The Hamartia of Misologia

In his dialogue the Phaedo, Plato presents Socrates and his friends on the last day of Socrates’s life. Phaedo tells of the emotions felt on that day:

I myself was curiously affected while I was there: it wasn’t pity that visited me, as might have been expected for someone present at the death of an inti­mate friend; because the man seemed to me happy, Echecrates, both in his manner and his words, so fearlessly and nobly was he meeting his end; and so I felt assured that even while on his way to Hades he would not go without divine providence, and that when he arrived there he would fare well, if ever any man did. That’s why I wasn’t visited at all by the pity that would seem natural for someone present at a scene of sorrow, nor again by the pleasure from our being occupied, as usual, with philosophy—because the discussion was, in fact, of that sort—but a simply extraordinary feeling was upon me, a sort of strange mixture of pleasure and pain combined, as I reflected that Socrates was shortly going to die. (Phaedo, 58dff.)^[1]

Phaedo’s surprise that he did not feel pity and that Socrates was not fearful suggests that Phaedo was inclined to view Socrates’s death as a tragic event.^[2] The reader of the dialogue may also find the portrayal of the event to resemble a tragedy in several respects, for the dialogue presents the death of a hero in what seem to be episodes.^[3] There is also a smattering of dramatic detail which seems to give the presentation a tragic cast: for instance, the comparison of Socrates’s behavior with the Theseus legend (58a 10ff.) gives the drama of his last day the kind of mythological status^[4] desirable in a tragedy. Yet, as we shall see, Plato’s presentation of Socrates’s death with a hint of tragedy about it has the odd effect of destroying the notion that Socrates’s death is tragic. Again, the above quotation indicates as much, for, in spite of expectations, Socrates’s death did not evoke the emotions associated with tragedy. Plato portrays Socrates on his last day in such a way that we learn that Socrates should not be pitied, since death, for him at least, is not fearful. Since the hero of the dialogue suffers no fearful or pitiable misfortune, the dialogue on this level is very untragic.^[5]

There is, though, a near-tragedy in the Phaedo. And this near tragedy goes beyond the somewhat superficial resemblances to a tragedy noted above. Aristotle defines a tragedy as an imitation of a noble and complete action which, through the representation of pitiable and fearful incidents, achieves the catharsis of fear and pity. He defines a pitiable and fearful incident as the falling of a good man into a misfortune through some hamartia.^[6] In the Phaedo the participants of the dialogue nearly commit the hamartia of misologia, or the hatred of argument, which would result in what Plato considered to be the worst possible evil: the failure to become philosophers. By keeping the emotions associated with tragedy in the forefront, Plato teaches that the emotions which many feel in response to Socrates’s death are more properly felt in response to misologia, an evil greater than death. The first portion of this study will establish the central role of fear and pity in the dialogue and analyze how Socrates transforms our concern with the apparent tragedy of his death into a concern for what he portrays as the true tragic misfortune, yielding to misologia. The second portion will discuss the nature of misologia and how Socrates purges the interlocutors of it.

Aristotle tells us that fear is the pain or confusion which one suffers in the face of an impending destructive or painful evil.^[7] The peculiar thing about the Phaedo is that Socrates, the one whom we would most expect to be fearful because of his coming execution, expresses only confidence in the face of death. Still, although Socrates first speaks of why a philosopher not only does not fear death but is in fact eager for it, underlying his discussion is an awareness that most men do fear death (67e9, 68b6; cf. 84b5ff.). And certainly, the rest of his company seem to have this fear. Simmias and Cebes speak of the fear of death several times at fairly critical points of the dialogue (especially when they express a difficulty in accepting the prior argument). Cebes at 70a mentions the fear that the soul, when separated from the body, no longer exists. Simmias at 77b5 reiterates this “popular” fear (see also 88b2ff, 91c7). Socrates then makes Simmias and Cebes admit that the fear they speak of is one they share—and likens their fear to that of children (77d5ff.). Cebes laughingly admits this and asks Socrates to reassure “the child” within so that they may stop being afraid of death as of a bogeyman (77e5). Socrates intends to oblige.

