosophical new rounds of, with variation 3–4, 5–6, 14,
exercises: types of 46–8, 48 n.7; dialectical patterns/steps
perceptual judgment (an act with the soul through across rounds 3–4, 14–17; focus across
itself) 115–16, 119, 169 rounds 48 n.7
perplexity, see philosophical exercises: confusion trial and error in 4, 188 n.27
Phaedo (dialogue) 22–7, 32, 89, 90, 118 n.47 types of exercises: in accounts (giving and
Phaedrus (dialogue) 13, 13 n.37, 242–4 receiving) 4, 132–7; in analyzing hard
phantasia (response to appearance) 81, 169–70 topic as model for others 4–5, 8, 11, 149,
Philebus (dialogue) 30 n.30, 119, 211–23 163–6, 202–3; in analyzing simple topic
GENERAL INDEX 287
as model for harder topic 4, 14, 140–3, potentiality/actuality 231–2, 234, 237 n.77
202–3; in definition (Tht., Sph., Stm.) see also activity; change: Aristotle’s definition of
Chs. 4–7; in geometry (Meno) 48 n.7; in predicates:
perception 4, 78, 79, 90–2, 121, 132–3; complete/incomplete 21, 21 n.8
in true judgment 4, 121; in using one predication 60–1, 156, 167–8, 173–6, 240
exercise as model for others Chs. 2, 3, 7 negative 149, 156–7, 163, 167–8
see also philosophical exercise two kinds of? 25 n.20, 51, 72–5, 174–5
(Parmenidean model) see also participation, statement
philosophical exercise (Parmenidean model) pre-Socratics philosophers 24
3, 4, 5 properties 21 n.9
its aims: to attain truth 14, 45; to stimulate monadic/relational 21, 21 n.8, 155
recognition of mistake 50–1, 50 n.13, treated as parts of things 27
71–2 see also attributes
guidelines for 3, 47–8 pros alla (in relation to other things) 7, 51
illustration of using Zeno’s hypothesis 48, a species of pros ti (in relation to something) 53
51–2, 53, 58 n.20, 164; see also difference
new rounds of 3, 46–8, 48 n.7; dialectical pros heauto (in relation to itself) 37 n.52, 51 n.15,
pattern/steps across rounds 5, 14–17, 52–3
53, 55–6, 55 n.29, 62–4, 65–9, 77, a species of pros ti (in relation to something)
81, 98, 100, 205; subject of hypotheses 53 n.20, 164; see also sameness
in 3, 48 pros heauto/pros ta alla 51–3
positive/negative hypotheses in 47, 47 n.6 pros ti (in relation to something) 154–5
see also being, exercise about; oneness/one, Protagoras 78–9, 81–3, 85, 86
exercise about; philosophical exercise his Measure Doctrine 78, 80–3, 90
philosophy (philosophia): Protagoreanism, Narrow/Broad 90 n.28
a disputed kind 203, 240–4 Protarchus (respondent in Phlb.) 214
as expertise (technē) 10–11
a generic kind? 241 reading:
see also dialectic, philosopher, philosophical communal/silent 12–13, 13 n.37
exercise recognition 122, 129–30, 178, 237, 244
phonology 219–20, 221–3, 222 n.49, 239 as non-inferential 136
Plato: recollection, doctrine of 188 n.27
his Academy 10 n.27 refining gold:
his Aristotelianism 9–10 as model for marking off target from
his audience 5, 12–13, 15, 19 n.3, 103–4, 132, closest kin 195
139 n.3, 149, 201 relativism 78; see also Protagoras: his Measure
and camouflage 5, 15, 78, 79, 86, Doctrine
120–1, 127 Republic (dialogue) 11 n.32, 12 n.35, 30, 99,
his debt to Heraclitus/Parmenides/ 110 n.26, 136 n.83, 147 n.18
Socrates 76, 92 rest (stasis, to erēmein) (stability):
on historical knowledge 124–5, 125 n.61 and being 97–9, 229–30, 235–6
and historical truth 19 n.2, 77–8, 78 nn.5, 6 as consonant form 150, 168
his philosophical economy 31–2, 163, 226 exercise about 3
his Platonism 168 its form changes 99, 228–9
a prime example of the philosopher 2 n.5 as generic categorial form 228
as teacher 5–6, 12–13 a great kind 7, 29, 149, 150, 228
techniques of interpreting 13–14 an ideal feature of forms 16, 16 n.46, 151–2,
his unwritten doctrine 13, 13 n.38 209, 227
who speaks for? 19 n.3 Platonic definition of 230, 233
his written works 3 n.8, 12–13; ancient lists as a structural form 210 n.23, 227–8
of 1 n.2; chronology of 3 n.8; their see also change, forms: as changeable
demands on reader 13; designed for rhetorician/rhetoric:
reading 12–13, 13 n.37; performance his skill a flattery/knack 170–1
of? 200–1, 201 n.52; as philosophical true 11 n.34, 242–4; his method
exercises 12, 13; revisions of 3 n.8 (dialectic) 242; is the
pleasure 214 philosopher? 243–4, 243 n.93
pluralism, see dualists/pluralists rules 10, 10 n.29, 136–7
288 GENERAL INDEX
sameness (tauton) 156, 163–4 his lack of training/need for exercise 19,
analysis of modeled on difference 8, 149, 44, 45
163–4, 166 n.66 his love of division 217–18 n.39
a common feature (koinon) 91, 108 his method a preparation for Plato’s
and definition of change/rest 233–4 philosophy 145 n.15
distinguished from being 153–4 his name 177–8, 200–1
distinguished from change/rest 153 his silence 2, 2 n.5, 200–1
exercise about 3 as sophist 145, 145 n.15, 170, 203
functions pros heauto (in relation to subject his theory of forms 3, 20–7
itself ) 53, 163–4 his thesis about change and rest (Prm.) 17, 20,
a great kind 7, 29 77, 100, 228
and identity 156, 173–4 his thesis about oneness (Prm.) 14, 20–1
its relation to being 153, 166, 174 n.6 his trial and death 2 n.5, 89, 103, 103 nn.8, 9;
a species of pros ti (in relation to something) 145 n.15
53 n.20, 159 n.50, 164 his youthful meeting with Parmenides 2–3,
a structural form 151 19, 19 n.2, 56–7, 80, 138–9
a vowel form 150 Socrates’ Dream (Tht.) 125, 128
see also being, difference Socrates the Younger (present in Tht./Sph.,
Scope of Forms (Prm.) 28–32, 91–2 respondent in Stm.) 2, 200–1
Secret Doctrine (Tht.) 82–4 his mistake (Stm.) 181–2, 184–5, 186
self-predication 23–5, 24 n.16, 27, 36, 39, 60, his name 177–8, 200–1
72–5, 165 sophist/sophistry (sophistēs):
numerical distinctness of attribute and his activities 140 n.4, 143–4
subject 35–8, 39–41, 46, 74 his appearance of wisdom 146–7
Plato’s on-going commitment to 34–5, 38, as appearance-maker (phantastikos) 138,
73, 152, 161, 161 n.53 169–71, 243
see also cause(s)/causation appearances of 138, 143–6, 169–70
Self-Predication Assumption 38 in Athens 140 n.6
sense organs (instruments of the soul) 109–10 definitions of 92, 143 n.12, 144 n.13, 146,
convey information inward 118–20, 119 n.49 170–1, 170 n.71, 213 n.28; by dividing
senses (capacities: instruments of the soul) 110 wide kind expertise (technē) 101, 138
sensible particulars 76, 233 dichotomous divisions of 143–6, 170–1
see also opposites: compresence of a disputed kind 145
sensible qualities 23 n.14, 27 n.26 essence of 140, 148, 210 n.23; can be
perceived with the soul through different articulated in a genus–species tree 151; as
senses 109–20 immaterial but embodied 202–3 n.1; as
synthesis of 110 n.26 puzzling 170
see also immanent characters; opposites: a great and difficult kind 140, 203 n.2
compresence of; recognition as hunter 143
separation: as imitator 147–8; of the wise man
as existence apart 28–9, 29 n.27, 37, 68 (sophos) 143 n.11, 147, 170
as ontological independence 41–2, his name(s) 139–40, 143, 146–7,
41–2 n.65, 68 184 n.19, 203
Separation Assumption 37–8, 73 n.55, 74 noble 145–6, 169–70; a false appearance of
shadows: the sophist 170
knowledge of 44, 133 and not-being 6–8, 138, 148, 196, 204
sight 8–9 produces false appearances 92, 148, 169–71
see also perception; philosophical exercise: in his product (false appearances/statements) 6,
perception; senses 8, 138, 148
skill, see expertise, knowledge puzzle about 4, 8, 138, 146–8; see also
smallness: not-being
puzzle about 33–4 his skill a sort of flattery/knack, not
see also largeness expertise 170–1, 170 n.72, 192–4
Socrates (respondent in Prm. Pt. I, main speaker skilled in dispute about everything 147, 241
in Tht., present in Sph./Stm.) 1–2 varieties of 11, 171–2, 192–4
his critique of writing 13 Sophist (dialogue) 51, 52–3, 61, 65 n.44, 73
his definitional project 76 its dialogue form 138–9, 139 n.3
GENERAL INDEX 289
mistakes in 242–3 practical and theoretical 179–81, 181

