Ryan M. Brown

Disagreements about how to read Plato have plagued Plato studies from the very beginning. One point of near unanimity, however, among critics and adherents alike, is Plato's devaluation of the body. There are many apparently authoritative remarks in the corpus that denounce the body quite severely as a hindrance to the soul's well-being, even as an evil. Scholarship that pushes back on the anti-corporeal narrative remains a minority view. In this essay, I take the impetus of that minority view and attempt to push it further. Recent work has done well to show that Plato's apparently disparaging comments are not nearly as severe as they appear and that Plato does afford some sense of instrumental goodness to the body. Beyond these points, however, I argue that Plato has the metaphysical machinery to show that the body is ontologically good and is thus desirable per se, something, indeed, to be celebrated. First, I show that the Republic's discourse on goodness and love implies that all that is is intrinsically, ontologically good and that philosophical love requires that philosophers love all that is for precisely this reason. Second, I argue that Socrates's language of "flight" and "separation" used to articulate the philosopher's comportment to the body need not be understood vis-a-vis an anti-corporeal literalism. Third, I argue that Plato uses highly ambiguous language when discussing the body in a textually ironical way to draw the reader into reconsidering the body as instead a "sign" or "image" of the soul. Finally, with regard to Plato's ontology of the image, I indicate why we ought to understand the body as a per se good (albeit, a lower-order one), the love of which constitutes ap art of the proper love of souls and the Good, for both present themselves to be loved in bodies. Hence, one never adequately loves the Good or even the soul without also loving the body.

In the Consolation of Philosophy, Lady Philosophy leads Boethius through a series of obstacles that prevent him from finding happiness within his prison cell: the role that luck and misfortune play in our affairs, the false paths to happiness in comparison with the true journey, the problem of evil and the disproportion between people’s lives and eschatological deserts, and, finally, whether God’s providential order necessitates our outcomes or if we can choose freely to pursue the happy life. As the pair discuss each problem, the same argumentative move and countermove play out. Boethius, forgetful of what he had learned from Philosophy long ago on account of his grief, blames the very nature of reality itself for each of the problems that beset him. He thinks that Fortune has taken from him all that is good and that God’s providence only extends to the non-human world. Philosophy, by contrast, argues in each case that the problem at hand is, in fact, no problem at all when we see reality rightly. In each case, Philosophy shows that it isn’t reality that’s to blame for the problem at hand but instead human ignorance’s misunderstanding of the true nature of reality. Boethius’s conversation with Philosophy showcases a puzzling feature of self-knowledge: on the one hand, too much attention to the world (e.g., fortune’s wiles) is the problem and self-inquiry (e.g., the nature of one’s desires) is the solution, but on the other hand, too much attention to one’s self (e.g., attention to passions and limitations) is the problem and turning toward recognizing the true structure of the world is the solution. Philosophy seems to indicate that both poles are true, and the task is to determine how best to clarify how. After showcasing the dialogue’s argumentative pattern, I argue that, in Boethius’s case, each of his problems, as well as his misery in general, are caused by his ignorance and self-deception. Boethius’s ignorance is, in this case, the more proximate cause of his misery, but underlying his ignorance is an act of self-deception that causes him to be ignorant in the first place. As Philosophy tells Boethius early on, he already knows what she plans to teach him (more accurately, of what she plans to remind him). Nevertheless, he has forgotten what he has known and, as a result, is more the architect of his own misery than is Fortune or any of the events that have befallen him. Wounded by grief, he has allowed his affective response to his misfortune to becloud his understanding. As Philosophy says, he is unhappy because he has “forgotten what he is.” He has forgotten himself precisely because of the way in which he has allowed his affective responses to rule in his soul. Hence, while the ultimate cure for Boethius’s misery will be a newly rediscovered knowledge that reality itself is providentially structured, Philosophy must begin by soothing Boethius’s passions and undoing the damage that they have wrought on his understanding of the world. Philosophy cannot turn Boethius’s intellect until she has first turned his passions (cf. Republic 518b-d), which, while still wrongly-turned and governing the soul, are liable to lead to tremendous intellectual mistakes precisely because they are blind to the true nature of reality (cf. Phaedrus 247c). I argue in conclusion that the Consolation is unified by the theme of self-deception as the primary cause of philosophical misery. Boethius is upset primarily because he has convinced himself that he is otherwise than he is and that reality is otherwise than it is rather than because of what has happened to him, contrary to his own view of things. Philosophy’s argumentative strategy suggests that self-deception can only be undone by attending to it as a problem besetting the whole soul, not just the intellectual part of the soul. We thus have good warrant for thinking that simply rational responses to ignorance will be fruitless when ignorance is caused by or accompanied by a moral failing.