The fear of the interlocutors is not only in reference to their own deaths; they also express fear for themselves and pity for themselves at the impending loss of their friend Socrates. Aristotle tells us that pity is a pain experienced in the face of some destructive or painful evil threatening one who does not deserve the evil—especially one close to oneself.^[8] We recall again that Phaedo remarked that he did not feel pity for Socrates. Yet the participants do speak of a fear which amounts to self-pity. Simmias at 76a10 mentions his fear that, on the next day, there will be no man who can properly discuss the subject of knowledge. Cebes indicates at 78a7 that he believes Socrates to be the only one who can free them of their fears; at 116a5, Phaedo reports that the company spoke of their misfortune as if they were being deprived of a father and would become orphans. Xanthippe’s only words also express pity at the separation of Socrates and his friends: “So this is the very last time, Socrates, that your good friends will speak to you and you to them” (60a5). As Phaedo tells of the others’ tears and his own, he admits that, in the end, the lamentations were a product of pity more for their own misfortune than for that of Socrates:

In my own case, the tears came pouring out in spite of myself, so that I covered my face and wept for myself—not for him, no, but for my own misfortune in being deprived of such a man for a companion. (117c7-dl)

So, although Socrates’s behavior kept Phaedo and company from experiencing fear and pity on his behalf, nonetheless they did experience these emotions largely in reference to themselves. It is also important to keep in mind that not all was lamentation; as Phaedo’s opening remarks inform us, the interlocutors found themselves experiencing both pleasure and pain, both laughing and weeping.^[9] These responses indicate that they had made some progress in conquering their fears but had not yet obtained Socrates’s state of philosophic calm. And that is only right, for, as we shall see, only the philosopher can and should be fearless in the face of death. Is Socrates justified in experiencing this hope? What is the source of his fearlessness in the face of death?

Simmias and Cebes have quite definite notions about how one is to be freed from the fear of death, that is, how one is to justify confidence in the face of death. Socrates states the matter which most concerns his interlocutors in this way:

The sum and substance of what you’re after is surely this: you want it proved that our soul is imperishable and immortal, if a philosophic man about to die, confidently believing that after death he’ll fare much better yonder than if he were ending a life lived differently, isn’t to be possessed of a senseless and foolish confidence. (95b9-c4)

Socrates states the problem well, for throughout the dialogue, Simmias and Cebes have expressed the view that any sensible man should fear death and that only a demonstration that the soul is immortal and imperishable would serve to explain confidence in the face of death.

Now many who have studied the Phaedo seek to discover if, in fact, Socrates has provided such a demonstration. Yet is the demonstration of the immortality of the soul Socrates’s aim in the dialogue? Does he think such a proof would be the best way to banish the fear of death? We recall that, in The Apology, Socrates has already insisted that one should be hopeful in the face of death:

Let us consider in another way also how good reason there is to hope that it is a good thing. For the state of death is one of two things: either it is virtually nothingness, so that the dead has no consciousness of anything, or it is, as people say, a change and migration of the soul from this to another place. And if it is unconsciousness, like a sleep in which the sleeper does not even dream, death would be a wonderful gain. (40c)^[10]

Socrates clearly does not share the fear of Simmias and Cebes that death is a kind of nothingness. Nor does he recognize this as a legitimate fear; if death were a nothingness, it would be a blessing, not a misfortune. And, since, in the Apology, Socrates speaks only of what good men will experience if the soul should exist after death, he finds the second possibility a blessing as well. There is, though, a hint earlier in his speech that he thinks the immortality of the soul to be a fearful prospect for wicked men: he says that death is not a difficult thing to escape but that it is much more difficult to escape wickedness (39a6). Still, this is only a hint of what is really to be feared. It is in the opening words of the myth of the Phaedo where Socrates states clearly how one ought to react to the possibility that the soul is immortal:

But this much is fair to keep in mind, friends: if a soul is immortal, then it needs care, not only for the sake of this time in which what we call “life” lasts, but for the whole of time; and if anyone is going to neglect it, now the risk would seem fearful. Because if death were a separation from everything, it would be a godsend for the wicked, when they died, to be separated at once from the body and from their own wickedness along with the soul; but since, in fact, it is evidently immortal, there would be no other refuge from ills or salvation for it, except to become as good and wise as possible. (107cl-d3)^[11]