its relation to other dialogues 1–3, 138–9, n.11, 190, 190 n.30, 195, 199–200
201 n.54 and laws 192–3, 197–8, 199
its structure 205 n.7 as model for investigation of philosopher 4–5,
soul (psuchē) 96, 97 11, 202–3, 204 n.5
its active role in perception 118–19 his name 195, 203
as capacity (dunamis) 112–13 his object (humans who live in a city)
grasps (judges) common features and attains 180–1, 182; his perspective on 11, 177,
truth through itself 91, 110–13, 115–16, 184–5, 186, 187
119–20 his product (flourishing city) 6, 199–200
its immortality 18, 22 puzzle about 4, 177, 187
parts of 26 his rivals 11, 177, 181, 184–5, 187, 189,
as perceiver 109–10, 110 n.26, 116–20 192, 194–5
wax block model of 122–4 as ruler 179, 179 n.10
sound: and timing 195, 195 n.42, 199–200
its attributes 219–22, 223 as weaver 198–9; his fabric 198, 199–200;
defined 225, 229 manner of his weaving 198, 199; warp
illustrates Divine Method (Phlb.) 219–23 and weft of his weaving 198–9
as model for being 205, 213–14, 229 as wise man 171–2
as model for difference 205, 223–5 Statesman (dialogue):
pitched/its elements 219–21 its digressions on method 178–9,
vocal/its elements 219, 220, 221–3 181–2, 196–7
see also letters, music, phonology its ending 104, 200–1
spelling: mistakes in 178, 182–3, 187, 187 n.25,
learning of 4–5, 130, 135, 135 n.80 187–8 n.26; constructive aspects of
mistakes in 128, 130, 133–4, 135 190; see also Socrates the Younger:
see also Argument from Experience, letters his mistake
stargazing/babbling 193, 193 n.37, 203 n.3 philosophical topics broached and postponed
statement (logos) 167–8 in 178–9, 178 n.6
as act of affirming/denying 167 n.67, 169 its relation to other dialogues 1–3, 201,
false 8, 149–50, 153, 156, 163, 167–8, 244 201 n.54
parts of 167 steersman, see navigator/navigation
as structured proposition 167, 169 Stranger from Elea (main speaker in Sph. and
true 167 Stm.) 2, 2 n.4, 138, 203–4
statesman/statecraft (politikos): his flexibility/rigidity 178, 178 n.5, 181–2, 183
his closest kin 194, 195 his mode of teaching 138–9, 139 n.3
definition of 177, 195; by analysis 178, 196, stylometry 3 n.8
198–200; by collection 179, 179 n.9, Sun Analogy (Rep.) 99
194; by dichotomous division 177,
179–81, 182; differentiae irrelevant teaching 12; see also training, philosophical
to 192–3, 194–5; by dividing wide kind exercise, Plato: as teacher
knowledge 178; by division by technē, see expertise
limbs 192–4, 226, 226 n.54; truest Thales 87, 203 n.3
criterion for 192–4, 195 Terpsion 103, 103 n.9
a disputed kind 177 Theaetetus (respondent in Tht./Sph., present in
essence of 188–9; as immaterial but Stm.) 2, 138–9, 139 n.3, 201 nn.51, 54
embodied 202–3 n.1 his mental endowments 89, 104
and goodness 192–4 his resemblance to Socrates 104, 177–8, 201
a great and difficult kind 203, 203 n.2 his wounds, illness, and death 103, 103 n.8
as herdsman 179–81, 181 n.14, 184, 187 n.25, Theaetetus (dialogue):
194, 200; manner of his care 177, 187, dating of 103 n.8
187–8 n.26, 194, 199–200 failure at end of 8–10, 131–7
his imitators 11, 172, 177, 192–4, 194–5 prologue of 3 n.8, 102, 103–4, 103 nn.7, 8;
his knowledge 2, 198–200; a master 104 n.13
craft 195, 199; and its relation to other dialogues 1–3, 103 n.8,
measurement 196–7, 199–200; as 126 n.62, 201 n.54
290 GENERAL INDEX
Theodorus (present in Tht./Sph./Stm.) 2, 89–90, water, form of 30–1, 91, 92

