| Rating: | ★★★★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Beyond Love and Knowledge |
Reading the Phaedrus, one begins to really appreciate the complexity and depth of Plato’s thought, and when we consider moreover what a laborious process writing must have been two thousand five hundred years ago, it becomes all the more impressive. Without a clear structure or seeming balance, some early commentators relegated Phaedrus as being an early work of Plato’s opus. But the outward carelessness of form is but an illusion, and there seems little doubt that it is not only late Plato, but perhaps a dialogue to end all dialogues as we shall see, and unquestionably a masterpiece.
(Review by the absent-present Lysias)
“Phaedrus, my friend, where have you been and where are you going?" Thus is Socrates’ auspicious opening of the dialogue. Phaedrus it turns out is carrying a speech of Lysias on the subject of love under his cloak, symbolically in his left hand. To begin with, Phaedrus is a dialogue about love. In this regard it is in stark opposition to Plato’s Symposium both in the setting and in the movement of the argument. But discussion will turn towards the spoken word by which we access truth and seek to convince others, and finally to the inadequacy of the dead word, of writing. So on the surface, this dialogue weaves its way from the great mystery that is love to the great treasure that is knowledge, and its purpose is to inspire in [Phaedr]us a love of knowledge, to instill in us the way of thinking of the philosopher so that in our speech we seek truth, not merely persuasion.
But beneath the surface, Phaedrus is perhaps even more significantly a teaching by example of how the philosopher responds to the already-dead word of sophistry, or more generally to writing – it teaches us how to read and listen (outside the city walls of conventional thought, with a companion, a genuine interest, an open mind, inspired by the muses of nature and mythology and the text itself, but not weighed down by their truth, but rather using them as a vehicle for self-knowledge). Ultimately, as a dismissal of writing, it is also a challenge to the reader to spring back to its defence, just as Socrates does for love. Plato could have tried to do this himself, but to use writing to defend itself runs into the insurmountable obstacle of circularity, while to hint more clearly at this intention would undermine the self-confident finality of the Phaedrus itself.
And so what a grand conception this is, if Plato meant it, to give us a demonstration in dialogue form of how to read the written word, so that we may imagine the possibility of doing the same for Plato’s own work, and so accomplish the impossible, if only by analogy. Because of the greatness of the Phaedrus itself, there is a deterrent for any who might actually think to carry off this feat, not to mention its impossibility, for in denigrating writing (as Lao-Tzu did in the Tao Te Ching at almost exactly the same time in ancient China), Plato has given himself the “last word”. Yet, to use the written word to dismiss writing as sophistry, in such a startlingly aesthetic way, is no less of an insult than the dismissal of love as madness which Socrates has to contend with in the Phaedrus. Indeed, just as Socrates conceives of such a thing as divinely inspired madness, we might conceive of such a thing as divinely inspired sophistry. Is that not the essence of Socratic philosophy? Is that not the essence of the Phaedrus? Truth transcends opposites, but words have power beyond their form.
“On the seashore of endless worlds, children play.” (Tagore)
Socrates: Ah, Phaedrus my friend, what a marvellous review. I’m in ecstasy!
Phaedrus: Oh, do be serious now Socrates. Tell me what you really think. Isn’t Phaedrus a remarkable piece of writing as the reviewer says?
Socrates: I enjoyed it immensely! It is remarkable especially that our conversation that day should have been recorded so precisely. And since there were only the two of us present, not to mention the crickets who despite their memory for speech and song are not known for their writing, I think I know who wrote it! Come now, don’t be shy.