This passage and parts of the remainder of the myth suggest that, in fact, the wicked should fear death—not if the soul disintegrates at death but if the soul is immortal.^[12] Earlier in the dialogue Socrates lists some of the ills threatening non-philosophic men: he explains that they must pay the penalty for their former nature and eventually become imprisoned in a body again (81cff.), and he elaborates on the fate of the wicked in the myth. In sum, the immortality of the soul is not a source of hope for all; it is, in fact, a source of fear for the wicked. Thus, Socrates cannot (and does not) rely upon a proof of the immortality of the soul as a means of freeing his friends from the fear of death. Socrates argues that goodness which is the product of a philosophic life is the source of hope in the face of death.^[13]

Socrates, of course, claims and exhibits such hope^[14] and repeatedly explains the source of his hope; it derives from the fact that he has purified his intellect through philosophy (see 67b8-c3; cf. Republic, 485c, 486b). In the myth he suggests that the purified have hope that they will meet with a glorious fate (107c9-d5, l 14b6-c9). So, if Socrates truly wants to free his friends from the fear of death, he must promote their goodness and wisdom, which is their true salvation (107dl). If he is to give them true hope, Socrates must help them tend their souls.

In Socrates’s manner of accomplishing this task we sense some of that kindliness upon which Phaedo remarks early in the dialogue (88e4ff.). Socrates exhibits this concern for the interlocutors at the outset; he initially deals with the inevitable topic of death in what can even be con­sidered a humorous fashion. Simmias and Cebes most likely expect Socrates to explain why one should not fear death. Socrates twists the matter around and asks why a philosopher, who should be eager for death, does not commit suicide. A dramatic detail smoothly introduces this point: Socrates sends a message to Evenus, one of those inquiring about Socrates’s activities on his last day. He advises Evenus to follow him quickly. Because Simmias interprets this advice to mean that Evenus should commit suicide, he exclaims that Evenus is unlikely to be willing to obey his request. Socrates then asks a question with a surprising implication: he asks, “Isn’t Evenus a philosopher?” thereby implying that a philosopher should be eager to die. This little exchange places the focus where Socrates wishes it to be: the question of the dialogue becomes not why men should not fear death but why the philosopher is confident in the face of death. And then Socrates handles the topic in a fairly uncharacteristic manner: he does not begin by questioning his interlocutors; instead, he kindly offers a defense of himself:

Now then, with you for my jury I want to give my defense, and show with what good reason, as it seems to me, a man who has truly spent his life in philosophy feels confident when about to die, and is hopeful that, when he has died he will win very great benefits in the other world. So I’ll try, Simmias and Cebes, to explain how this could be. (63e)

This defense, a kind of sermon with a few well-guided assenting responses from Simmias interspersed, is very important, perhaps more important than all the arguments of the dialogue, for it answers the question perturbing Simmias and Cebes—how one can be confident in the face of death.

In this defense Socrates makes the startling (and even laughable) statement that philosophy is nothing other than the practice of dying (64a5). Socrates defends this statement through an equivocation: he defines death as the separation of the soul from the body but employs this definition in an idiosyncratic way. Now, the common understanding of this phrase would be that, while with death the separated soul, in some sense, survives, the body, at least, disintegrates. But in this discussion, Socrates speaks of the separation of the soul from the body, what he has defined as death, as possible when the body is still living. This separation is the liberation of the soul from all the demands of the body and, as we learn elsewhere and have a hint of here, it is the communion of the soul with the World of Ideas, or with the divine. ^[15]

This separation is a kind of purification effected through the virtues. Socrates insists that the virtues, and wisdom in particular, free men from pleasures, pain, and fear (69c6ff.) and perhaps from the fear of death in particular (67e5). This separation of the soul from the body—this sort of “death”—is, of course, not to be feared but to be desired by one seeking wisdom. Yet Socrates does seem to extend this contact of the pure with the pure to apply to biological death as well and suggests that, after their bodies have disintegrated, the souls of the good will enjoy ever­ lasting contact with the pure (67a5). Nevertheless, we must keep in mind that Socrates does not claim to demonstrate that the soul has this immortality, and more importantly, we must remember that this immortality is not the source of the philosopher’s hope. Whether death be disintegration or whether it be a kind of everlasting life, the philosopher has no reason to fear.

