*

Don’t believe a word I say.

*
If this book was sold to you without its cover, you should ask for your cover.
Email me if you have any questions: [email protected]. Don’t be shy. I doubt very much that
I’ll be busy responding to my legions of fans.
ISBN: 978-0-557-03589-2
Table of Contents
Why you should do physics instead of philosophy ............................................................................... 8
An aside about the (terrible) quality of this book .............................................................................. 9
A simple philosophical problem.......................................................................................................... 11
Another philosophical problem ....................................................................................................... 14
Why you shouldn’t read this book ...................................................................................................... 17
René Descartes .................................................................................................................................... 18
René Descartes: Meditations on First Philosophy, Meditations I–II, edited ................................ 22
René Descartes: Meditations on First Philosophy, Meditations I–II, decoded ............................ 28
Socrates ............................................................................................................................................... 30
Socrates (via Plato): The Apology, edited ...................................................................................... 31
Socrates (via Plato): The Apology, decoded ................................................................................... 44
Plato ..................................................................................................................................................... 50
Plato: The Republic, edited ............................................................................................................. 52
Plato: The Republic, decoded ......................................................................................................... 75
Plato: Phaedo, edited ...................................................................................................................... 87
Plato: Phaedo, decoded ................................................................................................................. 108
Aristotle ............................................................................................................................................. 121
Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics, Books 1 and 2, edited ............................................................... 122
Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics, Books 1 and 2, decoded ............................................................ 132
Epicurus ............................................................................................................................................. 135
Epicurus: Principal Doctrines, unedited....................................................................................... 136
Epicurus: Principal Doctrines, decoded ....................................................................................... 140
Marcus Aurelius ................................................................................................................................ 142
Marcus Aurelius: Meditations, edited ........................................................................................... 143
Marcus Aurelius: Meditations, decoded ....................................................................................... 151
Nicolo Machiavelli ............................................................................................................................ 156
Nicolo Machiavelli: The Prince, Edited ....................................................................................... 157
Nicolo Machiavelli: The Prince, Decoded ................................................................................... 163
Thomas Hobbes ................................................................................................................................. 166
Thomas Hobbes: The Leviathan, edited ....................................................................................... 167
Thomas Hobbes: The Leviathan, decoded ................................................................................... 173
John Locke ........................................................................................................................................ 176
John Locke: An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, edited ........................................... 177
John Locke: An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, decoded........................................ 187
David Hume ...................................................................................................................................... 192
David Hume: An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, edited ..................................... 193
David Hume: An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, decoded.................................. 204
Immanuel Kant .................................................................................................................................. 208
Immanuel Kant: Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, I-II, edited .................................. 212
Immanuel Kant: Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, I-II, decoded .............................. 218
Immanuel Kant: Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics, edited ............................................ 222
Immanuel Kant: Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics, edited ............................................ 230
Friedrich Nietzsche............................................................................................................................ 236
Friedreich Nietzsche: Beyond Good and Evil, edited ................................................................... 237
Friedrich Nietzsche: The Joyful Wisdom, 115–125 ..................................................................... 256
Friedrich Nietzsche: The Joyful Wisdom, 115–125, decoded. ..................................................... 259
Karl Marx .......................................................................................................................................... 260
Karl Marx: Communist Manifesto, I-II ....................................................................................... 261
Karl Marx: Communist Manifesto, I-II, decoded ........................................................................ 270
Karl Marx: Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844: Estranged Labour, edited ..... 273
Karl Marx: Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844: Estranged Labour, decoded .. 280
John Stuart Mill ................................................................................................................................. 284
John Stuart Mill: Utilitarianism, Chapter 2 ................................................................................. 285
John Stuart Mill: Utilitarianism, Chapter 2, decoded .................................................................. 291
Jean Paul Sartre ................................................................................................................................. 293
Jean Paul Sartre, Existentialism is a Humanism, edited .............................................................. 294
Jean Paul Sartre: Existentialism is a Humanism, decoded .......................................................... 301
Bibliography .................................................................................................................................. 306
Why you should do physics instead of philosophy

Philosophy is useless.
Philosophy has never solved a problem, never answered a question, and never made progress.
Philosophy can tell you a million reasons why you’re wrong, but it can’t give you a single true fact.
Yet it’s not for lack of trying! People have been philosophizing since Ancient Greece. And yet, after
2500 years of hard work, they haven’t found one single answer. Not one. In what other field could
thousands of people get paid year after year, and retire after a long career knowing full well that they
accomplished nothing? Imagine if every mathematician only answered “Maybe.” Imagine if engineers
could only ever say “Probably not.” That’s what philosophers do. Obviously, nobody in her right mind
would take it up.
Because, like I said, philosophy is useless. It is utterly and completely useless.
But you know, so is much else. Many beautiful things are completely worthless. Music is useless; art
is useless. We could all (and may yet have to) survive on a vitamin-enriched, calorie-dense, lukewarm
gruel—so fine cuisine is useless. French is utterly useless; the French could all (and may yet have to)
learn American. French plaza-side cafés with art on the walls and two charming, old, mustachioed
musicians playing accordion and guitar and flirting with pretty women ladies, then? The most useless
things of all, I figure.
And the most wonderful. Can you see that?
The old, great philosophers—Plato, Aristotle, and Socrates—said that doing philosophy was the very
purpose of life. They thought that philosophizing was the very best thing in the world—and I’m sure
they sounded then every bit as self-serving as that sounds now. But, as usual, the Greats were onto
something. Philosophy is an ‘end’. It isn’t good for anything else; it is just good. Full stop. It is plain,
old-fashioned, no-frills, no-nonsense good. It just is.
Things that are good for other things are called ‘means’. Money is the quintessential means: it’s
useless except when you use it to get other stuff. Fame, power, and good luck are also means. They
aren’t good except for what they bring: other things. They aren’t good ‘in-themselves’. Philosophy, on
the other hand, is good in itself.
Philosophy is an ‘end’, and it is only an end. It serves no purpose whatsoever.
Good music, fine food, flirtatious old men and beautiful women—they are ends too. Just plain, no-
point-in-arguing-about-it good things. They’re (some of) the reasons we live.
The dead Greeks knew this, but they made a mistake. They said that philosophy is the end, or the
chief end, or the best end. It’s not. It’s merely one end among many. Good food, good sex, good wine,
good music, and good friends are some of the others. Philosophy is unusual, though, in that most people
consider it entirely superfluous. You are probably willing to go out of your way for food, sex, wine,
music, food and friendship, but you likely have never tried philosophy. And that is a little sad. It’s a
little tragic to live a life without philosophy. Philosophy is just one of those things. I’m not saying, as the
Greats said, that you should devote your life to it, any more than I would say you should devote your life
to wine or sex; I’m saying that you need to try it enough to appreciate it. Because it’s just plain good.
 I’m going to try to make you like it. At least a little.

An aside about the (terrible) quality of this book

Look, let me be honest with you: this is not a good philosophy book. We’re going to blast through
2500 years of philosophy, careening around, doing terrible injustice to very great thinkers who devoted
their whole lives to philosophy. These people sweated every word and laboured over their books. We’re
going to read people who wrote with quills on animal skin to get their ideas through thousands of years,
across deserts, through war, the sacking of cities, and the burnings of libraries, down to you.
And, meh, we’re just going to keep on going.
Like I said, this is a terrible philosophy book. If you want a good one, there are thousands—but this
one has an advantage over all of them.
It’s easy.
I don’t feel bad about this.
The way I see it, my job here is simple: I’m going to give you a crash course of the best bits of the
great thinkers, so that you can go on with your life knowing just a little about this enormous, wonderful,
moving, and beautiful field of human knowledge. When you want to learn more, pick up one of those
excellent books and go forward, doing great things. Here, we’re going to have some fun.

Why philosophy is so useless

Philosophy hasn’t made progress because the subject matter is impossible. I don’t mean hard, or
really hard, or damn-near impossible. I mean impossible. The questions philosophers try to answer just
cannot be answered. They are questions like these:
• Is there a god?
• What do we know for certain?
• What happens after death?
• What is reality?
• What’s the best way to find out what is true?
• What are numbers?
• What is the right way to live?
There is something odd about these questions: the answers (if there are any) can’t be shown through
data or experimentation. A study showing that 82% of people believed systematic doubt to be the road to
truth would be worthless. That a large portion of the world believes in God is utterly unconvincing to
me. Answers to the big questions come only from argumentation, and these arguments are what
philosophy is all about.
There is another thing that is odd about the big questions: almost everybody stops asking them. You
once wondered if the green you saw was the same green that others saw. You wondered what it would
be like to be a bat, or a cat, or to have super powers. And as you grew older, you put these questions
aside and occupied yourself with more pressing concerns.
Philosophers don’t stop asking these questions. Philosophers are happy looking a little weird and
being thought of as space cadets. In that, they are inspiring. There are probably the same impertinent
embers still smoldering inside most of us, and with a little care these embers might be relit. I certainly
hope so.
I think that this is the very best reason to study philosophy. Students of philosophy get to spend
hours with the very wisest, most profound, most impertinent, and—frankly—the weirdest people to have
ever lived. It is liberating to know that no matter how stupid the question sounds, and no matter how
much more practical people scoff and scorn, some very great genius has likely asked it before.
So go ahead; try it. Ask yourself a stupid question: What is time?
You probably think you know. “It’s hours and minutes or what we measure with a clock!”
Not the answer. I measure my dog with a scale. Does that make my dog heaviness? Saying time is
seconds would confuse the thing being measured with the way we measure it.
“A dimension” I hear you say, you the science nerd in the back, as if that were an answer. But be
honest—you have no idea what that means. (Neither do I.) What is a dimension? A direction? Uh, huh. I
can go back home, but I can’t go back to yesterday. Time isn’t a direction like the others, and I think that
calling it a direction or dimension is actually making it less clear.
I bet you wish I had an answer to give you. I don’t. I have no idea what time is—and nobody does.
But doesn’t it make you feel just a bit better knowing that this thing all around you, which everyone
takes for granted, really just makes no sense at all?
I know I’m a bit weird, but it makes me happy to think that nobody has any idea what they are
talking about, even when it comes to fundamental things like directions and time. This delights me, and
it has delighted philosophers for as long as there has been philosophy. I hope that you will find human
ignorance a little less depressing by the time you get to the end of this very bad book.
A simple philosophical problem

Some people say that philosophy is the love of wisdom. Others say that it is the father of
the sciences, or the world’s greatest waste of tuition. I say that philosophy is giving bad
answers to good questions.
Sometime in your life, you have almost certainly had a dream so realistic that you didn’t
recognize it as a dream. You didn’t know that you had been asleep until you woke up. Perhaps
you were sad to awaken; maybe you had been flying. Perhaps you were happy to wake; you
may have been having a nightmare. For some period, though, appearance and reality differed.
You appeared (to yourself) to be doing something other than drooling face down.
Of course, there are many times when appearance and reality diverge. Drugs, fever,
mental illness, or any number of other things (some of which are quite banal, like optical
illusions), may cause the split. Usually, we can somehow tell that things are not quite right.
We know that something has gone wrong in our heads. Other times, though, it is impossible
to tell. Occasionally, as in the case of some kinds of mental illness, the ‘break from reality’
can last a very, very long time—so long that we lose touch entirely.
Let me, then, ask you a good question: how do you know that you are not dreaming,
hallucinating, or are otherwise out of touch right this very minute? Maybe you are only
imagining this book in your hand. Maybe you are, in fact, going kooky. Maybe it has been
happening for such a long time that you have forgotten.
How do you know that what you see is a faithful representation of reality?
This good question is a philosophical question. You can tell so because it is:
• Simple
• Irritating
• Meant to be answered (and perhaps can only be answered) with argumentation.
Science is of no use.
• Finally, and importantly, you will never, ever, answer this question correctly.
No offense: nobody ever answers philosophical questions correctly, not even
the greatest philosophers. In the 2500 years that people have been doing
philosophy, not one question has been answered correctly. Not a single one.
There have been many bad answers to the simple question I asked above. Some easy ones
are pinching yourself, calling Jessica Alba (or Ryan Gosling), trying to fly, and just waiting to
wake up. All of these have problems, though. It’s not hard to imagine a dream (or a
hallucination) so real that you felt pain, or one in which you couldn’t get Ms. Alba (or Mr.
Gosling) to come over, or in which you couldn’t fly. You can at least conceive of a
hallucination so real that this kind of thing happens. That means, if you are really being strict,
that you do not know for sure that you are not asleep or hallucinating right now. You can’t be
absolutely certain.
Several years ago, the movie The Matrix considered just this problem. In it, Neo discovers
that his body is in a post-apocalyptic, machine-ruled, lightless world, while his mind is in a
computer program simulating twentieth-century America. In other words, Neo figures out that
he has been, in essence, hallucinating. He had a break from reality. While everyone else in the
matrix is ignorant of the real ‘reality’, Neo somehow knows.
So, here is a new question, more suitable for our times: how do you know that you are not
living in the matrix? The matrix is a totally immersive hallucination. How can anyone tell
when she is being completely fooled?
There are actually two questions implicit in the above problem of the matrix.
1. What is reality?
2. How do you know it?
The first is the fundamental question of metaphysics: what is real? The second is the
fundamental question of epistemology: how do you know what you know? These may seem
like strange questions. They are clearly philosophical questions: they are simple, irritating,
and hard to answer.

Metaphysics
Metaphysics tries to answer a simple question: what is reality? I know that seems stupid.
Reality seems quite real; it is all-too pressing for many of us. It seems pretty stupid to ask
what it is—it’s this stuff right here.
Indulge me. Scientists now think that the universe is composed of matter and space. Yet in
the past they thought otherwise. They thought that the universe contained matter, void, angels,
demons, energy, minds, Forms, essences, monads, or a myriad of other daft things.
But here is the freaky part. They knew about our current ideas (the atomic theory has been
around for thousands of years) so they preferred their explanation to ours. You should really
wonder why you’re so sure you got it right when really smart people for thousands of years
thought you were wrong.
I’ll concede, though, that scientists have now cornered most of the metaphysical market.
Even so, there are still unresolved questions. Take, for instance, numbers. What are they?
What do two days and two ducks have in common? Not a lot, apart from something we might
call ‘two-ness’. But that doesn’t really answer the question. What is two-ness?
This is an amazingly great question, even if it seems strange at first. Mathematics is deep.
Math rules the universe. Everything that happens can be described through equations. The
smallest particles and the largest planets, the blood in your heart and the plasma of the sun;
they are governed by one math that even kids can learn. If you stop and think about it, this
should blow your mind. The language of numbers is in charge.
 In some serious way, though, we have no idea what this language means.
Very few people have ever stopped to wonder just what numbers are. Are they real? What
does it even mean to say that they are real? Since they seem to govern the material world, are
they somehow more real than it? Perhaps they are merely a language that we use to describe
the material world. All of these are serious, plausible, ideas.
Numbers, though, are not atoms, matter, or space. They’re not part of that normal,
scientific view of the universe that we take for granted. What are they? That’s a metaphysical
question.
There are other metaphysical questions. Among them:
• What is a law of nature?
• What is existence?
• What is causality?
• What is time?
• What are kinds or categories?
Nobody has come up with a final answer for any of these. Trying to answer these
questions, though, is both fun and revealing. If you feel so inclined, ask yourself this: what
makes the matrix less real than the machine-ruled, lightless world that Neo found himself in?
We feel it is less real—but why? Answer that, and you’re doing metaphysics.

Epistemology
Epistemology is another area of philosophy. It asks how we know what we know.
My students tend to be deferential. They say that teachers taught them what they know.
That’s goofy. Teachers taught me only some of what I know. Many things I learned by
myself.
Look at this thing, for instance:
It’s a circle, right? But how do you know that? There is, as you’ve probably heard, no
such thing as a perfect circle. This one is no exception. That circular thing only resembles a
circle.
If you’ve only ever seen things that resemble circles, how do you know what a circle is?
Do you somehow mentally remove the imperfections in any particular circle? If so, you
would have needed to know what the perfect circle looks like so that you could remove the
imperfect parts. But I was asking how you came up with the idea of the perfect circle in the
first place, so that would be a quite roundabout answer: you remove imperfect parts from
circles you see using the perfect circle in your mind to come up with the perfect circle (that
was already in your mind).
Maybe you abstracted from several circles on paper to a kind of circle-ness. I think that
this is often what my students mean when they say they have been taught. Someone showed
them some circles, and said, “Look! These are circles! Get it? Take what they have in
common, and that’s a circularity!” But to see what any circles have in common, we need to
have some idea of what to look for. Why take the roundness and not the line-ness or the
bumpiness or the blackness? And where did we get the idea of roundness from anyway? It’s
the same problem as before: we need to know what we’re looking for to see what we are
looking at.
Perhaps you were born with the idea of a circle. As far as I know, every culture knows
what a circle is. Maybe there are some ideas we are all born with, ideas like up, down,
triangularity, circularity, and time. Maybe. But that also sounds a bit fishy: why do we also
teach these ideas in school if we were born with them?
Maybe you define it with words first? Maybe circles are part of our built-in mental
frameworks? Maybe, maybe, but you get the idea: every answer has problems. That’s why
this is a philosophical question.
The problem of the perfect circle is only one epistemological question. There are others,
which may be more interesting,
• What is truth? What is falsity?
• What is justification?
• What is evidence?
• What is a belief?
• How should (or do) we make generalizations?

Our first reading, from René Descartes’ Meditations takes up this classical problem of
epistemology. Descartes asks how we know what we know and if there is anything that we
can know for certain. He comes up with an amazing answer. It will blow your mind.

Another philosophical problem

This time, imagine that you are in a lifeboat, with a juicy fat boy, an old skinny man, and
a pregnant woman. You have no food, and if you do not eat today, all four of you will die.
• Who do you eat?
• More importantly, how do you decide who to eat?
Clearly, these are philosophical questions. (They are simple, irritating, and meant to be
answered with argumentation.) They have another characteristic of the genre too: they are
ridiculous and a little disgusting.
Of course, the answers to the first question are unimportant (unless you’re the one being
eaten). The second question is much more difficult. Perhaps we should eat according to who
would feed us for the longest time. The pregnant woman, then, would be a good choice. But
maybe we should respect her because she is bringing more life into the world. She might get
an exemption that a merely fat woman would not. By the calorie criterion, the juicy fat boy is
the second best solution. Still, he is young. We should maybe consider who would contribute
most to the world and eat those who are past their prime. If that’s the case, while he is skinny
and tough, the old man is clearly lunch. Or, and this is a choice my students very rarely
consider, perhaps one ought to sacrifice oneself for the goodness of the group. Finally, maybe
nobody should eat; it might be better to die than to be so debased.
All of the criteria are plausible:
• Maximize calories per life taken
• Maximize happiness and minimize unhappiness
• Value youth and promise
• Sacrifice for the greater good
• Die rather than do evil
These are ethical rules (though they’re not all good ones), and they lead us to the third
area of philosophy: ethics.
Ethics studies right and wrong, but simple lists of good and bad things are boring. It is
much more interesting to try to find rules we can use to decide what is right or wrong. These
rules are fun to debate, and philosophers spend a lot of time considering them. Eating the fat
boy—that’s boring. Deciding how to decide who to eat is much more exciting.
In short, ethics asks another simple question: How do we know what’s right and wrong?
By now, you won’t be surprised to hear that this is a surprisingly difficult question to
answer. Many answers seem good at first blush but lead to outrageous consequences. Other,
more nuanced systems lead to contradictions.

Logic
There is one last area of philosophy. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. It’s logic.
I love logic, but it’s ridiculously hard. It is a mongrel of math and computer programming,
just as difficult, and half as well-paying. It is technical, demanding, and amazing. It’s also
way too hard for me. But, for the sake of parallelism, I’ll tell you the question it answers, kind
of:
• How do we systematize rational thought?
The thing is, logic is much more besides this. Math governs the very unfolding of the
universe, and logic governs math. Logic might very well answer “What was in god’s mind?”
Why you shouldn’t read this book

This book is a little odd. First I take the great works of philosophy and remove all the boring parts. It
would be a stretch to say what remains is the good stuff, but it is less boring. I add a few of my own
ideas off to the side, to explain context, draw connections, or spread some nasty rumours. Then, finally,
I take the philosophers’ very thoughtful, considered, plodding and careful prose, and I mangle it into
modern 21st-century English.
Let me be clear: This was all probably a bad idea. You should read these wonderful thinkers in their
own words. I’ll go further: you should read them in their original languages; lots of brilliant people have
thought that Aristotle was worth learning Ancient Greek for. And you should sit with them, and read
them carefully, savouring every word they wrote, rolling the ideas around in your mind like you roll a
good drink around in your mouth.
But you won’t.
I don’t blame you. To be honest, philosophers can be a bit long-winded. And philosophers’ books,
unlike booze, don’t age well. Descartes’ 350-year-old French is quite hard to follow now; Kant was hard
to follow even at the time.
So what we’re doing here is fast philosophy. You should probably not use this book in a real
philosophy course, or with—gods forbid—a real philosopher. This book is a bit Beyoncé to their Bach if
you know what I mean, so it wouldn’t be suitable for research essays. Honestly, I wonder if it’s even
really suitable for print.
René Descartes

René Descartes is called “The Father of Modern Philosophy”, but he slept around; he also fathered
the modern world.
Descartes straddles a great divide. Before Descartes, if you had a question, you asked your priest.
Knowledge was in the Bible, and the church was the final word on everything. After Descartes,
everything was different—his side runs to the modern age. He showed Europe something we now take
for granted: knowledge is discovered, not revealed. He trusted his own intellect; he investigated the
natural world and proved facts with his mind. Doing so, Descartes (and a few other people you will have
heard of), forced religion’s retreat from the ground now owned by science. This took gutsiousness
does.mindnly scosophy has accomplishedher.se 'es when you bought my book. I chopped it down to the
bare essentials. d t, not least because heretics were still occasionally being burned at the stake.
Descartes was more than just gutsy, though. He was a genius, world-traveller, friend of royalty,
soldier, and dreamer. He loved to sleep and swordfight, indulged in mysticism, and knocked up his
maid. He was so popular that he often had to hide from his friends to get work done—and boy, did he
ever get work done. He was the world’s greatest philosopher and the world’s greatest mathematician.
Cartesian geometry (the geometry of the game Battleship) is named for him.
Math is odd: everything in it is perfect and demonstrable. A rectangle can be divided with a single
line into two triangles—that is not often or usually true: it’s always true. When Descartes turned his
mind to philosophy, he kept a mathematical attitude: he figured all knowledge should be just as perfect
and absolute. So, in the following selections from Meditations on First Philosophy, Descartes is trying to
end the problem of skepticism, which is this: once we get a grain of uncertainty, it is hard to stop
doubting.
I’ll give you stupid example: I used to study in bed. Philosophy is boring, so I fell asleep a lot with a
book on my chest. Oddly, I often found myself dreaming about reading philosophy. I would transition
very smoothly from awake to asleep, and I wouldn’t even notice. I would appear to myself to still be
doing homework.
Right now, I am quite certain that I am awake, sitting in front of the computer. But that smooth
transition I used to have while dreaming makes me worry a lot: there were times I didn’t notice falling
asleep. So how do I know that I’m not snoozing, dreaming that I’m worried about dreaming?
In fact, how do I know I’ve ever even been awake? Wakeful life and vivid dreaming are very
similar. Maybe everything is a dream! Maybe nothing is real! Maybe I am not real!
This is the problem of skepticism: doubt snowballs. A small moment of skepticism leads to big
problems. Descartes wants to stop the snowballing. This might seem like a very minor thing, but it isn’t.
Descartes wants to get rid of doubt altogether. He wants to remove any doubt, in any field, and make all
knowledge perfect.
Think about that for a second. It should sound insane. Descartes wants to build knowledge on a
completely doubt-free foundation, so that, forevermore, it will be certain. He wants to do away with
error. He wants to make everything we know as certain as math.
 Oh, and he wants to do it in a couple of days.
This may seem bonkers, but if anyone could do it, it’s Descartes. After all, he had already single-
handedly reinvented one field, and he did it when he was only 23. You might remember from your
grade-10 math class that shapes can be described with equations and equations with shapes. Descartes
was the one who showed that, and he thus united geometry and algebra, two fields that had for all of
history been separate. Fixing that took him a few weeks.
His philosophical strategy remains known as the Cartesian method. He says, roughly, he will try to
doubt everything systematically, and see what remains. Instead of fighting the problem of skepticism,
then, he flips it around; he won’t try to prove that his former ideas are certain. Rather, he will shake
them to see if they tumble.
Descartes starts by doubting ‘a posteriori’ ideas, then he moves on to ‘a priori’ ones. It is impossible
to overstate the importance of this distinction. It’s the fundamental discovery of epistemology—as
important to philosophy as DNA is to biology. It is also one of those rare ideas that can change your life.
Take a step back from all the facts you know and consider them from a distance. Philosophers think
that every one of them falls into one of two categories: facts you test through experience, and facts you
can test using only your mind. (It is very important to see that the question is not how you learned these
facts, but how you test them.)
The facts you test with experience are obvious. Is it dark outside right now? I check by looking. Is
my father alive? I will call him. These are a posteriori facts. (For some reason, it’s always printed in
italics.)
The facts you test with your mind are less obvious, but generally they have to do with math. How
many degrees are in a triangle? The absolutely wrong way to find this out is to measure a few triangles.
If you were to do that, you might find that your first triangle is 178º, say, and your second is 181º. Your
third might be 177º. “They are all close to 180º, so close enough”, you might say, and you would be
dead wrong.
You decided that you should average and round the measurements. Why average them? How did
you know that 177º isn’t the right answer? Maybe all the other answers are wrong. Why round to 180º?
What makes you think that nature works in round numbers, or even base 10 numbers? Why not round to
a prime number? Why round at all?
If you are really honest, you’ll admit that you were making up the rules as you went.
The correct way to find the degrees inside a triangle follows. Do it with me. Really! Grab a pencil.
It’s worth it.
Start by drawing a tipi. Then draw another line parallel to the base that intersects the crossed tipi
sticks at the top. Draw a half circle on top of that line. Clearly, that arc is 180º, because it covers the
straight line. (If it were less or more than 180º, the line would be curved or bent.)
The angles at A, B, and C are the same as at angles D, E, and F, respectively, because the lines are
parallel. So, if D, E, and F are 180º, A, B, C must add up to 180º too.
 And that’s it. That’s how you prove that the interior angles of a triangle add up to 180º. Notice
something though. We didn’t prove it for any particular triangle. We proved for all triangles. That, if
you think about it, is amazing. We proved something that will always be true about every triangle
everywhere, and it’s not trivial at all: a triangle’s interior angles are 180º, the same as the angles on one
side of a line or half of a square. Neat!
Even deeper, though, is that we proved this using only our minds. This is really amazing: we can
prove an eternal truth about the universe with our eyes closed. Meditate on that. It should be astonishing.
What are the chances that we, one little species on one little rock in one little solar system, should have
access to eternal mathematical truths? This is one of the deepest, most mystical, most amazing things I
can imagine.
Finally, you should have felt something when you proved this. Did you? Did you feel a fleeting
sense of clarity, of surprise, of finality? This one thing is finished, once and for all: you have
demonstrated a complete, perfect fact. It is delightful.
That was an a priori proof. There are other a priori truths, some trivial (bachelors are unmarried
men) and some profound (some infinities are bigger than other infinities). All of them, though, are
proved using only the mind. Your senses cannot not help at all; in fact, your senses get in the way.
For much of history, a priori truths were truth. People genuinely thought that we could best prove
things about the world using our minds alone. Actually, some people still do think this, if only a little
bit, now and then, and mostly for God and physics. Ancient Greek philosophers thought they could
prove that the world is made up of atoms and void using only their minds. Now, I hear, physicists think
the universe is round in all dimensions, as if that makes sense.
Despite the nutty uses to which a priori arguments have sometimes been put, they are very deep. I
think—and I’m not alone—that a priori truths are more certain than a posteriori ones, and that they are
more permanent, more discoverable, and even, maybe, in some way, more true. Whether the atmosphere
is 72% or 68% nitrogen (a very important a posteriori fact) seems somehow fleeting compared to the
proof that there is an infinite number of infinite numbers.1
Descartes agrees about the relative profundity of a priori truths. In Meditations he first questions a
posteriori facts. Then he questions a priori knowledge. He rejects both as being untrustworthy, though

1 Yes. Remember when you fought with your brother and you said “I hate you” and he said “I hate
you +1” and you said “I hate you infinity” and he said “I hate you infinity + infinity!”? He was actually
right.
Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. How much bigger? Infinitely bigger, of course. There
are actually an infinite number of infinite numbers infinitely larger than infinity, and someone (not me!)
can prove this perfectly. Just trust me, though. The first person to prove it went insane. No, seriously.
the difficulty he has in ridding himself of a priori facts shows how certain mathematics really is.
Doing this, he knocks down the foundation of his knowledge. Without his mind or his senses, it
seems like nothing certain remains. He cannot trust his eyes. He cannot trust his mind. What is left? You
can almost feel the despair and the sense that he has gone too far, to the edge of sanity—because as well
as being a brilliant philosopher, mathematician and swordsman, Descartes was also a great writer.
It turns out that the solution is the problem itself. He doubts everything, and doubt, paradoxically, is
the answer. You’ll see. Trust me, though; it’s amazing. He does judo and uses the force of uncertainty
against itself. It’s astonishing. It’s beautiful. It’s brilliant. The one small fact left over is called ‘the
cogito’, the most important sentence in all of philosophy, the one bit of philosophy that everyone knows.
From that one perfectly certain—and ridiculously small—point, Descartes wants to rebuild all of
science. I think it is safe to say that he failed in his efforts, and that it doesn’t matter he couldn’t succeed.
He showed that the one certain and true thing—“I think”—is only found within, in personal
reflection. It is not revealed by God and still less by the church. When he laid out his system of doubt,
established the most rigorous criterion for truth, and found the answer within, Descartes drew the line;
he was on one side of the watershed, and everyone before him was on the other.
Descartes died of sleep deprivation, unless the Pope poisoned him. He was so beloved, though that
the French tore his corpse apart for souven-ears. Really.
René Descartes: Medita'ons on First Philosophy, MeditaFons I–II, edited1

MEDITATION 1: OF THE THINGS OF WHICH WE MAY DOUBT

Several years have now elapsed since I first became aware that I had accepted, even from my youth,
many false opinions for true, and that consequently what I afterward based on such principles was
highly doubtful; and from that time I was convinced of the necessity of undertaking once in my life to
rid myself of all the opinions I had adopted, and of commencing anew the work of building from the
foundation, if I desired to establish a firm and abiding superstructure in the sciences. But as this
enterprise appeared to me to be one of great magnitude, I waited until I had attained an age so mature as
to leave me no hope that at any stage of life more advanced I should be better able to execute my design.
On this account, I have delayed so long that I should henceforth consider I was doing wrong were I still
to consume in deliberation any of the time that now remains for action. Today, then, since I have
opportunely freed my mind from all cares and am happily disturbed by no passions, and since I am in
the secure possession of leisure in a peaceable retirement, I will at length apply myself earnestly and
freely to the general overthrow of all my former opinions.2
But, to this end, it will not be necessary for me to show that the whole of these are false—a point,
perhaps, which I shall never reach; but as even now my reason convinces me that I ought not the less
carefully to withhold belief from what is not entirely certain and indubitable, than from what is
manifestly false, it will be sufficient to justify the rejection of the whole if I shall find in each some
ground for doubt. Nor for this purpose will it be necessary even to deal with each belief individually,
which would be truly an endless labor; but, as the removal from below of the foundation necessarily
involves the downfall of the whole edifice, I will at once approach the criticism of the principles on
which all my former beliefs rested.3
All that I have, up to this moment, accepted as possessed of the highest truth and certainty, I
received either from or through the senses. I observed, however, that these sometimes misled us; and it
is the part of prudence not to place absolute confidence in that by which we have even once been
deceived.
But it may be said, perhaps, that, although the senses occasionally mislead us respecting minute
objects, and such as are so far removed from us as to be beyond the reach of close observation, there are
yet many other of their informations, of the truth of which it is manifestly impossible to doubt; as for
example, that I am in this place, seated by the fire, clothed in a winter dressing gown, that I hold in my

1 Descartes wrote two books on the same topic. This is the second; the first book was pretty bad, as
books by geniuses go. The book rewrites and improves on the first book, which was called Discourse on
Method.
2 This is nuts. Descartes wants to reinvent all of science—and he’s going to do it today.
3 This is called “The Cartesian Method”. He doesn’t want to doubt willy-nilly. He is going to doubt

systematically. First, he is going to doubt his ‘a posteriori’ ideas, then he is going to doubt his ‘a priori’
ideas. Finally, he will doubt (half-heartedly) God’s existence. He rebuilds science in the opposite order,
in the part of the book we don’t have here. First he proves (half-heartedly) God’s existence. Then he
reintroduces a priori and a posteriori ideas.
hands this piece of paper, with other intimations of the same nature. But how could I deny that I possess
these hands and this body, and withal escape being classed with persons in a state of insanity, whose
brains are so disordered and clouded by dark bilious vapors as to cause them pertinaciously to assert that
they are monarchs when they are in the greatest poverty; or clothed in gold and purple when destitute of
any covering; or that their head is made of clay, their body of glass, or that they are gourds? I should
certainly be not less insane than they, were I to regulate my procedure according to examples so
extravagant.
Though this be true, I must nevertheless here consider that I am a man, and that, consequently, I am
in the habit of sleeping, and representing to myself in dreams those same things, or even sometimes
others less probable, which the insane think are presented to them in their waking moments. How often
have I dreamt that I was in these familiar circumstances, that I was dressed, and occupied this place by
the fire, when I was lying undressed in bed? But I cannot forget that, at other times I have been deceived
in sleep by similar illusions; and, attentively considering those cases, I perceive so clearly that there
exist no certain marks by which the state of waking can ever be distinguished from sleep, that I feel
greatly astonished; and in amazement I almost persuade myself that I am now dreaming.
Let us suppose, then, that we are dreaming, and that all these particulars are merely illusions; and
even that we really possess neither an entire body nor hands such as we see. Nevertheless, it must be
admitted at least that the objects which appear to us in sleep are, as it were, painted representations
which could not have been formed unless in the likeness of realities; and, therefore, that those general
objects, at all events, namely, eyes, a head, hands, and an entire body, are not simply imaginary, but
really existent. For, in truth, painters themselves, even when they study to represent sirens and satyrs by
forms the most fantastic and extraordinary, cannot bestow upon them natures absolutely new, but can
only make a certain medley of the members of different animals; it is at least certain that the colors of
which this is composed are real. And on the same principle, we are nevertheless absolutely necessitated
to admit the reality at least of some other objects still more simple and universal than these.
To this class of objects seem to belong corporeal nature in general and its extension; the figure of
extended things, their quantity or magnitude, and their number, as also the place in, and the time during,
which they exist, and other things of the same sort.1
We will not, therefore, perhaps reason illegitimately if we conclude from this that Physics,
Astronomy, Medicine, and all the other sciences that have for their end the consideration of composite
objects, are indeed of a doubtful character; but that Arithmetic, Geometry, and the other sciences of the
same class, which regard merely the simplest and most general objects, and scarcely inquire whether or
not these are really existent, contain somewhat that is certain and indubitable: for whether I am awake or
dreaming, it remains true that two and three make five, and that a square has but four sides; nor does it
seem possible that truths so apparent can ever fall under a suspicion of falsity or incertitude.
Nevertheless, the belief that there is a God who is all-powerful, and who created me, such as I am,
has, for a long time, obtained steady possession of my mind. How, then, do I know that he has not
arranged that there should be neither earth, nor sky, nor any extended thing, nor figure, nor magnitude,

1This is fantastic. Descartes doubts these numbered pages and this chair by the fire. But can he
doubt that there are numbers, or places, or space and colour? It turns out he can.
nor place, providing at the same time, however, for the rise in me of the perceptions of all these objects,
and the persuasion that these do not exist otherwise than as I perceive them? And further, as I sometimes
think that others are in error respecting matters of which they believe themselves to possess a perfect
knowledge, how do I know that I am not also deceived each time I add together two and three, or
number the sides of a square, or form some judgment still more simple, if more simple indeed can be
imagined? But perhaps Deity has not been willing that I should be thus deceived, for he is said to be
supremely good.1 If, however, it were repugnant to the goodness of Deity to have created me subject to
constant deception, it would seem likewise to be contrary to his goodness to allow me to be occasionally
deceived; and yet it is clear that this is permitted.
I will suppose, then, not that Deity, who is sovereignly good and the fountain of truth, but that some
malignant demon, who is at once exceedingly potent and deceitful, has employed all his artifice to
deceive me; I will continue resolutely fixed in this belief, and if indeed by this means it be not in my
power to arrive at the knowledge of truth, I shall at least do what is in my power, viz, suspend my
judgment, and guard with settled purpose against giving my assent to what is false, and being imposed
upon by this deceiver, whatever be his power and artifice. But this undertaking is arduous, and a certain
indolence insensibly leads me back to my ordinary course of life; so I, of my own accord, fall back into
the train of my former beliefs, and fear to arouse myself from my slumber, lest the time of laborious
wakefulness that would succeed this quiet rest, in place of bringing any light of day, should prove
inadequate to dispel the darkness that will arise from the difficulties that have now been raised.2

MEDITATION II: OF THE NATURE OF THE HUMAN MIND; AND THAT IT IS MORE EASILY KNOWN THAN
THE BODY.
The Meditation of yesterday has filled my mind with so many doubts, that it is no longer in my
power to forget them. Nor do I see, meanwhile, any principle on which they can be resolved; and, just as
if I had fallen all of a sudden into very deep water, I am so greatly disconcerted as to be unable either to
plant my feet firmly on the bottom or sustain myself by swimming on the surface. I will, nevertheless,
make an effort, and try anew the same path on which I had entered yesterday, that is, proceed by casting
aside all that admits of the slightest doubt, not less than if I had discovered it to be absolutely false; and I
will continue always in this track until I shall find something that is certain, or at least, if I can do
nothing more, until I shall know with certainty that there is nothing certain. Archimedes, that he might
transport the entire globe from the place it occupied to another, demanded only a point that was firm and
immovable; so, also, I shall be entitled to entertain the highest expectations, if I am fortunate enough to
discover only one thing that is certain and indubitable.
I suppose, accordingly, that all the things which I see are false (fictitious); I believe that none of
those objects which my fallacious memory represents ever existed; I suppose that I possess no senses; I
believe that body, figure, extension, motion, and place are merely fictions of my mind. What is there,

1 Descartes is playing a dangerous game here. His contemporary, Galileo, was imprisoned and
perhaps tortured for less serious heresy than this. People were still being burned at the stake in Europe.
2 Descartes loved to sleep in, and, I hear, invented Cartesian geometry one late morning watching a

fly crawl around on the ceiling. Sleep is a theme that runs through the Meditations, too; in fact, it would
make a fine essay topic, if you happen to be looking for one.
then, that can be esteemed true? Perhaps this only, that there is absolutely nothing certain.
But how do I know that there is not something different altogether from the objects I have now
enumerated, of which it is impossible to entertain the slightest doubt? Is there not a God, or some being,
by whatever name I may designate him, who causes these thoughts to arise in my mind? But why
suppose such a being, for it may be I myself am capable of producing them? Am I, then, at least not
something? But I before denied that I possessed senses or a body; I hesitate, however, for what follows
from that? Am I so dependent on the body and the senses that without these I cannot exist? But I had the
persuasion that there was absolutely nothing in the world, that there was no sky and no earth, neither
minds nor bodies; was I not, therefore, at the same time, persuaded that I did not exist? Far from it; I
assuredly existed, since I was persuaded. But there is I know not what being, who is possessed at once of
the highest power and the deepest cunning, who is constantly employing all his ingenuity in deceiving
me. Doubtless, then, I exist, since I am deceived; and, let him deceive me as he may, he can never bring
it about that I am nothing, so long as I shall be conscious that I am something. So that it must, in fine, be
maintained, all things being maturely and carefully considered, that this proposition: I am, I exist, is
necessarily true each time it is expressed by me, or conceived in my mind.1
But I do not yet know with sufficient clearness what I am, though assured that I am; and hence, in
the next place, I must take care, lest perchance I inconsiderately substitute some other object in room of
what is properly myself, and thus wander from truth, even in that knowledge which I hold to be of all
others the most certain and evident. For this reason, I will now consider anew what I formerly believed
myself to be, before I entered on the present train of thought; and of my previous opinion I will retrench
all that can in the least be invalidated by the grounds of doubt I have adduced, in order that there may at
length remain nothing but what is certain and indubitable.
But as to myself, what can I now say that I am, since I suppose there exists an extremely powerful,
and, if I may so speak, malignant being, whose whole endeavors are directed toward deceiving me? Can
I affirm that I possess any one of all those attributes of which I have lately spoken as belonging to the
nature of body? After attentively considering them in my own mind, I find none of them that can
properly be said to belong to myself. To recount them were idle and tedious. Let us pass, then, to the
attributes of the soul. The first mentioned were the powers of nutrition and walking; but, if it be true that
I have no body, it is true likewise that I am capable neither of walking nor of being nourished.
Perception is another attribute of the soul; but perception too is impossible without the body; besides, I
have frequently, during sleep, believed that I perceived objects which I afterward observed I did not in
reality perceive. Thinking is another attribute of the soul; and here I discover what properly belongs to
myself. This alone is inseparable from me. I am—I exist: this is certain; but how often? As often as I
think; for perhaps it would even happen, if I should wholly cease to think, that I should at the same time
altogether cease to be. I now admit nothing that is not necessarily true. I am therefore, precisely
speaking, only a thinking thing, that is, a mind, understanding, or reason, terms whose signification was
before unknown to me. I am, however, a real thing, and really existent; but what thing? The answer was,
a thinking thing.

1 This is ‘the cogito’, the most famous sentence in all of philosophy. In the other book he wrote, it
took the form you know: “I think, therefore I am”. Notice what he’s done: he turned doubt on itself: “I
doubt, therefore I can be certain that there is an ‘I’ that doubts.” Juuuuudo!
 The question now arises, am I aught besides? I will stimulate my imagination with a view to
discover whether I am not still something more than a thinking being. Now it is plain I am not the
assemblage of members called the human body. I already know that I exist, and that it is possible at the
same time that all those images, and in general all that relates to the nature of body, are merely dreams
or chimeras.
But what, then, am I? A thinking thing, it has been said. But what is a thinking thing? It is a thing
that doubts, understands, conceives, affirms, denies, wills, refuses; that imagines also, and perceives.
Assuredly it is not little, if all these properties belong to my nature. In fine, I am the same being who
perceives, that is, who apprehends certain objects as by the organs of sense, since, in truth, I see light,
hear a noise, and feel heat. But it will be said that these presentations are false, and that I am dreaming.
Let it be so. At all events it is certain that I seem to see light, hear a noise, and feel heat; this cannot be
false, and this is what in me is properly called perceiving, which is nothing else than thinking.
From this I begin to know what I am with somewhat greater clearness and distinctness than
heretofore. But, nevertheless, it still seems to me, and I cannot help believing, that corporeal things,
whose images are formed by thought which fall under the senses, and are examined by the same, are
known with much greater distinctness than that I know not what part of myself which is not imaginable.
Let us now accordingly consider the objects that are commonly thought to be the most easily, and
likewise the most distinctly known, viz, the bodies we touch and see; not, indeed, bodies in general, for
these general notions are usually somewhat more confused, but one body in particular. Take, for
example, this piece of wax; it is quite fresh, having been but recently taken from the beehive; it has not
yet lost the sweetness of the honey it contained; it still retains somewhat of the odor of the flowers from
which it was gathered; its color, figure, size, are apparent (to the sight); it is hard, cold, easily handled;
and sounds when struck upon with the finger. In fine, all that contributes to make a body as distinctly
known as possible, is found in the one before us. But, while I am speaking, let it be placed near the
fire—what remained of the taste exhales, the smell evaporates, the color changes, its figure is destroyed,
its size increases, it becomes liquid, it grows hot, it can hardly be handled, and, although struck upon, it
emits no sound. Does the same wax still remain after this change? It must be admitted that it does
remain; no one doubts it, or judges otherwise. What, then, was it I knew with so much distinctness in the
piece of wax? Assuredly, it could be nothing of all that I observed by means of the senses, since all the
things that fell under taste, smell, sight, touch, and hearing are changed, and yet the same wax remains.1
Let it be attentively considered, and, retrenching all that does not belong to the wax, let us see what
remains. There certainly remains nothing, except something extended, flexible, and movable. But what
is meant by flexible and movable? Is it not that I imagine that the piece of wax, being round, is capable
of becoming square, or of passing from a square into a triangular figure? Assuredly such is not the case,
because I conceive that it admits of an infinity of similar changes; and I am, moreover, unable to
compass this infinity by imagination, and consequently this conception which I have of the wax is not

1This is a super famous example. He’s trying to get at the relationship between a priori and a
posteriori ideas. If everything about the wax changes when it melts, what does he know about wax? Not
much, you might say—but as a geometer, he thinks differently. He knows that wax changes, but
geometry is universal and (nearly) certain. So the shape of the ball might change, but ‘shapiness’
remains.
the product of the faculty of imagination. But what now is this extension? Is it not also unknown? I
must, therefore, admit that I cannot even comprehend by imagination what the piece of wax is, and that
it is the mind alone which perceives it.
I consider all this in my own mind, words yet occasionally impede my progress, and I am almost led
into error by the terms of ordinary language. We say, for example, that we see the same wax when it is
before us, and not that we judge it to be the same from its retaining the same color and figure: whence I
should forthwith be disposed to conclude that the wax is known by the act of sight, and not by the
intuition of the mind alone, were it not for the analogous instance of human beings passing on in the
street below, as observed from a window. In this case I do not fail to say that I see the men themselves,
just as I say that I see the wax; and yet what do I see from the window beyond hats and cloaks that might
cover artificial machines, whose motions might be determined by springs? But I judge that there are
human beings from these appearances, and thus I comprehend, by the faculty of judgment alone which is
in the mind, what I believed I saw with my eyes.
But finally, what shall I say of the mind itself, that is, of myself? For as yet I do not admit that I am
anything but mind.
I find I have insensibly reverted to the point I desired; for, since it is now manifest to me that bodies
themselves are not properly perceived by the senses nor by the faculty of imagination, but by the
intellect alone; and since they are not perceived because they are seen and touched, but only because
they are understood or rightly comprehended by thought, I readily discover that there is nothing more
easily or clearly apprehended than my own mind. But because it is difficult to rid one’s self so promptly
of an opinion to which one has been long accustomed, it will be desirable to tarry for some time at this
stage, that, by long continued meditation, I may more deeply impress upon my memory this new
knowledge.
René Descartes: MeditaFons on First Philosophy, MeditaFons I–II, decoded

MEDITATION 1
I’m retired. Now that I have the time, I think I should get rid of all my false beliefs and start building
my knowledge up from a certain foundation. What else do I have to do today? Why not reinvent all of
science?
I won’t agree to anything that is probably true or almost certain any more than I would agree to
something obviously false. If I can doubt a fact at all, I’ll reject it. I will not deal with every belief
individually, however. Instead, I will remove the foundations of my beliefs and knock all my shaky
ideas down at once. This is the easiest way. For instance, I used to think that I could find truth from the
senses. But senses often mislead us. We should not trust them to give us truth.
Some people say, though, that there are experiences we cannot doubt. Like, say, that I am here, by
the fire, and holding a piece of paper. I’d have to be crazy to doubt that! That does seem plausible. The
trouble is this: I sleep. I have even dreamed that I have been sitting, by the fire, holding a piece of paper,
when I was actually in bed, asleep. Dreams can seem real.
Well, let me try that on for a second. What if I am dreaming? When I dream, I don’t dream anything
new. I may dream that I have two heads, but I knew what heads were before I fell asleep. Painters
imagine in the same way; they combine old parts to make new monsters. Even if you don’t believe that,
colours are certain, and nobody can invent a new colour. There are many fundamental things like these:
simple, universal things, and all the things in our consciousness are formed of those things. Maybe I can
be certain about these things.
Extension, shape, number, place, time: these are all things that I know for sure exist, because
everything else I see conforms to these things. Everything I know takes up space, has a shape, and is
separated from other things. These qualities may be certain. If so physics, astronomy and medicine are
all doubtful because they deal with physical things. Math and geometry deal with the pure things that
everything has: extension and number.
Math and geometry would be more certain, unless even the most basic things, like numbers and
space, cannot be trusted. God could have made them seem real all this time. He could have been fooling
me. It would take a superhuman power to fool me about numbers, but God has superhuman powers.
Oh no. Everything can be doubted. I can doubt everything. I will not be fooled again.
Okay, it’s not God who would fool me, since you could excommunicate me like you did Galileo a
couple of years ago. It’s an evil demon. An evil demon could be fooling me, making me think that
2+2=4, when in fact 2+2=5. Now all I know is that I can’t be sure of anything. Since I can’t be sure of
anything, I will suspend judgment on everything.
This is making me tired. I’m going to bed.

MEDITATION 2
I’m bummed out about yesterday. I’m going to stick to it though, and get rid of every belief that I
can doubt at all. If any belief could be wrong, then it is as good as totally wrong to me. I’ll get rid of
every belief until I find one I know to be true.
 Everything I see seems to be doubtable. Everything I remember seems to be doubtable too.
Everything I sense and the world outside my mind seems doubtable. Maybe nothing is certain.
Maybe there is a god or something that makes me think these things. Or maybe there is not, since I
could think them without help. Either way, though, am I at least not something? Before, I thought that
there was no world outside of my mind. But did I think that I didn’t exist? No. Even if someone is
always fooling me, I know that there is an I that is being fooled.
That’s it! This sentence, “I am, I exist”, is necessarily true each time it is expressed by me, or
conceived in my mind! I think, therefore, I am. I am thinking, therefore I am amming! Ego cogito, ergo
sum! Je pense, donc je suis!
Hold on: I don’t know what I am. I exist, but what am I? I need to be careful not to jump to
conclusions.
There’s a lot I know I’m not. I may not have a body. I may not be a man. I may not have a soul.
I do know that I am a thinking thing. That much is certain.
Thinking is an attribute I certainly have. As long as I am thinking, I know that I exist. I am—I exist:
that is certain. But if I stop thinking, who knows? I could stop existing. I am, then, precisely speaking,
only a thinking thing. Still, that’s something: a thinking thing is a real thing.
Can I be sure of anything else? Not yet. What, then, am I? What is a thinking thing? It is a thing that
doubts, understands, conceives, affirms, denies, wills, refuses, imagines and perceives.
I doubt, I understand and I desire. I also imagine, even though what I imagine may not be real. Even
if what I perceive, see, hear, and feel is not real, I am real. All this perceiving is a part of thinking. I now
know that I exist as long as I perceive.
It seems crazy to say that I can’t trust the external world, but that is the truth. I find it really hard to
get my head around the idea that physical things can’t be trusted. Look at this piece of wax, though. It
smells nice; it is cold and solid. It is as real as anything I can imagine. Yet if I put it near the fire,
everything changes. It does not smell, look, or feel the same. It still seems to be the same wax—but
every quality it had has changed. The external world is much more complicated than it appears. What is
wax? Wax is like every physical thing. It is extended, flexible, and movable. Its other qualities are much
less certain, but these qualities seem fairly clear. If we ignore the senses when we consider physical
things, we can really get to the truth of what they are. We can do this with intuition and inspection of the
mind.
Instead of abstracting from things we sense, we should build up from our innate ideas. Some ideas
can be very clear and distinct. I have to be really careful. I’m very used to saying that I perceive things
with my eyes. I don’t really. I judge with my mind and I see with my eyes. Often, I confuse these two
things. It really seems like the clearest perceptions come from the mind, not the senses.
In conclusion, then, I do not know that I am anything other than mind. Whether I perceive with my
senses or through introspection, I know, however, that I am. It is more accurate to perceive physical
things with the mind than with the senses. My mind is the clearest thing my mind can perceive. I’m
pretty dumb, so I’d better stick with this much for today.
Back to bed.
Socrates

Socrates’ life was a complete disaster. He was ugly and poor and died ignobly. Yet Socrates is,
without a doubt, the most important philosopher to have ever lived. He’s right up there with the most
important people to have ever lived. He is adored by every student of philosophy and every philosopher.
Socrates lived in ancient Greece, in Athens, about 2500 years ago. Athens was a wonderful place to
live. It was democratic, wealthy, and full of parties, politics, drinking, and theatre. It was fabulous... as
long as you were an Athenian man. Women were not so lucky, and everyone else was a slave.
Socrates was famous for repudiating the Athenian ideals, ideals very much like ours today: freedom,
democracy, beauty, wealth, and gratification (for the non-enslaved). Socrates was also extremely ugly.
He was a terrible father and husband. He lived in poverty rather than get a real job, and he irritated
almost everyone he met. He never even wrote down his own ideas. Finally, in old age, Socrates got
himself executed.
Reading him, though, shows that our standards (and Athens’) are stupid and pitiless. Socrates was a
wonderful man. He was kind, and pure-of-heart, and brilliant. He was also a great joker and a terrible
tease. That he was an ugly deadbeat reveals the brutality and stupidity of our standards.
I used to think that philosophers took Socrates to heart. I thought that Socrates’ ethos was our ethos,
that we are irreverent, questioning, and concerned with the higher things. Of course, I’ve come to realize
that I was wrong, and that academic philosophers are usually only prattish sophists fighting over
granting agency scraps, always trying to one-up each other, and less even fun to hang with than actors.
Still, Socrates shows how far philosophers have strayed. If Socrates does not show what philosophers
are, he does show what they could be.
In The Apology, we see Socrates at his very best. The reading will seem very strange, as it is not
written in any recognizable format—it’s not an essay or a story. The Apology is a ‘dialogue’, which is
much like a play. There are two characters: Socrates and Meletus. Socrates does almost all the talking,
because most of the time he is talking to the audience. The audience is a jury.
But this play is not fictional. When Socrates addresses the jury, he is fighting for his life. He is being
tried on trumped-up charges, and the jury of 501 men will decide his fate before the sun goes down.
Socrates knows that he may very well be sentenced to death.
Socrates (via Plato): The Apology, edited

Socrates’ defense1
How you have felt, O men of Athens, at hearing the speeches of my accusers, I cannot tell; but I
know that their persuasive words almost made me forget who I was, such was the effect of them; and yet
they have hardly spoken a word of truth. But many as their falsehoods were, there was one of them
which quite amazed me; I mean when they told you to be upon your guard, and not to let yourselves be
deceived by the force of my eloquence. They ought to have been ashamed of saying this, because they
were sure to be detected as soon as I opened my lips and displayed my deficiency. I shall use the words
and arguments which occur to me at the moment. And I must beg of you to grant me one favor, which is
this: If you hear me using the same words in my defense which I have been in the habit of using, and
which most of you may have heard in the market, and at the tables of the money-changers, or anywhere
else, I would ask you not to be surprised at this, and not to interrupt me. For I am more than seventy
years of age, and this is the first time that I have ever appeared in a court of law, and I am quite a
stranger to the ways of the place; and therefore I would have you regard me as if I were really a stranger,
whom you would excuse if he spoke in his native tongue.
And first, I have to reply to the older charges and to my first accusers, and then I will go to the later
ones. For I have had many accusers, who accused me of old, and their false charges have continued
during many years; and I am more afraid of them than of Anytus and his associates, who are dangerous,
too, in their own way. But far more dangerous are these, who began when you were children, and took
possession of your minds with their falsehoods, telling of one Socrates, a wise man, who speculated
about the heaven above, and searched into the earth beneath, and made the worse appear the better
cause. These are the accusers whom I dread; for they are the circulators of this rumor, and their hearers
are too apt to fancy that speculators of this sort do not believe in the gods. And they are many, and their
charges against me are of ancient date, and they made them in days when you were impressible in
childhood, or perhaps in youth, and the cause when heard went by default, for there was none to answer.
And, hardest of all, their names I do not know and cannot tell; unless in the chance of a comic poet.2 But
the main body of these slanderers who from envy and malice have wrought upon you, and there are
some of them who are convinced themselves, and impart their convictions to others all these, I say, are
most difficult to deal with; for I cannot have them up here, and examine them, and therefore I must
simply fight with shadows in my own defense, and examine when there is no one who answers. I will
ask you then to assume with me, as I was saying, that my opponents are of two kinds, one recent, the
other ancient; and I hope that you will see the propriety of my answering the latter first, for these
accusations you heard long before the others, and much oftener.
I will begin at the beginning, and ask what the accusation is which has given rise to this slander of

1 Socrates is on trial. He will be judged by sundown by 501 of his peers. We don’t get to hear the
prosecution’s side; we only hear from Socrates. In fact, we don’t even really hear from him. This was
written by Plato, his student, some time after the actual events.
2 Athens was a small city, and Socrates was quite famous. He’s referring here to Aristophanes, who
wrote a play about Socrates.
me, and which has encouraged Meletus to proceed against me. What do the slanderers say? “Socrates is
an evil-doer, and a curious person, who searches into things under the earth and in heaven, and he makes
the worse appear the better cause; and he teaches the aforesaid doctrines to others.” But the simple truth
is, O Athenians, that I have nothing to do with these studies. Very many of those here present are
witnesses to the truth of this, and to them I appeal. Speak then, you who have heard me, and tell your
neighbors whether any of you have ever known me hold forth in few words or in many upon matters of
this sort…. You hear their answer. And from what they say of this you will be able to judge of the truth
of the rest.
As little foundation is there for the report that I am a teacher, and take money; that is no more true
than the other. Although, if a man is able to teach, I honour him for being paid. There is Gorgias of
Leontium, and Prodicus of Ceos, and Hippias of Elis, who go the round of the cities, and are able to
persuade the young men to leave their own citizens, by whom they might be taught for nothing, and
come to them, whom they not only pay, but are thankful if they may be allowed to pay them.1 Had I
[such knowledge], I should have been very proud and conceited; but the truth is that I have no
knowledge of the kind.
I dare say, Athenians, that someone among you will reply, “Why is this, Socrates, and what is the
origin of these accusations of you: for there must have been something strange which you have been
doing? Now I regard this as a fair challenge, and I will endeavor to explain to you the origin of this
name of “wise,” and of this evil fame. And although some of you may think I am joking, I declare that I
will tell you the entire truth. Men of Athens, this reputation of mine has come of a certain sort of
wisdom which I possess. If you ask me what kind of wisdom, I reply, such wisdom as is attainable by
man, for to that extent I am inclined to believe that I am wise; whereas the persons of whom I was
speaking have a superhuman wisdom, which I may fail to describe, because I have it not myself; and he
who says that I have, speaks falsely, and is taking away my character. And here, O men of Athens, I
must beg you not to interrupt me, even if I seem to say something extravagant. For the word which I will
speak is not mine. I will refer you to a witness who is worthy of credit, and will tell you about my
wisdom— whether I have any, and of what sort—and that witness shall be the god of Delphi. You must
have known Chaerephon; he was early a friend of mine, and also a friend of yours, for he shared in the
exile of the people, and returned with you. Well, Chaerephon, as you know, was very impetuous in all
his doings, and he went to Delphi and boldly asked the oracle to tell him whether—as I was saying, I
must beg you not to interrupt—he asked the oracle to tell him whether there was anyone wiser than I
was, and the Pythian prophetess answered that there was no man wiser. Chaerephon is dead himself, but
his brother, who is in court, will confirm the truth of this story.
Why do I mention this? Because I am going to explain to you why I have such an evil name. When I
heard the answer, I said to myself, What can the god mean? and what is the interpretation of this riddle?
for I know that I have no wisdom, small or great. What can he mean when he says that I am the wisest of
men? And yet he is a god and cannot lie; that would be against his nature. After a long consideration, I
at last thought of a method of trying the question. I reflected that if I could only find a man wiser than

1These men are ‘Sophists’, who Socrates hates (and you can get a sense of his famous irony here).
Sophists taught the young men to be politicians, and how to win in arguments. They were like
management consultants today: overpaid blowhards.
myself, then I might go to the god with a refutation in my hand. I should say to him, “Here is a man who
is wiser than I am; but you said that I was the wisest.” Accordingly I went to one who had the reputation
of wisdom, and observed to him his name I need not mention; he was a politician whom I selected for
examination—and the result was as follows: When I began to talk with him, I could not help thinking
that he was not really wise, although he was thought wise by many, and wiser still by himself; and I
went and tried to explain to him that he thought himself wise, but was not really wise; and the
consequence was that he hated me, and his enmity was shared by several who were present and heard
me. So I left him, saying to myself, as I went away: “Well, although I do not suppose that either of us
knows anything really beautiful and good, I am better off than he is—for he knows nothing, and thinks
that he knows. I neither know nor think that I know. In this latter particular, then, I seem to have slightly
the advantage of him.” Then I went to another, who had still higher philosophical pretensions, and my
conclusion was exactly the same. I made another enemy of him, and of many others besides him.1
After this I went to one man after another, being not unconscious of the enmity which I provoked,
and I lamented and feared this: but necessity was laid upon me—the word of God, I thought, ought to be
considered first. And I said to myself, “Go! I must to all who appear to know, and find out the meaning
of the oracle.” And I swear to you, Athenians, by the dog I swear! for I must tell you the truth the result
of my mission was just this: I found that the men most in repute were all but the most foolish; and that
some inferior men were really wiser and better. I will tell you the tale of my wanderings and of the
“Herculean” labors, as I may call them, which I endured only to find at last the oracle irrefutable. When
I left the politicians, I went to the poets; tragic, dithyrambic, and all sorts. And there, I said to myself,
you will be detected; now you will find out that you are more ignorant than they are. Accordingly, I took
them some of the most elaborate passages in their own writings, and asked what was the meaning of
them thinking that they would teach me something. Will you believe me? I am almost ashamed to speak
of this, but still I must say that there is hardly a person present who would not have talked better about
their poetry than they did themselves. That showed me in an instant that not by wisdom do poets write
poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many
fine things, but do not understand the meaning of them. And the poets appeared to me to be much in the
same case; and I further observed that upon the strength of their poetry they believed themselves to be
the wisest of men in other things in which they were not wise. So I departed, conceiving myself to be
superior to them for the same reason that I was superior to the politicians.
At last I went to the artisans, for I was conscious that I knew nothing at all, as I may say, and I was
sure that they knew many fine things; and in this I was not mistaken, for they did know many things of
which I was ignorant, and in this they certainly were wiser than I was. But I observed that even the good
artisans fell into the same error as the poets; because they were good workmen they thought that they
also knew all sorts of high matters, and this defect in them overshadowed their wisdom. Therefore, I
asked myself on behalf of the oracle, whether I would like to be as I was, neither having their knowledge
nor their ignorance, or like them in both; and I made answer to myself and the oracle that I was better off
as I was.
This investigation has led to my having many enemies of the worst and most dangerous kind, and

1Socrates was famous for these interrogations (called ‘dialogues), and Plato, his student, wrote them
down. How accurate they are is a matter of debate.
has given occasion also to many calumnies, and I am called wise, for my hearers always imagine that I
myself possess the wisdom which I find wanting in others: but the truth is, O men of Athens, that God
only is wise; and in this oracle he means to say that the wisdom of men is little or nothing; he is not
speaking of Socrates, he is only using my name as an illustration, as if he said, He, O men, is the wisest,
who, like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth worth nothing. And so I go my way, obedient to
the god, and make inquisition into the wisdom of anyone, whether citizen or stranger, who appears to be
wise; and if he is not wise, then in vindication of the oracle I show him that he is not wise; and this
occupation quite absorbs me, and I have no time to give either to any public matter of interest or to any
concern of my own, but I am in utter poverty by reason of my devotion to the god.
There is another thing: young men of the richer classes, who have not much to do, come about me of
their own accord; they like to hear the pretenders examined, and they often imitate me, and examine
others themselves; there are plenty of persons, as they soon enough discover, who think that they know
something, but really know little or nothing: and then those who are examined by them instead of being
angry with themselves are angry with me: “This confounded Socrates,” they say; “this villainous
misleader of youth!” And this is the reason why my three accusers, Meletus and Anytus and Lycon,
have set upon me; Meletus, who has a quarrel with me on behalf of the poets; Anytus, on behalf of the
craftsmen; Lycon, on behalf of the rhetoricians: and as I said at the beginning, I cannot expect to get rid
of this mass of calumny all in a moment. And this, O men of Athens, is the truth and the whole truth; I
have concealed nothing.
I have said enough in my defense against the first class of my accusers; I turn to the second class,
who are headed by Meletus, that good and patriotic man, as he calls himself. What do they say? “That
Socrates is a doer of evil, and corrupter of the youth, and he does not believe in the gods of the state, and
has other new divinities of his own.” That is the sort of charge; and now let us examine the particular
counts. He says that I am a doer of evil, who corrupts the youth; but I say, O men of Athens, that
Meletus is a doer of evil, and the evil is that he makes a joke of a serious matter, and is too ready at
bringing other men to trial from a pretended zeal and interest about matters in which he really never had
the smallest interest. And the truth of this I will endeavor to prove.
Come hither, Meletus, and let me ask a question of you. You think a great deal about the
improvement of youth?
Yes, I do.1
Tell the judges, then, who is their improver; for you must know, as you have taken the pains to
discover their corrupter, and are citing and accusing me before them. Speak, then, and tell the judges
who their improver is. Observe, Meletus, that you are silent, and have nothing to say. But is not this
rather disgraceful, and a very considerable proof of what I was saying, that you have no interest in the
matter? Speak up, friend, and tell us who their improver is.
The laws.
But that, my good sir, is not my meaning. I want to know who the person is, who, in the first place,
knows the laws.

1 Socrates is starting a ‘dialectic’—one of his interrogations.

 The judges, Socrates, who are present in court.
What do you mean to say, Meletus, that they are able to instruct and improve youth?
Certainly they are.
What, all of them, or some only and not others?
All of them.
By the goddess Here, that is good news! There are plenty of improvers, then. And what do you say
of the audience, do they improve them?
Yes, they do.
And the senators?
Yes, the senators improve them.
But perhaps the members of the citizen assembly corrupt them? or do they too improve them?
They improve them.
Then every Athenian improves and elevates them; all with the exception of myself; and I alone am
their corrupter? Is that what you affirm?
That is what I stoutly affirm.
I am very unfortunate if that is true. But suppose I ask you a question: Would you say that this also
holds true in the case of horses? Does one man do them harm and all the world good? Is not the exact
opposite of this true? One man is able to do them good, or at least not many; the trainer of horses, that is
to say, does them good, and others who have to do with them rather injure them? Is not that true,
Meletus, of horses, or any other animals? Yes, certainly. Whether you and Anytus say yes or no, that is
no matter. Happy indeed would be the condition of youth if they had one corrupter only, and all the rest
of the world were their improvers. And you, Meletus, have sufficiently shown that you never had a
thought about the young: your carelessness is seen in your not caring about matters spoken of in this
very indictment.1
And now, Meletus, I must ask you another question: Which is better, to live among bad citizens, or
among good ones? Answer, friend, I say; for that is a question which may be easily answered. Do not
the good do their neighbours good, and the bad do them evil?
Certainly.
And is there anyone who would rather be injured than benefited by those who live with him?
Answer, my good friend; the law requires you to answer. Does anyone like to be injured?
Certainly not.
And when you accuse me of corrupting and deteriorating the youth, do you allege that I corrupt them

1 Each dialectic ends the same way: with the interlocutor being baffled. The Greeks had a name for
it: aporia. Notice the beautiful symmetry: Socrates shows (but does not teach!) his companions that they
know nothing. He makes them wise, like him!
intentionally or unintentionally?
Intentionally, I say.
But you have just admitted that the good do their neighbors good, and the evil do them evil. Now is
that a truth which your superior wisdom has recognized thus early in life, and am I, at my age, in such
darkness and ignorance as not to know that if a man with whom I have to live is corrupted by me, I am
very likely to be harmed by him, and yet I corrupt him, and intentionally, too. That is what you are
saying, and of that you will never persuade me or any other human being. But either I do not corrupt
them, or I corrupt them unintentionally, so that on either view of the case you lie. If my offense is
unintentional, the law has no cognizance of unintentional offenses: you ought to have taken me
privately, and warned and admonished me; for if I had been better advised, I should have left off doing
what I only did unintentionally—no doubt I should; whereas you hated to converse with me or teach me,
but you indicted me in this court, which is a place not of instruction, but of punishment.
I have shown, Athenians, as I was saying, that Meletus has no care at all, great or small, about the
matter. But still I should like to know, Meletus, in what I am affirmed to corrupt the young. I suppose
you mean, as I infer from your indictment, that I teach them not to acknowledge the gods which the state
acknowledges, but some other new divinities or spiritual agencies in their stead. These are the lessons
which corrupt the youth, as you say.
Yes, that I say emphatically.
Then, by the gods, Meletus, of whom we are speaking, tell me and the court, in somewhat plainer
terms, what you mean! For I do not as yet understand whether you affirm that I teach others to
acknowledge some gods, and therefore do believe in gods, and am not an entire atheist. This you do not
lay to my charge; but only that they are not the same gods which the city recognizes. The charge is that
they are different gods. Or, do you mean to say that I am an atheist simply, and a teacher of atheism?
I mean the latter, that you are a complete atheist.
That is an extraordinary statement, Meletus. Why do you say that? Do you mean that I do not
believe in the godhead of the sun or moon, which is the common creed of all men?
I assure you, judges, that he does not believe in them; for he says that the sun is stone, and the moon
earth.
Friend Meletus, you think that you are accusing Anaxagoras; and you have but a bad opinion of the
judges, if you fancy them ignorant to such a degree as not to know that those doctrines are found in the
books of Anaxagoras the Clazomenian, who is full of them. And these are the doctrines which the youth
are said to learn of Socrates, when there are not unfrequently exhibitions of them at the theatre (price of
admission one drachma at the most); and they might cheaply purchase them, and laugh at Socrates if he
pretends to father such eccentricities. And so, Meletus, you really think that I do not believe in any god?
I swear by Zeus that you believe absolutely in none at all.
You are a liar, Meletus, not believed even by yourself. For I cannot help thinking, O men of Athens,
that Meletus is reckless and impudent, and that he has written this indictment in a spirit of mere
wantonness and youthful bravado. Has he not compounded a riddle, thinking to try me? He said to
himself: I shall see whether this wise Socrates will discover my ingenious contradiction, or whether I
shall be able to deceive him and the rest of them. For he certainly does appear to me to contradict
himself in the indictment as much as if he said that Socrates is guilty of not believing in the gods, and
yet of believing in them. But this surely is a piece of fun.
I should like you, O men of Athens, to join me in examining what I conceive to be his inconsistency;
and do you, Meletus, answer. And I must remind you that you are not to interrupt me if I speak in my
accustomed manner.
Did ever man, Meletus, believe in the existence of human things, and not of human beings? ... I
wish, men of Athens, that he would answer, and not be always trying to get up an interruption. Did ever
any man believe in horsemanship, and not in horses? Or in flute-playing, and not in flute-players? No,
my friend; I will answer to you and to the court, as you refuse to answer for yourself. There is no man
who ever did. But now please to answer the next question: Can a man believe in spiritual and divine
agencies, and not in spirits or demigods?
He cannot.
I am glad that I have extracted that answer, by the assistance of the court; nevertheless you swear in
the indictment that I teach and believe in divine or spiritual agencies (new or old, no matter for that); at
any rate, I believe in spiritual agencies, as you say and swear in the affidavit; but if I believe in divine
beings, I must believe in spirits or demigods; is not that true? Yes, that is true, for I may assume that
your silence gives assent to that. Now what are spirits or demigods? Are they not either gods or the sons
of gods? Is that true?
Yes, that is true.
But this is just the ingenious riddle of which I was speaking: the demigods or spirits are gods, and
you say first that I don’t believe in gods, and then again that I do believe in gods. You might as well
affirm the existence of mules, and deny that of horses and asses. Such nonsense, Meletus, could only
have been intended by you as a trial of me.
I have said enough in answer to the charge of Meletus: any elaborate defense is unnecessary; but as I
was saying before, I certainly have many enemies, and this is what will be my destruction if I am
destroyed; of that I am certain; not Meletus, nor yet Anytus, but the envy and detraction of the world,
which has been the death of many good men, and will probably be the death of many more; there is no
danger of my being the last of them.
Someone will say: And are you not ashamed, Socrates, of a course of life which is likely to bring
you to an untimely end? To him I may fairly answer: There you are mistaken. A man who is good for
anything ought not to calculate the chance of living or dying; he ought only to consider whether in doing
anything he is doing right or wrong acting the part of a good man or of a bad. Whereas, according to
your view, the heroes who fell at Troy were not good for much, and the son of Thetis above all, who
altogether despised danger in comparison with disgrace; and when his goddess mother said, “Fate waits
upon you next after Hector”; he, hearing this, utterly despised danger and death, and instead of fearing
them, feared rather to live in dishonor, and not to avenge his friend. “Let me die next,” he replies, “and
be avenged of my enemy, rather than abide here by the beaked ships, a scorn and a burden of the earth.”
Strange, indeed, would be my conduct, O men of Athens, if I who, when I was ordered by the
generals whom you chose to command me remained where they placed me, like any other man, facing
death. If I disobeyed the oracle because I was afraid of death, then I should be fancying that I was wise
when I was not wise. For this fear of death is indeed the pretense of wisdom, and not real wisdom, being
the appearance of knowing the unknown; since no one knows whether death, which they in their fear
apprehend to be the greatest evil, may not be the greatest good. I will never fear or avoid a possible good
rather than a certain evil.
If you say to me, Socrates, this time we will not mind Anytus, and will let you off, but upon one
condition, that you are not to inquire and speculate in this way any more, I should reply: Men of Athens,
I honor and love you; but I shall obey God rather than you, and while I have life and strength I shall
never cease from the practice and teaching of philosophy, exhorting anyone whom I meet after my
manner, and convincing him, saying: O my friend, why do you who are a citizen of the great and mighty
and wise city of Athens, care so much about laying up the greatest amount of money and honor and
reputation, and so little about wisdom and truth and the greatest improvement of the soul, which you
never regard or heed at all?
For I do nothing but go about persuading you all, old and young alike, not to take thought for your
persons and your properties, but first and chiefly to care about the greatest improvement of the soul. I
tell you that excellence is not given by money, but that from excellence come money and every other
good of man, public as well as private. This is my teaching, and if this is the doctrine which corrupts the
youth, my influence is ruinous indeed.
Men of Athens, do not interrupt, but hear me; there was an agreement between us that you should
hear me out. I would have you know that, if you kill such a one as I am, you will injure yourselves more
than you will injure me. Meletus and Anytus will not injure me: they cannot; for it is not in the nature of
things that a bad man should injure a better than himself. I do not deny that he may, perhaps, kill him, or
drive him into exile, or deprive him of civil rights. For if you kill me you will not easily find another like
me, who, if I may use such a ludicrous figure of speech, am a sort of gadfly, given to the state by the
God; and the state is like a great and noble steed who is tardy in his motions owing to his very size, and
requires to be stirred into life. I am that gadfly which God has given the state and all day long and in all
places am always fastening upon you, arousing and persuading and reproaching you. And as you will
not easily find another like me, I would advise you to spare me. I dare say that you may feel irritated at
being suddenly awakened when you are caught napping; and you may think that if you were to strike me
dead, as Anytus advises, which you easily might, then you would sleep on for the remainder of your
lives.
I will tell you a story—tasteless, perhaps, and commonplace, but nevertheless true. The only office
of state which I ever held, O men of Athens, was that of senator; the tribe Antiochus, which is my tribe,
had the presidency at the trial of the generals who had not taken up the bodies of the slain after the battle
of Arginusae; and you proposed to try them all together, which was illegal, as you all thought
afterwards; but at the time I was the only one of the Prytanes who was opposed to the illegality, and I
gave my vote against you; and when the orators threatened to impeach and arrest me, and have me taken
away, and you called and shouted, I made up my mind that I would run the risk, having law and justice
with me, rather than take part in your injustice because I feared imprisonment and death. This happened
in the days of the democracy.
But when the oligarchy of the Thirty was in power, they sent for me and four others into the rotunda,
and bade us bring Leon the Salaminian, as they wanted to execute him. This was a specimen of the sort
of commands which they were always giving with the view of implicating as many as possible in their
crimes; and then I showed, not in words only, but in deed, that, if I may be allowed to use such an
expression, I cared not a straw for death, and that my only fear was the fear of doing an unrighteous or
unholy thing. For the strong arm of that oppressive power did not frighten me into doing wrong; and
when we came out of the rotunda the other four went to Salamis and fetched Leon, but I went quietly
home. For which I might have lost my life, had not the power of the Thirty shortly afterwards come to
an end. And to this many will witness.
Now do you really imagine that I could have survived all these years, if I had led a public life,
supposing that like a good man I had always supported the right and had made justice, as I ought, the
first thing? No, indeed, men of Athens, neither I nor any other. But I have been always the same in all
my actions, public as well as private, and never have I yielded any base compliance to those who are
slanderously termed my disciples or to any other. For the truth is that I have no regular disciples: but if
anyone likes to come and hear me while I am pursuing my mission, whether he be young or old, he may
freely come. And if anyone says that he has ever learned or heard anything from me in private which all
the world has not heard, I should like you to know that he is speaking an untruth.
But I shall be asked, Why do people delight in continually conversing with you? I have told you
already, Athenians, the whole truth about this: they like to hear the cross-examination of the pretenders
to wisdom; there is amusement in this. And this is a duty which the God has imposed upon me, as I am
assured by oracles, visions, and in every sort of way in which the will of divine power was ever signified
to anyone. This is true, O Athenians; or, if not true, would be soon refuted. For if I am really corrupting
the youth, and have corrupted some of them already, those of them who have grown up and have
become sensible that I gave them bad advice in the days of their youth should come forward as accusers
and take their revenge; and if they do not like to come themselves, some of their relatives, fathers,
brothers, or other kinsmen, should say what evil their families suffered at my hands. Now is their time.
Many of them I see in the court. There is Crito, who is of the same age and of the same deme with
myself; and there is Critobulus his son, whom I also see. Then again there is Lysanias of Sphettus, who
is the father of Aeschines, he is present; and also there is Antiphon of Cephisus. I might mention a great
many others, any of whom Meletus should have produced as witnesses in the course of his speech; and
let him still produce them, if he has forgotten, I will make way for him.
Well, Athenians, this and the like of this is the defense which I have to offer. Yet a word more.
Perhaps there may be someone who is offended at me, when he calls to mind how he himself, on a
similar or even a less serious occasion, had recourse to prayers and supplications with many tears, and
how he produced his children in court, which was a moving spectacle; whereas I, who am probably in
danger of my life, will do none of these things. Perhaps this may come into his mind, and he may be set
against me, and vote in anger because he is displeased at this. Now if there be such a person among you,
which I am far from affirming, I may fairly reply to him: My friend, I am a man, and like other men, a
creature of flesh and blood, and not of wood or stone, as Homer says; and I have a family, yes, and sons.
O Athenians, three in number, one of whom is growing up, and the two others are still young; and yet I
will not bring any of them hither in order to petition you for an acquittal. And why not? Not from any
self-will or disregard of you. Whether I am or am not afraid of death is another question, of which I will
not now speak. But my reason simply is that I feel such conduct to be discreditable to myself, and you,
and the whole state. One who has reached my years, and who has a name for wisdom, whether deserved
or not, ought not to debase himself. At any rate, the world has decided that Socrates is in some way
superior to other men. And if those among you who are said to be superior in wisdom and courage, and
any other excellence, demean themselves in this way, how shameful is their conduct!
But, setting aside the question of dishonor, there seems to be something wrong in petitioning a
judge, and thus procuring an acquittal instead of informing and convincing him. For his duty is, not to
make a present of justice, but to give judgment; and he has sworn that he will judge according to the
laws. For if, O men of Athens, by force of persuasion and entreaty, I could overpower your oaths, then I
should be teaching you to believe that there are no gods, and convict myself, in my own defense, of not
believing in them. But that is not the case; for I do believe that there are gods, and in a far higher sense
than that in which any of my accusers believe in them. And to you and to God I commit my cause, to be
determined by you as is best for you and me.

The jury finds Socrates guilty.1

Socrates’ proposal for his sentence

There are many reasons why I am not grieved, O men of Athens, at the vote of condemnation. I
expected it, and am only surprised that the votes are so nearly equal; for I had thought that the majority
against me would have been far larger; but now, had thirty votes gone over to the other side, I should
have been acquitted. And I may say that I have escaped Meletus. And I may say more; for without the
assistance of Anytus and Lycon, he would not have had a fifth part of the votes, as the law requires, in
which case he would have incurred a fine of a thousand drachmae, as is evident.
And so he proposes death as the penalty. And what shall I propose on my part, O men of Athens?
Clearly that which is my due. And what is that which I ought to pay or to receive? What shall be done to
the man who has never had the wit to be idle during his whole life; but has been careless of what the
many care about: wealth, and family interests, and parties. What shall be done to such a one? Doubtless
some good thing, O men of Athens, if he has his reward; and the good should be of a kind suitable to
him. What would be a reward suitable to a poor man who is your benefactor, who desires leisure that he
may instruct you? There can be no more fitting reward than maintenance in the Prytaneum, O men of
Athens, a reward which he deserves far more than the citizen who has won the prize at Olympia in the
horse or chariot race, whether the chariots were drawn by two horses or by many. For I am in want, and
he has enough; and he only gives you the appearance of happiness, and I give you the reality. And if I
am to estimate the penalty justly, I say that maintenance in the Prytaneum is the just return.2
Perhaps you may think that I am braving you. But that is not the case. I speak rather because I am
convinced that I never intentionally wronged anyone, although I cannot convince you of that for we
have had a short conversation only; but if there were a law at Athens, such as there is in other cities, that

1 Socrates and his accusers will now each propose a sentence. The jury must decide between the two
sentences.
2 He proposes a nice retirement package as his ‘punishment’.
a capital cause should not be decided in one day, then I believe that I should have convinced you; but
now the time is too short. I cannot in a moment refute great slanders; and, as I am convinced that I never
wronged another, I will assuredly not wrong myself. I will not say of myself that I deserve any evil, or
propose any penalty. Why should I? Because I am afraid of the penalty of death which Meletus
proposes? When I do not know whether death is a good or an evil, why should I propose a penalty which
would certainly be an evil? Shall I say imprisonment? And why should I live in prison, and be the slave
of the magistrates of the year—of the Eleven? Or shall the penalty be a fine, and imprisonment until the
fine is paid? There is the same objection. I should have to lie in prison, for money I have none, and I
cannot pay. And if I say exile (and this may possibly be the penalty which you will affix), I must indeed
be blinded by the love of life if I were to consider that when you, who are my own citizens, cannot
endure my discourses and words, and have found them so grievous and odious that you would fain have
done with them, others are likely to endure me.
Had I money I might have proposed to give you what I had, and have been none the worse. But you
see that I have none, and can only ask you to proportion the fine to my means. However, I think that I
could afford a minae, and therefore I propose that penalty; Plato, Crito, Critobulus, and Apollodorus, my
friends here, bid me say thirty minae, and they will be the sureties. Well then, say thirty minae, let that
be the penalty; for that they will be ample security to you.

The jury condemns Socrates to death.

Socrates’ comments on his sentence

Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return for the evil name which you will get from the
detractors of the city, who will say that you killed Socrates, a wise man. For I am far advanced in years,
as you may perceive, and not far from death. The difficulty, my friends, is not in avoiding death, but in
avoiding unrighteousness; for that runs faster than death. I am old and move slowly, and the slower
runner has overtaken me, and my accusers are keen and quick, and the faster runner, who is
unrighteousness, has overtaken them. And now I depart hence condemned by you to suffer the penalty
of death, and they, too, go their ways condemned by the truth to suffer the penalty of villainy and wrong;
and I must abide by my award let them abide by theirs. I suppose that these things may be regarded as
fated, and I think that they are well.
Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with you about this thing which has
happened, while the magistrates are busy, and before I go to the place at which I must die. Stay then
awhile, for we may as well talk with one another while there is time. You are my friends, and I should
like to show you the meaning of this event which has happened to me. O my judges—for you I may
truly call judges—I should like to tell you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the familiar oracle
within me has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about trifles, if I was going to make a
slip or error about anything; and now as you see there has come upon me that which may be thought,
and is generally believed to be, the last and worst evil. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either
as I was leaving my house and going out in the morning, or when I was going up into this court, or while
I was speaking, at anything which I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of
a speech; but now in nothing I either said or did touching this matter has the oracle opposed me. What
do I take to be the explanation of this? I will tell you. I regard this as a proof that what has happened to
me is a good, and that those of us who think that death is an evil are in error. This is a great proof to me
of what I am saying, for the customary sign would surely have opposed me had I been going to evil and
not to good.
Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great reason to hope that death is a good,
for it is one of two things: either death is a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as men
say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another. Now if you suppose that
there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by the sight of
dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to select the night in which his sleep
was undisturbed even by dreams, and were to compare with this the other days and nights of his life, and
then were to tell us how many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more
pleasantly than this one, I think that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the great king, will
not find many such days or nights, when compared with the others. Now if death is like this, I say that to
die is gain; for eternity is then only a single night. But if death is the journey to another place, and there,
as men say, all the dead are, what good, O my friends and judges, can be greater than this? What would
not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, if this be
true, let me die again and again. I, too, shall have a wonderful interest in a place where I can converse
with Palamedes, and Ajax the son of Telamon, and other heroes of old, who have suffered death through
an unjust judgment; and there will be no small pleasure, as I think, in comparing my own sufferings with
theirs. Above all, I shall be able to continue my search into true and false knowledge; as in this world, so
also in that; I shall find out who is wise, and who pretends to be wise, and is not. What would not a man
give, O judges, to be able to examine the leader of the great Trojan expedition; or Odysseus or Sisyphus,
or numberless others, men and women too! What infinite delight would there be in conversing with
them and asking them questions! For in that world they do not put a man to death for this; certainly not.
For besides being happier in that world than in this, they will be immortal, if what is said is true.1
Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know this of a truth that no evil can happen
to a good man, either in life or after death. He and his are not neglected by the gods; nor has my own
approaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that to die and be released was better for
me; and therefore the oracle gave no sign. For which reason also, I am not angry with my accusers, or
my condemners; they have done me no harm, although neither of them meant to do me any good; and
for this I may gently blame them.
Still I have a favor to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I would ask you, O my friends, to
punish them; and I would have you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about
riches, or anything, more than about excellence; or if they pretend to be something when they are really
nothing, then reprove them, as I have reproved you, for not caring about that for which they ought to
care, and thinking that they are something when they are really nothing. And if you do this, I and my
sons will have received justice at your hands.
The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways I to die, and you to live. Which is better God
only knows.