177, 203–4, 241, 241 n.88 Wax Block 121, 122–4, 129, 130; see also
Theuth 221–3 impressions
Third Man Argument 35, 35 n.43, 36 n.48, weaving/weaver:
38 n.53, 73; see also Largeness Regress, defined 190–1, 196
Likeness Regress dichotomous division of 190
Thrasyllus 1 n.2 division of by limbs 191, 226,
Timaeus (dialogue) 88 n.24, 186 n.24, 207, 226 n.54
220 n.43, 230 essence of 141, 188–9, 191
forms in 9–10 n.26, 31 n.31, 38 n.53, as master craft 191–2, 199 n.47
39 n.56, 233 and measurement 196
as natural history 125 n.61 as model for division by limbs 188–9,
on perception 118, 118 n.47 191–2, 194
its relation to other dialogues 9–10 n.26 as model for philosopher 243, 243 n.95
timing, see measurement as model for statesman 4, 141, 188–9,
training 3, 9, 10, 11, 11 n.32; see also 188 n.27, 190–2, 194
philosophical exercise, and under letters as model for true rhetorician 243
truth: Whole–Part Dilemma (Prm.) 32–5, 68, 217
its attainment an achievement (Final wholes, types of 213; see also genus–species,
Argument in Tht. Pt. I) 108; demands incompatibility range/set, parts and
both perception and judgment 119 wholes
its attainment automatic (Protagoras) 107–8 wisdom (sophia) 102, 102 n.6
as criterion for knowledge 82, 107 as formal cause of wise men 90, 102
Tübingen School 13 n.38 see also knowledge
wise man (sophos) 90, 170
universals 34–5 his name 143
unlikeness 3, 91 variety of his imitators 171–2
form of 20, 47 n.5, 151
unlimited in multitude 219 n.41 Zeno of Elea (speaker in Prm.) 19
as unlimited in plurality 35–8, 39–41 his book 13 n.37, 19–20, 20 nn.5, 6; 29
as unlimited in (undifferentiated) his defense of monism 19–20, 47
manyness 65–8, 219 as Eleatic Palamedes (Phdr.) 228, 228 n.56
his hypothesis (Prm.) 47, 47 n.6, 48, 58
values 80, 85, 87, 90, 113–15, 115 n.36; see also his paradoxes 19–21, 27, 228; about change
forms: of values and rest 228; about one and many 20
verbs 167 nn.5, 6; 214, 214 n.30, 228