There are various symbolic reflections of the liberating power of philosophy (see 82d9-83al), particularly in Socrates’s removal of his fetters and in the choice of Phaedo as the narrator and namesake of the dialogue. Dorter makes the proper connections:

The one thing notable about Phaedo is, perhaps, his biography: a native of Elis, he was taken prisoner by the Athenians and became a slave; through Socrates’ efforts he was released from bondage and converted by Socrates to philosophy. Phaedo thus experienced release from bondage in the literal sense, as well as in the metaphorical sense of the allegory of the Cave; and the dialogue is pre-eminently about bondage and liberation—the theme runs through the work: Socrates’ literal imprisonment, the imprisonment of the soul within the body, the imprisonment of reason by pleasure and pain, the confinement of man to hollows in the earth, his imprisonment in the sub­ terranean rivers, and the modes of liberation from these bondages, as well as Socrates’ account of his ascent to philosophy, which parallels the liberation from the Cave as portrayed in Republic VI I.^[16]

Socrates hopes through philosophic discussion to help the other interlocutors as he helped Phaedo.

The proceedings of the Phaedo have many hints which support the observation that philosophy was the main business of the day. Indeed, Phaedo at 59a5 (cited above) remarks that the discussion was a philosophic one. Phaedo also repeatedly expresses the wonder he felt (58a3, 58el, 88e4, 89a2), the sensation which Socrates elsewhere calls the beginning of philosophy (Theaetetus, 155d). Socrates tells Cebes that he might find it a matter of wonder that it is better for a man to be dead but not right to kill himself (62a2, 5), and out of this wonder grows the main line of argument of the dialogue (cf. Cebes’s expressions of wonder at 95a9, b3). At 84c9 Socrates senses that his interlocutors undergo a usual reaction to the philosophic experience at his hands: he senses that they are in aporia, a state of confusion in which there seems to be “no way out.” Simmias expresses aporia at 84d5 and 85cl after the first problematic discussions. Furthermore, Socrates seems to be giving lessons on how to be a philosopher not only by demonstration provided by his own behavior but also by his explicit verbal instructions on the true aim and method of philosophy. In his “defense” he tells how genuine philosophers must become free from the senses (66bff.). And along with his autobiographical statement he gives instructions on the hypothetical method which a philosopher ought to use. Also, as usual, Socrates manages to work several of his central doctrines into the discussion: for instance, in the Phaedo he argues for the theory of anamnesis and the theory of Forms.^[17] The philosophic life takes on a special attractiveness when pro­ moted as the salvation of the soul and in circumstances where death is imminent.

With this understanding of the dialogue, the nature of the “tragedy” of the Phaedo changes. Death itself is not the focus, philosophy is. Fear of death turns out to be a kind of bogus fear: the true thing to fear is not becoming a philosopher. And this becomes abundantly clear at the pivotal point of the dialogue—at the true middle. There Socrates warns against the worst evil which can befall man.

In a well-constructed tragedy the hamartia occurs at or near the midpoint.^[18] The dramatic (and mathematical) mid­ point of the Phaedo is approximately 88c, though the mid­ section extends from 84c to 95a. The silence which falls over Socrates, the expressions of doubt by Simmias and Cebes about the adequacy of the preceding arguments, and the intermission-like interruption of Echecrates indicate a critical point in the proceedings, for here is what may be called a turning point in the quest for arguments, the dis­ missal of those arguments which seem inadequate and a renewed search for better ones. At this mid-point the interlocutors, Echecrates and Phaedo, experience a new fear:

All of us who heard them were disagreeably affected by their words, as we afterwards told one another: we’d been completely convinced by the earlier argument, yet now they seemed to disturb us again, and make us doubtful not only about the arguments already put forward but also about points yet to be raised, for fear that we were incompetent judges of anything, or even that these things might be inherently doubtful. (88cl-7)

This fear is not limited to the interlocutors only. Echecrates responds to the fear expressed by the interlocutors by noting that he too shares it and by asking how Socrates pursued the discussion. He wants to know whether Socrates became visibly upset or came quickly to the help of the argument and whether that help was adequate or deficient. Eche- crates made a similar request at the opening of the dialogue. He wanted to know what was said and done (58c6) and wanted a full report (58d7). But we suspect it is now the fate of the argument which concerns Echecrates more than the fate of Socrates—so successfully has Socrates shifted the focus. And it is even more remarkable that, whereas Socrates has resisted any suggestion that he or his friends should mourn for his death, he says that he and Phaedo should go into mourning if the argument dies (89b9). Socrates appraises their true situation for Phaedo:

” … let’s take care that a certain fate doesn’t befall us.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The fate of becoming “misologists”, just as some become misanthropists: because there’s no greater evil that could befall anyone than this—the hating of arguments. (89c11-d3)

Socrates further describes the fate of those who become misologists as lamentable (90c8) and obtains Phaedo’s agreement (90d8).^[19] Both the dramatic detail and explicit statement, then, confirm that this was the crucial point in the day’s proceedings: it is at this point that Socrates thinks the company is most in danger of experiencing a truly fearful and lamentable misfortune.