1I love this part. Either death is a dreamless sleep, or he’ll go to heaven. If he goes to heaven, how
awesome would that be? Socrates can bug everyone all the time! And what are they going to do—he’s
already dead, so they can’t kill him again!
The End
Socrates (via Plato): The Apology, decoded

Socrates’ Defense
Well, here I am, on trial. My accusers have just told you how eloquent I am, but they should be
ashamed of themselves. You’ll soon see that they were lying. They are much more eloquent than me;
they’re so eloquent they almost made me believe them! In comparison, I am quite blunt. I can’t dress my
words up—but I shouldn’t have to. The truth is plain, and I will speak to you plainly. I know this is a
fancy courthouse, and I know people dress their words up like they dress themselves up when they come
here. But I’m old, and I’ve never been here before. Please, be kind; treat me like you would a stranger
from a different country, for in some ways, I am.
Before I deal with the charges that brought me here, I will have to deal with some old accusations.
These are accusations I have faced for years, and, to be honest, I’m more afraid of them than I am the
charges of Anytus. I know that you all have heard of me before. Some of you have heard of me since
you were children. You will have heard that I’m a wise man, and that I speculate about odd things and
love nothing more than to win an argument. You have heard these slanders for so long and from so
many people that it is hard for me to argue against them. I need to fight with shadows in my own
defense and cross-examine someone who does not answer. Only once I have done this will I be able to
deal with the other charges, the ones that have got me here in court.
You’ve all heard that I love to win arguments, correct? Have any of you actually ever seen me argue,
and argue to win? No? Then that’s that. What you heard is a false rumour, just a rumour. I admit, I love
to talk with people and to argue, but I always seek truth, not victory.
You may also have heard that I love to teach. I am not a teacher. I wish I knew something to teach! I
would love to teach! Gorgias of Leontium gets paid for teaching, and so do Prodicus of Ceos, and
Hippias of Elis. Their students not only pay but are glad to pay! How wonderful. If I were as talented as
they are, I would be very proud and conceited; but the truth is simple. I have nothing to teach.
I know you are all wondering how I ended up here in court, if none of these rumours is true. Men of
Athens, I’m here because I have a certain kind of wisdom. If you ask me what kind of wisdom, I’d have
to say a small and natural wisdom. Those others, the ones who teach, they have a great and supernatural
wisdom. Not me.
Hey, hey! Quiet down, you in the back! What I say is true! Ask the god of Delphi. Chaerephon, my
friend and yours, he went to Delphi and asked the oracle to tell him whether—hey, be quiet!—He asked
the oracle to tell him whether there was anyone wiser than me. The oracle said there was no man wiser.
Chaerephon is dead now, but his brother is here. Ask him if you want.
When I heard what the oracle said, I said to myself: What can the god be thinking? On the one hand,
I know that I’m not wise at all, but on the other hand, the oracle cannot lie. After thinking about it, I
figured out what to do. I decided that I would try to prove the oracle wrong. I made this my mission.
I went to a person who was supposed to be wise to have a little talk. In this case, since he was a
politician, I asked him about politics. Now, don’t worry. I won’t name names.
But you know, I realized after talking with him for a while that he wasn’t really wise. And I told him
so. Well you can imagine how he took that. He hated me. So did his friends. I knew, though, that neither
of us knows anything good, but I know that I don’t know, while he still thinks he does know. I’m better
off than him—for he knows nothing and thinks he knows something. I neither know nor think that I
know.
I did this again and again. I went to politicians, poets, artisans, the works. Let me tell you: I pissed a
lot of people off. I had to keep going, though. The god had said I was wise. And you know what: I found
that the men with the best reputations were really the most foolish, and I found some supposedly inferior
men were really wiser and better.
But boy, oh boy, did I make a lot of enemies. A lot. The kids, they liked me, but nobody else did.
The kids liked to hear me talk to the wise men. Eventually, they started doing it themselves, in fact. I
didn’t teach them how. I told you—I don’t teach. They just did it.
And this, men of Athens, this is the truth and the whole truth.
Now let me turn to my accusers, the ones who brought me here today: Meletus, Anytus, and Lycon.
They say this: Socrates is a doer of evil, and a corrupter of the youth, and he does not believe in the gods
of the state, and has other new divinities of his own. Let me go through these accusations step by step.
They say that I do evil and corrupt the youth; but I say, men of Athens, that Meletus is a doer of evil.
He is making a joke of this court. That’s a real evil.
Come here, Meletus, and let me ask you some questions. You say you know how to improve young
people?
Yes, I do.
Okay. When we want to improve young people, whom should we call? What, no answer? What
should we do? What improves young people?
The laws.
Oh, c’mon Meletus. You know that’s not what I mean. Who makes the laws?
The judges, Socrates, who are here in court.
Oh! Okay then! So the judges here are able to instruct and improve youth?
Yes, they must.
What, all of them?
All of them, yes. All of these great men improve our youth.
Get out of town! That is good news! There are plenty of improvers, then. And what about the
audience. Them too? They improve the youth?
Yes, they do.
And the senators?
Yes, the senators improve the youth.
But perhaps the members of the citizen assembly corrupt them? Or do they improve them?
They improve them. All the citizens of Athens improve our youth. I say that emphatically.
 Then every Athenian improves the youth. All with the exception of me, poor Socrates. Am I their
only corrupter? Is that what you’re saying?
That is what I am saying.
Wow. If that were true, I’m would really be in trouble. But Meletus, you and I both know that it’s
not true. Let’s talk about horses. When it comes to training horses, is everyone good, or do some people
train them better than others? Can everybody be a trainer? Or do some people just make things worse?
Oh. No answer? Well, it seems to me that horses are a little like the youth. Both need specialized
teachers. And you have to admit that it’s a little unlikely that I’m the only person who corrupts them.
Let me ask you another question. You surely think it’s better to live with good people.
Certainly.
And do you think that I corrupt the youth intentionally or accidentally?
Intentionally! You, Socrates, corrupt the youth intentionally!
Now hold on. Why would I want to live around bad people? You just said that it is better to live with
good people. Why would I want to make things worse in my own town? Either I don’t corrupt them, or I
do corrupt them, but I do so accidentally. In either case, you’re lying. In either case, I’m not guilty. You
know that our law does not punish people who commit accidents.
Furthermore, if you really thought I did this by accident, you should have taken me aside and warned
me. Instead, you indicted me in this court. You don’t really care about helping the youth of Athens. You
are just out for revenge.
I still want to know, Meletus, what you think I’m doing wrong. I guess you must think that I teach
the youth about false gods. That’s what you charged me with.
Yes, that’s it. You believe in false gods!
Do you mean that I teach about false gods, or that I’m an atheist? You didn’t make that clear in your
charge, but do tell me what’s going on.
I mean that you are a complete atheist.
Don’t you think that I believe the sun and the moon are gods, just like everyone else here?
No, you do not. Judges, he says that the sun is stone, and the moon earth.
Meletus, you’ve confused me with Anaxagoras; don’t think that the jury is that dumb. They know
that the books of Anaxagoras the Clazomenian are full of these theories. And you do know that
Anaxagoras’ plays are at the theatre, right? The youth go there often. Even had I wanted to, I wouldn’t
be able to fool them into thinking these theories are mine. They are far too smart for that. You are a liar,
Meletus. You don’t even believe yourself. Go sit down.
Well that’s that. I have a lot of enemies, though. Meletus is only one. If I die here, it will be them,
not him, that kill me. Let me address some.
Someone is going to say that I should straighten up and be ashamed of my embarrassing life.
Someone is going to say that this life will get me killed. But you know what? A man who is good for
anything ought not to calculate the chance of living or dying; he ought only to consider whether in doing
anything he is doing right or wrong, acting the part of a good man or of a bad.
I have never feared death. Why would I start now, when I am old? When I was young and a soldier I
wasn’t afraid. When the tyrants were in charge, they tried to kill me. I wasn’t afraid then either. It would
be absurd for me to desert the philosopher’s post now. Being afraid of death is nothing but a pretense of
wisdom. No one knows whether death is good or bad. I know that I do not know, just like I said. This is
what makes me wiser than other men.
Someone will say that I should stop asking questions and be a good, quiet citizen, and you may
agree, and acquit me on that condition. If you let me go, and if you ask me to stop bugging you, asking
you questions, trying to discover the truth, and trying to keep you virtuous, I will disobey you. I will
persevere. Let me say this loud and clear: men of Athens, I honour and love you; but I shall obey god
rather than you. While I have life and strength, I will never stop doing philosophy. I will always tell
people I meet: Friend, you live in the great city Athens. Why do you care so much about getting rich and
being famous? Don’t you worry about your soul and truth?
No, I won’t stop, not with them or with you.
In fact, let me do it now. You, out there, old and young alike, stop worrying about yourself and your
stuff. Worry about your soul. Excellence does not come from money. No, money comes from
excellence, and so does every other good thing. This is my teaching, and if this is the doctrine that
corrupts the youth, my influence is terrible indeed.
I love you, but whatever you do, know that I shall never alter my ways, not even if I have to die
many times.
Hey! You promised that I’d be able to talk! And I think that what I am going to say will do you
good. It’s just one more thing, but you won’t like it.
If you kill me, you will injure yourselves more than you will injure me. Meletus and Anytus will not
injure me: they cannot; bad men can’t harm good men. They will only hurt themselves.
If you kill me, you won’t find another like me. I am a sort of gadfly, given to Athens by the gods.
Athens is a big, majestic horse. I’m the fly that bugs the horse and keeps it awake. Yes, I bug you. Yes,
you could kill me easily. But know this: if you do, you’ll slumber for the rest of your lives.
Alright, alright. There’s just one more thing. A lot of people come here and beg for mercy. They cry
and wail and bring out their wives and children. I’m too good for that. Don’t hold it against me.

The jury finds Socrates guilty.

Socrates’ proposal for his sentence

Oh well. I’m not upset. I expected this sentence. I’m only surprised that the vote was so close.
Meletus proposes death as the penalty. What should I propose? What I deserve. I have lived a busy
life in service of Athens. What should be done to me? Something good, of course. Something suitable....
I would like a nice retirement, just like our athletes get. I’m truly needy. Athletes aren’t. They give you
the appearance of happiness, and I give you the reality.
No, I’m not joking. I didn’t do anything wrong. If the law didn’t require one day trials, I might have
convinced you. I could not convince you in so little time of the falsity of the lies you had heard for so
long.
Anyway, I never wronged you. You might say I should go to prison or pay a fine, yet prison is bad
and death is not. Perhaps I should be exiled. But nobody else would have me, and I’m old. The same
thing will happen everywhere I go. I could never change: the very best thing in life is conversing about
about excellence. The unexamined life is not worth living.
Oh, alright. Plato and my friends say they will pay 30 minae. Let that be my punishment.

The jury condemns Socrates to death.

Socrates’ comments on his sentence

You know, if you had just waited, I would have died anyway! Like I said, I’m old. Now everyone
will always say that you killed Socrates. Some of you convicted me because I wouldn’t beg for mercy. I
thought that was below me. I’d rather die than debase myself—you see, the difficulty, my friends, is not
in avoiding death, but in avoiding unrighteousness. Unrighteousness runs far faster than death. I am old
and move slowly, and the slower runner has overtaken me. My accusers are young and quick, and the
faster runner has overtaken them.
I will be condemned to death. My accusers will be condemned to know that they did wrong. Let us
go to our punishments. I much prefer mine.
I predict bad things for those of you who convicted me. Men near death have this power. You killed
me because you did not want to tell the truth about the way you have lived. You made a mistake. I held
the young ones back. They will be worse than I ever was. You should improve yourselves, not annihilate
your critics.
To those friends who would have acquitted me, let me talk before I go to die. I have long had a little
voice in my head, and it has always warned me before I did something wrong. This voice has not said
anything today. I am quite sure that I said and did the right things. Death is nothing to fear.
There is more proof, though, that death is a good. It can only be one of two things: a state of
nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or migration of the soul from this world to another. But if death
were like sleep without dreams, death would be wonderful. Who would not like a restful sleep? And if
death is the journey to another place of souls, what could be better? I would love to talk with Orpheus
and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer! Let me die again and again! I would love to talk to Palamedes,
and Ajax the son of Telamon, and other heroes of old. They were killed unjustly, just like I will be. We
will have much to discuss.
More than anything, if death takes me to the afterlife, I will be able to find more truth. I will find out
who is wise and who pretends to be wise. Who wouldn’t love to ask Odysseus or Sisyphus questions!
And you know what? In the afterlife, they can’t kill me for asking them questions! Not, of course, that
they would.
No, no bad thing can happen to a good man, in this life or in the next. I’m not angry with my
accusers. They didn’t do me any harm.
Still, I have one favour to ask. When my sons are grown up, please punish them. Trouble them, as I
have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches, or anything else, more than they care about
excellence. Punish them if they pretend to be something they are not. If you do this, I and my sons will
have received justice at your hands.
The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better the
gods only know.
Plato

Plato was Socrates’ best student. He was everything Socrates wasn’t: Socrates was poor, ugly, and
wonderful. Plato was rich, handsome, and a total jerk. Plato, though, is one of only a few stars that shine
as brightly as Socrates. In fact, it is safe to say that had it not been for Plato, Socrates, and philosophy as
we know it, would have been forgotten.
This is because Socrates never wrote anything down; Plato wrote things down for him. In fact,
almost everything we know about Socrates comes from Plato’s writings. Plato made things complicated,
though. While he started off by writing down Socrates’ ideas faithfully, Plato gradually started
integrating his own philosophy—yet had Socrates still say the words. While this is bad enough, and
makes it very difficult to distinguish Socrates’ ideas from Plato’s, Plato himself seems to have changed
from a tolerable sort of fellow into quite a nasty bully. In Plato’s later work, then, Socrates ends up
saying things that completely contradict what he said in places like The Apology.
In The Republic, for instance, Plato makes Socrates say that he quite likes a good dictatorship and
that there is nothing like a rousing bunch of executions to get the citizens all pulling together. These are
strange things for a man who was nearly killed for standing up to a dictatorship to be saying.
Still, The Republic is the 7th most important book in Western civilization. That’s a fact. It is Plato’s
masterpiece. It is also quite long, so I haven’t included it here. What follows is a crude shortening of
Plato’s fine book.
The Republic is a masterpiece because it presents a totally unified philosophy. Plato has a theory of
knowledge that explains (and is explained by) his theory of metaphysics. Plato’s metaphysics explains
his politics and his theory of ethics.
The central theme of The Republic is excellence, arete in Greek. Plato sees everything as having a
purpose; when it fulfills that purpose, it is excellent. So, a horse’s purpose is running. An excellent horse
runs well. A knife’s purpose is cutting, a fire’s purpose is warming, and so on. Plato wants to find out
what a person’s purpose is, and in doing so, he finds out what a country’s purpose is.
I won’t spoil the suspense by telling you what he thinks, but I do want to point out the two most
important parts of the book, at least from my perspective—and I have to say that, because The Republic
can be anything. To teachers, it is a treatise on education, to politicians, a book on governance. It even
has discussions of good cooking.

The Forms
There are four levels of reality. Everyone is familiar with the first two: images and physical things.
The second two are different aspects of what Plato calls “The Forms”.
The Forms are complicated. They are the perfect essences of things; they are immutable, permanent,
and the true reality, of which our reality is only a pale imitation. The Forms are a bit like heaven and a
bit like math. They’re not of this world, but they resemble it.
Forgive me for using geometry so much, and take a triangle. Any drawn triangle is imperfect. Its
sides are not perfectly straight, and its angles do not add up to 180º. A drawn triangle is an imperfect
imitation of the Form of Triangle—or, as I like to say, triangle-ness. Everything that has a -ness has a
Form: horsiness, humanness, squareness. Some -nesses are more basic than others, though—the perfect
triangle has both triangle-ness and perfect-ness. The most basic Forms are the top level of reality, and
they are things like, and including, Beauty, Truth, and Goodness.

The tripartite division of the soul

Plato thinks that there are three parts to the soul or psyche: the intellect, the will, and the appetites.
The intellect makes decisions and issues instructions. The appetites are the part of the personality that
says, “more, more; me, me; smoke, drink, screw”. The will is the bridge between. The weak-willed are
pushed around by their appetites.
As far as I know, Plato’s division of the soul is the first attempt at psychology as a discipline of
study. And for a first go, it’s pretty good.
Plato: The Republic, edited

BOOK II

Socrates and Adeimantus are talking

Socrates: Justice1 is sometimes spoken of as the excellence of an individual, and sometimes as the
excellence of a state. In the larger, the quantity of justice is likely to be larger and more easily
discernible.
A state arises out of the needs of mankind; no one is self-sufficing, but all of us have many wants.
Then, as we have many wants, many persons are needed to supply them.
True, he said.2
And they exchange with one another, and one gives, and another receives, under the idea that the
exchange will be for their good.
Let us then consider, first of all, what will be their way of life [in the first small countries]. Will they
not produce corn, and wine, and clothes, and shoes, and build houses for themselves? And when they are
housed, they will work, in summer, commonly, stripped and barefoot, but in winter substantially clothed
and shod. They will feed on barley-meal and flour of wheat, baking and kneading them, making noble
cakes and loaves; these they will serve up on a mat of reeds or on clean leaves, themselves reclining the
while upon beds strewn with yew or myrtle. And they and their children will feast, drinking of the wine
which they have made, wearing garlands on their heads, and hymning the praises of the gods, in happy
converse with one another. And they will take care that their families do not exceed their means; having
an eye to poverty or war.
But, said Glaucon, interposing, you have not given them a relish to their meal.
True, I replied, I had forgotten; of course they must have a relish—salt, and olives, and cheese; for a
dessert we shall give them figs, and peas, and beans. And with such a diet they may be expected to live
in peace and health to a good old age.
Yes, Socrates, he said, and if you were providing for a city of pigs, how else would you feed the
beasts? You should give them the ordinary conveniences of life. People who are to be comfortable are
accustomed to lie on sofas, and dine off tables, and they should have sauces and sweets.
Yes, I said, now I understand: the question which you would have me consider is, not only how a
state, but how a luxurious state is created; and possibly there is no harm in this, for in such a state we
shall be more likely to see how justice and injustice originate. In my opinion the true and healthy

1 Justice is a terrible word to use here. He is talking about arete, or excellence. The Greeks think,
roughly, that things have a purpose, and when things do their purpose well, they are excellent. Plato is
trying to find out what excellent countries and people are. He calls them ‘just’.
2 Socrates is engaging in the ‘dialectic’ again—a kind of discussion with an interlocutor.

Interestingly, the essay hadn’t yet been invented. Almost all of Plato’s works are like this, and they are
called, for obvious reason, “The Dialogues”.
constitution of the state is the one which I have described.1 But if you wish also to see a state at fever-
heat, I have no objection. For I suspect that many will not be satisfied with the simpler way of life. Then
we must enlarge our borders; for the original healthy state is no longer sufficient. And the country which
was enough to support the original inhabitants will be too small now, and not enough? Then a slice of
our neighbours’ land will be wanted
And so we shall go to war, Glaucon. Shall we not? And our state must once more enlarge; and this
time the enlargement will be nothing short of a whole army. Then it will be our duty to select, if we can,
natures which are fitted for the task of guarding the city. And the selection will be no easy matter, I said;
but we must be brave and do our best.2
We must.
Is not the noble youth very like a well-bred dog in respect of guarding and watching? I mean that
both of them ought to be quick to see, and swift to overtake the enemy when they see him; and strong
too if, when they have caught him, they have to fight with him. Then now we have a clear notion of the
bodily qualities which are required in the guardian.
True.
And also of the mental ones; a dog, whenever he sees a stranger, is angry; when an acquaintance, he
welcomes him, although the one has never done him any harm, nor the other any good. Did this never
strike you as curious?
The matter never struck me before; but I quite recognise the truth of your remark.
And surely this instinct of the dog is very charming; your dog is a true philosopher.
Why?
Why, because he distinguishes the face of a friend and of an enemy only by the criterion of knowing
and not knowing. And must not an animal be a lover of learning who determines what he likes and
dislikes by the test of knowledge and ignorance? And is not the love of learning the love of wisdom,
which is philosophy?
Undoubtedly.
Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in story-telling, and our story shall be the education of our
heroes. Can we find a better than the traditional sort?—and this has two divisions, gymnastic for the
body, and music for the soul.
Shall we just carelessly allow children to hear any casual tales which may be devised by casual
persons?
We cannot.
Then the first thing will be to establish a censorship of the writers of fiction. Neither, if we mean our

1 Socrates was Plato’s teacher, but Plato became an excellent philosopher in his own right. This, if
you ask me, is where Socrates ends, and Plato begins.
2 Athens constantly flipped between dictatorship and democracy. It’s understandable that he’d want

soldiers to be loyal and well trained.

future guardians to regard the habit of quarrelling among themselves as of all things the basest, should
any word be said to them of the wars in heaven. It is most important that the tales which the young first
hear should be models of virtuous thoughts.
I entirely agree, he said, in these principles, and promise to make them my laws.

BOOK III
Glaucon, musical training is a more potent instrument than any other, because rhythm and harmony
find their way into the inward places of the soul, on which they mightily fasten, imparting grace. After
music comes gymnastic, in which our youth are next to be trained. Gymnastic as well as music should
begin in early years; the training in it should be careful and should continue through life. Then, to the
mind when adequately trained, we shall be right in handing over the more particular care of the body;
and in order to avoid prolixity we will now only give the general outlines of the subject.
Very good.
Of all persons a guardian should be the last to get drunk and not know where in the world he is.1 A
finer sort of training will be required for our warrior athletes, who are to be like wakeful dogs, and to see
and hear with the utmost keenness; amid the many changes of water and also of food, of summer heat
and winter cold, which they will have to endure when on a campaign, they must not be liable to break
down in health. And I can hardly be mistaken in saying that sweet sauces are nowhere mentioned in
Homer. In proscribing them, however, he is not singular; all professional athletes are well aware that a
man who is to be in good condition should take nothing of the kind.
Yes, he said; and knowing this, they are quite right in not taking them.
Then you would not approve of Syracusan dinners, and the refinements of Sicilian cookery? Nor, if
a man is to be in condition, would you allow him to have a Corinthian girl2 as his fair friend? Neither
would you approve of the delicacies, as they are thought, of Athenian confectionary?
Certainly not.
Did you never observe, I said, the effect on the mind itself of exclusive devotion to gymnastic, or the
opposite effect of an exclusive devotion to music?
Yes, he said, I am quite aware that the mere athlete becomes too much of a savage, and that the mere
musician is melted and softened beyond what is good for him.
Therefore, as I was just now saying, we must enquire who are the best guardians of their own
conviction that what they think the interest of the state is to be the rule of their lives. We must watch
them from their youth upwards, and make them perform actions in which they are most likely to forget
or to be deceived, and he who remembers and is not deceived is to be selected, and he who fails in the
trial is to be rejected. And there should also be toils and pains and conflicts prescribed for them, in
which they will be made to give further proof of the same qualities. And then, I said, we must try them

1 I’m out.
2 I have no idea what makes a Corinthian woman so dangerous, but boy, do I ever want to find out!
with enchantments—that is the third sort of test—and see what will be their behaviour: like those who
take colts amid noise and tumult to see if they are of a timid nature, so must we take our youth amid
terrors of some kind, and again pass them into pleasures, and prove them more thoroughly than gold is
proved in the furnace. And he who at every age, as boy and youth and in mature life, has come out of the
trial victorious and pure, shall be appointed a ruler and guardian of the state.1
And perhaps the word ‘guardian’ in the fullest sense ought to be applied to this higher class only
who preserve us against foreign enemies and maintain peace among our citizens at home, that the one
may not have the will, or the others the power, to harm us. The young men whom we before called
guardians may be more properly designated auxiliaries and supporters of the principles of the rulers.2
I agree with you, he said.
How then may we devise one of those needful falsehoods of which we lately spoke—just one royal
lie which may deceive the rulers, if that be possible, and at any rate the rest of the city?
How your words seem to hesitate on your lips!
You will not wonder, I replied, at my hesitation when you have heard.
Speak, he said, and fear not.
Citizens, we shall say to them in our tale, you are brothers, yet God has framed you differently.
Some of you have the power of command, and in the composition of these he has mingled gold,
wherefore also they have the greatest honour; others he has made of silver, to be auxiliaries; others again
who are to be husbandmen and craftsmen he has composed of brass and iron; and the species will
generally be preserved in the children. But as all are of the same original stock, a golden parent will
sometimes have a silver son, or a silver parent a golden son. They should observe what elements mingle
in their offspring; for if the son of a golden or silver parent has an admixture of brass and iron, then
nature orders a transposition of ranks, and the eye of the ruler must not be pitiful towards the child
because he has to descend in the scale and become a husbandman or artisan, just as there may be sons of
artisans who having an admixture of gold or silver in them are raised to honour, and become guardians
or auxiliaries. For an oracle says that when a man of brass or iron guards the state, it will be destroyed.
Such is the tale; is there any possibility of making our citizens believe in it?
Not in the present generation, he replied; there is no way of accomplishing this; but their sons may
be made to believe in the tale, and their sons’ sons, and posterity after them.
Then now let us consider what will be their way of life, if they are to realize our idea of them. In the
first place, none of them should have any property of his own beyond what is absolutely necessary;
neither should they have a private house or store closed against anyone who has a mind to enter; their
provisions should be only such as are required by trained warriors, who are men of temperance and

1 Athens was at war with Sparta when Plato was a young man. Spartans were as tough and as dumb
as pit bulls. Athenians were smart and soft. I think he’s trying to combine the best of both into his ideal
warrior.
2 We now have three classes: the guardians, the auxiliaries, and the peasants or commoner class,

about which Plato says very little. The guardians are sometimes called the philosopher kings. Notably,
the working class is actually the freest. They can own property and travel, for instance.
courage; they should agree to receive from the citizens a fixed rate of pay, enough to meet the expenses
of the year and no more; and they will go to mess and live together like soldiers in a camp. Gold and
silver we will tell them that they have from God; the diviner metal is within them, and they have
therefore no need of the dross which is current among men, and ought not to pollute the divine by any
such earthly admixture; for that commoner metal has been the source of many unholy deeds, but their
own is undefiled. And they alone of all the citizens may not touch or handle silver or gold, or be under
the same roof with them, or wear them, or drink from them. And this will be their salvation, and they
will be the saviours of the state. But should they ever acquire homes or lands or moneys of their own,
they will become housekeepers and husbandmen instead of guardians, enemies and tyrants instead of
allies of the other citizens; hating and being hated, plotting and being plotted against, they will pass their
whole life in much greater terror of internal than of external enemies, and the hour of ruin, both to
themselves and to the rest of the state, will be at hand. For all which reasons may we not say that thus
shall our state be ordered, and that these shall be the regulations appointed by us for guardians
concerning their houses and all other matters?
Yes, said Glaucon.

BOOK IV
Here Adeimantus interposed a question: How would you answer, Socrates, said he, if a person were
to say that you are making these people miserable, and that they are the cause of their own unhappiness;
the city in fact belongs to them, but they are none the better for it; whereas other men acquire lands, and
build large and handsome houses, and have everything handsome about them, offering sacrifices to the
gods on their own account?
Yes, I said; and you may add that they are only fed, and not paid in addition to their food, like other
men; and therefore they cannot, if they would, take a journey of pleasure; they have no money to spend
on a mistress or any other luxurious fancy, which, as the world goes, is thought to be happiness; and
many other accusations of the same nature might be added.
But, said he, let us suppose all this to be included in the charge.
You mean to ask, I said, what will be our answer?
Yes.
And our answer will be that, even as they are, our guardians may very likely be the happiest of men;
but that our aim in founding the state was not the disproportionate happiness of any one class, but the
greatest happiness of the whole. Suppose that we were painting a statue, and someone came up to us and
said, Why do you not put the most beautiful colours on the most beautiful parts of the body—the eyes
ought to be purple, but you have made them black—to him we might fairly answer, Sir, you would not
surely have us beautify the eyes to such a degree that they are no longer eyes; consider rather whether,
by giving this and the other features their due proportion, we make the whole beautiful. And so I say to
you, do not compel us to assign to the guardians a sort of happiness which will make them anything but
guardians. But if the latter be the truth, then the guardians and auxiliaries, and all others equally with
them, must be compelled or induced to do their own work in the best way. And thus the whole state will
grow up in a noble order, and the several classes will receive the proportion of happiness which nature
assigns to them.
 I think that you are quite right.
Truly, I said, we are stupid fellows.1
Why so?
Why, my good sir, at the beginning of our enquiry, ages ago, there was justice tumbling out at our
feet, and we never saw her; nothing could be more ridiculous. Like people who go about looking for
what they have in their hands—that was the way with us—we looked not at what we were seeking, but
at what was far off in the distance; and therefore, I suppose, we missed her.
What do you mean?
I mean to say that in reality for a long time past we have been talking of justice, and have failed to
recognise her.
I grow impatient at the length of your exordium.
Well then, tell me, I said, whether I am right or not: You remember the original principle which we
were always laying down at the foundation of the state, that one man should practice one thing only, the
thing to which his nature was best adapted; now justice is this principle or a part of it.
Yes, we often said that one man should do one thing only.
Further, we affirmed that justice was doing one’s own business, and not being a busybody; we said
so again and again, and many others have said the same to us.
Yes, we said so.
Then to do one’s own business in a certain way may be assumed to be justice. Seeing then, I said,
that there are three distinct classes, any meddling of one with another, or the change of one into another,
is the greatest harm to the state, and may be most justly termed evil-doing?
Precisely.
And the greatest degree of evil-doing to one’s own city would be termed by you injustice?
Certainly.
This then is injustice; and on the other hand when the trader, the auxiliary, and the guardian each do
their own business, that is justice, and will make the city just.
Must we not acknowledge, I said, that in each of us there are the same principles and habits which
there are in the state; and that from the individual they pass into the state?—how else can they come
there? Take the quality of passion or spirit; it would be ridiculous to imagine that this quality, when
found in states, is not derived from the individuals who are supposed to possess it, e.g. the Thracians,
Scythians, and in general the northern nations; and the same may be said of the love of knowledge,
which is the special characteristic of our part of the world, or of the love of money, which may, with
equal truth, be attributed to the Phoenicians and Egyptians.
Admitting this to be true of desire generally, let us suppose a particular class of desires, and out of

1Here we return to the conceit of The Republic, that the excellence of the state and the individual are
somehow similar.
these we will select hunger and thirst, as they are termed, which are the most obvious of them?
Certainly.
Then the soul of the thirsty one, in so far as he is thirsty, desires only drink; for this he yearns and
tries to obtain it?
That is plain.
And if you suppose something which pulls a thirsty soul away from drink, that must be different
from the thirsty principle which draws him like a beast to drink; for, as we were saying, the same thing
cannot at the same time with the same part of itself act in contrary ways about the same.
Impossible.
No more than you can say that the hands of the archer push and pull the bow at the same time, but
what you say is that one hand pushes and the other pulls. And in such a case what is one to say? Would
you not say that there was something in the soul bidding a man to drink, and something else forbidding
him, which is other and stronger than the principle which bids him?
I should say so.
And the forbidding principle is derived from reason, and that which bids and attracts proceeds from
passion and disease?
Clearly.
Then we may fairly assume that they are two, and that they differ from one another; the one with
which a man reasons, we may call the rational principle of the soul, the other, with which he loves and
hungers and thirsts and feels the flutterings of any other desire, may be termed the irrational or
appetitive, the ally of sundry pleasures and satisfactions?
Yes, he said, we may fairly assume them to be different.
Then let us finally determine that there are two principles existing in the soul. And what of passion,
or spirit? Is it a third, or akin to one of the preceding?
I should be inclined to say—akin to desire.
Well, I said, there is a story which I remember to have heard, and in which I put faith. The story is,
that Leontius, the son of Aglaion, coming up one day from the Piraeus, under the north wall on the
outside, observed some dead bodies lying on the ground at the place of execution. He felt a desire to see
them, and also a dread and abhorrence of them; for a time he struggled and covered his eyes, but at
length the desire got the better of him; and forcing them open, he ran up to the dead bodies, saying,
‘Look, ye wretches, take your fill of the fair sight.’
I have heard the story myself, he said.
The moral of the tale is, that anger at times goes to war with desire, as though they were two distinct
things.
Yes; that is the meaning, he said.
Suppose that a man thinks he has done a wrong to another, the nobler he is the less able is he to feel
indignant at any suffering, such as hunger, or cold, or any other pain which the injured person may
inflict upon him—these he deems to be just, and, as I say, his anger refuses to be excited by them. But
when he thinks that he is the sufferer of the wrong, then he boils and chafes, and is on the side of what
he believes to be justice; and because he suffers hunger or cold or other pain he is only the more
determined to persevere and conquer. His noble spirit will not be quelled until he either slays or is slain;
or until he hears the voice of the shepherd, that is, reason, bidding his dog bark no more.
The illustration is perfect, he replied; and in our state, as we were saying, the auxiliaries were to be
dogs, and to hear the voice of the rulers, who are their shepherds.
I perceive, I said, that you quite understand me; there is, however, a further point which I wish you
to consider.
What point?
You remember that passion or spirit appeared at first sight to be a kind of desire, but now we should
say quite the contrary; for in the conflict of the soul spirit is arrayed on the side of the rational principle.
Most assuredly.
But a further question arises: Is passion different from reason also, or only a kind of reason; in which
latter case, instead of three principles in the soul, there will only be two, the rational and the
concupiscent; or rather, as the state was composed of three classes, traders, auxiliaries, counsellors, so
may there not be in the individual soul a third element which is passion or spirit, and when not corrupted
by bad education is the natural auxiliary of reason?
Yes, he said, there must be a third.
Yes, I replied, if passion, which has already been shown to be different from desire, turns out also to
be different from reason.
But that is easily proved: we may observe even in young children that they are full of spirit almost as
soon as they are born, whereas some of them never seem to attain to the use of reason, and most of them
late enough.
Excellent, I said, and you may see passion equally in brute animals, which is a further proof of the
truth of what you are saying. And we may once more appeal to the words of Homer, which have been
already quoted by us,
‘He smote his breast, and thus rebuked his soul,’
For in this verse Homer has clearly supposed the power which reasons about the better and worse to
be different from the unreasoning anger which is rebuked by it.
Very true, he said.
And so, after much tossing, we have reached land, and are fairly agreed that the same principles
which exist in the state exist also in the individual, and that they are three in number. Must we not then
infer that the individual is wise in the same way, and in virtue of the same quality that makes the state
wise?
Certainly.
Also that the same quality which constitutes courage in the state constitutes courage in the
individual, and that both the state and the individual bear the same relation to all the other excellences?
And the individual will be acknowledged by us to be just in the same way in which the state is just?
That follows, of course.
We cannot but remember that the justice of the state consisted in each of the three classes doing the
work of its own class? We must recollect that the individual in whom the several qualities of his nature
do their own work will be just, and will do his own work.
Yes, he said, we must remember that too.
And ought not the rational principle, which is wise, and has the care of the whole soul, to rule, and
the passionate or spirited principle to be the subject and ally?
Certainly.
And, as we were saying, the united influence of music and gymnastic will bring them into accord,
nerving and sustaining the reason with noble words and lessons, and moderating and soothing and
civilizing the wildness of passion by harmony and rhythm?
Quite true, he said.
And these two, thus nurtured and educated, and having learned truly to know their own functions,
will rule over the concupiscent, which in each of us is the largest part of the soul and by nature most
insatiable of gain; over this they will keep guard, lest, waxing great and strong with the fullness of
bodily pleasures, as they are termed, the concupiscent soul, no longer confined to her own sphere,
should attempt to enslave and rule those who are not her natural-born subjects, and overturn the whole
life of man?
Very true, he said.
Both together will they not be the best defenders of the whole soul and the whole body against
attacks from without; the one counselling, and the other fighting under his leader, and courageously
executing his commands and counsels?
True.
And he is to be deemed courageous whose spirit retains in pleasure and in pain the commands of
reason about what he ought or ought not to fear?
Right, he replied.
And him we call wise who has in him that little part which rules, and which proclaims these
commands; that part too being supposed to have a knowledge of what is for the interest of each of the
three parts and of the whole? 1
Assuredly.

1 In another book, Plato describes this as a charioteer with two horses. Reason, the charioteer,
commands the horses, but the best horses work together and are spirited. This makes sense: it’s not just
that the rulers, soldiers, and peasants all do their parts: they must all do their parts well, and work
together.
 But in reality justice was such as we were describing, being concerned however, not with the
outward man, but with the inward, which is the true self and concernment of man: for the just man does
not permit the several elements within him to interfere with one another, or any of them to do the work
of others,—he sets in order his own inner life, and is his own master and his own law, and at peace with
himself; and when he has bound together the three principles within him, which may be compared to the
higher, lower, and middle notes of the scale, and the intermediate intervals—when he has bound all
these together, and is no longer many, but has become one entirely temperate and perfectly adjusted
nature, then he proceeds to act, if he has to act, whether in a matter of property, or in the treatment of the
body, or in some affair of politics or private business; always thinking and calling that which preserves
and co-operates with this harmonious condition, just and good action, and the knowledge which presides
over it, wisdom, and that which at any time impairs this condition, he will call unjust action, and the
opinion which presides over it ignorance.

BOOK V
I was proceeding to tell the order in which the four evil forms appeared to me to succeed one
another, when Polemarchus, who was sitting a little way off, just beyond Adeimantus, began to whisper
to him: stretching forth his hand, he took hold of the upper part of his coat by the shoulder, and drew
him towards him, leaning forward himself so as to be quite close and saying something in his ear, of
which I only caught the words, ‘shall we let him off, or what shall we do?’
Certainly not, said Adeimantus, raising his voice.
Why, he said, we think that you are lazy, and mean to cheat us out of a whole chapter which is a
very important part of the story; and you fancy that we shall not notice your airy way of proceeding; as
if it were self-evident to everybody, that in the matter of women and children ‘friends have all things in
common.’
Well, I replied, I suppose that I must retrace my steps and say what I perhaps ought to have said
before in the proper place. The part of the men has been played out, and now properly enough comes the
turn of the women. Of them I will proceed to speak, and the more readily since I am invited by you.
What I mean may be put into the form of a question, I said: Are dogs divided into hes and shes, or
do they both share equally in hunting and in keeping watch and in the other duties of dogs? or do we
entrust to the males the entire and exclusive care of the flocks, while we leave the females at home,
under the idea that the bearing and suckling their puppies is labour enough for them?
No, he said, they share alike; the only difference between them is that the males are stronger and the
females weaker.
And can you mention any pursuit of mankind in which the male sex has not all these gifts and
qualities in a higher degree than the female? Need I waste time in speaking of the art of weaving, and
the management of pancakes and preserves, in which womankind does really appear to be great, and in
which for her to be beaten by a man is of all things the most absurd?
You are quite right, he replied, in maintaining the general inferiority of the female sex: although
many women are in many things superior to many men, yet on the whole what you say is true.1
And if so, my friend, I said, there is no special faculty of administration in a state which a woman
has because she is a woman, or which a man has by virtue of his sex, but the gifts of nature are alike
diffused in both; all the pursuits of men are the pursuits of women also.
Very true.
You will not think much of this when you see the next.
Go on; let me see.
The law, I said, which is the sequel of this and of all that has preceded, is to the following effect,
‘that the wives of our guardians are to be common, and their children are to be common, and no parent is
to know his own child, nor any child his parent.’
You will please to give a defense.
Let me feast my mind with a dream. You, I said, who are their legislator, having selected the men,
will now select the women and give them to them; they must be as far as possible of like natures with
them; and they must live in common houses and meet at common meals. None of them will have
anything specially his or her own; they will be together, and will be brought up together, and will
associate at gymnastic exercises. And so they will be drawn by a necessity of their natures to have
intercourse with each other—necessity is not too strong a word, I think?
And how can marriages be made most beneficial? That is a question which I put to you, because I
see in your house dogs for hunting, and of the nobler sort of birds not a few. Now, I beseech you, do tell
me, have you ever attended to their pairing and breeding? And do you breed from them all indifferently,
or do you take care to breed from the best only?2
From the best.
Our rulers will find a considerable dose of falsehood and deceit necessary for the good of their
subjects: we were saying that the use of all these things regarded as medicines might be of advantage.
How so?
Why, I said, the best of either sex should be united with the best as often, and the inferior with the
inferior, as seldom as possible. Now these goings on must be a secret which the rulers only know, or
there will be a further danger of our herd, as the guardians may be termed, breaking out into rebellion.
Very true.
Had we not better appoint certain festivals at which we will bring together the brides and
bridegrooms, and sacrifices will be offered and suitable hymeneal songs composed by our poets: We
shall have to invent some ingenious kind of lots which the less worthy may draw on each occasion of

1 This, amazingly, is enough to make Plato the first feminist. “Sure women are generally inferior, but
the best women are better than the worst men”.
2 Plato is talking about eugenics here: breeding people for the ‘best’ qualities.
our bringing them together, and then they will accuse their own ill-luck and not the rulers.
To be sure, he said.
And I think that our braver and better youth, besides their other honours and rewards, might have
greater facilities of intercourse with women given them; their bravery will be a reason, and such fathers
ought to have as many sons as possible.1
Yes.
The proper officers will take the offspring of the good parents to the pen or fold, and there they will
deposit them with certain nurses who dwell in a separate quarter; but the offspring of the inferior, or of
the better when they chance to be deformed, will be put away in some mysterious, unknown place, as
they should be.2
Yes, he said, that must be done if the breed of the guardians is to be kept pure. But how will they
know who are fathers and daughters, and so on?
They will never know. The way will be this: dating from the day of the hymeneal, the bridegroom
who was then married will call all the male children who are born between the seventh and tenth month
afterwards his sons, and the female children his daughters, and they will call him father, and he will call
their children his grandchildren, and they will call the elder generation grandfathers and grandmothers.
All who were begotten at the time when their fathers and mothers came together will be called their
brothers and sisters, and these, as I was saying, will be forbidden to intermarry.
Both the community of property and the community of families, as I am saying, tend to make them
more truly guardians; they will not tear the city in pieces by differing about ‘mine’ and ‘not mine;’ each
man dragging any acquisition which he has made into a separate house of his own, where he has a
separate wife and children and private pleasures and pains; but all will be affected as far as may be by
the same pleasures and pains because they are all of one opinion about what is near and dear to them,
and therefore they all tend towards a common end.
Now then, I said, I go to meet that which I liken to the greatest of the waves; yet shall the word be
spoken, even though the wave break and drown me in laughter and dishonour; and do you mark my
words.
Proceed.
I said: ‘Until philosophers are kings, or the kings and princes of this world have the spirit and power
of philosophy, and political greatness and wisdom meet in one, and those commoner natures who pursue
either to the exclusion of the other are compelled to stand aside, cities will never have rest from their
evils.’
He said: Who then are the true philosophers?
Those, I said, who are lovers of the vision of truth.

1 Plato thinks of everything. Anyone else would have said “let’s have key parties so that the
guardians won’t know whose kids is whose”. Plato says “and let’s rig the keys!”.
2 He thinks we should kill weak children.
 That is also good, he said; but I should like to know what you mean.
Then those who see the many beautiful, and who yet neither see absolute beauty, nor can follow any
guide who points the way thither; who see the many just, and not absolute justice, and the like—such
persons may be said to have opinion but not knowledge. But those who see the absolute and eternal and
immutable may be said to know, and not to have opinion only? But those who love the truth in each
thing are to be called lovers of wisdom and not lovers of opinion.
Assuredly.

BOOK VI
Whichever of the two classes are best able to guard the laws and institutions of our state—let them
be our guardians. In the first place, as we began by observing, the nature of the philosopher has to be
ascertained. We must come to an understanding about him, and, when we have done so, then, if I am not
mistaken, we shall also acknowledge that such a union of qualities is possible, and that those in whom
they are united, and those only, should be rulers in the state.
What do you mean?
Let us suppose that philosophical minds always love knowledge of a sort which shows them the
eternal nature not varying from generation and corruption.
And if they are to be what we were describing, is there not another quality which they should also
possess?
What quality?
Truthfulness: they will never intentionally receive into their mind falsehood, which is their
detestation, and they will love the truth. Such a one is sure to be temperate and the reverse of covetous;
for the motives which make another man desirous of having and spending, have no place in his
character.
Just so.
Now, that which imparts truth to the known and the power of knowing to the knower is what I would
have you term the idea of good, and this you will deem to be the cause of science, and of truth in so far
as the latter becomes the subject of knowledge; beautiful too, as are both truth and knowledge, you will
be right in esteeming this other nature as more beautiful than either; and, as in the previous instance,
light and sight may be truly said to be like the sun, and yet not to be the sun, so in this other sphere,
science and truth may be deemed to be like the good, but not the good; the good has a place of honour
yet higher.
What a wonder of beauty that must be, he said, which is the author of science and truth, and yet
surpasses them in beauty; for you surely cannot mean to say that pleasure is the good?
God forbid, I replied; but may I ask you to consider the image in another point of view?
In what point of view?
You have to imagine, then, that there are two ruling powers, and that one of them is set over the
intellectual world, the other over the visible. Now take a line which has been cut into two unequal parts,
and divide each of them again in the same proportion, and suppose the two main divisions to answer,
one to the visible and the other to the intelligible, and then compare the subdivisions in respect of their
clearness and want of clearness, and you will find that the first section in the sphere of the visible
consists of images. And by images I mean, in the first place, shadows, and in the second place,
reflections in water and in solid, smooth and polished bodies and the like: Do you understand?1
Yes, I understand.
Imagine, now, the other section, of which this is only the resemblance, to include the animals which
we see, and everything that grows or is made.
Very good.
Would you not admit that both the sections of this division have different degrees of truth, and that
the copy is to the original as the sphere of opinion is to the sphere of knowledge?
Most undoubtedly.
Next proceed to consider the manner in which the sphere of the intellectual is to be divided.
In what manner?
Thus: There are two subdivisions, in the lower of which the soul uses the figures given by the former
division as images; the enquiry can only be hypothetical, and instead of going upwards to a principle
descends to the other end; in the higher of the two, the soul passes out of hypotheses, and goes up to a
principle which is above hypotheses, making no use of images as in the former case, but proceeding
only in and through the ideas themselves.
I do not quite understand your meaning, he said.
Then I will try again; you will understand me better when I have made some preliminary remarks.
You are aware that students of geometry, arithmetic, and the kindred sciences assume the odd and the
even and the figures and three kinds of angles and the like in their several branches of science; these are
their hypotheses, which they and everybody are supposed to know, and therefore they do not deign to
give any account of them either to themselves or others; but they begin with them, and go on until they
arrive at last, and in a consistent manner, at their conclusion?
Yes, he said, I know.
And do you not know also that although they make use of the visible forms and reason about them,
they are thinking not of these, but of the ideals which they resemble; not of the figures which they draw,
but of the absolute square and the absolute diameter, and so on—the forms which they draw or make,
and which have shadows and reflections in water of their own, are converted by them into images, but
they are really seeking to behold the things themselves, which can only be seen with the eye of the

1 This is complicated, but, roughly, here’s how it goes: What do you really know for sure? If you
look at a picture of a unicorn, say, not much. What if you study a horse? More, certainly. Better, though,
would be to study horsiness, or horses in general. Then you’d know a lot of things for certain. Best of all
would be to study math. Math is totally permanent, certain and true. These top two levels are ‘The
Forms’—the objects of true knowledge. The bottom two levels are the physical world.
mind?1
That is true.
And of this kind I spoke as the intelligible, although in the search after it the soul is compelled to use
hypotheses; not ascending to a first principle, because she is unable to rise above the region of
hypothesis, but employing the objects of which the shadows below are resemblances in their turn as
images, they having in relation to the shadows and reflections of them a greater distinctness, and
therefore a higher value.
I understand, he said, that you are speaking of the province of geometry and the sister arts.
And when I speak of the other division of the intelligible, you will understand me to speak of that
other sort of knowledge which reason herself attains by the power of dialectic, using the hypotheses not
as first principles, but only as hypotheses—that is to say, as steps and points of departure into a world
which is above hypotheses, in order that she may soar beyond them to the first principle of the whole;
and clinging to this and then to that which depends on this, by successive steps she descends again
without the aid of any sensible object, from ideas, through ideas, and in ideas she ends.
I understand you, he replied; not perfectly, for you seem to me to be describing a task which is really
tremendous; but, at any rate, I understand you to say that knowledge and being, which the science of
dialectic contemplates, are clearer than the notions of the arts, as they are termed, which proceed from
hypotheses only: these are also contemplated by the understanding, and not by the senses: yet, because
they start from hypotheses and do not ascend to a principle, those who contemplate them appear to you
not to exercise the higher reason upon them, although when a first principle is added to them they are
cognizable by the higher reason. And the habit which is concerned with geometry and the cognate
sciences I suppose that you would term understanding and not reason, as being intermediate between
opinion and reason.
You have quite conceived my meaning, I said; and now, corresponding to these four divisions, let
there be four faculties in the soul—reason answering to the highest, understanding to the second, faith
(or conviction) to the third, and perception of shadows to the last—and let there be a scale of them, and
let us suppose that the several faculties have clearness in the same degree that their objects have truth.
I understand, he replied, and give my assent, and accept your arrangement.

BOOK VII
And now, I said, let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or unenlightened: Behold!
human beings living in an underground den, which has a mouth open towards the light and reaching all
along the den; here they have been from their childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that
they cannot move, and can only see before them, being prevented by the chains from turning round their
heads. Above and behind them a fire is blazing at a distance, and between the fire and the prisoners there
is a raised way; and you will see, if you look, a low wall built along the way, like the screen which

1 You can see here that Plato is trying to get at the idea of the a priori—2000 years before it was
tackled by Kant and Descartes.
marionette players have in front of them, over which they show the puppets.1
I see.
And do you see, I said, men passing along the wall carrying all sorts of vessels, and statues and
figures of animals made of wood and stone and various materials, which appear over the wall? Some of
them are talking, others silent.
You have shown me a strange image, and they are strange prisoners.
Like ourselves, I replied; and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another, which
the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave?
True, he said; how could they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed to move their
heads?
And of the objects which are being carried in like manner they would only see the shadows?
Yes, he said.
And if they were able to converse with one another, would they not suppose that they were naming
what was actually before them?
Very true.
And suppose further that the prison had an echo which came from the other side, would they not be
sure to fancy when one of the passers-by spoke that the voice which they heard came from the passing
shadow?
No question, he replied.
To them, I said, the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images.
That is certain.
And now look again, and see what will naturally follow if the prisoners are released and disabused
of their error. At first, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his
neck round and walk and look towards the light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him,
and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen the shadows; and then
conceive someone saying to him, that what he saw before was an illusion, but that now, when he is
approaching nearer to being and his eye is turned towards more real existence, he has a clearer vision,—
what will be his reply? And you may further imagine that his instructor is pointing to the objects as they
pass and requiring him to name them—will he not be perplexed? Will he not fancy that the shadows
which he formerly saw are truer than the objects which are now shown to him?
Far truer.
And if he is compelled to look straight at the light, will he not have a pain in his eyes which will
make him turn away to take refuge in the objects of vision which he can see, and which he will conceive
to be in reality clearer than the things which are now being shown to him?

1 This is the allegory of the cave. It’s very famous.

 True, he said.
And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly dragged up a steep and rugged ascent, and held fast
until he is forced into the presence of the sun himself, is he not likely to be pained and irritated? When
he approaches the light his eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what are
now called realities.
Not all in a moment, he said.
He will require to grow accustomed to the sight of the upper world. And first he will see the
shadows best, next the reflections of men and other objects in the water, and then the objects
themselves; then he will gaze upon the light of the moon and the stars and the spangled heaven; and he
will see the sky and the stars by night better than the sun or the light of the sun by day?
Certainly.
Last of all he will be able to see the sun, and not mere reflections of him in the water, but he will see
him in his own proper place, and not in another; and he will contemplate him as he is.
Certainly.
He will then proceed to argue that this is he who gives the season and the years, and is the guardian
of all that is in the visible world, and in a certain way the cause of all things which he and his fellows
have been accustomed to behold?
Clearly, he said, he would first see the sun and then reason about him.
And when he remembered his old habitation, and the wisdom of the den and his fellow-prisoners, do
you not suppose that he would felicitate himself on the change, and pity them?
Certainly, he would.
And if they were in the habit of conferring honours among themselves on those who were quickest
to observe the passing shadows and to remark which of them went before, and which followed after, and
which were together; and who were therefore best able to draw conclusions as to the future, do you think
that he would care for such honours and glories, or envy the possessors of them? Would he not say with
Homer,

‘Better to be the poor servant of a poor master,’ and to endure anything, rather
than think as they do and live after their manner?

Yes, he said, I think that he would rather suffer anything than entertain these false notions and live in
this miserable manner.
Imagine once more, I said, such a one coming suddenly out of the sun to be replaced in his old
situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes full of darkness?
To be sure, he said.
And if there were a contest, and he had to compete in measuring the shadows with the prisoners who
had never moved out of the den, while his sight was still weak, and before his eyes had become steady
(and the time which would be needed to acquire this new habit of sight might be very considerable),
would he not be ridiculous? Men would say of him that up he went and down he came without his eyes;
and that it was better not even to think of ascending; and if any one tried to loose another and lead him
up to the light, let them only catch the offender, and they would put him to death.
No question, he said.
This entire allegory, I said, you may now append, dear Glaucon, to the previous argument; the
prison-house is the world of sight, the light of the fire is the sun, and you will not misapprehend me if
you interpret the journey upwards to be the ascent of the soul into the intellectual world according to my
poor belief, which, at your desire, I have expressed—whether rightly or wrongly God knows. But,
whether true or false, my opinion is that in the world of knowledge the idea of good appears last of all,
and is seen only with an effort; and, when seen, is also inferred to be the universal author of all things
beautiful and right, parent of light and of the lord of light in this visible world, and the immediate source
of reason and truth in the intellectual; and that this is the power upon which he who would act rationally
either in public or private life must have his eye fixed.
I agree, he said, as far as I am able to understand you.
Moreover, I said, you must not wonder that those who attain to this beatific vision are unwilling to
descend to human affairs; for their souls are ever hastening into the upper world where they desire to
dwell; which desire of theirs is very natural, if our allegory may be trusted.
Yes, very natural.
And is there anything surprising in one who passes from divine contemplations to the evil state of
man, misbehaving himself in a ridiculous manner; if, while his eyes are blinking and before he has
become accustomed to the surrounding darkness, he is compelled to fight in courts of law, or in other
places, about the images or the shadows of images of justice, and is endeavouring to meet the
conceptions of those who have never yet seen absolute justice?
Anything but surprising, he replied.
Anyone who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eyes are of two kinds,
and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true
of the mind’s eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye; and he who remembers this when he sees any one
whose vision is perplexed and weak, will not be too ready to laugh; he will first ask whether that soul of
man has come out of the brighter life, and is unable to see because unaccustomed to the dark, or having
turned from darkness to the day is dazzled by excess of light. And he will count the one happy in his
condition and state of being, and he will pity the other; or, if he have a mind to laugh at the soul which
comes from below into the light, there will be more reason in this than in the laugh which greets him
who returns from above out of the light into the den.
That, he said, is a very just distinction.
But then, if I am right, certain professors of education must be wrong when they say that they can
put a knowledge into the soul which was not there before, like sight into blind eyes.1

1 This is part of an ongoing argument in Plato’s work. Where does knowledge come from? He says
real knowledge is innate: you are born with. This isn’t as crazy as it sounds, if you remember that he
 They undoubtedly say this, he replied.
Whereas, our argument shows that the power and capacity of learning exists in the soul already; and
that just as the eye was unable to turn from darkness to light without the whole body, so too the
instrument of knowledge can only by the movement of the whole soul be turned from the world of
becoming into that of being, and learn by degrees to endure the sight of being, and of the brightest and
best of being, or in other words, of the good.
Very true.
Then, I said, the business of us who are the founders of the state will be to compel the best minds to
attain that knowledge which we have already shown to be the greatest of all—they must continue to
ascend until they arrive at the good; but when they have ascended and seen enough we must not allow
them to do as they do now.
What do you mean?
I mean that they remain in the upper world: but this must not be allowed; they must be made to
descend again among the prisoners in the den, and partake of their labours and honours, whether they
are worth having or not.
But is not this unjust? he said; ought we to give them a worse life, when they might have a better?
You have again forgotten, my friend, I said, the intention of the legislator, who did not aim at
making any one class in the state happy above the rest; the happiness was to be in the whole state, and
he held the citizens together by persuasion and necessity, making them benefactors of the state, and
therefore benefactors of one another; to this end he created them, not to please themselves, but to be his
instruments in binding up the state.
True, he said, I had forgotten.
Observe, Glaucon, that there will be no injustice in compelling our philosophers to have a care and
providence of others; we shall explain to them that in other states, men of their class are not obliged to
share in the toils of politics: and this is reasonable, for they grow up at their own sweet will, and the
government would rather not have them. Being self-taught, they cannot be expected to show any
gratitude for a culture which they have never received. But we have brought you into the world to be
rulers of the hive, kings of yourselves and of the other citizens, and have educated you far better and
more perfectly than they have been educated, and you are better able to share in the double duty.
Wherefore each of you, when his turn comes, must go down to the general underground abode, and get
the habit of seeing in the dark. When you have acquired the habit, you will see ten thousand times better
than the inhabitants of the den, and you will know what the several images are, and what they represent,
because you have seen the beautiful and just and good in their truth. And thus our state, which is also
yours, will be a reality, and not a dream only, and will be administered in a spirit unlike that of other

says real knowledge is of things like geometry. I think it’s easy to make a case that your knowledge of
math is innate. You’ve never seen a perfect circle or line, but you can use those ideas just fine. Where
did you get them from? Not through observation.
states, in which men fight with one another about shadows only and are distracted in the struggle for
power, which in their eyes is a great good. Whereas the truth is that the state in which the rulers are most
reluctant to govern is always the best and most quietly governed, and the state in which they are most
eager, the worst.1
Quite true, he replied.
And will our pupils, when they hear this, refuse to take their turn at the toils of state, when they are
allowed to spend the greater part of their time with one another in the heavenly light?
Impossible, he answered; for they are just men, and the commands which we impose upon them are
just; there can be no doubt that every one of them will take office as a stern necessity, and not after the
fashion of our present rulers of state.
Yes, my friend, I said; and there lies the point. You must contrive for your future rulers another and
a better life than that of a ruler, and then you may have a well-ordered state; for only in the state which
offers this, will they rule who are truly rich, not in silver and gold, but in virtue and wisdom, which are
the true blessings of life. Whereas if they go to the administration of public affairs, poor and hungering
after their own private advantage, thinking that hence they are to snatch the chief good, order there can
never be; for they will be fighting about office, and the civil and domestic broils which thus arise will be
the ruin of the rulers themselves and of the whole state.
Most true, he replied.
And the only life which looks down upon the life of political ambition is that of true philosophy. Do
you know of any other?
Indeed, I do not, he said.
And those who govern ought not to be lovers of the task? For, if they are, there will be rival lovers,
and they will fight.
No question.
Who then are those whom we shall compel to be guardians? Surely they will be the men who are
wisest about affairs of state, and by whom the state is best administered, and who at the same time have
other honours and another and a better life than that of politics?
They are the men, and I will choose them, he replied.
Objects of sense are of two kinds; some of them do not invite thought because the sense is an
adequate judge of them; while in the case of other objects sense is so untrustworthy that further enquiry
is imperatively demanded.
I understand, he said, and agree with you.
And all arithmetic and calculation have to do with number?
Yes.

1 Isn’t this wise? People who want to be politicians are terrible politicians. Good politicians don’t
want the job.
 And they appear to lead the mind towards truth?
Yes, in a very remarkable manner.
Then this is knowledge of the kind for which we are seeking, having a double use, military and
philosophical; for the man of war must learn the art of number or he will not know how to array his
troops, and the philosopher also, because he has to rise out of the sea of change and lay hold of true
being, and therefore he must be an arithmetician.
That is true.
And our guardian is both warrior and philosopher?
Certainly.
Then this is a kind of knowledge which legislation may fitly prescribe; and we must endeavour to
persuade those who are to be the principal men of our state to go and learn arithmetic, not as amateurs,
but they must carry on the study until they see the nature of numbers with the mind only; nor again, like
merchants or retail-traders, with a view to buying or selling, but for the sake of their military use, and of
the soul herself; and because this will be the easiest way for her to pass from becoming to truth and
being.
That is excellent, he said.
And so, Glaucon, I said, we have at last arrived at the hymn of dialectic. This is that strain which is
of the intellect only, but which the faculty of sight will nevertheless be found to imitate; for sight, as you
may remember, was imagined by us after a while to behold the real animals and stars, and last of all the
sun himself. And so with dialectic; when a person starts on the discovery of the absolute by the light of
reason only, and without any assistance of sense, and perseveres until by pure intelligence he arrives at
the perception of the absolute good, he at last finds himself at the end of the intellectual world, as in the
case of sight at the end of the visible.
Exactly, he said.
Then this is the progress which you call dialectic?
True.
But the release of the prisoners from chains, and their translation from the shadows to the images
and to the light, and the ascent from the underground den to the sun, while in his presence they are
vainly trying to look on animals and plants and the light of the sun, but are able to perceive even with
their weak eyes the images in the water (which are divine), and are the shadows of true existence (not
shadows of images cast by a light of fire, which compared with the sun is only an image)—this power of
elevating the highest principle in the soul to the contemplation of that which is best in existence, with
which we may compare the raising of that faculty which is the very light of the body to the sight of that
which is brightest in the material and visible world—this power is given, as I was saying, by all that
study and pursuit of the arts which has been described. But I must also remind you, that the power of
dialectic alone can reveal this, and only to one who is a disciple of the previous sciences.
Of that assertion you may be as confident as of the last.
And assuredly no one will argue that there is any other method of comprehending by any regular
process all true existence or of ascertaining what each thing is in its own nature; for the arts in general
are concerned with the desires or opinions of men, or are cultivated with a view to production and
construction, or for the preservation of such productions and constructions; and as to the mathematical
sciences which, as we were saying, have some apprehension of true being—geometry and the like—they
only dream about being, but never can they behold the waking reality so long as they leave the
hypotheses which they use unexamined, and are unable to give an account of them. For when a man
knows not his own first principle, and when the conclusion and intermediate steps are also constructed
out of he knows not what, how can he imagine that such a fabric of convention can ever become
science?
Impossible, he said.
Then dialectic, and dialectic alone, goes directly to the first principle and is the only science which
does away with hypotheses in order to make her ground secure; the eye of the soul, which is literally
buried in an outlandish slough, is by her gentle aid lifted upwards; and she uses as handmaids and
helpers in the work of conversion, the sciences which we have been discussing. Custom terms them
sciences, but they ought to have some other name, implying greater clearness than opinion and less
clearness than science: and this, in our previous sketch, was called understanding. But why should we
dispute about names when we have realities of such importance to consider?
Why indeed, he said, when any name will do which expresses the thought of the mind with
clearness?
At any rate, we are satisfied, as before, to have four divisions; two for intellect and two for opinion,
and to call the first division science, the second understanding, the third belief, and the fourth perception
of shadows, opinion being concerned with becoming, and intellect with being; and so to make a
proportion: As being is to becoming, so is pure intellect to opinion. And as intellect is to opinion, so is
science to belief, and understanding to the perception of shadows.
But let us defer the further correlation and subdivision of the subjects of opinion and of intellect, for
it will be a long enquiry, many times longer than this has been.
As far as I understand, he said, I agree.
The same practice may be followed, I said, in all these things—labours, lessons, dangers—and he
who is most at home in all of them ought to be enrolled in a select number.
At what age?
At the age when the necessary gymnastics are over: the period whether of two or three years which
passes in this sort of training is useless for any other purpose; for sleep and exercise are unpropitious to
learning; and the trial of who is first in gymnastic exercises is one of the most important tests to which
our youth are subjected.
Certainly, he replied.
After that time those who are selected from the class of twenty years old will be promoted to higher
honour, and the sciences which they learned without any order in their early education will now be
brought together, and they will be able to see the natural relationship of them to one another and to true
being.
 These, I said, are the points which you must consider; and those who have most of this
comprehension, and who are most steadfast in their learning, and in their military and other appointed
duties, when they have arrived at the age of thirty have to be chosen by you out of the select class, and
elevated to higher honour; and you will have to prove them by the help of dialectic, in order to learn
which of them is able to give up the use of sight and the other senses, and in company with truth to
attain absolute being: And here, my friend, great caution is required.
Suppose, I said, the study of philosophy to take the place of gymnastics and to be continued
diligently and earnestly and exclusively for twice the number of years which were passed in bodily
exercise—will that be enough?
Would you say six or four years? he asked.
Say five years, I replied; at the end of the time they must be sent down again into the den and
compelled to hold any military or other office which young men are qualified to hold: in this way they
will get their experience of life, and there will be an opportunity of trying whether, when they are drawn
all manner of ways by temptation, they will stand firm or flinch.
And how long is this stage of their lives to last?
Fifteen years, I answered; and when they have reached fifty years of age, then let those who still
survive and have distinguished themselves in every action of their lives and in every branch of
knowledge come at last to their consummation: the time has now arrived at which they must raise the
eye of the soul to the universal light which lightens all things, and behold the absolute good; for that is
the pattern according to which they are to order the state and the lives of individuals, and the remainder
of their own lives also; making philosophy their chief pursuit, but, when their turn comes, toiling also at
politics and ruling for the public good, not as though they were performing some heroic action, but
simply as a matter of duty; and when they have brought up in each generation others like themselves and
left them in their place to be governors of the state, then they will depart to the Islands of the Blest and
dwell there; and the city will give them public memorials and sacrifices and honour them, if the Pythian
oracle consent, as demigods, but if not, as in any case blessed and divine.
You are a sculptor, Socrates, and have made statues of our governors faultless in beauty.
Yes, I said, Glaucon, and of our governesses too.
Plato: The Republic, decoded

BOOK 2

Socrates, Glaucon and Adeimantus are talking

Glaucon: There is a fable I know. It is about Gyges. He was a good man, at least until he found a
ring when he was out taking care of his sheep. The ring made him invisible whenever he put it on. You
can guess what happened: he took advantage of his new power and became evil, marrying the queen,
killing the king, and all of that stuff. I think that this proves that vice is pleasant and that virtue is
unpleasant. Prove to us that virtue is better than vice. Prove to us that it is in our own interest to be just,
in other words.
Socrates: Since we’re not doing very well, let’s take the approach a short-sighted person takes. Let’s
make the letters we’re trying to read much larger. We should start with something big, examine its
details, then come back to this small thing. People are just and states are just. We should start looking at
justice in the state and come back to justice for the person.
Adeimantus: Sounds good.
But it would be hard to find a perfect state—I mean, look around! We should imagine a perfect state
instead. That might be hard, but don’t you think it would be worth it?
I certainly do!
It seems to me that people live in communities because they need to specialize. People are good at
different things, and when we trade, we all benefit.
That sounds right.
So in our imaginary state, we’ll need farmers and peasants, and artisans and businesspeople. We’ll
need people to weave clothing and raise cattle. We’ll need labourers and other people too. But on the
whole, things will be pretty simple.
I agree.
We will produce corn, and wine, and clothes, and shoes, and build houses. In the summer, our
people will be stripped and barefoot, but in the winter they will have good clothes and shoes. They will
eat plain food, and homemade bread and cakes. These they will serve up on a mat of reeds or on clean
leaves, themselves reclining upon simple beds. They will feast now and then, with their children, on the
food and wine they made, wearing garlands on their heads, and praising the gods. They will be happy,
and careful, keeping an eye on poverty and war.
Glaucon: But they live so plainly! That’s not exciting! People want wine, and furniture and
prostitutes.
Socrates: Well, I like my state. It seems like the natural one. But I guess we can consider yours, too,
Glaucon. In your state, if we’re going to be entertained, we’ll need actors, and tutors. We’ll have to have
poets and dancers and the like. That means that we will be envied by other countries, and that we will
need the resources of other countries, too. So, we will go to war.
 Yes, that is true.
We will need specialized soldiers, then. I have to tell you, this makes me worried. Soldiers are
dangerous. We will want soldiers who are gentle with their friends and dangerous to their enemies. That
combination is hard to find.
It is.
Our soldiers will be like dogs: loyal and dangerous at the same time. A really good and noble
guardian of the State requires wisdom and spirit and swiftness and strength.
How will we raise these soldiers?
It so happens that I have a few thoughts on the matter. We cannot let them be taught in the usual
way—look what that leads to: nothing but strife. I think that we will need to educate our youth
differently. We will need to ensure that they never hear stories about gods quarreling. Stories of
quarreling among gods only set a bad example for our children.

BOOK 3
Socrates: We will need to make sure that the storytellers never mention that Hades is a terrible place.
Our soldiers must not fear death. We also need to forbid:
• Violent laughter
• Gifts of money
• Sentimental poetry
• Making funny noises
• Flutes
• Complicated rhythms and harmonies
• Sweet sauces
• Corinthian women

All of these make our soldiers soft.

Entirely so.
Of course, we don’t want them to be over-hard either! I have a few ideas about what kind of
schooling our youngsters require. Music teaches rhythm and harmony, and these make their way into the
soul, imparting grace and a sense of beauty. Music, then, should be first in our children’s education.
I concur.
After we have made the soul good, I think we must make the body good. Our youth should be
educated in gymnastics through boyhood. Of course, haven’t you noticed how athletes are finicky about
food and care? We can’t allow that. Our soldiers must be like working dogs, not purebreds. They must
be able to go without food and water, in the sun and in the rain.
I think so.
 We can’t have fancy Italian food or pastries then. We need to have a sober, plain cuisine.
Of course.
I think that we have found something wonderful. Most athletes are savage and brutal. They are
boastful and crude. Most musicians are soft, limp, and weak. Combining the two creates the best kind of
person, one who is attuned, sober, and brave. Speaking of which, in order to be best protected, we
should put our young guardians through trials and tribulations to see what they are made of. We will
terrorize them, to separate the stronger ones from the weaker ones.
I agree.
And the strongest, best, and older ones will be separated. We should call them something else. They
are guardians. The second-best ones, we should call ‘auxiliaries’ or soldiers.
Absolutely.
We should also try to come up with an explanation for this, to keep people happy. Otherwise they
will get uncomfortable. People tend to not like division into classes, after all. And, though there is
nothing to be ashamed of in being an auxiliary, well, you know….
You are hesitating. Speak. Fear not.
Well, maybe we can have a royal lie. Citizens, we’ll say, you are brothers, yet God has framed you
differently. Some of are made to command. God mingled gold into you. Others are made of silver. You
will be auxiliaries. Others he made of brass and iron; you are to be peasants and craftspeople.
Sometimes a golden parent will have a silver son, or a silver parent a golden son. You will have to hand
your children up or down as nature requires. This is our story. Is there any possibility of making our
citizens believe in it?
Not in the first generation. But sooner or later, maybe.
I have just a few more things to say. The auxiliaries and guardians should be kept separate. They
should live communally. Everything they own should be communal, and not too fancy, so that nobody
becomes jealous. The gold and silver classes should be paid only enough to be comfortable, as they
should not care about money and worldly success. Whatever they need, though, will be provided by the
bronze class, so that they will never become covetous. Don’t you agree?
I certainly do.

BOOK 4
Adeimantus: But Socrates, why should the guardians be poor? Everyone else in town is happy. They
are allowed to build large houses, party, and have private wealth. Aren’t the guardians suffering so that
the rest of the state can be happy?
Socrates: Yes, you’re right. Also, they can’t have mistresses or take vacations. There are other
things, too. Don’t forget the rest of the restrictions.
Adeimantus: Well?
Socrates: Well, we’ve made this state to make the whole state happy, not to favour one part. Suppose
that we were painting a statue, and some one came up to us and said, “Why do you not put the most
beautiful colours on the most beautiful parts of the body—the eyes ought to be purple, but you have
made them black.” We would probably say, “Sir, you don’t paint everything beautifully, part by part.
The whole thing has to be beautiful, and that requires balance.” It is the same thing with the republic.
Each person must do his job well and industriously, not meddling in the work of others. This will make
a noble, harmonious, and just state. If we let the potters drink and relax, they won’t make pots. If we let
the shepherds play flute all day, they won’t raise sheep. It is especially true of the guardians. They need
to work at their job; the security of the whole state is in their hands.
I think that you are quite right.
I wonder whether you will agree with another remark which occurs to me.
Tell me, what is it?
Truly, I said, we are stupid fellows.
Why so?
Well, we started off looking for justice. It fell right at our feet, and we just ignored it. We missed the
forest for the trees.
What do you mean?
I mean we have been talking of justice for a long time, but we have failed to recognize it.
Oh, come on, Socrates! Out with it.
Remember when we said that each person should do one thing well?
Yes, we said that one man should do one thing only.
We also said that justice was doing your own business, and not being a busybody.
Yes, we said so.
Then let’s finish what we started. Remember we said that if we looked for justice on the large scale,
that we might be able to see it on the small scale. We said that we would look for justice in the state to
see what it is in the individual. Let’s apply what we learned to the individual now.
Go on.
Well, the state is just when the three classes in it do their own business: when the rulers rule, the
soldiers soldier, and the peasants, er, peasant. And moreover, a state is best when the guardians have
good intelligence, the auxiliaries are brave, and the peasants are hard working.
True.
Well, it’s true of the individual, too! The soul has three parts, just like the state: Scythians are
passionate people. Athenians love knowledge. Egyptians love money. We all have some kind of desire:
let’s call this part of ourselves, ‘appetitive’.
Certainly.
But everyone also knows that the appetites can be excessive. We know from our intellects that
drinking too much or loving money too much is a bad thing. Reason dictates rules that we must try to
follow.
 Clearly.
It seems, then, that we have two parts: the rational and the appetitive.
Yes, and they are clearly different.
Are there any other parts of the soul?
I don’t know. I don’t think so.
Well, there is a story I remember. Leontius saw some dead bodies lying on the ground where they
had been executed. He felt a desire to see them, yet also an abhorrence of them. He struggled and
covered his eyes for a while, but eventually, he ran up to the dead bodies and said “Look, you wretches,
take your fill of the fair sight.”
I have heard the story myself.
The moral of the tale is this: sometimes we hate our desires. We are angry with what we want.
Yes. That’s the meaning.
Also, sometimes, when someone suffers an injustice, he boils and chafes. He wants revenge. Either
he will get it, or his reason will quiet his anger.
Yes.
So, willpower is sometimes on the side of the intellect, and sometimes it is on the side of the
appetites. Some get their willpower under the control of their intellects, while some have their willpower
under control of their appetites. Some people’s willpower goes back and forth; that’s why they get angry
with themselves. The anger comes from their will.
Exactly.
So, the state and the person have the same three parts: intellect or reason, will or spirit, and appetite.
Excellence in one is the same as excellence in the other.
That follows, of course.
This is exactly as justice in the state was when each class did its own work.
Absolutely.
In summary, then, the rational principle, which is wise, should rule. The passionate or spirited
principle should be its ally. And these two, brought together by a good education in gymnastics and
music, should rule over the appetites. The appetites are the largest part of the soul and the most
insatiable.
That sounds perfect.
The best kind of person will have these three elements in friendly harmony. Reason leads. Spirit
executes instructions, and the desires follow. Justice is the same in the person and the state: the rulers
rule, the spirited parts are strong and effective, and the appetites follow orders. Each does its own role
well and all work in harmony.
Clearly.
BOOK 5
Adeimantus: What about women? You’ve spoken about men.
Socrates: They should do exactly the same thing as the men do. If they did, and if we didn’t keep
them separate from us, they wouldn’t be so attractive and mysterious. Here’s why. Men can do
everything a woman can do, right? We’re not as good at cooking and making jam, but we can do it.
You are quite right, women are generally inferior, but there are many women who are superior to
many men at many things.
Nature has given us all the same skills. Men tend to be better at almost everything, but the skills are
still there in women.
Very true.
Since men and women both have what it takes to be a guardian, we should let women try. If they are
better at it than some men, there is no reason to prefer the worse man to the better woman.
Very true.
Remember how I said that all the property of the guardians is to be shared?
Of course.
Well, I didn’t want to mention it, but here’s one more thing I wanted to say. The wives of our
guardians should be common, and their children should be common too. I don’t think parents should
know whose child is whose. No children should know who their parents are, either.
That’s a pretty bold thing to say.
I know, but we’re just daydreaming. Let me explain why I think this is a good idea. Men and women
are drawn together. We can’t stop that. We should try, though, to ensure that if men and women are
going to mate that they do so for the greatest good of the state. The best should be mated with the best as
much as possible, and the worst with the worst as little as possible.
Very true.
Nobody will like this, however, and I think we will again be forced to lie. We can have festivals to
bring people together. We will have a lottery, and set men and women up with each other. It will seem
random—but in secret, we will plan it all out so the best joins with the best.
Good idea.
When there are babies, we’ll take them away. The good ones we will keep. The bad ones will go to
some secret, unknown place, if you know what I mean. The good babies will be raised by everyone
together—that way every child will think every elder could be her father or mother, and every elder will
see each youngster as his child.
Yes, that must be done.
I’ve saved my biggest idea for last. Until philosophers are kings, or the kings and princes of this
world have the spirit and power of philosophy, and political greatness and wisdom meet in one, cities
will never be free from evil.
 That’s a big one.
Philosophers are lovers of truth. Only philosophers know the absolute and eternal and immutable.
Everyone else sees only a portion of the absolute, eternal and immutable. They have mere opinion.

BOOK 6
Socrates: So it is clear, isn’t it Glaucon, that the state needs to be ruled by philosopher kings? Only
they are able to grasp the eternal and unchangeable.
Glaucon: There can be no question of that.
Philosophers love truth. They hate illiberality. They detest meanness. And they are magnificent of
mind and spectators to all existence.
Most true.
Philosophers will not be afraid of death nor will they love life. They will not be cowardly, boastful,
or covetous. They have harmonious souls and rule harmoniously. We should even be able to see these
characteristics in youth.
True.
The philosopher will have a well-proportioned and gracious mind that will love learning and seek
the truth of everything.
Yes, he will.
And isn’t it true that the brightest and best youngsters are likely to be flattered early in life? And
aren’t they likely to become lazy and vain, especially if their bodies are as beautiful as their minds?
Yes, certainly that is true.
True philosophers, then, are going to be very hard to find. The best and brightest will become lazy.
The space they leave behind will be taken over by Sophists. No state is free from this kind of problem
right now: the best are always ruined before they can reach their potential.
True enough.
That is why no state will be perfect until philosophers are compelled to rule, or until kings become
philosophers.
Quite right.
Let’s review, then. The philosopher kings have to be patriotic. They have to be tested. The
successful ones will come forth like gold is washed from rock. The golden will receive rewards in life
and after death. And now we say it clearly: the perfect guardian must be a philosopher.
Yes. Yes!
What does a philosopher study though?
Permanent things, I think we said. Isn’t that right, Socrates?
Yes, Glaucon. I’m going to try to explain something tricky. Try to keep up. Take a line and cut it
into two unequal parts. Take each of those parts, and cut them again, unequally. On the bottom, in the
smallest section, we have images, shadows, reflections, and stuff like that.
I understand.
Above that, we have animals and everything that is grown or made. Physical things.
Very good.
On the top two parts we have intellectual stuff.
Like what?
Well, the lower part is made up of the things we make hypotheses about. Above that, we have pure
ideas.
I do not quite understand your meaning, he said.
You know how when people do geometry, how they draw triangles and circles? They experiment
with ‘this circle’ or ‘that triangle’, but they are trying to draw conclusions about every circle and every
triangle.
I know about that.
Well, that’s what I’m referring to. We have images, physical things, sciency and geometric things
(like circles and triangles) and one level above that. This top level can only be reached by doing
philosophy. It is the realm of truth. It is above hypothesis. It is permanent and perfect. It is a kind of
intellectual heaven above the ideas of science and math.
Ok, I sort of get it. You are asking the big ideas, I think, when you get to this top level: what
knowledge and being are. You are contemplating questions like what truth and goodness are. I sort of
see it.
That’s right, Glaucon.

BOOK 7
Socrates: Imagine that there are prisoners in a cave. No, better: imagine that there is a prisoner in a
movie theatre. She has never been outside, and all she can see is the movie screen. She can’t move
around. It’s like virtual reality.
Glaucon: Sure. It’s strange, but I will try.
Imagine, too, that the movie projector is always on. It shows different movies all the time. It doesn’t
show credits, though.
Go on.
Well, our prisoner would think that the people on the screen were real. The movies would be reality
to her. And she would come to see the same person a few times. She might see Fight Club, Ocean’s
Thirteen and Mr. and Mrs. Smith. What do these movies have in common?
They are all bad?
Yes, especially Fight Club. But they all also have Brad Pitt in them. So our prisoner would see Brad
a bunch of times and probably even come to recognize him. She might call him “Rat Face”.
 She might, I guess.
She would. She would even think that she knows Rat Face. She would think that she knows a lot
about him, after watching all those movies.
Right. What is your point?
She would know other people, too. She would know Julia Roberts and George Clooney. She would
think she knew what real people were like from watching the screen. In her mind, people would be huge,
and handsome, preternaturally witty, and well armed.
She certainly would think that.
So, our prisoner in the movie theatre would see two levels of ‘reality’, and think she knew them. She
would see Brad Pitt, and the characters that Brad Pitt plays. She would think herself quite clever, too,
knowing that the ‘real’ Brad Pitt is different from the characters. Those of us who are outside the theatre,
though, know that she is in error. The real Brad Pitt is flesh and blood, not on the screen. The real Pitt is
6 feet tall, not 30. Our prisoner thinks she knows reality, but doesn’t.
Quite right, Socrates.
Well, imagine, then, that we took her from the cinema and pulled her outside. After a lifetime inside,
the daylight would be blinding. She would want to go back. If we kept her there, after a while, her eyes
would adjust, and she would see that the real world is much different and much, much more real than the
world of the cinema.
Certainly.
And if we wanted to send her back down into the cinema, she wouldn’t want to go. She would hate
to go back down into the artificial world once she had seen the real world.
Sure.
Well, stay with me now, but I think that we are all like prisoners in the theatre.
What do you mean?
Well, we think we know what reality is, when in fact, we have been living in an artificial world.
Go on.
I’ve been trying to make an allegory. The cinema is the world of sight. We see things, and we think
that they are the real world. Crawling out of the cinema into the bright light of day is the soul’s
ascension into the intellectual world. This is the world of true knowledge.
Yes, I follow you.
Furthermore, the world of real knowledge, of certainty, and the world in the bright light is clear and
unmistakable. Once we have seen it, we cannot be fooled. It hurts to see it at first, but we adjust, and our
minds cannot be deceived a second time.
Yes. I see where you’re coming from.
Well, the way I see it, reality has one major division and two minor divisions. The major division is
between the physical world and the intellectual world. The minor divisions divide those two categories
up into four subcategories.
Tell me more.
It goes like this: there are the images of things, like a picture of a jug or a unicorn. These things are
not very real. Then there are the objects that seem permanent but are not. Those are objects, like this jug
or that horse. This is the stuff that most people believe to be real. Most people are mistaken, however.
Go on.
Then, in the intellectual universe, there are the real objects. I call these “The Forms”. These are the
really real things—things like horsiness or juginess. These are the essences. Once we have perceived
them, we know that they are the truth, and we can’t be mistaken about them. They are, more or less, the
objects of scientific knowledge.
Sure. Is that it? Are there three levels to reality? I thought you said there were four.
There is one more. This is the top level of The Forms. There are some capital-I Ideas we need to
understand the objects of science. We need to know some things like equality, unity, goodness, truth and
beauty. These must be a higher level of reality, because we can compare Forms like horsiness and
cowiness and see that they have something else in common. We can also compare Ideas like circularity
and triangularity and see that they have some things in common. These things must be the most real of
all.
If you say so, Socrates. But what does this have to do with our republic?
Well, Glaucon. The philosopher kings will have to keep their eyes on the top level of The Forms: the
Good, the Beautiful, and the Truth. This is what they should study if they are to lead the country.
However, just like the woman in the cinema, once they have seen real reality, we can expect that they
won’t be interested in stupid illusion. They won’t be interested in what the common people are worried
about. We will have to compel them to care.
Yes, I see. How will we do this?
Through a good education, of course. The philosopher kings will have to be educated in music and
gymnastics, as well as mathematics and geometry. Math and geometry make people wonder about the
big things. They also require the use of pure intelligence. Math and geometry study the eternal and the
perfect.
You are absolutely right.
But there is one more thing. Our philosopher kings will need to study dialectic and the art of
philosophy. Only philosophy goes straight to the top level of The Forms of things. Only philosophy is
concerned with the essence of a thing and the truth.
Wow, Socrates. This is good. Go over it one more time for me.
Sure. Reality is divided into four parts:
1. Ideas required for science
2. Ideas of science
3. Physical things
 4. Images and representations
1 and 2 are the realm of The Forms. 3 and 4 are the realm of the physical world. The Forms are real,
even though most people think the physical world is. The physical world is impermanent, while The
Forms are permanent.
Great! That is so clear. But we have not really laid out a plan for our future philosopher kings.
Explain that to me one more time.
Well, here is how I see it. We take the first generation of children and send their parents away ‘into
the country’. Ahem. Then we educate the kids. For 20 years or so, we educate them in battle,
horsemanship, and gymnastics. The best ones go onto the second stage. For 10 years, we educate them
about the sciences. Again, we take only the best ones. For 5 years, we educate them about philosophy.
Then, when they are 35 years old, we send them out to work for a while. They can work in the military
or in politics. They do this until they are 50 or so. Finally, we take the best of the best, and teach them
about the highest level of The Forms. We tell them how to govern. By this time, they should be
concerned only with justice and fairness, and being the best rulers. They will not care about personal
success; they will only care about being good.
Wow. You are a sculptor, Socrates. You have made our governors and governesses faultless.
Plato: Phaedo, edited

Echecrates and Phaedo are talking.

