Francisco Gonzalez

According to Heidegger’s own testimony, his 1940 essay, “Plato’s Doctrine of Truth,” is derived from a course he first delivered in 1931/32. Yet, while an interpretation of the Theaetetus is central to the argument in 1931/32, this dialogue is not so much as mentioned in the 1940 essay. The reason is that Heidegger’s own careful and insightful reading of the Theaetetus simply does not support his thesis regarding Plato’s “doctrine of truth.” But then the real interest of this reading is that it affords the opportunity for pursuing a genuine dialogue between Heidegger and Plato that was too abruptly discontinued.

The present paper uses the theme of dialectic and dialogue to begin unraveling the similarities and differences between the hermeneutics of Paul Ricoeur and H.G. Gadamer. Ricoeur is shown to distance himself from Heidegger by insisting on a dimension of explanation and distanciation (which he sometimes identifies with Plato's `descending dialectic') that cannot be reduced to, or absorbed by, understanding and appropriation. This same move, however, leads him to reject Platonic dialogue, with the attendant prioritizing of oral conversation over the written text, as a model for hermeneutics. Ricoeur therefore sees in Gadamer's recourse to such a model a regression to the problematic position of Heidegger. Yet the conception of philosophy as dialectical and dialogical which Gadamer finds in Plato is capable of responding to Ricoeur's objections. Where the fundamental difference between the hermeneutics of Ricoeur and Gadamer emerges is in the question of whether experience is fundamentally dialectical and whether language is inherently dialogical.

45~ JOURNAL OF THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY 34:3 JULY 1996 text" , and an element of "oralism" remains in all of Plato's written works. Nonetheless, Robb's "speculations" on the Platonic dialogues are certainly worth reading. Robb is quite aware that his book stirs up controversial issues, and some of these are briefly stated and discussed in his concluding chapter, "Homer, the Alphabet, and the Progress of Greek Literacy and Paideia." And yet in the very notions of "literacy" and "progress," some weaknesses in Robb's work can be found. For example, as W. V. Harris observed in his Ancient Literacy , 3ft., there is no single definition of literacy or orality, and although Robb cites Harris's book , he takes no special account of it in attempting to define or characterize what he means by "orality" and "literacy." And in his zeal to provide a survey of the influence of alphabetic literacy on Plato, Robb perhaps oversimplifies the tension that existed between the spoken and written work in the ancient world. Much of Greek "literature" remains the product of literate, slave- owning, and well-educated authors, written for their peers. Robb suggests as much in his discussion of mousild and sunousia , and one might desire a "sociology" of ancient Athens, for example, in which economic status and..

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Form and Argument in Late Plato ed. by Christopher Gill and Mary Margaret McCabeFrancisco J. GonzalezChristopher Gill and Mary Margaret McCabe, editors. Form and Argument in Late Plato. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996. Pp. xi + 345. Cloth, $65.00.This collection has the commendable aim of challenging the view that in Plato’s “late” works the dialogue form is a mere formality adding little to the argumentative content, a view still widespread among “analytic” scholars. The qualification is necessary because this view has already been seriously challenged by “nonanalytic” interpreters. It is therefore surprising that the editors chose contributors who almost all “share the analytic’ approach which is prominent in Anglo-American scholarship on Plato,” despite their admission that this approach has focused more on arguments than on the dialogue form (2, 299–300). Why seek to reinvent the wheel without the help of those who have already invented it? As a result, while the volume certainly makes an important contribution to our understanding of the form of this group of dialogues, it is much more successful in providing helpful and illuminating readings of their argumentative content: the detailed and rigorous analyses of McCabe, Malcolm Schofield (both on the Parmenides), and Gail Fine (on the Theaetetus) deserve special mention. The aim of the present review, which could not even begin to do justice to what the volume provides in the latter area, is therefore limited to documenting its mixed success in addressing some fundamental questions about form that have already occupied nonanalytic scholars (perhaps too exclusively):1) Does the main speaker speak for Plato?Given the great variety of main speakers in the “late” dialogues (Socrates, Parmenides, the Eleatic Stranger, Timaeus, the Athenian Stranger), each with a distinct personality and a distinct method, no attempt to understand the form of these dialogues should avoid this question. Gill raises it (293–95) and Schofield provides the most explicit response in denying that any interlocutor in a Platonic dialogue “can be assumed to be merely a spokesman for Plato’s own views” (51). More importantly, the essays by Dorothea Frede (on the Philebus) and Catherine Osborne (on the Timaeus), probably the most valuable in the volume, show what results can be achieved without this assumption. On the other hand, Michael Frede (on the Sophist) and Christopher Rowe (on the Politicus; see 158 and cf. 172 n.48) simply assume without argument that the Eleatic Stranger = Plato. All other contributors make the “spokesman” assumption, either implicitly or explicitly (see Christopher Bobonich’s reading of the Laws, 254–55).2) What is the significance of the dramatic context, especially dramatic chronology and characterization?As often noted, the Parmenides is set in Socrates’ youth and is in this sense the earliest [End Page 311] dialogue, while the series Theaetetus-Sophist-Politicus is set immediately before Socrates’ trial and condemnation. McCabe and Schofield are silent about the first fact. M. Frede briefly discusses the second (146–47), but adds little to what has already been said by others. As for the characterization of specific interlocutors, this volume overall has surprisingly little to offer. The essays of D. Frede and Osborne, however, are exemplary in this area.3) Why did Plato choose to write these works as dialogues rather than as treatises?Bobonich, D. Frede, and Osborne succeed in demonstrating the significance and even necessity of the dialogue form, an extraordinary achievement given the dialogues they discuss. Osborne in particular brilliantly shows how the dialogue form undercuts the common tendency to read the Timaeus as a treatise on natural science. Other contributors are less successful in answering this question central to the volume’s task. Schofield takes himself to be reading the Parmenides as a dialogue (51) because he, unlike Vlastos, interprets the Third Man Argument (second version) in the wider context of other arguments in the dialogue, including those of the second half. But “reading arguments in context” is demanded by any philosophical text and has nothing per se to do with the dialogue form. Fine reads the first part of the Theaetetus as the dialectical elaboration and refutation of an opponent’s view (109), but this could just as well be...