By rejecting death as a tragic misfortune and by focusing upon misologia as a truer tragic misfortune, Socrates changes the “terms of the tragedy,” so to speak. Here and in other discussions of misologia, Plato indicates that he thought it to be a terrible error in judgment, which it seems right to call a hamartia. In the Phaedo Socrates explains that misologia is very like misanthropy, since it arises from the same source (89d3). After repeated disappointment in the trustworthiness of men or arguments, one tends to believe that all men and arguments are untrust­worthy (89d3ff.). This distrust leads a man to find fault, neither with himself nor with his lack of skill, but with arguments (90d2). The notion of misologia appears twice elsewhere in Plato’s works. In the third book of the Republic, during the discussion of the proper education for the guardians, Socrates describes the man who has no contact with the Muse, and who as a result never develops a knowledge of love in his soul. Through lack of education, discussion, or culture he becomes weak, dumb and blind, because his soul is neither aroused nor nourished, nor does it have perceptions purified (411e9ff.). Such a man becomes a misologos. Lach es, in the dialogue bearing his name, expresses his inclination to seem like a misologos if a man’s words do not correspond to his deeds (188cff.). (It is worth noting that Laches does not say that he becomes a misologos. His anger makes him only seem like one.)There are, then, three different sources given for misologia in the dialogues: in the Phaedo, it is distrust arising from the experience of arguments which sometimes seem true and sometimes false; in the Republic, it is a general lack of education and a consequent inability to argue correctly; and in the Laches, it is the inconsistency between word and deed. All lead to misologia, which, in the Phaedo, Socrates calls the greatest evil since it leads a man to live out his life “hating and mocking arguments and being deprived of truth and knowledge of things that are” (90c).

Throughout the dialogues, other things beside misologia bear the label “the greatest evil,” although, I believe, in the final analysis, all are some form of misologia or lead to miso­ logia. In the Phaedo, Socrates says that the greatest evil is believing the sensible world to be the truly real world (83c2-9); in the Laws, it is self-love (731d6ff.) which the Athenian says is truly the cause of all hamartemata (731e3), the evil deeds which result from a hamartia; and in the Gorgias, Socrates calls both holding a false opinion (458a) and doing—not suffering—injustice, the greatest of all evils (469b8). Gallop offers a reconciliation to the problem of two different “greatest evils” mentioned in the Phaedo which also serves to show how all these different “greatest evils” are related:

These alleged evils, although surely not the same, may in Plato’s view, be related. One who has lost all faith in rational argument will not recognize Forms as the true realities. He will assume that the sensible world alone is real and will thus be ‘deprived both of the truth and of knowledge of things that are.’^[20]

Misologia, attachment to the physical world, self-love, false opinion, and doing injustice, all cause the deprivation of truth and knowledge—which is the greatest evil. Whatever opposes philosophy can also be called the greatest evil. To describe this, one might wish to coin the word “misosophia,” but misologia serves very well. After all, for Socrates, love of arguments and love of philosophy were one and the same and, in fact, in the Republic he speaks of the philosophos and the philologos as one: ” … the things approved by the lover of wisdom (philosophos) and discussion (philologos) are most valid and true” (582e8-9). We might also note that, in the Definitions, the unphilosophic disposition is defined as that which characterizes the misologos (415e4).