Were you yourself, Phaedo, in the prison with Socrates on the day when he drank the poison?
Yes, Echecrates, I was.
I should so like to hear about his death. What did he say in his last hours?
I will begin at the beginning, and endeavour to repeat the entire conversation. On the previous days
we had been in the habit of assembling early in the morning at the court in which the trial took place,
and which is not far from the prison. There we used to wait talking with one another until the opening of
the doors (for they were not opened very early); then we went in and generally passed the day with
Socrates. On the last morning we assembled sooner than usual, having heard on the day before when we
quitted the prison in the evening that the sacred ship had come from Delos, and so we arranged to meet
very early at the accustomed place. On our arrival the jailer who answered the door, instead of admitting
us, came out and told us to stay until he called us. ‘For the Eleven,’ he said, ‘are now with Socrates; they
are taking off his chains, and giving orders that he is to die to-day.’ He soon returned and said that we
might come in. On entering we found Socrates just released from chains, and Xanthippe, whom you
know, sitting by him, and holding his child in her arms. When she saw us she uttered a cry and said, as
women will: ‘O Socrates, this is the last time that either you will converse with your friends, or they
with you.’ Socrates turned to Crito and said: ‘Crito, let some one take her home.’ Some of Crito’s people
accordingly led her away, crying out and beating herself. And when she was gone, Socrates, sitting up
on the couch, bent and rubbed his leg, saying, as he was rubbing: How singular is the thing called
pleasure, and how curiously related to pain, which might be thought to be the opposite of it; for they are
never present to a man at the same instant, and yet he who pursues either is generally compelled to take
the other; their bodies are two, but they are joined by a single head.
Upon this Cebes said: A question has been asked by many, and was asked of me only the day before
yesterday by Evenus the poet—he wanted to know why you, who never before wrote a line of poetry,
now that you are in prison are turning Aesop’s fables into verse, and also composing that hymn in
honour of Apollo.
Tell him, Cebes, he replied, what is the truth—that I had no idea of rivalling him or his poems; to do
so, as I knew, would be no easy task. But I wanted to see whether I could purge away a scruple which I
felt about the meaning of certain dreams. In the course of my life I have often had intimations in dreams
‘that I should compose music.’ I took some fables of Aesop, which I had ready at hand and which I
knew—they were the first I came upon—and turned them into verse. Tell this to Evenus, Cebes, and bid
him be of good cheer; say that I would have him come after me if he be a wise man, and not tarry; and
that to-day I am likely to be going, for the Athenians say that I must.
Simmias said: What a message for such a man! Having been a frequent companion of his I should
say that, as far as I know him, he will never take your advice unless he is obliged.
Why, said Socrates, is not Evenus a philosopher?
I think that he is, said Simmias.
 Then he, or any man who has the spirit of philosophy, will be willing to die, but he will not take his
own life, for that is held to be unlawful.
Here he changed his position, and put his legs off the couch on to the ground, and during the rest of
the conversation he remained sitting.
Why do you say, enquired Cebes, that a man ought not to take his own life, but that the philosopher
will be ready to follow the dying?
I suppose that you wonder why, when other things which are evil may be good at certain times and
to certain persons, death is to be the only exception, and why, when a man is better dead, he is not
permitted to be his own benefactor, but must wait for the hand of another.
Very true, said Cebes, laughing gently and speaking in his native Boeotian.
I admit the appearance of inconsistency in what I am saying; but there may not be any real
inconsistency after all. There is a doctrine whispered in secret that man is a prisoner who has no right to
open the door and run away; this is a great mystery which I do not quite understand. Yet I too believe
that the gods are our guardians, and that we are a possession of theirs. Do you not agree?
Yes, I quite agree, said Cebes.
And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for example, took the liberty of putting himself
out of the way when you had given no intimation of your wish that he should die, would you not be
angry with him, and would you not punish him if you could?
Certainly, replied Cebes.
Then, if we look at the matter thus, there may be reason in saying that a man should wait, and not
take his own life until God summons him, as he is now summoning me.
Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there seems to be truth in what you say. And yet how can you reconcile
this seemingly true belief that God is our guardian and we his possessions, with the willingness to die
which we were just now attributing to the philosopher?
The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. Here, said he, turning to us, is a man who is
always inquiring, and is not so easily convinced by the first thing which he hears.
Yes, replied Socrates; there is reason in what you say. And so you think that I ought to answer your
indictment as if I were in a court?
We should like you to do so, said Simmias.
Then I must try to make a more successful defence before you than I did when before the judges. For
I am quite ready to admit, Simmias and Cebes, that I ought to be grieved at death, if I were not
persuaded in the first place that I am going to other gods who are wise and good (of which I am as
certain as I can be of any such matters), and secondly (though I am not so sure of this last) to men
departed, better than those whom I leave behind; and therefore I do not grieve as I might have done.
But do you mean to take away your thoughts with you, Socrates? said Simmias. Will you not impart
them to us?
I will do my best, replied Socrates. But you must first let me hear what Crito wants; he has long been
wishing to say something to me.
Only this, Socrates, replied Crito: the attendant who is to give you the poison has been telling me,
and he wants me to tell you, that you are not to talk much, talking, he says, increases heat, and this is apt
to interfere with the action of the poison; persons who excite themselves are sometimes obliged to take a
second or even a third dose.
Then, said Socrates, let him mind his business and be prepared to give the poison twice or even
thrice if necessary; that is all.
I knew quite well what you would say, replied Crito; but I was obliged to satisfy him.
And now, O my judges, I desire to prove to you that the real philosopher has reason to be of good
cheer when he is about to die, and that after death he may hope to obtain the greatest good in the other
world. And how this may be, Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavour to explain. For I deem that the true
votary of philosophy is likely to be misunderstood by other men; they do not perceive that he is always
pursuing death and dying.
Simmias said laughingly: Though not in a laughing humour, you have made me laugh, Socrates; for
I cannot help thinking that the many when they hear your words will say how truly you have described
philosophers.
And they are right, Simmias, in thinking so. But enough of them. Let us discuss the matter among
ourselves: Do we believe that there is such a thing as death?
To be sure, replied Simmias.
Is it not the separation of soul and body? And to be dead is the completion of this; when the soul
exists in herself, and is released from the body and the body is released from the soul, what is this but
death?
Just so, he replied.
There is another question, which will probably throw light on our present inquiry if you and I can
agree about it. Ought the philosopher to care about the pleasures—if they are to be called pleasures—of
eating and drinking?
Certainly not, answered Simmias.
And what about the pleasures of love—should he care for them?
By no means.
And will he think much of the other ways of indulging the body, for example, the acquisition of
costly raiment, or sandals, or other adornments of the body? Instead of caring about them, does he not
rather despise anything more than nature needs? What do you say?
I should say that the true philosopher would despise them.
Would you not say that he is entirely concerned with the soul and not with the body? He would like,
as far as he can, to get away from the body and to turn to the soul.
Quite true.
Whereas, Simmias, the rest of the world are of opinion that to him who has no sense of pleasure and
no part in bodily pleasure, life is not worth having; and that he who is indifferent about them is as good
as dead.
That is also true.
What again shall we say of the actual acquirement of knowledge? Is the body, if invited to share in
the enquiry, a hinderer or a helper? I mean to say, have sight and hearing any truth in them? Are they
not, as the poets are always telling us, inaccurate witnesses?
Certainly, he replied.
Then must not true existence be revealed to the soul in thought, if at all?
Yes.
And thought is best when the mind is gathered into herself and none of these things trouble her—
neither sounds nor sights nor pain nor any pleasure—when she takes leave of the body, and has as little
as possible to do with it, when she has no bodily sense or desire, but is aspiring after true being?
Certainly.
And in this the philosopher dishonours the body; his soul runs away from his body and desires to be
alone and by herself?
That is true.
Well, but there is another thing, Simmias: Is there or is there not an absolute justice?
Assuredly there is.
And an absolute beauty and absolute good?
Of course.
But did you ever behold any of them with your eyes?
Certainly not.
Or did you ever reach them with any other bodily sense? And I speak not of these alone, but of
absolute greatness, and health, and strength, and of the essence or true nature of everything. Has the
reality of them ever been perceived by you through the bodily organs? or rather, is not the nearest
approach to the knowledge of their several natures made by him who so orders his intellectual vision as
to have the most exact conception of the essence of each thing which he considers?
Certainly.
And he attains to the purest knowledge of them who goes to each with the mind alone, not
introducing or intruding in the act of thought sight or any other sense together with reason?
What you say has a wonderful truth in it, Socrates, replied Simmias.
And when real philosophers consider all these things, will they not express in words something like
the following? ‘Have we not found a path of thought which seems to bring us and our argument to the
conclusion, that while we are in the body, and while the soul is infected with the evils of the body, our
desire will not be satisfied? And our desire is of the truth. For the body is a source of endless trouble to
us and by reason of all these impediments we have no time to give to philosophy. The soul in herself
must behold things in themselves: and then we shall attain the wisdom which we desire.’
Undoubtedly, Socrates.
But, O my friend, if this is true, there is great reason to hope that, going whither I go, when I have
come to the end of my journey, I shall attain that which has been the pursuit of my life. And therefore I
go on my way rejoicing.
Certainly, replied Simmias.
And, as I was saying at first, there would be a ridiculous contradiction in men studying to live as
nearly as they can in a state of death, and yet repining when it comes upon them. Many a man has been
willing to go to the world below animated by the hope of seeing there an earthly love, or wife, or son,
and conversing with them. And will he who is a true lover of wisdom, and is strongly persuaded in like
manner that only in the world below he can worthily enjoy her, still repine at death? Will he not depart
with joy? Surely he will, O my friend, if he be a true philosopher.
He would, indeed, replied Simmias.
And when you see a man who is repining at the approach of death, is not his reluctance a sufficient
proof that he is not a lover of wisdom, but a lover of the body, and probably at the same time a lover of
either money or power, or both?
Quite so, he replied.
Well, he said, you are aware that death is regarded by men in general as a great evil.
Very true, he said.
And do not courageous men face death because they are afraid of yet greater evils?
That is quite true.
Then all but the philosophers are courageous only from fear, and because they are afraid; and yet
that a man should be courageous from fear, and because he is a coward, is surely a strange thing.
Very true.
And are not the temperate exactly in the same case? They are temperate because they are
intemperate—which might seem to be a contradiction, but is nevertheless the sort of thing which
happens with this foolish temperance. For there are pleasures which they are afraid of losing. And that is
what I mean by saying that, in a sense, they are made temperate through intemperance.
Such appears to be the case.
Yet the exchange of one fear or pleasure or pain for another fear or pleasure or pain, and of the
greater for the less, as if they were coins, is not the exchange of excellence. O my blessed Simmias, is
there not one true coin for which all things ought to be exchanged? And that is wisdom; and only in
exchange for this, and in company with this, is anything truly bought or sold, whether courage or
temperance or justice. And is not all true excellence the companion of wisdom, no matter what fears or
pleasures or other similar goods or evils may or may not attend her? But the excellence which is made
up of these goods, when they are severed from wisdom and exchanged with one another, is a shadow of
excellence only, nor is there any freedom or health or truth in her; but in the true exchange there is a
purging away of all these things, and temperance, and justice, and courage, and wisdom herself are the
purgation of them.
Cebes answered: I agree, Socrates, in the greater part of what you say. But in what concerns the soul,
men are apt to be incredulous; they fear that when she has left the body her place may be nowhere, and
that on the very day of death she may perish and come to an end—immediately on her release from the
body, issuing forth dispersed like smoke. But surely it requires a great deal of argument and many
proofs to show that when the man is dead his soul yet exists, and has any force or intelligence.
I reckon, said Socrates, that no one who heard me now, not even if he were one of my old enemies,
the Comic poets, could accuse me of idle talking about matters in which I have no concern. If you
please, then, we will proceed with the inquiry.
Suppose we consider the question whether the souls of men after death are or are not in the world
below. There comes into my mind an ancient doctrine which affirms that they go from hence into the
other world, and returning hither, are born again from the dead. Now if it be true that the living come
from the dead, then our souls must exist in the other world, for if not, how could they have been born
again? And this would be conclusive, if there were any real evidence that the living are only born from
the dead; but if this is not so, then other arguments will have to be adduced.
Very true, replied Cebes.
Then let us consider the whole question, not in relation to man only, but in relation to animals
generally, and to plants, and the proof will be easier. Are not all things which have opposites generated
out of their opposites? I mean such things as good and evil, just and unjust—I mean to say, for example,
that anything which becomes greater must become greater after being less.
Yes, he said.
Well, and is there not an opposite of life, as sleep is the opposite of waking?
Death, he answered.
Then the living, whether things or persons, Cebes, are generated from the dead?
That is clear, he replied.
Then the inference is that our souls exist in the world below?
That is true.
And that these admissions were not unfair, Cebes, he said, may be shown, I think, as follows: If
generation were in a straight line only, then you know that all things would at last have the same form
and pass into the same state, and there would be no more generation of them.
What do you mean? he said.
A simple thing enough, which I will illustrate by the case of sleep, he replied. You know that if there
were no alternation of sleeping and waking, the tale of the sleeping Endymion would in the end have no
meaning, because all other things would be asleep, too, and he would not be distinguishable from the
rest. And if all things which partook of life were to die, all would at last die, and nothing would be
alive—what other result could there be?
 There is no escape, Socrates, said Cebes; and to me your argument seems to be absolutely true. Your
favorite doctrine, Socrates, that knowledge is simply recollection, if true, also necessarily implies a
previous time in which we have learned that which we now recollect. But this would be impossible
unless our soul had been in some place before existing in the form of man; here then is another proof of
the soul’s immortality.
But tell me, Cebes, said Simmias, interposing, what arguments are urged in favour of this doctrine of
recollection. I am not very sure at the moment that I remember them.
One excellent proof, said Cebes, is afforded by questions. If you put a question to a person in a right
way, he will give a true answer of himself, but how could he do this unless there were knowledge and
right reason already in him? And this is most clearly shown when he is taken to a diagram or to anything
of that sort.
But if, said Socrates, you are still incredulous, Simmias, I would ask you whether you may not agree
with me when you look at the matter in another way. We should agree, if I am not mistaken, that what a
man recollects he must have known at some previous time.
Very true.
And what is the nature of this knowledge or recollection? Recollection is most commonly a process
of recovering that which has been already forgotten through time and inattention.
And shall we proceed a step further, and affirm that there is such a thing as equality, not of one piece
of wood or stone with another, but that, over and above this, there is absolute equality? Shall we say so?
Say so, yes, replied Simmias, and swear to it, with all the confidence in life.
And do we know the nature of this absolute essence?
To be sure, he said.
And whence did we obtain our knowledge? Did we not see equalities of material things, such as
pieces of wood and stones, and gather from them the idea of an equality which is different from them?
For you will acknowledge that there is a difference. Or look at the matter in another way: Do not the
same pieces of wood or stone appear at one time equal, and at another time unequal?
That is certain.
But what would you say of equal portions of wood and stone, or other material equals? And what is
the impression produced by them? Are they equals in the same sense in which absolute equality is
equal? Or do they fall short of this perfect equality in a measure?
Yes, he said, in a very great measure too.
And must we not allow, that when I or any one, looking at any object, observes that the thing which
he sees aims at being some other thing, but falls short of, and cannot be, that other thing, but is inferior,
he who makes this observation must have had a previous knowledge of that to which the other, although
similar, was inferior?
Certainly.
Then we must have known absolute equality previously to the time when we first saw the material
equals, and reflected that all these apparent equals aim at this absolute equality, but fall short of it? From
the senses then is derived the knowledge that all sensible things aim at an absolute equality of which
they fall short?
Yes.
Then before we began to see or hear or perceive in any way, we must have had a knowledge of
absolute equality, or we could not have referred to that standard the equals which are derived from the
senses? For to that they all aspire, and of that they fall short.
No other inference can be drawn from the previous statements.
Whence, as I was saying, one of two alternatives follows: either we had this knowledge at birth, and
continued to know through life; or, after birth, those who are said to learn only remember, and learning
is simply recollection.
Yes, that is quite true, Socrates.
And which alternative, Simmias, do you prefer? Had we the knowledge at our birth, or did we
recollect the things which we knew previously to our birth?
I cannot decide at the moment.
At any rate you can decide whether he who has knowledge will or will not be able to render an
account of his knowledge? What do you say?
Certainly, he will.
But do you think that every man is able to give an account of these very matters about which we are
speaking?
Would that they could, Socrates, but I rather fear that to-morrow, at this time, there will no longer be
any one alive who is able to give an account of them such as ought to be given.
Then you are not of opinion, Simmias, that all men know these things? But when did our souls
acquire this knowledge? Not since we were born as men?
Certainly not.
And therefore, previously?
Yes.
Then, Simmias, our souls must also have existed without bodies before they were in the form of
man, and must have had intelligence.
Unless indeed you suppose, Socrates, that these notions are given us at the very moment of birth; for
this is the only time which remains.
Yes, my friend, but if so, when do we lose them? For they are not in us when we are born—that is
admitted. Do we lose them at the moment of receiving them, or if not at what other time?
No, Socrates, I perceive that I was unconsciously talking nonsense.
Then may we not say, Simmias, that if, as we are always repeating, there is an absolute beauty, and
goodness, and an absolute essence of all things; and if to this, which is now discovered to have existed
in our former state, we refer all our sensations, and with this compare them, finding these ideas to be
pre-existent and our inborn possession—then our souls must have had a prior existence, but if not, there
would be no force in the argument? There is the same proof that these ideas must have existed before we
were born, as that our souls existed before we were born; and if not the ideas, then not the souls.
Yes, Socrates; I am convinced that there is precisely the same necessity for the one as for the other.
Well, but is Cebes equally satisfied? For I must convince him too.
I think, said Simmias, that Cebes is satisfied: although he is the most incredulous of mortals, yet I
believe that he is sufficiently convinced of the existence of the soul before birth. But that after death the
soul will continue to exist is not yet proven even to my own satisfaction. I cannot get rid of the feeling of
the many to which Cebes was referring—the feeling that when the man dies the soul will be dispersed.
For admitting that she may have been born elsewhere, why after having entered in and gone out again
may she not herself be destroyed and come to an end?
Very true, Simmias, said Cebes; about half of what was required has been proven; the other half of
the proof is still wanting.
But that proof, Simmias and Cebes, has been already given, said Socrates, if you put the two
arguments together—I mean this and the former one, in which we admitted that everything living is born
of the dead. Still I suspect that you and Simmias would be glad to probe the argument further. Like
children, you are haunted with a fear that when the soul leaves the body, the wind may really blow her
away and scatter her.
Cebes answered with a smile: Then, Socrates, you must argue us out of our fears.
Socrates said: Let the voice of the charmer be applied daily until you have charmed away the fear.
And where shall we find a good charmer of our fears, Socrates, when you are gone?
Hellas, he replied, is a large place, Cebes, and has many good men, and there are barbarous races not
a few: seek for him among them all, far and wide, sparing neither pains nor money; for there is no better
way of spending your money. And you must seek among yourselves too; for you will not find others
better able to make the search.
The search, replied Cebes, shall certainly be made. And now, if you please, let us return to the point
of the argument at which we digressed.
Must we not, said Socrates, ask ourselves what is liable to be scattered, and about which we fear?
Very true, he said.
Now the compound or composite may be supposed to be naturally capable, as of being compounded,
so also of being dissolved; but that which is uncompounded, and that only, must be, if anything is,
indissoluble.
Yes; I should imagine so, said Cebes.
And the uncompounded may be assumed to be the same and unchanging, whereas the compound is
always changing and never the same.
I agree, he said.
 Then now let us return to the previous discussion. Is that idea or essence, which in the dialectical
process we define as essence or true existence—whether essence of equality, beauty, or anything else—
are these essences, I say, liable at times to some degree of change? or are they each of them always what
they are, having the same simple self-existent and unchanging forms, not admitting of variation at all, or
in any way, or at any time?
They must be always the same, Socrates, replied Cebes.
And what would you say of the many beautiful—whether men or horses or garments or any other
things which are named by the same names and may be called equal or beautiful—are they all
unchanging and the same always, or quite the reverse?
The latter, replied Cebes; they are always in a state of change.
And were we not saying long ago that the soul, when using the body as an instrument of perception,
is then dragged by the body into the region of the changeable, and wanders and is confused; the world
spins round her, and she is like a drunkard, when she touches change?
Very true.
But when returning into herself she reflects, then she passes into the other world, the region of
purity, and eternity, and immortality, and unchangeableness, which are her kindred; then she ceases
from her erring ways, and being in communion with the unchanging is unchanging. And this state of the
soul is called wisdom?
That is well and truly said, Socrates, he replied.
And to which class is the soul more nearly alike and akin, as far as may be inferred from this
argument, as well as from the preceding one?
I think, Socrates, that, in the opinion of every one who follows the argument, the soul will be
infinitely more like the unchangeable—even the most stupid person will not deny that.
Then reflect, Cebes: of all which has been said is not this the conclusion? That the soul is in the very
likeness of the divine, and immortal, and intellectual, and uniform, and indissoluble, and unchangeable;
and that the body is in the very likeness of the human, and mortal, and unintellectual, and multiform, and
dissoluble, and changeable. Can this, my dear Cebes, be denied?
It cannot.
But if it be true, then is not the body liable to speedy dissolution? And is not the soul almost or
altogether indissoluble?
Certainly.
And do you further observe, that after a man is dead, the body is not dissolved or decomposed at
once, but may remain for a for some time, if the constitution be sound at the time of death, and the
season of the year favourable?
Yes.
And is it likely that the soul will be blown away and destroyed immediately on quitting the body, as
the many say? That can never be, my dear Simmias and Cebes. The truth rather is, that the soul which is
pure at departing, and which has been a true disciple of philosophy; and therefore has in fact been
always engaged in the practice of dying; that soul, I say, herself invisible, departs to the invisible
world—to the divine and immortal and rational: thither arriving, she is secure of bliss and is released
from the error and folly of men. Is not this true, Cebes?
Yes, said Cebes, beyond a doubt.
But the soul which has been polluted by the body and by the desires and pleasures of the body—do
you suppose that such a soul will depart pure and unalloyed?
Impossible, he replied.
She is held fast by the corporeal, which the continual association and constant care of the body have
wrought into her nature.
Very true.
What I mean is that men who have followed after gluttony, and wantonness, and drunkenness, and
have had no thought of avoiding them, would pass into asses and animals of that sort. What do you
think?
I think such an opinion to be exceedingly probable.
And those who have chosen the portion of injustice, and tyranny, and violence, will pass into
wolves, or into hawks and kites; whither else can we suppose them to go?
Yes, said Cebes; with such natures, beyond question.
No one who has not studied philosophy and who is not entirely pure at the time of his departure is
allowed to enter the company of the Gods, but the lover of knowledge only. And this is the reason,
Simmias and Cebes, why the true votaries of philosophy abstain from all fleshly lusts—because they
dread the dishonour or disgrace of evil deeds.
No, Socrates, that would not become them, said Cebes.
When Socrates had done speaking, for a considerable time there was silence; he himself appeared to
be meditating, as most of us were, on what had been said; only Cebes and Simmias spoke a few words to
one another. And Socrates observing them asked what they thought of the argument, and whether there
was anything wanting.
Simmias said: I must confess, Socrates, that doubts did arise in our minds, and each of us was urging
and inciting the other to put the question which we wanted to have answered.
Socrates replied with a smile: O Simmias, what are you saying? I am not very likely to persuade
other men that I do not regard my present situation as a misfortune, if I cannot even persuade you that I
am no worse off now than at any other time in my life. Will you not allow that I have as much of the
spirit of prophecy in me as the swans? For they, when they perceive that they must die, having sung all
their life long, do then sing more lustily than ever, rejoicing in the thought that they are about to go away
to the god whose ministers they are.
Very good, Socrates, said Simmias; then I will tell you my difficulty, and Cebes will tell you his. I
feel myself how impossible is the attainment of any certainty about questions such as these in the
present life. And yet I should deem him a coward who did not prove what is said about them to the
uttermost. And now, as you bid me, I will venture to question you, and then I shall not have to reproach
myself hereafter with not having said at the time what I think. For when I consider the matter, the
argument does certainly appear to me, Socrates, to be not sufficient.
Socrates answered: I dare say, my friend, that you may be right, but I should like to know in what
respect the argument is insufficient.
In this respect, replied Simmias: Suppose a person to use the same argument about harmony and the
lyre—might he not say that harmony is a thing perfect, divine, existing in the lyre which is harmonized,
but that the lyre and the strings are matter and composite, and akin to mortality? And when some one
breaks the lyre, or cuts the strings, then he would argue as you do, that the harmony survives and has not
perished—you cannot imagine, he would say, that the harmony, which is immortal has perished before
the mortal. The harmony must still be somewhere, and the wood and strings will decay before anything
can happen to that. Such is your conception of the soul; and that when the body is in a manner strung
and held together by the elements of hot and cold, wet and dry, then the soul is the harmony of them.
But if so, whenever the strings of the body are unduly loosened or overstrained through disease or other
injury, then the soul, though most divine, like other harmonies of music or of works of art, of course
perishes at once. And if any one maintains that the soul, being the harmony of the elements of the body,
is first to perish in that which is called death, how shall we answer him?
Socrates looked fixedly at us as his manner was, and said with a smile: Simmias has reason on his
side. There is force in his attack upon me. But perhaps, before we answer him, we had better also hear
what Cebes has to say.
Cebes said: I will tell you. My feeling is that the argument is open to the same objections which
were urged before; for I am ready to admit the existence of the soul before entering into the bodily form;
but the existence of the soul after death is still, in my judgment, unproven. Now I will ask you to
consider whether the objection, which, like Simmias, I will express in a figure, is of any weight. The
analogy is that of an old weaver, who dies, and after his death somebody says: He is not dead, he must
be alive; see, there is the coat which he himself wove and wore, and which remains whole and
undecayed. And then he proceeds to ask of some one who is incredulous, whether a man lasts longer, or
the coat which is in use and wear; and when he is answered that a man lasts far longer, thinks that he has
thus certainly demonstrated the survival of the man, who is the more lasting, because the less lasting
remains. But that is a mistake; any one can see that he who talks thus is talking nonsense. The weaver
aforesaid, having woven and worn many such coats, outlived several of them, and was outlived by the
last. For acknowledging not only that the soul existed before birth, but also that the souls of some exist,
and will continue to exist after death, and will be born and die again and again, and that there is a natural
strength in the soul which will hold out and be born many times—nevertheless, we may be still inclined
to think that she will weary in the labours of successive births, and may at last succumb in one of her
deaths.
All of us had an unpleasant feeling at hearing what they said. When we had been so firmly
convinced before, now to have our faith shaken seemed to introduce a confusion and uncertainty, not
only into the previous argument, but into any future one; either we were incapable of forming a
judgment, or there were no grounds of belief.
There I feel with you—by heaven I do, Phaedo, and when you were speaking, I was beginning to ask
myself the same question: What argument can I ever trust again? That the soul is a harmony is a doctrine
which has always had a wonderful attraction for me. Tell me, I implore you, how did Socrates proceed?
Often, Echecrates, I have wondered at Socrates, but never more than on that occasion. That he
should be able to answer was nothing, but what astonished me was, first, the gentle and pleasant and
approving manner in which he received the words.
What followed?
I was close to him on his right hand, seated on a sort of stool, and he on a couch which was a good
deal higher. He stroked my head, and pressed the hair upon my neck—he had a way of playing with my
hair; and then he said: To-morrow, Phaedo, I suppose that these fair locks of yours will be severed.
Yes, Socrates, I suppose that they will, I replied.
Not so, if you will take my advice.
What shall I do with them? I said.
To-day, he replied, and not to-morrow, if this argument dies and we cannot bring it to life again, you
and I will both shave our locks. Lest we become misologists, he replied, no worse thing can happen to a
man than this. For as there are misanthropists or haters of men, there are also misologists or haters of
ideas, and both spring from the same cause, which is ignorance of the world. Misanthropy arises out of
the too great confidence of inexperience; you trust a man and think him altogether true, and then he
turns out to be false. You must have observed this trait of character?
I have.
Is it not obvious that experience would have taught him that few are the good and few the evil, and
that the great majority are in the interval between them.
What do you mean? I said.
I mean, he replied that nothing is more uncommon than a very large or very small man; but many are
in the mean between them. Did you never observe this?
Yes, I said, I have.
And do you not imagine, he said, that if there were a competition in evil, the worst would be found
to be very few?
Yes, that is very likely, I said.
Arguments are unlike men—when a simple man who has no skill in dialectics believes an argument
to be true which he afterwards imagines to be false, and then another and another, he has no longer any
faith left, and great disputers come to think that they have grown to be the wisest of mankind; for they
alone perceive the utter unsoundness and instability of all arguments.
That is quite true, I said.
Yes, Phaedo, he replied, and how melancholy—that a man should have lighted upon some argument
or other which at first seemed true and then turned out to be false, and instead of blaming himself and
his own want of wit, should transfer the blame from himself to arguments in general.
Yes, indeed, I said; that is very melancholy.
 Let us then, in the first place, he said, be careful of allowing or of admitting into our souls the notion
that there is no health or soundness in any arguments at all. Rather say that we have not yet attained to
soundness in ourselves, and that we must struggle manfully. Agree with me, if I seem to you to be
speaking the truth; or if not, withstand me might and main, that I may not deceive you as well as myself
in my enthusiasm, and like the bee, leave my sting in you before I die.
He proceeded: And did you deny the force of the whole preceding argument, or of a part only?
Of a part only, they replied.
But, rejoined Socrates, you will have to think differently, my Theban friend, if you still maintain that
harmony is a compound, and that the soul is a harmony which is made out of strings set in the frame of
the body; for you will surely never allow yourself to say that a harmony is prior to the elements which
compose it.
Never, Socrates.
But do you not see that this is what you imply when you say that the soul existed before she took the
form and body of man? And yet, he said, there surely ought to be harmony in a discourse of which
harmony is the theme.
There ought, replied Simmias.
But there is no harmony, he said, in the two propositions that knowledge is recollection, and that the
soul is a harmony. Which of them will you retain?
I think, he replied, that I have a much stronger faith, Socrates, in the first than in the latter, which has
not been demonstrated at all.
And does not the nature of every harmony depend upon the manner in which the elements are
harmonized?
I do not understand you, he said.
I mean to say that a harmony admits of degrees.
True.
But does the soul admit of degrees? Or is one soul in the very least degree more or less, or more or
less completely, a soul than another? Surely of two souls, one is said to have intelligence and excellence,
and to be good, and the other to have folly and vice, and to be an evil soul: and this is said truly?
Yes, truly.
But what will those who maintain the soul to be a harmony say of this presence of virtue and vice in
the soul? Will they say that here is another harmony, and another discord, and that the virtuous soul is
harmonized, and herself being a harmony has another harmony within her, and that the vicious soul is
inharmonical and has no harmony within her?
I cannot tell, replied Simmias; but I suppose that something of the sort would be asserted by those
who say that the soul is a harmony.
And we have already admitted that no soul is more a soul than another; which is equivalent to
admitting that harmony is not more or less harmony, or more or less completely a harmony? And having
neither more nor less of harmony or of discord, one soul has no more vice or virtue than another, if vice
be discord and virtue harmony?
Then, if all souls are equally by their nature souls, all souls of all living creatures will be equally
good?
I agree with you, Socrates, he said.
And can all this be true, think you? He said; for these are the consequences which seem to follow
from the assumption that the soul is a harmony?
It cannot be true.
Once more, he said, what ruler is there of the elements of human nature other than the soul, and
especially the wise soul? Do you know of any?
Indeed, I do not.
And is the soul in agreement with the affections of the body? Or is she at variance with them? For
example, when the body is hot and thirsty, does not the soul incline us against drinking? And when the
body is hungry, against eating? And this is only one instance out of ten thousand of the opposition of the
soul to the things of the body.
Very true.
But we have already acknowledged that the soul, being a harmony, can never utter a note at variance
with the tensions and relaxations and vibrations and other affections of the strings out of which she is
composed; she can only follow, she cannot lead them?
It must be so, he replied.
And yet do we not now discover the soul to be doing the exact opposite—leading the elements of
which she is believed to be composed; almost always opposing and coercing them in all sorts of ways
throughout life, sometimes more violently with the pains of medicine and gymnastic; then again more
gently; now threatening, now admonishing the desires, passions, fears, as if talking to a thing which is
not herself, as Homer in the Odyssey represents Odysseus doing in the words—
‘He beat his breast, and thus reproached his heart: Endure, my heart; far worse hast thou endured!’
Do you think that Homer wrote this under the idea that the soul is a harmony capable of being led by
the affections of the body, and not rather of a nature which should lead and master them—herself a far
diviner thing than any harmony?
Yes, Socrates, I quite think so.
Then, my friend, we can never be right in saying that the soul is a harmony, for we should contradict
the divine Homer, and contradict ourselves.
True, he said.
Here lies the point: You want to have it proven to you that the soul is imperishable and immortal,
and the philosopher who is confident in death appears to you to have but a vain and foolish confidence.
And whether the soul enters into the body once only or many times, does not, as you say, make any
difference in the fears of individuals. For any man, who is not devoid of sense, must fear, if he has no
knowledge and can give no account of the soul’s immortality. This, or something like this, I suspect to
be your notion, Cebes.
Said Cebes, as far as I see at present, I have nothing to add or subtract: I mean what you say that I
mean.
Socrates paused awhile, and seemed to be absorbed in reflection. At length he said: You are raising a
tremendous question, Cebes.
I should very much like, said Cebes, to hear what you have to say.
Then I will tell you, said Socrates. When I was young, Cebes, I had a prodigious desire to know that
department of philosophy which is called the investigation of nature; to know the causes of things, and
why a thing is and is created or destroyed appeared to me to be a lofty profession. There was a time
when I thought that I understood the meaning of greater and less pretty well; and when I saw a great
man standing by a little one, I fancied that one was taller than the other by a head; or one horse would
appear to be greater than another horse: and still more clearly did I seem to perceive that ten is two more
than eight, and that two cubits are more than one, because two is the double of one.
And what is now your notion of such matters? said Cebes.
I should be far enough from imagining, he replied, that I knew the cause of any of them; for I cannot
satisfy myself that, when one is added to one, the one to which the addition is made becomes two, or
that the two units added together make two by reason of the addition. I cannot understand how, when
separated from the other, each of them was one and not two, and now, when they are brought together,
the mere juxtaposition or meeting of them should be the cause of their becoming two. Nor am I any
longer satisfied that I understand the reason why one or anything else is either generated or destroyed or
is at all, but I have in my mind some confused notion of a new method.
Then I heard some one reading, as he said, from a book of Anaxagoras, that mind was the disposer
and cause of all, and I was delighted at this notion, which appeared quite admirable. And I rejoiced to
think that I had found in Anaxagoras a teacher of the causes of existence such as I desired. What
expectations I had formed, and how grievously was I disappointed! As I proceeded, I found my
philosopher altogether forsaking mind or any other principle of order, but having recourse to air, and
ether, and water, and other eccentricities. I might compare him to a person who began by maintaining
generally that mind is the cause of the actions of Socrates, but who, went on to show that I sit here
because my body is made up of bones and muscles; and the bones, as he would say, are hard and have
joints which divide them, and the muscles are elastic, and they cover the bones—that is what he would
say, and he would have a similar explanation of my talking to you, which he would attribute to sound,
and air, and hearing, and he would assign ten thousand other causes of the same sort, forgetting to
mention the true cause, which is, that the Athenians have thought fit to condemn me, and accordingly I
have thought it better and more right to remain here and undergo my sentence. But as I have failed either
to discover myself, or to learn of any one else, the nature of the best, I will exhibit to you, if you like,
what I have found to be the second best mode of enquiring into the cause.
I should very much like to hear, he replied.
Socrates proceeded: There is nothing new, he said, in what I am about to tell you; but only what I
have been always and everywhere repeating in the previous discussion and on other occasions. I shall
have to go back and first of all assume that there is an absolute beauty and goodness and greatness, and
the like; grant me this, and I hope to be able to show you the nature of the cause, and to prove the
immortality of the soul.
Cebes said: You may proceed at once with the proof, for I grant you this.
Well, he said, then I should like to know whether you agree with me in the next step; for I cannot
help thinking, if there be anything beautiful it can be beautiful only in as far as it partakes of absolute
beauty—and I should say the same of everything. Do you agree in this notion of the cause?
Yes, he said, I agree.
And that by greatness only great things become great and greater greater, and by smallness the less
become less?
Very true, he said.
Again, would you not be cautious of affirming that the addition of one to one, or the division of one,
is the cause of two? I will let alone puzzles of division and addition—wiser heads than mine may answer
them.
True.
And if Phaedo exceeds Simmias in size, this is not because Phaedo is Phaedo, but because Phaedo
has greatness relatively to Simmias, who is comparatively smaller?
That is true.
Yet once more let me ask you to consider the question from another point of view, and see whether
you agree with me: There is a thing which you term heat, and another thing which you term cold?
Certainly.
But are they the same as fire and snow?
Most assuredly not.
And in some cases the name of the idea is not only attached to the idea in an eternal connection. I
will try to make this clearer by an example: The odd number is always called by the name of odd?
Very true.
But is this the only thing which is called odd? Are there not other things which are called odd,
although not the same as oddness—that is what I mean to ask—whether numbers such as the number
three are not of the class of odd. Would you not say, for example, that three may be called by its proper
name, and also be called odd? Do you agree?
Of course.
Then now mark the point at which I am aiming: not only do essential opposites exclude one another,
but also concrete things. Will not the number three endure annihilation sooner than be converted into an
even number, while remaining three?
Very true, said Cebes.
Then not only do opposite ideas repel the advance of one another, but also there are other natures
which repel the approach of opposites. To return then to my distinction of natures which are not
opposed, and yet do not admit opposites, perhaps you may be able to arrive at the general conclusion,
that not only opposites will not receive opposites, but also that nothing which brings the opposite will
admit the opposite of that which it brings. You will agree?
Yes, he said, I entirely agree and go along with you in that.
Tell me, then, what is that of which the inherence will render the body alive?
The soul, he replied.
And is there any opposite to life?
Death.
Then the soul, as has been acknowledged, will never receive the opposite of what she brings.
Impossible, replied Cebes.
If the immortal is also imperishable, the soul when attacked by death cannot perish. And the same
may be said of the immortal: if the immortal is also imperishable, then the soul will be imperishable as
well as immortal; but if not, some other proof of her imperishableness will have to be given. Then when
death attacks a man, the mortal portion of him may be supposed to die, but the immortal retires at the
approach of death and is preserved safe and sound?
True.
Then, Cebes, beyond question, the soul is immortal and imperishable, and our souls will truly exist
in another world!
I am convinced, Socrates, said Cebes, and have nothing more to object.
But then, O my friends, he said, if the soul is really immortal, what care should be taken of her, not
only in respect of the portion of time which is called life, but of eternity! And the danger of neglecting
her from this point of view does indeed appear to be awful. If death had only been the end of all, the
wicked would have had a good bargain in dying, for they would have been happily quit not only of their
body, but of their own evil together with their souls. But now, inasmuch as the soul is manifestly
immortal, there is no release or salvation from evil except the attainment of the highest excellence and
wisdom. For the soul when on her progress to the world below takes nothing with her but nurture and
education; and these are said greatly to benefit or greatly to injure the departed, at the very beginning of
his journey thither. Every pure and just soul which has passed through life in the company and under the
guidance of the gods has also her own proper home.
Now the earth has divers wonderful regions, and is indeed in nature and extent very unlike the
notions of geographers, as I believe on the authority of one who shall be nameless.
What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias.
Well, then, he said, my conviction is, that the earth is a round body in the centre of the heavens, and
therefore has no need of air or any similar force to be a support, but is kept there and hindered from
falling or inclining any way by the equability of the surrounding heaven and by her own equipoise.
Also I believe that the earth is very vast, and that we who dwell in the region extending from the
river Phasis to the Pillars of Heracles inhabit a small portion only about the sea, like ants or frogs about
a marsh, and that there are other inhabitants of many other like places; for everywhere on the face of the
earth there are hollows of various forms and sizes, into which the water and the mist and the lower air
collect. I can tell you a charming tale, Simmias, which is well worth hearing.
And we, Socrates, replied Simmias, shall be charmed to listen to you.
The tale, my friend, he said, is as follows: In the first place, the earth, when looked at from above, is
in appearance streaked like one of those balls which have leather coverings in twelve pieces, and is
decked with various colours, of which the colours used by painters on earth are in a manner samples.
But there the whole earth is made up of them, and they are brighter far and clearer than ours; there is a
purple of wonderful lustre, also the radiance of gold, and the white which is in the earth is whiter than
any chalk or snow. Of these and other colours the earth is made up, and they are more in number and
fairer than the eye of man has ever seen; the very hollows (of which I was speaking) filled with air and
water have a colour of their own, and are seen like light gleaming amid the diversity of the other
colours, so that the whole presents a single and continuous appearance of variety in unity. And in this
fair region everything that grows—trees, and flowers, and fruits—are in a like degree fairer than any
here; and there are hills, having stones in them in a like degree smoother, and more transparent, and
fairer in colour than our highly-valued emeralds and sardonyxes and jaspers
Such is the nature of the whole earth, and of the things which are around the earth; and there are
divers regions in the hollows on the face of the globe everywhere. The rivers flowing in either direction
can descend only to the centre and no further, for opposite to the rivers is a precipice.
Now these rivers are many, and mighty, and diverse, and there are four principal ones. The fourth
river goes out on the opposite side, and falls into a wild and savage region, which is all of a dark-blue
colour, like lapis lazuli; and this is that river which is called the Stygian river, and falls into and forms
the Lake Styx, and after falling into the lake and receiving strange powers in the waters, passes under the
earth.
Such is the nature of the other world; and when the dead arrive at the place to which the genius of
each severally guides them, first of all, they have sentence passed upon them, as they have lived well
and piously or not. Wherefore, Simmias, seeing all these things, what ought not we to do that we may
obtain excellence and wisdom in this life? Fair is the prize, and the hope great!
A man of sense ought not to say, nor will I be very confident, that the description which I have given
of the soul and her mansions is exactly true. But I do say that, inasmuch as the soul is shown to be
immortal, he may venture to think, not improperly or unworthily, that something of the kind is true.
Wherefore, I say, let a man be of good cheer about his soul. You, Simmias and Cebes, and all other men,
will depart at some time or other. Me already, as the tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls. Soon I
must drink the poison; and I think that I had better repair to the bath first, in order that the women may
not have the trouble of washing my body after I am dead.
When he had done speaking, Crito said: And have you any commands for us, Socrates—anything to
say about your children, or any other matter in which we can serve you?
Nothing particular, Crito, he replied: only, as I have always told you, take care of yourselves.
We will do our best, said Crito: And in what way shall we bury you?
 In any way that you like. Then he turned to us, and added with a smile, I cannot make Crito believe
that I am the same Socrates who have been talking and conducting the argument; he fancies that I am the
other Socrates whom he will soon see, a dead body—and he asks, How shall he bury me?—these words
of mine, with which I was comforting you and myself, have had, as I perceive, no effect upon Crito. And
therefore I want you to be surety for me to him now, as at the trial he was surety to the judges for me:
but let the promise be of another sort; for he was surety for me to the judges that I would remain, and
you must be my surety to him that I shall not remain, but go away and depart; and then he will suffer
less at my death, and not be grieved when he sees my body being burned or buried. I would not have
him sorrow at my hard lot, or say at the burial, Thus we lay out Socrates, or, Thus we follow him to the
grave or bury him; for false words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil. Be
of good cheer, then, my dear Crito, and say that you are burying my body only, and do with that
whatever is usual, and what you think best.
When he had spoken these words, he arose and went into a chamber to bathe; Crito followed him
and told us to wait. So we remained behind, talking and thinking of the subject of discourse, and also of
the greatness of our sorrow; he was like a father of whom we were being bereaved, and we were about
to pass the rest of our lives as orphans. When he had taken the bath his children were brought to him—
(he had two young sons and an elder one); and the women of his family also came, and he talked to them
and gave them a few directions in the presence of Crito; then he dismissed them and returned to us.
Now the hour of sunset was near, for a good deal of time had passed while he was within. When he
came out, he sat down with us again after his bath, but not much was said. Soon the jailer, who was the
servant of the Eleven, entered and stood by him, saying, To you, Socrates, whom I know to be the
noblest and gentlest and best of all who ever came to this place, I will not impute the angry feelings of
other men, who rage and swear at me, when, in obedience to the authorities, I bid them drink the
poison—indeed, I am sure that you will not be angry with me; for others, as you are aware, and not I, are
to blame. And so fare you well, and try to bear lightly what must needs be—you know my errand. Then
bursting into tears he turned away and went out.
Socrates looked at him and said: I return your good wishes, and will do as you bid. Then turning to
us, he said, How charming the man is: since I have been in prison he has always been coming to see me,
and at times he would talk to me, and was as good to me as could be, and now see how generously he
sorrows on my account. We must do as he says, Crito; and therefore let the cup be brought, if the poison
is prepared: if not, let the attendant prepare some.
Yet, said Crito, the sun is still upon the hill-tops, and I know that many a one has taken the draught
late, and after the announcement has been made to him, he has eaten and drunk, and enjoyed the society
of his beloved; do not hurry—there is time enough.
Socrates said: Yes, Crito, and they of whom you speak are right in so acting, for they think that they
will be gainers by the delay; but I am right in not following their example, for I do not think that I
should gain anything by drinking the poison a little later; I should only be ridiculous in my own eyes for
sparing and saving a life which is already forfeit. Please then to do as I say, and not to refuse me.
Crito made a sign to the servant, who was standing by; and he went out, and having been absent for
some time, returned with the jailer carrying the cup of poison. Socrates said: You, my good friend, who
are experienced in these matters, shall give me directions how I am to proceed. The man answered: You
have only to walk about until your legs are heavy, and then to lie down, and the poison will act. At the
same time he handed the cup to Socrates, who in the easiest and gentlest manner, without the least fear
or change of colour or feature, looking at the man with all his eyes, Echecrates, as his manner was, took
the cup and said: What do you say about making a libation out of this cup to any god? May I, or not?
The man answered: We only prepare, Socrates, just so much as we deem enough. I understand, he said:
but I may and must ask the gods to prosper my journey from this to the other world—even so—and so
be it according to my prayer. Then raising the cup to his lips, quite readily and cheerfully he drank off
the poison. And hitherto most of us had been able to control our sorrow; but now when we saw him
drinking, and saw too that he had finished the draught, we could no longer forbear, and in spite of
myself my own tears were flowing fast; so that I covered my face and wept, not for him, but at the
thought of my own calamity in having to part from such a friend. Nor was I the first; for Crito, when he
found himself unable to restrain his tears, had got up, and I followed; and at that moment, Apollodorus,
who had been weeping all the time, broke out in a loud and passionate cry which made cowards of us
all. Socrates alone retained his calmness: What is this strange outcry? he said. I sent away the women
mainly in order that they might not misbehave in this way, for I have been told that a man should die in
peace. Be quiet, then, and have patience. When we heard his words we were ashamed, and refrained our
tears; and he walked about until, as he said, his legs began to fail, and then he lay on his back, according
to the directions, and the man who gave him the poison now and then looked at his feet and legs; and
after a while he pressed his foot hard, and asked him if he could feel; and he said, No; and then his leg,
and so upwards and upwards, and showed us that he was cold and stiff. And he felt them himself, and
said: When the poison reaches the heart, that will be the end. He was beginning to grow cold about the
groin, when he uncovered his face, for he had covered himself up, and said—they were his last words—
he said: Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt? The debt shall be paid,
said Crito; is there anything else? There was no answer to this question; but in a minute or two a
movement was heard, and the attendants uncovered him; his eyes were set, and Crito closed his eyes and
mouth.
Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend; concerning whom I may truly say, that of all the men of
his time whom I have known, he was the wisest and justest and best.
Plato: Phaedo, decoded

Echecrates and Phaedo are talking.

Phaedo, were you there when Socrates was executed?

Yes, Echecrates, I was.
Tell me about it. What did he say in his last hours?
I will begin at the beginning, and try to repeat the entire conversation. We had been coming to see
him in the morning in the courthouse, not far from the prison. We used to wait, talking, until the doors
were opened, and then we would go in and pass the day with Socrates. On the last morning, we arrived
earlier than usual, as we had heard that the sacred ship had come from Delos. The jailer came out to ask
us to stay until The Eleven had taken off Socrates’ chains and given the execution order. When we were
allowed in, Xanthippe was there, crying. She said, “Oh Socrates, this is the last time either that you will
converse with your friends or they with you.” Socrates asked Crito to have someone take her home,
which they did. Socrates sat up on his bed, rubbing the mark on his leg where his chains had been and
said, “Pleasure is very odd! It is so closely related to pain, which seems to be its opposite, for you can’t
have both at the same time. But when you try to have pleasure, you often end up in pain, and the other
way around. They are two sides of the same coin.”
Cebes said, Evenus told me to ask you why you’ve started writing poetry in prison? We hear you’re
turning Aesop’s fables into songs.
Tell him, Cebes, that I wasn’t trying to be his rival. I was trying to get rid of a nagging feeling that
I’ve had. I’ve often been told in dreams that I should compose music. Tell Evenus to come see me on the
other side. And tell him to hurry!
What? I don’t think he’ll take your advice.
Isn’t he a philosopher?
Yes, I think he is.
Then he should be eager to die—but not to kill himself.
Socrates shifted, put his feet on the ground, and stayed sat there for the rest of the conversation.
Why, asked Cebes, do you say that a philosopher should be ready to die, but that suicide is wrong?
I suppose, Socrates said, you’re really wondering why, when some evil things can be good at the
right time and to the right person, suicide can never be good.
Very true, said Cebes.
I admit that I seem inconsistent. Some people say that a prisoner has no right to escape, even if the
doors to his cell are left unlocked. I don’t quite understand this mystery, but I do think that we are the
property of gods, and we should not die until we are summoned by them.
Yes, Socrates, said Cebes. But you also said that a philosopher should be willing to die. Isn’t that a
contradiction?
Socrates smiled.
 Yes, he said; I see what you’re saying. Let me answer you like I would if I were in court.
Please do, said Simmias.
I’ll have to do better than I did last month! I admit, I would be afraid of dying if I thought that the
gods weren’t good, or if I worried that I would be going to a worse place than this. But I don’t.
But are you going to take away your ideas? Won’t you share them with us?
I will do my best, replied Socrates. But let me hear what Crito wants to say to me.
The attendant wants me to tell you not to talk too much. It will make the poison less effective.
Sometimes excited people need to take the poison twice, or even three times.
Well, tell him to mind his own business and prepare extra poison.
I knew you would say that.
And now, my judges, I will prove to you that a philosopher should be happy about dying, and that
the best parts of life happen after you die. The true philosopher will likely be misunderstood; people
cannot explain why a philosopher is always practicing death.
Simmias laughed: I shouldn’t laugh, Socrates, but you’re right. That’s how they think of us.
And they’re right! But enough of them. Do you believe there is such a thing as death?
Of course, replied Simmias.
And it is the separation of the soul and the body? When you are dead, the body is free of the soul,
and the soul is free of the body?
Just so, he replied.
Should philosophers care about bodily pleasures like eating and drinking?
Certainly not, answered Simmias.
And what about love—should they care for love?
By no means.
And will a philosopher think much of clothes or shoes or jewelry?
I should say that the true philosopher would despise them.
The philosopher is concerned only with the soul, and not the body. She would like to get away from
the body and turn only to the soul.
Quite true.
Most people think that a life without pleasure is not worth living. The philosopher lives with no
pleasure—so most people would think that her life is not worth living, and that she is as good as dead.
That is also true.
What about learning? Does the body help or hinder knowledge? Are not the senses untrustworthy?
Certainly, they are. The body is of no help.
Then truth is revealed in thought, if at all?
 Yes.
And thought is best done when meditating, without sights or sounds or pain or pleasure. Thought is
best when the mind has as little to do with the body as possible.
Certainly.
So the philosopher hates the body. She wishes to be away from it.
That is true.
Well, another thing, Simmias: Is there an absolute justice?
Assuredly there is.
And an absolute beauty and absolute good?
Of course.
But did you ever see them with your eyes?
Certainly not.
Or did you ever perceive them with one of your senses? Have you ever perceived any of The Forms
with one of your senses? Or is it better to find them with your mind’s eye, with your intellect, so that
you will have the best idea of the essence of each thing?
Certainly.
And you do the best job when you’re thinking, just thinking, not letting sight or any other sense
intrude.
So true, Socrates, so true.
And when philosophers consider all these things, they say: our bodies get in the way of truth. Our
souls are infected with the desires of the body. Our bodies are endless trouble. They bother us with
appetites and turmoil, spinning our minds around. To be wise, we must quit the body, and the soul must
fly alone. To be wise, we must die.
Undoubtedly.
But then, I’m going to finally get what I want. At last, I will reach the end of this quest. I go on my
way rejoicing. I would be ridiculous if I lived as nearly as I could to a state of death, and yet worried
about it when it came for me.
Clearly.
True philosophers, Simmias, are always practice dying, so death, to them, is not terrible. Many men
have wanted to die so that they could be reunited with their wives or children. A true lover of wisdom
will likewise depart with joy.
He would, indeed, replied Simmias.
When you see someone trembling in the face of death, you will know that she is not a philosopher.
She is a lover of the body, or money, or power. You know that death is regarded as evil by most people,
right?
 Of course.
And most courageous men face death because they are afraid of yet greater evils?
Quite true.
Then most men are courageous only because they are afraid! It’s very odd that a person would be
courageous from fear.
Very true.
The temperate are the same. They exercise and eat well so that they can enjoy pleasures for longer.
They avoid pleasure because they love pleasure.
Very true.
But this is not excellence at all, is it? These people are trading one pleasure for another, or one fear
for another. Wisdom is the only way to become just, temperate and courageous. When one knows what
is really important, one behaves excellently.
Cebes answered: I agree, Socrates, with most of what you say. But most people won’t believe you.
They worry that the soul will be dispersed like smoke when the body containing it has died. Can you
prove that the soul is immortal?
I reckon my old critics wouldn’t say I have my head in the clouds now; I’m clearly minding my own
business! Let’s start with the question of whether souls go to to another world. Some believe in
reincarnation. If it is true that the living come from the dead, then our souls must exist in another world.
If we can prove reincarnation, then we can prove the soul’s persistence.
Very true, replied Cebes.
Then let us consider the whole question, not only for humans, but also for animals and plants. All
things that have opposites come from their opposites. Good comes from the less-good, and the just
comes from the unjust. Anything big must come from something smaller.
Yes.
What is the opposite of life?
Death.
Death, he answered.
Then the living comes from the dead?
That is clear, he replied.
Then our souls exist in the world below.
That is true.
I think this is verified by some other thoughts I have had. If everything went in a straight line, all
dead things would become living, or all living things would become dead. There must be a cycle of life.
You’re absolutely right, Cebes said. He added, Now that I think of it, your idea that all knowledge is
recollection, if true, also implies that the soul is immortal. It implies that we were alive at some previous
time.
Simmias interjected: Do you mean that all knowledge is recollection?
It is, Cebes said. If you ask someone questions in the right way, then she will answer you, even
about things she does not know. You can draw answers out of her, like a teacher does from a student,
just by asking questions, never giving answers. Socrates is really good at it.
If you have doubts, Socrates said, think of it this way. A person recalling a fact once knew it but
forgot.
Very true.
Can I get you to agree to one more thing? There is such a thing as absolute equality, not just of these
pieces of wood or those stones.
I swear it, yes.
Do we know this absolute equality, this essence of equality?
To be sure, he said.
Where did we learn it? Did we learn about it from looking at different things, like pieces of wood?
Don’t the same pieces of wood sometimes look equal and sometimes unequal? If I hold them up beside
each other, they look equal, but when I move one away, it seems smaller.
True enough.
So equal sticks are not perfectly equal. They fall short of perfect equality.
They do.
But when I look at two things, and I can tell that they are almost equal, I must have already known
what equality is—because, obviously, I cannot see equality here.
Certainly.
Then we must have known absolute equality before we saw any material things that are equal-ish,
because physical things are only ever almost equal. They are never perfectly equal.
Yes.
Then we must have known absolute equality before we began to perceive or see in any way. How
else would we have known the standard that we use in all our senses?
I think that is the only conclusion.
So, either we had this knowledge at birth and continued knowing it; or, sometime after birth, we
remember it—in other words, we recall it.
Yes, that is very true, Socrates.
Which do you think it is?
I cannot decide.
Can people who know things explain how they know things?
 Sure they can.
Can every person explain what I just explained?
Socrates, tomorrow, I fear, nobody will be able to explain it.
Then how do people know these things? When did we learn them? We were not born fully formed.
We must have had this knowledge in our souls, before they were joined with our bodies.
Unless this knowledge was given to us at birth.
But that’s when we forget this knowledge!
I was crazy. How could I not have known?
So, we can say, if there is an absolute beauty and an absolute goodness, and all The Forms, then if
we use these Forms for knowledge and find that we were born with them, then our souls must have
existed before. The same proof shows The Forms, the essences, existed before our births. If they did not,
then we did not.
I totally believe you. I am convinced.
Is Cebes?
I think he is, although he is the most incredulous person to have ever lived. But I think that you have
shown that the soul exists before birth; I don’t think you have shown that it will exist after death. It may
have existed before, but perhaps our deaths are the end of them, and each disappears.
Exactly right, Cebes said.
I’ve proven it if you put the two arguments together. Like children, though, you and Simmias are
haunted by the fear that the wind will blow your souls away, so let us explore the theory further.
Smiling, Cebes said, please argue us out of our fears.
Let me sing your worries away.
Where will we find another like you to sing us lullabies when you are gone, Socrates?
Greece is large, Cebes, and there are many good people here. There are many barbarian tribes, too.
Find another babysitter, and spare neither time nor money. And look amongst yourselves—nobody is
your equal.
We shall. But let us continue.
What is the soul, and why do we worry that it might be scattered, Socrates asked.
A very good question.
Substances that are ‘compound’ are capable of being dissolved into their parts. Uncompounded
substances are indissoluable.
Yes; I should imagine so, said Cebes.
And the uncompounded is always the same and unchanging, and the compound is always changing
and never the same.
I agree, he said.
 Are The Forms (or essences or Ideas) things that change? Or are they incapable of change in any
way?
They must be always the same, Socrates, replied Cebes.
And what would you say of the many beautiful things in the world—whether men or horses or
garments—are they all unchanging and the same always, or quite the reverse?
The latter, replied Cebes; they are always in a state of change.
And didn’t we say that the soul, when it uses the body to perceive, is dragged around in the world of
the changeable? It gets confused and drunk on change.
Very true.
But when returning into itself, it reflects, and passes into the other world, the world of purity, and
eternity, and immortality, and unchangeableness. It is at home there. When communing with the
unchanging, it becomes unchanging. And this is wisdom?
That is well and truly said, Socrates, he replied.
And what is the soul more like, then? The world of change and compound substances? Or the world
of the permanent and unchanging?
I think, Socrates, that the soul will is much more like the unchangeable—even the most stupid
person would agree.
Then, Cebes, the soul is just like the divine, and immortal, and intellectual, and uniform, and
indissoluble, and unchangeable. The body is human, and mortal, and unintellectual, and changeable. Am
I right?
You are.
Thus the body can be broken up, but the soul cannot?
Certainly.
And haven’t you seen that some corpses may remain for some time, and, if the weather is cool and
the body is sound, may not decompose?
Yes.
Does it seem likely that the soul will be blown away and destroyed? It cannot be, my friends. The
truth is this: A pure soul, the soul of a philosopher, departs to the perfect world, to the divine world, and
finds bliss and wisdom there. Am I right, Cebes?
Yes, said Cebes, beyond a doubt.
But the soul that has been polluted by the body and by the desires and pleasures of the body—do you
suppose that such a soul will depart pure?
Impossible, he replied.
It is held fast by the body.
Very true.
 Drunks and gluttons and the promiscuous will become donkeys and that sort of animal, I think.
I think that sounds right.
And the unjust, and tyrants, and thugs—they will become hawks and wolves and vultures?
Yes, said Cebes.
The impure and the unwise are not allowed to enter into the company of the gods. Only philosophers
are. And that, friends, is why philosophers abstain from lusts—because they dread the dishonour and
disgrace of evil.
No philosopher would be evil, said Cebes.
After Socrates stopped speaking, there was silence; he appeared to be meditating, as most of us
were, on what had been said. Only only Cebes and Simmias spoke to one another. Socrates asked what
they thought of the argument, and whether there was anything missing.
Simmias said: I must confess, Socrates, we still have doubts. We each want the other person to ask
you.
Simmias, what are you saying? If I can’t persuade you, I’ll never persuade anyone that I am not
afraid to die. Let me be like a swan! When swans know their time has come, they sing more than ever,
rejoicing that they will go back to their god.
I will tell you my difficulty, and Cebes will tell you his. I have doubts, but I must ask you now, so
that I am not ashamed of myself later, once you are gone. I just don’t think the argument is sufficient.
Socrates answered: You may be right, but I would like to know in what way it isn’t.
In this respect: Suppose a person used the same argument about harmony and guitars. He would say
that harmony is perfect, divine, and exists in the well-tuned guitar. But when the guitar gets broken or
the strings are cut, then what happens? If he argues like you, he would say that the songs survive. The
songs must still be somewhere. That is your conception of the soul; when the body is held together and
in good condition, then the soul is the harmony of the strings. But that doesn’t make sense. Whenever
the strings (or the body) are damaged or strained or old, the harmony disappears—or the soul perishes.
What would you say to someone who said that?
Not bad, Simmias! Cebes, what were you going to say?
I think your argument is open to the same objections which I had before; I agree that the soul exists
before the body, but what about after the body’s death? Let me use an example. An old coat-maker dies,
and after he is gone, someone says, “He’s not dead! What lasts longer, a coat, or the person wearing the
coat? Here is the coat he wore, and it’s not gone. Since people last longer than coats, he cannot be gone
either!” But that’s nonsense. The tailor made many coats and outlasted them. He was outlasted by the
last coat he made. Perhaps the soul is the same: it lasts through many bodies, but is, in the end, worn out
by the last body it is in. If that could be, I am afraid this is my last coat.
Phaedo: We felt awful. These were excellent objections, and our faith was shaken.
Echecrates: I feel you—I really do, Phaedo. Now I too worry; what argument can I ever trust? Tell
me, I beg you, how did Socrates proceed?
 Socrates has often amazed me, but never more than that day. He was so gentle and pleasant and
approving.
What happened?
I was sitting close to him on a stool. He stroked my head and played with the curls of hair on my
neck. Tomorrow, Phaedo, he said, I suppose you will shear your hair in misery.
Yes, Socrates, I suppose that I will, I replied.
Not if you will take my advice.
What shall I do? I said.
Today we will both shave our hair if we cannot resurrect this argument. We cannot become
misologists—haters of logic. Misanthropy arises out of inexperience. A person has bad experiences with
a few people, and he turns away, into himself, and becomes a misanthrope. There are also misologists,
haters of ideas. People become skeptical if they see a few arguments fail. They think that argumentation
never proves anything. How sad.
Yes, indeed, I said; that is very melancholy.
He proceeded: Do you disagree with my whole argument, or only a part?
Only a part, they replied.
But, he said, you are wrong, my friends, if think that harmony is a compound, and that the soul is a
harmony which is made out of strings of the body; you would never say that a harmony is prior to the
guitar that makes it.
Never, Socrates.
But don’t you see that you have said just this? In a discourse on harmony, you ought to harmonize!
We should.
But there is no harmony, he said, in the two propositions you agree to: that knowledge is
recollection, and that the soul is a harmony. You can’t have both. Which do you want to keep?
I think, he replied, that I have more faith in the first than in the latter, which has not been
demonstrated at all.
Doesn’t a harmony depend on how its parts work together?
I do not understand you, he said.
I mean to say that a harmony admits of degrees. Some things are more harmonious than others.
True.
But does the soul admit of degrees? Or is one soul exactly as complete as the other. (Surely an
intelligent, virtuous soul is more complete than a foolish, evil one.)
One soul is exactly as complete as another.
But what about this? But if wisdom is harmony, as you said, and the soul is harmony, as you said,
then is the wise soul harmonized-squared? Is there a harmony of harmonies in the soul? The soul is the
harmony of the body, according to them. Is a good soul a harmonized harmonized body?
I don’t know, replied Simmias. I guess that’s what I’d say.
But you said that one soul is exactly as complete as another. That is equivalent to saying that there is
no more harmony in one than in another. So one soul has no more vice or virtue than another, if vice is
discord and virtue is harmony? So all souls of all living creatures will be equally good?
I think so.
Really? Can all this be true? These are the consequences that follow from your assertion that souls
are harmonies of the body.
It cannot be true. I admit it.
The wise soul rules human nature. It is not ruled by human nature.
Certainly.
And does the soul agree with the loves of the body? Or does the soul disagree? When the body wants
to eat or drink, doesn’t the soul push back and sometimes refuse?
Very true.
But you said that the soul, as a harmony, cannot play the strings—it is created by the strings. It is the
song they make. But don’t we now see that the soul pushes the body around, forcing it to diet and
exercise, for instance, even when it rebels? And finally, didn’t Odysseus say,
‘He beat his breast, and thus reproached his heart: Endure, my heart; far worse hast thou endured!’
Don’t you think that Odysseus was commanding his soul to lead and master his heart? If so, we
should never say that the soul is a harmony of the body, for we would contradict the divine Homer.
True, he said. I entirely agree. It’s settled.
Cebes, you want me to prove to you that the soul is immortal, but you think that I am foolish for not
fearing death. You worry that I might be wearing my soul out.
I mean what you say that I mean.
Hmmm. That’s an excellent objection, Cebes.
I should very much like, said Cebes, to hear what you have to say.
Cebes, when I was a child, I wanted to know all about the causes of things, and about creation and
destruction. I thought I understood the meaning of greater and less pretty well; and when I saw a big
man standing by a little one, I knew what I saw. I was even more certain about arithmetic; now, I’m not
so sure. I can no longer understand how twoness is different from two onenesses. I am no longer be sure
that I even know what creation and destruction mean.
Tell me more.
First, assume that there is an absolute beauty and goodness and greatness. The rest will follow. Do
you agree that something can be beautiful only if it partakes of absolute beauty? And isn’t everything
else just the same? Great things partake of greatness? And so on?
 Yes, he said, I agree.
And if Phaedo is bigger than Simmias, this is not because Phaedo is Phaedo, but because Phaedo has
greatness relatively to Simmias?
That is true.
Let me ask you to consider another point of view, and see whether you agree with me: There is heat
and there is cold?
Certainly.
But are they the same as fire and snow?
Clearly not.
And in some cases the name of the idea is the same as the idea. I will try to make this clearer by an
example: The odd number is always called ‘odd’?
Very true.
But there are also many other things called odd. The number three is in the class of odd things, and
five is too, but they are not oddness. Oddness is something else. Three is odd, but three is also three.
Oddness is just oddness.
Of course.
Then think about this: classes exclude their opposites, but the members of the classes also exclude
their opposites. Oddness will always exclude evenness. Oddness just cannot be evenness. But three will
also never be even. It will be destroyed before it becomes even.
Very true, said Cebes.
Therefore opposite ideas repel each other, and opposite natures do too. So nothing which brings an
opposite will admit the opposite of that which it brings.
Yes, he said, I entirely agree.
Tell me, then, what makes the body alive
The soul, he replied.
And the opposite to life?
Death.
Then the soul will never receive the opposite of what she brings.
Impossible, replied Cebes.
If the immortal is also imperishable, then the soul, when attacked by death, cannot perish. When
death attacks a man, the mortal portion of him will die, but the immortal retreats at the approach of death
and is preserved safe and sound?
True.
Then, Cebes, beyond question, the soul is immortal and imperishable, and our souls will exist in
another world!
 I am convinced, Socrates, said Cebes, and have nothing more to object.
My friends, he said, if the soul is really immortal, we should take better care of it in life and in
eternity. If death were really the end, then it would pay to be evil. The wicked would be free from their
sins. But, since the soul is immortal, there is no release or salvation—except wisdom. The wicked will
carry their sins with them forever. The wise will be free and in their rightful place after death.
Let me tell you one more thing before I go. The earth is wide and wonderful. It is bigger than the
imagination of any geographers. I heard this from a friend, who must remain nameless.
What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias.
Well, I think that the earth is a sphere floating the heavens. It floats in space, balanced. I also think
that the earth is vast and that we only inhabit a small part of it. There are other people scattered all
around the world, and we have not yet met these tribes. When the earth is looked down on from space, it
is streaked like a leather ball covered in colourful patches. It is purple and gold and white, and all the
loveliest colours of the rainbow. There are mountains and valleys and hills with jewels more beautiful
than any you’ve seen. There are four rivers, too, flowing in different directions. The fourth is the darkest
blue, like lapis lazuli, and it is the river Styx. It becomes magical as it passes under the earth. It carries
the dead, and on the other side of the world, the good are praised and the evil are punished. What care
we must take! For the prize is good and the hope is great!
I admit, I might not be exactly right. But it’s more or less like this, and therefore I say, friends, be of
good cheer. You will all die sooner or later—but I will die soonest. The voice of fate calls me now. I
should go to have my bath now, so that my wife will not have to clean my body after I am dead.
Crito said, Socrates, what would you like us to tell your children, or do when you are gone?
Nothing in particular, Crito, he replied. Just do like I have always told you: take care of yourselves.
We will do our best, said Crito. How would you like to be buried?
Any way that you like. Then he turned to us, and added with a smile: Crito thinks I am dead already.
He wants to know how he shall bury me. I simply cannot persuade him that he will be burying only my
body, and not me, Socrates. Take care of him, won’t you, as he always took care of me? Crito, my dear,
be of good cheer, and know that I will be gone when you will be burying my body.
After he spoke these words, he went into the bedroom to bathe; Crito followed him and told us to
wait. So we remained behind, talking and thinking of death, and also of the greatness of our sorrow; we
were losing a father, and we were about to pass the rest of our lives as orphans. When he had taken the
bath, his children were brought to him (he had two young sons and an elder one); and the women of his
family also came, and he talked to them and gave them instructions; then he dismissed them and
returned to us.
It was sunset, as he had stayed within for quite a long time. When he came out, he sat down with us
again, but not much was said. Soon the jailer, who was the servant of the Eleven, entered and stood by
him. He said, Socrates, I know you are the noblest and gentlest and best of all the men who have had to
come here, so I know you will not rage and swear at me, as the others have done. I am a servant of the
authorities, and you know that they are to blame, not me. Fare well, Socrates. May your load be light,
and forgive me. With that, he burst into tears and ran out.
 As he left, Socrates said, I return your good wishes, and will do as you bid. Then turning to us, he
said, How charming the man is: since I have been in prison he has always been coming to see me, and at
times he would talk to me, and was as good to me as could be, and now see how generously he weeps
for me. We must do as he says, Crito. Bring the cup.
The sun is still upon the hill-tops, Crito said. I know that many have taken the cup late and even after
the announcements have been made to them, many have eaten and drunk and enjoyed the company of
their friends; do not hurry—there is still time.
Socrates said: Yes, Crito, and those others were clever. They thought that they would come out
ahead by delaying. I know that that I will not. I would only be ridiculous. My life is over, so please, do
as I say.
Crito made a sign to the servant, who was standing by; he went out and returned with the jailer
carrying the cup of poison. Socrates said: You have done this before, my good friend; tell me what to do.
The man answered: Walk about until your legs are heavy, and then lie down, and the poison will act. He
handed the cup to Socrates, who in the easiest and gentlest manner, without the least fear or change of
colour or feature, looked straight at the man, took the cup, and said: Can I honour the gods by pouring
some out to them? The man answered: We prepare only enough for one. I understand, he said, and I ask
the gods to help me with my journey from this to the other world even without their share. Then, raising
the cup to his lips, drank off the poison, just like that. Until then, we had been able to control ourselves;
but when we saw him drinking, and saw him finish, we could no longer hold back. My own tears were
flowing fast; I covered my face and wept—not for him, for me, and for my despair at leaving such a
friend. Crito was unable to restrain his tears, and he got up and I followed. At that moment,
Apollodorus, who had been weeping all the time, broke out wailing. Socrates alone remained calm:
What is this crying all about? he said. I sent the women away so that they wouldn’t act like this. A man
should die in peace. Be quiet, then, and be patient. When we heard his words, we were ashamed, and we
tried to hold back our tears. He walked about until his legs began to fail, and then he lay on his back,
according to the directions, and the man who gave him the poison looked at his feet and legs. After a
while he pressed his foot hard, and asked him if he could feel; he said he could not. The coldness and
stiffness spread upwards and upwards. And the jailer said: When the poison reaches the heart, that will
be the end. Socrates was beginning to grow cold about the groin. When he uncovered his face (he had
covered himself up), he said—they were his last words—Crito, I owe a rooster to Asclepius; will you
remember to pay the debt? The debt shall be paid, said Crito; is there anything else? There was no
answer to this question; but in a minute or two a movement was heard, and the attendants uncovered
him. His eyes were set, and Crito closed his eyes and mouth.
That was the end, Echecrates, of our friend. I may truly say, that of all the men of his time whom I
have known, he was the wisest and justest and best.
Aristotle

Aristotle was Plato’s student. The three greatest philosophers ever, then, came one after another:
Socrates, Plato, Aristotle.
It is absolutely impossible to overstate Aristotle’s genius. He wrote about meteorology, biology,
science, logic, astronomy, philosophy, and even veterinary science. He was so good that for 2000 years
he was known as “The Philosopher”, as if there were only one.
In this book, Aristotle discusses how a person should live.
The differences between Aristotle and Plato are quite striking. While Plato refers to an other-
worldly, heavenly realm (the realm of The Forms), Aristotle says, in short, the good life is whatever
good people do. Obviously, this is a bit circular (how do good people know what to do?). It is also just
about right on the money if you ask me.
Aristotle is generally like that: a close-enough kind of guy. He knows that the perfect is the enemy of
the good, and he is commonly taught as the first scientist or “empiricist”. Empiricists are people who
look to the external world to discover truth.
Most people are empiricists now, so it may be helpful to consider some examples that throw
empiricism into doubt. Imagine I asked you to tell me how many degrees are in the interior angles of a
triangle. How would you go about it?
As an empiricist, you might get a protractor and measure a triangle. But this really doesn’t answer
the question; among many other problems, you’ve only told me about one triangle, not all triangles.
You’ll also never measure to exactly 180º, so you should say that triangles have only approximately that
many.
A rationalist (the opposite of an empiricist) says that counting or measuring is uncertain or worse.
There are ways to prove, without doubt, that all triangles have exactly 180º. And amazingly,
astonishingly, incredibly, the proof can be done entirely in one’s own mind, without even drawing or
measuring any actual triangles. The truth is found only through deductive reasoning.
Descartes, Plato and Kant (whom we’ll see later) are rationalists; they believe in a priori truth:
questions are tested within the mind. Aristotle and Mill (later) are empiricists; they believe in a
posteriori truth: questions are tested by experiment.
In this reading, Aristotle tells us what the good life is. Unsurprisingly, he looks outward to see what
good people do. To Aristotle, the question of the good life, is that eternal question of philosophy: what is
the meaning of life. He thinks that we have a purpose, and when we fulfil it, we are living well.
Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics, Books 1 and 2, edited

BOOK I
If, then, there is some end of the things we do, which we desire for its own sake (everything else
being desired for the sake of this), and if we do not choose everything for the sake of something else (for
at that rate the process would go on to infinity, so that our desire would be empty and vain), clearly this
must be the good and the chief good. Will not the knowledge of it, then, have a great influence on life?
Shall we not, like archers who have a mark to aim at, be more likely to hit upon what is right? If so, we
must try, in outline at least, to determine what it is, and of which of the sciences or capacities it is the
object. It would seem to belong to the most authoritative art and that which is most truly the master art.
And politics appears to be of this nature; for it is this that ordains which of the sciences should be
studied in a state, and which each class of citizens should learn and up to what point they should learn
them. These, then, are the ends at which our inquiry aims, since it is political science, in one sense of
that term.
Our discussion will be adequate if it has as much clearness as the subject-matter admits of, for
precision is not to be sought for alike in all discussions, any more than in all the products of the crafts. In
the same spirit, therefore, should each type of statement be received; for it is the mark of an educated
man to look for precision in each class of things just so far as the nature of the subject admits; it is
evidently equally foolish to accept probable reasoning from a mathematician and to demand from a
rhetorician scientific proofs.
Verbally there is very general agreement; for both the general run of men and people of superior
refinement say that the final good is happiness, and identify living well and doing well with being
happy; but with regard to what happiness is they differ, and the many do not give the same account as
the wise. For the former think it is some plain and obvious thing, like pleasure, wealth, or honour; they
differ, however, from one another—and often even the same man identifies it with different things, with
health when he is ill, with wealth when he is poor; but, conscious of their ignorance, they admire those
who proclaim some great ideal that is above their comprehension.
To judge from the lives that men lead, most men, and men of the most vulgar type, seem (not
without some ground) to identify the good, or happiness, with pleasure; which is the reason why they
love the life of enjoyment. For there are, we may say, three prominent types of life—that just mentioned,
the political, and thirdly the contemplative life. Now the mass of mankind is evidently quite slavish in
their tastes, preferring a life suitable to beasts, but they get some ground for their view from the fact that
many of those in high places share the tastes of Sardanapallus. A consideration of the prominent types of
life shows that people of superior refinement and of active disposition identify happiness with honour;
for this is, roughly speaking, the end of the political life. But it seems too superficial to be what we are
looking for, since it is thought to depend on those who bestow honour rather than on him who receives
it, but the good we divine to be something proper to a man and not easily taken from him. Further, men
seem to pursue honour in order that they may be assured of their goodness; at least it is by men of
practical wisdom that they seek to be honoured, and among those who know them, and on the ground of
their excellence; clearly, then, according to them, at any rate, excellence is better. And perhaps one
might even suppose this to be, rather than honour, the end of the political life. But even this appears
somewhat incomplete; for possession of excellence seems actually compatible with being asleep, or with
lifelong inactivity, and, further, with the greatest sufferings and misfortunes; but a man who was living
so no one would call happy, unless he were maintaining a thesis at all costs. But enough of this; for the
subject has been sufficiently treated even in the current discussions. Third comes the contemplative life,
which we shall consider later.
Since there is evidently more than one end, and we choose some of these for the sake of something
else, clearly not all ends are final ends; but the chief good is evidently something final. Therefore, if
there is only one final end, this will be what we are seeking, and if there are more than one, the most
final of these will be what we are seeking.
Now such a thing happiness, above all else, is held to be; for this we choose always for self and
never for the sake of something else.
Presumably, however, to say that happiness is the chief good seems a platitude, and a clearer account
of what it is still desired. This might perhaps be given, if we could first ascertain the function of man.
For just as for a flute-player, a sculptor, or an artist, and, in general, for all things that have a function or
activity, the good and the ‘well’ is thought to reside in the function, so would it seem to be for man, if he
has a function. Have the carpenter, then, and the tanner certain functions or activities, and has man
none? Is he born without a function? Or as eye, hand, foot, and in general each of the parts evidently has
a function, may one lay it down that man similarly has a function apart from all these? What then can
this be? Life seems to be common even to plants, but we are seeking what is peculiar to man. Let us
exclude, therefore, the life of nutrition and growth. Next there would be a life of perception, but it also
seems to be common even to the horse, the ox, and every animal. There remains, then, an active life of
the element that has a rational principle. Now if the function of man is an activity of soul which follows
or implies a rational principle, and we state the function of man to be a certain kind of life, and this to be
an activity or actions of the soul implying a rational principle, and the function of a good man to be the
good and noble performance of these, and if any action is well performed when it is performed in
accordance with the appropriate excellence: if this is the case, human good turns out to be activity of
soul in accordance with excellence, and if there are more than one excellence, in accordance with the
best and most complete.
But we must add ‘in a complete life.’ For one swallow does not make a summer, nor does one day;
and so too one day, or a short time, does not make a man blessed and happy.
Let this serve as an outline of the good; for we must presumably first sketch it roughly, and then
later fill in the details. For the beginning is thought to be more than half of the whole, and many of the
questions we ask are cleared up by it.
Now for most men their pleasures are in conflict with one another because these are not by nature
pleasant, but the lovers of what is noble find pleasant the things that are by nature pleasant; and virtuous
actions are such, so that these are pleasant for such men as well as in their own nature. Their life,
therefore, has no further need of pleasure as a sort of adventitious charm, but has its pleasure in itself.
For, besides what we have said, the man who does not rejoice in noble actions is not even good; since no
one would call a man just who did not enjoy acting justly, nor any man liberal who did not enjoy liberal
actions; and similarly in all other cases. If this is so, virtuous actions must be in themselves pleasant. But
they are also good and noble, and have each of these attributes in the highest degree, since the good man
judges well about these attributes; his judgment is such as we have described. Happiness then is the best,
noblest, and most pleasant thing in the world, and these attributes are not severed as in the inscription at
Delos-
Most noble is that which is justest, and best is health;
But pleasantest is it to win what we love.
For all these properties belong to the best activities; and these, or one—the best—of these, we
identify with happiness.
Yet evidently, as we said, it needs the external goods as well; for it is impossible, or not easy, to do
noble acts without the proper equipment. In many actions we use friends and riches and political power
as instruments; and there are some things the lack of which takes the lustre from happiness, as good
birth, goodly children, beauty; for the man who is very ugly in appearance or ill-born or solitary and
childless is not very likely to be happy, and perhaps a man would be still less likely if he had thoroughly
bad children or friends or had lost good children or friends by death. As we said, then, happiness seems
to need this sort of prosperity in addition; for which reason some identify happiness with good fortune,
though others identify it with excellence.
For this reason also the question is asked, whether happiness is to be acquired by learning or by
habituation or some other sort of training, or comes in virtue of some divine providence or again by
chance. Now if there is any gift of the gods to men, it is reasonable that happiness should be god-given,
and most surely god-given of all human things inasmuch as it is the best. But this question would
perhaps be more appropriate to another inquiry; happiness seems, however, even if it is not god-sent but
comes as a result of excellence and some process of learning or training, to be among the most godlike
things; for that which is the prize and end of excellence seems to be the best thing in the world, and
something godlike and blessed.
It will also on this view be very generally shared; for all who are not maimed as regards their
potentiality for excellence may win it by a certain kind of study and care. But if it is better to be happy
thus than by chance, it is reasonable that the facts should be so, since everything that depends on the
action of nature is by nature as good as it can be, and similarly everything that depends on art or any
rational cause, and especially if it depends on the best of all causes. To entrust to chance what is greatest
and most noble would be a very defective arrangement.
It is natural, then, that we call neither ox nor horse nor any other of the animals happy; for none of
them is capable of sharing in such activity. For this reason also a boy is not happy; for he is not yet
capable of such acts, owing to his age; and boys who are called happy are being congratulated by reason
of the hopes we have for them. For there is required, as we said, not only complete excellence but also a
complete life, since many changes occur in life, and all manner of chances, and the most prosperous may
fall into great misfortunes in old age, as is told of Priam in the Trojan Cycle; and one who has
experienced such chances and has ended wretchedly no one calls happy.
Since happiness is an activity of soul in accordance with perfect excellence, we must consider the
nature of excellence; for perhaps we shall thus see better the nature of happiness. By human excellence
we mean not that of the body but that of the soul; and happiness also we call an activity of soul. But if
this is so, clearly the student of politics must know somehow the facts about soul, as the man who is to
heal the eyes or the body as a whole must know about the eyes or the body; and all the more since
politics is more prized and better than medicine; but even among doctors the best educated spend much
labour on acquiring knowledge of the body. The student of politics, then, must study the soul, and must
study it with these objects in view, and do so just to the extent which is sufficient for the questions we
are discussing; for further precision is perhaps something more laborious than our purposes require.
Some things are said about it, adequately enough, even in the discussions outside our school, and we
must use these; e.g. that one element in the soul is irrational and one has a rational principle. Whether
these are separated as the parts of the body or of anything divisible are, or are distinct by definition but
by nature inseparable, like convex and concave in the circumference of a circle, does not affect the
present question.
Of the irrational element one division seems to be widely distributed, and vegetative in its nature, I
mean that which causes nutrition and growth; for it is this kind of power of the soul that one must assign
to all nurslings and to embryos, and this same power to full-grown creatures; this is more reasonable
than to assign some different power to them. Now the excellence of this seems to be common to all
species and not specifically human; for this part or faculty seems to function most in sleep, while
goodness and badness are least manifest in sleep (whence comes the saying that the happy are not better
off than the wretched for half their lives; and this happens naturally enough, since sleep is an inactivity
of the soul in that respect in which it is called good or bad), unless perhaps to a small extent some of the
movements actually penetrate to the soul, and in this respect the dreams of good men are better than
those of ordinary people. Enough of this subject, however; let us leave the nutritive faculty alone, since
it has by its nature no share in human excellence.
There seems to be also another irrational element in the soul—one which in a sense, however, shares
in a rational principle. For we praise the rational principle of the continent man and of the incontinent,
and the part of their soul that has such a principle, since it urges them aright and towards the best
objects; but there is found in them also another element naturally opposed to the rational principle,
which fights against and resists that principle. For exactly as paralyzed limbs when we intend to move
them to the right turn on the contrary to the left, so is it with the soul; the impulses of incontinent people
move in contrary directions. But while in the body we see that which moves astray, in the soul we do
not. No doubt, however, we must none the less suppose that in the soul too there is something contrary
to the rational principle, resisting and opposing it. In what sense it is distinct from the other elements
does not concern us. Now even this seems to have a share in a rational principle, as we said; at any rate
in the continent man it obeys the rational principle and presumably in the temperate and brave man it is
still more obedient; for in him it speaks, on all matters, with the same voice as the rational principle.
Therefore the irrational element also appears to be two-fold. For the vegetative element in no way
shares in a rational principle, but the appetitive and in general the desiring element in a sense shares in
it, in so far as it listens to and obeys it; this is the sense in which we speak of ‘taking account’ of one’s
father or one’s friends, not that in which we speak of ‘accounting’ for a mathematical property. That the
irrational element is in some sense persuaded by a rational principle is indicated also by the giving of
advice and by all reproof and exhortation. And if this element also must be said to have a rational
principle, that which has a rational principle (as well as that which has not) will be twofold, one
subdivision having it in the strict sense and in itself, and the other having a tendency to obey as one does
one’s father.
 Excellence too is distinguished into kinds in accordance with this difference; for we say that some of
the excellences are intellectual and others moral, philosophic wisdom and understanding and practical
wisdom being intellectual, liberality and temperance moral. For in speaking about a man’s character we
do not say that he is wise or has understanding but that he is good-tempered or temperate; yet we praise
the wise man also with respect to his state of mind; and of states of mind we call those which merit
praise excellent.