Plato’s Republic is governed by an analogy drawn between the structures of cities and souls. Because the inner workings of souls are difficult to discern, we might better find the soul’s nature and virtues by looking at the city’s nature and virtues. Despite successfully using the analogy to discern the nature of the soul, its virtues, and its proper ordering, the Republic frequently obscures the very analogy that functions as its guiding thread, and it is not at all obvious whether the political material in Books V–VII has a psychological correlate. This essay develops a psychological reading of key moments in the dialogue where the city-soul analogy fades in favor of more apparently political content. Focusing on the Allegory of the Cave, it argues that when the Cave is read as a “psychic drama,” it discloses reason’s drama within the soul. Like the freed prisoner, reason must be liberated from imprisonment alongside the sub-rational elements of the soul so that it may see the truth by which it can be nourished. However, reason must also descend, like the prisoner, to the sub-rational elements of the soul in order to care for them, for its own sake and for theirs. Read this way, the Republic presents an account of reason which rules the passions in the “precise sense” of Book I, that is, for their sake, and not simply for its own liberation and well-being.

This article argues that Plato’s Sophist can be understood as promoting a rudimentary version of the medieval notion of the “convertibility of the transcendentals,” that is, that there are certain properties of being, such as unity and truth, that have the same extension as being but add conceptual content to being. Histories of the doctrine of the transcendentals tend to trace transcendental thought back no earlier than Aristotle and thus ignore the relevance of Plato generally and the Sophist specifically. This article argues that the Eleatic Stranger’s discourse on the five “greatest kinds” (megista genē) indicates that Sameness and Otherness fulfill the criteria of transcendentality. The article uses this analysis to provide an avenue for further study of Platonic metaphysics in the hope that the notion of “convertibility of the transcendentals” will aid interpreters in understanding how to bring together Plato’s various accounts of what is metaphysically ultimate. This article suggests that, in addition to sameness and otherness, unity, goodness, truth, and beauty are also transcendentals within Platonic metaphysics. The article concludes by implying that difference (i.e., Otherness) must be ontologically good in Platonic thought, contrary to the common criticism that Platonism both denigrates difference and subordinates it to sameness.

As Josef Pieper writes in his study “On Hope,” the virtue of hope is the virtue that completes the human being in its intermediary, temporal state (the “status viatoris,” or condition of being “on the way”). To be human is always to be “on the way” toward a fulfillment and completion not yet available to it (the “status comprehensoris”). Those who are hopeful direct themselves toward this end as to their fulfillment despite recognizing that it, in some sense, exceeds their grasp, whereas those who are not hopeful either reject the possibility of such a fulfillment (despair) or prematurely suppose themselves to have attained it (presumption). While Pieper’s account of hope is largely based on the theologically-inflected account found in Thomas Aquinas, Pieper draws his conception of the nature of philosophy and philosophical reasoning ultimately from Plato. Philosophy, for Plato, on Pieper’s view, is essentially structured by the “not yet” condition that Pieper calls the status viatoris, as we see mythically depicted in Diotima’s account of Eros as being an intermediary daimon who, partaking of his parents’ opposed natures, is fundamentally characterized by poverty and lack (the “not”) on the one hand and by resourcefulness (the “yet”) on the other. The human soul, erotic at its very core, is structured by this twofold relation to the object of its greatest longing, Beauty Itself, which it doesn’t yet possess but for which it strives with all of its being. In this essay, I show that Plato has a “hopeful” sense of reason on account of the erotic condition (the status viatoris) that essentially characterizes the human soul’s spatio-temporal life during its incarnate, earthly state. If reason is, for Plato, to be true to itself, it must strive for the whole of wisdom even as it lacks that wisdom. Because reason is directed toward a fulfillment it can’t quite fathom, it must relate to that fulfillment essentially in the mode of hope. When, by contrast, reason becomes presumptuous, thinking that it already has a clear and secure cognition of the truth for which it seeks, it becomes dogmatic and runs the risk of falling into the misology diagnosed in the Phaedo when it inevitably comes up against some crack in its understanding. Likewise, when reason succumbs to despair—as we see, for example, in Meno’s eristic argument about the impossibility of learning—it becomes excessively skeptical and inert. Only when reason avoids the twin errors of presumption and despair can it continue in its pursuit of the whole of wisdom while remaining mindful of its limitations.