As the above analysis demonstrates, misologia is a fearful thing and, indeed, the only thing that frightens Socrates. In the dialogues, it is only in situations where misologia threatens that Socrates expresses fear. In the first book of the Republic Socrates experiences fear in the face of Thrasymachus’s violent interruption of the conversation (336d). Thrasymachus demands that Socrates conduct the argument in a way which Socrates considers inimical to the search. for truth. At 336d Thrasymachus tells Socrates that he may not say that justice is “that which ought to be, or the beneficial or the profitable or the advantageous, but express clearly and precisely whatever [he means]. For I won’t take … any such drivel as that.” Since Socrates allows that one of these may be the true definition (337b), he cannot yield to such a demand. Socrates, a man of known courage, feels fearful and trembles in the face of Thrasymachus’s demands, I suspect, not because he fears what Thrasymachus’s violence may do to him personally, but what it will do to the search for truth. Moreover, in this same passage, Socrates suggests that pity is the proper emotion in response to failure to acquire the truth, for he tells Thrasymachus to pity him should he be mistaken about the nature of justice (337a). In the Theaetetus (and elsewhere) we see Socrates avoiding the eristic tendencies associated with misologia as he declines to criticize Parmenides; he fears lest this and the other arguments rushing in upon them keep him from what is most important: the topic at hand, the nature of knowledge (183e). Finally, although throughout the dialogues Socrates tells his interlocutors to be brave and not to lose courage in the face of the difficulties of the argument, he indicates that he, as leader of the discussion, has even greater reason to fear:

“My good fellow, is that remark intended to encourage me?” “It is,” he said. “Well then,” said I, “it has just the contrary effect. For, if I were confident that I was speaking with knowledge, it would be an excellent encouragement. For there is both safety and boldness in speaking the truth with knowledge about our greatest and dearest concerns to those who are both wise and dear. But to speak when one doubts himself and is seeking while he talks, as I am doing, is a fearful and slippery venture. The fear is not of being laughed at, for that is childish, but lest, missing the truth, I fall down and drag my friends with me in matters where it is most important not to stumble. So, I salute Nemesis, Glaucon, in what I am about to say. For indeed, I believe that involuntary homicide is a lesser fault than to mislead opinion about the honorable, the good, and the just.” (Republic, 450d5-451a7)

Another passage from the Republic indicates the emotions allied with misology. Socrates tells of youngsters who treat the study of words as a game and become more interested in refuting others than in finding the truth (539b2-dl). Socrates says that these youngsters who argue for the sake of argument, not for the sake of truth, fall into antilogy (539b4), which is the attitude of disputatiousness. The step to misology is a small one, for, were one to believe argument to be a futile exercise, one could easily come to hate argument. Indeed, it may be said that antilogy is a manifestation of misology; in the Phaedo Socrates speaks of the misologoi as spending their time in antilogikous arguments (90cl). In the Republic he tells what a pity (539a7, 8) it would be for older men to suffer this fate and speaks of taking precautions against it (539bl), a sign of fear. Misology, then, for Socrates, is a proper source of fear and pity.

Let us return to the Phaedo. Here, as the interlocu­tors verge on giving way to the distrust of arguments, Soc­rates himself seems, in an ironical way, to display one of the characteristics of a misologos: that of arguing for purposes other than truth. He evaluates his own behavior:

… I may not be facing death as a philosopher should, but rather as one bent on victory, like those quite devoid of education. They, too, when they dispute about something, care nothing for the truth of the matter under discussion but are eager only that those present shall accept their own thesis. It seems to me that on this occasion I shall differ from them only to this extent: my concern will not be, except perhaps incidentally, that what I say shall seem true to those present, but rather that it shall, as far as possible, seem so to myself. Because I reckon, my dear friend—watch how anxious I am to score—that if what I say proves true, it’s surely well to have been persuaded; whereas if there’s nothing for a dead man, still, at least during this very time before my death, I’ll distress those present less with lamentation, and this ignorance of mine will not persist—that would be a bad thing—but in a little while be ended. (91al-b7)

Socrates seems to be attributing to himself the very vice which he denounces in others. Why do I suggest that Soc­rates’s attribution of misology to himself is ironical?^[21] Indeed, I read the dialogue in such a way that I nearly hear hoots in the background as Socrates says that he may not be facing death as a philosopher should, for who more than Socrates faced death as a philosopher should? Even more ironic is his implication that he differs from lovers of victory only slightly in that he is not concerned that what he says seem true to those present but only to himself. Again, who would be a severer judge than Socrates? Who would be less inclined to allow himself to be persuaded of what was not true? Finally, in his words to Simmias and Cebes immediately following this “admission” of being a lover of victory, he undercuts the force of his former remarks:

Thus prepared, Simmias and Cebes, I advance against the argument; but for your part, if you take my advice, you’ll care little for Socrates but much more for the truth: if I seem to you to say anything true, agree with it; but if not, resist it with every argument you can, taking care that in my zeal I don’t deceive you and myself alike, and go off like a bee leaving its sting behind. (91b7-c5)

This is hardly the advice of a misologos.