BOOK II
Excellence, then, being of two kinds, intellectual and moral, intellectual excellence in the main owes
both its birth and its growth to teaching (for which reason it requires experience and time), while moral
excellence comes about as a result of habit, whence also its name (ethike) is one that is formed by a
slight variation from the word ethos (habit). From this it is also plain that none of the moral excellences
arises in us by nature; for nothing that exists by nature can form a habit contrary to its nature. For
instance the stone which by nature moves downwards cannot be habituated to move upwards, not even if
one tries to train it by throwing it up ten thousand times; nor can fire be habituated to move downwards,
nor can anything else that by nature behaves in one way be trained to behave in another. Neither by
nature, then, nor contrary to nature do the excellences arise in us; rather we are adapted by nature to
receive them, and are made perfect by habit.
Again, of all the things that come to us by nature we first acquire the potentiality and later exhibit
the activity (this is plain in the case of the senses; for it was not by often seeing or often hearing that we
got these senses, but on the contrary we had them before we used them, and did not come to have them
by using them); but the excellences we get by first exercising them, as also happens in the case of the
arts as well. For the things we have to learn before we can do them, we learn by doing them, e.g. men
become builders by building and lyre players by playing the lyre; so too we become just by doing just
acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts.
This is confirmed by what happens in states; for legislators make the citizens good by forming habits
in them, and this is the wish of every legislator, and those who do not effect it miss their mark, and it is
in this that a good constitution differs from a bad one.
Again, it is from the same causes and by the same means that every excellence is both produced and
destroyed, and similarly every art; for it is from playing the lyre that both good and bad lyre-players are
produced. And the corresponding statement is true of builders and of all the rest; men will be good or
bad builders as a result of building well or badly. For if this were not so, there would have been no need
of a teacher, but all men would have been born good or bad at their craft. This, then, is the case with the
excellences also; by doing the acts that we do in our transactions with other men we become just or
unjust, and by doing the acts that we do in the presence of danger, and being habituated to feel fear or
confidence, we become brave or cowardly. The same is true of appetites and feelings of anger; some
men become temperate and good-tempered, others self-indulgent and irascible, by behaving in one way
or the other in the appropriate circumstances. Thus, in one word, states of character arise out of like
activities. This is why the activities we exhibit must be of a certain kind; it is because the states of
character correspond to the differences between these. It makes no small difference, then, whether we
form habits of one kind or of another from our very youth; it makes a very great difference, or rather all
the difference.
 Since, then, the present inquiry does not aim at theoretical knowledge like the others (for we are
inquiring not in order to know what excellence is, but in order to become good, since otherwise our
inquiry would have been of no use), we must examine the nature of actions, namely how we ought to do
them; for these determine also the nature of the states of character that are produced, as we have said.
First, then, let us consider this, that it is the nature of such things to be destroyed by defect and
excess, as we see in the case of strength and of health; both excessive and defective exercise destroys the
strength, and similarly drink or food which is above or below a certain amount destroys the health, while
that which is proportionate both produces and increases and preserves it. So too is it, then, in the case of
temperance and courage and the other excellences. For the man who flies from and fears everything and
does not stand his ground against anything becomes a coward, and the man who fears nothing at all but
goes to meet every danger becomes rash; and similarly the man who indulges in every pleasure and
abstains from none becomes self-indulgent, while the man who shuns every pleasure, as boors do,
becomes in a way insensible; temperance and courage, then, are destroyed by excess and defect, and
preserved by the mean.
But not only are the sources and causes of their origination and growth the same as those of their
destruction, but also the sphere of their actualization will be the same; for this is also true of the things
which are more evident to sense, e.g. of strength; it is produced by taking much food and undergoing
much exertion, and it is the strong man that will be most able to do these things. So too is it with the
excellences; by abstaining from pleasures we become temperate, and it is when we have become so that
we are most able to abstain from them; and similarly too in the case of courage; for by being habituated
to despise things that are terrible and to stand our ground against them we become brave, and it is when
we have become so that we shall be most able to stand our ground against them.
We must take as a sign of states of character the pleasure or pain that ensues on acts; for the man
who abstains from bodily pleasures and delights in this very fact is temperate, while the man who is
annoyed at it is self-indulgent, and he who stands his ground against things that are terrible and delights
in this or at least is not pained is brave, while the man who is pained is a coward. For moral excellence is
concerned with pleasures and pains; it is on account of the pleasure that we do bad things, and on
account of the pain that we abstain from noble ones. Hence we ought to have been brought up in a
particular way from our very youth, as Plato says, so as both to delight in and to be pained by the things
that we ought; for this is the right education.
We measure even our actions, some of us more and others less, by the rule of pleasure and pain. For
this reason, then, our whole inquiry must be about these; for to feel delight and pain rightly or wrongly
has no small effect on our actions.
Again, it is harder to fight with pleasure than with anger, to use Heraclitus’ phrase, but both art and
excellence are always concerned with what is harder; for even the good is better when it is harder.
Therefore for this reason also the whole concern both of excellence and of political science is with
pleasures and pains; for the man who uses these well will be good, he who uses them badly bad.
The question might be asked, what we mean by saying that we must become just by doing just acts,
and temperate by doing temperate acts; for if men do just and temperate acts, they are already just and
temperate, exactly as, if they do what is in accordance with the laws of grammar and of music, they are
grammarians and musicians.
 Or is this not true even of the arts? It is possible to do something that is in accordance with the laws
of grammar, either by chance or at the suggestion of another. A man will be a grammarian, then, only
when he has both done something grammatical and done it grammatically; and this means doing it in
accordance with the grammatical knowledge in himself.
Again, the case of the arts and that of the excellences are not similar; for the products of the arts
have their goodness in themselves, so that it is enough that they should have a certain character, but if
the acts that are in accordance with the excellences have themselves a certain character it does not
follow that they are done justly or temperately. The agent also must be in a certain condition when he
does them; in the first place he must have knowledge, secondly he must choose the acts, and choose
them for their own sakes, and thirdly his action must proceed from a firm and unchangeable character.
These are not reckoned in as conditions of the possession of the arts, except the bare knowledge; but as a
condition of the possession of the excellences, knowledge has little or no weight, while the other
conditions count not for a little but for everything, i.e. the very conditions which result from often doing
just and temperate acts.
Actions, then, are called just and temperate when they are such as the just or the temperate man
would do; but it is not the man who does these that is just and temperate, but the man who also does
them as just and temperate men do them. It is well said, then, that it is by doing just acts that the just
man is produced, and by doing temperate acts the temperate man; without doing these no one would
have even a prospect of becoming good.
But most people do not do these, but take refuge in theory and think they are being philosophers and
will become good in this way, behaving somewhat like patients who listen attentively to their doctors,
but do none of the things they are ordered to do. As the latter will not be made well in body by such a
course of treatment, the former will not be made well in soul by such a course of philosophy.
How this is to happen we have stated already, but it will be made plain also by the following
consideration of the specific nature of excellence. In everything that is continuous and divisible it is
possible to take more, less, or an equal amount, and that either in terms of the thing itself or relatively to
us; and the equal is an intermediate between excess and defect. By the intermediate in the object I mean
that which is equidistant from each of the extremes, which is one and the same for all men; by the
intermediate relatively to us that which is neither too much nor too little—and this is not one, nor the
same for all. For instance, if ten is many and two is few, six is the intermediate, taken in terms of the
object; for it exceeds and is exceeded by an equal amount; this is intermediate according to arithmetical
proportion. But the intermediate relatively to us is not to be taken so; if ten pounds are too much for a
particular person to eat and two too little, it does not follow that the trainer will order six pounds; for this
also is perhaps too much for the person who is to take it, or too little—too little for Milo, too much for
the beginner in athletic exercises. The same is true of running and wrestling. Thus a master of any art
avoids excess and defect, but seeks the intermediate and chooses this—the intermediate not in the object
but relatively to us.
If it is thus, then, that every art does its work well—by looking to the intermediate and judging its
works by this standard (so that we often say of good works of art that it is not possible either to take
away or to add anything, implying that excess and defect destroy the goodness of works of art, while the
mean preserves it; and good artists, as we say, look to this in their work), and if, further, excellence is
more exact and better than any art, as nature also is, then excellence must have the quality of aiming at
the intermediate. I mean moral excellence; for it is this that is concerned with passions and actions, and
in these there is excess, defect, and the intermediate. For instance, both fear and confidence and appetite
and anger and pity and in general pleasure and pain may be felt both too much and too little, and in both
cases not well; but to feel them at the right times, with reference to the right objects, towards the right
people, with the right motive, and in the right way, is what is both intermediate and best, and this is
characteristic of excellence. Similarly with regard to actions also there is excess, defect, and the
intermediate. Now excellence is concerned with passions and actions, in which excess is a form of
failure, and so is defect, while the intermediate is praised and is a form of success; and being praised and
being successful are both characteristics of excellence. Therefore excellence is a kind of mean, since, as
we have seen, it aims at what is intermediate.
Again, it is possible to fail in many ways (for evil belongs to the class of the unlimited, as the
Pythagoreans conjectured, and good to that of the limited), while to succeed is possible only in one way
(for which reason also one is easy and the other difficult—to miss the mark easy, to hit it difficult); for
these reasons also, then, excess and defect are characteristic of vice, and the mean of virtue:
For men are good in but one way, but bad in many.
Virtue, then, is a state of character concerned with choice, lying in a mean, i.e. the mean relative to
us, this being determined by a rational principle, and by that principle by which the man of practical
wisdom would determine it. Now it is a mean between two vices, that which depends on excess and that
which depends on defect; and again it is a mean because the vices respectively fall short of or exceed
what is right in both passions and actions, while excellence both finds and chooses that which is
intermediate. Hence in respect of its substance and the definition which states its essence excellenceis a
mean, with regard to what is best and right an extreme.
But not every action nor every passion admits of a mean; for some have names that already imply
badness, e.g. spite, shamelessness, envy, and in the case of actions adultery, theft, murder; for all of
these and suchlike things imply by their names that they are themselves bad, and not the excesses or
deficiencies of them. It is not possible, then, ever to be right with regard to them; one must always be
wrong. Nor does goodness or badness with regard to such things depend on committing adultery with
the right woman, at the right time, and in the right way, but simply to do any of them is to go wrong. It
would be equally absurd, then, to expect that in unjust, cowardly, and voluptuous action there should be
a mean, an excess, and a deficiency; for at that rate there would be a mean of excess and of deficiency,
an excess of excess, and a deficiency of deficiency. But as there is no excess and deficiency of
temperance and courage because what is intermediate is in a sense an extreme, so too of the actions we
have mentioned there is no mean nor any excess and deficiency, but however they are done they are
wrong; for in general there is neither a mean of excess and deficiency, nor excess and deficiency of a
mean.
We must, however, not only make this general statement, but also apply it to the individual facts. For
among statements about conduct, those which are general apply more widely, but those which are
particular are more genuine, since conduct has to do with individual cases, and our statements must
harmonize with the facts in these cases. We may take these cases from our table. With regard to feelings
of fear and confidence courage is the mean; of the people who exceed, he who exceeds in fearlessness
has no name (many of the states have no name), while the man who exceeds in confidence is rash, and
he who exceeds in fear and falls short in confidence is a coward. With regard to pleasures and pains—
not all of them, and not so much with regard to the pains—the mean is temperance, the excess self-
indulgence. Persons deficient with regard to the pleasures are not often found; hence such persons also
have received no name. But let us call them ‘insensible’.
With regard to giving and taking of money the mean is liberality, the excess and the defect
prodigality and meanness. In these actions, people exceed and fall short in contrary ways; the prodigal
exceeds in spending and falls short in taking, while the mean man exceeds in taking and falls short in
spending. (At present we are giving a mere outline or summary, and are satisfied with this; later these
states will be more exactly determined.) With regard to money there are also other dispositions—a
mean, magnificence (for the magnificent man differs from the liberal man; the former deals with large
sums, the latter with small ones), an excess, tastelessness and vulgarity, and a deficiency, niggardliness;
these differ from the states opposed to liberality, and the mode of their difference will be stated later.
With regard to honour and dishonour the mean is proper pride, the excess is known as a sort of ‘empty
vanity’, and the deficiency is undue humility; and as we said, liberality was related to magnificence,
differing from it by dealing with small sums, so there is a state similarly related to proper pride, being
concerned with small honours while that is concerned with great. For it is possible to desire honour as
one ought, and more than one ought, and less, and the man who exceeds in his desires is called
ambitious, the man who falls short unambitious, while the intermediate person has no name.
That moral excellence is a mean, then, and in what sense it is so, and that it is a mean between two
vices, the one involving excess, the other deficiency, and that it is such because its character is to aim at
what is intermediate in passions and in actions, has been sufficiently stated. Hence also it is no easy task
to be good. For in everything it is no easy task to find the middle, e.g. to find the middle of a circle is not
for every one but for him who knows; so, too, any one can get angry— that is easy— or give or spend
money; but to do this to the right person, to the right extent, at the right time, with the right motive, and
in the right way, that is not for every one, nor is it easy; wherefore goodness is both rare and laudable
and noble.
Hence he who aims at the intermediate must first depart from what is the more contrary to it, as
Calypso advises
Hold the ship out beyond that surf and spray.
For of the extremes, one is more erroneous, one less so; therefore, since to hit the mean is hard in the
extreme, we must as a second best, as people say, take the least of the evils; and this will be done best in
the way we describe. But we must consider the things towards which we ourselves also are easily carried
away; for some of us tend to one thing, some to another; and this will be recognizable from the pleasure
and the pain we feel. We must drag ourselves away to the contrary extreme; for we shall get into the
intermediate state by drawing well away from error, as people do in straightening sticks that are bent.
Now in everything the pleasant or pleasure is most to be guarded against; for we do not judge it
impartially. We ought, then, to feel towards pleasure as the elders of the people felt towards Helen, and
in all circumstances repeat their saying; for if we dismiss pleasure thus we are less likely to go astray. It
is by doing this, then, (to sum the matter up) that we shall best be able to hit the mean.
But this is no doubt difficult, and especially in individual cases; for it is not easy to determine both
how and with whom and on what provocation and how long one should be angry; for we too sometimes
praise those who fall short and call them good-tempered, but sometimes we praise those who get angry
and call them manly. The man, however, who deviates little from goodness is not blamed, whether he
does so in the direction of the more or of the less, but only the man who deviates more widely; for he
does not fail to be noticed. But up to what point and to what extent a man must deviate before he
becomes blameworthy it is not easy to determine by reasoning, any more than anything else that is
perceived by the senses; such things depend on particular facts, and the decision rests with perception.
So much, then, is plain, that the intermediate state is in all things to be praised, but that we must incline
sometimes towards the excess, sometimes towards the deficiency; for so shall we most easily hit the
mean and what is right.
Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics, Books 1 and 2, decoded

BOOK 1
We choose everything for the sake of happiness. Happiness is the only thing we choose for itself. Of
course, this sounds quite empty—it has not answered the important question, what is happiness?
A man is happy when he fulfills his function.
Yes, man has a function. Life is common to many things, like plants and animals, so the human
purpose is not merely to survive. Perception, too, is common; so our purpose is not merely to wander
around perceiving. We are the only creature that has a rational element. Our function, then, is the
activity of soul which follows the rational principle. A good man is a man that functions well.
Of course, we must add ‘in a complete life’. For one swallow does not make a summer. Being a
good person takes time.
Still, let this be a rough outline. Smart people do not ask for more detail than the subject matter
allows, and this subject will only allow rough outlines.
The best people find good things to be pleasant. Good activities are not good because they are
pleasant; they are pleasant (to a good person) because they are good.
Of course, even though the good life is simple, it requires some external effects. It may be
impossible for someone who is suffering to be good. A solitary, ugly, childless person will find it very
hard. Happiness seems to require some modest amount of prosperity.
Happiness and good functioning comes from habituation. It can be won through study and care. In
fact, this is the only way to be truly happy. A boy is not happy. No animal is happy. Happiness requires
not only complete virtue, but a complete life.
Happiness then, is a life of activity and excellence.
We are growing close, but we must discover, then, what the nature of excellenceis. Plato said that
one part of the soul is irrational and one part is rational. I agree. The irrational part is also divided into
the nutritive and willful. All animals have the nutritive element; they know how to eat and grow. The
willful part is the part that rebels against the rational part of the soul. It has something in common with
the intellect, but it is not quite rational; sometimes it seems to even spite the rational element, as when
we might tell a paralyzed limb to move to the left only to find it turn contrary to our will to the right.
Excellence is divided similarly. There are two kinds of excellence: intellectual and moral.
BOOK 2
Intellectual excellence comes from birth, and it grows from teaching. It requires experience and
time. Moral excellence comes about as a result of habit. None of the moral excellences is in us naturally;
we do not need to practice what comes naturally. Nothing that is natural can be changed. A stone cannot
be made to fall up by throwing it ten thousand times. No, nature gives us the capacity to develop
excellences, but we develop them through habit.
 Just as someone becomes a guitar player by playing guitar, so too do we become good by doing
good things. People become good or bad by behaving well or badly. We become courageous by facing
danger, and temperate by facing temptations. It makes no small difference, then, whether we form habits
of one kind or of another from our very youth; it makes a very great difference, or rather all the
difference.
Of course, while this may answer how one becomes good, it does not explain what a good act is. Let
us consider that next.
Things are destroyed by excess and defect, as we see in strength and health. Too much exercise
destroys strength. Too little does as well. Too much food destroys health. Too little does as well. A
person needs just the right amount. It is the same with all the other excellences. A man who always runs
away becomes a coward. A man who always stands his ground becomes rash. A woman who indulges
every pleasure becomes self-indulgent. A woman who indulges none becomes a boor. All excellences
are destroyed by excess and defect and preserved by the mean.
We can judge a person’s character by the pleasure or pain she receives from an act. A woman who is
pained by going to work is lazy. A woman who takes too much delight may be a busybody. Moral
excellence is concerned with developing the right pleasures and pains. We do bad things on account of
the pleasure they bring us. We abstain from good ones because (until we develop) they cause us pain.
And, because it is especially hard to fight with pleasure, we should structure our politics to encourage
taking pleasure from good activities.
What I say seems strange, I know. I say men become just by doing just acts and temperate by doing
temperate acts. Surely they are already just and temperate if they do these things. A person acting in
accordance with grammar is grammatical, and behaving musically is musical, so surely a person
behaving justly is already just.
Not so. A person can be grammatical by accident or by monkeying someone else. A woman will be
a grammarian only if she does something grammatical and does it grammatically. She must do it with
knowledge of grammar. Likewise, a person truly behaving well must be behaving with knowledge of
what she is doing.
Moreover, a man must act in a certain condition. He must have knowledge. He must choose his acts,
and, most importantly, his action must come from a firm and unchangeable character.
Actions, then, are called just and temperate when they are such as the just or the temperate man
would do. A man is not good if he simply does good acts; he must also do them as a good man does
them. A good man is made by doing good.
Most people find it too hard to be good. They talk about doing good but do not do it. They call
themselves philosophers and think that they will be good by discussing theory. It is somewhat like a
person who listens to her doctor but does not follow the instructions.
Again, good actions are those between an excess and a defect. This is the mean. The arithmetic mean
is equidistant from two extremes; 6 is the mean of 10 and 2. But the mean relative to us is not taken so.
While 10 pounds is too much food and 2 too little, 6 may be too much for me and too little for Chuck
Liddell. The good person avoids what is too much and too little relative to herself, the good teacher
relative to her pupil.
 All arts are the same. Nothing can be taken away nor added to a great work of art. Likewise, moral
excellence aims at the intermediate. Fear and confidence, pleasure and pain, indulgence and restraint: all
may be felt too much and too little. The good person feels them at the right times in the right amount,
with reference to the right things, toward the right people, and with the right motive. Moderation is
characteristic of excellence. Excellence aims at the moderate.
It is possible to fail in many ways, though, for evil is unlimited and goodness is limited. Failure is
easy, and success is difficult.
Excellence, then, is a state of character concerned with choice, lying in a mean relative to us. The
mean is determined by a rational principle, as a man of practical wisdom would determine it.
Some actions do not have means. Spite, shamelessness, envy, adultery, theft, murder and so on are
always bad. It is not possible to strike a mean about these things; one is always wrong. One cannot
commit adultery with the right woman at the right time and in the right way.
Here are a few examples of excellence. With regard to fear, courage is the mean. Rashness is the
excess and cowardliness the deficiency. With regard to money, the mean is liberality. Prodigality is the
excess and cheapness the defect. With regard to honour and dishonour, proper pride is the mean. Undue
humility is as bad as empty vanity.
It is, as I said, easy to go wrong. Sometimes we find the mean through experimentation and through
aiming at the second best. Some of us tend towards one error and must be dragged away from it.
Pleasure is particularly dangerous. We should dismiss it. We would be less likely to err.
A person who errs a little is not blamed, nor is one who errs infrequently. Up to what point a person
is allowed to err is not easy to determine. The judgment will depend, as these things do, on the
circumstances of the case.
Epicurus

After the Big Three (Socrates, Plato and Aristotle), philosophy fell to pieces for 2000 years or so. It
took Descartes to pep it up again. Epicurus was the just about the last of the Athenian philosophers, and
I think you’ll be able to discern the decline.
While most philosophers try to come up with a few guiding rules to govern our actions, Epicurus
came up with 40. More is not better. More is worse. Epicurus’ doctrines are a mad jumble of clearly
contradictory ideas.
Still, I like him. I like Epicurus because I can quote him to my wife when we go shopping. I ask her
whenever she wants to buy something crappy: “Is this natural and necessary, natural and unnecessary, or
neither natural nor necessary?” Of course, it gets me nowhere, but as she never studied philosophy, she
does not know that marriage is merely a contract for mutual benefit (Epicurus again) and, when she
gives me the silent treatment, I get to the absence of pain for a while. That’s good!
Epicurus studied Plato as a young man, experimented as a Lesbosian in his early 30s, and finally
moved to Athens, where he lived until his death.
He started a commune there. People made fun of him, but they still came by quite a bit—no surprise,
since ‘The Garden’ was the only school to admit women and had a saying on the front door: “Stranger,
stay as long as you like. Pleasure is our highest good.”
Epicurus was an atomist. He believed that the universe is composed of only two things: atoms and
void. That is a pretty radical idea, and Epicurus had the intellectual fortitude to see it through to its
conclusion: there is no soul, so death is the end.
Epicurus died because he couldn’t pee. He was quite cheerful about it.
Epicurus: Principal Doctrines, unedited

1. A blessed and indestructible being has no trouble himself and brings no trouble upon any
other being; so he is free from anger and partiality, for all such things imply weakness.
2. Death is nothing to us; for that which has been dissolved into its elements experiences no
sensations, and that which has no sensation is nothing to us.
3. The magnitude of pleasure reaches its limit in the removal of all pain. When such pleasure is
present, so long as it is uninterrupted, there is no pain either of body or of mind or of both
together.
4. Continuous bodily pain does not last long; instead, pain, if extreme, is present a very short
time, and even that degree of pain which slightly exceeds bodily pleasure does not last for
many days at once. Diseases of long duration allow an excess of bodily pleasure over pain.
5. It is impossible to live a pleasant life without living wisely and honorably and justly, and it is
impossible to live wisely and honorably and justly without living pleasantly. Whenever any
one of these is lacking, when, for instance, the man is not able to live wisely, though he lives
honorably and justly, it is impossible for him to live a pleasant life.
6. In order to obtain protection from other men, any means for attaining this end is a natural
good.
7. Some men want fame and status, thinking that they would thus make themselves secure
against other men. If the life of such men really were secure, they have attained a natural
good; if, however, it is insecure, they have not attained the end which by nature's own
prompting they originally sought.
8. No pleasure is a bad thing in itself, but the things which produce certain pleasures entail
disturbances many times greater than the pleasures themselves.
9. If every pleasure had been capable of accumulation, not only over time but also over the
entire body or at least over the principal parts of our nature, then pleasures would never differ
from one another.
10. If the things that produce the pleasures of profligate men really freed them from fears of the
mind concerning celestial and atmospheric phenomena, the fear of death, and the fear of
pain; if, further, they taught them to limit their desires, we should never have any fault to find
with such persons, for they would then be filled with pleasures from every source and would
never have pain of body or mind, which is what is bad.
11. If we had never been troubled by celestial and atmospheric phenomena, nor by fears about
death, nor by our ignorance of the limits of pains and desires, we should have had no need of
natural science.
12. It is impossible for someone to dispel his fears about the most important matters if he doesn't
know the nature of the universe but still gives some credence to myths. So without the study
of nature there is no enjoyment of pure pleasure.
13. There is no advantage to obtaining protection from other men so long as we are alarmed by
 events above or below the earth or in general by whatever happens in the boundless universe.
14. Protection from other men, secured to some extent by the power to expel and by material
prosperity, in its purest form comes from a quiet life withdrawn from the multitude.
15. The wealth required by nature is limited and is easy to procure; but the wealth required by
vain ideals extends to infinity.
16. Chance seldom interferes with the wise man; his greatest and highest interests have been, are,
and will be, directed by reason throughout his whole life.
17. The just man is most free from disturbance, while the unjust is full of the utmost disturbance.
18. Bodily pleasure does not increase when the pain of want has been removed; after that it only
admits of variation. The limit of mental pleasure, however, is reached when we reflect on
these bodily pleasures and their related emotions, which used to cause the mind the greatest
alarms.
19. Unlimited time and limited time afford an equal amount of pleasure, if we measure the limits
of that pleasure by reason.
20. The flesh receives as unlimited the limits of pleasure; and to provide it requires unlimited
time. But the mind, intellectually grasping what the end and limit of the flesh is, and
banishing the terrors of the future, procures a complete and perfect life, and we have no
longer any need of unlimited time. Nevertheless the mind does not shun pleasure, and even
when circumstances make death imminent, the mind does not lack enjoyment of the best life.
21. He who understands the limits of life knows that it is easy to obtain that which removes the
pain of want and makes the whole of life complete and perfect. Thus he has no longer any
need of things which involve struggle.
22. We must consider both the ultimate end and all clear sensory evidence, to which we refer our
opinions; for otherwise everything will be full of uncertainty and confusion.
23. If you fight against all your sensations, you will have no standard to which to refer, and thus
no means of judging even those sensations which you claim are false.
24. If you reject absolutely any single sensation without stopping to distinguish between opinion
about things awaiting confirmation and that which is already confirmed to be present,
whether in sensation or in feelings or in any application of intellect to the presentations, you
will confuse the rest of your sensations by your groundless opinion and so you will reject
every standard of truth. If in your ideas based upon opinion you hastily affirm as true all that
awaits confirmation as well as that which does not, you will not avoid error, as you will be
maintaining the entire basis for doubt in every judgment between correct and incorrect
opinion.
25. If you do not on every occasion refer each of your actions to the ultimate end prescribed by
nature, but instead of this in the act of choice or avoidance turn to some other end, your
actions will not be consistent with your theories.
26. All desires that do not lead to pain when they remain unsatisfied are unnecessary, but the
 desire is easily got rid of, when the thing desired is difficult to obtain or the desires seem
likely to produce harm.
27. Of all the means which wisdom acquires to ensure happiness throughout the whole of life, by
far the most important is friendship.
28. The same conviction which inspires confidence that nothing we have to fear is eternal or
even of long duration, also enables us to see that in the limited evils of this life nothing
enhances our security so much as friendship.
29. Of our desires some are natural and necessary, others are natural but not necessary; and
others are neither natural nor necessary, but are due to groundless opinion.
30. Those natural desires which entail no pain when unsatisfied, though pursued with an intense
effort, are also due to groundless opinion; and it is not because of their own nature they are
not got rid of but because of man's groundless opinions.
31. Natural justice is a pledge of reciprocal benefit, to prevent one man from harming or being
harmed by another.
32. Those animals which are incapable of making binding agreements with one another not to
inflict nor suffer harm are without either justice or injustice; and likewise for those peoples
who either could not or would not form binding agreements not to inflict nor suffer harm.
33. There never was such a thing as absolute justice, but only agreements made in mutual
dealings among men in whatever places at various times providing against the infliction or
suffering of harm.
34. Injustice is not an evil in itself, but only in consequence of the fear which is associated with
the apprehension of being discovered by those appointed to punish such actions.
35. It is impossible for a man who secretly violates the terms of the agreement not to harm or be
harmed to feel confident that he will remain undiscovered, even if he has already escaped ten
thousand times; for until his death he is never sure that he will not be detected.
36. In general justice is the same for all, for it is something found mutually beneficial in men's
dealings, but in its application to particular places or other circumstances the same thing is
not necessarily just for everyone.
37. Among the things held to be just by law, whatever is proved to be of advantage in men's
dealings has the stamp of justice, whether or not it be the same for all; but if a man makes a
law and it does not prove to be mutually advantageous, then this is no longer just. And if
what is mutually advantageous varies and only for a time corresponds to our concept of
justice, nevertheless for that time it is just for those who do not trouble themselves about
empty words, but look simply at the facts.
38. Where without any change in circumstances the things held to be just by law are seen not to
correspond with the concept of justice in actual practice, such laws are not really just; but
wherever the laws have ceased to be advantageous because of a change in circumstances, in
that case the laws were for that time just when they were advantageous for the mutual
dealings of the citizens, and subsequently ceased to be just when they were no longer
 advantageous.
39. The man who best knows how to meet external threats makes into one family all the
creatures he can; and those he can not, he at any rate does not treat as aliens; and where he
finds even this impossible, he avoids all dealings, and, so far as is advantageous, excludes
them from his life.
40. Those who possess the power to defend themselves against threats by their neighbors, being
thus in possession of the surest guarantee of security, live the most pleasant life with one
another; and their enjoyment of the fullest intimacy is such that if one of them dies
prematurely, the others do not lament his death as though it called for pity.
Epicurus: Principal Doctrines, decoded

1. Do not cause trouble for yourself or for others. This lets you be free from anger and bias. These
are signs of weakness.
2. Death is nothing to us. Once we become dissolved atoms, we don’t experience anything. We’re
gone. Why worry if you can’t experience anything?
3. Maximum pleasure is feeling no pain.
4. Even the worst pains do not last long. In the long run, life is more pleasant than unpleasant, even
if you have a nasty disease.
5. You have to be good to be happy. You have to be happy to be good.
6. It is good to be protected from other men.
7. Some people want to be famous so that they can be independent. If that worked, I would
approve. But I doubt that fame leads to independence.
8. All pleasures are good. Most pleasures, however, lead to disturbances that are worse than the
pleasure. Stay focused and do not get caught up in the pursuit of these pleasures.
9. If pleasures added up, then pleasures would never differ from one another. We need some pain to
feel pleasure.
10. If wealth made people unafraid of death, disease, famine and war, then wealth would be good. If
wealth taught people to be satisfied with a simple life, then I could not complain. But it does not.
11. We developed science to get rid of our fears of death, disease, famine and war.
12. You can’t enjoy wealth or security if you don’t understand science.
13. Wealth and power lead to security to some degree. But a quiet, solitary life is the best way to be
secure.
14. You want much, but need little.
15. Being good means you won’t have to worry. The evil must worry.
16. When needs are gone, bodily pleasure is just an assortment of minor variations. Mental pleasure,
however, reaches its limit when we look back on how worried we were about those needs.
17. Your mind can limit your wants. You only need a little, but at first, everyone wants an unlimited
amount. Stop worrying about the future. Try not to want the things you do not really need, and
you will find you will not need to try everything. Limiting wants removes worries of death. And
remember: even when you are dying, life is still pleasant.
18. You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you can get
what you need.
19. You do not need something unless you are in actual pain when that ‘need’ goes unfulfilled. If
you are not in pain, then get rid of that want.
20. Friends will protect you against insecurity.
21. There are three kinds of want:
a. Natural and necessary,
b. Natural and unnecessary, and
c. Neither natural nor necessary.
22. Don’t be dumb: if you aren’t in actual pain without something, you don’t need it. You just think
you do. Of course, many people go through much trouble to get things they don’t really need.
23. ‘Justice’ is really only a contract that I won’t hurt you and you won’t hurt me.
24. If you didn’t get it in writing, it is your own fault if you got ripped off. Don’t blame the other
guy.
25. There is no one perfect set of laws. There are many imperfect systems of justice.
26. There is nothing inherently wrong with breaking the law, but it will make you unhappy because
you will be afraid of getting caught.
27. The same thing can be just and unjust in different places.
28. If a law never led to happiness, it was never just. If a law stopped leading to happiness, it stopped
being just.
Marcus Aurelius

Marcus Aurelius was an honest-to-god emperor of Rome. He was also a great guy. He is said to have
been “by nature a saint and sage, by profession a warrior and ruler”.
Despite being the most powerful man in the world, Marcus Aurelius lived a simple life. He
advocated working hard and wanting little; in all likelihood he was miserable, though. His life was
tragic. Four of his five sons died, and the survivor was Commodus, who became an emperor himself.
Commodus was a dick. He liked to have ostriches and lions tied up so that he could kill them in front of
a coliseum full of spectators. Manly, huh? Of course, if my dad had named me “Toiletus”, I might be a
little off too.
As if a son like that were not a heavy enough burden for Marcus to bear, his time as emperor saw
Rome blighted by fire, floods, earthquakes and war. It was in one of these wars that Marcus’ beloved
wife, Faustina, died. Marcus himself died of chickenpox while lost in a Hungarian marsh fighting
barbarians. Seriously.
Marcus Aurelius’ book is called Meditations. You and I were not meant to read it; it was his diary.
As you might expect of a diary, it is a bit wordy. I have edited it down to what I think are the essentials.
Like Epicurus, the book has many principles, and is not what most philosophers would call good
philosophy. Still, it is my favourite ethical philosophy—if I were to call myself anything, I would (rather
immodestly) call myself a stoic.
Roughly speaking, stoics think that we make our own problems. I always use the example of a
speeding ticket. If you get one, you are likely to be angry with the justice system, the cop, or even (if
you’re like me) the whole world. Stoics would say that you are just making things worse: the ticket is
something that happened. You cannot control it now that you have it. You can, however, control your
reactions to it. Worrying about it just makes it worse.
Marcus Aurelius: Medita'ons, edited

BOOK TWO
Begin the morning by saying to thyself, I shall meet with the busy-body, the ungrateful, arrogant,
deceitful, envious, unsocial. All these things happen to them by reason of their ignorance of what is
good and evil. But I who have seen the nature of the good that it is beautiful, and of the bad, that it is
ugly, and the nature of him who does wrong, that it is akin to me, not only of the same blood or seed, but
that it participates in the same intelligence and the same portion of the divinity, I can neither be injured
by any of them, for no one can fix on me what is ugly, nor can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate
him. For we are made for co-operation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of the upper and
lower teeth. To act against one another then is contrary to nature; and it is acting against one another to
be vexed and to turn away.
Whatever this is that I am, it is a little flesh and breath, and the ruling part. Throw away thy books;
no longer distract thyself: it is not allowed; but as if thou wast now dying, despise the flesh; it is blood
and bones and a network, a contexture of nerves, veins, and arteries. See the breath also, what kind of a
thing it is, air, and not always the same, but every moment sent out and again sucked in. The third then
is the ruling part: consider thus: Thou art an old man; no longer let this be a slave, no longer be pulled
by the strings like a puppet to unsocial movements, no longer either be dissatisfied with thy present lot,
or shrink from the future.
Though thou shouldst be going to live three thousand years, and as many times ten thousand years,
still remember that no man loses any other life than this which he now lives, nor lives any other than this
which he now loses. The longest and shortest are thus brought to the same. For the present is the same to
all, though that which perishes is not the same; and so that which is lost appears to be a mere moment.
For a man cannot lose either the past or the future: for what a man has not, how can any one take this
from him? These two things then thou must bear in mind; the one, that all things from eternity are of like
forms and come round in a circle, and that it makes no difference whether a man shall see the same
things during a hundred years or two hundred, or an infinite time; and the second, that the longest liver
and he who will die soonest lose just the same. For the present is the only thing of which a man can be
deprived, if it is true that this is the only thing which he has, and that a man cannot lose a thing if he has
it not.
The soul of man does violence to itself, first of all, when it becomes an abscess and, as it were, a
tumour on the universe, so far as it can. For to be vexed at anything which happens is a separation of
ourselves from nature, in some part of which the natures of all other things are contained. In the next
place, the soul does violence to itself when it turns away from any man, or even moves towards him
with the intention of injuring, such as are the souls of those who are angry. In the third place, the soul
does violence to itself when it is overpowered by pleasure or by pain. Fourthly, when it plays a part, and
does or says anything insincerely and untruly. Fifthly, when it allows any act of its own and any
movement to be without an aim, and does anything thoughtlessly and without considering what it is, it
being right that even the smallest things be done with reference to an end; and the end of rational
animals is to follow the reason and the law of the most ancient city and polity.
Of human life the time is a point, and the substance is in a flux, and the perception dull, and the
composition of the whole body subject to putrefaction, and the soul a whirl, and fortune hard to divine,
and fame a thing devoid of judgment. And, to say all in a word, everything which belongs to the body is
a stream, and what belongs to the soul is a dream and vapour, and life is a warfare and a stranger’s
sojourn, and after-fame is oblivion. What then is that which is able to conduct a man? One thing and
only one, philosophy. But this consists in keeping the daemon within a man free from violence and
unharmed, superior to pains and pleasures, doing nothing without purpose, nor yet falsely and with
hypocrisy, not feeling the need of another man’s doing or not doing anything; and besides, accepting all
that happens, and all that is allotted, as coming from thence, wherever it is, from whence he himself
came; and, finally, waiting for death with a cheerful mind, as being nothing else than a dissolution of the
elements of which every living being is compounded. But if there is no harm to the elements themselves
in each continually changing into another, why should a man have any apprehension about the change
and dissolution of all the elements? For it is according to nature, and nothing is evil which is according
to nature.

BOOK THREE
We ought to observe also that even the things which follow after the things which are produced
according to nature contain something pleasing and attractive. For instance, when bread is baked some
parts are split at the surface, and these parts which thus open, and have a certain fashion contrary to the
purpose of the baker’s art, are beautiful in a manner, and in a peculiar way excite a desire for eating.
And again, figs, when they are quite ripe, gape open; and in the ripe olives the very circumstance of their
being near to rottenness adds a peculiar beauty to the fruit. And the ears of corn bending down, and the
lion’s eyebrows, and the foam which flows from the mouth of wild boars, and many other things—
though they are far from being beautiful, if a man should examine them severally—still, because they
are consequent upon the things which are formed by nature, help to adorn them, and they please the
mind; so that if a man should have a feeling and deeper insight with respect to the things which are
produced in the universe, there is hardly one of those which follow by way of consequence which will
not seem to him to be in a manner disposed so as to give pleasure. And so he will see even the real
gaping jaws of wild beasts with no less pleasure than those which painters and sculptors show by
imitation; and in an old woman and an old man he will be able to see a certain maturity and comeliness;
and the attractive loveliness of young persons he will be able to look on with chaste eyes; and many
such things will present themselves, not pleasing to every man, but to him only who has become truly
familiar with nature and her works.
What hast thou now in thy thoughts? With perfect openness thou mightest, immediately answer,
This or That; so that from thy words it should be plain that everything in thee is simple and benevolent,
and such as befits a social animal, and one that cares not for thoughts about pleasure or sensual
enjoyments at all, nor has any rivalry or envy and suspicion, or anything else for which thou wouldst
blush if thou shouldst say that thou hadst it in thy mind. For the man who is such and no longer delays
being among the number of the best, is like a priest and minister of the gods, using too the deity which is
planted within him, which makes the man uncontaminated by pleasure, unharmed by any pain,
untouched by any insult, feeling no wrong, a fighter in the noblest fight, one who cannot be
overpowered by any passion, dyed deep with justice, accepting with all his soul everything which
happens and is assigned to him as his portion; and not often, nor yet without great necessity and for the
general interest, imagining what another says, or does, or thinks. For it is only what belongs to himself
that he makes the matter for his activity; and he constantly thinks of that which is allotted to himself out
of the sum total of things, and he makes his own acts fair, and he is persuaded that his own portion is
good. For the lot which is assigned to each man is carried along with him and carries him along with it.
And he remembers also that every rational animal is his kinsman, and that to care for all men is
according to man’s nature; and a man should hold on to the opinion not of all, but of those only who
confessedly live according to nature. But as to those who live not so, he always bears in mind what kind
of men they are both at home and from home, both by night and by day, and what they are, and with
what men they live an impure life. Accordingly, he does not value at all the praise which comes from
such men, since they are not even satisfied with themselves.
A man then must stand erect, not be kept erect by others.

BOOK FOUR
If thou workest at that which is before thee, following right reason seriously, vigorously, calmly,
without allowing anything else to distract thee, but keeping thy divine part pure, as if thou shouldst be
bound to give it back immediately; if thou holdest to this, expecting nothing, fearing nothing, but
satisfied with thy present activity according to nature, and with heroic trust in every word and sound
which thou utterest, thou wilt live happy, and there is no man who is able to prevent this.
Men seek retreats for themselves, houses in the country, sea-shores, and mountains; and thou too art
wont to desire such things very much. But this is altogether a mark of the most common sort of men, for
it is in thy power whenever thou shalt choose to retire into thyself. For nowhere either with more quiet
or more freedom from trouble does a man retire than into his own soul, particularly when he has within
him such thoughts that by looking into them he is immediately in perfect tranquility; and I affirm that
tranquility is nothing else than the good ordering of the mind.
It is natural that these things should be done by such persons, it is a matter of necessity; and if a man
will not have it so, he will not allow the fig-tree to have juice. But by all means bear this in mind, that
within a very short time both thou and he will be dead; and soon not even your names will be left
behind.
Take away thy opinion, and then there is taken away the complaint, “I have been harmed.” Take
away the complaint, “I have been harmed,” and the harm is taken away.
That which does not make a man worse than he was, also does not make his life worse, nor does it
harm him either from without or from within.
Consider that everything which happens, happens justly, and if thou observest carefully, thou wilt
find it to be so. I do not say only with respect to the continuity of the series of things, but with respect to
what is just, and as if it were done by one who assigns to each thing its value. Observe then as thou hast
begun; and whatever thou doest, do it in conjunction with this, the being good, and in the sense in which
a man is properly understood to be good. Keep to this in every action.
Many grains of frankincense on the same altar: one falls before, another falls after; but it makes no
difference.
Within ten days thou wilt seem a god to those to whom thou art now a beast and an ape, if thou wilt
return to thy principles and the worship of reason.
 Do not act as if thou wert going to live ten thousand years. Death hangs over thee. While thou livest,
while it is in thy power, be good.
How much trouble he avoids who does not look to see what his neighbour says or does or thinks, but
only to what he does himself, that it may be just and pure; or as Agathon says, look not round at the
depraved morals of others, but run straight along the line without deviating from it.
Do not be whirled about, but in every movement have respect to justice, and on the occasion of
every impression maintain the faculty of comprehension or understanding.
Everything harmonizes with me, which is harmonious to thee, O Universe. Nothing for me is too
early nor too late, which is in due time for thee. Everything is fruit to me which thy seasons bring, O
Nature: from thee are all things, in thee are all things, to thee all things return. The poet says, Dear city
of Cecrops; and wilt not thou say, Dear city of Zeus?
Occupy thyself with few things, says the philosopher, if thou wouldst be tranquil. But consider if it
would not be better to say, Do what is necessary, and whatever the reason of the animal which is
naturally social requires, and as it requires. For this brings not only the tranquility which comes from
doing well, but also that which comes from doing few things. For the greatest part of what we say and
do being unnecessary, if a man takes this away, he will have more leisure and less uneasiness.
Accordingly on every occasion a man should ask himself, Is this one of the unnecessary things? Now a
man should take away not only unnecessary acts, but also, unnecessary thoughts, for thus superfluous
acts will not follow after.
Try how the life of the good man suits thee, the life of him who is satisfied with his portion out of
the whole, and satisfied with his own just acts and benevolent disposition.
Be like the promontory against which the waves continually break, but it stands firm and tames the
fury of the water around it.

BOOK FIVE
In the morning when thou risest unwillingly, let this thought be present—I am rising to the work of a
human being. Why then am I dissatisfied if I am going to do the things for which I exist and for which I
was brought into the world? Or have I been made for this, to lie in the bed-clothes and keep myself
warm? Dost thou exist then to take thy pleasure, and not at all for action or exertion? Dost thou not see
the little plants, the little birds, the ants, the spiders, the bees working together to put in order their
several parts of the universe? And art thou unwilling to do the work of a human being?
How easy it is to repel and to wipe away every impression which is troublesome or unsuitable, and
immediately to be in all tranquility.
I go through the things which happen according to nature until I shall fall and rest, breathing out my
breath into that element out of which I daily draw it in, and falling upon that earth out of which my
father collected the seed, and my mother the blood, and my nurse the milk; out of which during so many
years I have been supplied with food and drink; which bears me when I tread on it and abuse it for so
many purposes.
One man, when he has done a service to another, is ready to set it down to his account as a favour
conferred. Another is not ready to do this, but still in his own mind he thinks of the man as his debtor,
and he knows what he has done. A third in a manner does not even know what he has done, but he is
like a vine which has produced grapes, and seeks for nothing more after it has once produced its proper
fruit. As a horse when he has run, a dog when he has tracked the game, a bee when it has made the
honey, so a man when he has done a good act, does not call out for others to come and see, but he goes
on to another act, as a vine goes on to produce again the grapes in season.
Accept everything which happens, even if it seems disagreeable, because it leads to this, to the
health of the universe and to the prosperity and felicity of Zeus. For he would not have brought on any
man what he has brought, if it were not useful for the whole. Neither does the nature of anything,
whatever it may be, cause anything which is not suitable to that which is directed by it. For two reasons
then it is right to be content with that which happens to thee; the one, because it was done for thee and
prescribed for thee, and in a manner had reference to thee, originally from the most ancient causes spun
with thy destiny; and the other, because even that which comes severally to every man is to the power
which administers the universe a cause of felicity and perfection, nay even of its very continuance. For
the integrity of the whole is mutilated, if thou cuttest off anything whatever from the conjunction and the
continuity either of the parts or of the causes. And thou dost cut off, as far as it is in thy power, when
thou art dissatisfied, and in a manner triest to put anything out of the way.
The same things happen to another, and either because he does not see that they have happened or
because he would show a great spirit, he is firm and remains unharmed. It is a shame then that ignorance
and conceit should be stronger than wisdom.
Things themselves touch not the soul, not in the least degree; nor have they admission to the soul,
nor can they turn or move the soul: but the soul turns and moves itself alone, and whatever judgements it
may think proper to make, such it makes for itself the things which present themselves to it.
Art thou angry with him whose armpits stink? Art thou angry with him whose mouth smells foul?
What good will this danger do thee? He has such a mouth, he has such arm-pits: it is necessary that such
an emanation must come from such things—but the man has reason, it will be said, and he is able, if he
takes pain, to discover wherein he offends—I wish thee well of thy discovery.

BOOK SIX
The best way of avenging thyself is not to become like the wrong doer.
Some things are hurrying into existence, and others are hurrying out of it; and of that which is
coming into existence part is already extinguished. Motions and changes are continually renewing the
world, just as the uninterrupted course of time is always renewing the infinite duration of ages. In this
flowing stream then, on which there is no abiding, what is there of the things which hurry by on which a
man would set a high price? It would be just as if a man should fall in love with one of the sparrows
which fly by, but it has already passed out of sight. Something of this kind is the very life of every man,
like the exhalation of the blood and the respiration of the air. For such as it is to have once drawn in the
air and to have given it back, which we do every moment, just the same is it with the whole respiratory
power, which thou didst receive at thy birth yesterday and the day before, to give it back to the element
from which thou didst first draw it.
I do my duty: other things trouble me not; for they are either things without life, or things without
reason, or things that have rambled and know not the way.
 It is a shame for the soul to be first to give way in this life, when thy body does not give way.
He who has seen present things has seen all.
No man will hinder thee from living according to the reason of thy own nature: nothing will happen
to thee contrary to the reason of the universal nature.

BOOK SEVEN
From Plato: But I would make this man a sufficient answer, which is this: Thou sayest not well, if
thou thinkest that a man who is good for anything at all ought to compute the hazard of life or death, and
should not rather look to this only in all that he does, whether he is doing what is just or unjust, and the
works of a good or a bad man.
Another may be more expert in casting his opponent; but he is not more social, nor more modest, nor
better disciplined to meet all that happens, nor more considerate with respect to the faults of his
neighbours.
Look within. Within is the fountain of good, and it will ever bubble up, if thou wilt ever dig.
How do we know if Telauges was not superior in character to Socrates? For it is not enough that
Socrates died a more noble death, and disputed more skilfully with the sophists, and passed the night in
the cold with more endurance, and that when he was bid to arrest Leon of Salamis, he considered it more
noble to refuse, and that he walked in a swaggering way in the streets—though as to this fact one may
have great doubts if it was true. But we ought to inquire, what kind of a soul it was that Socrates
possessed, and if he was able to be content with being just towards men and pious towards the gods,
neither idly vexed on account of men’s villainy, nor yet making himself a slave to any man’s ignorance,
nor receiving as strange anything that fell to his share out of the universal, nor enduring it as intolerable,
nor allowing his understanding to sympathize with the affects of the miserable flesh.

BOOK EIGHT
Remember that as it is a shame to be surprised if the fig-tree produces figs, so it is to be surprised if
the world produces such and such things of which it is productive; and for the physician and the
helmsman it is a shame to be surprised, if a man has a fever, or if the wind is unfavourable.
It is satisfaction to a man to do the proper works of a man. Now it is a proper work of a man to be
benevolent to his own kind, to despise the movements of the senses, to form a just judgement of
plausible appearances, and to take a survey of the nature of the universe and of the things which happen
in it.
Speak both in the senate and to every man.
If thou didst ever see a hand cut off, or a foot, or a head, lying anywhere apart from the rest of the
body, such does a man make himself, as far as he can, who is not content with what happens, and
separates himself from others, or does anything unsocial. Suppose that thou hast detached thyself from
the natural unity—for thou wast made by nature a part, but now thou hast cut thyself off—yet here there
is this beautiful provision, that it is in thy power again to unite thyself. God has allowed this to no other
part, after it has been separated and cut asunder, to come together again. But consider the kindness by
which he has distinguished man, for he has put it in his power not to be separated at all from the
universal; and when he has been separated, he has allowed him to return and to be united and to resume
his place as a part.
Say nothing more to thyself than what the first appearances report. Suppose that it has been reported
to thee that a certain person speaks ill of thee. This has been reported; but that thou hast been injured,
that has not been reported. I see that my child is sick. I do see; but that he is in danger, I do not see. Thus
then always abide by the first appearances, and add nothing thyself from within, and then nothing
happens to thee. Or rather add something, like a man who knows everything that happens in the world.
A cucumber is bitter. Throw it away. There are briars in the road. Turn aside from them. This is
enough. Do not add, And why were such things made in the world? For thou wilt be ridiculed by a man
who is acquainted with nature, as thou wouldst be ridiculed by a carpenter and shoemaker if thou didst
find fault because thou seest in their workshop shavings and cuttings from the things which they make.
And yet they have places into which they can throw these shavings and cuttings, and the universal nature
has no external space; but the wondrous part of her art is that though she has circumscribed herself,
everything within her which appears to decay and to grow old and to be useless she changes into herself,
and again makes other new things from these very same, so that she requires neither substance from
without nor wants a place into which she may cast that which decays. She is content then with her own
space, and her own matter and her own art.
Generally, wickedness does no harm at all to the universe; and particularly, the wickedness of one
man does no harm to another. It is only harmful to him who has it in his power to be released from it, as
soon as he shall choose.
Suppose that men kill thee, cut thee in pieces, curse thee. What then can these things do to prevent
thy mind from remaining pure, wise, sober, just? For instance, if a man should stand by a limpid pure
spring, and curse it, the spring never ceases sending up potable water; and if he should cast clay into it or
filth, it will speedily disperse them and wash them out, and will not be at all polluted. How then shalt
thou possess a perpetual fountain and not a mere well? By forming thyself hourly to freedom conjoined
with contentment, simplicity and modesty.

BOOK NINE
Labour not as one who is wretched, nor yet as one who would be pitied or admired: but direct thy
will to one thing only, to put thyself in motion and to check thyself, as the social reason requires.
Termination of activity, cessation from movement and opinion, and in a sense their death, is no evil.
Turn thy thoughts now to the consideration of thy life, thy life as a child, as a youth, thy manhood, thy
old age, for in these also every change was a death. Is this anything to fear? Turn thy thoughts now to
thy life under thy grandfather, then to thy life under thy mother, then to thy life under thy father; and as
thou findest many other differences and changes and terminations, ask thyself, Is this anything to fear?
In like manner, then, neither are the termination and cessation and change of thy whole life a thing to be
afraid of.
Quarrels of little children and their sports, and poor spirits carrying about dead bodies, such is
everything; and so what is exhibited in the representation of the mansions of the dead strikes our eyes
more clearly.
The universal cause is like a winter torrent: it carries everything along with it. How worthless are all
these poor people who are engaged in matters political, and, as they suppose, are playing the
philosopher! All drivellers.
Enough of this wretched life and murmuring and apish tricks. Why art thou disturbed? What is there
new in this? What unsettles thee? Is it the form of the thing? Look at it. Or is it the matter? Look at it.
But besides these there is nothing. Towards the gods, then, now become at last more simple and better. It
is the same whether we examine these things for a hundred years or three.
Observe what thy nature requires, so far as thou art governed by nature only: then do it and accept it,
if thy nature, so far as thou art a living being, shall not be made worse by it.

BOOK TEN
No longer talk at all about the kind of man that a good man ought to be, but be such.
There is no man so fortunate that there shall not be by him when he is dying some who are pleased
with what is going to happen.

BOOK ELEVEN
To expect bad men not to do wrong is madness.
Socrates used to call the opinions of the many by the name of Lamiae, bugbears to frighten children.
When a man kisses his child, said Epictetus, he should whisper to himself, “To-morrow perchance
thou wilt die.” But those are words of bad omen. "No word is a word of bad omen,” said Epictetus,
“which expresses any work of nature; or if it is so, it is also a word of bad omen to speak of the ears of
corn being reaped.”

BOOK TWELVE
All those things at which thou wishest to arrive by a circuitous road, thou canst have now, if thou
dost not refuse them to thyself. And this means, if thou wilt take no notice of all the past, and trust the
future to providence, and direct the present only conformably to piety and justice.
If it is not right, do not do it: if it is not true, do not say it.
Man, thou hast been a citizen in this great state. What difference does it make to thee whether it is
for five years or three? “But I have not finished the five acts, only the three of them.”—Thou sayest
well, but in life, the three acts are the whole drama. Depart then satisfied, for he who releases you is
satisfied.
Marcus Aurelius: Medita'ons, decoded

BOOK 2
Say this to yourself every morning: “Today, I will meet the busybodies, the ungrateful, the arrogant
and the unsocial. It’s not their fault: they do not know about good and evil. I do know. I know that the
good is beautiful and the bad is ugly. I know that these churls are just like me, but they cannot harm me.
They cannot make me feel ugly, nor can they make me hate them. In truth, we are like fingers on a
hand.”
I am nothing but flesh and breath. I must hate my flesh as if I were dying. It is nothing but blood and
bones. I am a mind, too; I am an old man and I should no longer be a slave, a puppet on strings. I will no
longer be dissatisfied, nor will I shrink from the future.
No person can die more than once. No person can live in the past or in the future. The longest life
and the shortest life are, therefore, the same: you cannot lose what you cannot have.
There are only five ways to be hurt:
1. Hate. Do not hate anything; everything that happens is a part of nature. You are a part of
nature, too.
2. Turning away from your fellow man—or worse, turning to him with anger and the intention
to harm.
3. Being overpowered by pleasure or pain.
4. Telling lies.
5. Acting purposelessly.
Life is short. Our minds are dull. Our bodies are weak. Fate is unkind. Life is a kind of warfare, and
our minds are cloudy. There is only one thing that can guide a man: philosophy. Philosophy can free us
from passions and keep us from pain and pleasure. Philosophy teaches us that we cannot change
anything, and that everything happens for a reason. For nothing is evil which is according to nature, not
even death.

BOOK 3
Everything is beautiful. Cracks in bread, gaping figs, and olives near to rotten are beautiful. A man
needs to learn to see the beauty and to feel deeply those things that the universe presents.
A good man thinks honest, pure thoughts. He would not be ashamed to show them to others, as if
they were a picnic lunch. A man like this feels no insults and acts rightly. He values only the praise of
men like himself.
A man has to stand on his own two feet.

BOOK 4
If you work at what is before you, and if you do what is right, and do it calmly, vigorously, and
purely; if you do this while expecting nothing in return and fearing nothing at all, and if you are truthful,
then you will be live happily. Nobody can prevent this.
Some men want cottages and vacations at the sea or in the mountains. You do not need to go
somewhere to find quiet; you can find quiet within yourself. Tranquility comes from a well ordered
mind.
Do not try to change others. What happens happens from necessity. To stop it is to not allow the fig
to have juice. Remember this when you feel the urge to change another person: soon you will both be
dead and not even your names will be left behind.
Do not suppose that you have been hurt, and the harm will vanish.
The only things that really injure are the things that make a person worse than she was before.
Everything happens for a good reason. If you stop to observe events unfolding, you will see both
why they must happen and why they are good. In fact, you can see that the logic of events is goodness‚
and then do what you should and must do.
Many grains of incense are thrown into the fire. One is annihilated before, another after. It makes no
difference.
Do what is good and do what is necessary. The people who thought you an ass will think you a god.
Death hangs over you. Be good while you can.
Do not be whirled about. Understand everything.
If it is good for you, sweet universe, it is good for me. Nothing is early or late for you. Nor will it be
for me. Your seasons bring fruit. Your seasons bring death. Everything comes from you. Everything will
return to you.
Do what is necessary. Do what people require. Doing so makes a man tranquil.
A good woman is satisfied with her portion and satisfied with herself.
Be a pier against which the waves break.

BOOK 5
Say this to yourself when you are tempted to laze in bed: I am rising to do the work of a person.
Why should I be angry about that? Was I made for this? Was I made for pleasure, or was I made for
action? Look around. Do the plants doze? Do the ants cuddle? Don’t the bees work for one another and
to fulfill their part in the universe? Are you unwilling to do the part of human?
It is easy to wipe away troublesome impressions and to be in all tranquility.
I will work for the universe until I fall and rest, breathing out into the world the same breath just
given me.
One woman does a favour and wants you to be grateful. Another sees it as a debt to be repaid. The
best one, though, does not know what she has done; she is like a vine producing grapes. A horse runs, a
dog hunts. They don’t ask to be repaid. Do it; move on.
You are a part of the universe. Therefore, what happens to you happens for you. What happens to
you goes on from you.
 Stupid men and conceited men are often successful because they do not see or will not admit the
obstacles they face. It is a shame that ignorance and conceit are sometimes better than wisdom.
Nothing touches your soul. Your soul judges but does not touch.
Do you hate people who smell bad? Do you detest the ugly, uncool, or weird? Why? What good will
it do? They are who they are. Good luck changing them.

BOOK 6
The best way of avenging yourself is not to become like the person who wronged you.
Some things are hurrying into existence. Some things are hurrying out of it. Nothing remains for
long. A woman should not love sparrows that fly by and pass out of sight. She should not cling to life
either. Give back freely that breath that was freely given to you.
I do my duty. Other things do not bother me because they are out of my control.
It is a shame when the soul gives up before the body does.
He who has seen present things has seen all.
Nobody can stop you from following your reason. Nothing will happen to you that was not planned
by nature.

BOOK 7
Stand up, or someone else will make you stand up.
From Plato: A man who is good for anything at all ought not to measure the value of life or death,
and should only care about one thing: whether he is doing something just or unjust, doing the work of a
good or a bad man.
Another may be more expert in throwing her opponent, but that does not make her a better person.
She may not be more social, more modest, or better disciplined. She may not be as kind to her
neighbours.
Look within. There is a fountain of good, and it will bubble up forever, if you can just keep digging.
Why do we love Socrates? It was his soul. He was content with being just towards men and pious
towards the gods. He never despaired that other men were villains, nor did he allow himself to become a
slave. He never found anything strange, and he never found anything unendurable. He never allowed his
mind to sympathize with his miserable flesh.

BOOK 8
Remember that as it shameful to be surprised if the fig-tree produces figs, so it is shameful to be
surprised that the world moves on.
It is satisfying to do the work a man should do. A man should be kind, despise his senses, think
carefully, and study the universe.
Speak the same way to the important and the unimportant.
A woman who fights the nature of the world is like a foot cut off the body. However, there is a
beautiful provision: while a foot cannot be reattached, a person can rejoin the body politic.
Do not extrapolate from small facts. Say you hear rumors that your friend has been slighting you
behind your back. Maybe she has been. People talk. Maybe she has not been. You simply do not know
for sure.
You get a parking ticket. Pay it. Do not get upset with the laws, or angry that you did something
wrong—or worse, did nothing wrong. Pay it and move on. The universe still works as it should.
Wickedness does not harm the universe; in particular, it does not harm any other person. Wickedness
only harms the wicked.
Suppose you are being insulted. Suppose you are being beaten. So? What is stopping you from
keeping your mind pure, wise, sober and just? Imagine throwing mud into a spring. It lingers only a
moment and then is carried away. Be simple, free, modest and content, and you will be like the spring.

BOOK 9
Do not labour like a student, always looking over your shoulder as if you deserve pity or admiration
for all the work you have to do. Get on with it.
Do not fear change. Was there anything to fear when you became a youth or a man? No. Nor is there
anything to fear about the final change into death.
Children’s arguments and games, mansions of the dead, spirits carrying around dead bodies. This is
everything.
The universe is a river swollen with the spring thaw. Politics and the common philosophy are idiotic.
They are drivel.
Enough of this wretched life, gossip, and stupid gaming. Why not? What is there new in this? Look
at it. Besides this there is nothing.
Observe what you need, then do it and accept it. There is little to fear from doing what you must.

BOOK 10
Stop talking about what a good man is. Be a good man.
No matter how good you are, somebody will be happy to hear you are dead.

BOOK 11
To expect bad men not to do wrong is madness.
Socrates used to call the opinion of the many ‘The Boogeyman’ because it is used to frighten
children.
When a man kisses his child, said Epictetus, he should whisper to himself, “Tomorrow you may
die.”

BOOK 12
Everything you want you can have now. Forget the past, trust in the future, and be pious and good in
the present.
 If it is not right, do not do it; if it is not true, do not say it.
Man, you have been a citizen of this great universe. What difference does it make to you whether it
has been for five years or three? “But I have not finished the five acts, only three of them.”—Yes, but in
life, three acts are the whole drama. Depart satisfied, for he your director is satisfied.
Nicolo Machiavelli

You may have heard of Machiavelli. He’s the subject of rap songs, I understand, and he’s given his
name to an adjective, “Machiavellian”, to describe evil, scheming people.
That’s unfortunate, since Machiavelli seems to have been a pretty nice guy. He was quite famous as
a playwright, diplomat, and military commander, but he had the good sense to have his magnum opus,
The Prince, published only after his death. It was this book that made him immortal.
The Prince is a guidebook to young up-and-comers who would seize political power, and, though it
can seem a little tame now, it was scandalizing when it was published in 1532. To understand why, it
helps to think about our preconceptions about politicians.
Bill Clinton was besieged for much of his presidency because he had an affair with an intern, and he
is just one of many politicians who has been embroiled in a sex scandal. But why does the public care
about politicians’ privates? I think we do because we expect our leaders to be both excellent public
managers and examples of morality. We expect our leaders to be good people as well as good rulers.
Machiavelli was the first writer to blow this conjunction apart. He knew that it was important to look
good; he also knew that it was often important to be bad. A prince has to do all kinds of nasty things to
stay in power.
The section of the book from which these chapters are drawn describes the ideal qualities of a
prince: generosity, kindness, and fame. Yet, according to Machiavelli, a perfect prince would appear
good but be ready to do bad.
Truly excellent philosophers are always taking their thoughts one step further. Machiavelli turns the
old ideas on their heads: he says that what appears good can actually be bad, and what appears bad can
actually be good. A kind prince who is generous with money, for instance, can bankrupt the state and
leave it vulnerable. A miserly prince would have conserved its power. Likewise, a magnanimous prince
can erode the rule of law by giving pardons. A strict prince will appear cruel but will, in the end, ensure
that his people are protect from disorder by punishing offenders.
Nicolo Machiavelli: The Prince, Edited

CHAPTER XV — CONCERNING THINGS FOR WHICH MEN, AND ESPECIALLY PRINCES, ARE PRAISED OR
BLAMED
It remains now to see what ought to be the rules of conduct for a prince towards subject and friends.
And as I know that many have written on this point, I expect I shall be considered presumptuous in
mentioning it again, especially as in discussing it I shall depart from the methods of other people. But, it
being my intention to write a thing which shall be useful to him who apprehends it, it appears to me
more appropriate to follow up the real truth of the matter than the imagination of it; for many have
pictured republics and principalities which in fact have never been known or seen, because how one
lives is so far distant from how one ought to live, that he who neglects what is done for what ought to be
done, sooner effects his ruin than his preservation; for a man who wishes to act entirely up to his
professions of virtue soon meets with what destroys him among so much that is evil.
Hence it is necessary for a prince wishing to hold his own to know how to do wrong, and to make
use of it or not according to necessity. Therefore, putting on one side imaginary things concerning a
prince, and discussing those which are real, I say that all men when they are spoken of, and chiefly
princes for being more highly placed, are remarkable for some of those qualities which bring them either
blame or praise; and thus it is that one is reputed liberal, another miserly, using a Tuscan term (because
an avaricious person in our language is still he who desires to possess by robbery, whilst we call one
miserly who deprives himself too much of the use of his own); one is reputed generous, one rapacious;
one cruel, one compassionate; one faithless, another faithful; one effeminate and cowardly, another bold
and brave; one affable, another haughty; one lascivious, another chaste; one sincere, another cunning;
one hard, another easy; one grave, another frivolous; one religious, another unbelieving, and the like.
And I know that every one will confess that it would be most praiseworthy in a prince to exhibit all the
above qualities that are considered good; but because they can neither be entirely possessed nor
observed, for human conditions do not permit it, it is necessary for him to be sufficiently prudent that he
may know how to avoid the reproach of those vices which would lose him his state; and also to keep
himself, if it be possible, from those which would not lose him it; but this not being possible, he may
with less hesitation abandon himself to them. And again, he need not make himself uneasy at incurring a
reproach for those vices without which the state can only be saved with difficulty, for if everything is
considered carefully, it will be found that something which looks like virtue, if followed, would be his
ruin; whilst something else, which looks like vice, yet followed brings him security and prosperity.

CHAPTER XVI — CONCERNING LIBERALITY AND MEANNESS

Commencing then with the first of the above-named characteristics, I say that it would be well to be
reputed liberal. Nevertheless, liberality exercised in a way that does not bring you the reputation for it,
injures you; for if one exercises it honestly and as it should be exercised, it may not become known, and
you will not avoid the reproach of its opposite. Therefore, any one wishing to maintain among men the
name of liberal is obliged to avoid no attribute of magnificence; so that a prince thus inclined will
consume in such acts all his property, and will be compelled in the end, if he wish to maintain the name
of liberal, to unduly weigh down his people, and tax them, and do everything he can to get money. This
will soon make him odious to his subjects, and becoming poor he will be little valued by any one; thus,
with his liberality, having offended many and rewarded few, he is affected by the very first trouble and
imperilled by whatever may be the first danger; recognizing this himself, and wishing to draw back from
it, he runs at once into the reproach of being miserly.
Therefore, a prince, not being able to exercise this virtue of liberality in such a way that it is
recognized, except to his cost, if he is wise he ought not to fear the reputation of being mean, for in time
he will come to be more considered than if liberal, seeing that with his economy his revenues are
enough, that he can defend himself against all attacks, and is able to engage in enterprises without
burdening his people; thus it comes to pass that he exercises liberality towards all from whom he does
not take, who are numberless, and meanness towards those to whom he does not give, who are few.
We have not seen great things done in our time except by those who have been considered mean; the
rest have failed. Pope Julius the Second was assisted in reaching the papacy by a reputation for
liberality, yet he did not strive afterwards to keep it up, when he made war on the King of France; and he
made many wars without imposing any extraordinary tax on his subjects, for he supplied his additional
expenses out of his long thriftiness. The present King of Spain would not have undertaken or conquered
in so many enterprises if he had been reputed liberal. A prince, therefore, provided that he has not to rob
his subjects, that he can defend himself, that he does not become poor and abject, that he is not forced to
become rapacious, ought to hold of little account a reputation for being mean, for it is one of those vices
which will enable him to govern.
And if any one should say: Caesar obtained empire by liberality, and many others have reached the
highest positions by having been liberal, and by being considered so, I answer: Either you are a prince in
fact, or in a way to become one. In the first case this liberality is dangerous, in the second it is very
necessary to be considered liberal; and Caesar was one of those who wished to become pre-eminent in
Rome; but if he had survived after becoming so, and had not moderated his expenses, he would have
destroyed his government. And if any one should reply: Many have been princes, and have done great
things with armies, who have been considered very liberal, I reply: Either a prince spends that which is
his own or his subjects’ or else that of others. In the first case he ought to be sparing, in the second he
ought not to neglect any opportunity for liberality. And to the prince who goes forth with his army,
supporting it by pillage, sack, and extortion, handling that which belongs to others, this liberality is
necessary, otherwise he would not be followed by soldiers. And of that which is neither yours nor your
subjects’ you can be a ready giver, as were Cyrus, Caesar, and Alexander; because it does not take away
your reputation if you squander that of others, but adds to it; it is only squandering your own that injures
you.
And there is nothing wastes so rapidly as liberality, for even whilst you exercise it you lose the
power to do so, and so become either poor or despised, or else, in avoiding poverty, rapacious and hated.
And a prince should guard himself, above all things, against being despised and hated; and liberality
leads you to both. Therefore it is wiser to have a reputation for meanness which brings reproach without
hatred, than to be compelled through seeking a reputation for liberality to incur a name for rapacity
which begets reproach with hatred.

CHAPTER XVII — CONCERNING CRUELTY AND CLEMENCY, AND WHETHER IT IS BETTER TO BE LOVED
THAN FEARED
Coming now to the other qualities mentioned above, I say that every prince ought to desire to be
considered clement and not cruel. Nevertheless he ought to take care not to misuse this clemency.
Cesare Borgia was considered cruel; notwithstanding, his cruelty reconciled the Romagna, unified it,
and restored it to peace and loyalty. And if this be rightly considered, he will be seen to have been much
more merciful than the Florentine people, who, to avoid a reputation for cruelty, permitted Pistoia to be
destroyed. Therefore a prince, so long as he keeps his subjects united and loyal, ought not to mind the
reproach of cruelty; because with a few examples he will be more merciful than those who, through too
much mercy, allow disorders to arise, from which follow murders or robberies; for these are wont to
injure the whole people, whilst those executions which originate with a prince offend the individual
only.
And of all princes, it is impossible for the new prince to avoid the imputation of cruelty, owing to
new states being full of dangers. Hence Virgil, through the mouth of Dido, excuses the inhumanity of
her reign owing to its being new, saying:

against my will, my fate

A throne unsettled, and an infant state,

Bid me defend my realms with all my powers,

And guard with these severities my shores.

Nevertheless he ought to be slow to believe and to act, nor should he himself show fear, but proceed
in a temperate manner with prudence and humanity, so that too much confidence may not make him
incautious and too much distrust render him intolerable.
Upon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It may
be answered that one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, it is
much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be dispensed with. Because this is to
be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as
you succeed they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood, property, life, and children, as is
said above, when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you. And that prince
who, relying entirely on their promises, has neglected other precautions, is ruined; because friendships
that are obtained by payments, and not by greatness or nobility of mind, may indeed be earned, but they
are not secured, and in time of need cannot be relied upon; and men have less scruple in offending one
who is beloved than one who is feared, for love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to
the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a
dread of punishment which never fails.
Nevertheless a prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that, if he does not win love, he avoids
hatred; because he can endure very well being feared whilst he is not hated, which will always be as
long as he abstains from the property of his citizens and subjects and from their women. But when it is
necessary for him to proceed against the life of someone, he must do it on proper justification and for
manifest cause, but above all things he must keep his hands off the property of others, because men
more quickly forget the death of their father than the loss of their patrimony. Besides, pretexts for taking
away the property are never wanting; for he who has once begun to live by robbery will always find
pretexts for seizing what belongs to others; but reasons for taking life, on the contrary, are more difficult
to find and sooner lapse. But when a prince is with his army, and has under control a multitude of
soldiers, then it is quite necessary for him to disregard the reputation of cruelty, for without it he would
never hold his army united or disposed to its duties.
Among the wonderful deeds of Hannibal this one is enumerated: that having led an enormous army,
composed of many various races of men, to fight in foreign lands, no dissensions arose either among
them or against the prince, whether in his bad or in his good fortune. This arose from nothing else than
his inhuman cruelty, which, with his boundless valour, made him revered and terrible in the sight of his
soldiers, but without that cruelty, his other virtues were not sufficient to produce this effect. And short-
sighted writers admire his deeds from one point of view and from another condemn the principal cause
of them. That it is true his other virtues would not have been sufficient for him may be proved by the
case of Scipio, that most excellent man, not only of his own times but within the memory of man,
against whom, nevertheless, his army rebelled in Spain; this arose from nothing but his too great
forbearance, which gave his soldiers more license than is consistent with military discipline. For this he
was upbraided in the Senate by Fabius Maximus, and called the corrupter of the Roman soldiery. The
Locrians were laid waste by a legate of Scipio, yet they were not avenged by him, nor was the insolence
of the legate punished, owing entirely to his easy nature. Insomuch that someone in the Senate, wishing
to excuse him, said there were many men who knew much better how not to err than to correct the errors
of others. This disposition, if he had been continued in the command, would have destroyed in time the
fame and glory of Scipio; but, he being under the control of the Senate, this injurious characteristic not
only concealed itself, but contributed to his glory.
Returning to the question of being feared or loved, I come to the conclusion that, men loving
according to their own will and fearing according to that of the prince, a wise prince should establish
himself on that which is in his own control and not in that of others; he must endeavour only to avoid
hatred, as is noted.

CHAPTER XXI — HOW A PRINCE SHOULD CONDUCT HIMSELF SO AS TO GAIN RENOWN

Nothing makes a prince so much esteemed as great enterprises and setting a fine example. We have
in our time Ferdinand of Aragon, the present King of Spain. He can almost be called a new prince,
because he has risen, by fame and glory, from being an insignificant king to be the foremost king in
Christendom; and if you will consider his deeds you will find them all great and some of them
extraordinary. In the beginning of his reign he attacked Granada, and this enterprise was the foundation
of his dominions. He did this quietly at first and without any fear of hindrance, for he held the minds of
the barons of Castile occupied in thinking of the war and not anticipating any innovations; thus they did
not perceive that by these means he was acquiring power and authority over them. He was able with the
money of the Church and of the people to sustain his armies, and by that long war to lay the foundation
for the military skill which has since distinguished him. Further, always using religion as a plea, so as to
undertake greater schemes, he devoted himself with pious cruelty to driving out and clearing his
kingdom of the Moors; nor could there be a more admirable example, nor one more rare. Under this
same cloak he assailed Africa, he came down on Italy, he has finally attacked France; and thus his
achievements and designs have always been great, and have kept the minds of his people in suspense
and admiration and occupied with the issue of them. And his actions have arisen in such a way, one out
of the other, that men have never been given time to work steadily against him.
 Again, it much assists a prince to set unusual examples in internal affairs, similar to those which are
related of Messer Bernabo da Milano, who, when he had the opportunity, by any one in civil life doing
some extraordinary thing, either good or bad, would take some method of rewarding or punishing him,
which would be much spoken about. And a prince ought, above all things, always endeavour in every
action to gain for himself the reputation of being a great and remarkable man.
A prince is also respected when he is either a true friend or a downright enemy, that is to say, when,
without any reservation, he declares himself in favour of one party against the other; which course will
always be more advantageous than standing neutral; because if two of your powerful neighbours come
to blows, they are of such a character that, if one of them conquers, you have either to fear him or not. In
either case it will always be more advantageous for you to declare yourself and to make war strenuously;
because, in the first case, if you do not declare yourself, you will invariably fall a prey to the conqueror,
to the pleasure and satisfaction of him who has been conquered, and you will have no reasons to offer,
nor anything to protect or to shelter you. Because he who conquers does not want doubtful friends who
will not aid him in the time of trial; and he who loses will not harbour you because you did not willingly,
sword in hand, court his fate.
Antiochus went into Greece, being sent for by the Aetolians to drive out the Romans. He sent envoys
to the Achaeans, who were friends of the Romans, exhorting them to remain neutral; and on the other
hand the Romans urged them to take up arms. This question came to be discussed in the council of the
Achaeans, where the legate of Antiochus urged them to stand neutral. To this the Roman legate
answered: “As for that which has been said, that it is better and more advantageous for your state not to
interfere in our war, nothing can be more erroneous; because by not interfering you will be left, without
favour or consideration, the guerdon of the conqueror.” Thus it will always happen that he who is not
your friend will demand your neutrality, whilst he who is your friend will entreat you to declare yourself
with arms. And irresolute princes, to avoid present dangers, generally follow the neutral path, and are
generally ruined. But when a prince declares himself gallantly in favour of one side, if the party with
whom he allies himself conquers, although the victor may be powerful and may have him at his mercy,
yet he is indebted to him, and there is established a bond of amity; and men are never so shameless as to
become a monument of ingratitude by oppressing you. Victories after all are never so complete that the
victor must not show some regard, especially to justice. But if he with whom you ally yourself loses,
you may be sheltered by him, and whilst he is able he may aid you, and you become companions on a
fortune that may rise again.
In the second case, when those who fight are of such a character that you have no anxiety as to who
may conquer, so much the more is it greater prudence to be allied, because you assist at the destruction
of one by the aid of another who, if he had been wise, would have saved him; and conquering, as it is
impossible that he should not do with your assistance, he remains at your discretion. And here it is to be
noted that a prince ought to take care never to make an alliance with one more powerful than himself for
the purposes of attacking others, unless necessity compels him, as is said above; because if he conquers
you are at his discretion, and princes ought to avoid as much as possible being at the discretion of any
one. The Venetians joined with France against the Duke of Milan, and this alliance, which caused their
ruin, could have been avoided. But when it cannot be avoided, as happened to the Florentines when the
Pope and Spain sent armies to attack Lombardy, then in such a case, for the above reasons, the prince
ought to favour one of the parties.
 Never let any Government imagine that it can choose perfectly safe courses; rather let it expect to
have to take very doubtful ones, because it is found in ordinary affairs that one never seeks to avoid one
trouble without running into another; but prudence consists in knowing how to distinguish the character
of troubles, and for choice to take the lesser evil.
A prince ought also to show himself a patron of ability, and to honour the proficient in every art. At
the same time he should encourage his citizens to practise their callings peaceably, both in commerce
and agriculture, and in every other following, so that the one should not be deterred from improving his
possessions for fear lest they be taken away from him or another from opening up trade for fear of taxes;
but the prince ought to offer rewards to whoever wishes to do these things and designs in any way to
honour his city or state.
Further, he ought to entertain the people with festivals and spectacles at convenient seasons of the
year; and as every city is divided into guilds or into societies, he ought to hold such bodies in esteem,
and associate with them sometimes, and show himself an example of courtesy and liberality;
nevertheless, always maintaining the majesty of his rank, for this he must never consent to abate in
anything.
Nicolo Machiavelli: The Prince, Decoded

CHAPTER XV — CONCERNING THINGS FOR WHICH MEN, AND ESPECIALLY PRINCES, ARE PRAISED OR
BLAMED
Most people who write about politics write about kingdoms of the imagination, places that have
never existed but which we wish had. I will write about how how a prince ought to rule in a real
kingdom. A prince who focuses on what should be done instead of what is done will soon end up dead.
A prince who wishes to hold his own ought to know how to do bad things, even if he chooses not to.
It would be nice if a prince could be liberal, kind, faithful, bold, chaste and sincere—but nobody is
perfect. A prince who was not good—but not bad either—would be second best. And, if that is not
possible, a prince should try to be bad in the best way: some vices will get a man killed and pushed from
power. Others are just kinks. Finally, a prince should never worry about doing evil things, if that means
saving the state; some virtues will get a man killed, too. Other things, which look like vices, will make a
man rich and safe.

CHAPTER XVI — CONCERNING LIBERALITY AND MEANNESS

Starting with the first of the characteristics above, I say that a prince should have the reputation of
being generous. However, there is no point in being generous if it does not improve your reputation. If
you give money away as it should be given away (honestly and silently), nobody will know, and you run
the risk of a reputation for being cheap. There is a problem, however: as soon as you stop being
generous, everybody will certainly think you are a miser. You will impoverish yourself trying to
maintain a reputation for generosity—and, therefore, you will end up taxing your people and weighing
them down. They will hate you for that, and you will be poor; thus, by trying to be liberal, you will end
up angering many, pleasing few, and putting yourself in danger.
It is better to just be cheap from the start. Eventually, the people will love you for it. You will be
able to defend the country; you will have the money for enterprises.
Only frugal rulers have achieved great things. The Pope had a reputation for being generous, but as
soon as he got in power, he became frugal. He was able to go to war with France and others and still not
raise taxes. The King of Spain would never have been such a great conqueror if he had been thought
generous. A prince, therefore, should hardly worry if people think he is cheap.
What about Caesar? He became the emperor by being generous. He became emperor. Once he had
achieved his position, he became more frugal. If he had not, he would have endangered himself. And
what about those princes who have been liberal and successful? A prince either spends his own money
and his subjects, or someone else’s. If he it is the former, he ought to be sparing. If it is the latter, he
should spend every cent he can get his hands on. If, for instance, a prince is conquering other countries,
sacking and extorting along the way, then he ought to be very generous with his soldiers. If you are
spending other people’s money, spend it like Cyrus the Great. Just do not spend your own money like
that.
Generosity is dangerous: the more you do it, the less you can keep it up. You either end up poor and
despised—or hated, because you must steal from others to support your spending. Therefore, it is better
to start off frugal and get a reputation for being cheap than it is to get a reputation for generosity that
ends in being hated.

CHAPTER XVII — CONCERNING CRUELTY AND CLEMENCY, AND WHETHER IT IS BETTER TO BE LOVED
THAN FEARED
Every prince should want to appear forgiving and not cruel. Nevertheless he ought to be careful
using clemency. Cesare Borgia was considered cruel; but his cruelty reconciled the Romagna, unified it,
and restored it to peace and loyalty. Seen rightly, Borgia was actually kinder and more merciful than the
Florentines, who allowed Pistoia to be destroyed in a riot, rather than crack down and seem cruel.
Therefore a prince, as long as he keeps his subjects united and loyal, should not mind it if people call
him cruel; he will almost always end up being more merciful than those who are soft-hearted and allow
their citizens to get away with murder and robbery. Murder and robbery affect everyone; executions
only kill one person.
New princes will have to seem cruel because new states are dangerous places. The great poet Virgil
says,

Against my will, my fate

A throne unsettled, and an infant state,

Bid me defend my realms with all my powers,

And guard with these severities my shores.