At key moments in the Phaedrus and the Republic, Socrates qualifies our capacity to “see” the highest realities (the “place of being,” the “Good beyond being”) with the adverb “mogis” (mogis kathorosa, Phdr. 248a; mogis horisthai, Rep. 517b). Mogis can be used to indicate either the toilsome difficulty of some undertaking or the subject’s proximity to failing to accomplish the undertaking. Socrates uses mogis to qualify the nature of the human soul’s capacity to make the intellectual ascent and see the divine, but it is not prima facie clear whether the qualification is meant to express (1) the difficulty we have in undertaking the intellectual ascent (a comment on the effort required) or (2) the fact that the human soul’s capacity to make the intellectual ascent will, on account of its limitations, only “just barely” be achieved, if at all. After discussing the uses of mogis in classical literature and surveying Plato’s uses of mogis across the corpus, I interpret Plato’s use of mogis at Phaedrus 248a, arguing that mogis kathorosa should be translated as “only gets a good look at the things that are with much toil” rather than the more common “scarcely able to gaze upon the things that are.” I then turn to the parallel passage at Republic 517b and argue against a prominent account, put forward by John Sallis, among others, of Plato’s understanding of divine inaccessibility. Whereas Sallis et al. argue that Plato’s use of mogis indicates that which is to be seen at the acme of the ascent is only “barely glimpsed” on account of the fact that it “withdraws” from our view, I argue instead that Plato’s use of mogis indicates that though we can “get a good look” at the highest realities, that good look is qualified by their inexhaustible excess. The human capacity to see the highest realities is qualified because there is “always more to see,” not because that which is there to be seen “withdraws” from view, and still less because there is some intrinsic limitation to human intellectual vision that prevents us from apprehending the highest realities. Accordingly, the divine is accessible but never exhaustible.

Since antiquity, scholars have observed a structural tension within Plato’s Phaedrus. The dialogue demands order in every linguistic composition, yet it presents itself as a disordered composition. Accordingly, one of the key problems of the Phaedrus is determining which—if any—aspect of the dialogue can supply a unifying thread for the dialogue’s major themes (love, rhetoric, writing, myth, philosophy, etc.). My dissertation argues that “soul-leading” (psuchagōgia)—a rare and ambiguous term used to define the innate power of words—resolves the dialogue’s structural tension. I clarify the conceptual and dramatic features of soul-leading by focusing on the dialogue’s uniquely prevalent use of the semantic network of “leading” and “following.” By continuing to foreground the language and drama of leading and following, I offer a new interpretation of the dialogue as a whole: the Phaedrus is Plato’s articulation of how the soul can be led into communion with reality. Chapter 1 discusses scholarly disputes about the unity of the Phaedrus and proposes that soul-leading adequately satisfies the criteria put forward for what would count as a unifying element. I argue that soul-leading unifies the dialogue both thematically and non-thematically; moreover, soul-leading is a theme capacious enough to account for the other principal contenders for unity put forward. Chapter 2 develops the ambiguous character of soul-leading by examining how the dialogue showcases dangerous forms thereof. Love and language are dangerous when they lead the soul toward goods which can never truly fulfill it. In order to clarify how love and language can mislead the soul, Socrates develops a set of accounts of how the soul is led, both internally and externally, in the three speeches on love. If the soul is to be led into communion with reality (the proper end of soul-leading), it must be led internally by the right part of the soul and externally by the right object of desire. Chapter 3 argues that all souls can, in principle, be harmonized and directed in the way that Chapter 2 requires. I show that Plato’s view of philosophy is neither elitist (i.e., some are intrinsically incapable of philosophy) nor naively essentialist. All can come into communion with reality because all are by nature equipped to do so. While Plato recognizes that there are forces which tend to prohibit one from exercising one’s capability of being rightly led, none of them are intrinsic to human nature. Chapter 4 argues that successful soul-leading require neither the leader nor the follower to be already well-disposed to what’s ultimate in order for the pair to come to a communion with what’s ultimate. Plato’s depiction of soul-leading love shows that love can itself promote the formation needed for both leader and follower to come into contact with reality. Love can do so because it is always already bound up reality in its responsiveness to beauty. Beauty itself calls the lover to itself by shining through the beautiful beloved, who acts as a reminder of transcendent Beauty. The lover mediates this same experience for the beloved. Each comes to desire the other as well as Beauty itself. Chapter 5 argues that the drama of the lovers’ formation mythically depicted in the Palinode (Chapter 4) is written into the drama of the dialogue as a whole. In the relationship between Socrates and Phaedrus, we see an enactment of love’s formative role. Likewise, in the relationship between Phaedrus and Lysias, we see an enactment of the dangerous soul-leading discussed in Chapter 2. My focus on leading and following also allows me to show the thematic significance of the drama’s setting. Chapter 6 articulates the metaphysical conditions under which one can be led into communion with reality. Transcendent Beauty invites us into communion with itself and makes possible our ascent by providing us with divine guides and images which can transport us from our ordinary experiences to the true beings. Beauty accomplishes its work—leading us in a “divine dance” where we follow the gods up to Beauty and back down to each other—through images. When we handle images of reality rightly, they lead our souls into communion with reality. Further, when we have come into communion, we’ll be inspired to be co-workers of Beauty’s soul-leading work. When we articulate reality in language, we create new images that can serve to lead others toward reality.