What purpose can Socrates have in portraying himself, even ironically, as a misologos? By pretending that he, too, is susceptible to this vice, Socrates emphasizes the susceptibility of all to this failing and, perhaps even more importantly, places himself on the same plane with his misology­-prone interlocutors. As Aristotle tells us, a tragic hero cannot be extraordinarily good, for then the audience, since they could not truly identify with him, could not experience fear and pity. Socrates’s biographical statement, to a degree, serves the same purpose of making Socrates just “one of the guys.” There he attributes to his youthful self many of the characteristics of a misologos. At 96c1 all Socrates speaks of changing his mind many times. At 96cl he expresses the doubts that the interlocutors experienced earlier (87cff.):

… I finally judged myself to have absolutely no gift for this kind of inquiry. I’ll tell you a good enough sign for this: there had been things that I previously did know for sure, at least as I myself and others thought; yet I was then so utterly blinded by this inquiry, that I unlearned even those things I formerly supposed I knew. (96cl-6)

Socrates, though, recovered from his disillusioning association with Anaxagoras; he gave upon the method which seemed certain to lead to misology. Socrates’s own method, dialectic, since it offers a means of testing hypotheses and discovering which is the true one, seems to be designed as a remedy against misology. He says as much when, at 101e1, he expressly states that his method does not allow the confusion to which the antilogikoi are prone.

So we see, in the mid-section of the Phaedo, that Socrates alerts the young men to the evil of misology, that he, in a sense, succumbs to it himself, and that he offers dialectic as a means of freeing oneself from it. The same terms reappear in the Sophist, where the Eleatic Stranger speaks of the sophists as antilogoi (232b6) who make others antilogoi as well (232b12). The sophist, the antilogos, suffers the worst of evils (225c5): he seems to be wise although he does not truly possess knowledge (233c10). The Eleatic Stranger maintains that the way to remedy this ignorance, this deformity of the soul is through dialectic. And he calls dialectic the true form of catharsis:

They question a man on some subject about which he fancies he has something to say when he really has nothing. As he is quite at sea, they find it easy to refute his notions. Finally, they collect his various deliverances and confront them with one another, and by doing so show them to involve the simultaneous assertion of contradictions about an identical subject­ matter, in identical relations, under identical conditions. When the victim sees this, he feels exasperation with himself, but increased civility toward others. In this way he is delivered from the swollen and stubborn conceits which beset him, by a process as singularly entertaining to the spectator as permanent in its effect on the subject… [the soul] will get no benefit from the learning applied to it until a cross-examiner has put the patient to shame and expelled the notions within him which obstruct his learning, thus reducing him to a purified condition in which he believes himself to know just so much as he really knows and no more. (230b4-d4) ^[22]

The description of the true educator, who purges his charges of the ignorance which was the product of antilogy and which leads to antilogy, fits Socrates’s statement of his own method in the Phaedrus (100a ff.) and his behavior in the Phaedo (and other dialogues as well).

The notion of catharsis also appears in Socrates’s pro- motion of the philosophic life in the Phaedo.^[23] At 61aff. forms of the word “catharsis” appear repeatedly as Socrates speaks of the one who has wrested his soul away from the body and managed to become pure, whereby he might be in the pure company of the gods. He also speaks of the virtues of temperance, justice, courage, and wisdom in particular as a kind of purifying rite (69cl, 69c2) and tells us that only the purified (69c6)—that is, only those who practice philosophy correctly (69d2)—dwell with the gods (cf. 82bl0). And at 82b5 he speaks of philosophy as the true release and purifying rite. Thus, in the Sophist and the Phaedo, we find three activities labelled “catharsis” (as we found several things called the greatest evil): the expelling of false opinions, the freeing of the soul from attachment to the body, the attainment of virtues exchanging false pleasures and pains for true ones. The definition of catharsis as the separation of the worse from the better (Sophist, 227d5ff.; cf. Definitions, 415d4) explains that it is appropriate to apply the term to all these activities since all do trade the better for the worse. Philosophy, of course, embraces all three and thus is the truest form of catharsis.^[24]