Nevertheless a prince should act slowly and consider all the facts. He should not take pleasure in
causing pain, but should always act with humanity. Otherwise his citizens will think that he is
untrustworthy.
Is it better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It would be lovely to be both, but few people
are. Most people are jerks, and they will promise the moon until the time comes to deliver. It is easier to
break a promise to someone you love than someone you fear; for that reason, it is better to be feared
than loved.
It is possible, though, to be feared and not hated. A prince who is feared, not hated, and who does
not touch the property of women of his subjects, can stay in power for a very long time. People will
forget the death of their father faster than they will forget the loss of the inheritance he left, so it is
crucial that a prince keeps his hands off his subjects’ property. Besides which, there are infinite pretexts
for stealing, and once you are known as a robber, you will always find a reason to continue.
When you lead an army, however, you must be cruel. Armies can only be kept united by fear.
Hannibal, who led a huge army of many races across many foreign lands, had no dissension in the ranks.
He was inhumanly cruel and incredibly brave. His soldiers revered and feared him, and his cruelty held
the army together. Other writers disparage his cruelty while lauding his victories; they do not see that his
cruelty lead to his victories.
Finally, you cannot make someone love you. You can make someone fear you.
CHAPTER XXI — HOW A PRINCE SHOULD CONDUCT HIMSELF SO AS TO GAIN RENOWN
Nothing is better for a prince than doing something flashy. The King of Spain, for instance, is one of
the greatest kings in the world. As soon as he took power, he attacked Granada, and that victory laid the
foundation for his other wars. He always uses religion as a cover; with pious cruelty, he drove the Moors
out of Spain. This is the perfect example. Yet, under this same cloak, he attacked Africa, Italy and
France; and, in doing, kept his people in suspense and admiration. He has made all these attacks so
quickly that nobody has had the time to work against him.
A prince ought to do some remarkable things inside the country too. Never miss the opportunity to
reward or punish someone lavishly. This kind of thing will make people think you are a great and
remarkable person.
A prince should also always be either a true friend or downright enemy. Never take a middle ground
or nuanced position. You have nothing to gain by being neutral when your neighbours are at war. If you
choose the wrong side, and your allies are defeated, then, yes, your country may be destroyed. But if had
remained neutral, your country would still be destroyed; your conqueror has no reason not to destroy
you if you did not support him.
If you fight strenuously and gallantly beside your allies and they win, they will likely not destroy
you. Your victorious neighbour will be indebted to you, and no ruler wants to be known forever as the
ungrateful king.
If two of your smaller neighbours are at war, and you know for certain who the victor will be, there
is no doubt that you should join in the fight on the side of the victor. When you win, your ally will owe
you. However, if at all possible, you should avoid the help of more powerful countries if you are at war.
If you win, you will owe your larger neighbour, and princes should try to avoid owing anyone.
You will never be able to choose perfectly safe paths. You will always have doubts and troubles.
The trick is to take the lesser of evils.
You should also try to encourage talent. Never let your citizens feel afraid that whatever they gain
will be taken away from them. Instead, reward the successful.
Further, a prince should have festivals and spectacles throughout the year. He should make friends
with unions and groups and associate himself with them now and then. A prince should, though, always
appear courteous and generous while remaining dignified. Retaining your dignity is critical.
Thomas Hobbes

Hobbes was a late bloomer; until his forties, he wrote bad books on physics. Once he got started on
philosophy, though, he had real momentum.
It is easy to ‘psychologize’ Hobbes’ work—to try to explain it based on his social milieu. In The
Leviathan, he says that we should all obey an absolute monarch, one so powerful that he is deemed
essentially infallible. That he should give up so much (like democratic rights and freedoms) in the name
of stability might not be surprising. Hobbes lived through civil wars and terrible strife in 17th century
England; a tyrannical King embroiled in foreign conflicts was executed and replaced with a genocidal
parliament. Hobbes himself was chased out of England and had to flee to France. He then got chased out
of France and had to flee back to England. Small wonder, perhaps, that he should so highly value order.
Hobbes’ best idea is that of the ‘social contract’. This is the idea that we all give up a bit of freedom
in exchange for stability and long life. I promise to not kill you, and you promise to not kill me;
eventually, we all make that promise, and off we go: society gets rolling, and the rule of law spreads.
Agreeing to give up some freedom is perfectly sensible when you consider the alternative: the ‘state
of nature’, where there is no law, and every person must fend for herself. Life is, Hobbes says with flair,
“solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
The leap from the state of nature to tyranny is pretty short for Hobbes. He considers that there might
be other suitable forms of government, but rejects them for want of stability and efficiency. A despot
just gets stuff done.
Hobbes himself seems to have been a bit of a jerk. He feuded with just about everyone. Descartes
hated him. The inventor of the infinity sign hated him. The House of Commons thought he was a
blasphemer and atheist, and he probably was. He died old, rich, and famous, though, at the age of 91.
Thomas Hobbes: The Leviathan, edited

OF THE NATURAL CONDITION OF MANKIND AS CONCERNING THEIR FELICITY AND MISERY

Nature hath made men so equal in the faculties of body and mind as that, though there be found one
man sometimes manifestly stronger in body or of quicker mind than another, yet when all is reckoned
together the difference between man and man is not so considerable as that one man can thereupon
claim to himself any benefit to which another may not pretend as well as he. For as to the strength of
body, the weakest has strength enough to kill the strongest, either by secret machination or by
confederacy with others that are in the same danger with himself.
From this equality of ability ariseth equality of hope in the attaining of our ends. And therefore if
any two men desire the same thing, which nevertheless they cannot both enjoy, they become enemies;
and in the way to their end (which is principally their own conservation, and sometimes their delectation
only) endeavour to destroy or subdue one another. And from hence it comes to pass that where an
invader hath no more to fear than another man’s single power, if one plant, sow, build, or possess a
convenient seat, others may probably be expected to come prepared with forces united to dispossess and
deprive him, not only of the fruit of his labour, but also of his life or liberty. And the invader again is in
the like danger of another.
Again, men have no pleasure (but on the contrary a great deal of grief) in keeping company where
there is no power able to overawe them all. For every man looketh that his companion should value him
at the same rate he sets upon himself, and upon all signs of contempt or undervaluing naturally
endeavours, as far as he dares (which amongst them that have no common power to keep them in quiet
is far enough to make them destroy each other), to extort a greater value from his contemners, by
damage; and from others, by the example.
Hereby it is manifest that during the time men live without a common power to keep them all in
awe, they are in that condition which is called war; and such a war as is of every man against every man.
For war consisteth not in battle only, or the act of fighting, but in a tract of time, wherein the will to
contend by battle is sufficiently known: and therefore the notion of time is to be considered in the nature
of war, as it is in the nature of weather. For as the nature of foul weather lieth not in a shower or two of
rain, but in an inclination thereto of many days together: so the nature of war consisteth not in actual
fighting, but in the known disposition thereto during all the time there is no assurance to the contrary.
All other time is peace.
Whatsoever therefore is consequent to a time of war, where every man is enemy to every man, the
same consequent to the time wherein men live without other security than what their own strength and
their own invention shall furnish them withal. In such condition there is no place for industry, because
the fruit thereof is uncertain: and consequently no culture of the earth; no navigation, nor use of the
commodities that may be imported by sea; no commodious building; no instruments of moving and
removing such things as require much force; no knowledge of the face of the earth; no account of time;
no arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear, and danger of violent death; and
the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.
To this war of every man against every man, this also is consequent; that nothing can be unjust. The
notions of right and wrong, justice and injustice, have there no place. Where there is no common power,
there is no law; where no law, no injustice. Force and fraud are in war the two cardinal virtues. Justice
and injustice are none of the faculties neither of the body nor mind. If they were, they might be in a man
that were alone in the world, as well as his senses and passions. They are qualities that relate to men in
society, not in solitude. It is consequent also to the same condition that there be no propriety, no
dominion, no mine and thine distinct; but only that to be every man’s that he can get, and for so long as
he can keep it. And thus much for the ill condition which man by mere nature is actually placed in;
though with a possibility to come out of it, consisting partly in the passions, partly in his reason.
The passions that incline men to peace are: fear of death; desire of such things as are necessary to
commodious living; and a hope by their industry to obtain them. And reason suggesteth convenient
articles of peace upon which men may be drawn to agreement. These articles are they which otherwise
are called the laws of nature, whereof I shall speak more particularly in the two following chapters.

CHAPTER XIV: OF THE FIRST AND SECOND NATURAL LAWS, AND OF CONTRACTS
The right of nature, which writers commonly call jus naturale, is the liberty each man hath to use his
own power as he will himself for the preservation of his own nature; that is to say, of his own life; and
consequently, of doing anything which, in his own judgement and reason, he shall conceive to be the
aptest means thereunto.
A law of nature, lex naturalis, is a precept, or general rule, found out by reason, by which a man is
forbidden to do that which is destructive of his life, or taketh away the means of preserving the same,
and to omit that by which he thinketh it may be best preserved. For though they that speak of this subject
used to confound jus and lex, right and law, yet they ought to be distinguished, because right consisteth
in liberty to do, or to forbear; whereas law determineth and bindeth to one of them: so that law and right
differ as much as obligation and liberty, which in one and the same matter are inconsistent.
And because the condition of man (as hath been declared in the precedent chapter) is a condition of
war of every one against every one, in which case every one is governed by his own reason, and there is
nothing he can make use of that may not be a help unto him in preserving his life against his enemies; it
followeth that in such a condition every man has a right to every thing, even to one another’s body. And
therefore, as long as this natural right of every man to every thing endureth, there can be no security to
any man, how strong or wise soever he be, of living out the time which nature ordinarily alloweth men
to live. And consequently it is a precept, or general rule of reason: that every man ought to endeavour
peace, as far as he has hope of obtaining it; and when he cannot obtain it, that he may seek and use all
helps and advantages of war. The first branch of which rule containeth the first and fundamental law of
nature, which is: to seek peace and follow it. The second, the sum of the right of nature, which is: by all
means we can to defend ourselves.
From this fundamental law of nature, by which men are commanded to endeavour peace, is derived
this second law: that a man be willing, when others are so too, as far forth as for peace and defence of
himself he shall think it necessary, to lay down this right to all things; and be contented with so much
liberty against other men as he would allow other men against himself. For as long as every man holdeth
this right, of doing anything he liketh; so long are all men in the condition of war. But if other men will
not lay down their right, as well as he, then there is no reason for anyone to divest himself of his: for that
were to expose himself to prey, which no man is bound to, rather than to dispose himself to peace. This
is that law of the gospel: Whatsoever you require that others should do to you, that do ye to them. And
that law of all men, quod tibi fieri non vis, alteri ne feceris.
Whensoever a man transferreth his right, or renounceth it, it is either in consideration of some right
reciprocally transferred to himself, or for some other good he hopeth for thereby. For it is a voluntary
act: and of the voluntary acts of every man, the object is some good to himself.
The mutual transferring of right is that which men call contract.
If a covenant be made wherein neither of the parties perform presently, but trust one another, in the
condition of mere nature (which is a condition of war of every man against every man) upon any
reasonable suspicion, it is void: but if there be a common power set over them both, with right and force
sufficient to compel performance, it is not void. For he that performeth first has no assurance the other
will perform after, because the bonds of words are too weak to bridle men’s ambition, avarice, anger,
and other passions, without the fear of some coercive power; which in the condition of mere nature,
where all men are equal, and judges of the justness of their own fears, cannot possibly be supposed. And
therefore he which performeth first does but betray himself to his enemy, contrary to the right he can
never abandon of defending his life and means of living.
But in a civil estate, where there a power set up to constrain those that would otherwise violate their
faith, that fear is no more reasonable; and for that cause, he which by the covenant is to perform first is
obliged so to do.
Men are freed of their covenants two ways; by performing, or by being forgiven. For performance is
the natural end of obligation, and forgiveness the restitution of liberty, as being a retransferring of that
right in which the obligation consisted.
A former covenant makes void a later. For a man that hath passed away his right to one man today
hath it not to pass tomorrow to another: and therefore the later promise passeth no right, but is null.
A covenant not to defend myself from force, by force, is always void. For (as I have shown before)
no man can transfer or lay down his right to save himself from death, wounds, and imprisonment, the
avoiding whereof is the only end of laying down any right; and therefore the promise of not resisting
force, in no covenant transferreth any right, nor is obliging. For though a man may covenant thus, unless
I do so, or so, kill me; he cannot covenant thus, unless I do so, or so, I will not resist you when you come
to kill me. For man by nature chooseth the lesser evil, which is danger of death in resisting, rather than
the greater, which is certain and present death in not resisting. And this is granted to be true by all men,
in that they lead criminals to execution, and prison, with armed men, notwithstanding that such criminals
have consented to the law by which they are condemned.
A covenant to accuse oneself, without assurance of pardon, is likewise invalid. For in the condition
of nature where every man is judge, there is no place for accusation: and in the civil state the accusation
is followed with punishment, which, being force, a man is not obliged not to resist. The same is also true
of the accusation of those by whose condemnation a man falls into misery; as of a father, wife, or
benefactor. For the testimony of such an accuser, if it be not willingly given, is presumed to be corrupted
by nature, and therefore not to be received: and where a man’s testimony is not to be credited, he is not
bound to give it. Also accusations upon torture are not to be reputed as testimonies. For torture is to be
used but as means of conjecture, and light, in the further examination and search of truth: and what is in
that case confessed tendeth to the ease of him that is tortured, not to the informing of the torturers, and
therefore ought not to have the credit of a sufficient testimony: for whether he deliver himself by true or
false accusation, he does it by the right of preserving his own life.
The force of words being (as I have formerly noted) too weak to hold men to the performance of
their covenants, there are in man’s nature but two imaginable helps to strengthen it. And those are either
a fear of the consequence of breaking their word, or a glory or pride in appearing not to need to break it.
This latter is a generosity too rarely found to be presumed on, especially in the pursuers of wealth,
command, or sensual pleasure, which are the greatest part of mankind. The passion to be reckoned upon
is fear; whereof there be two very general objects: one, the power of spirits invisible; the other, the
power of those men they shall therein offend. Of these two, though the former be the greater power, yet
the fear of the latter is commonly the greater fear.

THE SECOND PART: OF COMMONWEALTH.

CHAPTER XVII: OF THE CAUSES, GENERATION, AND DEFINITION OF A COMMONWEALTH

The final cause, end, or design of men (who naturally love liberty, and dominion over others) in the
introduction of that restraint upon themselves, in which we see them live in Commonwealths, is the
foresight of their own preservation, and of a more contented life thereby.
The only way to erect such a common power, as may be able to defend them from the invasion of
foreigners, and the injuries of one another, and thereby to secure them in such sort as that by their own
industry and by the fruits of the earth they may nourish themselves and live contentedly, is to confer all
their power and strength upon one man, or upon one assembly of men, that may reduce all their wills, by
plurality of voices, unto one will: which is as much as to say, to appoint one man, or assembly of men,
to bear their person; and every one to own and acknowledge himself to be author of whatsoever he that
so beareth their person shall act, or cause to be acted, in those things which concern the common peace
and safety; and therein to submit their wills, every one to his will, and their judgements to his
judgement. This is more than consent, or concord; it is a real unity of them all in one and the same
person, made by covenant of every man with every man, in such manner as if every man should say to
every man: I authorise and give up my right of governing myself to this man, or to this assembly of men,
on this condition; that thou give up, thy right to him, and authorise all his actions in like manner. This
done, the multitude so united in one person is called a commonwealth; in Latin, civitas. This is the
generation of that great leviathan, or rather, to speak more reverently, of that mortal god to which we
owe, under the immortal God, our peace and defence. For by this authority, given him by every
particular man in the Commonwealth, he hath the use of so much power and strength conferred on him
that, by terror thereof, he is enabled to form the wills of them all, to peace at home, and mutual aid
against their enemies abroad. And in him consisteth the essence of the Commonwealth; which, to define
it, is: one person, of whose acts a great multitude, by mutual covenants one with another, have made
themselves every one the author, to the end he may use the strength and means of them all as he shall
think expedient for their peace and common defence.
And he that carryeth this person is called sovereign, and said to have sovereign power; and every
one besides, his subject.
The attaining to this sovereign power is by two ways. One, by natural force: as when a man maketh
his children to submit themselves, and their children, to his government, as being able to destroy them if
they refuse; or by war subdueth his enemies to his will, giving them their lives on that condition. The
other, is when men agree amongst themselves to submit to some man, or assembly of men, voluntarily,
on confidence to be protected by him against all others. This latter may be called a political
Commonwealth, or Commonwealth by Institution; and the former, a Commonwealth by acquisition.
And first, I shall speak of a Commonwealth by institution.

CHAPTER XIX: OF THE SEVERAL KINDS OF COMMONWEALTH BY INSTITUTION, AND OF SUCCESSION TO

THE SOVEREIGN POWER
When the representative is one man, then is the Commonwealth a monarchy; when an assembly of
all that will come together, then it is a democracy, or popular Commonwealth; when an assembly of a
part only, then it is called an aristocracy. Other kind of Commonwealth there can be none: for either one,
or more, or all, must have the sovereign power (which I have shown to be indivisible) entire.
The difference between these three kinds of Commonwealth consisteth, not in the difference of
power, but in the difference of convenience or aptitude to produce the peace and security of the people.

CHAPTER XX: OF PATERNAL AND DESPOTICAL DOMINION

So that it appeareth plainly, to my understanding, both from reason and Scripture, that the sovereign
power, whether placed in one man, as in monarchy, or in one assembly of men, as in popular and
aristocratical Commonwealths, is as great as possibly men can be imagined to make it. And though of so
unlimited a power, men may fancy many evil consequences, yet the consequences of the want of it,
which is perpetual war of every man against his neighbour, are much worse. The condition of man in
this life shall never be without inconveniences; but there happeneth in no Commonwealth any great
inconvenience but what proceeds from the subjects’ disobedience and breach of those covenants from
which the Commonwealth hath its being. And whosoever, thinking sovereign power too great, will seek
to make it less, must subject himself to the power that can limit it; that is to say, to a greater.

CHAPTER XXI: OF THE LIBERTY OF SUBJECTS

To come now to the particulars of the true liberty of a subject; that is to say, what are the things
which, though commanded by the sovereign, he may nevertheless without injustice refuse to do; for all
men equally are by nature free.
I have shown before, in the fourteenth Chapter, that covenants not to defend a man’s own body are
void. Therefore, if the sovereign command a man, though justly condemned, to kill, wound, or maim
himself; or not to resist those that assault him; or to abstain from the use of food, air, medicine, or any
other thing without which he cannot live; yet hath that man the liberty to disobey.
If a man be interrogated by the sovereign, or his authority, concerning a crime done by himself, he is
not bound (without assurance of pardon) to confess it; because no man, as I have shown in the same
chapter, can be obliged by covenant to accuse himself.
Again, the consent of a subject to sovereign power is contained in these words, “I authorise, or take
upon me, all his actions”.
To resist the sword of the Commonwealth in defence of another man, guilty or innocent, no man
hath liberty; because such liberty takes away from the sovereign the means of protecting us, and is
therefore destructive of the very essence of government. But in case a great many men together have
already resisted the sovereign power unjustly, or committed some capital crime for which every one of
them expecteth death, whether have they not the liberty then to join together, and assist, and defend one
another? Certainly they have: for they but defend their lives, which the guilty man may as well do as the
innocent. There was indeed injustice in the first breach of their duty: their bearing of arms subsequent to
it, though it be to maintain what they have done, is no new unjust act. And if it be only to defend their
persons, it is not unjust at all. But the offer of pardon taketh from them to whom it is offered the plea of
self-defence, and maketh their perseverance in assisting or defending the rest unlawful.
As for other liberties, they depend on the silence of the law. In cases where the sovereign has
prescribed no rule, there the subject hath the liberty to do, or forbear, according to his own discretion.
And therefore such liberty is in some places more, and in some less; and in some times more, in other
times less.
If a subject have a controversy with his sovereign of debt, or of right of possession of lands or goods,
or concerning any service required at his hands, or concerning any penalty, corporal or pecuniary,
grounded on a precedent law, he hath the same liberty to sue for his right as if it were against a subject,
and before such judges as are appointed by the sovereign. For seeing the sovereign demandeth by force
of a former law, and not by virtue of his power, he declareth thereby that he requireth no more than shall
appear to be due by that law. The suit therefore is not contrary to the will of the sovereign, and
consequently the subject hath the liberty to demand the hearing of his cause, and sentence according to
that law. But if he demand or take anything by pretence of his power, there lieth, in that case, no action
of law: for all that is done by him in virtue of his power is done by the authority of every subject, and
consequently, he that brings an action against the sovereign brings it against himself.
The obligation of subjects to the sovereign is understood to last as long, and no longer, than the
power lasteth by which he is able to protect them. For the right men have by nature to protect
themselves, when none else can protect them, can by no covenant be relinquished.
Thomas Hobbes: The Leviathan, decoded

CHAPTER 13: HOW MISERABLE AND HAPPY PEOPLE GENERALLY ARE.

Every man is weak while he is asleep. Certainly, some men are stronger or smarter than others but
no man is so strong or so smart that he can never be outsmarted or defeated. The weak and the dumb can
band together to defeat even the most powerful individuals. Therefore, people are close enough to equal.
Since all people know that they are equal, all people aspire to the same things. If two people aspire
to the same thing and it cannot be shared, they become enemies. Even the smallest possessions or
positions will lead others to be jealous enough to kill or enslave.
Where there is no supreme power, there is no pleasure in the company of men.
Whenever men live without a supreme power ruling over them, they are in a state of war. It is a war
of all against all. There is more to war than merely fighting: war is a state of mind when anything goes.
When there is not peace, there is complete war.
In this kind of war, the war of man against man, there is no reason to develop industry, farming, or
exploration. There is no reason to build or invest. There is no scholarship. There is only fear and the
threat of violent death. The life of man is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.
There is also no justice or injustice. Nobody pays attention to right or wrong; in fact, only fraud and
force are virtues. Everyone fights to hold on to something for a little while.
Men want peace because they fear death, desire security, and hope to keep what they earn. Reason,
however, can give us articles of peace, called laws of nature, to which we can all agree. I will speak
about them next.

CHAPTER 14: THE FIRST AND SECOND NATURAL LAWS, AND CONTRACTS
Natural justice is the freedom of each person to preserve her own life, and to do the things required
to stay alive.
Laws are not rights. The difference between a right and a law is this: rights allow the freedom to do
or not to do. Laws require adherence or action. Laws and rights are like obligations and liberties. This is
a law: No person can destroy herself or take away the things that keep her alive. This is a right: each
person has the right to stay alive.
And because a person at war can make use of absolutely everything to preserve her own life, in a
state of war, everyone has rights to everything, even to another’s life or body. For as long as we are at
war with one another, there is no security, even for the wise and strong. It is, therefore, a universal rule
of reason that every person should work for peace as long as she has a chance of obtaining it. If she has
no chance, then she is free to do what he must. The first law of nature, then, is this: seek peace and
follow it. The first right of nature is this: do all you can to defend yourself.
The second law of nature is derived from the first: a person must be willing (when others are too) to
end a war. She must also be willing to waive her right to all things and be happy with only as many
rights as she would allow others to have. Of course, as long as one person is unwilling to embrace peace,
there is no reason for anyone to do so; otherwise the holdout would become a hawk among doves.
Nonetheless, it is the law of the gospel: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. When
others are willing to lay down their rights, we all must be willing.
People give up their rights out of self-interest, not kindness. We might give one right away to get
another in exchange. We give up rights voluntarily, and all voluntary rights are done out of self-interest.
A contract is when parties mutually transfer rights.
If two people make promises for the future while in the state of nature (i.e. war), the contract is void.
But if there is a common power that can prevail over them both, then the contract holds. In war, though,
nobody can expect to be repaid, since promises are just empty words.
But when there is a government, where there a power set up to restrain those people that would lie
and cheat, there is no reasonable fear of being betrayed.
Covenants entered into by fear in the state of war are binding. If I promise to pay a ransom, I must
keep my promise. It is a contract like any other. Unless there is a new cause of fear that would renew the
war, I must keep my promise. Even when there is a government, I am bound to pay debts accrued in
fear, at least until the legitimate law exonerates me. A contract is a contract.
An earlier contract trumps a later contract. The same right cannot be given away twice.
It is impossible to promise to not defend oneself. I can’t say “I swear on my life”, because when the
time comes for you to kill me, I’ll take my chances with resisting (where at least I have a chance),
instead of letting you kill me (when I would obviously have none).
Similarly, I cannot admit to being guilty of a crime unless I will be entirely pardoned. I can never be
obliged to admit to force being used on me. Likewise, the testimony given under torture cannot be
trusted. The tortured are trying to preserve their lives and end their misery.
There are only two reasons a person keeps her word: fear and pride. Pride cannot be relied on,
especially when it comes to people who pursue wealth, power and pleasure, which is to say, most of us.
Fear is the only guarantor of performance, and there are two things people generally fear: God and
punishment. God is more powerful, but punishment is more persuasive.

PART TWO, CHAPTER 17: THE REASONS WE HAVE A GOVERNMENT

People love to be free and to dominate others. They only restrict themselves with a government to
preserve their lives and live more happily.
The only way to erect a government is to give all their power and strength to one person or
assembly. Each person must renounce her independence and acknowledge that the king, when he acts,
will be acting on her behalf. Every time the king acts to preserve the common peace, every person must
submit her will to him. This is more than just consenting or agreeing; the populace must unite their wills
in one person, saying “I will let him govern me if you let him govern you”. Uniting like this creates a
community or civilization. This is how we get a leviathan, a mortal god to whom we owe our peace. The
Leviathan must have so much power that he strikes terror into enemies abroad and at home.
There are only two ways a king gets made: by consent and by force. Some will agree to have a king
lead them. Others will be conquered by him. First, I will discuss commonwealth by consent.
CHAPTER 19: THE KINDS OF GOVERNMENT AND HOW KINGS ARE MADE
There are three types of government; monarchy, democracy, and aristocracy. A monarchy is when
one person has all the power, a democracy is when all people have power, and an aristocracy is when a
few do. There cannot be other kinds of government, obviously.
The biggest difference, though, is not in the power, but in the likelihood of peace and security.

CHAPTER 20: OF KINGS AS DADS AND DESPOTS

It seems to me that the power of the government, whether it is a king or an assembly, is as great as
can be imagined. Obviously, it is possible to imagine that the government may abuse this power, and
many evil consequences will result. The absence of this power is much worse, however. Without
government, we are returned to war of man against man. Any life has inconveniences, and any
commonwealth has them too. But the inconveniences in a commonwealth come from the subjects’
disobedience. And anyone who thinks the power of a king is great should consider this: to get rid of a
king, you need a power even greater than a king.

CHAPTER 21: THE RIGHTS OF CITIZENS

There are some things that no person can be compelled to do, even by the leviathan. Men are, after
all, born equal.
The sovereign cannot justly ask a man to kill, wound, or maim himself, or to abstain from resisting
assault. As I showed earlier, nobody can be made promise not to harm himself.
Likewise, nobody can be made to incriminate herself, and for the same reason.
Nobody has the right to resist the law to defend another person, even if that person is innocent. But if
a group of rebels had unjustly resisted the authority of the government, then they have the right to now
defend themselves and each other. While it was unjust to resist in the first place, once the first crime has
been committed, there is no further crime in attempting to preserve one’s own life.
As for the other freedoms: they depend on the silence of the law. Where there is no law, there is
freedom, to do or to not do. Therefore, in some places, there is more freedom, and in some places less.
If there is a conflict between a citizen and her king, she may take the king to court as if he were any
other citizen, and in front of the same judges other citizens face. She is sure to lose, however. If the
conflict is because the citizen does not agree with an existing law, then the citizen is clearly wrong. All
citizens must abide by the law. If the sovereign used force and not law, then he did so with the authority
of all citizens, and she that brings an action against him is really suing herself.
Citizens are obligated to obey the sovereign for as long, and no longer, than the king protects them.
When he no longer can, their obligations to him are relinquished.
John Locke

There is something about English philosophers that I really love. Germans? An angry people. The
French are incomprehensible. Americans are wrong but figure they’re close enough. But the English?
They do philosophy right. They are all gentlemanly, modest, charming—and correct.
Locke is no exception, and he stands astride English philosophy and history like a giant. He may be
the greatest English philosopher ever, and it’s a competitive field. He wrote brilliantly about politics,
epistemology, and economics. He was a great doctor and tried to have the King of England assassinated
in his spare time. For a lark, he became father of America (the Constitution is based on his ideas).
Apart from the Constitution, if you ask me, Locke’s most important contribution is his defense of
empiricism and his idea of the soul. He takes the idea of the soul away from the religious and the wacky,
and he wipes it clean; if you don’t see yourself as tainted with sin or capable of learning everything
important without leaving the house, you have Locke to thank.
In this passage from An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Locke is doing epistemology, and
he is attacking some of those philosophical nutters—people like Descartes. They are called ‘rationalists’,
and they believe (more or less) that the truest knowledge can be found through introspection and pure
thought. They do not believe in science, or ‘empiricism’—the practice of basing our ideas on external
facts.
Locke is going after ‘innate ideas’. These are ideas that we are all supposed to have, or are all
supposed to be able to discover with a little introspection.
Ethical, logical, geometric, and mathematical ideas are the kinds of things that seem innate. Locke,
though, thinks that they cannot be. He believes that when we are born, our minds are ‘blank slates’, or
‘tabula rasa’, and everything we know, we learned. You, if you’re like almost everyone I know, agree.
John Locke: An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, edited

BOOK I, CHAPTER I
There is nothing more commonly taken for granted, than that there are certain principles, both
speculative and practical (for they speak of both) universally agreed upon by all mankind: which
therefore, they argue, must needs be constant impressions, which the souls of men receive in their first
beings, and which they bring into the world with them, as necessarily and really as they do any of their
inherent faculties.
This argument, drawn from universal consent, has this misfortune in it, that if it were true in matter
of fact, that there were certain truths, wherein all mankind agreed, it would not prove them innate, if
there can be any other way shewn, how men may come to that universal agreement, in the things they do
consent in; which I presume may be done.
But, which is worse, this argument of universal consent, which is made use of to prove innate
principles, seems to me a demonstration that there are none such; because there are none to which all
mankind give a universal assent. I shall begin with the speculative, and instance in those magnified
principles of demonstration; “whatsoever is, is;” and, “it is impossible for the same thing to be, and not
to be;” which, of all others, I think have the most allowed title to innate. These have so settled a
reputation of maxims universally received, that it will, no doubt, be thought strange, if any one should
seem to question it. But yet I take liberty to say, that these propositions are so far from having a
universal assent, that there are a great part of mankind to whom they are not so much as known.
For, first, it is evident, that all children and idiots have not the least apprehension or thought of them;
and the want of that is enough to destroy that universal assent, which must needs be the necessary
concomitant of all innate truths: it seeming to me near a contradiction, to say, that there are truths
imprinted on the soul, which it perceives or understands not; imprinting, if it signify any thing, being
nothing else, but the making certain truths to be perceived. For to imprint any thing on the mind, without
the mind’s perceiving it, seems to me hardly intelligible. If therefore children and idiots have souls, have
minds, with those impressions upon them, they must unavoidably perceive them, and necessarily know
and assent to these truths: which since they do not, it is evident that there are no such impressions. For if
they are not notions naturally imprinted, how can they be innate? and if they are notions imprinted, how
can they be unknown? To say a notion is imprinted on the mind, and yet at the same time to say, that the
mind is ignorant of it, and never yet took notice of it, is to make this impression nothing. No proposition
can be said to be in the mind, which it never yet knew, which it was never yet conscious of. For if any
one may, then, by the same reason, all propositions that are true, and the mind is capable of ever
assenting to, may be said to be in the mind, and to be imprinted: since, if any one can be said to be in the
mind, which it never yet knew, it must be only, because it is capable of knowing it, and so the mind is of
all truths it ever shall know. Nay, thus truths may be imprinted on the mind, which it never did, nor ever
shall know: for a man may live long, and die at last in ignorance of many truths, which his mind was
capable of knowing, and that with certainty. So that if the capacity of knowing, be the natural impression
contended for, all the truths a man ever comes to know, will, by this account, be every one of them
innate; and this great point will amount to no more, but only to a very improper way of speaking; which,
whilst it pretends to assert the contrary, says nothing different from those, who deny innate principles.
….
To avoid this, it is usually answered, That all men know and assent to them, when they come to the
use of reason, and this is enough to prove them innate. I answer,
Doubtful expressions that have scarce any signification, go for clear reasons, to those, who being
prepossessed, take not the pains to examine, even what they themselves say. For to apply this answer
with any tolerable sense to our present purpose, it must signify one of these two things; either, that, as
soon as men come to the use of reason, these supposed native inscriptions come to be known, and
observed by them: or else, that the use and exercise of men’s reason assists them in the discovery of
these principles, and certainly makes them known to them.
If they mean, that by the use of reason men may discover these principles; and that this is sufficient
to prove them innate: their way of arguing will stand thus, (viz.) that, whatever truths reason can
certainly discover to us, and make us firmly assent to, those are all naturally imprinted on the mind;
since that universal assent, which is made the mark of them, amounts to no more but this; that by the use
of reason, we are capable to come to a certain knowledge of, and assent to them; and, by this means,
there will be no difference between the maxims of the mathematicians, and theorems they deduce from
them; all must be equally allowed innate; they being all discoveries made by the use of reason, and
truths that a rational creature may certainly come to know, if he apply his thoughts rightly that way.
But how can these men think the use of reason necessary, to discover principles that are supposed
innate, when reason (if we may believe them) is nothing else but the faculty of deducing unknown truths
from principles, or propositions, that are already known? That certainly can never be thought innate,
which we have need of reason to discover; unless, as I have said, we will have all the certain truths, that
reason ever teaches us, to be innate. We may as well think the use of reason necessary to make our eyes
discover visible objects, as that there should be need of reason, or the exercise thereof, to make the
understanding see what is originally engraven on it, and cannot be in the understanding before it be
perceived by it. So that to make reason discover those truths, thus imprinted, is to say, that the use of
reason discovers to a man what he knew before: and if men have those innate impressed truths
originally, and before the use of reason, and yet are always ignorant of them, till they come to the use of
reason, it is in effect to say, that men know, and know them not, at the same time.
It will here perhaps be said, that mathematical demonstrations, and other truths that are not innate,
are not assented to, as soon as proposed, wherein they are distinguished from these maxims, and other
innate truths. I shall have occasion to speak of assent, upon the first proposing, more particularly by and
by. I shall here only, and that very readily, allow, that these maxims and mathematical demonstrations
are in this different; that the one have need of reason, using of proofs, to make them out, and to gain our
assent; but the other, as soon as understood, are, without any the least reasoning, embraced and assented
to. But I withal beg leave to observe, that it lays open the weakness of this subterfuge, which requires
the use of reason for the discovery of these general truths: since it must be confessed, that in their
discovery there is no use made of reasoning at all. And I think those, who give this answer, will not be
forward to affirm, that the knowledge of this maxim, “That it is impossible for the same thing to be, and
not to be,” is a deduction of our reason. For this would be to destroy that bounty of nature they seem so
fond of, whilst they make the knowledge of those principles to depend on the labour of our thoughts. For
all reasoning is search, and casting about, and requires pains and application. And how can it with any
tolerable sense be supposed, that what was imprinted by nature, as the foundation and guide of our
reason, should need the use of reason to discover it?
Those who will take the pains to reflect with a little attention on the operations of the understanding,
will find, that this ready assent of the mind to some truths, depends not, either on native inscription, or
the use of reason; but on a faculty of the mind quite distinct from both of them, as we shall see hereafter.
Reason, therefore, having nothing to do in procuring our assent to these maxims, if by saying, that men
know and assent to them, when they come to the use of reason, be meant, that the use of reason assists
us in the knowledge of these maxims, it is utterly false; and were it true, would prove them not to be
innate.
If by knowing and assenting to them, when we come to the use of reason, be meant, that this is the
time when they come to be taken notice of by the mind; and that, as soon as children come to the use of
reason, they come also to know and assent to these maxims; this also is false and frivolous. First, It is
false: Because it is evident these maxims are not in the mind so early as the use of reason: and therefore
the coming to the use of reason is falsely assigned, as the time of their discovery. How many instances
of the use of reason may we observe in children, a long time before they have any knowledge of this
maxim, “That it is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be?” And a great part of illiterate
people, and savages, pass many years, even of their rational age, without ever thinking on this, and the
like general propositions. I grant, men come not to the knowledge of these general and more abstract
truths, which are thought innate, till they come to the use of reason; and I add, nor then neither. Which is
so, because, till after they come to the use of reason, those general abstract ideas are not framed in the
mind, about which those general maxims are, which are mistaken for innate principles; but are indeed
discoveries made, and verities introduced and brought into the mind by the same way, and discovered by
the same steps, as several other propositions, which nobody was ever so extravagant as to suppose
innate. This I hope to make plain in the sequel of this discourse. I allow therefore a necessity, that men
should come to the use of reason before they get the knowledge of those general truths; but deny, that
men’s coming to the use of reason is the time of their discovery.
In the mean time it is observable, that this saying, That men know and assent to these maxims, when
they come to the use of reason, amounts in reality of fact to no more but this, That they are never known
or taken notice of, before the use of reason, but may possibly be assented to, some time after, during a
man’s life; but when, is uncertain: and so may all other knowable truths, as well as these; which
therefore have no advantage nor distinction from others, by this note of being known when we come to
the use of reason; nor are thereby proved to be innate, but quite the contrary.
But, secondly, were it true, that the precise time of their being known, and assented to, were, when
men come the use of reason, neither would that prove them innate. This way of arguing is as frivolous,
as the supposition of itself is false. For by what kind of logic will it appear, that any notion is originally
by nature imprinted in the mind in its first constitution, because it comes first to be observed and
assented to, when a faculty of the mind, which has quite a distinct province, begins to exert itself? And
therefore, the coming to the use of speech, if it were supposed the time that these maxims are first
assented to (which it may be with as much truth, as the time when men come to the use of reason) would
be as good a proof that they were innate, as to say, they are innate, because men assent to them, when
they come to the use of reason. I agree then with these men of innate principles, that there is no
knowledge of these general and self-evident maxims in the mind, till it comes to the exercise of reason:
but I deny that the coming to the use of reason is the precise time when they are first taken notice of; and
if that were the precise time, I deny that it would prove them innate. All that can with any truth be meant
by this proposition, that men assent to them when they come to the use of reason, is no more but this,
that the making of general abstract ideas, and the understanding of general names, being a concomitant
of the rational faculty, and growing up with it, children commonly get not those general ideas, nor learn
the names that stand for them, till, having for a good while exercised their reason about familiar and
more particular ideas, they are, by their ordinary discourse and actions with others, acknowledged to be
capable of rational conversation. If assenting to these maxims, when men come to the use of reason, can
be true in any other sense, I desire it may be shewn; or at least, how in this, or any other sense, it proves
them innate.
The senses at first let in particular ideas, and furnish the yet empty cabinet; and the mind by degrees
growing familiar with some of them, they are lodged in the memory, and names got to them. Afterwards
the mind, proceeding farther, abstracts them, and by degrees learns the use of general names. In this
manner the mind comes to be furnished with ideas and language, the materials about which to exercise
its discursive faculty: and the use of reason becomes daily more visible, as these materials, that give it
employment, increase. But though the having of general ideas, and the use of general words and reason,
usually grow together; yet, I see not, how this any way proves them innate. The knowledge of some
truths, I confess, is very early in the mind; but in a way that shows them not to be innate. For, if we will
observe, we shall find it still to be about ideas, not innate, but acquired: It being about those first which
are imprinted by external things, with which infants have earliest to do, which make the most frequent
impressions on their senses. In ideas thus got, the mind discovers that some agree, and others differ,
probably as soon as it has any use of memory; as soon as it is able to retain and perceive distinct ideas.
But whether it be then, or no, this is certain, it does so, long before it has the use of words, or comes to
that, which we commonly call “the use of reason.” For a child knows as certainly, before it can speak,
the difference between the ideas of sweet and bitter (i.e. that sweet is not bitter) as it knows afterwards
(when it comes to speak) that wormwood and sugar-plums are not the same thing.
A child knows not that three and four are equal to seven, till he comes to be able to count seven, and
has got the name and idea of equality: and then, upon explaining those words, he presently assents to, or
rather perceives the truth of that proposition. But neither does he then readily assent, because it is an
innate truth, nor was his assent wanting till then, because he wanted the use of reason; but the truth of it
appears to him, as soon as he has settled in his mind the clear and distinct ideas, that these names stand
for: and then he knows the truth of that proposition, upon the same grounds, and by the same means, that
he knew before, that a rod and a cherry are not the same thing; and upon the same grounds also, that he
may come to know afterwards, “that it is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be,” as shall be
more fully shown hereafter. So that the later it is before any one comes to have those general ideas,
about which those maxims are; or to know the signification of those general terms that stand for them; or
to put together in his mind the ideas they stand for; the later also will it be before he comes to assent to
those maxims, whose terms, with the ideas they stand for, being no more innate than those of a cat or a
weasel, he must stay till time and observation have acquainted him with them; and then he will be in a
capacity to know the truth of these maxims, upon the first occasion that shall make him put together
those ideas in his mind, and observe whether they agree or disagree, according as is expressed in those
propositions. And therefore it is, that a man knows that eighteen and nineteen are equal to thirty-seven,
by the same self-evidence, that he knows one and two to be equal to three: yet a child knows this not so
soon as the other; not for want of the use of reason, but because the ideas the words eighteen, nineteen,
and thirty-seven stand for, are not so soon got, as those which are signified by one, two, and three.
But we have not yet done with assenting to propositions at first hearing and understanding their
terms; it is fit we first take notice, that this, instead of being a mark that they are innate, is a proof of the
contrary; since it supposes, that several, who understand and know other things, are ignorant of these
principles, till they are proposed to them; and that one may be unacquainted with these truths, till he
hears them from others. For if they were innate, what need they be proposed in order to gaining assent,
when by being in the understanding, by a natural and original impression, (if there were any such) they
could not but be known before? Or doth the proposing them, print them clearer in the mind than nature
did? If so, then the consequence will be, that a man knows them better, after he has been thus taught
them, than he did before. Whence it will follow, that these principles may be made more evident to us by
others teaching, than nature has made them by impression; which will ill agree with the opinion of
innate principles, and give but little authority to them; but, on the contrary, makes them unfit to be the
foundations of all our other knowledge, as they are pretended to be. This cannot be denied, that men
grow first acquainted with many of these self-evident truths, upon their being proposed: but it is clear,
that whosoever does so, finds in himself, that he then begins to know a proposition, which he knew not
before; and which, from thenceforth, he never questions: not because it was innate, but because the
consideration of the nature of the things contained in those words, would not suffer him to think
otherwise, how, or whensoever he is brought to reflect on them. And if whatever is assented to at first
hearing and understanding the terms, must pass for an innate principle, every well-grounded
observation, drawn from particulars into a general rule, must be innate. When yet it is certain, that not
all, but only sagacious heads light at first on these observations, and reduce them into general
propositions, not innate, but collected from a preceding acquaintance, and reflection on particular
instances. These, when observing men have made them, unobserving men, when they are proposed to
them, cannot refuse their assent to.
To conclude this argument of universal consent, I agree with these defenders of innate principles,
that if they are innate, they must needs have universal assent. For that a truth should be innate, and yet
not assented to, is to me as unintelligible, as for a man to know a truth, and be ignorant of it, at the same
time. But then, by these men’s own confession, they cannot be innate; since they are not assented to by
those who understand not the terms, nor by a great part of those who do understand them, but have yet
never heard nor thought of those propositions; which, I think, is at least one half of mankind. But were
the number far less, it would be enough to destroy universal assent, and thereby show these propositions
not to be innate, if children alone were ignorant of them.

BOOK II.
Every man being conscious to himself that he thinks, and that which his mind is applied about,
whilst thinking, being the ideas that are there, it is past doubt, that men have in their minds several ideas,
such as are those expressed by the words, Whiteness, Hardness, Sweetness, Thinking, Motion, Man,
Elephant, Army, Drunkenness, and others. It is in the first place then to be inquired, how he comes by
them. I know it is a received doctrine, that men have native ideas, and original characters, stamped upon
their minds, in their very first being. This opinion I have, at large, examined already; and, I suppose,
what I have said, in the foregoing book, will be much more easily admitted, when I have shewn, whence
the understanding may get all the ideas it has, and by what ways and degrees they may come into the
mind; for which I shall appeal to every one’s own observation and experience.
Let us then suppose the mind to be, as we say, white paper, void of all characters, without any ideas;
how comes it to be furnished? Whence comes it by that vast store which the busy and boundless fancy
of man has painted on it, with an almost endless variety? Whence has it all the materials of reason and
knowledge? To this I answer, in one word, from experience; in all that our knowledge is founded, and
from that it ultimately derives itself. Our observation employed either about external sensible objects, or
about the internal operations of our minds, perceived and reflected on by ourselves, is that which
supplies our understandings with all the materials of thinking. These two are the fountains of
knowledge, from whence all the ideas we have, or can naturally have, do spring.
First, Our senses, conversant about particular sensible objects, do convey into the mind several
distinct perceptions of things, according to those various ways wherein those objects do affect them: and
thus we come by those ideas we have, of Yellow, White, Heat, Cold, Soft, Hard, Bitter, Sweet, and all
those which we call sensible qualities; which when I say the senses convey into the mind, I mean, they
from external objects convey into the mind what produces there those perceptions. This great source of
most of the ideas we have, depending wholly upon our senses, and derived by them to the
understanding, I call sensation.
Secondly, The other fountain, from which experience furnisheth the understanding with ideas, is the
perception of the operations of our own mind within us, as it is employed about the ideas it has got;
which operations, when the soul comes to reflect on and consider, do furnish the understanding with
another set of ideas, which could not be had from things without; and such are Perception, Thinking,
Doubting, Believing, Reasoning, Knowing, Willing, and all the different actings of our own minds;
which we being conscious of and observing in ourselves, do from these receive into our understandings
as distinct ideas, as we do from bodies affecting our senses. This source of ideas every man has wholly
in himself; and though it be not sense, as having nothing to do with external objects, yet it is very like it,
and might properly enough be called internal sense. But as I call the other sensation, so I call this
reflection, the ideas it affords being such only as the mind gets by reflecting on its own operations
within itself. By reflection then, in the following part of this discourse, I would be understood to mean
that notice which the mind takes of its own operations, and the manner of them; by reason whereof there
come to be ideas of these operations in the understanding. These two, I say, viz. external material things,
as the objects of sensation; and the operations of our own minds within, as the objects of reflection; are
to me the only originals from whence all our ideas take their beginnings. The term operations here I use
in a large sense, as comprehending not barely the actions of the mind about its ideas, but some sort of
passions arising sometimes from them, such as is the satisfaction or uneasiness arising from any thought.
The understanding seems to me not to have the least glimmering of any ideas, which it doth not
receive from one of these two. External objects furnish the mind with the ideas of sensible qualities,
which are all those different perceptions they produce in us: and the mind furnishes the understanding
with ideas of its own operations.
These, when we have taken a full survey of them and their several modes, combinations, and
relations, we shall find to contain all our whole stock of ideas; and that we have nothing in our minds
which did not come in one of these two ways. Let any one examine his own thoughts, and thoroughly
search into his understanding; and then let him tell me, whether all the original ideas he has there, are
any other than of the objects of his senses, or of the operations of his mind, considered as objects of his
reflection; and how great a mass of knowledge soever he imagines to be lodged there, he will, upon
taking a strict view, see that he has not any idea in his mind, but what one of these two have imprinted;
though perhaps, with infinite variety compounded and enlarged by the understanding, as we shall see
hereafter.
He that attentively considers the state of a child, at his first coming into the world, will have little
reason to think him stored with plenty of ideas, that are to be the matter of his future knowledge: It is by
degrees he comes to be furnished with them. Light and colours are busy at hand every-where, when the
eye is but open; sounds and some tangible qualities fail not to solicit their proper senses, and force an
entrance to the mind: but yet, I think, it will be granted easily, that if a child were kept in a place where
he never saw any other but black and white till he were a man, he would have no more ideas of scarlet or
green, than he that from his childhood never tasted an oyster or a pineapple has of those particular
relishes.
Men are differently furnished with these, according to the different objects they converse with.
Men then come to be furnished with fewer or more simple ideas from without, according as the
objects they converse with afford greater or less variety; and from the operations of their minds within,
according as they more or less reflect on them. For though he that contemplates the operations of his
mind cannot but have plain and clear ideas of them; yet unless he turns his thoughts that way, and
considers them attentively, he will no more have clear and distinct ideas of all the operations of his
mind, and all that may be observed therein, than he will have all the particular ideas of any landscape, or
of the parts and motions of a clock, who will not turn his eyes to it, and with attention heed all the parts
of it. The picture or clock may be so placed, that they may come in his way every day; but yet he will
have but a confused idea of all the parts they are made up of, till he applies himself with attention to
consider them each in particular.
And hence we see the reason why it is pretty late before most children get ideas of the operations of
their own minds; and some have not any very clear or perfect ideas of the greatest part of them all their
lives: because though they pass there continually, yet, like floating visions, they make not deep
impressions enough to leave in their mind clear, distinct, lasting ideas, till the understanding turns
inward upon itself, reflects on its own operations, and makes them the objects of its own contemplation.
Children when they come first into it, are surrounded with a world of new things, which, by a constant
solicitation of their senses, draw the mind constantly to them, forward to take notice of new, and apt to
be delighted with the variety of changing objects. Thus the first years are usually employed and diverted
into looking abroad. Men’s business in them is to acquaint themselves with what is to be found without:
and so growing up in a constant attention to outward sensation, seldom make any considerable reflection
on what passes within them till they come to be of riper years; and some scarce ever at all.
Follow a child from its birth, and observe the alterations that time makes, and you shall find, as the
mind by the senses comes more and more to be furnished with ideas, it comes to be more and more
awake; thinks more, the more it has matter to think on. After some time it begins to know the objects,
which, being most familiar with it, have made lasting impressions. Thus it comes by degrees to know the
persons it daily converses with, and distinguish them from strangers; which are instances and effects of
its coming to retain and distinguish the ideas the senses convey to it. And so we may observe how the
mind, by degrees, improves in these, and advances to the exercise of those other faculties of enlarging,
compounding, and abstracting its ideas, and of reasoning about them, and reflecting upon all these; of
which I shall have occasion to speak more hereafter.
If it shall be demanded then, when a man begins to have any ideas; I think the true answer is, when
he first has any sensation. For since there appear not to be any ideas in the mind, before the senses have
conveyed any in, I conceive that ideas in the understanding are coeval with sensation; which is such an
impression or motion, made in some part of the body, as produces some perception in the understanding.
It is about these impressions made on our senses by outward objects, that the mind seems first to employ
itself in such operations as we call perception, remembering, consideration, reasoning, &c.
In time the mind comes to reflect on its own operations about the ideas got by sensation, and thereby
stores itself with a new set of ideas, which I call ideas of reflection. These are the impressions that are
made on our senses by outward objects that are extrinsical to the mind, and its own operations,
proceeding from powers intrinsical and proper to itself; which when reflected on by itself, becoming
also objects of its contemplation, are, as I have said, the original of all knowledge. Thus the first
capacity of human intellect is, that the mind is fitted to receive the impressions made on it; either
through the senses by outward objects; or by its own operations when it reflects on them. This is the first
step a man makes towards the discovery of any thing, and the ground-work whereon to build all those
notions which ever he shall have naturally in this world. All those sublime thoughts which tower above
the clouds, and reach as high as heaven itself, take their rise and footing here: in all that good extent
wherein the mind wanders, in those remote speculations, it may seem to be elevated with, it stirs not one
jot beyond those ideas which sense or reflection have offered for its contemplation.
In this part the understanding is merely passive; and whether or no it will have these beginnings, and
as it were materials of knowledge, is not in its own power. For the objects of our senses do, many of
them, obtrude their particular ideas upon our minds whether we will or no; and the operations of our
minds will not let us be without, at least, some obscure notions of them. No man can be wholly ignorant
of what he does when he thinks. These simple ideas, when offered to the mind, the understanding can no
more refuse to have, nor alter, when they are imprinted, nor blot them out, and make new ones itself,
than a mirror can refuse, alter, or obliterate the images or ideas which the objects set before it do therein
produce. As the bodies that surround us do diversely affect our organs, the mind is forced to receive the
impressions, and cannot avoid the perception of those ideas that are annexed to them.
Though the qualities that affect our senses are, in the things themselves, so united and blended, that
there is no separation, no distance between them; yet it is plain, the ideas they produce in the mind enter
by the senses simple and unmixed. For though the sight and touch often take in from the same object, at
the same time, different ideas; as a man sees at once motion and colour; the hand feels softness and
warmth in the same piece of wax: yet the simple ideas, thus united in the same subject, are as perfectly
distinct as those that come in by different senses: the coldness and hardness which a man feels in a piece
of ice being as distinct ideas in the mind, as the smell and whiteness of a lily; or as the taste of sugar,
and smell of a rose. And there is nothing can be plainer to a man, than the clear and distinct perception
he has of those simple ideas; which, being each in itself uncompounded, contains in it nothing but one
uniform appearance, or conception in the mind, and is not distinguishable into different ideas.
 These simple ideas, the materials of all our knowledge, are suggested and furnished to the mind only
by those two ways above-mentioned, viz. sensation and reflection. When the understanding is once
stored with these simple ideas, it has the power to repeat, compare, and unite them, even to an almost
infinite variety; and so can make at pleasure new complex ideas. But it is not in the power of the most
exalted wit, or enlarged understanding, by any quickness or variety of thought, to invent or frame one
new simple idea in the mind, not taken in by the ways aforementioned: nor can any force of the
understanding destroy those that are there. The dominion of man, in this little world of his own
understanding, being much-what the same as it is in the great world of visible things; wherein his power,
however managed by art and skill, reaches no farther than to compound and divide the materials that are
made to his hand; but can do nothing towards the making the least particle of new matter, or destroying
one atom of what is already in being. The same inability will every one find in himself, who shall go
about to fashion in his understanding any simple idea, not received in by his senses from external
objects, or by reflection from the operations of his own mind about them. I would have any one try to
fancy any taste, which had never affected his palate; or frame the idea of a scent he had never smelt: and
when he can do this, I will also conclude that a blind man hath ideas of colours, and a deaf man true
distinct notions of sounds.
When children have, by repeated sensations, got ideas fixed in their memories, they begin by
degrees to learn the use of signs. And when they have got the skill to apply the organs of speech to the
framing of articulate sounds, they begin to make use of words, to signify their ideas to others. These
verbal signs they sometimes borrow from others, and sometimes make themselves, as one may observe
among the new and unusual names children often give to things in the first use of language.
The use of words then being to stand as outward marks of our internal ideas, and those ideas being
taken from particular things, if every particular idea that we take in should have a distinct name, names
must be endless. To prevent this, the mind makes the particular ideas received from particular objects to
become general; which is done by considering them as they are in the mind such appearances, separate
from all other existences, and the circumstances of real existence, as time, place, or any other
concomitant ideas. This is called abstraction, whereby ideas taken from particular beings become
general representatives of all of the same kind; and their names general names, applicable to whatever
exists conformable to such abstract ideas. Such precise, naked appearances in the mind, without
considering how, whence, or with what others they came there, the understanding lays up (with names
commonly annexed to them) as the standards to rank real existences into sorts, as they agree with these
patterns, and to denominate them accordingly. Thus the same colour being observed to-day in chalk or
snow, which the mind yesterday received from milk, it considers that appearance alone, makes it a
representative of all of that kind; and having given it the name whiteness, it by that sound signifies the
same quality wheresoever to be imagined or met with; and thus universals, whether ideas or terms, are
made.
We have hitherto considered those ideas, in the reception whereof the mind is only passive, which
are those simple ones received from sensation and reflection before mentioned, whereof the mind cannot
make one to itself, nor have any idea which does not wholly consist of them. But as the mind is wholly
passive in the reception of all its simple ideas, so it exerts several acts of its own, whereby out of its
simple ideas as the materials and foundations of the rest, the other are framed. The acts of the mind,
wherein it exerts its power over its simple ideas, are chiefly these three: 1. Combining several simple
ideas into one compound one, and thus all complex ideas are made. 2. The second is bringing two ideas,
whether simple or complex, together, and setting them by one another, so as to take a view of them at
once, without uniting them into one; by which way it gets all its ideas of relations. 3. The third is
separating them from all other ideas that accompany them in their real existence; this is called
abstraction: and thus all its general ideas are made. This shows man’s power, and its ways of operation,
to be much what the same in the material and intellectual world. For the materials in both being such as
he has no power over, either to make or destroy, all that man can do is either to unite them together, or
to set them by one another, or wholly separate them. I shall here begin with the first of these in the
consideration of complex ideas, and come to the other two in their due places. As simple ideas are
observed to exist in several combinations united together, so the mind has a power to consider several of
them united together as one idea; and that not only as they are united in external objects, but as itself has
joined them. Ideas thus made up of several simple ones put together, I call complex; such as are beauty,
gratitude, a man, an army, the universe; which though complicated of various simple ideas, or complex
ideas made up of simple ones, yet are, when the mind pleases, considered each by itself as one entire
thing, and signified by one name.
In this faculty of repeating and joining together its ideas, the mind has great power in varying and
multiplying the objects of its thoughts, infinitely beyond what sensation or reflection furnishes it with;
but all this still confined to those simple ideas which it received from those two sources, and which are
the ultimate materials of all its compositions: for simple ideas are all from things themselves, and of
these the mind can have no more, nor other than what are suggested to it. It can have no other ideas of
sensible qualities than what come from without by the senses; nor any ideas of other kind of operations
of a thinking substance than what it finds in itself; but when it has once got these simple ideas, it is not
confined barely to observation, and what offers itself from without: it can, by its own power, put
together those ideas it has, and make new complex ones, which it never received so united.
John Locke: An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, decoded

BOOK 2, CHAPTER 2
Rationalist philosophers think that we have ‘innate ideas’—ideas that we are born with, or which
were stamped into our minds. I think I can explain how we have these ideas without having to say they
are innate. If I can do that, then I think everyone will agree that we do not have innate ideas at all.
Nature is too parsimonious to duplicate faculties. There would be no reason to put ideas of colour in our
minds when we have the faculty of sight.
The rationalists think that there are certain principles that are universally agreed to, and therefore
that we must have been born with them. These ideas have ‘universal assent’.
This idea of universal assent does not prove anything of the kind, if I can show that there are other
ways we could have got these ideas. And I can.
Worse, the rationalists’ own argument can be turned against them. If there is no such thing as
universal assent, then there are no innate ideas. There are two propositions that everyone is said to agree
to: “What is, is,” and “It is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be”. The problem is, not
everyone agrees to these two propositions—and therefore, these propositions show that there is no such
thing as an innate idea. I think that most people have not even heard that “What is, is” and “It is
impossible for the same thing to be and not to be”.
Children and idiots, for instance, do not know those propositions. And that is that! A single counter-
example is enough to disprove this idea of universal assent and the idea of innate truths. It seems like a
contraction to me to say that there are truths imprinted in our minds that we do not know about, or that
there are truths we know but cannot perceive or understand. If imprinting means anything, it means that
there are truths we know and perceive. If, therefore, children and idiots have souls or minds with those
impressions upon them, they must perceive them. They must know and assent to these truths. Since they
don’t, it is evident that there are no such impressions—it just doesn’t make sense to say that we possess
some truth in our minds but do not know it. Minds are for knowing.
Some rationalists will say that we have an innate capacity to know, and that this capacity for
knowing is innate, and therefore that our ideas are innate. That is cheating. If we talk like that,
everything a person ever comes to know through education and life was always actually innate, and, in
fact, all the things she never came to know were innate, too.
Let me be clear: if we know something, we know that we know it. We cannot have knowledge that is
unperceived or not understood.
To avoid this criticism, my opponents usually say that people know and assent to innate ideas when
the are old enough to use reason. I answer:
Rationalists must mean one of two things: either people become aware of these innate ideas when
they start to think, or the use of reason helps them find innate ideas.
If they mean that reason helps them discover these principles, their argument, clearly stated, is this:
If reason discovers a truth, and if reason makes us firmly believe it, then that truth is an innate idea and
was naturally imprinted on the mind. Universal assent, the characteristic of innate ideas, amounts to no
more than this: innate ideas are those certain facts we conclude. That means that all the truths of
mathematics, for instance, no matter how obscure, are innate.
But how could reason be necessary to discover things that are supposed to be innate? Innate ideas
are the very ideas that we are not supposed to need to discover. Innate means ‘No need to discover’! We
may as well say that reason is necessary for the eyes to see. If we have innate ideas that we need reason
to find, then we are really saying that we both know things and do not know them.
The rationalist might say mathematical proofs and other truths are not obvious, and that makes them
different from other innate truths. I agree! Maxims and mathematical demonstrations are different from
each other. Math requires proof; maxims are obvious and do not require proof. But this makes the
rationalist’s subterfuge clear: no reasoning at all is required for a priori truths, and math is not a priori.
Limiting the innate ideas to the obvious destroys the bounty of nature that rationalists are so fond of.
Rationalists say that we know innate ideas when we come to “when we come to the use of reason”.
As soon as children become intelligent, they also know and assent to these maxims, in other words. This
is false and ridiculous. First, obviously, a priori truths are not in the mind when we start to reason.
Children learn to think long before they learn “It is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be”. In
fact, the illiterate and savages grow quite old not knowing that “It is impossible for the same thing to be
and not to be”. I do think that reason is necessary to discover ideas like these, but I do not think that
these ideas arrive in the mind at the same time as the faculty of reason.
What the rationalist really means is this: nobody knows a priori truths until after they learn to think.
But that doesn’t prove very much.
Even learning innate ideas at the same time as we learned to think would not prove that innate ideas
are innate. If we started to speak at the same time that we learned these innate ideas, would rationalists
say that speaking proved them to be innate?
I agree that we do not know self-evident maxims until we begin to use reason. But I deny that they
spring to mind when we start to use reason, and I deny that that would prove them to be innate.
What we really mean when we say people “assent to these ideas when they come to the use of
reason,” is this: Abstract ideas and general names come after children practice on more familiar and
particular things, and after adults realize that their kids are capable of rational conversation. Obviously,
this does not show that these abstract ideas are innate.
The mind actually works much differently. First, the senses let in particular ideas and furnish the
‘empty cabinet’ of our minds or memories. The mind grows more familiar with the ideas bit by bit, and
some get lodged in our long-term memory, and they get names. Next, the mind abstracts from the
particular ideas and by degrees learns the general names of things. This is how the mind gets ideas and
language, and gets the objects on which it uses its discursive faculty—the faculty that uses
argumentation and logic.
In a child, the use of reason become more and more obvious day by day as it learns about greater
numbers of things. If we watch someone learning, though, we see that their ideas are not innate.
Children learn about the things they see most often, and they learn that some things are alike and some
things are different. They learn this even before they can speak or think—certainly about the things that
matter to them, ideas like sweet and bitter.
 We assent to clear ideas, not ideas that are innate. A child does not learn that 3+4=7 until she learns
about seven and equality. Once she knows these ideas, she will assent to the equation, but not because
the idea is innate. She will assent because the idea is obvious and because she has learned what each of
the terms means. Our minds move from the small to the large, too; a man knows that 18+19=37 in the
same way that he knows 1+2=3, but a child learns one before the other, because the ideas of ‘eighteen’,
‘nineteen’, and ‘thirty-seven’ take longer to get to.
The fact that propositions need to be heard and understood before being assented to shows that ideas
are never innate. Most people do not know the innate ideas they are supposed to possess until they hear
them proposed by someone else. Then they assent to them. Doesn’t this show that proposing an idea
prints it clearer in the mind than nature did? If so, then a person knows a fact better after he has been
taught it. If this is so, then it would be very unwise to make innate ideas the foundation of our
knowledge, as rationalists want to do.
Obviously, people first learn of these self-evident truths when they are taught them. Anyone taught
them must know that he can no longer deny them—not because they are innate, but because they are
true, and he could no longer think otherwise.
To conclude, I agree with these defenders of innate principles—that if they are innate, they must
have universal assent. If something is innate, then all people will assent to it. But, by their own
confession, rationalists cannot hold that there are innate principles, because these ‘innate’ ideas are not
universally assented to. People who do not understand and people who would understand but have not
yet heard to propositions do not give their assent.

BOOK 2
Every person knows that she thinks, and what she thinks about. We think about whiteness, hardness,
sweetness, thinking, motion, man, elephants, armies, and drunkenness.
How do we get these ideas? Many people say that we get them stamped upon our minds before we
are born. I think that what I have already said about this will be more accepted once I have proved my
theory.
Imagine the mind is a white piece of paper. How does it come to get ideas? Where do we get all the
variety of human thought? In a word: experience. All our knowledge is about either objects of sensation
or the operation of our own minds. That is all. These are the two fountains of our knowledge, and from
them all ideas spring.
First, our senses give our minds several different perceptions of things, according the the ways that
things affect the senses. We have ideas of yellow, white, heat, cold, hard, soft, bitter and sweet, and all
the other sensible qualities. External things give us these ideas. Most of the ideas we have come straight
from our senses. I call this source of ideas, ‘sensation’.
The other fountain from which experience furnishes the understanding with ideas is the perception
of the operations of our own minds. This gives us another set of ideas, such as perception, thinking,
doubting, believing, reasoning, knowing, willing, and so on. Every person has the source of these ideas
within herself, in a kind of internal sense, which is similar to the external sense. So, since I call the other
sense, ‘sensation’, I call this one ‘reflection’. By this, I mean the notice the mind takes of its own
operations.
 These two, sensation and reflection, are the sources of all ideas. I include emotions, too, as a kind of
reflection.
The understanding has no other source of ideas.
Nobody can find an idea within themselves that did not originally come from one of these two
sources.
Children do not come with innate ideas. They find them everywhere. When their eyes and ears are
open, senses force themselves on the child. And if, for instance, a child were raised in a black-and-white
world, she would have no more idea of scarlet or green than she has of the taste of an oyster or
pineapple.
We only get new ideas from new objects.
The more things we encounter, and the more diverse they are, and the more we think about those
things, the more ideas we get. The operations of our minds are plan and clear once we start to
contemplate them, but it is easy to just go through life without stopping to think about how we think. We
can spend our whole lives walking a clock every morning without ever wondering how it works. Our
minds are just the same.
Most children do not think about their own minds, and some people never stop to think about
themselves. Youth is full of diversion and novelty, and it is only in old age that we have the time to
think about thinking, and even then many do not.
If you follow a child from its birth, you will find that it gradually awakens to the world as it
experiences more things. After a while, it comes to know objects, then friends and strangers. And so, by
degrees, the child enlarges, compounds, and abstracts ideas, and reflects on these operations.
When do people start to have ideas? When the start to sense. An impression on some part of the
body produces a sensation in the mind. These are the building blocks of perception, remembering,
consideration, reasoning, etc.
In time the mind comes up with new ideas: the ideas of reflection. Still, all the towers of intellect
have their foundations in sensation and reflection. No matter where the mind wanders, it always started
here.
In this part the understanding is passive; whether it gets this foundation for knowledge is not in its
power. Other sensations stick themselves into our minds, and no person is ever totally ignorant of them.
The mind can simply neither forget nor ignore some simple ideas any more than a mirror can refuse to
reflect.
Though all the qualities of an object are mixed together in the thing itself, when they reach us, they
enter the mind alone and unmixed. When I hold a candle, I sense many things from only one object:
whiteness, coolness, softness. I see motion, and colour, and all of these ideas are distinct. The simple
ideas, even though they are all mixed together in the same object, are as perfectly distinct as if they
came from different objects. The coolness and hardness in one piece of ice is as distinct as the smell and
the whiteness in a lily or the taste of sugar and the smell of a rose. Simple ideas each have a single
uniform appearance or conception in my mind, and cannot be broken down into other ideas.
These simple ideas come into the mind in only one of those two ways. The understanding can repeat,
compare, and unite them and can create new and complex ideas, but it cannot create any completely new
simple idea. Not even a genius can create a new simple idea; nor can a genius take one apart. The power
of man is to compound and divide the material of in his mind, but he does not have the power to create
new matter or to destroy even an atom of the ideas already there. Try to imagine a flavour you have
never tasted, or a scent you have never smelled. Blind people have no ideas of colours, nor do deaf
people have any idea of sounds.
Once children begin to remember ideas, they learn to use signs, and when they learn to speak and
make sounds, they use words to show others their ideas. Children sometimes learn words and sometimes
make them up, as anyone who spends time with them will know.
We do not have an infinite number of names, though, so we cannot create a new word for each
particular thing. Eventually, we generalize and start creating general names by abstraction. The mind
considers particular things away from their circumstances in time and place and so on. We take ideas
from particular things and make them representatives of their kind through abstraction, then give them
general names. So, we see that chalk is white and snow is white, so we come up with the idea of
whiteness. We use these simple concepts to organize and sort real things.
So far, we have only been concerned with the simple ideas that the mind receives passively. But the
mind can frame and create new ideas from these building blocks by combining simple ideas, comparing
them side by side, or by separating them from their accompanying ideas by abstraction.
Combined simple ideas are ‘complex’ ideas. These are ideas like beauty, gratitude, a man, an army,
and the universe. These are simple ideas all rolled together and baked into one big idea that we consider
one thing and call by one name.
This faculty of the mind is very powerful. The mind can build infinitely from the blocks sensation
gave it. Still, all the ideas is builds with came from only two places: from things themselves and from
the mind’s recombination of those simple ideas.
David Hume

Hume was one smart guy. He started university at 10. He wrote one of the greatest books of
philosophy when he was 26.
His early life, though, seems to have been a bit of a disaster. His father died when David was only
two. Nobody liked his first book—the important one—and after he graduated, because he was sick all
the time, he couldn’t keep a job.
When Hume applied for the “Chair of Pneumatics and Moral Philosophy” (a job title I would kill
for), he was turned down. He applied for another professorship, and was turned down again. Out of
desperation, he tutored the Marquess of Annandale—but he turned out to be insane.
Hume then tried to fight against the French in Quebec, but the boats never made it. He tried to fight
the French in France, but the raid failed. He went to work as a librarian, but got fired for ordering porn
for the library.
While a librarian, though, Hume wrote the book that made him rich, a History of England.
Unsurprisingly, he became vastly more popular, and, oddly, especially with the French, who he had only
recently tried to kill. Apparently, French women just loved him. He did eventually move home to
England, but he never stopped having parties with the young and beautiful.
In his late fifties, he fell in love with Nancy Orde, who was a total fox, smart, and by all accounts a
real catch. Orde loved him in return, and they may even have been engaged. Hume died, however, of
stomach cancer—cheerfully though, as usual.
Hume was the last of the triumvirate of British empiricists. Empiricists believe that we attain
knowledge through our senses and by studying the external world.
To us, of course, this seems obvious. Recall, though, Descartes belief: the senses are plainly fallible,
and it is impossible to build a sound science upon them. In the following selection, Hume builds the
argument in reverse: he takes the senses seriously and trusts them. Surprisingly, thoughtful empiricism
brings us right back to a point very near skepticism: almost everything is thrown into doubt. And so,
despite being separated by a century, a language, and an ideology, Hume and Descartes turn out to have
something in common.
David Hume: An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, edited

SECTION II: OF THE ORIGIN OF IDEAS

Every one will readily allow, that there is a considerable difference between the perceptions of the
mind, when a man feels the pain of excessive heat, or the pleasure of moderate warmth, and when he
afterwards recalls to his memory this sensation, or anticipates it by his imagination. These faculties may
mimic or copy the perceptions of the senses; but they never can entirely reach the force and vivacity of
the original sentiment. The utmost we say of them, even when they operate with greatest vigour, is, that
they represent their object in so lively a manner, that we could almost say we feel or see it: But, except
the mind be disordered by disease or madness, they never can arrive at such a pitch of vivacity, as to
render these perceptions altogether undistinguishable. All the colours of poetry, however splendid, can
never paint natural objects in such a manner as to make the description be taken for a real landscape.
The most lively thought is still inferior to the dullest sensation.
We may observe a like distinction to run through all the other perceptions of the mind. A man in a fit
of anger, is actuated in a very different manner from one who only thinks of that emotion. If you tell me,
that any person is in love, I easily understand your meaning, and form a just conception of his situation;
but never can mistake that conception for the real disorders and agitations of the passion. When we
reflect on our past sentiments and affections, our thought is a faithful mirror, and copies its objects truly;
but the colours which it employs are faint and dull, in comparison of those in which our original
perceptions were clothed. It requires no nice discernment or metaphysical head to mark the distinction
between them.
Here therefore we may divide all the perceptions of the mind into two classes or species, which are
distinguished by their different degrees of force and vivacity. The less forcible and lively are commonly
denominated Thoughts or Ideas. The other species want a name in our language, and in most others; I
suppose, because it was not requisite for any, but philosophical purposes, to rank them under a general
term or appellation. Let us, therefore, use a little freedom, and call them Impressions; employing that
word in a sense somewhat different from the usual. By the term impression, then, I mean all our more
lively perceptions, when we hear, or see, or feel, or love, or hate, or desire, or will. And impressions are
distinguished from ideas, which are the less lively perceptions, of which we are conscious, when we
reflect on any of those sensations or movements above mentioned.
Nothing, at first view, may seem more unbounded than the thought of man, which not only escapes
all human power and authority, but is not even restrained within the limits of nature and reality. To form
monsters, and join incongruous shapes and appearances, costs the imagination no more trouble than to
conceive the most natural and familiar objects. And while the body is confined to one planet, along
which it creeps with pain and difficulty; the thought can in an instant transport us into the most distant
regions of the universe; or even beyond the universe, into the unbounded chaos, where nature is
supposed to lie in total confusion. What never was seen, or heard of, may yet be conceived; nor is any
thing beyond the power of thought, except what implies an absolute contradiction.
But though our thought seems to possess this unbounded liberty, we shall find, upon a nearer
examination, that it is really confined within very narrow limits, and that all this creative power of the
mind amounts to no more than the faculty of compounding, transposing, augmenting, or diminishing the
materials afforded us by the senses and experience. When we think of a golden mountain, we only join
two consistent ideas, gold, and mountain, with which we were formerly acquainted. A virtuous horse we
can conceive; because, from our own feeling, we can conceive virtue; and this we may unite to the
figure and shape of a horse, which is an animal familiar to us. In short, all the materials of thinking are
derived either from our outward or inward sentiment: the mixture and composition of these belongs
alone to the mind and will. Or, to express myself in philosophical language, all our ideas or more feeble
perceptions are copies of our impressions or more lively ones.
To prove this, the two following arguments will, I hope, be sufficient. First, when we analyze our
thoughts or ideas, however compounded or sublime, we always find that they resolve themselves into
such simple ideas as were copied from a precedent feeling or sentiment. Even those ideas, which, at first
view, seem the most wide of this origin, are found, upon a nearer scrutiny, to be derived from it. The
idea of God, as meaning an infinitely intelligent, wise, and good Being, arises from reflecting on the
operations of our own mind, and augmenting, without limit, those qualities of goodness and wisdom.
We may prosecute this enquiry to what length we please; where we shall always find, that every idea
which we examine is copied from a similar impression. Those who would assert that this position is not
universally true nor without exception, have only one, and that an easy method of refuting it; by
producing that idea, which, in their opinion, is not derived from this source. It will then be incumbent on
us, if we would maintain our doctrine, to produce the impression, or lively perception, which
corresponds to it.
Secondly. If it happen, from a defect of the organ, that a man is not susceptible of any species of
sensation, we always find that he is as little susceptible of the correspondent ideas. A blind man can
form no notion of colours; a deaf man of sounds. Restore either of them that sense in which he is
deficient; by opening this new inlet for his sensations, you also open an inlet for the ideas; and he finds
no difficulty in conceiving these objects. The case is the same, if the object, proper for exciting any
sensation, has never been applied to the organ. A Laplander or Negro has no notion of the relish of wine.
And though there are few or no instances of a like deficiency in the mind, where a person has never felt
or is wholly incapable of a sentiment or passion that belongs to his species; yet we find the same
observation to take place in a less degree. A man of mild manners can form no idea of inveterate
revenge or cruelty; nor can a selfish heart easily conceive the heights of friendship and generosity. It is
readily allowed, that other beings may possess many senses of which we can have no conception;
because the ideas of them have never been introduced to us in the only manner by which an idea can
have access to the mind, to wit, by the actual feeling and sensation.
There is, however, one contradictory phenomenon, which may prove that it is not absolutely
impossible for ideas to arise, independent of their correspondent impressions. I believe it will readily be
allowed, that the several distinct ideas of colour, which enter by the eye, or those of sound, which are
conveyed by the ear, are really different from each other; though, at the same time, resembling. Now if
this be true of different colours, it must be no less so of the different shades of the same colour; and each
shade produces a distinct idea, independent of the rest. For if this should be denied, it is possible, by the
continual gradation of shades, to run a colour insensibly into what is most remote from it; and if you will
not allow any of the means to be different, you cannot, without absurdity, deny the extremes to be the
same. Suppose, therefore, a person to have enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have become
perfectly acquainted with colours of all kinds except one particular shade of blue, for instance, which it
never has been his fortune to meet with. Let all the different shades of that colour, except that single one,
be placed before him, descending gradually from the deepest to the lightest; it is plain that he will
perceive a blank, where that shade is wanting, and will be sensible that there is a greater distance in that
place between the contiguous colours than in any other. Now I ask, whether it be possible for him, from
his own imagination, to supply this deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular shade,
though it had never been conveyed to him by his senses? I believe there are few but will be of opinion
that he can: and this may serve as a proof that the simple ideas are not always, in every instance, derived
from the correspondent impressions; though this instance is so singular, that it is scarcely worth our
observing, and does not merit that for it alone we should alter our general maxim.
Here, therefore, is a proposition, which not only seems, in itself, simple and intelligible; but, if a
proper use were made of it, might render every dispute equally intelligible, and banish all that jargon,
which has so long taken possession of metaphysical reasonings, and drawn disgrace upon them. All
ideas, especially abstract ones, are naturally faint and obscure: the mind has but a slender hold of them:
they are apt to be confounded with other resembling ideas; and when we have often employed any term,
though without a distinct meaning, we are apt to imagine it has a determinate idea annexed to it. On the
contrary, all impressions, that is, all sensations, either outward or inward, are strong and vivid: the limits
between them are more exactly determined: nor is it easy to fall into any error or mistake with regard to
them. When we entertain, therefore, any suspicion that a philosophical term is employed without any
meaning or idea (as is but too frequent), we need but enquire, from what impression is that supposed
idea derived? And if it be impossible to assign any, this will serve to confirm our suspicion. By bringing
ideas into so clear a light we may reasonably hope to remove all dispute, which may arise, concerning
their nature and reality.

SECTION III: OF THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS

It is evident that there is a principle of connexion between the different thoughts or ideas of the
mind, and that, in their appearance to the memory or imagination, they introduce each other with a
certain degree of method and regularity. In our more serious thinking or discourse this is so observable
that any particular thought, which breaks in upon the regular tract or chain of ideas, is immediately
remarked and rejected. And even in our wildest and most wandering reveries, nay in our very dreams,
we shall find, if we reflect, that the imagination ran not altogether at adventures, but that there was still a
connexion upheld among the different ideas, which succeeded each other. Were the loosest and freest
conversation to be transcribed, there would immediately be observed something which connected it in
all its transitions. Or where this is wanting, the person who broke the thread of discourse might still
inform you, that there had secretly revolved in his mind a succession of thought, which had gradually
led him from the subject of conversation. Among different languages, even where we cannot suspect the
least connexion or communication, it is found, that the words, expressive of ideas, the most
compounded, do yet nearly correspond to each other: a certain proof that the simple ideas,
comprehended in the compound ones, were bound together by some universal principle, which had an
equal influence on all mankind.
Though it be too obvious to escape observation, that different ideas are connected together; I do not
find that any philosopher has attempted to enumerate or class all the principles of association; a subject,
however, that seems worthy of curiosity. To me, there appear to be only three principles of connexion
among ideas, namely, Resemblance, Contiguity in time or place, and Cause or Effect.
That these principles serve to connect ideas will not, I believe, be much doubted. A picture naturally
leads our thoughts to the original: the mention of one apartment in a building naturally introduces an
enquiry or discourse concerning the others: and if we think of a wound, we can scarcely forbear
reflecting on the pain which follows it. But that this enumeration is complete, and that there are no other
principles of association except these, may be difficult to prove to the satisfaction of the reader, or even
to a man’s own satisfaction. All we can do, in such cases, is to run over several instances, and examine
carefully the principle which binds the different thoughts to each other, never stopping till we render the
principle as general as possible. The more instances we examine, and the more care we employ, the
more assurance shall we acquire, that the enumeration, which we form from the whole, is complete and
entire.

SECTION IV: SCEPTICAL DOUBTS CONCERNING THE OPERATIONS OF THE UNDERSTANDING

PART I
All the objects of human reason or enquiry may naturally be divided into two kinds, to wit, Relations
of Ideas, and Matters of Fact. Of the first kind are the sciences of Geometry, Algebra, and Arithmetic;
and in short, every affirmation which is either intuitively or demonstratively certain. That the square of
the hypotenuse is equal to the square of the two sides, is a proposition which expresses a relation
between these figures. That three times five is equal to the half of thirty, expresses a relation between
these numbers. Propositions of this kind are discoverable by the mere operation of thought, without
dependence on what is anywhere existent in the universe. Though there never were a circle or triangle in
nature, the truths demonstrated by Euclid would for ever retain their certainty and evidence.
Matters of fact, which are the second objects of human reason, are not ascertained in the same
manner; nor is our evidence of their truth, however great, of a like nature with the foregoing. The
contrary of every matter of fact is still possible; because it can never imply a contradiction, and is
conceived by the mind with the same facility and distinctness, as if ever so conformable to reality. That
the sun will not rise to-morrow is no less intelligible a proposition, and implies no more contradiction
than the affirmation, that it will rise. We should in vain, therefore, attempt to demonstrate its falsehood.
Were it demonstratively false, it would imply a contradiction, and could never be distinctly conceived
by the mind.
It may, therefore, be a subject worthy of curiosity, to enquire what is the nature of that evidence
which assures us of any real existence and matter of fact, beyond the present testimony of our senses, or
the records of our memory. This part of philosophy, it is observable, has been little cultivated, either by
the ancients or moderns; and therefore our doubts and errors, in the prosecution of so important an
enquiry, may be the more excusable; while we march through such difficult paths without any guide or
direction. They may even prove useful, by exciting curiosity, and destroying that implicit faith and
security, which is the bane of all reasoning and free enquiry. The discovery of defects in the common
philosophy, if any such there be, will not, I presume, be a discouragement, but rather an incitement, as is
usual, to attempt something more full and satisfactory than has yet been proposed to the public.
All reasonings concerning matter of fact seem to be founded on the relation of Cause and Effect. By
means of that relation alone we can go beyond the evidence of our memory and senses. If you were to
ask a man, why he believes any matter of fact, which is absent; for instance, that his friend is in the
country, or in France; he would give you a reason; and this reason would be some other fact; as a letter
received from him, or the knowledge of his former resolutions and promises. A man finding a watch or
any other machine in a desert island, would conclude that there had once been men in that island. All our
reasonings concerning fact are of the same nature. And here it is constantly supposed that there is a
connexion between the present fact and that which is inferred from it. Were there nothing to bind them
together, the inference would be entirely precarious. The hearing of an articulate voice and rational
discourse in the dark assures us of the presence of some person: Why? because these are the effects of
the human make and fabric, and closely connected with it. If we anatomize all the other reasonings of
this nature, we shall find that they are founded on the relation of cause and effect, and that this relation is
either near or remote, direct or collateral. Heat and light are collateral effects of fire, and the one effect
may justly be inferred from the other.
If we would satisfy ourselves, therefore, concerning the nature of that evidence, which assures us of
matters of fact, we must enquire how we arrive at the knowledge of cause and effect.
I shall venture to affirm, as a general proposition, which admits of no exception, that the knowledge
of this relation is not, in any instance, attained by reasonings a priori; but arises entirely from
experience, when we find that any particular objects are constantly conjoined with each other. Let an
object be presented to a man of ever so strong natural reason and abilities; if that object be entirely new
to him, he will not be able, by the most accurate examination of its sensible qualities, to discover any of
its causes or effects. Adam, though his rational faculties be supposed, at the very first, entirely perfect,
could not have inferred from the fluidity and transparency of water that it would suffocate him, or from
the light and warmth of fire that it would consume him. No object ever discovers, by the qualities which
appear to the senses, either the causes which produced it, or the effects which will arise from it; nor can
our reason, unassisted by experience, ever draw any inference concerning real existence and matter of
fact.
This proposition, that causes and effects are discoverable, not by reason but by experience, will
readily be admitted with regard to such objects, as we remember to have once been altogether unknown
to us; since we must be conscious of the utter inability, which we then lay under, of foretelling what
would arise from them. Present two smooth pieces of marble to a man who has no tincture of natural
philosophy; he will never discover that they will adhere together in such a manner as to require great
force to separate them in a direct line, while they make so small a resistance to a lateral pressure. Such
events, as bear little analogy to the common course of nature, are also readily confessed to be known
only by experience; nor does any man imagine that the explosion of gunpowder, or the attraction of a
loadstone, could ever be discovered by arguments a priori. In like manner, when an effect is supposed to
depend upon an intricate machinery or secret structure of parts, we make no difficulty in attributing all
our knowledge of it to experience. Who will assert that he can give the ultimate reason, why milk or
bread is proper nourishment for a man, not for a lion or a tiger?
But the same truth may not appear, at first sight, to have the same evidence with regard to events,
which have become familiar to us from our first appearance in the world, which bear a close analogy to
the whole course of nature, and which are supposed to depend on the simple qualities of objects, without
any secret structure of parts. We are apt to imagine that we could discover these effects by the mere
operation of our reason, without experience. We fancy, that were we brought on a sudden into this
world, we could at first have inferred that one Billiard-ball would communicate motion to another upon
impulse; and that we needed not to have waited for the event, in order to pronounce with certainty
concerning it. Such is the influence of custom, that, where it is strongest, it not only covers our natural
ignorance, but even conceals itself, and seems not to take place, merely because it is found in the highest
degree.
But to convince us that all the laws of nature, and all the operations of bodies without exception, are
known only by experience, the following reflections may, perhaps, suffice. Were any object presented to
us, and were we required to pronounce concerning the effect, which will result from it, without
consulting past observation; after what manner, I beseech you, must the mind proceed in this operation?
It must invent or imagine some event, which it ascribes to the object as its effect; and it is plain that this
invention must be entirely arbitrary. The mind can never possibly find the effect in the supposed cause,
by the most accurate scrutiny and examination. For the effect is totally different from the cause, and
consequently can never be discovered in it. Motion in the second Billiard-ball is a quite distinct event
from motion in the first; nor is there anything in the one to suggest the smallest hint of the other. A stone
or piece of metal raised into the air, and left without any support, immediately falls: but to consider the
matter a priori, is there anything we discover in this situation which can beget the idea of a downward,
rather than an upward, or any other motion, in the stone or metal? And as the first imagination or
invention of a particular effect, in all natural operations, is arbitrary, where we consult not experience;
so must we also esteem the supposed tie or connexion between the cause and effect, which binds them
together, and renders it impossible that any other effect could result from the operation of that cause.
When I see, for instance, a Billiard-ball moving in a straight line towards another; even suppose motion
in the second ball should by accident be suggested to me, as the result of their contact or impulse; may I
not conceive, that a hundred different events might as well follow from that cause? May not both these
balls remain at absolute rest? May not the first ball return in a straight line, or leap off from the second
in any line or direction? All these suppositions are consistent and conceivable. Why then should we give
the preference to one, which is no more consistent or conceivable than the rest? All our reasonings a
priori will never be able to show us any foundation for this preference.
In a word, then, every effect is a distinct event from its cause. It could not, therefore, be discovered
in the cause, and the first invention or conception of it, a priori, must be entirely arbitrary. And even
after it is suggested, the conjunction of it with the cause must appear equally arbitrary; since there are
always many other effects, which, to reason, must seem fully as consistent and natural. In vain,
therefore, should we pretend to determine any single event, or infer any cause or effect, without the
assistance of observation and experience.
Hence we may discover the reason why no philosopher, who is rational and modest, has ever
pretended to assign the ultimate cause of any natural operation, or to show distinctly the action of that
power, which produces any single effect in the universe. It is confessed, that the utmost effort of human
reason is to reduce the principles, productive of natural phenomena, to a greater simplicity, and to
resolve the many particular effects into a few general causes, by means of reasonings from analogy,
experience, and observation. But as to the causes of these general causes, we should in vain attempt their
discovery; nor shall we ever be able to satisfy ourselves, by any particular explication of them. These
ultimate springs and principles are totally shut up from human curiosity and enquiry. Elasticity, gravity,
cohesion of parts, communication of motion by impulse; these are probably the ultimate causes and
principles which we shall ever discover in nature; and we may esteem ourselves sufficiently happy, if,
by accurate enquiry and reasoning, we can trace up the particular phenomena to, or near to, these general
principles. The most perfect philosophy of the natural kind only staves off our ignorance a little longer:
as perhaps the most perfect philosophy of the moral or metaphysical kind serves only to discover larger
portions of it. Thus the observation of human blindness and weakness is the result of all philosophy, and
meets us at every turn, in spite of our endeavours to elude or avoid it.
Nor is geometry, when taken into the assistance of natural philosophy, ever able to remedy this
defect, or lead us into the knowledge of ultimate causes, by all that accuracy of reasoning for which it is
so justly celebrated. Every part of mixed mathematics proceeds upon the supposition that certain laws
are established by nature in her operations; and abstract reasonings are employed, either to assist
experience in the discovery of these laws, or to determine their influence in particular instances, where it
depends upon any precise degree of distance and quantity. Thus, it is a law of motion, discovered by
experience, that the moment or force of any body in motion is in the compound ratio or proportion of its
solid contents and its velocity; and consequently, that a small force may remove the greatest obstacle or
raise the greatest weight, if, by any contrivance or machinery, we can increase the velocity of that force,
so as to make it an overmatch for its antagonist. Geometry assists us in the application of this law, by
giving us the just dimensions of all the parts and figures which can enter into any species of machine;
but still the discovery of the law itself is owing merely to experience, and all the abstract reasonings in
the world could never lead us one step towards the knowledge of it. When we reason a priori, and
consider merely any object or cause, as it appears to the mind, independent of all observation, it never
could suggest to us the notion of any distinct object, such as its effect; much less, show us the
inseparable and inviolable connexion between them. A man must be very sagacious who could discover
by reasoning that crystal is the effect of heat, and ice of cold, without being previously acquainted with
the operation of these qualities.