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Method and Politics in Plato’s Statesman by M. S. LaneFrancisco J. GonzalezM. S. Lane. Method and Politics in Plato’s Statesman. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Pp. xiii + 229. Cloth, $59.95.This rewarding book not only is another sign of growing interest in the Statesman, but also does much to justify this interest. The reasons for the dialogue’s relative neglect until recently are easily stated: readers have been puzzled by the amount of space devoted to method in a dialogue ostensibly about politics; furthermore, they have found both the method and the politics highly unsatisfactory. Lane addresses each of these concerns. She continually draws our attention to the unity of method and politics in the dialogue: the limitations of the Stranger’s initial divisions are shown to be equally methodological and political (44–5); the cosmic story is shown to be flawed by a political prejudice (the traditional model of king as shepherd), which turns into a methodological prejudice (the telling of a story too long to be profitably used as an example; 9–10, 121–3); the capacities ultimately shown to be necessary for a successful inquiry (division, exemplification, and finding the mean) also prove to be essential requirements of political knowledge (143–4, 202).Lane’s major contribution to our understanding of the dialogue’s method is her demonstration of the central role played by example (paradeigma). Lane expresses a common objection to the method of division: “But how to choose just which apparently similar things or names to investigate? Similarities are ubiquitous; there is some respect in which everything is similar to everything else. What is more, it is usually on the basis of prejudice and preconceived ideas … that similarities are distinguished” (75–6). Lane sees example as the solution, since it is precisely the task of an example to fix on those similarities relevant to the aim of the inquiry (76, 86–7).This is a very appealing solution, but one must wonder if it does not simply postpone the problem. To choose the right example, must we not make assumptions about which similarities are relevant to defining the object of inquiry and therefore about the nature of this object? And may not these assumptions be no more than prejudices or preconceived ideas? While the Stranger indeed develops his own example of weaving to an extent unparalleled in other dialogues (93), that there are essential similarities between statecraft and weaving appears to be more assumed than demonstrated by the example.With regard to politics, Lane provides a very illuminating account of the dialogue’s characterization of political expertise as certain knowledge of the good in a temporal context, or the kairos. She shows in what way this “knowledge of timing” (142) both is distinct from, and rules over, other contenders for the title of statecraft (such as rhetoric and strategy).Since, however, the existence of a statesman possessing such political expertise is, from the dialogue’s perspective, “a logical but unlikely possibility” (111) and, “from a [End Page 159] modern perspective,” seemingly impossible (4–5), the practical value of the Stranger’s political theory depends on his claim that the regimes which do exist can ‘imitate’ this ideal (300e11–301a3). But how? Even the second-best regimes are characterized by strict adherence to laws based on nothing more than persuasion, experiment and majority consensus (300b1–6), while in the ideal regime a knowledgeable statesman creates laws only as “memoranda” which he is entitled to revise or revoke at any time. According to Lane there is nevertheless one similarity that allows the second-best regimes to be called “second-order imitations” (see 109–111) of the ideal: both will not change laws without expert advice (158–9). This assumes that the second-best regimes acknowledge the authority of a political expert to change the laws, should one appear, an assumption that Lane reiterates throughout the book (11, 111, 114, 139, 147).Yet it is precisely this assumption that appears to be refuted by the thought-experiment at 298a–299e. The Stranger describes a city in which the practice of medicine, navigation and the other technai must adhere strictly to laws...