The purpose of the arguments of the dialogue would be, then, to perform a catharsis. Can they be said to do so? Yes, but perhaps in an unexpected manner. Indeed, in one sense it seems unlikely that a catharsis should be needed, for, since Simmias and Cebes are Pythagoreans and thus have a conviction in the immortality of the soul, they would not be in need of a catharsis of false opinion. Nevertheless, the choice of Pythagoreans for interlocutors makes good sense: they are the ones who seem to know that the soul is immortal—but they do not. This thinking that one knows when one does not is a hamartia fatal to the philosophic life; we saw it as one of the characteristics of the misologoi (Phaedo, 89cl and Laws, 732a4ff.). It could be said that Socrates spent his life trying to purge men from this hamartia (cf. the Apology). Simmias and Cebes are a good example of the fact that even those in possession of true opinion may need a catharsis (i.e., dialectical treatment). Opinions, even true ones, are dangerous: Socrates in the Republic tells how many things can cause the man of opinion to change his mind (412e10ff.). Simmias and Cebes act very much like men with opinion only. Faced with circumstances which force them to examine their belief in the immortality of the soul, they give way to doubt; as they discuss death with Socrates, they do not press their belief but repeatedly voice doubts about the immortality of the soul. Opinion, then, turns out to be of little value. Conceivably, Socrates could have worked to reinforce their true belief and could have worked to convert their true op1n1on into knowledge by helping them find valid reasons for it. Many readers expect such an approach and therefore examine the arguments for their validity. But, as we have seen, Socrates has a very difficult task: he wishes to free friends from the fear of death, but the thing they are demanding, the proof of the immortality of the soul, would not be truly consoling—unless they were philosophers.

The arguments, then, have as their purpose catharsis in a broad sense: they are the purifying rite of philosophy. Again, we might think that this rite would involve the presentation of valid arguments, since moderns think the preferring of valid arguments to-be the business of philosophers.^[25] It seems that Plato did not.^[26] Instead, he performs the proper function of a dialectician by using a multiplicity of means to drive the interlocutors to examine their various assumptions and hypotheses. We should not be misled by the fact that Socrates claims “truth” for many of his arguments; as any superficial reading of the arguments shows, there are so many words left undefined and used equivocally that we have little idea in what sense Socrates considered them to be true. We are virtually left to figure it out for ourselves—as, we cannot help but believe, Plato must have intended.^[27] The objections which Simmias and Cebes make in the dialogue indicate that Socrates is achieving his purpose: he wants his interlocutors to probe the propriety of his images and the consistency of his reasoning; he has spurred them to question and answer—in his view, the activity vital to philosophy. This is not to say, of course, that the arguments have no validity or assist not at all in proving the immortality of the soul. If nothing else, they are at least an example to us of the sort of questions one might ask in order to arrive at a proof.

Simmias and Cebes are, then, in need of catharsis for several reasons; initially, they hold a belief that they know when they do not; then they express a false opinion that death is fearful; and finally, they display a proclivity to misology. Philosophy is the cathartic agent for all these maladies.

Appropriately, the ending of the Phaedo includes a symbolic catharsis. Much as the dialogue begins with Socrates’s symbolic action of freeing himself from his bonds, so it ends symbolically with Socrates taking a bath. Evidently, it was customary for women to bathe the body of men who had died. Socrates bathes himself before he dies. Is this to say anything other than that, unlike other men who are purified after death, Socrates purifies himself beforehand?

After Socrates proclaims that he is about to bathe, Crito asks what instructions Socrates has for the others and himself so that they might be of service to Socrates. Socrates’s final advice to his friends is nothing new; it has been the message of his final day’s discussion; it is his constant message: “take care of yourselves” (115b6), which, as we understand in the context of the dialogue, means “become philosophers.” Socrates has spent his life in the service of philosophy and even on this his last day has endeavored to free his followers from their opinions and lead them to knowledge. Plato in writing the dialogue does the same. As he dramatizes Socrates’s dictum that no good man should fear death (Apology, 41c), he frees Socrates’s followers—that is, all readers of the dialogue, from the false opinion that Socrates’s death was tragic, and, even more importantly, he indicates a true source of tragic misfortune: misologia, or the failure to become a philosopher. Insofar as Plato’s “tragic drama” prompts readers to experience the same emotions and catharsis as the interlocutors, it works to make philosophers of those readers. Thus, Plato, in continuing the work of his teacher Socrates, pays great tribute to him. And herein ends my humble tribute to another great teacher who made philologoi, or lovers of the word, in all senses, of his students.