PART II
But we have not yet attained any tolerable satisfaction with regard to the question first proposed.
Each solution still gives rise to a new question as difficult as the foregoing, and leads us on to farther
enquiries. When it is asked, What is the nature of all our reasonings concerning matter of fact? The
proper answer seems to be, that they are founded on the relation of cause and effect. When again it is
asked, What is the foundation of all our reasonings and conclusions concerning that relation? It may be
replied in one word, Experience. But if we still carry on our sifting humour, and ask, What is the
foundation of all conclusions from experience? This implies a new question, which may be of more
difficult solution and explication. Philosophers, that give themselves airs of superior wisdom and
sufficiency, have a hard task when they encounter persons of inquisitive dispositions, who push them
from every corner to which they retreat, and who are sure at last to bring them to some dangerous
dilemma. The best expedient to prevent this confusion, is to be modest in our pretensions; and even to
discover the difficulty ourselves before it is objected to us. By this means, we may make a kind of merit
of our very ignorance.
I shall content myself, in this section, with an easy task, and shall pretend only to give a negative
answer to the question here proposed. I say then, that, even after we have experience of the operations of
cause and effect, our conclusions from that experience are not founded on reasoning, or any process of
the understanding. This answer we must endeavour both to explain and to defend.
It must certainly be allowed, that nature has kept us at a great distance from all her secrets, and has
afforded us only the knowledge of a few superficial qualities of objects; while she conceals from us
those powers and principles on which the influence of those objects entirely depends. Our senses inform
us of the colour, weight, and consistence of bread; but neither sense nor reason can ever inform us of
those qualities which fit it for the nourishment and support of a human body. Sight or feeling conveys an
idea of the actual motion of bodies; but as to that wonderful force or power, which would carry on a
moving body forever in a continued change of place, and which bodies never lose but by communicating
it to others; of this we cannot form the most distant conception. But notwithstanding this ignorance of
natural powers and principles, we always presume, when we see like sensible qualities, that they have
like secret powers, and expect that effects, similar to those which we have experienced, will follow from
them. If a body of like colour and consistence with that bread, which we have formerly eat, be presented
to us, we make no scruple of repeating the experiment, and foresee, with certainty, like nourishment and
support. Now this is a process of the mind or thought, of which I would willingly know the foundation.
It is allowed on all hands that there is no known connexion between the sensible qualities and the secret
powers; and consequently, that the mind is not led to form such a conclusion concerning their constant
and regular conjunction, by anything which it knows of their nature. As to past Experience, it can be
allowed to give direct and certain information of those precise objects only, and that precise period of
time, which fell under its cognizance: but why this experience should be extended to future times, and to
other objects, which for aught we know, may be only in appearance similar; this is the main question on
which I would insist. The bread, which I formerly eat, nourished me; that is, a body of such sensible
qualities was, at that time, endued with such secret powers: but does it follow, that other bread must also
nourish me at another time, and that like sensible qualities must always be attended with like secret
powers? The consequence seems nowise necessary. At least, it must be acknowledged that there is here
a consequence drawn by the mind; that there is a certain step taken; a process of thought, and an
inference, which wants to be explained. These two propositions are far from being the same, I have
found that such an object has always been attended with such an effect, and I foresee, that other objects,
which are, in appearance, similar, will be attended with similar effects. I shall allow, if you please, that
the one proposition may justly be inferred from the other: I know, in fact, that it always is inferred. But
if you insist that the inference is made by a chain of reasoning, I desire you to produce that reasoning.
The connexion between these propositions is not intuitive. There is required a medium, which may
enable the mind to draw such an inference, if indeed it be drawn by reasoning and argument. What that
medium is, I must confess, passes my comprehension; and it is incumbent on those to produce it, who
assert that it really exists, and is the origin of all our conclusions concerning matter of fact.
This negative argument must certainly, in process of time, become altogether convincing, if many
penetrating and able philosophers shall turn their enquiries this way and no one be ever able to discover
any connecting proposition or intermediate step, which supports the understanding in this conclusion.
But as the question is yet new, every reader may not trust so far to his own penetration, as to conclude,
because an argument escapes his enquiry, that therefore it does not really exist. For this reason it may be
requisite to venture upon a more difficult task; and enumerating all the branches of human knowledge,
endeavour to show that none of them can afford such an argument.
All reasonings may be divided into two kinds, namely, demonstrative reasoning, or that concerning
relations of ideas, and moral reasoning, or that concerning matter of fact and existence. That there are no
demonstrative arguments in the case seems evident; since it implies no contradiction that the course of
nature may change, and that an object, seemingly like those which we have experienced, may be
attended with different or contrary effects. May I not clearly and distinctly conceive that a body, falling
from the clouds, and which, in all other respects, resembles snow, has yet the taste of salt or feeling of
fire? Is there any more intelligible proposition than to affirm, that all the trees will flourish in December
and January, and decay in May and June? Now whatever is intelligible, and can be distinctly conceived,
implies no contradiction, and can never be proved false by any demonstrative argument or abstract
reasoning a priori.
If we be, therefore, engaged by arguments to put trust in past experience, and make it the standard of
our future judgement, these arguments must be probable only, or such as regard matter of fact and real
existence, according to the division above mentioned. But that there is no argument of this kind, must
appear, if our explication of that species of reasoning be admitted as solid and satisfactory. We have said
that all arguments concerning existence are founded on the relation of cause and effect; that our
knowledge of that relation is derived entirely from experience; and that all our experimental conclusions
proceed upon the supposition that the future will be conformable to the past. To endeavour, therefore,
the proof of this last supposition by probable arguments, or arguments regarding existence, must be
evidently going in a circle, and taking that for granted, which is the very point in question.
In reality, all arguments from experience are founded on the similarity which we discover among
natural objects, and by which we are induced to expect effects similar to those which we have found to
follow from such objects. And though none but a fool or madman will ever pretend to dispute the
authority of experience, or to reject that great guide of human life, it may surely be allowed a
philosopher to have so much curiosity at least as to examine the principle of human nature, which gives
this mighty authority to experience, and makes us draw advantage from that similarity which nature has
placed among different objects. From causes which appear similar we expect similar effects. This is the
sum of all our experimental conclusions. Now it seems evident that, if this conclusion were formed by
reason, it would be as perfect at first, and upon one instance, as after ever so long a course of experience.
But the case is far otherwise. Nothing is so like as eggs; yet no one, on account of this appearing
similarity, expects the same taste and relish in all of them. It is only after a long course of uniform
experiments in any kind, that we attain a firm reliance and security with regard to a particular event.
Now where is that process of reasoning which, from one instance, draws a conclusion, so different from
that which it infers from a hundred instances that are nowise different from that single one? This
question I propose as much for the sake of information, as with an intention of raising difficulties. I
cannot find, I cannot imagine any such reasoning. But I keep my mind still open to instruction, if any
one will vouchsafe to bestow it on me.
Should it be said that, from a number of uniform experiments, we infer a connexion between the
sensible qualities and the secret powers; this, I must confess, seems the same difficulty, couched in
different terms. The question still recurs, on what process of argument this inference is founded? Where
is the medium, the interposing ideas, which join propositions so very wide of each other? It is confessed
that the colour, consistence, and other sensible qualities of bread appear not, of themselves, to have any
connexion with the secret powers of nourishment and support. For otherwise we could infer these secret
powers from the first appearance of these sensible qualities, without the aid of experience; contrary to
the sentiment of all philosophers, and contrary to plain matter of fact. Here, then, is our natural state of
ignorance with regard to the powers and influence of all objects. How is this remedied by experience? It
only shows us a number of uniform effects, resulting from certain objects, and teaches us that those
particular objects, at that particular time, were endowed with such powers and forces. When a new
object, endowed with similar sensible qualities, is produced, we expect similar powers and forces, and
look for a like effect. From a body of like colour and consistence with bread we expect like nourishment
and support. But this surely is a step or progress of the mind, which wants to be explained. When a man
says, I have found, in all past instances, such sensible qualities conjoined with such secret powers: And
when he says, Similar sensible qualities will always be conjoined with similar secret powers, he is not
guilty of a tautology, nor are these propositions in any respect the same. You say that the one
proposition is an inference from the other. But you must confess that the inference is not intuitive;
neither is it demonstrative: Of what nature is it, then? To say it is experimental, is begging the question.
For all inferences from experience suppose, as their foundation, that the future will resemble the past,
and that similar powers will be conjoined with similar sensible qualities. If there be any suspicion that
the course of nature may change, and that the past may be no rule for the future, all experience becomes
useless, and can give rise to no inference or conclusion. It is impossible, therefore, that any arguments
from experience can prove this resemblance of the past to the future; since all these arguments are
founded on the supposition of that resemblance. Let the course of things be allowed hitherto ever so
regular; that alone, without some new argument or inference, proves not that, for the future, it will
continue so. In vain do you pretend to have learned the nature of bodies from your past experience.
Their secret nature, and consequently all their effects and influence, may change, without any change in
their sensible qualities. This happens sometimes, and with regard to some objects: Why may it not
happen always, and with regard to all objects? What logic, what process of argument secures you against
this supposition? My practice, you say, refutes my doubts. But you mistake the purport of my question.
As an agent, I am quite satisfied in the point; but as a philosopher, who has some share of curiosity, I
will not say scepticism, I want to learn the foundation of this inference. No reading, no enquiry has yet
been able to remove my difficulty, or give me satisfaction in a matter of such importance. Can I do
better than propose the difficulty to the public, even though, perhaps, I have small hopes of obtaining a
solution? We shall at least, by this means, be sensible of our ignorance, if we do not augment our
knowledge.
I must confess that a man is guilty of unpardonable arrogance who concludes, because an argument
has escaped his own investigation, that therefore it does not really exist. I must also confess that, though
all the learned, for several ages, should have employed themselves in fruitless search upon any subject,
it may still, perhaps, be rash to conclude positively that the subject must, therefore, pass all human
comprehension. Even though we examine all the sources of our knowledge, and conclude them unfit for
such a subject, there may still remain a suspicion, that the enumeration is not complete, or the
examination not accurate. But with regard to the present subject, there are some considerations which
seem to remove all this accusation of arrogance or suspicion of mistake.
It is certain that the most ignorant and stupid peasants—nay infants, nay even brute beasts—improve
by experience, and learn the qualities of natural objects, by observing the effects which result from
them. When a child has felt the sensation of pain from touching the flame of a candle, he will be careful
not to put his hand near any candle; but will expect a similar effect from a cause which is similar in its
sensible qualities and appearance. If you assert, therefore, that the understanding of the child is led into
this conclusion by any process of argument or ratiocination, I may justly require you to produce that
argument; nor have you any pretence to refuse so equitable a demand. You cannot say that the argument
is abstruse, and may possibly escape your enquiry; since you confess that it is obvious to the capacity of
a mere infant. If you hesitate, therefore, a moment, or if, after reflection, you produce any intricate or
profound argument, you, in a manner, give up the question, and confess that it is not reasoning which
engages us to suppose the past resembling the future, and to expect similar effects from causes which
are, to appearance, similar. This is the proposition which I intended to enforce in the present section. If I
be right, I pretend not to have made any mighty discovery. And if I be wrong, I must acknowledge
myself to be indeed a very backward scholar; since I cannot now discover an argument which, it seems,
was perfectly familiar to me long before I was out of my cradle.
David Hume: An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, decoded

SECTION 1: OF THE ORIGIN OF IDEAS

It is well known that there is a big difference between sensations and ideas. Ideas are much less vivid
and forceful. The idea of warmth is much different from actually feeling warm. Talking about love is
much different from feeling actual love. While our thoughts are faithful and accurate, they are faint and
dull compared to the original perceptions.
As a result, we can divide all perceptions into two kinds, depending on their force or vivacity. The
less forceful perceptions are obviously ‘thoughts’, or ‘ideas’. The perceptions are a little harder to name
because, I think, we don’t tend to talk about them all as a set, except in philosophy. I will call them
‘impressions’. By the term impression, I mean all the lively perceptions, like when we hear, see, feel,
love, hate, desire, or will.
At first, it seems like our minds are free and limitless. We can imagine anything we desire. We can
imagine monsters and other universes without any more effort than it takes to imagine the most familiar
objects.
But though our thoughts seem free, they are actually quite confined. All we can do is compound,
transpose, augment, or diminish the objects of our senses. When we think of a golden mountain, we join
two ideas we already had: gold and mountain. Although the complete idea might be new, its components
are not. All the objects of thought are given to us. Our minds can only remix them, and can never come
up with something entirely new.
There are two proofs of this. The first is a challenge: if someone thinks it is possible to invent
something new and not composed of impressions that preceded it, she need only produce the idea. If I
cannot produce the impressions, she wins.
Second, we can see that people with some disabilities cannot even imagine the corresponding ideas.
Blind people cannot imagine colours, and deaf people cannot imagine sounds. A mild-mannered man
cannot form the idea of revenge or cruelty, nor can a selfish heart conceive of friendship and generosity.
I admit that there is one possible contradiction that I can imagine, and which may prove that there
are some fresh ideas that do not come from senses. If a person had never seen one particular shade of
blue, and if a rainbow of shades of blue were presented to her, but with that one shade missing, she will
be able fill in the blank and imagine the shade she had never seen. Still, this is so small an exception as
to be worthless, so I don’t think it changes my general rule: all ideas come originally from sensations.
Therefore, here is a proposition that seems simple yet is quite profound: when we consider a
philosophical term or idea, we should enquire what impression it comes from. If taken seriously, this
principle would abolish all the metaphysical nonsense people bandy about. Many abstract ideas are faint
and obscure, and we become easily confused about them. We assume when we use some philosophical
terms that they have a concrete meaning attached, but this is often not the case. Bringing misty ideas into
the light will remove all dispute.

SECTION 3: OF THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS

Some ideas are consistently followed by other ideas, and all ideas come from somewhere. Our
thoughts are like links of a chain, and each thought is connected somehow to the one before it. This is
even true in lighthearted conversations; when the thread of a conversation gets broken, the person who
broke it can always say, “Oh, x reminded me of y, and that’s why I mentioned z.”
Strangely, no philosopher has ever listed all the principles of thought connection. There are only
three ways to connect ideas: resemblance, contiguity in time or place, and cause and effect.
It is obvious that these relations exist; that they are the only relations is much harder to prove. All we
can do is try several examples and see if there are others.

SECTION 4: SCEPTICAL DOUBTS CONCERNING THE OPERATIONS OF THE UNDERSTANDING, PART 1

There are two objects of thought: relations of ideas and matters of fact.
Relations of ideas include geometry, algebra, and arithmetic, and all the other things that are
intuitively or demonstratively certain. We can be absolutely certain that “three times five is half of
thirty” is true. Thinking this statement through expresses a certain relationship between the numbers.
The truth of this kind of statement can be found through thinking alone and without looking to
experience.
Matters of fact are different. They are not found to be true or false through mere thought, because it
is logically possible that every matter of fact could be false. Whenever we need to determine whether a
fact is true, we must always check our senses and our memories. For instance, the sentence “the sun will
not rise tomorrow” makes perfect logical sense and is distinct. To prove it wrong, we must look outside
tomorrow. This makes it quite different from logically false statements; we cannot get a clear idea of the
statement “9+1=9. In some way, the statement does not even make sense.
As far as I know, few philosophers have investigated what reasons we have to trust these matters of
fact other than our senses and our memories. It seems to me that all our thinking about matters of fact is
based on the relation of cause and effect. Cause and effect is what allows us to extrapolate from memory
and sense. If you were to find a watch on a desert island, you would conclude that someone had been
there before—that they had caused the watch to be there. All thoughts about facts are the same: heat and
light are caused by fire, voices in the dark are caused by unseen people, and so on.
But how do we come to know about cause and effect?
Really, we don’t know much about it at all. We do not know cause and effect from a priori
reasoning. When Adam and Eve were first shown water, they could never have known that it could
suffocate them. If I gave you gunpowder, there is no way you could tell just from contemplating it that it
explodes. Nor could you tell that bread nourishes you but does not nourish a lion.
This is hard to admit, but it seems to be true. We believe that we are born into the world able to see
cause and effect, able to see that one billiard ball hitting another causes it to move. Yet it is not true. If
we look very carefully and think very cautiously, we must admit that the mind never sees an effect in its
cause. The effect is totally distinct and cannot be discovered without observation. The motion of the
second billiard ball is distinct from the first, and there is nothing in the first that suggests the motion of
the second. When I think about a billiard ball moving towards another, I can imagine many things
happening: the second ball moves, the second ball does not move, both balls stop, or the second ball
causes the first ball to rebound. All of these are consistent, clear, and conceivable. Why would I prefer
one to the others?
Every effect is distinct from its cause and cannot be discovered in the cause, and any association
with its cause must be entirely arbitrary. We simply cannot look at a thing or phenomenon and intuit
through reason alone what effects it will have.
Scientists and philosophers have discovered a few general causes, like ultimate springs and
principles. These are the things like elasticity, gravity, attraction, and so on. These are the general
principles that govern nature. The trouble, though, is simple: explaining particular phenomena through
general principles only postpones the question. How do we explain the general principle? We cannot
explain what caused elasticity, gravity, or attraction.
Mathematics, physics, and geometry are of no use. They proceed from premises to conclusions.
Geometry says that if x is the case, then y will happen, but it does not say that x is actually true, or even
what x is. We need real experience to know whether something is true and what effects it might have.

PART 2
We still haven’t reached the end of our questioning, though. Every time we answer a question,
another one comes up. We ask, how do we reason about matters of fact? The answer is, all of our
thoughts are all founded on the relation of cause and effect. Then we ask, how do we know about cause
and effect? The answer: Experience. But how do we draw conclusions from experience? This is a very
hard question.
Actually, this question is only hard if we try to answer it with a positive answer. It’s easy if we admit
our limitations. I will give a negative answer: we cannot draw conclusions from experience.
Nature hides many things from us. For instance, we can see a ball moving, but we cannot see
whether it can impart that movement onto another ball. That power is hidden. We eat brown bread, and
it seems to nourish us. But how can we know that the next loaf will nourish us in the same way? We
cannot. We imagine that we can, but there is nothing in the appearance of the bread that tells us it will.
Of course, it always has, and it probably always will, but there is no way that I can see to actually prove
it.
Even if you doubt me, you must admit that there is a difference between these two propositions
I have always found this cause to have that effect, and
This cause will always have that effect
I know that everyone always infers the second proposition from the first, but I do not know what
reasoning leads to the inference. There is no obvious connection between these two propositions.
I think that this argument will become more convincing once other philosophers have tried to prove
me wrong. In the meantime, though, it might become more convincing if we examine the different
branches of knowledge, and show how none of them could connect these two propositions.
There are two kinds of reasoning: demonstrative and probable. Demonstrative reasoning explains
relations of ideas. There are clearly no demonstrative reasons that would show we could extrapolate
from the past to the future; nature may change. I can imagine that things that have fallen will rise, that
snow will taste hot, or that trees will flower in December.
 There is an obvious but deceptive argument:
1. The future always resembled the past.
2. If the future always resembled the past, the future will resemble the past.
3. Therefore, the future will resemble the past.
This is arguing in a circle, though; we need to prove that the future will resemble the past. Premise 2
is really the same as the conclusion, and it is the very point we are trying to prove. It can’t be assumed
without creating a circular argument.
There is another counter-argument. We need to see many instances of cause and effect before we
judge the relation to be true. Who would believe that chickens lay eggs the first time they observed it? If
the effect were judged by reason, one observation would be enough.
Perhaps we observe the hidden capacities of things after a number of experiments. This seems to
have the same difficulties, though. How do we infer what the capacities are? Why do we admit the
nourishing capacity of bread after many instances, but not on the first? And how do we determine that
bread will always possess the ability in the future?
Of course, you may say that I am a bit of a hypocrite: I eat bread and trust that the sun will rise. I
look both ways when I cross the street, because I don’t doubt that traffic retains the ability to kill me. As
a person, I am quite satisfied that I should continue eating. Yet as a philosopher, and as a skeptic, I want
to know why.
Only the arrogant think that the things they can’t see don’t exist. It might even be that philosophers
will look for ages before finally concluding I am wrong. Still, there are some considerations that might
remove all doubt.
Infants and animals learn from experience. Even a baby knows learns from one accident that she
cannot touch a flame. If a baby learns from reason or argument, I would like you to produce the reasons
and the argument. If you can’t, well, the baby is smarter than you. And, of course, if you can, and if I am
wrong, well, the baby is smarter than me.
Immanuel Kant

Kant, supposedly, was the most boring person to have ever lived. He walked the same path at the
same time every day with the same person. He was a merely decent student and never married. He never
went farther than 65 miles (110 kilometers) from his home town. He died quietly: no poison, no
barbarians, and no bursting bladders. My students take a kind of glee in this. What a bunch of bores and
weirdo’s philosophers are!
And yeah, sure, they are. But Kant could have lived in his grandmother’s bedroom, even slept in her
nighty for all it matters. Kant is the most important philosopher to have ever lived. If his ideas are not
exciting, no ideas are. He put the world on a different footing. He is a mountain that casts a shadow over
all of philosophy—and would cast one over science, too if only scientists would listen.
He is also incomprehensible.
Kant wrote two huge and insanely difficult books. Then he wrote two small and insanely difficult
books to make the big ones easier to understand. They don’t. They’re just shorter. Still, nobody now
reads the big ones.
Kant’s book on ethics one is called the Metaphysics of Morals and the metaphysics one is called The
Prolegomena. See how confusing he is? Not even his titles make sense.

Kant’s ethics
In ancient philosophy (everything before Descartes), ethics was about personal life. It was about
your own happiness and leading a life of meaning. Aristotle had a few good rules, Epicurus had 40, and
Marcus Aurelius had hundreds.
Modern ethics has nothing to do with that namby-pamby, personal-fulfilment nonsense. Modern
ethics is all about judging, and, instead of having hundreds of guidelines, each of the two main schools
of thought (we’ll get to the other school, Utilitarianism, in a bit) has only one rule.
They have a single rule for a simple reason: one rule never contradicts itself. Ethical dilemmas
happen when rules come into conflict. Take, for instance, the rules of Salvatore Lo Piccolo, the boss of
bosses of the Sicilian Mafia. He was a murderer, drug trafficker, and extortionist. Oddly, though, he was
captured with a list of ten ethical commandments for Mafiosi. Here are two: ‘“Always be available for
Cosa Nostra, even if your wife is about to give birth”, and “Wives must be treated with respect”.
Well these are good rules, especially for a murderer, but they clearly conflict. If the caporegime calls
while your wife is having birth, you can’t win. You will have to break one of the rules.
You might think that adding another rule, “Wives are more important than capos” might help. It
does not. An eleventh rule only creates more problems further down the line. Having only one ethical
rule is the way out. A single ethical rule cannot come into conflict with itself.
 Part of an ethicist’s challenge, then, is coming up with a single rule to govern (and judge) all human
action. This is tough, because there are a few tensions. The rule must be big enough to cover everything
(“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife” won’t work) but powerful enough to decide actions (“Do
the right thing” is hopelessly vague). It has to avoid the most obvious contradictions with common
sense (“Do whatever makes you happy” will make other people very unhappy) but also be a guide that is
better than your gut.
There has been one good rule passed down through millennia, the Golden Rule: “Do unto others as
you would have them do unto you”. This is surprisingly great. It requires you to treat yourself no better
than others, and it dictates exactly what you should do. If you want to steal, for instance, you have to
reckon with the fact that your action creates harm and that others have the same feelings and
entitlements as you do.
Kant’s ethical rule is almost the same as the Golden Rule. He says, “Act only according to that
maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law.”
A “maxim” is a generalized rule to govern your actions. To judge an ethical action, Kant says I
should:
1. Isolate my action
2. Consider the rule governing my action
3. Make that maxim ‘universal’
4. And see if it leads to contradiction
5. If it does, I am forbidden to act in that way

So, if I want to lie to my wife, my thought process might go like this:

1. Red Alert! Red Alert! My wife is asking me if I ever find other women attractive. Lie! Lie!
2. My maxim is “I will lie to my wife”.
3. The universal maxim is “Everyone should always lie”.
4. But if everyone were to lie all the time, lying would lose its power, and lying would become not
lying. Lying only works if most people are truthful. If everyone always lied, each of us would
just add “not” to every sentence we heard to get to the truth.
5. So I cannot lie to my wife. I must tell her the truth.
Kant’s system improves on the Golden Rule by being completely a priori. This is remarkable,
because it means you do not need to look at the consequences of your actions to see how good you are.
(The truth of a priori facts can be decided without looking to experience.) Whether you did the right
thing depends only on your logic and your maxim. Actions, he says, are acceptable if their maxims
never lead to self-contradiction.
Kant is amazing. He has brought ethics, a squishy field of very human interaction, and turned it into
something much like logic or geometry, a purely mental, extremely rigorous, right-or-wrong discipline.
With Kant’s ethics, you never need to measure your behaviour by what you accomplished. You only
ever need to measure it by what you intended.
He is a ‘deontologist’, someone who believes in duty and following rules. Not all ethicists are
deontologists; others believe, for example, that the outcomes of your actions matter most. Many
utilitarians, for instance, would say that I should be allowed to lie to my wife if it keeps the peace. Her
happiness and my happiness are most important.

Kant’s metaphysics
Kant’s metaphysical theory is harder to understand. Hume (he’s also in this book) destroyed any
hope of understanding metaphysical ideas, and Kant said that Hume had “woken me from my dogmatic
slumber”. Kant set about prove him wrong. His solution is not very grandiose or sweeping, but it is just
about right; he says, in short, that we see the world through metaphysical lenses—for example, our
experiences are always in three dimensions, forward in time, and with causes and effects.
Wait, you say. Don’t we learn things? Yes. But if knowledge comes from the senses, how can we
trust it? And what do we really know?
1. Human senses are terrible, and
2. Extrapolating from them is impossible
You might think that the first problem is the big one; after all, our senses are wrong all the time.
Things that seem small are actually big and far away; a warm pool seems cold when you have been
sitting on the deck; I can’t hear my wife, even though I can see her mouth moving.
The second problem, though, is a killer. Hume said, in short, you have never seen one thing cause
another thing.
You’ve probably heard that drinking a glass of wine a day prevents heart disease; that joyful fact is
printed over and over again, year after year, because it shows how just how kind the universe can be. It’s
a shame it isn’t true. Some third thing causes people to drink wine and live longer. It’s money. Rich
people live better, can afford better health care and gym memberships, and they also can buy good
hooch. Wine and longevity are correlated, not causally related.
Hume takes this idea and runs with it. When have you ever seen a cause? You haven’t. All you ever
see is correlation—even when you see one billiard ball crash into another, you do not see the first ball
cause the second ball to move. There are two events, and we assume that one causes the other.
This drove Kant nuts. Without causality, there is no science. And, obviously, if we have no science,
we know very little indeed.
 If causality is not observable, it is probably ‘metaphysical’. Metaphysical questions are really
frustrating, because they are important but unanswerable. What is a law of nature? What is a substance?
What is the soul? How infinitesimally small things does it take to make a finite small thing? Is
nothingness something?
Metaphysics is a graveyard of good ideas. Oceans of ink have been spilt on these questions, and not
a single truth has floated to the surface. It is enough to make any sensible person despair of ever finding
an answer. Kant, though, is not sensible.
He thinks that it might be possible that some of these questions (like ‘what is causality?’) make
sense, while some ideas (what is nothingness?) do not. The good ideas have something in common, and
he tries to explain what it is.
Kant doesn't want to solve these problems. He wants to just say which ones are answerable and
which ones are not. He hopes to save metaphysics and put it on a secure, more scientific footing. Saving
causality is a very important part.
Metaphysics turns out to be a lot like math: it comes from within our own minds, and we can learn
things from introspection. This helps Kant a little--but how do we get to universal truths, true for every
person, if we are looking only within our own minds?
If Kant were alive in the 21st century, he would say that we have neurological or cerebral structures
that limit the way we see the world: we see it (and can only see it) in three dimensions, going forward in
time, and logically.
What can we learn from these structures? Quite a bit, he says. All of geometry is in there (it is the
science of dimensions), as is arithmetic. Metaphysics and logic are in our minds as well
Immanuel Kant: Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, I-II, edited

First section
Nothing can possibly be conceived in the world, or even out of it, which can be called good, without
qualification, except a good will. Intelligence, wit, judgement, and the other talents of the mind,
however they may be named, or courage, resolution, perseverance, as qualities of temperament, are
undoubtedly good and desirable in many respects; but these gifts of nature may also become extremely
bad and mischievous if the will which is to make use of them, and which, therefore, constitutes what is
called character, is not good. The coolness of a villain not only makes him far more dangerous, but also
directly makes him more abominable in our eyes than he would have been without it.
A good will is good not because of what it performs or effects, not by its aptness for the attainment
of some proposed end, but simply by virtue of the volition; that is, it is good in itself. Even if with its
greatest efforts it should yet achieve nothing, and there should remain only the good will (not, to be sure,
a mere wish, but the summoning of all means in our power), then, like a jewel, it would still shine by its
own light, as a thing which has its whole value in itself.
I omit here all actions which are already recognized as inconsistent with duty, although they may be
useful for this or that purpose. I also set aside those actions which really conform to duty, but to which
men have no direct inclination, performing them because they are impelled thereto by some other
inclination. For example, it is always a matter of duty that a dealer should not over charge an
inexperienced purchaser; and wherever there is much commerce the prudent tradesman does not
overcharge, but keeps a fixed price for everyone, so that a child buys of him as well as any other. Men
are thus honestly served; but this is not enough to make us believe that the tradesman has so acted from
duty and from principles of honesty: his own advantage required it. The action was done neither from
duty nor from direct inclination, but merely with a selfish view.
There are many minds so sympathetically constituted that, without any other motive of vanity or
self-interest, they find a pleasure in spreading joy around them and can take delight in the satisfaction of
others so far as it is their own work. But I maintain that in such a case an action of this kind, however
proper, however amiable it may be, has nevertheless no true moral worth, but is on a level with other
inclinations. For the maxim lacks the moral import, namely, that such actions be done from duty, not
from inclination.
It is in this manner, undoubtedly, that we are to understand those passages of Scripture also in which
we are commanded to love our neighbour, even our enemy. For love, as an affection, cannot be
commanded, but beneficence for duty’s sake may; even though we are not impelled to it by any
inclination—nay, are even repelled by a natural and unconquerable aversion.
An action done from duty derives its moral worth, not from the purpose which is to be attained by it,
but from the maxim by which it is determined, and therefore does not depend on the realization of the
object of the action, but merely on the principle of volition by which the action has taken place, without
regard to any object of desire.
Duty is the necessity of acting from respect for the law. I may have inclination for an object as the
effect of my proposed action, but I cannot have respect for it, just for this reason, that it is an effect and
not an energy of will.
But what sort of law can that be, the conception of which must determine the will, even without
paying any regard to the effect expected from it, in order that this will may be called good absolutely
and without qualification? As I have deprived the will of every impulse which could arise to it from
obedience to any law, there remains nothing but the universal conformity of its actions to law in general,
which alone is to serve the will as a principle, i.e., I am never to act otherwise than that I could also will
that my maxim should become a universal law.
The common reason of men in its practical judgements perfectly coincides with this and always has
in view the principle here suggested. Let the question be, for example: May I when in distress make a
promise with the intention not to keep it? I readily distinguish here between the two significations which
the question may have: Whether it is prudent, or whether it is right, to make a false promise? The former
may undoubtedly of be the case. Now it is a wholly different thing to be truthful from duty and to be so
from apprehension of injurious consequences. In the first case, the very notion of the action already
implies a law for me; in the second case, I must first look about elsewhere to see what results may be
combined with it which would affect myself. The shortest way, however, and an unerring one, to
discover the answer to this question whether a lying promise is consistent with duty, is to ask myself,
“Should I be content that my maxim (to extricate myself from difficulty by a false promise) should hold
good as a universal law, for myself as well as for others?” and should I be able to say to myself, “Every
one may make a deceitful promise when he finds himself in a difficulty from which he cannot otherwise
extricate himself?” Then I presently become aware that while I can will the lie, I can by no means will
that lying should be a universal law. For with such a law there would be no promises at all, since it
would be in vain to allege my intention in regard to my future actions to those who would not believe
this allegation, or if they over hastily did so would pay me back in my own coin. Hence my maxim, as
soon as it should be made a universal law, would necessarily destroy itself.

Second section
Although many things are done in conformity with what duty prescribes, it is nevertheless always
doubtful whether they are done strictly from duty, so as to have a moral worth. In fact, it is absolutely
impossible to make out by experience with complete certainty a single case in which the maxim of an
action, however right in itself, rested simply on moral grounds and on the conception of duty. We cannot
from this infer with certainty that it was not really some secret impulse of self-love, under the false
appearance of duty, that was the actual determining cause of the will.
Nor could anything be more fatal to morality than that we should wish to derive it from examples.
For every example of it that is set before me must be first itself tested by principles of morality.
From what has been said, it is clear that all moral conceptions have their seat and origin completely
a priori in the reason, and that, moreover, in the commonest reason just as truly as in that which is in the
highest degree speculative; that they cannot be obtained by abstraction from any empirical, and therefore
merely contingent, knowledge; that it is just this purity of their origin that makes them worthy to serve
as our supreme practical principle, and that just in proportion as we add anything empirical, we detract
from their genuine influence and from the absolute value of actions. It would not only be vain to
determine the moral element of duty in right actions for purposes of speculative criticism, but it would
be impossible to base morals on their genuine principles, even for common practical purposes,
especially of moral instruction, so as to produce pure moral dispositions, and to engraft them on men’s
minds to the promotion of the greatest possible good in the world.
Everything in nature works according to laws. Rational beings alone have the faculty of acting
according to the conception of laws, that is according to principles, i.e., have a will. Since the deduction
of actions from principles requires reason, the will is nothing but practical reason.
The conception of an objective principle, in so far as it is obligatory for a will, is called a command
(of reason), and the formula of the command is called an imperative.
All imperatives are expressed by the word ought, and thereby indicate the relation of an objective
law of reason to a will, which from its subjective constitution is not necessarily determined by it (an
obligation).
Now all imperatives command either hypothetically or categorically. If now the action is good only
as a means to something else, then the imperative is hypothetical; if it is conceived as good in itself and
consequently as being necessarily the principle of a will which of itself conforms to reason, then it is
categorical.
If it were only equally easy to give a definite conception of happiness, the imperatives of prudence
would correspond exactly with those of skill, and would likewise be analytical. For in this case as in
that, it could be said: “Whoever wills the end, wills also (according to the dictate of reason necessarily)
the indispensable means thereto which are in his power.” But, unfortunately, the notion of happiness is
so indefinite that although every man wishes at it, yet he never can say definitely and consistently what
it is that he really wishes and wills. The reason of this is that all the elements which belong to the notion
of happiness are altogether empirical, i.e., they must be borrowed from experience, and nevertheless the
idea of happiness requires an absolute whole, a maximum of welfare in my present and all future
circumstances. Now it is impossible that the most clear-sighted and at the same time most powerful
being (supposed finite) should frame to himself a definite conception of what he really wills in this.
Does he will riches, how much anxiety, envy, and snares might he not thereby draw upon his shoulders?
Does he will knowledge and discernment, perhaps it might prove to be only an eye so much the sharper
to show him so much the more fearfully the evils that are now concealed from him, and that cannot be
avoided, or to impose more wants on his desires, which already give him concern enough. Would he
have long life? who guarantees to him that it would not be a long misery? would he at least have health?
how often has uneasiness of the body restrained from excesses into which perfect health would have
allowed one to fall? and so on. In short, he is unable, on any principle, to determine with certainty what
would make him truly happy; because to do so he would need to be omniscient. We cannot therefore act
on any definite principles to secure happiness, but only on empirical counsels, e.g. of regimen, frugality,
courtesy, reserve, etc., which experience teaches do, on the average, most promote well-being.
We shall therefore have to investigate a priori the possibility of a categorical imperative, as we have
not in this case the advantage of its reality being given in experience, so that the elucidation of its
possibility should be requisite only for its explanation, not for its establishment.
In this problem we will first inquire whether the mere conception of a categorical imperative may
not perhaps supply us also with the formula of it, containing the proposition which alone can be a
categorical imperative.
 When I conceive a hypothetical imperative, in general I do not know beforehand what it will contain
until I am given the condition. But when I conceive a categorical imperative, I know at once what it
contains. For as the imperative contains besides the law only the necessity that the maxims shall
conform to this law, while the law contains no conditions restricting it, there remains nothing but the
general statement that the maxim of the action should conform to a universal law, and it is this
conformity alone that the imperative properly represents as necessary.
A maxim is a subjective principle of action, and must be distinguished from the objective principle,
namely, practical law. The former contains the practical rule set by reason according to the conditions of
the subject (often its ignorance or its inclinations), so that it is the principle on which the subject acts;
but the law is the objective principle valid for every rational being, and is the principle on which it ought
to act that is an imperative.
There is therefore but one categorical imperative, namely, this: Act only on that maxim whereby
thou canst at the same time will that it should become a universal law.
Now if all imperatives of duty can be deduced from this one imperative as from their principle, then,
although it should remain undecided what is called duty is not merely a vain notion, yet at least we shall
be able to show what we understand by it and what this notion means.
We will now enumerate a few duties:
A man reduced to despair by a series of misfortunes feels wearied of life, but is still so far in
possession of his reason that he can ask himself whether it would not be contrary to his duty to himself
to take his own life. Now he inquires whether the maxim of his action could become a universal law of
nature. His maxim is: “From self-love I adopt it as a principle to shorten my life when its longer duration
is likely to bring more evil than satisfaction.” It is asked then simply whether this principle founded on
self-love can become a universal law of nature. Now we see at once that a system of nature of which it
should be a law to destroy life by means of the very feeling whose special nature it is to impel to the
improvement of life would contradict itself and, therefore, could not exist as a system of nature; hence
that maxim cannot possibly exist as a universal law of nature and, consequently, would be wholly
inconsistent with the supreme principle of all duty.
Another finds himself forced by necessity to borrow money. He knows that he will not be able to
repay it, but sees also that nothing will be lent to him unless he promises stoutly to repay it in a definite
time. He desires to make this promise, but he has still so much conscience as to ask himself: “Is it not
unlawful and inconsistent with duty to get out of a difficulty in this way?” Suppose however that he
resolves to do so: then the maxim of his action would be expressed thus: “When I think myself in want
of money, I will borrow money and promise to repay it, although I know that I never can do so.” Now
this principle of self-love or of one’s own advantage may perhaps be consistent with my whole future
welfare; but the question now is, “Is it right?” I change then the suggestion of self-love into a universal
law, and state the question thus: “How would it be if my maxim were a universal law?” Then I see at
once that it could never hold as a universal law of nature, but would necessarily contradict itself. For
supposing it to be a universal law that everyone when he thinks himself in a difficulty should be able to
promise whatever he pleases, with the purpose of not keeping his promise, the promise itself would
become impossible, as well as the end that one might have in view in it, since no one would consider
that anything was promised to him, but would ridicule all such statements as vain pretenses.
 A third finds in himself a talent which with the help of some culture might make him a useful man in
many respects. But he finds himself in comfortable circumstances and prefers to indulge in pleasure
rather than to take pains in enlarging and improving his happy natural capacities. He asks, however,
whether his maxim of neglect of his natural gifts, besides agreeing with his inclination to indulgence,
agrees also with what is called duty. He sees then that a system of nature could indeed subsist with such
a universal law although men (like the South Sea islanders) should let their talents rest and resolve to
devote their lives merely to idleness, amusement, and propagation of their species—in a word, to
enjoyment; but he cannot possibly will that this should be a universal law of nature, or be implanted in
us as such by a natural instinct. For, as a rational being, he necessarily wills that his faculties be
developed, since they serve him and have been given him, for all sorts of possible purposes.
A fourth, who is in prosperity, while he sees that others have to contend with great wretchedness and
that he could help them, thinks: “What concern is it of mine? Let everyone be as happy as Heaven
pleases, or as be can make himself; I will take nothing from him nor even envy him, only I do not wish
to contribute anything to his welfare or to his assistance in distress!” Now no doubt if such a mode of
thinking were a universal law, the human race might very well subsist and doubtless even better than in
a state in which everyone talks of sympathy and good-will, or even takes care occasionally to put it into
practice, but, on the other side, also cheats when he can, betrays the rights of men, or otherwise violates
them. But although it is possible that a universal law of nature might exist in accordance with that
maxim, it is impossible to will that such a principle should have the universal validity of a law of nature.
For a will which resolved this would contradict itself, inasmuch as many cases might occur in which one
would have need of the love and sympathy of others, and in which, by such a law of nature, sprung from
his own will, he would deprive himself of all hope of the aid he desires.
If now we attend to ourselves on occasion of any transgression of duty, we shall find that we in fact
do not will that our maxim should be a universal law, for that is impossible for us; on the contrary, we
will that the opposite should remain a universal law, only we assume the liberty of making an exception
in our own favour or (just for this time only) in favour of our inclination. Consequently if we considered
all cases from one and the same point of view, namely, that of reason, we should find a contradiction in
our own will, namely, that a certain principle should be objectively necessary as a universal law, and yet
subjectively should not be universal, but admit of exceptions.
Now I say: man and generally any rational being exists as an end in himself, not merely as a means
to be arbitrarily used by this or that will, but in all his actions, whether they concern himself or other
rational beings, must be always regarded at the same time as an end. Beings whose existence depends
not on our will but on nature’s, have nevertheless, if they are irrational beings, only a relative value as
means, and are therefore called things; rational beings, on the contrary, are called persons, because their
very nature points them out as ends in themselves, that is as something which must not be used merely
as means, and so far therefore restricts freedom of action (and is an object of respect). These, therefore,
are not merely subjective ends whose existence has a worth for us as an effect of our action, but
objective ends, that is, things whose existence is an end in itself; an end moreover for which no other
can be substituted, which they should subserve merely as means, for otherwise nothing whatever would
possess absolute worth; but if all worth were conditioned and therefore contingent, then there would be
no supreme practical principle of reason whatever.
If then there is a supreme practical principle or, in respect of the human will, a categorical
imperative, it must be one which, being drawn from the conception of that which is necessarily an end
for everyone because it is an end in itself, constitutes an objective principle of will, and can therefore
serve as a universal practical law. The foundation of this principle is: rational nature exists as an end in
itself. Man necessarily conceives his own existence as being so; so far then this is a subjective principle
of human actions. But every other rational being regards its existence similarly, just on the same rational
principle that holds for me: so that it is at the same time an objective principle, from which as a supreme
practical law all laws of the will must be capable of being deduced. Accordingly the practical imperative
will be as follows: So act as to treat humanity, whether in thine own person or in that of any other, in
every case as an end withal, never as means only.
Looking back now on all previous attempts to discover the principle of morality, we need not
wonder why they all failed. It was seen that man was bound to laws by duty, but it was not observed that
the laws to which he is subject are only those of his own giving, though at the same time they are
universal, and that he is only bound to act in conformity with his own will; a will, however, which is
designed by nature to give universal laws.
The conception of the will of every rational being as one which must consider itself as giving in all
the maxims of its will universal laws, so as to judge itself and its actions from this point of view—this
conception leads to another which depends on it and is very fruitful, namely that of a kingdom of ends.
By a kingdom I understand the union of different rational beings in a system by common laws. Now
since it is by laws that ends are determined as regards their universal validity, hence, if we abstract from
the personal differences of rational beings and likewise from all the content of their private ends, we
shall be able to conceive all ends combined in a systematic whole (including both rational beings as ends
in themselves, and also the special ends which each may propose to himself), that is to say, we can
conceive a kingdom of ends, which on the preceding principles is possible.
For all rational beings come under the law that each of them must treat itself and all others never
merely as means, but in every case at the same time as ends in themselves. Hence results a systematic
union of rational being by common objective laws, i.e., a kingdom which may be called a kingdom of
ends, since what these laws have in view is just the relation of these beings to one another as ends and
means. It is certainly only an ideal.
A rational being belongs as a member to the kingdom of ends when, although giving universal laws
in it, he is also himself subject to these laws. He belongs to it as sovereign when, while giving laws, he
is not subject to the will of any other.
We can now end where we started at the beginning, namely, with the conception of a will
unconditionally good. That will is absolutely good which cannot be evil—in other words, whose maxim,
if made a universal law, could never contradict itself. This principle, then, is its supreme law: “Act
always on such a maxim as thou canst at the same time will to be a universal law”; this is the sole
condition under which a will can never contradict itself; and such an imperative is categorical. Such then
is the formula of an absolutely good will.
Immanuel Kant: Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, I-II, decoded

FIRST SECTION
The only good thing is a good will. Intelligence, wit, courage and wealth can be misused. A clever,
calculating villain is worse than a stupid one.
A good will is just plain good. It is not good because it leads to good things; it is good in itself, and it
cannot be abused. Even if a good person has bad luck and accomplishes nothing, her good will shines,
like a jewel, by its own light.
It is possible to do the same action with different motivations. If you own a store and do not cheat
your customers, you might be honest, or you might be acting honestly because cheating them is bad
business in the long run. In this case, you are not acting on the principle of honesty; you are acting out of
long-term selfishness.
Similarly, many people take joy in being kind to others. However nice these people are, they are not
good people. If people act to make themselves happy, they are being selfish; that they are helping an old
woman across the street should not make their actions more noble. A person who brings happiness to
others because it makes her happy is a selfish jerk just like everyone else.
An action’s moral worth does not come from its consequences. An action is good if it is done
according the right ‘maxim’, if it is done for the right reason, if it is done with a good will. The will is
between the idea of what should be done and the actual accomplishment of that idea. A person who
wants (and tries) to bring the idea into reality is doing the right thing.
Suppose my wife is pregnant, and I am racing to get her to the hospital. On the way, I run over my
neighbour’s dog. Did I do something bad? No. I was trying to do the right thing—to bring life safely
into the world—and it didn’t work out according to plan. But I wanted it to, and my will is what matters.
I did not intend to do anything wrong, and so I should not be blamed.
Duty is acting out of respect for the laws of morality. As I showed above, consequences cannot be
predicted. They are the effects of the will, but not the energy of the will. Wanting the right thing is what
really matters. But what are the right things to want?
I’ve already removed any consequences that might be motivations. I should not want, for example,
to keep the peace, make people happy, help good people, or punish bad ones. All of these are the results
of actions. The only thing that remains is this: I should want to be a good person. My will should be to
act out of respect for the laws of morality.
What, then, are the laws? First, a real law must determine my duty and tell me what to will. Second,
a real law obviously cannot depend on who I am. Laws apply to everyone; that is what makes them
laws. Finally, a good law cannot depend on the effects of my actions.
Since I have removed all the the good consequences that would come out of respecting the law, I can
only want one thing: to conform to the law, out of pure respect for lawfulness. This principle can guide
me and delineate all my duties: I am never to act otherwise than so that I could also will that my maxim
should become a universal law.
This means, in short, that there is one law that makes all the others. The one law is this: Act
according to the law. In other words, do unto others as you would have them do unto everyone else.
Imagine that a man wanted to break a promise. His maxim would be “False promises are
acceptable”. If we put this to the test, we imagine applying this maxim to everyone. Can everyone make
false promises? No. If everyone made false promises, promises would be worthless, so a promise would
not be a promise. The maxim, as soon as it is made universal, destroys itself in a contradiction.
No matter how inexperienced I am in the ways of the world, no matter how dumb I am, I can always
find out the answer to any ethical quandary. I only need to ask myself this: Could I make my decision a
rule for everyone to follow? If not, then it must be rejected. 


SECOND SECTION
Although many actions look ethical, far fewer are ethical. Many actions are done from selfishness.
In fact, it is impossible to say that any action has ever been done purely out of duty and not at all out of
selfishness. We simply cannot tell.
All moral ideas must come only from within. They must, in other words, be completely a priori.
This is how they get their power. If they were not a priori, they would come from abstraction from
circumstances in the world, and when those circumstances changed, so too would the laws.
The process of going from a law to an ‘ought’ is making ‘imperatives’. Imperatives are commands
of reason. Because they come from universal laws, imperatives are objective. They do not depend on
who you are, and everyone will agree to them. Sometimes our wills are weak, and sometimes we choose
how to act out of selfishness instead of doing what is rational. Nonetheless, it is always clear what
should have been done.
There are two kinds of imperatives: categorical and hypothetical. Hypothetical imperatives are of
this kind: if x then y. X is the goal. Y is the step to take. If you want a good job, go to school is an
example of a hypothetical imperative.
If we were like God and could know in advance with perfect certainly how everything would work
out, the obligations of hypothetical and categorical imperatives would be the same. The things that make
me happy would be the things that I am required to do, and the actions required by duty would make me
happy. Obviously, though, this is not the case. People think that money will make them happy, but they
forget about the envy and anxiety that money creates. People want to live forever, but who would want
to live forever in misery? Empirical ethics is, at best, only a rough guide: be frugal, be kind, work hard,
that sort of thing. Therefore we must look for an a priori categorial imperative.
Categorical imperatives are hard to explain. Categorical imperatives are ‘good in themselves’. They
are the commands of the will according to reason, which in turn is in accordance with the universal and
objective laws. “Be good to your mother” is a categorical imperative. There’s something disgusting
about saying “If you want a cookie, be good to your mother”. Everyone should always be good to their
mothers. That is categorical.
A categorical imperative applies to everyone. It cannot be contradicted—otherwise, of course, it
would not be categorical and it would not be imperative. By stripping away all the “if... thens” of
hypothetical imperatives, I can see what the categorical imperative is. What is the one rule that all
people must follow? It is this: Everyone must follow the rules.
 That, in short, is the categorical imperative. I can be more precise, though: “Act only on that maxim
whereby thou canst at the same time will that it should become a universal law.” I can also be a bit less
precise but more clever: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto everyone else.”
All duties can be derived from the categorical imperative. Here are a few examples.
A husband would like to sleep around on his wife. The maxim of his action will be: “Everyone
should commit adultery.” But this cannot be a universal rule. If all people cheated on their spouses,
cheating would no longer be cheating. Adultery requires that a spouse not know. If everyone slept
around, every spouse would know, and adultery would become not adultery. This would be a
contradiction.
A woman would like to borrow money and not repay it. Her maxim will be: “Promises must be
broken.” This cannot be a universal law. If everyone were allowed to break promises, a promise would
not be a promise. That too is a contradiction.
A woman would like to capriciously hit her son. The maxim is “people may hit one another to make
themselves feel better.” This cannot work: if everyone hit one another, we would all feel worse. The
action we had undertaken to feel better would lead to agony, a contradiction.
A poor man would like to buy a new Ferrari, impoverishing his family. His maxim “Everyone
should go into debt to make themselves happy.” The contradiction is obvious: not everyone can go into
debt; some people must be creditors for others to be debtors. He cannot ethically go into debt.
Sometimes we want an exception from the universal law. We want to get away with something we
know is wrong. Then there is a contradiction in our own wills: we want there to be a law, but do not
want it for ourselves.
All rational things are ends-in-themselves, and none should be used as a means or as a stepping
stone to some other goal. Irrational beings have value only as means. That is why they are called
‘things’. Rational beings have absolute worth. That is why they are not things, but are human beings.
Things have prices; ends do not have prices.
Every person thinks of herself as an end and worthy of respect, and every person knows that all other
people deserve our full respect—even if we are sometimes reluctant to admit it. Because this is true for
all people, this principle is objective, just like the categorical imperative. Accordingly, the practical
imperative will be: Treat everyone (including yourself) as an end, never as a means.
If we look back on other ethical philosophies, it is easy to see why they failed. They all held that
people were bound by laws. They did not see that the only laws that people are bound by are those they
make for themselves. A person can be compelled to act in a certain way, but she cannot be compelled to
will a certain way. She might be made do things that lead to good consequences, but she cannot be made
to want the right things to happen. Therefore, nobody can be made to truly follow the law. Every person
must choose to follow the laws.
Every person must be her own lawmaker. This may sound like everyone will choose to make and
follow laws that lead to her own advantage. But, as I said, the laws are derived from the categorical
imperative, and so they will be objective. In other words, everyone must, due to logic, agree on the laws.
All rational beings must agree that they must treat themselves and everyone else as ends-in-themselves.
This results in a systematic union of common, objective laws. It results in what I call “a kingdom of
ends”. Of course it is only an ideal.
Still, when a person is a member of the kingdom of ends, she gives laws, and she is subject to them
at the same time. She is a ruler who chooses to be a subject ... subject to the rules. This is what freedom
of will allows. Freedom of will lets us be lawmakers and law-followers at the same time.
We can now end where we started, with the unconditionally good will. An unconditionally good will
would act in such a way that the maxim of its actions could be a universal law and never contradict
itself. The only way a will can never contradict itself is by following the supreme law, the categorical
imperative, “Act always on that maxim that you can will to be a universal law”. This, then, is the
formula for an absolutely good will.
Immanuel Kant: Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics, edited

Section 1: Of the sources of metaphysics

As regards the sources of metaphysical knowledge, the very conception of the latter shows that these
cannot be empirical. Metaphysics’ principles must consequently never be derived from experience; since
it is not physical but metaphysical knowledge, i.e., knowledge beyond experience, that is wanted. Thus
neither external experience, the source of physical science proper, nor internal experience, the
groundwork of empirical psychology, will suffice for its foundation. It consists, then, in knowledge a
priori, that is, knowledge derived from pure understanding and pure reason.1
But in this, there is nothing to distinguish it from pure mathematics; it must be defined, therefore, as
pure philosophical knowledge.

Section 2: Of the mode of cognition that can alone be called metaphysical

a. Of the Distinction Between Analytical and Synthetical Judgments in General.
Metaphysical knowledge must contain simply judgments a priori; so much is demanded by the
speciality of its sources. But judgments are either simply explanatory and contribute nothing to the
content of a cognition, or they are expansive, and enlarge the given cognition; the first may be termed
‘analytic’, and the second ‘synthetic’ judgments.2
Analytic judgments say nothing in the predicate but what was already cogitated in the conception of
the subject, though perhaps not so clearly. When I say, “all bodies are extended”, I do not thereby
enlarge my conception of a body in the least, but simply analyze it. On the other hand, the proposition,
“some bodies are heavy”, contains something in the predicate which was not already cogitated in the
general conception of a body; it enlarges my knowledge, in so far as it adds something to my
conception; and must therefore be termed a synthetic judgment.
b. The Common Principle of all Analytical Judgments is the Law of Contradiction.
All analytic propositions are judgments a priori, although their conceptions may be empirical. Let us
take as an instance the proposition, “gold is a yellow metal”. Now, to know this, I require no further
experience beyond my conception of gold, which contains the propositions that this body is yellow and a
metal; for this constitutes precisely my conception, and therefore I have only to dissect it.
c. Synthetical Judgments Require a Different Principle from the Law of Contradiction.
I will first of all bring synthetic judgments under certain classes.

1 This is some of the toughest philosophy. Kant is a simply terrible writer. What he's trying to say, I
think, is this: science covers our senses. Metaphysics is about the non-sensible realm. Science can't tell
us what time or space are; only metaphysics can.
2

A priori A posteriori
Synthetic Are these real? He'll answer. No problem
Analytic No problem Don’t exist, he says
 1. Judgments of experience are always synthetic. It would be absurd to found an analytic judgment
on experience, as it is unnecessary to go beyond my own conception in order to construct the judgment,
and therefore the confirmation of experience is unnecessary to it. That a body is extended is a
proposition possessing a priori certainty, and no judgment of experience. For before I go to experience I
have all the conditions of my judgment already present in the conception, out of which I simply draw the
predicate in accordance with the principle of contradiction, and thereby at the same time the necessity of
the judgment may be known, a point which experience could never teach me.
2. Mathematical judgments are in their entirety synthetic.
It must be first of all remarked that essentially mathematical propositions are always a priori, and
never empirical, because they involve necessity, which cannot be inferred from experience. Should any
one be unwilling to admit this, I will limit my assertion to pure mathematics, the very conception of
which itself brings with it the fact that it contains nothing empirical, but simply pure knowledge a priori.
At first sight, one might be disposed to think the proposition 7+5=12 merely analytic, resulting from
the conception of a sum of seven and five, according to the principle of contradiction. But more closely
considered it will be found that the conception of the sum of 7 and 5 comprises nothing beyond the
union of two numbers in a single one, and that therein nothing whatever is cogitated as to what this
single number is that comprehends both the others. The conception of twelve is by no means already
cogitated when I think merely of the union of seven and five. One’s conception is therefore really
enlarged by the proposition 7+5=12; in other words, arithmetical propositions are always synthetic, a
truth which is more apparent when we take rather larger numbers.

Section 4: the general question of the prolegomena. Is metaphysics possible at all?

Were metaphysics actually present as a science, one might say: Here is metaphysics, you only
require to learn it, and it will convince you permanently and irresistibly of its truth. Unfortunately, in
this case, human reason is not in such a happy position. There is no single book that can be shown, like
for instance Euclid, of which it can be said: “This is metaphysics, herein is to be found the chief end of
the science, the knowledge of a Supreme Being and of a future world, demonstrated upon principles of
the pure reason.” The very attempts made to establish the science have without doubt been the primary
cause of the skepticism that so early arose. And so metaphysics floated to the surface like foam, and like
foam, too, no sooner was it gathered up than it dissolved, while another mass of it appeared upon the
scene which some were always found eager to grasp; while others, instead of seeking to penetrate the
cause of the phenomenon in question, thought themselves wise in laughing at the futile exertions of the
former.
The conclusion drawn in this section is then, that metaphysics is properly concerned with synthetic
propositions a priori, and that these alone constitute its purpose. The generation of knowledge a priori,
as much in intuition as in conceptions, in fine, synthetic propositions a priori in philosophical cognitions,
make up the essential content of metaphysics.
There only remains one critical question, the answer to which must regulate our future procedure—
Is metaphysics possible at all?
Now it fortunately happens that, although we cannot accept metaphysics as a real science, we may
assert with confidence that certain pure synthetic cognitions are really given a priori, namely, pure
mathematics and pure natural science.

The transcendental main question—first part.

How is pure mathematics possible?

How is it possible for the human reason to bring about such a branch of knowledge entirely a priori?
But we find that all mathematical knowledge has this speciality, that it must present its conception
previously in intuition, and indeed a priori, that is, in an intuition that is not empirical but pure, without
which means it cannot make a single step. This observation respecting the nature of mathematics, itself
furnishes us with a guide as to the first and foremost condition of its possibility, namely, that some pure
intuition must be at its foundation, wherein it can present all its conceptions in concreto and a priori at
the same time, or as it is termed, construct them.
But the difficulty seems rather to increase than to diminish by this step. For the question is now:
How is it possible to intuit anything a priori?
There is only one way possible, by which my intuition can precede the reality of the object and take
place as knowledge a priori, and that is, if it contains nothing else but that form of sensibility which
precedes in my subject all real impressions, by which I am affected by objects. For, that objects of sense
can only be intuited in accordance with this form of sensibility is a fact I can know a priori. From this it
follows, that propositions merely concerning the form of sensible intuition, will be valid and possible for
all objects of sense; and conversely, that intuitions possible a priori, can never concern other things than
objects of our sense.
Now, such intuitions are space and time, and these, lie at the basis of all the cognitions and
judgments of pure mathematics, exhibiting themselves at once as apodictic and necessary. For
mathematics must present all its conceptions primarily in intuition, and pure mathematics in pure
intuition, i.e., it must construct them. The pure intuition of space constitutes the basis of geometry—
even arithmetic brings about its numerical conceptions by the successive addition of units in time; but
above all, pure mechanics can evolve its conception of motion solely with the aid of the presentation of
time. Both presentations, however, are mere intuitions; for when all that is empirical, namely, that
belongs to feeling, is left out of the empirical intuitions of bodies and their changes (motion), space and
time still remain over, and are therefore pure intuitions, lying a priori at the foundation of the former.
The problem of the present section is therefore solved. Pure mathematics is only possible as
synthetic knowledge a priori, in so far as it refers simply to objects of sense, whose empirical intuition
has for its foundation a pure intuition a priori (that of time and space), which intuition is able to serve as
a foundation, because it is nothing more than the pure form of sensibility itself, that precedes the real
appearance of objects, in that it makes them in the first place possible. Yet this faculty of intuiting a
priori does not concern the matter of the phenomenon, i.e., that which is feeling in the latter, for this
constitutes the empirical element therein; but only its form, space and time.
The external objects of our sense-world must necessarily conform with the most complete accuracy
to the propositions of geometry. For sensibility, by its form of external intuition (space) with which the
geometrician is occupied, makes those objects themselves (though as mere appearances) primarily
possible.

The second part of the main transcendental problem

How is pure natural science possible?

We are nevertheless really in possession of a pure natural science, which a priori and with all the
necessity requisite to apodictic propositions, puts forward laws to which Nature is subordinated. Among
the principles of the above universal physical science are to be found some that really possess the
universality we require, as the proposition that substance continues and is permanent, and that all which
happens is at all times previously determined by a cause, according to fixed laws. These are really
universal natural laws, existing completely a priori. There is then in fact a pure natural science, and now
the question arises—how is it possible?
We are not here concerned with things in themselves (the qualities of which we put on one side), but
merely with things as the objects of a possible experience. And I now ask: How is it possible to cognize
a priori the necessary regularity of things as objects of experience?
Empirical judgments, in so far as they have objective validity, are judgments of experience; but
those which are merely subjectively valid I call ‘judgments of perception’.
That the room is warm, the sugar sweet, the wormwood bitter, are merely subjectively valid
judgments. I do not expect that I shall always, or that every other person, will find them as I do now.
They only express a reference of two sensations to the same subject, namely, myself. I call these
judgments of perception. With judgments of experience the case is altogether different. What experience
teaches me under certain circumstances, it must teach me at all times, and every other person as well. I
pronounce, therefore, all such judgments to be objectively valid. For instance when I say the air is
elastic, I expect this connection to stand under a condition making it universally valid.
In order to demonstrate the possibility of experience, in so far as it rests on pure a priori conceptions
of the understanding, we must first present what belongs to judgment generally. In this way, the axioms
a priori of the possibility of all experience as an objectively valid empirical cognition are precisely
determined. For they are nothing but propositions, subsuming all perception.

Transcendental table of the conceptions of the understanding

According to According to According to According to

Quantity Quality Relation Modality

Unity Reality Substance Possibility

Plurality Negation Cause Actuality

Totality Limitation Reciprocity Necessity

 In order to grasp the preceding in a single notion, it is necessary to remind the reader that we are not
here speaking of the origin of experience, but of that which lies within it.
The sum of the above is this: the business of the senses is to intuit, that of the understanding to think.
But to think is to unite presentations in a consciousness. This union is either merely relative to the
subject, and is contingent and subjective, or is given unconditionally, and is necessary or objective. This
union in a consciousness is either analytic by identity, or synthetic by the combination and addition of
different presentations to one another. Experience consists in the synthetic connection of phenomena
(perceptions) in a consciousness, in so far as this is necessary. Hence pure conceptions of the
understanding are those under which all perceptions must be previously subsumed, before they can serve
as judgments of experience, in which the synthetic unity of perceptions is presented as necessary and
universal.
Since, then, in respect of the possibility of all experience, when viewed as the mere form of thought,
there are no conditions of the judgments of experience beyond those which bring the phenomena in the
various forms of their intuition under the pure conceptions of the understanding which make the
empirical judgment objectively valid, these must be the a priori axioms of all possible experience.
The axioms of possible experience are at the same time the universal laws of Nature as known a
priori. And thus the problem contained in our present second question—How is pure natural science
possible? is solved. For the systematic character required by the form of a science is met with here in
completeness, since beyond the above-named formal conditions of all judgments in general, that is, of
all the general rules to be found in logic, there are none possible, and these constitute a logical system;
while the conceptions founded upon them, containing the conditions a priori of all synthetic and
necessary judgments, constitute in the same way a transcendental system, and finally the axioms, by
means of which all phenomena are subsumed under these conceptions, constitute a physiological
system, i.e., a system of nature, preceding all empirical knowledge of nature, rendering this in the first
place possible, and therefore to be properly termed the universal and pure natural science.
Thus I do not say that things in themselves contain a quantity, their reality, a degree, their existence,
connection of accidents in a substance, etc.; for this no one can prove, because such a synthetic
connection is simply impossible out of mere conceptions, where all reference to sensuous intuition on
the one hand, and all connection of the same in a possible experience on the other, is wanting. The
essential limitation of conceptions in these axioms is, therefore, that all things only stand under the
above-mentioned conditions a priori as objects of experience.
Let us now attempt a solution of Hume’s problematical conception, namely, the conception of cause.
Firstly, there is given me, a priori, by means of Logic, the form of a conditioned judgment generally, one
cognition as antecedent and another as consequent. But it is possible that in the perception, a rule of the
relation may be met with, which will say, that on the occurrence of a given phenomenon another always
follows (though not conversely), and this would be a case in which to make use of the hypothetical
judgment, and to say, for instance, if a body be illumined long enough by the sun, it will become warm.
There is certainly no necessity of connection here, in other words, no conception of cause. But I
continue: if the above proposition, which is a mere subjective connection of perception, is to be a
proposition of experience, it must be regarded as necessary and universally valid; but such a proposition
would run: Sun is through its light the cause of heat. The above empirical rule is now looked upon as
law, and indeed, not alone as valid of phenomena, but valid of them in relation to a possible experience,
which requires thoroughly, and therefore necessarily, valid rules. I perfectly understand, then, the
conception of cause, as a conception necessarily belonging to the mere form of experience, and its
possibility as a synthetic union of perceptions, in a consciousness in general; but the possibility of a
thing in general as a cause I do not understand, because the conception of cause does not refer at all to
things, but only indicates the condition attaching to experience, namely, that this can be only an
objectively valid knowledge of phenomena, and their sequence in time, in so far as the antecedent can be
united to the consequent according to the rule of hypothetical judgments.
Hence the pure conceptions of the understanding have no meaning whatever, when they quit the
objects of experience and refer to things in themselves (noumena). They serve, as it were, to spell out
phenomena, that these may be able to be read as experience.
From the earliest ages of philosophy, investigators of the pure reason have postulated, beyond the
sensible essences (phenomena) which constitute the world of sense, special essences of the
understanding (noumena) which are supposed to constitute a world of understanding; and since they
held appearance and illusion for the same thing, which in an undeveloped epoch is to be excused,
ascribed reality to the intelligible essence alone.
When we regard the objects of sense, as is correct, as mere appearances, we thereby at the same time
confess that a thing in itself lies at their foundation, although we do not know it, as it is constituted in
itself, but only its appearance, that is, the manner in which our senses are affected by this unknown
something. The understanding then, by accepting appearances, admits also the existence of things in
themselves, and we may even say that the presentation of such essences as lie at the basis of
appearances, in short, mere essences of the understanding, is not only admissible, but unavoidable.

Appendix. On what may be done to make Metaphysics real as Science.

On investigation of the pure elements (containing nothing empirical) of the human cognition, I first
succeeded, after long reflection, in distinguishing and separating with confidence the elementary
conceptions of sensibility (space and time) from those of the understanding.
This system of categories makes all treatment of any object of the pure Reason itself systematic, and
affords an indubitable direction or clue how and to what point in the investigation every metaphysical
consideration, if it is to be complete, must be reduced; for it exhausts all the momenta of the
understanding, under which every other principle must be brought. It is thus that the table of conceptions
has arisen, of whose completeness we can only be assured by means of the system of categories. And
even in the division of these conceptions destined to transcend the physiological use of the
understanding, it is always the same clue, which, because it must be always carried through the same
fixed points, determined a priori in the human understanding, invariably forms a closed circle.
All pure cognitions of the understanding have the peculiarity that their conceptions are given in
experience, and their axioms can be confirmed by experience; whereas the transcendent cognitions of
the reason are neither given as concerns their ideas in experience, nor can their axioms be confirmed or
refuted by experience. Hence the error possibly arising can be detected by nothing else but pure reason
itself, and this is very difficult.
 In this general consideration it is noteworthy, that the ideas of the reason, unlike the categories, are
not of any service whatever in the use of the understanding in experience, but can be wholly dispensed
with in this connection; indeed, they are impediments to the maxims of the understanding’s knowledge
of nature, notwithstanding their necessity for another purpose, yet to be determined. Whether the soul
be, or be not, a simple substance, can be quite indifferent to us; just as little can the cosmological ideas
of the beginning of the world or of the eternity of the world avail us to explain an occurrence in the
world itself. Finally, we must, in accordance with a just maxim of the philosophy of nature, refrain from
all explanation of the order of nature, which is derived from the will of a Supreme Being, because this is
no longer a philosophy of nature, but a confession that we have finished with the latter.

Conclusion. On the determination of the boundary of the pure reason.

After all the very clear proofs we have above given, it would be absurd for us to expect to cognise
more in any object than what belongs to its possible experience, or to lay claim to the least knowledge of
anything whatever which would determine its constitution in itself, unless we assume it to be an object
of possible experience. For wherewith shall we effect this determination, inasmuch as time, space, and
all the conceptions of the understanding, and still more the conceptions derived from empirical intuition
or perception in the sense-world would neither have nor could have any other use than merely to make
experience possible, and when if we leave out this condition from the pure conceptions of the
understanding, they determine no object whatever, and have no significance anywhere.
But it would be a still greater absurdity for us not to admit things in themselves at all, or to wish to
give out our experience for the only possible mode of the cognition of objects, in other words, our
intuition in space and time for the only possible intuition, and our discursive understanding for the
model of every possible understanding, thereby wishing principles of the possibility of experience to be
held for the universal conditions of things in themselves.
Natural science will never discover for us the inner nature of things, namely, that which is not
phenomenon, but which can still serve as the highest ground of the explanation of phenomena. But it
does not require this for its physical explanations; nay, if such were offered it from another source (e.g.,
the influence of immaterial beings), it ought to reject it, and on no account to bring it into the course of
its explanations, but invariably to base these on that which pertains to experience as object of sense, and
which can be brought into connection with our real perceptions, and empirical laws.

Solution of the general problem of the prolegomena. How is metaphysics possible as science.
This much is certain: he who has once tried criticism will be sickened for ever of all the dogmatic
trash he was compelled to content himself with before, because his reason, requiring something, could
find nothing better for its occupation. Criticism stands to the ordinary school-metaphysics exactly in the
same relation as chemistry to alchemy, or as astronomy to fortune-telling astrology. I guarantee that no
one who has comprehended and thought out the conclusions of criticism, even in these Prolegomena,
will ever return to the old sophistical pseudo-science. He will rather look forward with a kind of pleasure
to a metaphysics, certainly now within his power, which requires no more preparatory discoveries, and
which alone can procure for the reason permanent satisfaction. For this is an advantage upon which
metaphysics alone can reckon with confidence, among all possible sciences; namely, that it can be
brought to completion and to a durable position, as it cannot change any further, nor is it susceptible of
any increase through new discoveries.
Metaphysics must be a science, not alone as a whole, but in all its parts, else it is nothing; because in
speculation of the pure reason, nothing has a standing but universal notions. But, apart from this,
probability and healthy human understanding have their useful and justifiable employment, but on their
own special principles, whose validity always depends on their relation to the practical.
This it is which I hold myself justified in demanding of a system of metaphysics, as science.
Immanuel Kant: Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics, edited

The sources of metaphysics

The ideas of metaphysics cannot be empirical; they cannot come from experience. The whole point
of studying metaphysics is to learn things that are beyond experience. Therefore, neither the senses
(which are the foundation of physics) nor internal experiences (which are the foundation of psychology)
can be the foundation of metaphysics. Metaphysics must come from a priori knowledge: knowledge
from pure understanding and pure reason.
Mathematics is the same; its foundation is pure understanding and reason.

What metaphysical thinking is. The difference between analytic and synthetic judgments
There are two kinds of a priori judgments. Some are ‘analytic’ and are explanatory. Some are
‘synthetic’ and add new information to the things we are thinking about.
Analytic judgments are definitions or clarifications. Someone could ask me, “What do you mean
when you say ‘physical things have extension?’”. I would reply, “Physical things take up space”. I am
defining and explaining “extension” but I am adding nothing to the idea. This is ‘analytic’.
On the other hand, if I declare “some physical things do not have mass”, I am adding information. If
I analyze the idea ‘physical things’, I don’t think ‘massless’. Masslessness is a new idea, not a
definition, and it does not come from analysis of physicality. It is ‘synthetic’.
All analytic propositions are a priori, even if are about empirical things. “Gold is a metal” is an
empirical a priori idea (it is not about an innate idea) and it is analytic (when I dissect my idea of gold,
one of the things I know is that it is a metal. In fact, I do not know what gold is if I do not know that it is
a metal).

Synthetic judgments are different

Judgments about experience are always synthetic. That an object must take up space is completely
certain and a priori, and that certainty cannot come from experience. If I know what an object is, I know
it takes up space. I do not need to check several objects around me to verify this.
Mathematical propositions are always a priori, never empirical, because they are certain and
necessary, not probable, and a priori ideas are certain.
You might think that 7+5=12 is analytic. But there is nothing in the ideas of 7 or 5 that contains the
number 12. (Does the idea of 5 contain the number 3103, which is 5 less than 3108?) 7+5, then, is
synthetic. Statements of arithmetic are always synthetic.

The general question of the prolegomena. Is metaphysics possible at all?

It would be great if there were a textbook of metaphysics. There isn’t. Nobody has ever
accomplished anything in metaphysics, so there is nothing to put in the book.
Good metaphysics, textbook worthy metaphysics, should construct a priori propositions.
But is that even possible? Yes, because mathematics and physics construct them now.
The transcendental main question: How is pure mathematics possible?
How can reason make a whole branch of knowledge from only the a priori?
Math is very odd. Mathematical concepts are both abstract and concrete. For instance, I can prove
things about all circles by proving things about one circle. The whole idea is there, in the intuition, ready
to be built on.
But this just makes things harder. How do we know anything a priori?
There is only one way. We know about some things a priori before we know anything a posteriori at
all. There are ‘forms of sensibility’ or ‘sense structures’. I cannot really imagine four dimensions,
uncaused phenomena, or the end of space. These ideas simply cannot make sense because my mind is
structured to ‘hold’ things (for instance) in three dimensions, with time running forward, and in a finite
world. People simply conceive of things in certain, unchanging ways. These frameworks are the source
of a priori knowledge
Space and time are foundational mental structures, and they lead straight to mathematics. Space
gives geometry, and time gives numbers through the addition of units of time. We can even get to
physics—time and space give us motion and extension, from which we can deduce the movements of
bodies. Time and space, however, remain the foundation of the sciences.
Therefore, we have shown how mathematics is possible. It defines the structures of sensation and the
necessary appearance of objects. I will never see an object in two dimensions, nor one in four; I cannot
imagine the same object in two places at the same time; 7+5 must always equal 12; and all straight lines
can be divided. By analyzing these a priori structures of my mind, I get to mathematics.
Obviously, the structure of my mind tells me nothing about what I will conceive; it only describes
how I will conceive it. I may never see the northern lights, but if I ever do, I know that I will see them as
colours in my field of vision. All objects of sense are like this; they all must conform to the rules of
geometry and time.

The second part of the main transcendental problem: How is pure natural science possible?
Natural science, a priori and certain, binds nature. There are universal principles, too, such as the
proposition that substance is permanent, or that everything has a cause. These are perfectly good laws of
physics. How do we know them?
I am not concerned with things in themselves (I’ll get to those in a minute). I am thinking instead
about the things we experience, or, to put it another way, the objects of possible experience. Our
experiences follow regular laws, too; how do we know them?
We should start at the beginning. There are two types of experience: judgments of perception and
judgments of experience,.
That the room is warm, that orange juice is sweet and tonic is bitter: these are 'subjectively valid
judgments of perception'. Someday, I—or someone else—might experience things differently. After
brushing my teeth, orange juice could taste bad. I could come in from a warm summer day and find this
room cold. When I express subjectively valid thoughts, I am expressing something more than my
opinion, but it is not much more than “I feel this now”.
 With judgments of experience, it is totally different. I am asserting that I—and everyone else—will
know these facts always. Air is elastic, space has three dimensions, light follows a straight line: these are
things that are universally valid.
There are twelve possible aspects of experiences that are presented to the mind. I’ll give an example.
Imagine I see puppies in a canoe floating towards a waterfall. I can see that the water is putting the
puppies in real danger, but that there are no people in the canoe. Right away, I can see that if I do not
save the puppies, no person will be harmed.
The river flowing over the waterfall is the source of danger, but I do not know what caused the
puppies to get into the canoe. I know, though, that they are not making this situation better by barking
and being afraid of the water. They need to swim to shore, and they need to do that now.
If I jump in, I might save them. If I do not, I know that they will die. There is only one way to tell
whether they can be saved—I'll have to try.
This example illustrates the twelve categories of judgment:
• According to quantity
o Unity
§ I can count the things in the scene. There are individual puppies and one canoe.
o Plurality
§ Puppies
o Totality
§ All of the puppies are in danger
• According to quality
o Reality
§ The danger is real
o Negation
§ But there are no people in the boat
o Limitation
§ And no people will be harmed
• According to relation
o Substance
§ The water makes up the waterfall
o Cause
§ The waterfall endangers the puppies
o Reciprocity
§ They are also putting themselves in danger
 • According to modality
o Necessity
§ The puppies will die if I don’t act
o Possibility
§ And might if I do
o Actuality
§ Only by trying will I find out if I could save them

This may seem complicated, but at root it is simple: I am not trying to explain the origin of
experience, but what lies behind it and makes it possible.
The senses sense, and the mind unites these experiences into a consciousness, either subjective
(relative to oneself) or objective (for all people everywhere), and either analytically or synthetically.
New experiences, because they are combined with old ones, are always synthetic, and they are always in
terms of the ideas of metaphysics.
Metaphysics gives us the shapes of thought, and it governs all possible experiences. I cannot imagine
the time before the big bang, nor can I visualize five dimensions. Metaphysics says that all of my
thoughts and experiences will have a certain shape, and it gives us the most a priori of a priori ideas.
There is nowhere deeper for us to go.
These axioms of possible experience are the universal laws of nature, and we can discover them a
priori. Thus, we answer the question "How is pure natural science possible?".
There is a hierarchy of systems. Logic is the most basic. The rules of logic (such as "if a statement is
not-not true, then it is true") underpin everything. The axioms of metaphysics (like "There are no
uncaused events") rest on top of logic. The laws of nature rest, in turn, on top of metaphysics.
But this is important: we do not know much about nature. Take, for instance, a daisy. To us, it looks
white. To a bee (which can see in ultraviolet) it looks different, much like a bullseye. So what colour is a
daisy, actually? In fact, the question is a bit absurd. All metaphysics can say is that a flower, like every
other visible thing, has a colour. Which colour? We cannot say. We cannot go directly from logic to the
world.
Let's return now to Hume's problem with causes. He said that we have never actually observed one
thing causing another. When two billiard balls collide, we do not see the first imparting its momentum
onto the second. We only see one move, then the other move. Also, because Hume was an empiricist, he
said, therefore, that we have no real idea of causality. And without causality, we have no science.
Logic gives me the outline of the idea of cause, though. I get from it the idea of the antecedent and
the consequent: if A, then B. If a stone is left out in the sun, then it will become warm. I make this a
general statement of experience: Sunlight makes objects warm. This is not quite a law of physics, but it
is a law of possible experience. Any time, anyone leaves anything in the sun, we expect it to become
warmer.
 I do not have within me any idea of what causality is in-itself, unobserved, in the wild. I can only
make sense of causality as a necessary connection between two experiences. I see the world in terms of
causes; antecedents cause consequents, and they do so in my experience. I can only observe what I can
observe, and I can only see it in the way that I do.
In fact, I do not have any idea of anything that is not experienced. There is a 'noumenal' world and a
'phenomenal' one. If the real world (ie the noumenal world) were 5 dimensional, or without causality, or
lacked time, I could not know it. I only know experiences (phenomena) and their necessary connections
and presentation (metaphysics).
Hence, when we try to talk about 'substance', 'infinity', the 'Big Bang', or the end of space, we are
truly talking nonsense: We are trying to talk about things that we could not sense, we could not
experience.
This has confused philosophers from the very beginning, back to Plato, who proposed that there was
a special world of noumenal Forms. He thought that reality was the intelligible essence. Because he
came from an earlier epoch, he should be excused.
From the earliest ages of philosophy, investigators of the pure reason have postulated, beyond the
sensible essences (phenomena) which constitute the world of sense, special essences of the
understanding (noumena) which are supposed to constitute a world of understanding; and since they
held appearance and illusion for the same thing, which in an undeveloped epoch is to be excused,
ascribed reality to the intelligible essence alone.
This does not mean I do not believe in an external world. Quite the contrary. When I say that there is
an object of sense and a noumenal object, I am conceding that there is an external world, apart from us,
existing in-itself. I just don't think we know anything about what it actually is; we only know how it is
presented to us.

Appendix: What will make metaphysics a science?

It took a while, but I was able to distinguish and separate space and time, the elementary conditions
for sensibility, from the rest of the categories of understanding.
The categories make experience objective and systematic. They also put a limit on our discussions
and should prevent us from going astray: there can be, for instance, no more uncaused causer or time
before time.
Science is easy in comparison; scientific hypotheses are borne out or disproved by experience. In
metaphysics, by contrast, there is no experience that would confirm or deny a conjecture, because
metaphysicians deal with only the possibility of experience.
Is the soul a substance? Does god have a plan? Was there a beginning to the universe? What is at the
edge of space? These are questions that do not make sense. They are pseudo-metaphysical questions that
seem to be about the shape of the world. When we see, however, that metaphysics is about possible
experience, we see that these questions are unanswerable; they are not framed in terms we can discuss.
Conclusion: On the determination of the boundary of the pure reason.
Space, time, the conceptions of the understanding, and the world of sensation do not add up to much.
They determine no object and have no significance anywhere. We have no insight into things in
themselves. Natural science will never discover the inner nature of things, that which is not
phenomenon--and nor should it. Science should be about the phenomenal world.