For Plato and Aristotle, arete (traditionally translated as "virtue") was the essential object of human admiration and striving, and even the key to happiness. Their work continues to inspire reflection on fundamental questions of ethics and politics today, as the fourteen new essays collected here demonstrate. Contributors: Lidia Palumbo, Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides, Ryan M. Brown, Jay R. Elliott, Guilherme Domingues da Motta, Federico Casella, Jonathan A. Buttaci, George Harvey, Mark Ralkowski, Gary S. Beck, Paula Gottlieb, Giulio di Basilio, Audrey L. Anton, and Elena Bartolini.

When thinking of Plato’s discussions of virtue, many dialogues come to mind, but, assuredly, the Phaedrus does not. The word ἀρετή is used only six times in the dialogue. Unlike other dialogues, the Phaedrus thematizes neither the general concept of virtue nor any of the particular virtues. Given the centrality of virtue to Plato’s ethics and politics, it is surprising to see little reference to virtue in a dialogue devoted to love and to rhetoric, topics that have deep ethical and political significance. I argue that the Phaedrus makes important contributions to our understanding of virtue in Plato despite the infrequency of references. First, the dialogue juxtaposes competing conceptions of virtue: the “urbane” (cf. 227d) capacity to make things conform to one’s happenstance desires, championed by Lysias, and the “manic” capacity to conform oneself to reality, championed by Socrates. After clarifying that enslavement to pleasure-lust is the underlying condition of soul for Lysianic virtue, Socrates reveals that the non-lover’s “virtue” is, in truth, virtue in name only. Rather, true virtue emerges only when the soul becomes harmoniously ordered under reason’s guidance, a condition which is achieved through the soul’s encounter with beauty. Second, in the process of articulating how true virtue comes to be in the soul, Socrates gives grounds for distinguishing it from “self-restraint” (ἐγκράτεια), a condition of soul whose outward aspect may be indistinguishable from that of virtue. While a soul in which reason does not take the reins may act from self-restraint, it does not yet act from virtue. Third, the dialogue gives us resources for seeing how other people, such as artful rhetoricians, can influence one’s cultivation of virtue. At first glance, Socrates’s claim that artful rhetoricians can “hand over” virtue (270b) seems incompatible with his claim that virtue is unteachable (cf. Meno 86d-99e). However, the dialogue offers some resources for seeing that the unteachability of virtue and the capacity for rhetoricians to “hand over” virtue are not, in fact, incompatible. From these three points, we will see that the Phaedrus offers an intellectualist account of virtue reminiscent of what we see in other dialogues. The intellectualist vision here, however, is one that includes a positive role for the subrational elements of the soul rather than one that excludes them from relevance or actively seeks to suppress them.

This essay argues that the Phaedrus’s Palinode articulates an account of love (erōs) in which the experience of love can morally and intellectually transform both lover and beloved. After situating this account of love within the dialogue’s thematization of soul-leading (psuchagōgia), I show how Socrates’s account of love makes an intervention into typical Greek thought on pederasty and argue against Jessica Moss’s contention that soul-leading love suffers severe limitations in its soul-leading capacity, showing that Moss is wrong to think that love can only efficaciously lead souls that are already well-formed. By contrast, the Palinode portrays the moral and intellectual formation of the lover, who first approaches the beloved in the spirit of rapacity only to be turned by his experience of beauty toward genuine service, ordered to the beloved’s benefit. The beloved likewise undergoes such a transformation as a result of his nascent return-love (anterōs).