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5.4 Difference 158

Works Cited 245

1 The Missing Dialogue

2 Portrait of the Philosopher

The philosopher’s object: the form of being

The philosopher’s knowledge

The philosopher’s discourse

3 Puzzle of the Philosopher

T s ØØ çØºçÆ 

1.1 Socrates’ Theory of Forms in the Parmenides

1.2 Parmenides’ Critique

proceeds with an unlimited multitude of qualitatively similar but numerically distinct

1.3 A World without Forms

2.1 Plan of the Exercise in Parmenides Part II

Parmenides makes a fourth recommendation vital to the overall argument in my book.

Deduction Hypothesis Subject of consequences Consequences

Some interpreters regard Part II as a parody of other philosopher’s methods, but

If the one is everything, it is bound to have incompatible properties.

2.2 The Positive Hypothesis

To see that the hypothesis is to be construed in different ways in different deduc-

2.3 The First Antinomy

Having asserted Socrates’ thesis as the ﬁrst consequence in Deduction 1, Parmenides

2.4 Instant of Change

2.5 The Second Antinomy

Wholes and parts

to one another.47 So participation in the one transforms an indeﬁnite multitude

The others apart from oneness

2.6 Summary of the Positive Hypothesis

2.7 Retrospective of the Exercise

2.8 Being and Participation

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3.1 The Parmenidean Thread in the Theaetetus

3.2 Heraclitean Perception and its Objects

The Secret Doctrine

A little later (a passage I quoted in part above in another connection) he says of

3.3 Parmenidean Perception and its Objects

Mental perception and its objects

Parmenides, where Socrates dismisses it because of its insigniﬁcance. Socrates is quite

3.4 Parmenides on Not-Being and Being in the Sophist

Puzzles about not-being and being

The Stranger gives two arguments, the second of which (244d14–245d11) is

3.5 Battle of the Gods and Giants

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on knowledge culminating in the missing Philosopher and offers a clue to understanding

4.1 Prologue of the Theaetetus

4.2 Deﬁnition of Clay

4.3 Limits of Perception

Here Socrates separates Protagorean perceptions into two components previously

The soul as perceiver

Perception and judgment

4.4 True Judgment

judging occurs. Every judgment—if it is a judgment at all—is automatically true. To

4.5 Elements and Complexes

equally knowable (or unknowable) (205d7–e7).62 He then appeals to Theaetetus’

Analysis into elements

Telling the difference

instantiates them. At least that individual must instantiate them on numerous

4.7 Knowledge and True Belief

Distinguishing knowledge from true belief

Socrates’ question explicitly recalls the dialogue Parmenides, in which he conversed as

T s ØØ çØºçÆ

Æºº IÆÆ ÆØ.

ŒÆı̀ › ŒıŒg ØÆÆØ c ŒØ .