Solution of the general problem of the prolegomena: How is metaphysics possible as science?
This much is certain: once you've tried my metaphysics, you will never go back to the dogmatic
trash of souls and infinities. My criticism is to old metaphysics as astronomy is to astrology, or
chemistry is to alchemy. The new metaphysics is finite and durable, and is capable of being completed.
Metaphysics must be a science, from bottom to top. Speculation and probability have their places,
but not in metaphysics. It must be certain, universal, and true.
This what I demand of metaphysics.
Friedrich Nietzsche

Nietzsche is the only philosopher who is truly infamous. If you’ve ever heard of the Übermensch, or
superman, that’s Nietzsche’s idea. He makes Ayn Rand look like a candy striper, and came up with the
bumper-sticker quote, “God is dead”. He was also Hitler’s favourite philosopher.
Don’t hold all that against him, though! Nietzsche is brilliant. He is probably the best literary stylist
of philosophers, and while that can make him hard to understand, he is never boring. He is outrageous,
hyperbolic, manic, moralistic... and right.
If you ask me, Nietzsche is at his best when he attacks philosophers’ conceits and deflates their
puffery. He tries to turn philosophy (and especially ethics) on its head. Philosophers say that they value
truth—Nietzsche demands to know why. Is falsity not every bit as good? Ethicists are concerned with
right and wrong—Nietzsche says that ‘good’ is merely what benefits the herd, and ‘evil’ is what harms
it. The best men would pay no attention to the cautious ideas of philosophers; the Übermensch charge
ahead. Ideas like ‘good’ and ‘evil’ mean nothing to them; they are concerned only with effective and
ineffective.
Nietzsche adores the ambitious, egoist, willful and psychopathic; he loathes the cautious, traditional
and inward. Oddly, though, Nietzsche himself was a bit of a baby. He had serious man-crush on the
composer Richard Wagner. He suffered from such terrible tummy aches and migraines that he couldn’t
hold a job. He lost his mind in his forties, and spent the rest of his life being taken care of by his mother
and sister. His sister, apparently, was a real piece of work; she was such a thorough-going racist that she
tried, with her husband, to establish a racially pure, Aryan colony—in Paraguay of all places. She also
made Nietzsche popular with the Nazis, in part by forging his work.
Nietzsche can still be easily understood by modern readers; like us, he was scientific and secular. To
me, he is the first really modern philosopher. He writes about social changes still occurring, and the
germs of existentialism and post-modernism—philosophies that took 75 years to mature—are in his
work.
Friedreich Nietzsche: Beyond Good and Evil, edited

CHAPTER I. PREJUDICES OF PHILOSOPHERS

The Will to Truth, which is to tempt us to many a hazardous enterprise, the famous Truthfulness of
which all philosophers have hitherto spoken with respect, what questions has this Will to Truth not laid
before us! We inquired about the value of this Will. Granted that we want the truth: why not rather
untruth?
In spite of all the value which may belong to the true, the positive, and the unselfish, it might be
possible that a higher and more fundamental value for life generally should be assigned to pretence, to
the will to delusion, to selfishness, and cupidity. For that investigation one must await the advent of a
new order of philosophers, such as will have other tastes and inclinations, the reverse of those hitherto
prevalent—philosophers of the dangerous “Perhaps” in every sense of the term. And to speak in all
seriousness, I see such new philosophers beginning to appear.
Having kept a sharp eye on philosophers, and having read between their lines long enough, I now
say to myself that the greater part of conscious thinking must be counted among the instinctive
functions, and it is so even in the case of philosophical thinking; the greater part of the conscious
thinking of a philosopher is secretly influenced by his instincts, and forced into definite channels. And
behind all logic, there are valuations, or physiological demands. For example, that the certain is worth
more than the uncertain, that illusion is less valuable than “truth”. Such valuations may be necessary for
the maintenance of beings such as ourselves.
The falseness of an opinion is not for us any objection to it: it is here, perhaps, that our new language
sounds most strangely. The question is, how far an opinion is life-furthering, life-preserving, species-
preserving, perhaps species-rearing, and we are fundamentally inclined to maintain that the falsest
opinions are the most indispensable to us, that without a recognition of logical fictions, without a
comparison of reality with the purely imagined world of the absolute and immutable, without a constant
counterfeiting of the world by means of numbers, man could not live—that the renunciation of false
opinions would be a renunciation of life, a negation of life. To recognize untruth as a condition of life;
that is certainly to impugn the traditional ideas of value in a dangerous manner, and a philosophy which
ventures to do so, has thereby alone placed itself beyond good and evil.
That which causes philosophers to be regarded half-distrustfully and half-mockingly, is not the oft-
repeated discovery how innocent they are—how often and easily they make mistakes and lose their way,
in short, how childish and childlike they are,—but that there is not enough honest dealing with them,
whereas they all raise a loud and virtuous outcry when the problem of truthfulness is even hinted at in
the remotest manner. They all pose as though their real opinions had been discovered and attained
through the self-evolving of a cold, pure, divinely indifferent dialectic (in contrast to all sorts of mystics,
who, fairer and foolisher, talk of “inspiration”), whereas, in fact, a prejudiced proposition, idea, or
“suggestion,” which is generally their heart’s desire abstracted and refined, is defended by them with
arguments sought out after the event. They are all advocates who do not wish to be regarded as such,
generally astute defenders, also, of their prejudices, which they dub “truths,”—and very far from having
the conscience which bravely admits this to itself, very far from having the good taste of the courage
which goes so far as to let this be understood, perhaps to warn friend or foe, or in cheerful confidence
and self-ridicule. The spectacle of the Tartuffery of old Kant, equally stiff and decent, with which he
entices us into the dialectic by-ways that lead (more correctly mislead) to his “categorical imperative”—
makes us fastidious ones smile, we who find no small amusement in spying out the subtle tricks of old
moralists and ethical preachers. Or, still more so, the hocus-pocus in mathematical form, by means of
which Spinoza has, as it were, clad his philosophy in mail and mask—in fact, the “love of his wisdom,”
to translate the term fairly and squarely—in order thereby to strike terror at once into the heart of the
assailant who should dare to cast a glance on that invincible maiden, that Pallas Athene—how much of
personal timidity and vulnerability does this masquerade of a sickly recluse betray!
It has gradually become clear to me what every great philosophy up till now has consisted of—
namely, the confession of its originator, and a species of involuntary and unconscious auto-biography;
and moreover that the moral (or immoral) purpose in every philosophy has constituted the true vital
germ out of which the entire plant has always grown. Indeed, to understand how the abstrusest
metaphysical assertions of a philosopher have been arrived at, it is always well (and wise) to first ask
oneself: “What morality do they (or does he) aim at?”
You desire to live “according to Nature”? Oh, you noble Stoics, what fraud of words! Imagine to
yourselves a being like Nature, boundlessly extravagant, boundlessly indifferent, without purpose or
consideration, without pity or justice, at once fruitful and barren and uncertain: imagine to yourselves
indifference as a power—how could you live in accordance with such indifference? To live—is not that
just endeavouring to be otherwise than this Nature? Is not living valuing, preferring, being unjust, being
limited, endeavouring to be different? And granted that your imperative, “living according to Nature,”
means actually the same as “living according to life”—how could you do differently?
It seems to me that there is everywhere an attempt at present to divert attention from the actual
influence which Kant exercised on German philosophy. Let us only understand this “could be”! He was
proud of having discovered a new faculty in man, the faculty of synthetic judgment a priori. But let us
reflect for a moment—it is high time to do so. “How are synthetic judgments a priori possible?” Kant
asks himself—and what is really his answer? “By means of a means (faculty)”—but unfortunately not in
five words. But, is that—an answer? An explanation? Or is it not rather merely a repetition of the
question? How does opium induce sleep? “By means of a means (faculty),” namely the virtus dormitiva.
But such replies belong to the realm of comedy, and it is high time to replace the Kantian question,
“How are synthetic judgments a priori possible?” by another question, “Why is belief in such judgments
necessary?”—in effect, it is high time that we should understand that such judgments must be believed
to be true, for the sake of the preservation of creatures like ourselves; though they still might naturally
be false judgments! Or, more plainly spoken, and roughly and readily—synthetic judgments a priori
should not “be possible” at all; we have no right to them; in our mouths they are nothing but false
judgments. Only, of course, the belief in their truth is necessary, as plausible belief and ocular evidence
belonging to the perspective view of life.
Psychologists should bethink themselves before putting down the instinct of self-preservation as the
cardinal instinct of an organic being. A living thing seeks above all to discharge its strength—life itself
is will to power; self-preservation is only one of the indirect and most frequent results thereof. In short,
here, as everywhere else, let us beware of superfluous teleological principles!
There are still harmless self-observers who believe that there are “immediate certainties”; for
instance, “I think,” or as the superstition of Schopenhauer puts it, “I will”; as though cognition here got
hold of its object purely and simply as “the thing in itself,” without any falsification taking place either
on the part of the subject or the object. I would repeat it, however, a hundred times, that “immediate
certainty,” as well as “absolute knowledge” and the “thing in itself,” involve a contradictio in adjecto;
we really ought to free ourselves from the misleading significance of words! The people on their part
may think that cognition is knowing all about things, but the philosopher must say to himself: “When I
analyze the process that is expressed in the sentence, ‘I think,’ I find a whole series of daring assertions,
the argumentative proof of which would be difficult, perhaps impossible: for instance, that it is I who
think, that there must necessarily be something that thinks, that thinking is an activity and operation on
the part of a being who is thought of as a cause, that there is an ‘ego,’ and finally, that it is already
determined what is to be designated by thinking—that I know what thinking is. For if I had not already
decided within myself what it is, by what standard could I determine whether that which is just
happening is not perhaps ‘willing’ or ‘feeling’? In short, the assertion ‘I think,’ assumes that I compare
my state at the present moment with other states of myself which I know, in order to determine what it
is; on account of this retrospective connection with further ‘knowledge,’ it has, at any rate, no immediate
certainty for me.”—In place of the “immediate certainty” in which the people may believe in the special
case, the philosopher thus finds a series of metaphysical questions presented to him, veritable conscience
questions of the intellect, to wit: “Whence did I get the notion of ‘thinking’? Why do I believe in cause
and effect? What gives me the right to speak of an ‘ego,’ and even of an ‘ego’ as cause, and finally of an
‘ego’ as cause of thought?” He who ventures to answer these metaphysical questions at once by an
appeal to a sort of intuitive perception, like the person who says, “I think, and know that this, at least, is
true, actual, and certain”—will encounter a smile and two notes of interrogation in a philosopher
nowadays. “Sir,” the philosopher will perhaps give him to understand, “it is improbable that you are not
mistaken, but why should it be the truth?”
That which is termed “freedom of the will” is essentially the emotion of supremacy in respect to
him who must obey: “I am free, ‘he’ must obey”—this consciousness is inherent in every will; and
equally so the straining of the attention, the straight look which fixes itself exclusively on one thing, the
unconditional judgment that “this and nothing else is necessary now,” the inward certainty that
obedience will be rendered—and whatever else pertains to the position of the commander. A man who
wills commands something within himself which renders obedience, or which he believes renders
obedience. But now let us notice what is the strangest thing about the will—this affair so extremely
complex, for which the people have only one name. Inasmuch as in the given circumstances we are at
the same time the commanding and the obeying parties, and as the obeying party we know the
sensations of constraint, impulsion, pressure, resistance, and motion, which usually commence
immediately after the act of will; inasmuch as, on the other hand, we are accustomed to disregard this
duality, and to deceive ourselves about it by means of the synthetic term “I”: a whole series of erroneous
conclusions, and consequently of false judgments about the will itself, has become attached to the act of
willing—to such a degree that he who wills believes firmly that willing suffices for action. Since in the
majority of cases there has only been exercise of will when the effect of the command—consequently
obedience, and therefore action—was to be expected, the appearance has translated itself into the
sentiment, as if there were a necessity of effect; in a word, he who wills believes with a fair amount of
certainty that will and action are somehow one; he ascribes the success, the carrying out of the willing,
to the will itself, and thereby enjoys an increase of the sensation of power which accompanies all
success. “Freedom of Will”—that is the expression for the complex state of delight of the person
exercising volition, who commands and at the same time identifies himself with the executor of the
order—who, as such, enjoys also the triumph over obstacles, but thinks within himself that it was really
his own will that overcame them.

CHAPTER III. THE RELIGIOUS MOOD

Wherever the religious neurosis has appeared on the earth so far, we find it connected with three
dangerous prescriptions as to regimen: solitude, fasting, and sexual abstinence—but without its being
possible to determine with certainty which is cause and which is effect, or if any relation at all of cause
and effect exists there. This latter doubt is justified by the fact that one of the most regular symptoms
among savage as well as among civilized peoples is the most sudden and excessive sensuality, which
then with equal suddenness transforms into penitential paroxysms, world-renunciation, and will-
renunciation—both symptoms perhaps explainable as disguised epilepsy? But nowhere is it more
obligatory to put aside explanations; around no other type has there grown such a mass of absurdity and
superstition, no other type seems to have been more interesting to men and even to philosophers—
perhaps it is time to become just a little indifferent here, to learn caution, or, better still, to look away, to
go away—Yet in the background of the most recent philosophy, that of Schopenhauer, we find almost as
the problem in itself, this terrible note of interrogation of the religious crisis and awakening. How is the
negation of will possible? How is the saint possible? If it be a question, however, as to what has been so
extremely interesting to men of all sorts in all ages, and even to philosophers, in the whole phenomenon
of the saint, it is undoubtedly the appearance of the miraculous therein—namely, the immediate
succession of opposites, of states of the soul regarded as morally antithetical: it was believed here to be
self-evident that a “bad man” was all at once turned into a “saint,” a good man. The hitherto existing
psychology was wrecked at this point, is it not possible it may have happened principally because
psychology had placed itself under the dominion of morals, because it believed in oppositions of moral
values, and saw, read, and interpreted these oppositions into the text and facts of the case? What?
“Miracle” only an error of interpretation? A lack of philology?
It seems that the Latin races are far more deeply attached to their Catholicism than we Northerners
are to Christianity generally, and that consequently unbelief in Catholic countries means something quite
different from what it does among Protestants—namely, a sort of revolt against the spirit of the race,
while with us it is rather a return to the spirit (or non-spirit) of the race.
We Northerners undoubtedly derive our origin from barbarous races, even as regards our talents for
religion—we have poor talents for it. One may make an exception in the case of the Celts.
The mightiest men have hitherto always bowed reverently before the saint, as the enigma of self-
subjugation and utter voluntary privation—why did they thus bow? They divined in him—and as it were
behind the questionableness of his frail and wretched appearance—the superior force which wished to
test itself by such a subjugation; the strength of will, in which they recognized their own strength and
love of power, and knew how to honour it: they honoured something in themselves when they honoured
the saint. In addition to this, the contemplation of the saint suggested to them a suspicion: such an
enormity of self-negation and anti-naturalness will not have been coveted for nothing—they have said,
inquiringly. There is perhaps a reason for it, some very great danger, about which the ascetic might wish
to be more accurately informed through his secret interlocutors and visitors? In a word, the mighty ones
of the world learned to have a new fear before him, they divined a new power, a strange, still
unconquered enemy—it was the “Will to Power” which obliged them to halt before the saint. They had
to question him.
In the Jewish “Old Testament,” the book of divine justice, there are men, things, and sayings on such
an immense scale, that Greek and Indian literature has nothing to compare with it. One stands with fear
and reverence before those stupendous remains of what man was formerly, and one has sad thoughts
about old Asia and its little out-pushed peninsula Europe, which would like, by all means, to figure
before Asia as the “Progress of Mankind.” To be sure, he who is himself only a slender, tame house-
animal, and knows only the wants of a house-animal (like our cultured people of today, including the
Christians of “cultured” Christianity), need neither be amazed nor even sad amid those ruins—the taste
for the Old Testament is a touchstone with respect to “great” and “small”: perhaps he will find that the
New Testament, the book of grace, still appeals more to his heart (there is much of the odour of the
genuine, tender, stupid beadsman and petty soul in it). To have bound up this New Testament (a kind of
rococo of taste in every respect) along with the Old Testament into one book, as the “Bible,” as “The
Book in Itself,” is perhaps the greatest audacity and “sin against the Spirit” which literary Europe has
upon its conscience.
Why Atheism nowadays? “The father” in God is thoroughly refuted; equally so “the judge,” “the
rewarder.” Also his “free will”; he does not hear—and even if he did, he would not know how to help.
The worst is that he seems incapable of communicating himself clearly; is he uncertain? This is what I
have made out (by questioning and listening at a variety of conversations) to be the cause of the decline
of European theism; it appears to me that though the religious instinct is in vigorous growth,—it rejects
the theistic satisfaction with profound distrust.
There is a great ladder of religious cruelty, with many rounds; but three of these are the most
important. Once on a time men sacrificed human beings to their God, and perhaps just those they loved
the best—to this category belong the firstling sacrifices of all primitive religions, and also the sacrifice
of the Emperor Tiberius in the Mithra-Grotto on the Island of Capri, that most terrible of all Roman
anachronisms. Then, during the moral epoch of mankind, they sacrificed to their God the strongest
instincts they possessed, their “nature”; this festal joy shines in the cruel glances of ascetics and “anti-
natural” fanatics. Finally, what still remained to be sacrificed? Was it not necessary in the end for men to
sacrifice everything comforting, holy, healing, all hope, all faith in hidden harmonies, in future
blessedness and justice? Was it not necessary to sacrifice God himself, and out of cruelty to themselves
to worship stone, stupidity, gravity, fate, nothingness? To sacrifice God for nothingness—this
paradoxical mystery of the ultimate cruelty has been reserved for the rising generation; we all know
something thereof already.
Whoever, like myself, prompted by some enigmatical desire, has long endeavoured to go to the
bottom of the question of pessimism and free it from the half-Christian, half-German narrowness and
stupidity in which it has finally presented itself to this century, namely, in the form of Schopenhauer’s
philosophy; whoever, with an Asiatic and super-Asiatic eye, has actually looked inside, and into the
most world-renouncing of all possible modes of thought—beyond good and evil, and no longer like
Buddha and Schopenhauer, under the dominion and delusion of morality,—whoever has done this, has
perhaps just thereby, without really desiring it, opened his eyes to behold the opposite ideal: the ideal of
the most world-approving, exuberant, and vivacious man, who has not only learnt to compromise and
arrange with that which was and is, but wishes to have it again as it was and is, for all eternity, insatiably
calling out da capo, not only to himself, but to the whole piece and play; and not only the play, but
actually to him who requires the play—and makes it necessary; because he always requires himself
anew—and makes himself necessary.—What? And this would not be—circulus vitiosus deus?
The distance, and as it were the space around man, grows with the strength of his intellectual vision
and insight: his world becomes profounder; new stars, new enigmas, and notions are ever coming into
view. Perhaps everything on which the intellectual eye has exercised its acuteness and profundity has
just been an occasion for its exercise, something of a game, something for children and childish minds.
Perhaps the most solemn conceptions that have caused the most fighting and suffering, the conceptions
“God” and “sin,” will one day seem to us of no more importance than a child’s plaything or a child’s
pain seems to an old man—and perhaps another plaything and another pain will then be necessary once
more for “the old man”—always childish enough, an eternal child!
To love mankind for God’s sake—this has so far been the noblest and remotest sentiment to which
mankind has attained. That love to mankind, without any redeeming intention in the background, is only
an additional folly and brutishness, that the inclination to this love has first to get its proportion, its
delicacy, its gram of salt and sprinkling of ambergris from a higher inclination—whoever first perceived
and “experienced” this, however his tongue may have stammered as it attempted to express such a
delicate matter, let him for all time be holy and respected, as the man who has so far flown highest and
gone astray in the finest fashion!
The philosopher, as we free spirits understand him—as the man of the greatest responsibility, who
has the conscience for the general development of mankind—will use religion for his disciplining and
educating work, just as he will use the contemporary political and economic conditions. The selecting
and disciplining influence—destructive, as well as creative and fashioning—which can be exercised by
means of religion is manifold and varied, according to the sort of people placed under its spell and
protection. For those who are strong and independent, destined and trained to command, in whom the
judgment and skill of a ruling race is incorporated, religion is an additional means for overcoming
resistance in the exercise of authority—as a bond which binds rulers and subjects in common, betraying
and surrendering to the former the conscience of the latter, their inmost heart, which would fain escape
obedience. And in the case of the unique natures of noble origin, if by virtue of superior spirituality they
should incline to a more retired and contemplative life, reserving to themselves only the more refined
forms of government (over chosen disciples or members of an order), religion itself may be used as a
means for obtaining peace from the noise and trouble of managing grosser affairs, and for securing
immunity from the unavoidable filth of all political agitation. The Brahmins, for instance, understood
this fact. With the help of a religious organization, they secured to themselves the power of nominating
kings for the people, while their sentiments prompted them to keep apart and outside, as men with a
higher and super-regal mission. At the same time religion gives inducement and opportunity to some of
the subjects to qualify themselves for future ruling and commanding the slowly ascending ranks and
classes, in which, through fortunate marriage customs, volitional power and delight in self-control are on
the increase. To them religion offers sufficient incentives and temptations to aspire to higher
intellectuality, and to experience the sentiments of authoritative self-control, of silence, and of solitude.
Asceticism and Puritanism are almost indispensable means of educating and ennobling a race which
seeks to rise above its hereditary baseness and work itself upwards to future supremacy. And finally, to
ordinary men, to the majority of the people, who exist for service and general utility, and are only so far
entitled to exist, religion gives invaluable contentedness with their lot and condition, peace of heart,
ennoblement of obedience, additional social happiness and sympathy, with something of transfiguration
and embellishment, something of justification of all the commonplaceness, all the meanness, all the
semi-animal poverty of their souls. Religion, together with the religious significance of life, sheds
sunshine over such perpetually harassed men, and makes even their own aspect endurable to them, it
operates upon them as the Epicurean philosophy usually operates upon sufferers of a higher order, in a
refreshing and refining manner, almost turning suffering to account, and in the end even hallowing and
vindicating it. There is perhaps nothing so admirable in Christianity and Buddhism as their art of
teaching even the lowest to elevate themselves by piety to a seemingly higher order of things, and
thereby to retain their satisfaction with the actual world in which they find it difficult enough to live—
this very difficulty being necessary.
To be sure—to make also the bad counter-reckoning against such religions, and to bring to light their
secret dangers—the cost is always excessive and terrible when religions do not operate as an educational
and disciplinary medium in the hands of the philosopher, but rule voluntarily and paramountly, when
they wish to be the final end, and not a means along with other means. Among men, as among all other
animals, there is a surplus of defective, diseased, degenerating, infirm, and necessarily suffering
individuals; the successful cases, among men also, are always the exception; and in view of the fact that
man is the animal is not yet properly adapted to his environment, the rare exception. But worse still. The
higher the type a man represents, the greater is the improbability that he will succeed; the accidental, the
law of irrationality in the general constitution of mankind, manifests itself most terribly in its destructive
effect on the higher orders of men, the conditions of whose lives are delicate, diverse, and difficult to
determine. What, then, is the attitude of the two greatest religions above-mentioned to the surplus of
failures in life? They endeavour to preserve and keep alive whatever can be preserved; in fact, as the
religions for sufferers, they take the part of these upon principle; they are always in favour of those who
suffer from life as from a disease, and they would fain treat every other experience of life as false and
impossible. However highly we may esteem this indulgent and preservative care (inasmuch as in
applying to others, it has applied, and applies also to the highest and usually the most suffering type of
man), the hitherto paramount religions—to give a general appreciation of them—are among the
principal causes which have kept the type of “man” upon a lower level—they have preserved too much
that which should have perished. One has to thank them for invaluable services; and who is sufficiently
rich in gratitude not to feel poor at the contemplation of all that the “spiritual men” of Christianity have
done for Europe hitherto! But when they had given comfort to the sufferers, courage to the oppressed
and despairing, a staff and support to the helpless, and when they had allured from society into convents
and spiritual penitentiaries the broken-hearted and distracted: what else had they to do in order to work
systematically in that fashion, and with a good conscience, for the preservation of all the sick and
suffering, which means, in deed and in truth, to work for the deterioration of the European race? To
reverse all estimates of value—that is what they had to do! And to shatter the strong, to spoil great
hopes, to cast suspicion on the delight in beauty, to break down everything autonomous, manly,
conquering, and imperious—all instincts which are natural to the highest and most successful type of
“man”—into uncertainty, distress of conscience, and self-destruction; forsooth, to invert all love of the
earthly and of supremacy over the earth, into hatred of the earth and earthly things—that is the task the
Church imposed on itself, and was obliged to impose, until, according to its standard of value,
“unworldliness,” “unsensuousness,” and “higher man” fused into one sentiment. If one could observe
the strangely painful, equally coarse and refined comedy of European Christianity with the derisive and
impartial eye of an Epicurean god, I should think one would never cease marvelling and laughing; does
it not actually seem that some single will has ruled over Europe for eighteen centuries in order to make a
sublime abortion of man? He, however, who, with opposite requirements (no longer Epicurean) and with
some divine hammer in his hand, could approach this almost voluntary degeneration and stunting of
mankind, as exemplified in the European Christian (Pascal, for instance), would he not have to cry aloud
with rage, pity, and horror: “Oh, you bunglers, presumptuous pitiful bunglers, what have you done! Was
that a work for your hands? How you have hacked and botched my finest stone! What have you
presumed to do!”—I should say that Christianity has hitherto been the most portentous of presumptions.
Men, not great enough, nor hard enough, to be entitled as artists to take part in fashioning man; men, not
sufficiently strong and far-sighted to allow, with sublime self-constraint, the obvious law of the
thousandfold failures and perishings to prevail; men, not sufficiently noble to see the radically different
grades of rank and intervals of rank that separate man from man:—such men, with their “equality before
God,” have hitherto swayed the destiny of Europe; until at last a dwarfed, almost ludicrous species has
been produced, a gregarious animal, something obliging, sickly, mediocre, the European of the present
day.

PART FIVE: ON THE NATURAL HISTORY OF MORALS

Moral sensibility is as subtle, late, manifold, sensitive and refined in Europe today as the ‘science of
morals’ pertaining to it is still young, inept, clumsy and coarse-fingered. Philosophers one and all have,
with a strait-laced seriousness that provokes laughter, demanded something much higher, more
pretentious, more solemn of themselves as soon as they have concerned themselves with morality as a
science: they wanted to furnish the rational ground of morality—and every philosopher hitherto has
believed he has furnished this rational ground of morality itself, however, was taken as ‘given’. How far
from their clumsy pride was that apparently insignificant task left in dust and mildew, the task of
description, although the most delicate hands and senses could hardly be delicate enough for it! It was
precisely because moral philosophers knew the facts of morality only somewhat vaguely in an arbitrary
extract or as a chance abridgement, as morality of their environment, their class, their church, the spirit
of their times, their climate and zone of the earth, for instance—it was precisely because they were ill
informed and not even very inquisitive about other peoples, ages and former times, that they did not so
much as catch sight of the real problems of morality—for these come into view only if we compare
many moralities.
Quite apart from the value of such assertions as ‘there exists in us a categorical imperative’ one can
still ask: what does such an assertion say of the man who asserts it? There are moralities which are
intended to justify their authors before others; other moralities are intended to calm him and make him
content with himself; with others he wants to crucify and humiliate himself; with others he wants to
wreak vengeance, with others hide himself, with others transfigure himself and set himself on high; this
morality serves to make its author forget, that to make him or something about him forgotten; many
moralists would like to exercise power and their creative moods on mankind; others, Kant perhaps
among them, give to understand with their morality: ‘what is worthy of respect in me is that I know how
to obey—and things ought to be no different with you!’—in short, moralities too are only a sign-
language of the emotions.
 Every morality is, as opposed to laisser aller, a piece of tyranny against ‘nature’, likewise against
‘reason’: but that can be no objection to it unless one is in possession of some other morality which
decrees that any kind of tyranny and unreason is impermissible. The essential and invaluable element in
every morality is that it is a protracted constraint: to understand Stoicism or Port-Royal or Puritanism
one should recall the constraint under which every language has hitherto attained strength and
freedom—the metrical constraint, the tyranny of rhyme and rhythm. How much trouble the poets and
orators of every nation have given themselves!—not excluding a few present-day prose writers in whose
ear there dwells an inexorable conscience— ‘for the sake of foolishness’, as the utilitarian fools say,
thinking they are clever— ‘from subjection to arbitrary laws’, as the anarchists say, feeling themselves
‘free’, even free-spirited. But the strange fact is that all there is or has been on earth of freedom,
subtlety, boldness, dance and masterly certainty, whether in thinking itself, or in ruling, or in speaking
and persuasion, in the arts as in morals, has evolved only by virtue of the ‘tyranny of such arbitrary
laws’; and, in all seriousness, there is no small probability that precisely this is ‘nature’ and ‘natural’—
and not that laisser aller! Every artist knows how far from the feeling of letting himself go his ‘natural’
condition is, the free ordering, placing, disposing, forming in the moment of ‘inspiration’—and how
strictly and subtly he then obeys thousandfold laws which precisely on account of their severity and
definiteness mock all formulation in concepts (even the firmest concept is by comparison something
fluctuating, manifold, ambiguous). Today we suspect any thinker who ‘wants to prove something’—that
they always knew in advance that which was supposed to result from the most rigorous cogitation.
The industrious races find leisure very hard to endure: it was a masterpiece of English instinct to
make Sunday so extremely holy and boring that the English unconsciously long again for their week—
and working-days—as a kind of cleverly devised and cleverly intercalated fast, such as is also to be seen
very frequently in the ancient world (although, as one might expect in the case of southern peoples, not
precisely in regard to work). There have to be fasts of many kinds; and wherever powerful drives and
habits prevail legislators have to see to it that there are intercalary days on which such a drive is put in
chains and learns to hunger again.
There is something in Plato’s morality which does not really belong to Plato but is only to be met
with in his philosophy, one might say in spite of Plato: namely Socratism, for which he was really too
noble. ‘No one wants to do injury to himself, therefore all badness is involuntary. For the bad man does
injury to himself: this he would not do if he knew that badness is bad. Thus the bad man is bad only in
consequence of an error; if one cures him of his error, one necessarily makes him—good.’—This way of
reasoning smells of the mob, which sees in bad behaviour only its disagreeable consequences and
actually judges ‘it is stupid to act badly’; while it takes ‘good’ without further ado to be identical with
‘useful and pleasant’. In the case of every utilitarian morality one may conjecture in advance a similar
origin and follow one’s nose: one will seldom go astray.—Plato did all he could to interpret something
refined and noble into his teacher’s proposition, above all himself—he, the most intrepid of interpreters,
who picked up the whole of Socrates only in the manner of a popular tune from the streets, so as to
subject it to infinite and impossible variations: that is, to make it into all his own masks and
multiplicities. One might ask in jest, and in Homeric jest at that: what is the Platonic Socrates if not
Platõn opithen to Platõn messē te chimaira?
The old theological problem of ‘faith’ and ‘knowledge’—or, more clearly, of instinct and reason—
that is to say, the question whether in regard to the evaluation of things instinct deserves to have more
authority than rationality, which wants to evaluate and act according to reasons, according to a ‘why?’,
that is to say according to utility and fitness for a purpose—this is still that old moral problem which
first appeared in the person of Socrates and was already dividing the minds of men long before
Christianity. Socrates himself, to be sure, had, with the taste appropriate to his talent—that of a superior
dialectician—initially taken the side of reason; and what indeed did he do all his life long but laugh at
the clumsy incapacity of his noble Athenians, who were men of instinct, like all noble men, and were
never able to supply adequate information about the reasons for their actions? Ultimately, however, in
silence and secrecy, he laughed at himself too: he found in himself, before his more refined conscience
and self-interrogation, the same difficulty and incapacity. But why, he exhorted himself, should one
therefore abandon the instincts! One must help both them and reason to receive their due one must
follow the instincts, but persuade reason to aid them with good arguments. This was the actual falsity of
that great ironist, who had so many secrets; he induced his conscience to acquiesce in a sort of self-
outwitting: fundamentally he had seen through the irrational aspect of moral judgement.—Plato, more
innocent in such things and without the craftiness of the plebeian, wanted at the expenditure of all his
strength—the greatest strength any philosopher has hitherto had to expend!—to prove to himself that
reason and instinct move of themselves towards one goal, towards the good, towards ‘God’; and since
Plato all theologians and philosophers have followed the same path—that is to say, in moral matters
instinct, or as the Christians call it ‘faith’, or as I call it ‘the herd’, has hitherto triumphed. One might
have to exclude Descartes, the father of rationalism (and consequently the grandfather of the
Revolution), who recognized only the authority of reason: but reason is only an instrument, and
Descartes was superficial.
The Jews—a people ‘born for slavery’ as Tacitus and the whole ancient world says, ‘the chosen
people’ as they themselves say and believe—the Jews achieved that miracle of inversion of values
thanks to which life on earth has for a couple of millennia acquired a new and dangerous fascination—
their prophets fused ‘rich’, ‘godless’, ‘evil’, ‘violent’, ‘sensual’ into one and were the first to coin the
word ‘world’ as a term of infamy. It is in this inversion of values (with which is involved the
employment of the word for ‘poor’ as a synonym of ‘holy’ and ‘friend’) that the significance of the
Jewish people resides: with them there begins the slave revolt in morals.
One altogether misunderstands the beast of prey and man of prey (Cesare Borgia for example), one
misunderstands ‘nature’, so long as one looks for something ‘sick’ at the bottom of these healthiest of all
tropical monsters and growths, or even for an inborn ‘hell’ in them—: as virtually all moralists have
done hitherto. It seems, does it not, that there exists in moralists a hatred for the jungle and the tropics?
And that the ‘tropical man’ has to be discredited at any cost, whether as the sickness and degeneration of
man or as his own hell and self-torment? But why? For the benefit of ‘temperate zones’? The benefit of
temperate men? Of the ‘moral’? Of the mediocre? This for the chapter ‘Morality as Timidity’.
All these moralities which address themselves to the individual person, for the promotion of his
‘happiness’ as they say what are they but prescriptions for behaviour in relation to the degree of
perilousness in which the individual person lives with himself; recipes to counter his passions, his good
and bad inclinations in so far as they have will to power in them and would like to play the tyrant; great
and little artifices and acts of prudence to which there clings the nook-and-cranny odour of ancient
household remedies and old-woman wisdom; one and all baroque and unreasonable in form—because
they address themselves to ‘all’, because they generalize where generalization is impermissible—
speaking unconditionally one and all, taking themselves for unconditional, flavoured with more than one
grain of salt, indeed tolerable only, and occasionally even tempting, when they learn to smell overspiced
and dangerous, to smell above all of ‘the other world’: all this is, from an intellectual point of view, of
little value and far from constituting ‘science’, not to speak of ‘wisdom’, but rather, to say it again and to
say it thrice, prudence, prudence, prudence, mingled with stupidity, stupidity, stupidity. This too for the
chapter ‘Morality as Timidity’.
Inasmuch as ever since there have been human beings there have also been human herds (family
groups, communities, tribes, nations, states, churches), and always very many who obey compared with
the very small number of those who command—considering, that is to say, that hitherto nothing has
been practised and cultivated among men better or longer than obedience, it is fair to suppose that as a
rule a need for it is by now innate as a kind of formal conscience which commands: ‘thou shalt
unconditionally do this, unconditionally not do that’, in short ‘thou shalt’. The herd-man makes himself
out to be the only permissible kind of man and glorifies the qualities through which he is tame,
peaceable and useful to the herd as the real human virtues: namely public spirit, benevolence,
consideration, industriousness, moderation, modesty, forbearance, pity. In those cases, however, in
which leaders and bell-wethers are thought to be indispensable, there is attempt after attempt to
substitute for them an adding-together of clever herd-men: this, for example, is the origin of all
parliamentary constitutions. All this notwithstanding, what a blessing, what a release from a burden
becoming intolerable, the appearance of an unconditional commander is for this herd-animal European,
the effect produced by the appearance of Napoleon is the latest great witness—the history of the effect
of Napoleon is almost the history of the higher happiness this entire century has attained in its most
valuable men and moments.
The man of an era of dissolution which mixes the races together and who therefore contains within
him the inheritance of a diversified descent, that is to say contrary and often not merely contrary drives
and values which struggle with one another and rarely leave one another in peace—such a man of late
cultures and broken lights will, on average, be a rather weak man: his fundamental desire is that the war
which he is should come to an end; happiness appears to him, in accord with a sedative (for example
Epicurean or Christian) medicine and mode of thought, pre-eminently as the happiness of repose, of
tranquillity, of satiety, of unity at last attained, as a ‘sabbath of Sabbaths’, to quote the holy rhetorician
Augustine, who was himself such a man.—If, however, the contrariety and war in such a nature should
act as one more stimulus and enticement to life—and if, on the other hand, in addition to powerful and
irreconcilable drives, there has also been inherited and cultivated a proper mastery and subtlety in
conducting a war against oneself, that is to say self-control, self-outwitting: then there arise those
marvellously incomprehensible and unfathomable men, those enigmatic men predestined for victory and
the seduction of others, the fairest examples of which are Alcibiades and Caesar (to whom I should like
to add that first European agreeable to my taste, the Hohenstaufen Friedrich II), and among artists
perhaps Leonardo da Vinci. They appear in precisely the same ages as those in which that rather weak
type with his desire for rest comes to the fore: the two types belong together and originate in the same
causes.
When the highest and strongest drives, breaking passionately out, carry the individual far above and
beyond the average and lowlands of the herd conscience, the self-confidence of the community goes to
pieces, its faith in itself, its spine as it were, is broken: consequently it is precisely these drives which are
most branded and calumniated. Lofty spiritual independence, the will to stand alone, great intelligence
even, are felt to be dangerous; everything that raises the individual above the herd and makes his
neighbour quail is henceforth called evil; the fair, modest, obedient, self-effacing disposition, the mean
and average in desires, acquires moral names and honours. Eventually, under very peaceful conditions,
there is less and less occasion or need to educate one’s feelings in severity and sternness; and now every
kind of severity, even severity in justice, begins to trouble the conscience; a stern and lofty nobility and
self-responsibility is received almost as an offence and awakens mistrust, ‘the lamb’, even more ‘the
sheep’, is held in higher and higher respect. There comes a point of morbid mellowing and over-
tenderness in the history of society at which it takes the side even of him who harms it, the criminal, and
does so honestly and wholeheartedly. Punishment: that seems to it somehow unfair—certainly the idea
of ‘being punished’ and ‘having to punish’ is unpleasant to it, makes it afraid. ‘Is it not enough to render
him harmless? why punish him as well? To administer punishment is itself dreadful!’ with this question
herd morality, the morality of timidity, draws its ultimate conclusion. Supposing all danger, the cause of
fear, could be abolished, this morality would therewith also be abolished: it would no longer be
necessary, it would no longer regard itself as necessary! He who examines the conscience of the present-
day European will have to extract from a thousand moral recesses and hiding-places always the same
imperative, the imperative of herd timidity: ‘we wish that there will one day no longer be anything to
fear!’ One day everywhere in Europe the will and way to that day is now called ‘progress’.
One manifestly knows in Europe what Socrates thought he did not know, and what that celebrated
old serpent once promised to teach—one ‘knows’ today what is good and evil. Now it is bound to make
a harsh sound and one not easy for ears to hear when we insist again and again: that which here believes
it knows, that which here glorifies itself with its praising and blaming and calls itself good, is the instinct
of the herd-animal man. Morality is in Europe today herd-animal morality—that is to say, as we
understand the thing, only one kind of human morality beside which, before which, after which many
other, above all higher, moralities are possible or ought to be possible. But against such a ‘possibility’,
against such an ‘ought’, this morality defends itself with all its might: it says, obstinately and stubbornly,
‘I am morality itself, and nothing is morality besides me!’—indeed, with the aid of a religion which has
gratified and flattered the sublimest herd-animal desires, it has got to the point where we discover even
in political and social institutions an increasingly evident expression of this morality: the democratic
movement inherits the Christian. But that the tempo of this movement is much too slow and somnolent
for the more impatient, for the sick and suffering at one in their tenacious opposition to every special
claim, every special right and privilege (that is to say, in the last resort to every right: for when everyone
is equal no one will need any ‘rights’—); at one in their mistrust of punitive justice (as if it were an
assault on the weaker, an injustice against the necessary consequence of all previous society—); but
equally at one in the religion of pity, in sympathy with whatever feels, lives, suffers (down as far as the
animals, up as far, as ‘God’—the extravagance of ‘pity for God’ belongs in a democratic era—); at one,
one and all, in the cry and impatience of pity, in mortal hatred for suffering in general, in their almost
feminine incapacity to remain spectators of suffering, to let suffer; at one in their involuntary gloom and
sensitivity, under whose spell Europe seems threatened with a new Buddhism; at one in their faith in the
morality of mutual pity, as if it were morality in itself and the pinnacle, the attained pinnacle of man, the
sole hope of the future, the consolation of the present and the great redemption from all the guilt of the
past—at one, one and all, in their faith in the community as the saviour, that is to say in the herd, in
‘themselves’ . . .
 We, who have a different faith—we, to whom the democratic movement is not merely a form
assumed by political organization in decay but also a form assumed by man in decay, that is to say in
diminishment, in process of becoming mediocre and losing his value: whither must the direct our
hopes?—Towards new philosophers, we have no other choice; towards spirits strong and original
enough to make a start on antithetical evaluations and to revalue and reverse ‘eternal values’; towards
heralds and forerunners, towards men of the future who in the present knot together the constraint which
compels the will of millennia on to new paths. To teach man the future of man as his will, as dependent
on a human will, and to prepare for great enterprises and collective experiments in discipline and
breeding so as to make an end of that gruesome dominion of chance and nonsense that has hitherto been
called ‘history’—the nonsense of the ‘greatest number’ is only its latest form. For that a new kind of
philosopher and commander will some time be needed, in face of whom whatever has existed on earth
of hidden, dreadful and benevolent spirits may well look pale and dwarfed. It is the image of such
leaders which hovers before our eyes—may I say that aloud, you free spirits? The collective
degeneration of man down to that which the socialist dolts and blockheads today see as their ‘man of the
future’—as their ideal!—this degeneration and diminution of man to the perfect herd animal (or, as they
say, to the man of the ‘free society’), this animalization of man to the pygmy animal of equal rights and
equal pretensions is possible, there is no doubt about that! He who has once thought this possibility
through to the end knows one more kind of disgust than other men do—and perhaps also a new task! . . .
Freidrich Nietzsche: Beyond Good and Evil, decoded

CHAPTER I. PREJUDICES OF PHILOSOPHERS

The will to truth creates many problems. We have revered truth: but why not revere untruth?
Oh yes. Truth is good, positive, unselfish. But couldn’t it be that falsehood is better? That delusion,
selfishness, greed and pretense are better? Maybe lies benefit life. We need new and dangerous
philosophers to answer that question. I see them beginning to appear.
I’ve been watching philosophers for a long time now. I think that the greater part of conscious
thinking is merely instinctive. Philosophers pretend to be objective, but their thoughts are forced into
channels by their instincts, their needs, their physiological demands. Why do philosophers think that the
certain is better than the doubtful or that illusion is worse than truth? Because they must.
I do not see any reason to object to false opinions. No, the real question is not whether an opinion is
true or false; it is whether it is life-affirming or life-preserving. I think that lies are indispensable. Lies,
imagination, fictions—these are the stuff of life. Untruth is a condition of life. The philosopher who sees
this transcends good and evil.
Philosophers are ridiculed because they are sanctimonious fools, not because they have their heads
in the clouds. They get all in a tizzy whenever someone even suggests that truthfulness is not important.
Philosophers pretend that they are cold analysts and logicians, like they are better than mystics and
soothsayers. Nonsense. Philosophers are charlatans, and Kant was the worst of them. They invent
reasons thinking that this will make us believe what they already do. Spinoza dressed up his prejudices
in logic—and revealed himself thus as a sickly recluse.
Every great philosophy is the confession of its originator, and an unconscious autobiography.
Morality is the seed out of which every philosophy grows. To understand an abstruse metaphysics, ask
yourself, “What is this philosopher’s hidden morality?”
So, you call yourself a stoic! You want to live according to nature! Imagine what that would really
be like! Nature is completely indifferent. Nature has no pity or purpose or justice. Is that what you want?
How could you even live as if you were indifferent? Life is valuing, preferring, being unjust, being
limited, and trying to be different! So, you say that you want to live according to life? Well, how could
you not?
Kant asks, “How are synthetic judgments a priori possible?” His answer? “By means of a means”—
but unfortunately not in five words. But... is that an answer? Isn’t he just repeating the question? How
does opium induce sleep? “By means of a means”, the power to cause sleep.
It is high time to replace the Kantian question, “How are synthetic judgments a priori possible?”
with another question, “Why do we need to believe synthetic a priori judgments are possible?” We do
not have any right to them. When we coin them, we are lying. Only, of course, we need to believe in
these lies, just like we need to trust our eyes.
Life is will to power. Let’s just stop with the other explanations that only take us halfway! The urge
for self preservation? Self preservation is simply necessary for me to impose my will.
Some harmless introverts still think there are “immediate certainties” like “I think”, as though
cognition got hold of this idea without distortion or falsification. Nonsense! “Immediate certainty,” as
well as “absolute knowledge” and the “thing in itself,” are all contradictions in terms! A philosopher
should say to herself, “When I analyze ‘I think’, I see daring assertions I cannot prove; for example, that
it is me who thinks, that thinking is an activity, that ‘I’ caused this ‘thinking’, and, most doubtfully, that
I know what thinking is. I approach the sentence ‘I think’ with all of these things presupposed.”
Will is the same as thought in this respect. Philosophers speak of will as if it is simple. It is not.
Willing is complicated. “Freedom of the will” is supremacy over the person who must obey. “I am free.
He must obey”, focused and strained attention, and the thought “this is necessary now”—these are the
characteristics of willing. All this (and more) we label with one name.
All of us both will and obey, however, and this leads to much confusion. We know what it means to
be ordered around: constraint, impulsion, pressure, resistance, and motion. But we all have also willed
and felt power, and we tend to ignore the other half of the equation. This leads us to error. We start to
think that willing suffices for action. When we command something, it seems like the will and the action
are somehow one—that we usually get what we want. We start to think that we earned our successes by
willing them, and that feels good. “Freedom of the Will” is the feeling of delight of the commander, the
person who feels like he triumphs over obstacles with his own will and power. The upper class starts to
think that the successes of the commonwealth or country are due to them and their commands.

CHAPTER III. THE RELIGIOUS MOOD

Faith is a continuous suicide of reason—a tough, long-lived, worm-like reason that cannot be killed
with a single blow. The Christian faith has always been about the sacrifice of freedom, pride, and self-
confidence. It is also subjection, self-derision, and self-mutilation. Christian faith is cruel, and it is
adapted to a tender, many-sided, and very fastidious conscience. It it takes for granted that the subjection
of the spirit is indescribably painful.
Wherever religious nut jobs have appeared, they have demanded three dangerous regimens: solitude,
fasting, and sexual abstinence. They never try to discover which is cause and which is effect, though, or
even if there is a relation. Savages and civilized people sometimes give themselves over to sensuality—
and then they suddenly feel that they must repent. How is this possible? How is the negation of will
possible? How is the saint possible? This is a fascinating question for philosophers. Bad men are turned
into saints in a miracle—in an impossible turn of psychology. Goodness is generated from its opposite.
The Latin races are more attached to Catholicism than northern Europeans are attached to
Christianity. Atheism to them is a revolt against their race. For us, it is a return to the spirit (or non-
spirit) of our race. We have no talent for religion—except for the Irish.
Even the most powerful men bow before the saint, because they see in him self-subjugation and
privation. This interests them because they see his will being tested through his own deprivation. They
see his will is like their own, and by honouring him, they honour themselves. And they feel threatened
by him. They believe that there must be some reason he would deprive himself of the fruit of his will,
why he would covet nothing instead. He seems dangerous.
In the Old Testament, men, deeds and words are immense. The men in it make us look like
pussycats. Everything in it is so big and different that we barely understand it. We are house cats, and
we have so lost the taste for wild life. The New Testament is better suited for us; it is genuine, tender,
delicate, and frilly. To put those two books together and call them The Bible is a sin.
Why Atheism? “The father” in God is thoroughly refuted; so is “the judge,” and “the rewarder.” So
is his “free will”: he does not hear—and even if he did, he would not know how to help. The worst is
that he seems incapable of communicating himself clearly; is he uncertain? These are the reasons people
doubt God’s existence. People have the instinct for religion; they just no longer believe in God.
There are three steps on the ladder of religious cruelty. First, we sacrificed each other. We used to
sacrifice our children to primitive gods. Then we sacrifice our strongest instincts, our nature. We
become ascetics. What remained after our children and our souls? Only God himself. We sacrificed
comfort, hope, holiness and faith in future justice. Now we worship cold science. Now we worship rocks
and gravity. We sacrificed God for nothingness. That is the ultimate cruelty, and it is yet to be
understood.
Some of us have looked deeply into pessimism, asceticism, Buddhism and morality. We have come
out the other side of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ and seen the opposite ideal: the world-approving, vivacious,
exuberant man who loves everything the way it is and who would have it done all over again for all of
eternity, right from the top, with himself in the middle of it.
Perhaps one day, the ideas of “God” and “sin” will seem ridiculous to us, no more important than a
child’s pain is to an old man.
To try to love humankind the way that God loves is the nuttiest thing I could imagine. Anyone who
tries, like Jesus, to love us all should be looked up to—for they’ve floated away.
The new kind of philosopher (who is the man of the greatest responsibility, who has the conscience
for general human development) will use religion to discipline and educate. Religion can be used to
overcome resistance to authority. It might be used by the intellectual class as an excuse to have a retired
and quiet life. Religion can also be used to provide social structure and a social ladder for citizens to
climb. Asceticism and puritanism are important ways to bring a race above its hereditary baseness and
upwards to supremacy. And finally, for the majority of the people, who are entitled to exist only so far
as they serve and please others, religion gives contentedness with their position in life. It makes
suffering seem good, a virtue.
Of course, when religions want to rule, and to be the ends, not just the means, of life, it is a disaster.
Most humans are diseased, defective, and degenerating. They are infirm, weak, and suffering.
Successful men are the exception, not the rule. Religion tries to keep the weak alive, to preserve the ill,
and to succor the suffering. Religions should have allowed these weak animals to perish. Preserving the
sick and suffering has lead to the deterioration of the European race. Religions treat winners as losers,
and invert our moral values. Religion breaks down everything manly, conquering, and imperious—the
instincts that are natural and best for the most successful type of man—and turns them into uncertainty,
worry, and self-destruction. Religion has made love of supremacy and power into something detestable.
The ideal ‘man’ according to the church is otherworldly, unsensuous, and ‘higher’. The church has made
a sublime abortion of man. The church has made us a dwarfed, ludicrous species, sickly and mediocre.

PART FIVE: ON THE NATURAL HISTORY OF MORALS

We are all very sensitive to subtle moral distinctions and insults, but the ‘science of morals’ is coarse
and clumsy. It is not a science at all. Philosophers one and all have demanded a serious and solemn
science of ethics—and they have looked like idiots. Every philosopher thinks that he has provided the
rational ground for ethics. Every philosopher has ended up with a dusty, mildewed mess. Philosophers
know only the morality of their class, caste, or religion. They never ask about the morality of other
people or times.
Kant says “there exists in us a categorical imperative”. What does that say about Kant? Some
moralities are meant to justify their author; others are meant to calm him and make him content with
himself. Others he wants to use to crucify himself. Some are meant for vengeance. Kant? He meant to
say, “I am a good servant. I obey. Respect me for that, and I will respect you if you do the same.” Ethics
are a sign-language of the emotions.
Every morality is a little tyranny against ‘nature’, likewise against ‘reason’: but that can be no
objection to it unless one is in believes in another morality which says that tyranny and unreason are
impermissible. The essential element in every morality is how it constrains: Every language gains
strength and freedom by chafing under the tyranny of metre, rhyme and rhythm. Poets torture
themselves! Every artist knows how hard it is to be free! Yet art is one thing that makes life on earth
worthwhile. Art transfigures a person and makes him mad and divine. Because the European Christian
had to think with Aristotelian presuppositions and in a Christian scheme—because she had arbitrary,
severe and antirational thoughts to contend with—the European spirit became flexible and disciplined
and ruthless. The tyranny of always proving, proving, proving has forced us to think with a narrow
perspective and a kind of stupidity. It has focused us. Slavery is required for spiritual discipline and
breeding. Nature says, “be a slave to someone and you will not die.” That is nature’s categorical
imperative!
The industrious races find leisure very hard to endure. The English were geniuses. They made
Sundays so holy and boring that people were desperate to get back to work. Future rulers will have to
ensure that there are fasts. Fasting puts desire in chains and forces it to stoop and submit—and also to
become stronger.
Socrates was too good for Plato. Socrates said, ‘nobody wants to hurt herself, therefore badness is
involuntary. A bad woman injures herself; she would not do this if she new badness is bad. She errs.”
Socrates is a utilitarian. The ‘good’ is useful and pleasant. The ‘bad’ is painful. There’s nothing noble in
Socrates; there are no Platonic Forms. Goodness for him was simple—it was the goodness of the mob.
Socrates followed his gut, too. He interrogated Athenians asking them to explain why they did the
things they did; they, like him, were men of instinct, and never could. Ultimately, Socrates laughed at
himself the way he laughed at them. But why, he asked himself, should one therefore abandon the
instincts! Socrates said, incorrectly, that reason could provide arguments to justify instinct. Plato—the
innocent—thought that reason and instinct could move together toward one goal, to God, the good, and
the beautiful. That’s where everything went wrong. All theologians and philosophers followed that same
path. ‘Faith’, or as I call it, ‘the herd’, has triumphed.
The Jews—a people ‘born for slavery’ as Tacitus says, ‘the chosen people’ as they themselves say—
the Jews miraculously inverted values. Their prophets fused ‘rich’, ‘godless’, ‘evil’, ‘violent’, ‘sensual’
into one. When they inverted values (and made the word for ‘poor’ a synonym of ‘holy’ and ‘friend’)
they started the slave revolt in morals.
Nobody understands the psychopath, the predator—Cesare Borgia, for example. We always look for
some ‘damage’ or ‘torment’ in these ‘monsters’. They are the healthiest, most virile tropical predators.
Moralists hate the ‘tropical man’, the savage, and try to discredit him as ‘sick’ or ‘tormented’. Nonsense.
We do this to make the temperate man seem sound—when he is merely mediocre. We should call this
‘Morality as Timidity’.
What are all of these old moralities if not medicines for a man to weaken his passions? They neuter
him, weaken him, reduce his will to power, his desire to be a tyrant. These moralities are the wisdom of
old women, purporting to be applicable to all, yet they generalize where generalization is impermissible.
Wisdom? Never. This is nothing but prudence, prudence, prudence, mingled with stupidity, stupidity,
stupidity. This too for the chapter ‘Morality as Timidity’.
There have been human herds for as long as there have been human beings. Many obey, and few
command. It is safe to say that obedience is an instinct or conscience, which says, “I shall obey”. The
herd member makes herself out to be the only permissible kind of person, and she extols the public
virtues: public spirit, benevolence, consideration, industriousness, moderation, modesty, patience and
pity. When leaders are needed, the herd tries to make do with an assembly of clever sheep, and they call
that a parliament. A tyrant is a blessing, a release from this burden. Napoleon made us deliriously happy.
The mixed-race person, who contains within himself contrary drives (and worse), this modern kind
of person will generally be rather weak. Usually, this person wants nothing more than for the war of his
contrary passions to end. Happiness, for him, is peaceful repose. However, if the contrary passions
within a person like this lead to internal mastery and discipline, then what a man! These are the
incomprehensible men predestined for victory, like Alcibiades, Cesar, and Leonardo da Vinci. These
men all appeared at the same time as the weakest type, and they came from the same causes.
When an individual rises above the herd because of his drives, the self-confidence of the community
goes to pieces. Its faith in itself, its spine, is broken. That is why the herd detests these drives most of all.
Spiritual independence, the will to stand alone, even great intelligence, are seen as dangerous. What
makes the sheep quiver is called ‘evil’, and the mediocre, modest, and obedient is called ‘good’ and is
honoured. As the sheep’s civilization softens, every kind of severity, even severity in justice, begins to
seem horrid. Tender society even worries about the person who harms it, the criminal—even the
unrepentant and whole-hearted criminal. Punishment starts to seem unpleasant. ‘Is it not enough to
render the criminal harmless? Why punish him as well? To administer punishment is itself dreadful!’
with these questions, the herd morality comes to its conclusion. If all fear could be abolished, the herd
morality could be abolished too. Getting closer to that ideal is now called ‘progress’.
In Europe, we now know what Socrates did not: we know what is good and evil. Morality in Europe
today is the herd morality. The herd instinct is ‘good’. The herd says that no other morality is possible—
it defends itself against other moralities with all its might. Religion helps, and expresses that morality, as
do our democratic institutions. Our society cries out like a woman in pity for those who suffer; our
morality has become one of mutual commiseration, gloom, and sensitivity. Our own community, the
herd, is seen as the saviour.
We, who have a different faith—we who see democracy as the expression of a humankind in
decay—what shall we hope for? We hope for new philosophers. We hope for men strong enough to turn
‘eternal values’ on their heads. We hope for men of the future, who will undertake great enterprises in
discipline and breeding to put an end to the chance and nonsense that has been ‘history’. We need a new
kind of philosopher to put an end to the degeneration of man. The image of him hovers before our eyes.
He who has thought through the collective degeneration of man to what the socialist dolts see as
their ideal—the perfect herd animal, the pygmy animal of equal rights and pretensions—he who thinks
this through knows a new kind of disgust... and a new task!
Friedrich Nietzsche: The Joyful Wisdom, 115–125

The Four Errors. Man has been reared by his errors: firstly, he saw himself always imperfect;
secondly, he attributed to himself imaginary qualities; thirdly, he felt himself in a false position in
relation to the animals and nature; fourthly, he always devised new tables of values, and accepted them
for a time as eternal and unconditioned, so that at one time this, and at another time that human impulse
or state stood first, and was ennobled in consequence. When one has deducted the effect of these four
errors, one has also deducted humanity, humaneness, and “human dignity.”
Herd-Instinct. Wherever we meet with a morality we find a valuation and order of rank of the human
impulses and activities. These valuations and orders of rank are always the expression of the needs of a
community or herd: that which is in the first place to its advantage and in the second place and third
place is also the authoritative standard for the worth of every individual. By morality the individual is
taught to become a function of the herd, and to ascribe to himself value only as a function. As the
conditions for the maintenance of one community have been very different from those of another
community, there have been very different moralities; and in respect to the future essential
transformations of herds and communities, states and societies, one can prophesy that there will still be
very divergent moralities. Morality is the herd-instinct in the individual.
The Herd’s Sting of Conscience. In the longest and remotest ages of the human race there was quite
a different sting of conscience from that of the present day. At present one only feels responsible for
what one intends and for what one does, and we have our pride in ourselves. All our professors of
jurisprudence start with this sentiment of individual independence and pleasure, as if the source of right
had taken its rise here from the beginning. But throughout the longest period in the life of mankind there
was nothing more terrible to a person than to feel himself independent. To be alone, to feel independent,
neither to obey nor to rule, to represent an individual that was no pleasure to a person then, but a
punishment; he was condemned “to be an individual.” Freedom of thought was regarded as discomfort
personified. While we feel law and regulation as constraint and loss, people formerly regarded egoism as
a painful thing, and a veritable evil. For a person to be himself, to value himself according to his own
measure and weight that was then quite distasteful. The inclination to such a thing would have been
regarded as madness; for all miseries and terrors were associated with being alone. At that time the “free
will” had bad conscience in close proximity to it; and the less independently a person acted, the more the
herd-instinct, and not his personal character, expressed itself in his conduct, so much the more moral did
he esteem himself. All that did injury to the herd, whether the individual had intended it or not, then
caused him a sting of conscience and his neighbour like wise, indeed the whole herd! It is in this respect
that we have most changed our mode of thinking.
Benevolence. Is it virtuous when a cell transforms itself into the function of a stronger cell? It must
do so. And is it wicked when the stronger one assimilates the other? It must do so likewise: it is
necessary, for it has to have abundant indemnity and seeks to regenerate itself. One has therefore to
distinguish the instinct of appropriation and the instinct of submission in benevolence, according as the
stronger or the weaker feels benevolent. Gladness and covetousness are united in the stronger person,
who wants to transform something to his function: gladness and desire-to-be-coveted in the weaker
person, who would like to become a function. The former case is essentially pity, a pleasant excitation of
the instinct of appropriation at the sight of the weak: it is to be remembered, however, that “strong” and
“weak” are relative conceptions.
No Altruism! I see in many men an excessive impulse and delight in wanting to be a function; they
strive after it, and have the keenest scent for all those positions in which precisely they themselves can
be functions. Among such persons are those women who transform themselves into just that function of
a man that is but weakly developed in him, and then become his purse, or his politics, or his social
intercourse. Such beings maintain themselves best when they insert themselves in an alien organism; if
they do not succeed they become vexed, irritated, and eat themselves up.
The Element of Moral Scepticism in Christianity. Christianity also has made a great contribution to
enlightenment, and has taught moral scepticism in a very impressive and effective manner, accusing and
embittering, but with untiring patience and subtlety; it annihilated in every individual the belief in his
virtues: it made the great virtuous ones, of whom antiquity had no lack, vanish forever from the earth,
those popular men, who, in the belief in their perfection, walked about with the dignity of a hero of the
bull-fight. When, trained in this Christian school of scepticism, we now read the moral books of the
ancients, for example those of Seneca and Epictetus, we feel a pleasurable superiority, and are full of
secret insight and penetration, it seems to us as if a child talked before an old man, or a pretty, gushing
girl before La Rochefoucauld: we know better what virtue is! After all, however, we have applied the
same scepticism to all religious states and processes, such as sin, repentance, grace, sanctification, &c.,
and have allowed the worm to burrow so well, that we have now the same feeling of subtle superiority
and insight even in reading all Christian books: we know also the religious feelings better! And it is time
to know them well and describe them well, for the pious ones of the old belief die out also; let us save
their likeness and type, at least for the sake of knowledge.
Knowledge, more than a Means. Also without this passion—I refer to the passion for knowledge—
science would be furthered: science has hitherto increased and grown up without it. The good faith in
science, the prejudice in its favour, by which states are at present dominated (it was even the Church
formerly), rests fundamentally on the fact that the absolute inclination and impulse has so rarely
revealed itself in it, and that science is regarded not as a passion, but as a condition and an “ethos.”
Indeed, amour-plaisir of knowledge (curiosity) often enough suffices, amour-vanite suffices, and
habituation to it, with the afterthought of obtaining honour and bread; it even suffices for many that they
do not know what to do with a surplus of leisure, except to continue reading, collecting, arranging,
observing and narrating; their “scientific impulse” is their ennui. Pope Leo X once (in the brief to
Beroaldus) sang the praise of science; he designated it as the finest ornament and the greatest pride of
our life, a noble employment in happiness and in misfortune; “without it”, he says finally, “all human
undertakings would be without a firm basis — even with it they are still sufficiently mutable and
insecure!” But this rather sceptical Pope, like all other ecclesiastical panegyrists of science, suppressed
his ultimate judgment concerning it. If one may deduce from his words what is remarkable enough for
such a love of art, that he places science above art, in all, however, only from politeness that he omits to
speak of that which he places high above all science: the “revealed truth,” and the “eternal salvation of
the soul,” what are ornament, pride, entertainment and security of life to him, in comparison thereto.
“Science is something of secondary rank, nothing ultimate or unconditioned, no object of passion”—
this judgment was kept back in Leo’s soul: a truly Christian judgment concerning science! Antiquity—
its dignity and appreciation—were lessened by the fact that, even among its most eager disciples, the
striving after virtue stood foremost and that people thought they had given the highest praise to
knowledge when they celebrated it as the best means to virtue. It is something new in history that
knowledge claims to be more than a means.
In the Horizon of the Infinite. We have left the land and have gone aboard ship! We have broken
down the bridge behind us, nay, more, the land behind us! Well, little ship! look out! Beside thee is the
ocean; it is true it does not always roar, and sometimes it spreads out like silk and gold and a gentle
reverie. But times will come when thou wilt feel that it is infinite, and that there is nothing more
frightful than infinity. Oh, the poor bird that felt itself free, and now strikes against the walls of this
cage! Alas, if home sickness for the land should attack thee, as if there had been more freedom there,
and there is no “land” any longer!
The Madman. Have you ever heard of the madman who on a bright morning lighted a lantern and
ran to the market-place calling out unceasingly: “I seek God! I seek God!” As there were many people
standing about who did not believe in God, he caused a great deal of amusement. “Why! Is he lost?”
said one. “Has he strayed away like a child?” said another. “Or does he keep himself hidden? Is he
afraid of us? Has he taken a sea-voyage? Has he emigrated?” the people cried out laughingly, all in a
hubbub. The insane man jumped into their midst and transfixed them with his glances. “Where is God
gone?” he called out. “I mean to tell you! We have killed him— you and I! We are all his murderers!
But how have we done it? How were we able to drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away
the whole horizon? What did we do when we loosened this earth from its sun? Whither does it now
move? Whither do we move? Away from all suns? Do we not dash on unceasingly? Backwards,
sideways, forwards, in all directions? Is there still an above and below? Do we not stray, as through
infinite nothingness? Does not empty space breathe upon us? Has it not become colder? Does not night
come on continually, darker and darker? Shall we not have to light lanterns in the morning? Do we not
hear the noise of the grave-diggers who are burying God? Do we not smell the divine putrefaction? for
even Gods putrefy! God is dead! God remains dead! And we have killed him! How shall we console
ourselves, the most murderous of all murderers? The holiest and the mightiest that the world has hitherto
possessed, has bled to death under our knife, who will wipe the blood from us? With what water could
we cleanse ourselves? What lustrums, what sacred games shall we have to devise? Is not the magnitude
of this deed too great for us? Shall we not ourselves have to become Gods, merely to seem worthy of it?
There never was a greater event, and on account of it, all who are born after us belong to a higher history
than any history hitherto!” Here the madman was silent and looked again at his hearers; they also were
silent and looked at him in surprise. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, so that it broke in pieces
and was extinguished. “I come too early,” he then said, “ I am not yet at the right time. This prodigious
event is still on its way, and is travelling, it has not yet reached men’s ears. Lightning and thunder need
time, the light of the stars needs time, deeds need time, even after they are done, to be seen and heard.
This deed is as yet further from them than the furthest star, and yet they have done it!” It is further stated
that the madman made his way into different churches on the same day, and there intoned his Requiem
aeternam deo. When led out and called to account, he always gave the reply: “What are these churches
now, if they are not the tombs and monuments of God?”
Friedrich Nietzsche: The Joyful Wisdom, 115–125, decoded.

The Four Errors. Man has been created by his errors. First, he sees himself as imperfect. Second, he
gives himself imaginary qualities. Third, he sees himself in a false position in regards to animals and
nature. Fourth, he has always invented new systems of morality that he accepted. When one has
eliminated the effects of these four errors, one has also eliminated humanity and human dignity.
Herd-Instinct. Moralities always rank human impulses and activities. The ranking expresses the
needs of the herd. Morality teaches a person to become a sheep, and to value herself merely as a
function. Because cultures and their needs are different, moralities are different.
The Herd’s Sting of Conscience. We are proud of ourselves for being independent, but this has not
always been the case. For most of history, feeling independent was the worst possible feeling for a
person. Individuality was a punishment, and to be left alone ‘in solitary’ was a terrifying and miserable.
Freedom of thought was punishment too. The more one helped the herd, the more one thought of
oneself. It is in this respect that we have most changed our way of thinking.
Benevolence. Is it wicked for a lion to eat a lamb? Is it virtuous for a lamb to give its wool to the
farmer? They must do so. One must not think that submission is good and covetousness is bad. Gladness
and covetousness are united in the strong person; gladness and a desire-to-be-coveted are united in the
weak one.
No Altruism! Many people want to be used, to be a function. Among them are women who want to
be a man’s accessory. These people are parasites. They survive on the strength of their hosts.
The Madman. Have you ever heard of the madman who on a bright morning lit a lantern and ran to
the market, yelling: “I seek God! I seek God!” The people there laughed at him. “Why! is he lost?” said
one. “Has he wandered away like a child?” said another. The insane man stared. “Where is God gone?
We have killed him— you and I! We are all his murderers! But how have we done it? How were we
able to drink up the sea? What did we do when we pulled the earth from the sun? God is dead! God
remains dead! And we have killed him! Won’t we now have to become Gods? This is the greatest event
in history!” He fell silent and looked the crowds. They returned his stare. “I have come too early,” he
said, “You cannot understand me yet.” He went from church to church and, when forced out, would
scream: “These churches are merely the tombs of God!”
Karl Marx

It’s hard to like Karl Marx. His ideas have led to the deaths of hundreds of millions of people. Stalin
and Mao starved and tortured their people while mouthing phrases from the Manifesto.
Of course, Marx can hardly be held culpable for the sins of his followers. Yet Marx was himself an
ass. He kept his family in poverty while he followed dreams of being a journalist. He sponged off his
friend Engels—who was rich only because he could stomach the hypocrisy of owning a cotton mill that
exploited children and women in the very way that he claimed to deplore. While penurious and keeping
his wife and children in a tiny apartment, Marx slept with the housekeeper and knocked her up. He was
a scum-bag.
Still, while he is vile, he is important. Hold your nose. If it helps you, remind yourself that before he
died, Marx got hemorrhoids; puss-filled abscesses on his butt, neck and torso; and toothaches.
The Communist Manifesto has ingredients of all of Marx’s philosophy—and Marx’s philosophy is
huge. Notably, though, Marx never says what you think he does; he never says that we should have a
revolution. He’s too clever for that.
In short, Marx says that capitalism is about to end. It must, because it is self-destructive, in a strict
and literal sense. Capitalism must destroy itself, because competition and profits (the two essential
ingredients of capitalism) cannot co-exist.
Karl Marx: Communist Manifesto, I-II

I: BOURGEOIS AND PROLETARIANS

A spectre is haunting Europe—the spectre of communism.
The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles.
Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, in a word,
oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now
hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at
large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.
In the earlier epochs of history, we find almost everywhere a complicated arrangement of society
into various orders, a manifold gradation of social rank. In ancient Rome we have patricians, knights,
plebeians, slaves; in the Middle Ages, feudal lords, vassals, guild-masters, journeymen, apprentices,
serfs; in almost all of these classes, again, subordinate gradations.
The modern bourgeois society that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal society has not done away
with class antagonisms. It has but established new classes, new conditions of oppression, new forms of
struggle in place of the old ones.
Our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinct feature: it has simplified
class antagonisms. Society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into
two great classes directly facing each other—Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.
From the serfs of the Middle Ages sprang the chartered burghers of the earliest towns. From these
burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie were developed.
The feudal system of industry, in which industrial production was monopolized by closed guilds,
now no longer sufficed for the growing wants of the new markets. The manufacturing system took its
place. The guild-masters were pushed on one side by the manufacturing middle class; division of labour
between the different corporate guilds vanished in the face of division of labour in each single
workshop.
Meantime the markets kept ever growing, the demand ever rising. Even manufacturers no longer
sufficed. Thereupon, steam and machinery revolutionized industrial production. The place of
manufacture was taken by the giant, Modern Industry; the place of the industrial middle class by
industrial millionaires, the leaders of the whole industrial armies, the modern bourgeois.
Modern industry has established the world market, for which the discovery of America paved the
way. This market has given an immense development to commerce, to navigation, to communication by
land. This development has, in its turn, reacted on the extension of industry; and in proportion as
industry, commerce, navigation, railways extended, in the same proportion the bourgeoisie developed,
increased its capital, and pushed into the background every class handed down from the Middle Ages.
We see, therefore, how the modern bourgeoisie is itself the product of a long course of development,
of a series of revolutions in the modes of production and of exchange.
The bourgeoisie, historically, has played a most revolutionary part.
 The bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic
relations. It has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his “natural superiors”,
and has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous “cash
payment”. It has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervour, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of
philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. It has resolved personal worth into
exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single,
unconscionable freedom—Free Trade. In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political
illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation.
The bourgeoisie has stripped of its halo every occupation hitherto honoured and looked up to with
reverent awe. It has converted the physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science, into its
paid wage labourers.
The bourgeoisie has torn away from the family its sentimental veil, and has reduced the family
relation to a mere money relation.
The bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionizing the instruments of production, and
thereby the relations of production, and with them the whole relations of society. Conservation of the old
modes of production in unaltered form, was, on the contrary, the first condition of existence for all
earlier industrial classes. Constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social
conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones.
All fixed, fast-frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are
swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is solid melts into
air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real conditions
of life, and his relations with his kind.
The need of a constantly expanding market for its products chases the bourgeoisie over the entire
surface of the globe. It must nestle everywhere, settle everywhere, establish connections everywhere.
The bourgeoisie has through its exploitation of the world market given a cosmopolitan character to
production and consumption in every country. All old-established national industries have been
destroyed or are daily being destroyed. They are dislodged by new industries, whose introduction
becomes a life and death question for all civilized nations, by industries that no longer work up
indigenous raw material, but raw material drawn from the remotest zones; industries whose products are
consumed, not only at home, but in every quarter of the globe. In place of the old wants, satisfied by the
production of the country, we find new wants, requiring for their satisfaction the products of distant
lands and climes. In place of the old local and national seclusion and self-sufficiency, we have
intercourse in every direction, universal inter-dependence of nations. And as in material, so also in
intellectual production. The intellectual creations of individual nations become common property.
National one-sidedness and narrow-mindedness become more and more impossible, and from the
numerous national and local literatures, there arises a world literature.
The bourgeoisie, by the rapid improvement of all instruments of production, by the immensely
facilitated means of communication, draws all, even the most barbarian, nations into civilization. The
cheap prices of commodities are the heavy artillery with which it batters down all Chinese walls, with
which it forces the barbarians’ intensely obstinate hatred of foreigners to capitulate. It compels all
nations, on pain of extinction, to adopt the bourgeois mode of production; it compels them to introduce
what it calls civilization into their midst, i.e., to become bourgeois themselves. In one word, it creates a
world after its own image.
The bourgeoisie has subjected the country to the rule of the towns. It has created enormous cities,
has greatly increased the urban population as compared with the rural, and has thus rescued a
considerable part of the population from the idiocy of rural life. Just as it has made the country
dependent on the towns, so it has made barbarian and semi-barbarian countries dependent on the
civilized ones, nations of peasants on nations of bourgeois, the East on the West.
The bourgeoisie, during its rule of scarce one hundred years, has created more massive and more
colossal productive forces than have all preceding generations together. Subjection of Nature’s forces to
man, machinery, application of chemistry to industry and agriculture, steam-navigation, railways,
electric telegraphs, clearing of whole continents for cultivation, canalization of rivers, whole populations
conjured out of the ground—what earlier century had even a presentiment that such productive forces
slumbered in the lap of social labour?
Modern bourgeois society, with its relations of production, of exchange and of property, a society
that has conjured up such gigantic means of production and of exchange, is like the sorcerer who is no
longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells. For many a
decade past the history of industry and commerce is but the history of the revolt of modern productive
forces against modern conditions of production, against the property relations that are the conditions for
the existence of the bourgeois and of its rule. It is enough to mention the commercial crises that by their
periodical return put the existence of the entire bourgeois society on its trial, each time more
threateningly. In these crises, a great part not only of the existing products, but also of the previously
created productive forces, are periodically destroyed. In these crises, there breaks out an epidemic that,
in all earlier epochs, would have seemed an absurdity—the epidemic of over-production. Society
suddenly finds itself put back into a state of momentary barbarism; it appears as if a famine, a universal
war of devastation, had cut off the supply of every means of subsistence; industry and commerce seem
to be destroyed; and why? Because there is too much civilization, too much means of subsistence, too
much industry, too much commerce. The productive forces at the disposal of society no longer tend to
further the development of the conditions of bourgeois property; on the contrary, they have become too
powerful for these conditions, by which they are fettered, and so soon as they overcome these fetters,
they bring disorder into the whole of bourgeois society, endanger the existence of bourgeois property.
The conditions of bourgeois society are too narrow to comprise the wealth created by them. And how
does the bourgeoisie get over these crises? On the one hand by enforced destruction of a mass of
productive forces; on the other, by the conquest of new markets, and by the more thorough exploitation
of the old ones. That is to say, by paving the way for more extensive and more destructive crises, and by
diminishing the means whereby crises are prevented.
The weapons with which the bourgeoisie felled feudalism to the ground are now turned against the
bourgeoisie itself.
But not only has the bourgeoisie forged the weapons that bring death to itself; it has also called into
existence the men who are to wield those weapons—the modern working class—the proletarians.
In proportion as the bourgeoisie, i.e., capital, is developed, in the same proportion is the proletariat,
the modern working class, developed—a class of labourers, who live only so long as they find work, and
who find work only so long as their labour increases capital. These labourers, who must sell themselves
piecemeal, are a commodity, like every other article of commerce, and are consequently exposed to all
the vicissitudes of competition, to all the fluctuations of the market.
Owing to the extensive use of machinery, and to the division of labour, the work of the proletarians
has lost all individual character, and, consequently, all charm for the workman. He becomes an
appendage of the machine, and it is only the most simple, most monotonous, and most easily acquired
knack, that is required of him. Hence, the cost of production of a workman is restricted, almost entirely,
to the means of subsistence that he requires for maintenance, and for the propagation of his race. But the
price of a commodity, and therefore also of labour, is equal to its cost of production. In proportion,
therefore, as the repulsiveness of the work increases, the wage decreases. Nay more, in proportion as the
use of machinery and division of labour increases, in the same proportion the burden of toil also
increases, whether by prolongation of the working hours, by the increase of the work exacted in a given
time or by increased speed of machinery, etc.
Modern Industry has converted the little workshop of the patriarchal master into the great factory of
the industrial capitalist. Masses of labourers, crowded into the factory, are organized like soldiers. As
privates of the industrial army, they are placed under the command of a perfect hierarchy of officers and
sergeants. Not only are they slaves of the bourgeois class, and of the bourgeois state; they are daily and
hourly enslaved by the machine, by the overlooker, and, above all, by the individual bourgeois
manufacturer himself. The more openly this despotism proclaims gain to be its end and aim, the more
petty, the more hateful and the more embittering it is.
The less the skill and exertion of strength implied in manual labour, in other words, the more modern
industry becomes developed, the more is the labour of men superseded by that of women. Differences of
age and sex have no longer any distinctive social validity for the working class. All are instruments of
labour, more or less expensive to use, according to their age and sex.
No sooner is the exploitation of the labourer by the manufacturer, so far, at an end, that he receives
his wages in cash, than he is set upon by the other portions of the bourgeoisie, the landlord, the
shopkeeper, the pawnbroker, etc.
The lower strata of the middle class—the small tradespeople, shopkeepers, and retired tradesmen
generally, the handicraftsmen and peasants—all these sink gradually into the proletariat, partly because
their diminutive capital does not suffice for the scale on which Modern Industry is carried on, and is
swamped in the competition with the large capitalists, partly because their specialized skill is rendered
worthless by new methods of production. Thus the proletariat is recruited from all classes of the
population.
But with the development of industry, the proletariat not only increases in number; it becomes
concentrated in greater masses, its strength grows, and it feels that strength more. The various interests
and conditions of life within the ranks of the proletariat are more and more equalized, in proportion as
machinery obliterates all distinctions of labour, and nearly everywhere reduces wages to the same low
level. The growing competition among the bourgeois, and the resulting commercial crises, make the
wages of the workers ever more fluctuating. The increasing improvement of machinery, ever more
rapidly developing, makes their livelihood more and more precarious; the collisions between individual
workmen and individual bourgeois take more and more the character of collisions between two classes.
Thereupon, the workers begin to form combinations (Trades’ Unions) against the bourgeois; they club
together in order to keep up the rate of wages; they found permanent associations in order to make
provision beforehand for these occasional revolts. Here and there, the contest breaks out into riots.
Now and then the workers are victorious, but only for a time. The real fruit of their battles lies, not in
the immediate result, but in the ever-expanding union of the workers. This union is helped on by the
improved means of communication that are created by modern industry, and that place the workers of
different localities in contact with one another. It was just this contact that was needed to centralize the
numerous local struggles, all of the same character, into one national struggle between classes. But every
class struggle is a political struggle. And that union, to attain which the burghers of the Middle Ages,
with their miserable highways, required centuries, the modern proletarian, thanks to railways, achieves
in a few years.
This organization of the proletarians into a class, and, consequently into a political party, is
continually being upset again by the competition between the workers themselves. But it ever rises up
again, stronger, firmer, mightier. It compels legislative recognition of particular interests of the workers,
by taking advantage of the divisions among the bourgeoisie itself. Thus, the ten-hours’ bill in England
was carried.
Of all the classes that stand face to face with the bourgeoisie today, the proletariat alone is a really
revolutionary class. The other classes decay and finally disappear in the face of Modern Industry; the
proletariat is its special and essential product.
The lower middle class, the small manufacturer, the shopkeeper, the artisan, the peasant, all these
fight against the bourgeoisie, to save from extinction their existence as fractions of the middle class.
They are therefore not revolutionary, but conservative. Nay more, they are reactionary, for they try to
roll back the wheel of history. If by chance, they are revolutionary, they are only so in view of their
impending transfer into the proletariat; they thus defend not their present, but their future interests, they
desert their own standpoint to place themselves at that of the proletariat.
In the condition of the proletariat, those of old society at large are already virtually swamped. The
proletarian is without property; his relation to his wife and children has no longer anything in common
with the bourgeois family relations; modern industry labour, modern subjection to capital, the same in
England as in France, in America as in Germany, has stripped him of every trace of national character.
Law, morality, religion, are to him so many bourgeois prejudices, behind which lurk in ambush just as
many bourgeois interests.
All the preceding classes that got the upper hand sought to fortify their already acquired status by
subjecting society at large to their conditions of appropriation. The proletarians cannot become masters
of the productive forces of society, except by abolishing their own previous mode of appropriation, and
thereby also every other previous mode of appropriation. They have nothing of their own to secure and
to fortify; their mission is to destroy all previous securities for, and insurances of, individual property.
The essential conditions for the existence and for the sway of the bourgeois class is the formation
and augmentation of capital; the condition for capital is wage-labour. Wage-labour rests exclusively on
competition between the labourers. The advance of industry, whose involuntary promoter is the
bourgeoisie, replaces the isolation of the labourers, due to competition, by the revolutionary
combination, due to association. The development of Modern Industry, therefore, cuts from under its
feet the very foundation on which the bourgeoisie produces and appropriates products. What the
bourgeoisie therefore produces, above all, are its own grave-diggers. Its fall and the victory of the
proletariat are equally inevitable.

II: PROLETARIANS AND COMMUNISTS

In this sense, the theory of the Communists may be summed up in the single sentence: Abolition of
private property.
We Communists have been reproached with the desire of abolishing the right of personally acquiring
property as the fruit of a man’s own labour, which property is alleged to be the groundwork of all
personal freedom, activity and independence.
Hard-won, self-acquired, self-earned property! Do you mean the property of petty artisan and of the
small peasant, a form of property that preceded the bourgeois form? There is no need to abolish that; the
development of industry has to a great extent already destroyed it, and is still destroying it daily.
Or do you mean the modern bourgeois private property?
But does wage-labour create any property for the labourer? Not a bit. It creates capital, i.e., that kind
of property which exploits wage-labour, and which cannot increase except upon condition of begetting a
new supply of wage-labour for fresh exploitation. Property, in its present form, is based on the
antagonism of capital and wage labour. Let us examine both sides of this antagonism.
To be a capitalist, is to have not only a purely personal, but a social status in production. Capital is a
collective product, and only by the united action of many members, nay, in the last resort, only by the
united action of all members of society, can it be set in motion.
Capital is therefore not only personal; it is a social power.
When, therefore, capital is converted into common property, into the property of all members of
society, personal property is not thereby transformed into social property. It is only the social character
of the property that is changed. It loses its class character.
Let us now take wage-labour.
The average price of wage-labour is the minimum wage, i.e., that quantum of the means of
subsistence which is absolutely requisite to keep the labourer in bare existence as a labourer. What,
therefore, the wage-labourer appropriates by means of his labour, merely suffices to prolong and
reproduce a bare existence. We by no means intend to abolish this personal appropriation of the products
of labour, an appropriation that is made for the maintenance and reproduction of human life, and that
leaves no surplus wherewith to command the labour of others. All that we want to do away with is the
miserable character of this appropriation, under which the labourer lives merely to increase capital, and
is allowed to live only in so far as the interest of the ruling class requires it.
In bourgeois society, living labour is but a means to increase accumulated labour. In Communist
society, accumulated labour is but a means to widen, to enrich, to promote the existence of the labourer.
In bourgeois society, therefore, the past dominates the present; in Communist society, the present
dominates the past. In bourgeois society capital is independent and has individuality, while the living
person is dependent and has no individuality.
 And the abolition of this state of things is called by the bourgeois, abolition of individuality and
freedom! And rightly so. The abolition of bourgeois individuality, bourgeois independence, and
bourgeois freedom is undoubtedly aimed at.
By freedom is meant, under the present bourgeois conditions of production, free trade, free selling
and buying.
But if selling and buying disappears, free selling and buying disappears also. This talk about free
selling and buying, and all the other “brave words” of our bourgeois about freedom in general, have a
meaning, if any, only in contrast with restricted selling and buying, with the fettered traders of the
Middle Ages, but have no meaning when opposed to the Communistic abolition of buying and selling,
of the bourgeois conditions of production, and of the bourgeoisie itself.
You are horrified at our intending to do away with private property. But in your existing society,
private property is already done away with for nine-tenths of the population; its existence for the few is
solely due to its non-existence in the hands of those nine-tenths. You reproach us, therefore, with
intending to do away with a form of property, the necessary condition for whose existence is the non-
existence of any property for the immense majority of society.
In one word, you reproach us with intending to do away with your property. Precisely so; that is just
what we intend.
From the moment when labour can no longer be converted into capital, money, or rent, into a social
power capable of being monopolized, i.e., from the moment when individual property can no longer be
transformed into bourgeois property, into capital, from that moment, you say, individuality vanishes.
You must, therefore, confess that by “individual” you mean no other person than the bourgeois, than
the middle-class owner of property. This person must, indeed, be swept out of the way, and made
impossible.
Communism deprives no man of the power to appropriate the products of society; all that it does is
to deprive him of the power to subjugate the labour of others by means of such appropriations.
It has been objected that upon the abolition of private property, all work will cease, and universal
laziness will overtake us.
According to this, bourgeois society ought long ago to have gone to the dogs through sheer idleness;
for those those of its members who work, acquire nothing, and those who acquire anything do not work.
The whole of this objection is but another expression of the tautology: that there can no longer be any
wage-labour when there is no longer any capital.
All objections urged against the Communistic mode of producing and appropriating material
products, have, in the same way, been urged against the Communistic mode of producing and
appropriating intellectual products. Just as, to the bourgeois, the disappearance of class property is the
disappearance of production itself, so the disappearance of class culture is to him identical with the
disappearance of all culture.
That culture, the loss of which he laments, is, for the enormous majority, a mere training to act as a
machine.
But don’t wrangle with us so long as you apply, to our intended abolition of bourgeois property, the
standard of your bourgeois notions of freedom, culture, law, &c. Your very ideas are but the outgrowth
of the conditions of your bourgeois production and bourgeois property, just as your jurisprudence is but
the will of your class made into a law for all, a will whose essential character and direction are
determined by the economical conditions of existence of your class.
The Communists are further reproached with desiring to abolish countries and nationality.
The working men have no country. We cannot take from them what they have not got. Since the
proletariat must first of all acquire political supremacy, must rise to be the leading class of the nation,
must constitute itself the nation, it is so far, itself national, though not in the bourgeois sense of the
word.
The proletariat will use its political supremacy to wrest, by degree, all capital from the bourgeoisie,
to centralize all instruments of production in the hands of the state, i.e., of the proletariat organized as
the ruling class; and to increase the total productive forces as rapidly as possible.
Of course, in the beginning, this cannot be effected except by means of despotic inroads on the rights
of property, and on the conditions of bourgeois production; by means of measures, therefore, which
appear economically insufficient and untenable, but which, in the course of the movement, outstrip
themselves, necessitate further inroads upon the old social order, and are unavoidable as a means of
entirely revolutionizing the mode of production.
These measures will, of course, be different in different countries.
Nevertheless, in most advanced countries, the following will be pretty generally applicable.
1. Abolition of property in land and application of all rents of land to public purposes.
2. A heavy progressive or graduated income tax.
3. Abolition of all rights of inheritance.
4. Confiscation of the property of all emigrants and rebels.
5. Centralization of credit in the hands of the state, by means of a national bank with state
capital and an exclusive monopoly.
6. Centralization of the means of communication and transport in the hands of the state.
7. Extension of factories and instruments of production owned by the state; the bringing into
cultivation of waste-lands, and the improvement of the soil generally in accordance with a
common plan.
8. Equal liability of all to work. Establishment of industrial armies, especially for agriculture.
9. Combination of agriculture with manufacturing industries; gradual abolition of all the
distinction between town and country by a more equable distribution of the populace over the
country.
10. Free education for all children in public schools. Abolition of children’s factory labour in its
present form. Combination of education with industrial production, &c, &c.
In place of the old bourgeois society, with its classes and class antagonisms, we shall have an
association, in which the free development of each is the condition for the free development of all.
Karl Marx: Communist Manifesto, I-II, decoded

A spectre is haunting Europe. It is the spectre of communism. We communists are everywhere. It is

now time to tell you what we think.