Phaedrus: Well, in fact, that is true. By the time we returned within the city walls and bid farewell, the sun was already beginning to sink behind the western mountains, so I went straight to record our meeting as best I could from memory. It was at least two-thirds of the way through the night and at the expense of much wax before I had sufficiently satisfied myself of the main points and could sleep easy, knowing that what I had written would remind me of the finer points of our discussion which I could fill out at a later time. The following morning I would put your words of advice to Lysias and try to persuade him of his mistake. Alas!, he is not possessed by the prophetic Apollo like you, my dear Socrates, that would allow him to see how the structures of democracy and free speech will surely decay once separated from their nourishment in philosophy and truth. Nor does he suffer the madness of Dionysus nor the passion of Eros that might excuse him. Indeed, by Zeus, he is a pragmatic realist. Yet he is still subject to the great Muses whose eloquence can either exonerate or exacerbate our error depending on whether they sing with the voice of our own conscience or against it. Though refusing to write such a homage to Love as you had suggested, he asked me to provide him with the fullest account of our dialogue, and in the form of this review, he wrote a homage to writing instead. Just as we turned on its head his argument of the inferiority of the lover, he says he does the same for our dialogue, which in his view amounts on the surface to an argument of the inferiority of writing.
Socrates: It would be worthwhile to consider if the Phaedrus does indeed demote writing, and if so, whether there is something else that it promotes in its place. What do you think, Phaedrus?
Phaedrus: It promotes speech above writing, for the speaker of the word can be seen face-to-face and defend what he has spoken when questioned. Also, speech is closer to action, and action is by its nature superior. For, mere words would be empty if they did not move one to a corresponding action. Travellers from the far East describe a teaching of their philosophers of the finger pointing at the moon. Words are like this also! Even this teaching of theirs is itself but a finger, and their philosopher sages advise us to stop looking at the finger, but follow the line to where it points. They also describe a meeting between a man from the forest who has never seen the sea and a man from the sea who has never seen the forest. The forest man takes out of his sack a handful of leaves, each different, each a cure to some ailment of the body. “Where I come from, there are a hundred thousand trees,” he says, “of various kinds. And each of these trees contains a hundred thousand leaves just like this one, but utterly different.” And he gives a leaf to the man from the sea who marvels at the beauty of its colour and form. In exchange, the man from the sea takes out a single seashell. “Where I come from,” he replies, “there are a hundred thousand of these of all sizes and colours. They are living creatures in the sea, and get washed up on the seashore. What is more, if you put this shell to your ear, you will hear the sound of that sea echoing within, but the sea is a hundred thousand times more loud and powerful.” So saying, he gives a seashell to the man from the forest who is absorbed by its exquisite beauty, and hark! as if by magic, when he puts it to his ear, he can even hear the sea in which it once lived. Isn't that marvelous! Writing is a lot like the leaves and the seashells that the Eastern travellers use to describe the unknown secrets of the land from which they come. They are but a sign, but if we already have the understanding of experience, they remind us of what we already know.
Socrates: Well said, my dear Phaedrus! You’re not the same Phaedrus as I spoke to last time, no longer the practitioner of empty technique. We no more intended to denigrate writing than the man of the forest would his precious leaves, or the man of the seashore his exquisite seashell. We merely demote words as insignificant compared to the source from which they come. So, how did Lysias respond when you put this to him, as I am sure you must have done?
Phaedrus: He responded that if the source — that is Socrates and I — are so much more infinitely rich than the beautiful and complex work that is the Phaedrus, for which I am flattered to be partly responsible, then Socrates and I must be very complex beings indeed. So he asked me as you had asked yourself rhetorically, “Is Socrates a beast more complicated than Typhon, or is he a tamer simpler animal with a share in a divine and gentle nature?” I had no answer, though I would like to say the latter. So I apologized my ignorance, made excuses and departed for my daily walk which you know my doctor recommends, and what a coincidence that I should meet you once again! So let me put that question to you, Socrates. Are you a complex or a simple being?
Socrates: You were right not to answer. For of course, I am both a being of such complexity that I cannot fully understand myself, and thus how could I hope to capture this vastness by mere words? Yet also, I am a simple fellow of little wisdom, but in possession of that divine essence of such minuteness that no word is small enough to describe it. Being both, how can one answer such a question? As Lysias himself observed, truth transcends opposites! How well you did to keep divine silence!