1: BOURGEOIS AND PROLETARIANS

Real history is the history of class struggles.
Real history is the story of the rich screwing the poor and the poor fighting back.
History has become simple. It is two classes: the bourgeoisie and the proletariat. The bourgeoisie are
screwing us. We are fighting back. It was not always so: in the past, many classes screwed many others.
Modern industry is based on spreading trade and ‘development’ through the world. Modern industry
has trampled every class other than its own. Now instead of peasants serving monarchs, politicians serve
corporate executives.
The bourgeoisie has ruined the beauty and diversity of human life. We relate to each other as prices,
nothing more. We no longer have saints; now we have drive-thru absolutions. We do not have warriors;
we have ticketed wrestling events. There is only one god to worship: Mammon.
The bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly inventing new means of production. When they do
this, they change the relations that people had to one another. This constant change, this constant
uncertainty, is what makes our age unique. All the ancient, holy, varied relations disappear. New ones
disappear too, before they can become traditions.
Because capitalists need constant profit and growth, they now spread throughout the world.
Capitalism must spread, forever, like cancer.
This spread turns old civilizations into ‘modern’ civilizations. Old industries are destroyed. Instead
of feeding the people who grew it, rice is shipped to wherever it gets the highest profits. Raw materials,
which once supported local communities and local industries, are shipped to wherever they bring the
most profits. Instead of old wants, we all have new wants. Our new wants pull food from the mouths of
peasants half-way around the world. We can no longer be satisfied with what we produce ourselves.
Intellectual products are no different. Bollywood is more Hollywood than Bombay. Our ‘culture’
spreads, destroying old cultures.
We crush old cultures with cheap prices. Even barbarians love Wal-Mart. The capitalists here make
capitalists there. The world is remade in our image.
Cities swell with slums. The peasants there are slaves for our cheap sneakers. They are desperate for
our work, once freed from the idiocy of rural life. The countryside is dependent on the city. The Third
World is dependent on the First. The East is dependent on the West.
But this cannot last. Capitalism is a monster. It is a Frankenstein. Once unleashed, it cannot be
controlled, and it threatens us. It brings crises, each worse than the last. The crises are an epidemic that
once would have been absurd: overproduction. We create too much stuff. The glut means that the
factories, the productive forces, must be destroyed. There is too much civilization, too much means of
subsistence, too much industry, too much commerce. Profit is threatened, so the bourgeoisie drives up
profits by destroying capital. They throw workers, already desperate, onto the street. Also, they spread,
farther and deeper, into markets that had not been exploited or markets that could be exploited more.
And in doing so, they dig their own graves. The bourgeoisie pave the way for ever worse crises.
As capital develops, the proletariat is diminished. They sell their labour as best they can. Their jobs
become idiotic, monotonous, and vile. Their lives are a commodity, to be bought like any other
commodity. The worse their lives become, the more profit the bourgeoisie makes.
Work has lost its beauty. Men are now merely part of the machines they use. As the repulsiveness of
the work increases, the wage decreases. Workshops become factories. Workers are organized like
soldiers. They are slaves, both to their masters and their machines.
When competition drives wages down far enough, and when machines replace strength and skill,
everyone can work. All people become labourers. Women and children are pressed into service. They
will work for the least money of all.
The middle class, who used to own shops and small trades are forced out of business. Home
Hardware becomes Home Depot. The middle class becomes proletariat. Wages drop more.
As the proletariat class grows, it becomes stronger, and the bourgeoisie must repress it. Men
compete with men for work. Men compete with women. Women compete with children. The proletariat
fight over jobs like dogs fight over scraps of food. They must. Unions are formed. Unions are crushed.
Now and then, workers are victorious, but only for a time.
The bourgeoisie fights itself too. National industries are set against other nations. The bourgeoisie
begs for the help of the proletariat. In doing so, it gives the proletariat strength. It gives them the
weapons they will use. The bourgeoisie produces nothing but its own grave-diggers, and the victory of
the proletariats is inevitable.

2: PROLETARIANS AND COMMUNISTS

Our theory is simple: Get rid of private property.
We do not mean the property of the workers. They earned that! No, there is no need to take the
property of the peasant, the artisan, or the proletariat. It has already been stolen. Industry took it.
We want the property of the bourgeoisie. You are bourgeoisie? You think you have earned it?
Nonsense. You took it. Are you afraid? You should be.
Communists are feared because they want to do away with countries and nationality. The workers
have no country. We cannot take what they do not have. There are no national antagonisms now. There
is only one antagonism: that between the proletariat and the bourgeoisie.
The proletariat will wrestle, bit by bit, the instruments of production from the hands of the
capitalists. Certainly, at first, this will mean that we will seize factories. But that period will be short.
Soon we will beat the capitalists at their own game. We will undermine them from within.
This is what we want. This is how we will win:
1. Abolition of land ownership.
2. A heavy progressive income tax.
 3. Abolition of all rights of inheritance.
4. Confiscation of the property of all emigrants and rebels.
5. A single national bank with state capital and an exclusive monopoly.
6. State-owned transportation and communication industries.
7. State-owned factories.
8. Equal obligation of all to work. Establishment of industrial armies, especially for agriculture.
9. A more even distribution of population over the nation. An abolition of the distinction
between city and countryside.
10. Free education for all children in public schools. Abolition of children’s factory labor in its
present form. Combination of education with industrial production, etc.
When we win, the free development of each will lead to the free development of all.
Karl Marx: Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844: Estranged Labour, edited

We have proceeded from the premises of political economy. We have accepted its language and its
laws. We presupposed private property, the separation of labor, capital and land, and of wages, profit of
capital and rent of land—likewise division of labor, competition, the concept of exchange value, etc. On
the basis of political economy itself, in its own words, we have shown that the worker sinks to the level
of a commodity and becomes indeed the most wretched of commodities; that the wretchedness of the
worker is in inverse proportion to the power and magnitude of his production; that the necessary result
of competition is the accumulation of capital in a few hands, and thus the restoration of monopoly in a
more terrible form; and that finally the distinction between capitalist and land rentier, like that between
the tiller of the soil and the factory worker, disappears and that the whole of society must fall apart into
the two classes—property owners and propertyless workers.
Political economy starts with the fact of private property; it does not explain it to us. It expresses in
general, abstract formulas the material process through which private property actually passes, and these
formulas it then takes for laws. It does not comprehend these laws—i.e., it does not demonstrate how
they arise from the very nature of private property. Political economy throws no light on the cause of the
division between labor and capital, and between capital and land. When, for example, it defines the
relationship of wages to profit, it takes the interest of the capitalists to be the ultimate cause, i.e., it takes
for granted what it is supposed to explain. Similarly, competition comes in everywhere. It is explained
from external circumstances. As to how far these external and apparently accidental circumstances are
but the expression of a necessary course of development, political economy teaches us nothing. We have
seen how exchange itself appears to it as an accidental fact. The only wheels which political economy
sets in motion are greed, and the war amongst the greedy—competition.
Precisely because political economy does not grasp the way the movement is connected, it was
possible to oppose, for instance, the doctrine of competition to the doctrine of monopoly, the doctrine of
craft freedom to the doctrine of the guild, the doctrine of the division of landed property to the doctrine
of the big estate—for competition, freedom of the crafts and the division of landed property were
explained and comprehended only as accidental, premeditated and violent consequences of monopoly,
of the guild system, and of feudal property, not as their necessary, inevitable and natural consequences.
Now, therefore, we have to grasp the intrinsic connection between private property, greed, the
separation of labor, capital and landed property; the connection of exchange and competition, of value
and the devaluation of man, of monopoly and competition, etc.—the connection between this whole
estrangement and the money system.
Do not let us go back to a fictitious primordial condition as the political economist does, when he
tries to explain. Such a primordial condition explains nothing; it merely pushes the question away into a
grey nebulous distance. The economist assumes in the form of a fact, of an event, what he is supposed to
deduce—namely, the necessary relationship between two things—between, for example, division of
labor and exchange. Thus the theologian explains the origin of evil by the fall of Man—that is, he
assumes as a fact, in historical form, what has to be explained.
We proceed from an actual economic fact.
The worker becomes all the poorer the more wealth he produces, the more his production increases
in power and size. The worker becomes an ever cheaper commodity the more commodities he creates.
The devaluation of the world of men is in direct proportion to the increasing value of the world of
things. Labor produces not only commodities; it produces itself and the worker as a commodity—and
this at the same rate at which it produces commodities in general.
This fact expresses merely that the object which labor produces—labor’s product—confronts it as
something alien, as a power independent of the producer. The product of labor is labor which has been
embodied in an object, which has become material: it is the objectification of labor. Labor’s realization
is its objectification. Under these economic conditions this realization of labor appears as loss of
realization for the workers; objectification as loss of the object and bondage to it; appropriation as
estrangement, as alienation.
So much does the labor’s realization appear as loss of realization that the worker loses realization to
the point of starving to death. So much does objectification appear as loss of the object that the worker is
robbed of the objects most necessary not only for his life but for his work. Indeed, labor itself becomes
an object which he can obtain only with the greatest effort and with the most irregular interruptions. So
much does the appropriation of the object appear as estrangement that the more objects the worker
produces the less he can possess and the more he falls under the sway of his product, capital.
Political economy conceals the estrangement inherent in the nature of labor by not considering the
direct relationship between the worker (labor) and production. It is true that labor produces for the rich
wonderful things—but for the worker it produces privation. It produces palaces—but for the worker,
hovels. It produces beauty—but for the worker, deformity. It replaces labor by machines, but it throws
one section of the workers back into barbarous types of labor and it turns the other section into a
machine. It produces intelligence—but for the worker, stupidity, cretinism.
The direct relationship of labor to its products is the relationship of the worker to the objects of his
production. The relationship of the man of means to the objects of production and to production itself is
only a consequence of this first relationship—and confirms it. We shall consider this other aspect later.
When we ask, then, what is the essential relationship of labor we are asking about the relationship of the
worker to production.
Till now we have been considering the estrangement, the alienation of the worker only in one of its
aspects, i.e., the worker’s relationship to the products of his labor. But the estrangement is manifested
not only in the result but in the act of production, within the producing activity, itself. How could the
worker come to face the product of his activity as a stranger, were it not that in the very act of
production he was estranging himself from himself? The product is after all but the summary of the
activity, of production. If then the product of labor is alienation, production itself must be active
alienation, the alienation of activity, the activity of alienation. In the estrangement of the object of labor
is merely summarized the estrangement, the alienation, in the activity of labor itself.
What, then, constitutes the alienation of labor?
First, the fact that labor is external to the worker, i.e., it does not belong to his intrinsic nature; that in
his work, therefore, he does not affirm himself but denies himself, does not feel content but unhappy,
does not develop freely his physical and mental energy but mortifies his body and ruins his mind. The
worker therefore only feels himself outside his work, and in his work feels outside himself. He feels at
home when he is not working, and when he is working he does not feel at home. His labor is therefore
not voluntary, but coerced; it is forced labor. It is therefore not the satisfaction of a need; it is merely a
means to satisfy needs external to it. Its alien character emerges clearly in the fact that as soon as no
physical or other compulsion exists, labor is shunned like the plague. External labor, labor in which man
alienates himself, is a labor of self-sacrifice, of mortification. Lastly, the external character of labor for
the worker appears in the fact that it is not his own, but someone else’s, that it does not belong to him,
that in it he belongs, not to himself, but to another. Just as in religion the spontaneous activity of the
human imagination, of the human brain and the human heart, operates on the individual independently
of him—that is, operates as an alien, divine or diabolical activity—so is the worker’s activity not his
spontaneous activity. It belongs to another; it is the loss of his self.
As a result, therefore, man (the worker) only feels himself freely active in his animal functions—
eating, drinking, procreating, or at most in his dwelling and in dressing-up, etc.; and in his human
functions he no longer feels himself to be anything but an animal. What is animal becomes human and
what is human becomes animal.
Certainly eating, drinking, procreating, etc., are also genuinely human functions. But taken
abstractly, separated from the sphere of all other human activity and turned into sole and ultimate ends,
they are animal functions.
We have considered the act of estranging practical human activity, labor, in two of its aspects. (1)
The relation of the worker to the product of labor as an alien object exercising power over him. This
relation is at the same time the relation to the sensuous external world, to the objects of nature, as an
alien world inimically opposed to him. (2) The relation of labor to the act of production within the labor
process. This relation is the relation of the worker to his own activity as an alien activity not belonging
to him; it is activity as suffering, strength as weakness, begetting as emasculating, the worker’s own
physical and mental energy, his personal life—for what is life but activity?—as an activity which is
turned against him, independent of him and not belonging to him. Here we have self-estrangement, as
previously we had the estrangement of the thing.
We have still a third aspect of estranged labor to deduce from the two already considered.
Man is a species-being, not only because in practice and in theory he adopts the species (his own as
well as those of other things) as his object, but—and this is only another way of expressing it—also
because he treats himself as the actual, living species; because he treats himself as a universal and
therefore a free being.
The life of the species, both in man and in animals, consists physically in the fact that man (like the
animal) lives on organic nature; and the more universal man (or the animal) is, the more universal is the
sphere of inorganic nature on which he lives. Just as plants, animals, stones, air, light, etc., constitute
theoretically a part of human consciousness, partly as objects of natural science, partly as objects of
art—his spiritual inorganic nature, spiritual nourishment which he must first prepare to make palatable
and digestible—so also in the realm of practice they constitute a part of human life and human activity.
Physically man lives only on these products of nature, whether they appear in the form of food, heating,
clothes, a dwelling, etc. The universality of man appears in practice precisely in the universality which
makes all nature his inorganic body—both inasmuch as nature is (1) his direct means of life, and (2) the
material, the object, and the instrument of his life activity. Nature is man’s inorganic body—nature, that
is, insofar as it is not itself human body. Man lives on nature—means that nature is his body, with which
he must remain in continuous interchange if he is not to die. That man’s physical and spiritual life is
linked to nature means simply that nature is linked to itself, for man is a part of nature.
In estranging from man (1) nature, and (2) himself, his own active functions, his life activity,
estranged labor estranges the species from man. It changes for him the life of the species into a means of
individual life. First it estranges the life of the species and individual life, and secondly it makes
individual life in its abstract form the purpose of the life of the species, likewise in its abstract and
estranged form.
For labor, life activity, productive life itself, appears to man in the first place merely as a means of
satisfying a need—the need to maintain physical existence. Yet the productive life is the life of the
species. It is life-engendering life. The whole character of a species, its species-character, is contained in
the character of its life activity; and free, conscious activity is man’s species-character. Life itself
appears only as a means to life.
The animal is immediately one with its life activity. It does not distinguish itself from it. It is its life
activity. Man makes his life activity itself the object of his will and of his consciousness. He has
conscious life activity. It is not a determination with which he directly merges. Conscious life activity
distinguishes man immediately from animal life activity. It is just because of this that he is a species-
being. Or it is only because he is a species-being that he is a conscious being, i.e., that his own life is an
object for him. Only because of that is his activity free activity. Estranged labor reverses the
relationship, so that it is just because man is a conscious being that he makes his life activity, his
essential being, a mere means to his existence.
In creating a world of objects by his personal activity, in his work upon inorganic nature, man proves
himself a conscious species-being, i.e., as a being that treats the species as his own essential being, or
that treats itself as a species-being. Admittedly animals also produce. They build themselves nests,
dwellings, like the bees, beavers, ants, etc. But an animal only produces what it immediately needs for
itself or its young. It produces one-sidedly, whilst man produces universally. It produces only under the
dominion of immediate physical need, whilst man produces even when he is free from physical need and
only truly produces in freedom therefrom. An animal produces only itself, whilst man reproduces the
whole of nature. An animal’s product belongs immediately to its physical body, whilst man freely
confronts his product. An animal forms only in accordance with the standard and the need of the species
to which it belongs, whilst man knows how to produce in accordance with the standard of every species,
and knows how to apply everywhere the inherent standard to the object. Man therefore also forms
objects in accordance with the laws of beauty.
It is just in his work upon the objective world, therefore, that man really proves himself to be a
species-being. This production is his active species-life. Through this production, nature appears as his
work and his reality. The object of labor is, therefore, the objectification of man’s species-life: for he
duplicates himself not only, as in consciousness, intellectually, but also actively, in reality, and therefore
he sees himself in a world that he has created. In tearing away from man the object of his production,
therefore, estranged labor tears from him his species-life, his real objectivity as a member of the species
and transforms his advantage over animals into the disadvantage that his inorganic body, nature, is taken
from him.
Similarly, in degrading spontaneous, free activity to a means, estranged labor makes man’s species-
life a means to his physical existence.
The consciousness which man has of his species is thus transformed by estrangement in such a way
that species becomes for him a means.
Estranged labor turns thus:
(3) Man’s species-being, both nature and his spiritual species-property, into a being alien to him,
into a means of his individual existence. It estranges from man his own body, as well as external nature
and his spiritual aspect, his human aspect.
(4) An immediate consequence of the fact that man is estranged from the product of his labor, from
his life activity, from his species-being, is the estrangement of man from man. When man confronts
himself, he confronts the other man. What applies to a man’s relation to his work, to the product of his
labor and to himself, also holds of a man’s relation to the other man, and to the other man’s labor and
object of labor.
In fact, the proposition that man’s species-nature is estranged from him means that one man is
estranged from the other, as each of them is from man’s essential nature.
The estrangement of man, and in fact every relationship in which man stands to himself, is realized
and expressed only in the relationship in which a man stands to other men.
Hence within the relationship of estranged labor each man views the other in accordance with the
standard and the relationship in which he finds himself as a worker.
We took our departure from a fact of political economy—the estrangement of the worker and his
production. We have formulated this fact in conceptual terms as estranged, alienated labor. We have
analyzed this concept—hence analyzing merely a fact of political economy.
Let us now see, further, how the concept of estranged, alienated labor must express and present itself
in real life.
If the product of labor is alien to me, if it confronts me as an alien power, to whom, then, does it
belong?
To a being other than myself.
Who is this being?
The gods? To be sure, in the earliest times the principal production (for example, the building of
temples, etc., in Egypt, India and Mexico) appears to be in the service of the gods, and the product
belongs to the gods. However, the gods on their own were never the lords of labor. No more was nature.
And what a contradiction it would be if, the more man subjugated nature by his labor and the more the
miracles of the gods were rendered superfluous by the miracles of industry, the more man were to
renounce the joy of production and the enjoyment of the product to please these powers.
The alien being, to whom labor and the product of labor belongs, in whose service labor is done and
for whose benefit the product of labor is provided, can only be man himself.
If the product of labor does not belong to the worker, if it confronts him as an alien power, then this
can only be because it belongs to some other man than the worker. If the worker’s activity is a torment
to him, to another it must give satisfaction and pleasure. Not the gods, not nature, but only man himself
can be this alien power over man.
We must bear in mind the previous proposition that man’s relation to himself becomes for him
objective and actual through his relation to the other man. Thus, if the product of his labor, his labor
objectified, is for him an alien, hostile, powerful object independent of him, then his position towards it
is such that someone else is master of this object, someone who is alien, hostile, powerful, and
independent of him. If he treats his own activity as an unfree activity, then he treats it as an activity
performed in the service, under the dominion, the coercion, and the yoke of another man.
Every self-estrangement of man, from himself and from nature, appears in the relation in which he
places himself and nature to men other than and differentiated from himself. For this reason religious
self-estrangement necessarily appears in the relationship of the layman to the priest, or again to a
mediator, etc., since we are here dealing with the intellectual world. In the real practical world self-
estrangement can only become manifest through the real practical relationship to other men. The
medium through which estrangement takes place is itself practical. Thus through estranged labor man
not only creates his relationship to the object and to the act of production as to powers that are alien and
hostile to him; he also creates the relationship in which other men stand to his production and to his
product, and the relationship in which he stands to these other men. Just as he creates his own
production as the loss of his reality, as his punishment; his own product as a loss, as a product not
belonging to him; so he creates the domination of the person who does not produce over production and
over the product. Just as he estranges his own activity from himself, so he confers upon the stranger an
activity which is not his own.
We have until now considered this relationship only from the standpoint of the worker and later on
we shall be considering it also from the standpoint of the non-worker.
Through estranged, alienated labor, then, the worker produces the relationship to this labor of a man
alien to labor and standing outside it. The relationship of the worker to labor creates the relation to it of
the capitalist (or whatever one chooses to call the master of labor). Private property is thus the product,
the result, the necessary consequence, of alienated labor, of the external relation of the worker to nature
and to himself.
Private property thus results by analysis from the concept of alienated labor, i.e., of alienated man, of
estranged labor, of estranged life, of estranged man.
True, it is as a result of the movement of private property that we have obtained the concept of
alienated labor (of alienated life) in political economy. But on analysis of this concept it becomes clear
that though private property appears to be the reason, the cause of alienated labor, it is rather its
consequence, just as the gods are originally not the cause but the effect of man’s intellectual confusion.
Later this relationship becomes reciprocal.
Only at the culmination of the development of private property does this, its secret, appear again,
namely, that on the one hand it is the product of alienated labor, and that on the other it is the means by
which labor alienates itself, the realization of this alienation.
This exposition immediately sheds light on various hitherto unsolved conflicts.
(1) Political economy starts from labor as the real soul of production; yet to labor it gives nothing,
and to private property everything. Confronting this contradiction, Proudhon has decided in favor of
labor against private property. We understand, however, that this apparent contradiction is the
contradiction of estranged labor with itself, and that political economy has merely formulated the laws
of estranged labor.
We also understand, therefore, that wages and private property are identical. Indeed, where the
product, as the object of labor, pays for labor itself, there the wage is but a necessary consequence of
labor’s estrangement. Likewise, in the wage of labor, labor does not appear as an end in itself but as the
servant of the wage. We shall develop this point later, and meanwhile will only draw some conclusions.
An enforced increase of wages (disregarding all other difficulties, including the fact that it would
only be by force, too, that such an increase, being an anomaly, could be maintained) would therefore be
nothing but better payment for the slave, and would not win either for the worker or for labor their
human status and dignity.
Indeed, even the equality of wages, as demanded by Proudhon, only transforms the relationship of
the present-day worker to his labor into the relationship of all men to labor. Society would then be
conceived as an abstract capitalist.
Wages are a direct consequence of estranged labor, and estranged labor is the direct cause of private
property. The downfall of the one must therefore involve the downfall of the other.
(2) From the relationship of estranged labor to private property it follows further that the
emancipation of society from private property, etc., from servitude, is expressed in the political form of
the emancipation of the workers; not that their emancipation alone is at stake, but because the
emancipation of the workers contains universal human emancipation—and it contains this because the
whole of human servitude is involved in the relation of the worker to production, and all relations of
servitude are but modifications and consequences of this relation.
Just as we have derived the concept of private property from the concept of estranged, alienated
labor by analysis, so we can develop every category of political economy with the help of these two
factors; and we shall find again in each category, e.g., trade, competition, capital, money only a
particular and developed expression of these first elements.
Karl Marx: Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844: Estranged Labour, decoded

I have followed the ‘laws’ of economists. I have learned what they have to teach. And, according to
even orthodox economics, the worker becomes a thing, a commodity. The worker becomes the most
wretched of commodities. As her job gets worse and worse, she becomes more and more like a thing or
a tool. Competition makes a few factory owners rich, and gives them the power of monopoly.
Eventually, competition means that there will be only two kinds of people: the people who own
companies, and the people who work in them.
The field of political economy starts with the fact of private property; it does not explain it to us. It
never explains how or why some people get rich while others get poor, or why some people own
factories while others own nothing. No, economics pretends that these are laws. It does not comprehend
how they arise from the very nature of private property. Economics does not explain land, labour and
capital; it merely accepts them. When economists try to explain the relationship between wages and
profit, they assume that that profit determines wages; in this way, they assume the very thing that they
are trying to explain. Similarly, competition is ‘exogenous’; it is an assumption. No economist explains
what causes competition, or how it, like all of capitalism, is the result of history. Political economy is
used to justify capitalism; it sets the wheels of greed in motion.
Economists set up dichotomies that do not exist: between competition and monopoly, craftsperson
and unionist, feudalism and farmers’ ownership. Economists cannot see that monopoly, unions, and
landowning farmers are the inevitable consequences of the systems that precede them.
Therefore, we must see the connection between the estrangement of labour and the money system:
the connection between money and greed, exchange and the devaluation of workers, private property,
and the division of land, labour, and capital.
We do not need to go back to the fictitious ‘original condition’. That explains nothing. It merely
pushes the question away in to a grey, nebulous distance. The economist is forever assuming what she is
trying to prove—namely, the relationships between, for example, division of labour an exchange. This is
just arguing in a circle.
We proceed from an actual economic fact.
Workers become poorer the more wealth they produce. The more a worker produces, the richer her
employer gets. The more a worker produces, the cheaper she becomes. We diminish ourselves as we
strengthen the world of things. Labour makes things, yet labour makes labour itself into a thing to be
sold.
The things we produce at work are foreign to us. They confront us; they are hostile to us. Our labour
is embodied in these objects, and when we work for the capitalist, the things we work on become
symbols of our oppression.
We work and produce these foreign objects, and they enrich our oppressors. As we work, we lose
our own power—we even lose the power to work. By working, we put ourselves out of work.
Economists do not consider the ways that workers and employers relate to each other. The worker
produces wonderful things, but the rich enjoy them. The worker builds palaces—but not for herself. She
produces beauty—and deforms herself. One worker produces the very machines that will replace other,
throwing some of them onto the street, and turning the rest into button-pushing robots.
The rich see the products of work differently than the poor do. We will consider the rich later, but
now I want to address how workers see the things they produce.
We have been considering the estrangement of a worker from the things she produces, but we should
also consider the alienation of a worker from the process of production. The product is only the final
part; the product of labour is alienation, but production is alienation to. It is the activity of alienation.
The object merely sums that alienation up.
What, then, is the alienation of labor?
First, the alienation is the fact that the labor is external to the worker; it does not belong to her
intrinsic nature. A worker does not affirm herself in her work. Instead, she denies who she is, and feels
unhappy. She does not develop her physical and mental energy; she ruins her body and her mind. The
worker only feels like a person when she is not working. She only feels at home when she is not
working. She does not work voluntarily; she is coerced to work by money. She does not work to satisfy
an internal need; she works to satisfy external needs. We can tell that modern work is alienated because
nobody would do it unless they were being paid. As soon as the whistle blows, workers flee their
workplace. Work like this is sacrifice, not vital. Work is alienated because the worker’s product does not
belong to her. It belongs to her employer. The employer is like a demon sitting on the worker’s shoulder,
watching everything she does, making her work ever harder. She is a puppet, and he is the puppeteer.
Workers only feel free when they behave like animals, when they eat, drink, and fuck. They do not
feel like people when they do the most human of activities: produce things with tools. What is animal
becomes human and what is human becomes animal.
Certainly eating, drinking, and fucking are real human functions. But taken alone, as the goal of life,
they are animal functions.
We have considered how people become alienated from the things they produce and from the act of
working. But there is a third aspect of alienated labour to consider.
People are a species-beings. A person thinks of other people when she works, and treats herself as if
she were the whole species. She thinks of herself as a complete person, a ‘universal’, and as a free being.
Humans eat and consume the world’s resources. So do plants and animals. But nature is more than
just our sustenance; it is a part of our consciousness, the object of our art and science, and a spiritual
sustenance. We are a part of nature.
Labour estranges us from nature and ourselves. Labour makes our own life activity foreign to us. We
see each other as means to our own satisfaction. We see each other as enemies. We start to think of
others as existing for us, not with us.
We see work as the way to keep ourselves alive, instead of life’s activity. People produce; that is
what we do. It is the essentially human activity. Yet, when we labour, we see work as a means to life—
life appears to be a means to life.
Animals live in the moment. They are always ‘living’. People think about their lives, take a step
back, and make their lives into projects, and think about their life activities. People are conscious of their
lives; they do not merge into the flow of living. This is what makes us people. It is also what makes us
species-beings. Or perhaps it is the other way around. But being conscious of our work frees us from it.
We are not robots or animals. We can choose what we want to produce—except when we are labouring.
Estranged labour turns us back into animals, unable to choose, and means that we are conscious of
making our life’s work just plain work—a means to our existence.
Humans produce, and they create a world of objects. They prove that they are conscious species-
beings by doing this. I admit that some animals build nests and such, but an animal produces for now
and for itself and its young. Animals produce for physical need. Only humans produce universally, and
even when we are free from need—in fact, we can only produce freely when we are not producing
something we need. People also produce art.
When we work on the natural world, we show ourselves to be species-beings with species-life. A
free worker makes nature her work and her reality. She thing she creates is part of her; it is her. She puts
her soul into the work and the world she creates, and she creates things for other people to see, to show
herself and her world to them. Estranged labour tears the work away from her, and tears her away from
her species.
Estranged labour also makes work a means to life, instead of an essential part of life. It turns other
people into means for the survival of each individual.
Estranged labour turns a person’s species-being into something other than how she sees herself, into
something foreign. She does not see herself as a member of the human race. It also estranges a person
from her own body, her own nature, and her own spirit—her humanity.
Therefore we are estranged from each other. When we look in the mirror, we see how others see us.
When we look at our work, we see how others see it. When we look at another’s work, we do not see the
person; we see a thing.
Let us now see how the estranged, alienated labor shows up in real life.
To whom does my work belong?
To a being other than myself.
To the gods? A long time ago, maybe, people worked to serve the gods, but no longer. Now my
work belongs to someone, a person.
My work torments me it is because it belongs to someone else. It torments be because it brings
another person pleasure.
A person knows herself by the work she does. Thus, if the work is a foreign object, hostile to her,
then she must see someone else as owning it—and as owning her. If her activity is not really her own,
then she is not her own person; her act of creation was done for another person’s benefit. She created,
but not freely; she created because she had to, because she was enslaved.
All estrangement is the same. For instance, religious self-estrangement happens when the laity have
a relationship with priests. In the real world, self-estrangement happens when people have a practical
relationship with one another. A practical relationship is one of work. Work divides people into classes,
and one class dominates the other. Some people own, but do not produce; they have status and
dominion. They have the power to seize the work of another.
 I have only discussed the standpoint of the worker, not the non-worker. I will soon.
Alienated labour creates a relationship with the capitalist. Private property is the result of alienated
labour, not its cause. The capitalist owns what the worker produces.
Private property thus comes from alienated labour, from alienated man, from estranged labor, from
an estranged life.
True, I am arguing in a circle. Before, I said that private property leads to alienated labour, and now
I am saying that alienated labour leads to private property. But, by analyzing the concept, we see that
private property is the consequence, not the cause, of alienation. Only later does the relationship become
reciprocal, and it is only when capitalism is at its peak that the circle of cause and effect becomes clear
again.
A few conflicts are solved by this exposition:
First, economists worship private property. Proudhon thought that labour should triumph against
private property. We understand that there is a third way, and we do not need to choose one over the
other. Private property and labour create each other.
We also understand, therefore, that wages and private property are identical. Wages pay for
estrangement, and wages get people working.
A wage increase (which would not be sustainable, since it would have to be done by force), would
be merely better payment for the slave. It would not return dignity to work. Even wage equality would
not work. It would make society the capitalist and all of us slaves.
Estranged labour causes wages and private property. The downfall of one must be the downfall of
both.
Second, since all forms of servitude are forms of alienation, emancipating workers emancipates
everyone. Alienation leads to private property, and it also leads to all of economic theory: trade,
competition, capital, money—these are all just other expressions of the same idea.
John Stuart Mill

Mill was one of the most rock-and-roll guys of the nineteenth century. He learned to speak ancient
Greek before he was three years old. By the time he was eight, he was reading the old geometers in
Latin. He was a brilliant logician and economist by his teens. To call him a very great genius is a huge
understatement.
Mill’s father, who was somewhat famous himself, had put him through a brutal education. Not
surprisingly, Mill had a nervous breakdown when he left home. Mill recovered, though, and became a
women’s-lib and antislavery writer, an eminent philosopher, political thinker, Member of Parliament,
and cultivator of third-degree sideburns. He married his lifelong sweetheart when he was 45, after she
had finally divorced her deadbeat first husband.
Like Kant, Mill is trying to come up with a single rule of ethics. Mill, though, is a consequentialist.
He believes that consequences matter and intentions do not. Like Epicurus and Aristotle, Mill is a
hedonist. All three believe that humans do (or should) strive for happiness. Unlike the Greeks, though,
Mill believes that we should try to make everyone happy, not just ourselves. Good actions, then, are
those that create the most happiness for the most people—that, in a nutshell, is his whole philosophy,
called “utilitarianism”
Utilitarianism has been enormously influential, not least because it is so easy to sum up. It provides a
philosophical foundation for law, democracy, and economics that still pervades western life.
John Stuart Mill: U'litarianism, Chapter 2

WHAT UTILITARIANISM IS.

The creed which accepts as the foundation of morals, Utility, or the Greatest Happiness Principle,
holds that actions are right in proportion as they tend to promote happiness, wrong as they tend to
produce the reverse of happiness. By happiness is intended pleasure, and the absence of pain; by
unhappiness, pain, and the privation of pleasure. To give a clear view of the moral standard set up by the
theory, much more requires to be said; in particular, what things it includes in the ideas of pain and
pleasure; and to what extent this is left an open question. But these supplementary explanations do not
affect the theory of life on which this theory of morality is grounded—namely, that pleasure, and
freedom from pain, are the only things desirable as ends; and that all desirable things (which are as
numerous in the utilitarian as in any other scheme) are desirable either for the pleasure inherent in
themselves, or as means to the promotion of pleasure and the prevention of pain.
Now, such a theory of life excites in many minds, and among them in some of the most estimable in
feeling and purpose, inveterate dislike. To suppose that life has (as they express it) no higher end than
pleasure—no better and nobler object of desire and pursuit—they designate as utterly mean and
grovelling; as a doctrine worthy only of swine, to whom the followers of Epicurus were, at a very early
period, contemptuously likened; and modern holders of the doctrine are occasionally made the subject of
equally polite comparisons by its German, French, and English assailants.
When thus attacked, the Epicureans have always answered, that it is not they, but their accusers, who
represent human nature in a degrading light; since the accusation supposes human beings to be capable
of no pleasures except those of which swine are capable. If this supposition were true, the charge could
not be gainsaid, but would then be no longer an imputation; for if the sources of pleasure were precisely
the same to human beings and to swine, the rule of life which is good enough for the one would be good
enough for the other. It must be admitted, however, that utilitarian writers in general have placed the
superiority of mental over bodily pleasures chiefly in the greater permanency, safety, uncostliness, etc.,
of the former—that is, in their circumstantial advantages rather than in their intrinsic nature. And on all
these points utilitarians have fully proved their case; but they might have taken the other, and, as it may
be called, higher ground, with entire consistency. It is quite compatible with the principle of utility to
recognise the fact, that some kinds of pleasure are more desirable and more valuable than others. It
would be absurd that while, in estimating all other things, quality is considered as well as quantity, the
estimation of pleasures should be supposed to depend on quantity alone.
If I am asked, what I mean by difference of quality in pleasures, or what makes one pleasure more
valuable than another, merely as a pleasure, except its being greater in amount, there is but one possible
answer. Of two pleasures, if there be one to which all or almost all who have experience of both give a
decided preference, irrespective of any feeling of moral obligation to prefer it, that is the more desirable
pleasure. If one of the two is, by those who are competently acquainted with both, placed so far above
the other that they prefer it, even though knowing it to be attended with a greater amount of discontent,
and would not resign it for any quantity of the other pleasure which their nature is capable of, we are
justified in ascribing to the preferred enjoyment a superiority in quality, so far outweighing quantity as
to render it, in comparison, of small account.
 Now it is an unquestionable fact that those who are equally acquainted with, and equally capable of
appreciating and enjoying, both, do give a most marked preference to the manner of existence which
employs their higher faculties. Few human creatures would consent to be changed into any of the lower
animals, for a promise of the fullest allowance of a beast’s pleasures; no intelligent human being would
consent to be a fool, no instructed person would be an ignoramus, no person of feeling and conscience
would be selfish and base, even though they should be persuaded that the fool, the dunce, or the rascal is
better satisfied with his lot than they are with theirs.
Whoever supposes that this preference takes place at a sacrifice of happiness—that the superior
being, in anything like equal circumstances, is not happier than the inferior—confounds the two very
different ideas, of happiness, and content. It is indisputable that the being whose capacities of enjoyment
are low, has the greatest chance of having them fully satisfied; and a highly endowed being will always
feel that any happiness which he can look for, as the world is constituted, is imperfect. But he can learn
to bear its imperfections, if they are at all bearable; and they will not make him envy the being who is
indeed unconscious of the imperfections, but only because he feels not at all the good which those
imperfections qualify. It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be
Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are a different opinion, it is because
they only know their own side of the question. The other party to the comparison knows both sides.
It may be objected, that many who are capable of the higher pleasures, occasionally, under the
influence of temptation, postpone them to the lower. But this is quite compatible with a full appreciation
of the intrinsic superiority of the higher. Men often, from infirmity of character, make their election for
the nearer good, though they know it to be the less valuable; and this no less when the choice is between
two bodily pleasures, than when it is between bodily and mental. They pursue sensual indulgences to the
injury of health, though perfectly aware that health is the greater good.
It may be further objected, that many who begin with youthful enthusiasm for everything noble, as
they advance in years sink into indolence and selfishness. But I do not believe that those who undergo
this very common change, voluntarily choose the lower description of pleasures in preference to the
higher. I believe that before they devote themselves exclusively to the one, they have already become
incapable of the other. Capacity for the nobler feelings is in most natures a very tender plant, easily
killed, not only by hostile influences, but by mere want of sustenance; and in the majority of young
persons it speedily dies away if the occupations to which their position in life has devoted them, and the
society into which it has thrown them, are not favourable to keeping that higher capacity in exercise.
Men lose their high aspirations as they lose their intellectual tastes, because they have not time or
opportunity for indulging them; and they addict themselves to inferior pleasures, not because they
deliberately prefer them, but because they are either the only ones to which they have access, or the only
ones which they are any longer capable of enjoying. It may be questioned whether any one who has
remained equally susceptible to both classes of pleasures, ever knowingly and calmly preferred the
lower; though many, in all ages, have broken down in an ineffectual attempt to combine both.
I have dwelt on this point, as being a necessary part of a perfectly just conception of Utility or
Happiness, considered as the directive rule of human conduct. But it is by no means an indispensable
condition to the acceptance of the utilitarian standard; for that standard is not the agent’s own greatest
happiness, but the greatest amount of happiness altogether; and if it may possibly be doubted whether a
noble character is always the happier for its nobleness, there can be no doubt that it makes other people
happier, and that the world in general is immensely a gainer by it. Utilitarianism, therefore, could only
attain its end by the general cultivation of nobleness of character, even if each individual were only
benefited by the nobleness of others, and his own, so far as happiness is concerned, were a sheer
deduction from the benefit. But the bare enunciation of such an absurdity as this last, renders refutation
superfluous.
According to the Greatest Happiness Principle, as above explained, the ultimate end, with reference
to and for the sake of which all other things are desirable (whether we are considering our own good or
that of other people), is an existence exempt as far as possible from pain, and as rich as possible in
enjoyments, both in point of quantity and quality; the test of quality, and the rule for measuring it against
quantity, being the preference felt by those who in their opportunities of experience, to which must be
added their habits of self-consciousness and self-observation, are best furnished with the means of
comparison. This, being, according to the utilitarian opinion, the end of human action, is necessarily also
the standard of morality; which may accordingly be defined, the rules and precepts for human conduct,
by the observance of which an existence such as has been described might be, to the greatest extent
possible, secured to all mankind; and not to them only, but, so far as the nature of things admits, to the
whole sentient creation.
Against this doctrine, however, arises another class of objectors, who say that happiness, in any
form, cannot be the rational purpose of human life and action; because, in the first place, it is
unattainable: and they contemptuously ask, what right hast thou to be happy? a question which Mr.
Carlyle clenches by the addition, What right, a short time ago, hadst thou even to be? Next, they say,
that men can do without happiness.
The first of these objections would go to the root of the matter were it well founded; for if no
happiness is to be had at all by human beings, the attainment of it cannot be the end of morality, or of
any rational conduct. Though, even in that case, something might still be said for the utilitarian theory;
since utility includes not solely the pursuit of happiness, but the prevention or mitigation of unhappiness;
and if the former aim be chimerical, there will be all the greater scope and more imperative need for the
latter, so long at least as mankind think fit to live, and do not take refuge in the simultaneous act of
suicide recommended under certain conditions by Novalis. When, however, it is thus positively asserted
to be impossible that human life should be happy, the assertion, if not something like a verbal quibble, is
at least an exaggeration. If by happiness be meant a continuity of highly pleasurable excitement, it is
evident enough that this is impossible. A state of exalted pleasure lasts only moments, or in some cases,
and with some intermissions, hours or days, and is the occasional brilliant flash of enjoyment, not its
permanent and steady flame. Of this the philosophers who have taught that happiness is the end of life
were as fully aware as those who taunt them. The happiness which they meant was not a life of rapture;
but moments of such, in an existence made up of few and transitory pains, many and various pleasures,
with a decided predominance of the active over the passive, and having as the foundation of the whole,
not to expect more from life than it is capable of bestowing. A life thus composed, to those who have
been fortunate enough to obtain it, has always appeared worthy of the name of happiness. And such an
existence is even now the lot of many, during some considerable portion of their lives. The present
wretched education, and wretched social arrangements, are the only real hindrance to its being attainable
by almost all.
The objectors perhaps may doubt whether human beings, if taught to consider happiness as the end
of life, would be satisfied with such a moderate share of it. But great numbers of mankind have been
satisfied with much less. To those who have neither public nor private affections, the excitements of life
are much curtailed, and in any case dwindle in value as the time approaches when all selfish interests
must be terminated by death: while those who leave after them objects of personal affection, and
especially those who have also cultivated a fellow-feeling with the collective interests of mankind, retain
as lively an interest in life on the eve of death as in the vigour of youth and health. Next to selfishness,
the principal cause which makes life unsatisfactory is want of mental cultivation. A cultivated mind—I
do not mean that of a philosopher, but any mind to which the fountains of knowledge have been opened,
and which has been taught, in any tolerable degree, to exercise its faculties—finds sources of
inexhaustible interest in all that surrounds it; in the objects of nature, the achievements of art, the
imaginations of poetry, the incidents of history, the ways of mankind, past and present, and their
prospects in the future. It is possible, indeed, to become indifferent to all this, and that too without
having exhausted a thousandth part of it; but only when one has had from the beginning no moral or
human interest in these things, and has sought in them only the gratification of curiosity.
Now there is absolutely no reason in the nature of things why an amount of mental culture sufficient
to give an intelligent interest in these objects of contemplation, should not be the inheritance of every
one born in a civilized country. As little is there an inherent necessity that any human being should be a
selfish egotist, devoid of every feeling or care but those which centre in his own miserable individuality.
The main stress of the problem lies, therefore, in the contest with these calamities, from which it is a rare
good fortune entirely to escape; which, as things now are, cannot be obviated, and often cannot be in any
material degree mitigated. Yet no one whose opinion deserves a moment’s consideration can doubt that
most of the great positive evils of the world are in themselves removable, and will, if human affairs
continue to improve, be in the end reduced within narrow limits.
And this leads to the true estimation of what is said by the objectors concerning the possibility, and
the obligation, of learning to do without happiness. Unquestionably it is possible to do without
happiness; it is done involuntarily by nineteen-twentieths of mankind, even in those parts of our present
world which are least deep in barbarism; and it often has to be done voluntarily by the hero or the
martyr, for the sake of something which he prizes more than his individual happiness. But this
something, what is it, unless the happiness of others or some of the requisites of happiness? It is noble to
be capable of resigning entirely one’s own portion of happiness, or chances of it: but, after all, this self-
sacrifice must be for some end.
I must again repeat, what the assailants of utilitarianism seldom have the justice to acknowledge, that
the happiness which forms the utilitarian standard of what is right in conduct, is not the agent’s own
happiness, but that of all concerned. As between his own happiness and that of others, utilitarianism
requires him to be as strictly impartial as a disinterested and benevolent spectator. In the golden rule of
Jesus of Nazareth, we read the complete spirit of the ethics of utility. To do as you would be done by,
and to love your neighbour as yourself, constitute the ideal perfection of utilitarian morality. As the
means of making the nearest approach to this ideal, utility would enjoin, first, that laws and social
arrangements should place the happiness, or (as speaking practically it may be called) the interest, of
every individual, as nearly as possible in harmony with the interest of the whole; and secondly, that
education and opinion, which have so vast a power over human character, should so use that power as to
establish in the mind of every individual an indissoluble association between his own happiness and the
good of the whole.
The objectors to utilitarianism cannot always be charged with representing it in a discreditable light.
On the contrary, those among them who entertain anything like a just idea of its disinterested character,
sometimes find fault with its standard as being too high for humanity. They say it is exacting too much
to require that people shall always act from the inducement of promoting the general interests of society.
But this is to mistake the very meaning of a standard of morals, and confound the rule of action with the
motive of it. It is the business of ethics to tell us what are our duties, or by what test we may know them;
but no system of ethics requires that the sole motive of all we do shall be a feeling of duty; on the
contrary, ninety-nine hundredths of all our actions are done from other motives, and rightly so done, if
the rule of duty does not condemn them. It is the more unjust to utilitarianism that this particular
misapprehension should be made a ground of objection to it, inasmuch as utilitarian moralists have gone
beyond almost all others in affirming that the motive has nothing to do with the morality of the action,
though much with the worth of the agent. He who saves a fellow creature from drowning does what is
morally right, whether his motive be duty, or the hope of being paid for his trouble; he who betrays the
friend that trusts him, is guilty of a crime, even if his object be to serve another friend to whom he is
under greater obligations.
But to speak only of actions done from the motive of duty, and in direct obedience to principle: it is
a misapprehension of the utilitarian mode of thought, to conceive it as implying that people should fix
their minds upon so wide a generality as the world, or society at large. The great majority of good
actions are intended not for the benefit of the world, but for that of individuals, of which the good of the
world is made up; and the thoughts of the most virtuous man need not on these occasions travel beyond
the particular persons concerned, except so far as is necessary to assure himself that in benefiting them
he is not violating the rights, that is, the legitimate and authorized expectations, of any one else. The
multiplication of happiness is, according to the utilitarian ethics, the object of virtue: the occasions on
which any person (except one in a thousand) has it in his power to do this on an extended scale, in other
words to be a public benefactor, are but exceptional.
It is often affirmed that utilitarianism renders men cold and unsympathising; that it chills their moral
feelings towards individuals; that it makes them regard only the dry and hard consideration of the
consequences of actions, not taking into their moral estimate the qualities from which those actions
emanate. But no claim of this description is made for the virtuous man by the utilitarian doctrine.
Utilitarians are quite aware that there are other desirable possessions and qualities besides virtue, and are
perfectly willing to allow to all of them their full worth. They are also aware that a right action does not
necessarily indicate a virtuous character, and that actions which are blamable, often proceed from
qualities entitled to praise. When this is apparent in any particular case, it modifies their estimation, not
certainly of the act, but of the agent. I grant that they are, notwithstanding, of opinion, that in the long
run the best proof of a good character is good actions; and resolutely refuse to consider any mental
disposition as good, of which the predominant tendency is to produce bad conduct. This makes them
unpopular with many people; but it is an unpopularity which they must share with every one who
regards the distinction between right and wrong in a serious light; and the reproach is not one which a
conscientious utilitarian need be anxious to repel.
John Stuart Mill: U'litarianism, Chapter 2, decoded

What utilitarianism is
The Greatest Happiness Principle is this: actions are right if they tend to promote happiness, wrong
if they tend to produce the reverse of happiness. By happiness I mean pleasure, and the absence of pain;
by unhappiness, pain, and the absence of pleasure.
Pleasure and freedom from pain are the only things people really want. Everything else we only
want because it brings us pleasure or prevents pain.
Of course, many smart people think that I am wrong. They think that utilitarianism is a doctrine for
pigs and partiers, since utilitarians put pleasure above everything else. Many think that ours is a
philosophy of crassness and simplicity.
The Epicureans responded simply. If you think that men can only find pleasure in the same things as
pigs, you are crass, and you are simple. Epicureans (and utilitarians) think that many noble things are
pleasant. Intellect, sentiment, emotions, imagination, and morality are all pleasant.
That said, I admit that most utilitarians have said the intellectual goods are better only because the
bodily pleasures are fleeting or expensive. We certainly could have done better.
Some types of pleasure are of a higher quality than other types. We know this because there are
some pleasant things that we would never trade for any amount of another, yet worse, pleasant thing.
Nobody, for instance, would give away her intellect and be changed into an animal, even for all the
beast’s pleasures. No poor genius would like to be changed into a rich idiot. No ethical person would be
selfish, stupid and base, even if it came with some—or even many—advantages. Because no quantity of
base pleasure adds up to even the smallest quantity of higher pleasure, the two pleasures are clearly of
different qualities.
Certainly, a smart person is harder to make happy and easier to make sad. Still, nobody would prefer
to be stupid. Perhaps it is pride; maybe it is love of liberty. I think that it is a sense of dignity that
prevents the intelligent from wishing they were not.
It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than
a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are a different opinion, it is because they only know their own
side of the question. The other party to the comparison knows both sides.
Of course, I know that some good, noble, educated people do succumb to lower pleasures. They do it
because have weak characters, and they usually do so only momentarily. Of course, some young
idealists become selfish, lazy, and obnoxious. Nor does this disprove my point. Sensitivity is like a
tender plant, easily killed. We must all take care to ensure that our aspirations and our intellectual tastes
are not damaged or destroyed when our way is blocked or our ambitions are thwarted by the workings of
the world.
So it is settled. There are different types of pleasure, some higher, and some lower. As it turns out,
though, this past discussion is not entirely necessary. The utilitarian standard is not one’s own happiness,
but everyone’s happiness in total. The best actions lead to the greatest happiness for all people.
 Some people say that renunciation of all desire is preferable. First, they say, happiness is
unattainable. Second, they ask, what right have you to be happy? A good point, I suppose. Yet even if
we cannot be happy, we can be not unhappy. Further, a good life is not a life of constant bliss. It has its
ups and downs. But only a very few of us have a good life right now; the rest of us work in demonic
industries and get no chance at happiness whatsoever.
Perhaps human beings, if they were taught to consider the happiness of all people as their goal,
would only want a small share for themselves. Great numbers of humanity have been satisfied with
much less.
It seems to me that every person born in a civilized country could have an intellectual life of
pleasure. In a world in which there is so much of interest, so much to enjoy, and so much also to correct
and improve, everyone who has even a moderate amount of moral and intellectual ability is capable of a
wonderful life. There is almost no great cause of human suffering that could not be fixed if we directed
our attention to it.
Of course, nobody needs to be happy. The great bulk of us are not happy, even in the parts of the
world not knee-deep in barbarism. In fact, being able to do without happiness is probably the best
strategy for finding it. Only that kind of attitude can make a person aware of the chances of life, and
make him or her immune to ill fate and evil.
Again, it is not a person’s own happiness that matters. It is the happiness of all. A person should try
to be an objective spectator. She should count herself and her own happiness as one among many. Jesus
said to do as you would be done by, and to love your neighbour as yourself. That is our ideal, too. We
believe that laws and social arrangements should harmonize individual interests with the interests of the
whole, and that education should establish in each person the association between her own happiness
and everyone’s happiness.
Some say that it is too hard to be a utilitarian. They think that it is impossible to act with society’s
interests in mind all the time. That is a mistake: the Greatest Happiness Principle is a standard, not a rule
that needs to always be followed. Ninety-nine percent of our actions will be motivated by other
considerations. We can always judge the actions, though, by the Greatest Happiness Principle. Motive,
though, has nothing to do with the morality of an action. He who saves a fellow creature from drowning
does what is morally right, whether his motive is duty or the hope of being paid.
Other critics say that it is impossible to calculate the outcomes for all people and for all time. Most
of us never need to do this. It is enough to just keep in mind the people nearest the action you are
considering. You do not need to stop to consider, for instance, whether you are rescuing a saint or a
monster from icy water.
Finally, some critics say that utilitarians are cold. They say this because we are interested only in the
outcomes of an action, not who does the action. We think that this is a virtue. If the pope does wrong,
we will say so. If Hitler did good, we would say so. In the long run, however, the best proof of a good
character is good actions. On average, a good person will do good things; a bad person will do bad
things. Sometimes, a good person will do a bad thing. We alone will say so.
Jean Paul Sartre

Sartre was one of those intolerable geniuses who was born great (I prefer mine to suffer for
greatness). He was, until his death in 1980, a truly public figure known the world over. If you think
philosophers wear berets and smoke pipes, Sartre is the reason. Less well known, however, is that he
drank liters of booze and smoked two packs a day—and he nursed an impressive amphetamine habit. I
sometimes wonder if I’m not a great genius because I don’t drink, smoke, and do enough speed.
Sartre went to the very best schools in France and did well, except for the time he failed the most
important exam in the country, the exam that makes and breaks careers: the Agrégration. He said he
failed it because he gave original answers while the graders were looking for rote ones. He took the
exam again the next year and passed. In fact, he placed first in the country and proposed to the woman
who had come second, Simone de Beauvoir. She turned him down. (They did go on to have a famous
and decades-long love affair.)
Very few philosophers ever enter the public mind, but Sartre did. He was an icon of France, of
philosophy, and of an engaged intellectual. He was also a man of principle: when he was offered the
Nobel Prize (and $400,000!), he turned it down, believing that it was too bourgeois. He probably didn’t
need the money, though. One of his plays, Nausea, sold more than a million copies in his lifetime—and
doesn’t it say something wonderful about the French that they would buy a million copies of an
existentialist play?
Despite the booze, smokes, women, and drugs, Sartre lived a long, productive life. He died, at 74, in
Paris, the city in which he was born and in which he lived almost his entire life.
Jean Paul Sartre, Existen'alism is a Humanism, edited

I would like to defend existentialism against a number of criticisms.

Existentialism has been accused of inviting people to remain in quietism of despair. By
“existentialism” we mean a doctrine that makes human life possible and which, moreover, declares that
every truth and every action involves a milieu and a human subjectivity. The main criticism says, as we
know, that existentialists focus on the bad side of human life. A lady, I was told recently, says when she
drops a vulgar word in a moment of nervousness, “I think I am becoming an existentialist.” Those that
appeal to the knowledge of the people—which is very sad—find us even sadder. Yet what could be
more disillusioned than sayings like “charity begins at home” or “Love a villain and he’ll hate you. Hate
a villain and he’ll love you”? We know the clichés on this subject, and they all say the same thing: Do
not try to rise above your station. Do not fight the powers that be, do not struggle; any action that does
not fit into tradition is a romance; an attempt which is not based on proven experience is doomed to
failure; and experience shows that men are always descending into baseness and anarchy and must be
restrained by force. But it is the people who insist on these sad proverbs: the people who say “How
typical!” every time they are shown a more or less repugnant act, the people who revel in sickening
songs. These are the people who accuse existentialism of being too dark, and to the point that I wonder
if what grieves them is not its pessimism, but rather its optimism. Is it the foundation that scares them,
the doctrine that I am going to explain to you, that leaves a possibility of choice to man? To find out, we
need to revisit the issue from a strictly philosophical framework. What is it we call existentialism?
Most people who use the word would be lost to justify it because today it has become a fashion; in
reality it is the the least scandalous doctrine, the most austere, and it is strictly for technicians and
philosophers. However, it can be defined easily. What makes things complicated is that there are two
kinds of existentialists: the first, who are Christian existentialists, and among whom I put Jaspers and
Gabriel Marcel, a Catholic; and, secondly, the atheist existentialists among whom we must place
Heidegger, and also the French existentialists and myself. What they have in common is simply that they
believe that existence precedes essence, or, if you prefer, that we must begin from subjectivity. What,
exactly, does this mean? When considering a manufactured object, such as a book or a paper cutter, this
object was made by a craftsman who was inspired by a concept; he referred to the concept of cut paper,
and also a pre-production technique that is part of the concept, which is basically a recipe. Thus, the
cutter is at once an object that occurs in a certain way and also, on the other hand, has a defined value,
and we cannot assume a man would produce a paper cutter without knowing how it will be used. Let us
say that, for the paper-cutter, the essence—that is to say all definitions and qualities that help produce it
and define it—precedes existence, and thus the presence in front of me, like the paper cutter or the book,
is determined. Here we have a technical vision of the world in which we can say that production
precedes existence.
When we design a creator God, this God is considered mostly a superior craftsman, and whatever we
consider the doctrine, whether it be a doctrine like that of Descartes or Leibniz’s, we always assume that
the will more or less follows the understanding or, at least, accompanies it, and that when God creates,
He knows precisely what He creates. Thus, the concept of man, who has the spirit of God, is comparable
to the concept of a paper cutter in the spirit of the artisan, and God produces man following techniques
and design, just as the artisan manufactures a paper cutter following a definition and a technique.
 The atheistic existentialism, which I represent, is more consistent. It states that if there is no God,
there is at least one being in whom existence precedes essence, a being who exists before it can be
defined by any concept, and that this being is man or, as Heidegger says, human reality. What is meant
by this, that existence precedes essence? This means that man first exists, occurs, arises in the world,
and is only defined later. Man, as conceived by the existentialist, if he is not definable, is not definable
because he is, at first, nothing. He will not be until later, and then he will be as he makes himself. Thus,
there is no human nature, since there is no God to conceive it. This is the first principle of existentialism.
It is also called subjectivity, and it is this for which we are also criticized. But what do we mean by this,
but that man has more dignity than a stone or a table? We mean that man first exists, that is to say, man
is, first, what is thrust into a future, and he is conscious of himself existing into that future. Man is
primarily a project that is lived subjectively, rather than a foam, a rot or a cauliflower. But if indeed
existence precedes essence, man is responsible for what he is. And when we say that man is responsible
for himself, we do not want to say that man is responsible for his strict individuality, but he is
responsible for all men. We can never choose evil; what we choose is always good, and nothing can be
good for us without being for all. If existence precedes essence and we want to exist at the same time as
we shape our image, that image is valid for all and for our whole epoch. Thus, our responsibility is much
greater than we might suppose, because it involves all mankind.
This allows us to understand what is meant by rather grandiloquent words such as anguish,
abandonment, and despair. The existentialist says that man is in happy agony. He means this: the man
who is committed and who realizes he is not only choosing for himself but is also a legislator choosing
at the same time for all humanity cannot escape the sense of his total and deep responsibility. Certainly,
many people believe in not committing themselves, and when asked “But what if everyone did that?”
shrug their shoulders and answer: “Everybody does not do that.” But in truth, we must always ask: what
if everyone did the same? and we will escape this disturbing thought only by a sort of bad faith.
When, for example, a military leader takes responsibility for an attack and sends a number of men to
death, he chooses to do, and basically he chooses alone. No doubt there are orders coming from above,
but they are too wide and his interpretation is required, and on that interpretation depends the life of ten
or fourteen or twenty men. He cannot but have, in the decision he makes, some anxiety. All leaders
know that anguish. This does not prevent them from acting; on the contrary, it is the very condition of
their action, because it means they are considering a plurality of possibilities, and when they choose one,
they realize that the choice is valuable only because it is chosen.
And when speaking of abandonment, we mean only that God does not exist, and we must draw out
the consequences. Dostoyevsky wrote: “If God did not exist, everything would be permitted.” This is the
starting point of existentialism. Indeed, everything is permitted if God does not exist, and therefore man
is helpless, because he finds neither within nor outside himself a fixed point. He first finds no excuses.
If, indeed, existence precedes essence, one can never explain by reference to a fixed and given human
nature, meaning that there is no determinism; man is free, man is freedom. If, on the other hand, there is
no God, we do not find in front of us values or orders which legitimize our conduct. We are alone,
without apologies. This is what I express by saying that man is condemned to be free.
To give you an example that allows better understanding of neglect, I cite the case of one of my
students came to me in the following circumstances: his father had quarreled with his mother, and was
also inclined to collaborate; his older brother was killed in the German offensive of 1940, and this young
man, with somewhat primitive but generous feelings, wanted revenge. His mother lived alone with him
and was very distressed by the semi-treason of his father and the death of her eldest son, and could find
consolation only in him. This young man had a choice, at that time, between going to England and
enlisting in the French Underground forces—that is to say abandoning his mother—or remaining with
his mother, helping them survive. He was well aware that this woman lived only for him and that his
disappearance—and perhaps his death—would plunge her into despair. If, instead, he went to go and
fight, his actions could get lost in the sands and be of no avail: for example, leaving for England, he
could have to stay indefinitely in a Spanish camp, it could happen in England or Algiers; he could be in
an office doing paperwork. Therefore, he was faced with two very different types of action: one
concrete, immediate, but addressed only one individual, or another action that targeted a whole infinitely
greater, a nation, but which was thus ambiguous, and could be stopped on the way. And at the same
time, he hesitated between two types of morality. On the one hand, a morality of sympathy, of personal
devotion, and secondly, a wider morality, but of more questionable effectiveness. We had to choose
between the two. What could help him choose? Christian doctrine? No. Christian doctrine says: be
charitable, love your neighbor, sacrifice yourself to others, choose the hardest way, etc. But what way is
the hardest? Who is he to love as his brother, the fellow patriot or his mother? How useful is the large
action, the wave of fighting, in a whole compared to one that is specific and will help a specific living
being? Who can decide a priori? No one. No moral code can help. Kantian ethics says: never treat
others as means but only ever as an ends. Okay, if I live with my mother, I will treat her as an end and
not as a means; but doing so, I treat as means those who fight around me; and vice versa if I join those
who fight. I will treat them as ends, and therefore I will treat my mother as a means.
If values are vague, and if they are still too vast for precise and concrete cases, we think it only
remains for us to trust our instincts. That’s what this young man has tried to do, and when I saw him, he
said, basically, what matters is the feeling. I should choose the direction I am pushed in. If I feel that I
love my mother enough to sacrifice everything else—my revenge, my want of action, my desire for
adventure—I will stay with her. If, on the contrary, I feel that my love for my mother is not enough, I
will leave. But how to determine the value of a feeling? What was the value of his feeling for his
mother? Precisely the fact that he stayed there with her. I can say: I like this friend enough to give him a
sum of money, but I cannot say it unless I’ve done it. I can say I love my mother enough to stay with
her, if I stayed with her. I determine the value of the feeling by acting to endorse it and define it. I also
ask the feeling to justify my action. I find myself drawn into a vicious circle.
Gide has said very well that a feeling that is merely playing and a feeling that lives are almost
indistinguishable: I decide that I love my mother by staying with her, or play a little theatre that will
make it so that I do; it’s quite the same. In other words, the feeling is built by the acts we do, I cannot
consult feeling to guide me through actions. Which means that I can neither seek in myself an authentic
state nor claim a moral concept that will allow me to act. At least, you say, did he go see a professor for
advice? But if you should seek advice from a priest, for example, you chose this priest; you already
knew basically, more or less, what he would advise you to do. In other words, to choose the counselor is
to still commit yourself. Thus, coming to find me, he knew the answer I was going to give, and I had a
reply for him: you are free to choose, that is to say, you are free to invent. No general moral code can
tell you what to do; there is no evidence in the world. Catholics will say: but there are signs. Let’s face
it; I myself must read the direction from the signs. I knew, while I was captive, a remarkable man who
was a Jesuit; he entered the Jesuit order as follows: he had suffered a number of quite bitter failures; as a
child, his father had died, leaving him poor, and he was left in a religious institution where they
constantly made him feel that he was accepting charity; later, he missed out on a number of honors that
appeal to children, and then at eighteen, he missed out on an affair. And finally, at twenty-two,
something quite childish happened, but it was the straw that broke the camel’s back: he failed his
military training. This young man could therefore feel that he had failed at everything; it was a sign. But
a sign of what? He could take refuge in bitterness or despair. But he held, very cleverly for him, that this
was the sign that he was not made for secular triumphs, and that only the triumphs of religion, holiness,
faith, were accessible. He then felt the calling, and entered into orders. Who cannot see that the decision
about the meaning of the sign was made by him alone? We could have concluded something else in this
series of failures: for example it would better that he should become a carpenter or a revolutionary. He
therefore bears full responsibility for the interpretation. Abandonment implies that we choose our beings
ourselves. Neglect goes with anxiety. As for abandonment, this is extremely simple. Abandonment
means that we can only rely on what depends on our will, or the set of probabilities that make our work
possible.
Quietism is the attitude of people who say “others can do what I cannot do”. The doctrine I am
presenting is precisely the opposite of quietism, since it says there is no reality except in action; it also
goes further, since it adds that man is nothing but his project. He exists only insofar as he is realized, so
there is nothing more than all of his actions, nothing more than his life. From this we can understand
why our doctrine horrifies some people. They often have only one way of supporting their misery, which
is to think: “The circumstances were against me; I was worth much more than I seemed, of course. I did
not have a great love or great friendship, but that’s because I have not met a man or a woman who were
worthy. I have not written very good books, but it’s because I had no leisure to do so. I have not had
children to devote myself to, but that is because I have not found the man with whom I could have made
my life. I have remained so, at home, unused and fully viable, with a variety of dispositions,
inclinations, and possibilities that give me a value that the simple series of my actions do not display.” In
reality, for an existentialist, there is no love other than that which is being built; there is no possibility of
love other than that which manifests itself in a love. There is no genius other than one that is expressed
in works of art: the genius of Proust is all of the works of Proust, and the genius of Racine is his series of
tragedies. Apart from that there is nothing. Obviously, this thought may seem harsh to someone who
failed in his life. However, this does not imply that the artist will be judged solely on his artwork. A
thousand other things also contribute to defining him.
Under these conditions, when we are reproached, it is not for our deep pessimism, but for our
optimistic toughness. The existentialist, when he describes a coward, says the coward is responsible for
his cowardice. He is not like that because he has a heart, lung or brain loose. He is not like that from a
physiological disorganization. He is like that because he has made himself a coward through his actions.
What people feel obscurely and what horrifies them is that the coward that we present is guilty of
cowardice. What people want is one born a coward or a hero: if you are born a coward, you’ll be
perfectly quiet, you cannot help it; you will be cowardly all your life, whatever you do; and if you are
born a hero, you will also be perfectly still; you will be a hero all your life, you will drink like a hero,
and you will eat like a hero. What the existentialist says is that the coward is a coward, that the hero is a
hero, but there is always a possibility for the coward not to be a coward, and for the hero to stop being a
hero. What matters is the total commitment, and this is not a special case, a particular action; you engage
fully.
Thus, we have responded to, I believe, a number of criticisms about existentialism. However, we are
sometimes reproached for confining man in his individual subjectivity. Our starting point is indeed the
subjectivity of the individual, and for strictly philosophical reasons. There can be no other truth, as this
one, the starting point: I think therefore I am.
The subjectivity which we reach there as truth is not a strictly individual subjectivity, because we
demonstrated that in the cogito, we did not discover ourselves only, but also others. By “I think”,
contrary to the philosophy of Descartes, contrary to the philosophy of Kant, we reach ourselves in front
of the other, and the other is as certain to us as ourselves. For any truth about me, I must pass by the
other. The other is essential to my existence, as well as to the knowledge I have of myself. Under these
conditions, the discovery of my privacy at the same time uncovers the other as a freedom posed in front
of me, whom I think of, and who wants only to be for or against me. Thus we discover at once a world
we call intersubjectivity, and it is in this world that man decides what he is and what is the other.
Furthermore, there is a universal human condition. It is not by chance that the thinkers of today
speak more readily of the human condition and as to its nature. They mean by condition with varying
degrees of clarity all the a priori limits that outline our fundamental situation in the universe. Historical
situations vary: the man can be born a slave in a pagan society or a feudal lord or a proletarian. What
does not vary is the need for him to be in the world, to be at work, to be surrounded by the other and be
mortal. These limits are neither subjective nor objective; or, rather, they have an objective side and a
subjective side. The are objective because they are ubiquitous and are recognizable everywhere; they are
subjective because they are lived and are nothing if man does not live them. And although the projects
may be diverse, at least none have been left unknown, because we all attempt to overcome these limits
or to reduce or deny them or to accommodate them. Accordingly, any project, however individual, has a
universal value. Any project, even that of the Chinese, the Indian or the negro, can be understood by a
European. There is always a way to understand the idiot, the child, the primitive or foreigner, provided
we have sufficient information. In this sense we can say that there is a universality of man, but it is not
given; it is perpetually constructed.
This does not entirely solve the objection of subjectivism. Indeed, this objection takes on even more
forms. The first is this: we are told, “then you can do anything”; this is expressed in various ways. First,
they tax us with anarchy. Then they say: you cannot judge others, because there is no reason to prefer
one project to another. Then there is the final objection: everything is free in what you choose; you are
giving with one hand what you pretend to receive the other. These three objections are not very serious.
The first objection, you can choose anything, is not accurate. The choice is possible in one sense, but it
is not possible not to choose. I can always choose, but I do know that if I do not choose, I choose again.
Rather, it is necessary to compare the moral choice with the construction of a work of art. Has anyone
ever criticized an artist who makes a picture not abiding by rules established a priori? Has anyone ever
told an artist what he must do at the easel? It is understood that there is no picture to be painted. The
artist engages in the construction of his painting, and the picture to be made is exactly the picture he did
make. It is the same in moral terms. What is common between art and morality is that, in both cases, we
have creation and invention. We cannot decide a priori what to do. Secondly, we are told: you cannot
judge others. This is true in one way, yet false in another. This is true in the sense that whenever a man
chooses his commitment and project in all sincerity and with lucidity, whatever his project, it is
impossible for him to prefer another; it’s true in the sense that we do not believe in progress. Progress is
an improvement; man is always the same in the face of a situation that varies, and choice is always a
choice in a situation. The moral problem has not changed since the time when one could choose between
slavery and non-slavery.
But we can judge, however, because as I have said, we choose in front of others, and we choose
ourselves in front of others. We can be judged, first (and this is perhaps not a value judgment, but it is a
logical judgment), that some choices are based on error, and others on truth. We can judge a man by
saying he is in bad faith. If we defined the situation of man as free choice, without excuse and without
help, every man who hides behind the excuse of his passions, every man who invents a determinism, is a
man of bad faith. One could object: but did not he choose to be in bad faith? I reply that I did not judge
him morally, but I define bad faith as an error. Of course, freedom as the definition of man does not
depend on others, but once there is commitment, I am obliged to want, along with my freedom, the
freedom of others. Thus, in the name of this desire for freedom, the freedom implied by itself, I can
make judgments on those who seek to hide the total gratuitousness of their existence, and its total
freedom. Those who will hide, in the spirit of seriousness or deterministic excuses, their total freedom: I
call them cowards. Others who will try to show that their existence was necessary, that it is the very
contingency of the appearance of man on earth, I will call them bastards. But cowards or bastards cannot
be judged in terms of strict authenticity. Thus, although the content of morality is variable, some form of
this morality is universal. Kant declared that freedom wants itself and wants the freedom of others. Yes,
but he believes the formal and universal to be morality enough. We believe, however, that principles are
too abstract to define the action. Again, take the case of this student. The content is always concrete, and
therefore unpredictable, and there always invention. The only thing that matters is whether the invention
done is done in the name of freedom.
So you see that second reproach is both true and false. We can all choose, in terms of free
commitment.
The third objection is this: “you receive with one hand what you give to the other”, that is to say, our
values are not serious, since we choose them. To this I reply that I am very sorry it is so, but if I
removed God the father, someone must invent values. We must take things as they are. And, moreover,
that we invent values does not mean anything but this: life has no meaning a priori. Before you live life
it is nothing, but it’s up to you to give it meaning, and that value is nothing but the direction you choose.
Thus, you see, there is the possibility of creating a human community. I have been accused of asking if
existentialism is a humanism. I was told: “but you wrote in Nausea that humanists were wrong; why
come back now?” In fact, the word ‘humanism’ has two very different meanings. ‘Humanism’ can mean
a theory that takes man as the end and of the highest value. There’s humanism in the sense of Cocteau,
for example, when in his story, Around the World in 80 Hours, a character says, “Man is amazing
because he flies over mountains by plane!” This means that I, personally, who have not built airplanes, I
benefit from these particular inventions, and I could personally, as a man, consider myself responsible
and be honored by particular acts of other men. This would imply that we value a man according to the
highest acts of some other men. This humanism is absurd. The cult of humanity leads to humanism
closed in on itself, and, it must be said, to fascism. It is a humanism which we do not want.
But there is another sense of humanism, which basically means this: man is constantly outside
himself; it is in projecting and losing himself that man is made, and, on the other hand, it is pursuing
transcendent aims that he can exist; man is transcendent and does not know objects except as compared
to that transcendence. This is the heart, the center of the transcendence. There is no universe other than
the human universe, the universe of human subjectivity. This binding to transcendence as constitutive of
man—not in the sense that God is transcendent, but in the sense of self-transcendence—and subjectivity
in the sense that man is not confined to himself but is always present in a human world, this is what we
call existential humanism. Humanism, because we remind man that there is no other legislator but
himself, and that it is in neglect that he will decide for himself, and because we show that it is not in
turning to himself, but in always looking out of himself, that he will find release (a goal that is
liberation, as particular realization) and will realize what is human.
Existentialism is not so much an atheism in the sense that it would run out to prove that God does
not exist. It says instead: even if God existed, it would not change anything. That’s our point of view.
Not that we believe that God exists; but we think the problem is not one of his existence. Man must find
himself and persuade himself that nothing can save him, not even a proof of the existence of God. In this
sense existentialism is optimistic.
Jean Paul Sartre: ExistenFalism is a Humanism, decoded

I would like to defend existentialism against a number of criticisms.

Our critics say that existentialists encourage people to give up in despair. But by ‘existentialism’, we
mean the philosophy that makes human life possible and declares that every truth and every action have
a context and a subjectivity. Some people say we focus on the bad side of life. A sophisticated lady, I
hear, says, “I think I’m becoming an existentialist” every time she utters a bad word. Philosophers of
popular wisdom—and how sad it would be to be one of those!—find us even sadder. But they say things
like, “everything happens for a reason” and “don’t cry over spilt milk” and “nothing ever changes”. Yet
these same people say existentialists are dark and depressing. I wonder if it is not our optimism that
upsets them. Perhaps it is our belief in choice. To find out, we need to talk about philosophy and what it
is we call existentialism.
Few people could define ‘existentialism’, even though many use the word. Existentialism isn’t at all
scandalous; in fact, it is an austere doctrine, of interest only to technicians and philosophers. It is a little
complicated, however, because there are two kinds of existentialists: Christian and atheist—I am an
atheist. Both groups believe that existence precedes essence, or, if you prefer, that we must begin from
subjectivity. What does this mean? Think of a manufactured object, like a pair of scissors. It was made
by someone who was thinking. She thought about how to cut paper and how to put the scissors together,
and how to make them efficiently. Thus, they have a shape and a purpose, and nobody would just
happen to make an object of that shape without thinking about the purpose of a scissors.
For a manufactured object like this, essence precedes existence. The purpose and assembly of the
scissors are worked out in advance, before they are actually manufactured. The essence (or the purpose,
or the function) of the tool is already decided before it exists.
God is described as a craftsman. God is supposed to produce humans well, and according to a
design, and we are supposed to have his spirit—so clearly atheistic existentialism is more consistent than
Christian existentialism. Atheistic existentialism says that that if there is no God, there is at least one
being in whom existence precedes essence: humankind. We mean that people come into the world
before they are defined —in contrast to objects (like the scissors), which are defined before they come
into the world. People are, at first, nothing, since there is no divine plan; this is the first principle of
existentialism, and it is also called subjectivity. We are often criticized for it, but all we are saying is that
people have more dignity than things. People exist; people are thrust into the future and know that they
have a future. People think of themselves as projects, not objects.
But if existence precedes essence, then we are responsible for what we are. When we say that people
are responsible for themselves, we do not mean to say that that each person is responsible for her
individuality; instead, we want to say that she is responsible for all people. We can never choose evil;
what a person chooses is always good, for herself, and nothing can be good for an individual without
being good for everyone. Therefore, we have much more responsibility than it appears at first, because
every choice involves all humankind.
Now we can see what the existentialist jargon ‘anguish’, ‘abandonment’ and ‘despair’ means.
Existentialists say that people are in ‘happy anguish’. We mean that every person who realizes that she
is making a decision for all people when she makes a decision for herself must have a sense of deep
responsibility.
Certainly, many people do not believe that they need to take that kind of responsibility, and when
asked “But what if everyone did that?” just shrug and say, “Everybody does not do that.” We cannot
avoid the question so easily, though; we can only avoid it with ‘bad faith’.
When, for example, a sergeant orders an attack and sends a number of men to die, he chooses, and
he chooses alone. Of course, he must follow orders from his commanders, but the orders are vague and
general, and the sergeant must interpret them for the particular circumstances he is in. In this situation,
he must feel anxiety. He, and he alone, is making life and death decisions. All leaders feel that
anguish—and far from preventing them from acting, that anguish is required for a free decision. Feeling
torn between different choices means that the choices are being considered carefully, and, when a choice
has been made, the choice is valuable because it was chosen.
We talk about abandonment, because God does not exist and we must explain what that means.
Dostoevsky wrote: “If God did not exist, everything would be permitted.” This is the starting point of
existentialism. Indeed, everything is permitted, and therefore we are lost; there is no fixed star we might
use to orient ourselves. We must strike out in a direction of our choosing and not one given to us. There
is no human nature; there is no determinism. We are free. We are freedom. We have neither excuses nor
justifications for our conduct.
Let me give you an example of abandonment. I had a student in an ethical dilemma. His father had
left him. His brother had been killed by the Nazis, and his mother loved my student very dearly. In fact,
she lived for him; he knew that she would be heartbroken if he left her. Yet my student wanted to
avenge the killing of his brother by fighting in the French Underground, even while he wanted to
support and care for his mother—and perhaps even keep her alive.
On the one hand, if he were to go to fight, he might be killed right away. He might end up doing
only paperwork. He might get stuck in a refugee or prison camp. In short, before he left, he had no way
to tell how effective he would be. So, on the one hand, he could take a chance and perhaps make a large
difference—or, more likely, make no difference at all. On the other hand, he could help out his mother
in a very real, very certain, but very small way. Therefore, he had a choice to make.
How could he choose? With Christian doctrine? No. Christian doctrine is far too vague. It says,
choose the hardest way, love your neighbour, sacrifice. But how do those rules help? Which way is the
hardest? Who should he love—his mother or his compatriots? What should he sacrifice? His pride or his
family?
Could he use an ethical system to choose? No. Kant says, “never treat others as a means, only ever
as an ends.” That is useless! Whatever he chooses, he will end up treating someone as a means.
This is the trouble with values. Values are vague. They are too imprecise to help with concrete cases.
So, some might say, perhaps we should trust our instincts. And that is just what my student said; he said
he’d follow his heart—if he loved his mother enough, he’d stay with her. Otherwise, he’d leave. But
how could he determine how much he loved his mother? He can only tell how much he loves her by
staying with her. It is very easy for me to say, “If I win the lottery, I’ll pay off my friends’ mortgages”,
but until I win the lottery, I simply don’t mean it. I make my sentiments meaningful by acting on them,
but I also make my actions meaningful by basing them on feeling. It is a vicious circle. My student
cannot say that he will base his actions on feeling instead of theory; he feelings are based on actions
even while his actions are rooted in feeling.
Gide says that playful, imaginative feelings and real, living feelings are almost the same. My student
would decide that he loves his mother by staying with her, not before he makes the decision to do so.
The feeling is built by the actions, and so I cannot try to feel my way through the actions. I get the
feeling of love for my family by loving my family. My student, then, cannot say to himself “do I love
my mother enough to stay?” before he actually stays and loves her.
Perhaps, you say, he should go see a priest or a professor. If he did, though, he would already have
chosen the answer. When he came to see me, an existentialist, he knew what I was going to say: you are
free to choose; you are free to invent. No ethical code can help you.
Catholics might say that there are mystical signs. Let’s face it: whatever the signs say, we read the
directions we want from them. When I was a captive in the French Resistance, I knew a man who had
been a failure at everything: love, money, family, and even military training. He took this all as a sign
that he was not meant for secular triumphs—but he could have interpreted the signs in any number of
ways. Perhaps he should have become a revolutionary. Perhaps a carpenter. The ‘signs’ do not say
anything. He wanted to interpret the ‘signs’ in the way he did. This is what we mean by ‘abandonment’.
There is no guide or map. There are no signs. We choose who we want to be.
Quietism is the attitude of people who say, “I can’t do it. Let them do it.” Existentialism is the
opposite of quietism, since it says there is no imaginary identity we have apart from what we have
accomplished. We are nothing but our projects. People do not have potential; people are nothing but
their actions, nothing more than the lives they have lived. Of course this is horrifying to many people.
Some people want to think that they failed because they were dealt a bad hand or had bad luck— “of
course I never found love; I just never met the right person. Of course I haven’t accomplished much, but
I still have time and potential.” But, for us, there is no love other than the love that is being built. There
are no books other than those that have been written, no paintings other than those that have been
painted. Of course, we do not mean that people are one-dimensional; an artist should not be judged as a
person based only on her artwork.
When we are reproached, it is not for our pessimism, but for our optimistic toughness. An
existentialist says that a coward is responsible for his cowardice. He wasn’t born like that; he made
himself a coward. Saying this scares people. People want to have been born a coward or—especially—
to have been born a hero. A hero can get out of bed heroically, sip coffee valiantly, iron his shirt with a
lion’s heart. What we say is that a coward is a coward, and a hero is a hero, and it is always possible for
the coward to become a hero and for the hero to become a coward. What matters is the total
commitment, not a particular action.
I think those are all the criticisms. Now I’d like to speak about subjectivity. There is only one true
starting point: “I think therefore I am”.
The subjectivity in the cogito is not the wishy-washy subjectivity of individual opinion. In the
cogito, we can find others as well as ourselves. When I say, “I think” (even if Descartes would disagree),
I see myself in front of ‘the other’, and the other is as certain to me as myself. I can only see truths about
myself by putting myself in the place of another and seeing me as the other would. I define myself
against and by the other, and I need her to understand myself. And, when I see that there are parts of me
that are private, I find freedom. The other helps or opposes me. This is how we find ‘intersubjectivity’.
Against the other, I see what is me and what is not me.
Furthermore, there is a universal human condition. While our historical situations vary (some of us
are born slaves, some kings), there are a priori limits that outline our fundamental situation in the
universe: we live in the world, we are surrounded by others, we are mortal, and we work on our lives.
These limits are neither subjective nor objective; they have both a subjective and an objective side. They
are subjective because they are lived, and they do not exist except as human experiences. They are
objective because we all live them and we do not create these limits. Thus, every human life, no matter
how individual, has universal value. I can understand the life of an Indian, a Chinese, or an African
American. There is always a way to understand the impaired, the child, or the foreigner—if we have
enough information.
Our critics say that subjectivism leads to moral promiscuity, that we cannot judge others, and that, if
existentialism is true, we merely chose existentialism—so existentialism is not very serious. These
objections are not very good.
The first objection, you can choose anything, is not accurate. There is one thing I cannot choose: I
cannot choose to not choose! By not choosing, I choose. Compare action to making art. An artist paints
on a blank canvas. She invents. She does not have a picture to be painted or rules that must be followed;
she constructs her painting, and the painting to be made is exactly and only the picture that was made. It
is the same for moral actions. Both in art and in ethics, we cannot decide a priori what to do.
Secondly, we are told that we cannot judge others. This is partly true. Whenever a person chooses
her project sincerely and lucidly, she could not prefer another. It is also true in the sense that we do not
believe in progress. The human condition is the same everywhere. The moral problem has not changed
since the time when one could choose between slavery and emancipation.
But existentialists can judge, because all people choose in front of others. People choose who they
want to be. We can judge, then, that some choices are based on error and others on truth. This isn’t a
value judgment, but it is a fact. Some decisions are made poorly.
We can judge a man by saying he is in bad faith. Life is freedom of choice, so every person who
hides behind the excuse of his passions or behind a false determinism is acting in bad faith. As I said,
this is not a value judgment; it is just the truth. When we choose, however, we choose for all of
humankind. When I want my freedom, I want it for all people. So, when a man says that he wants to
hide his freedom behind some flimsy excuse, when a man says that he is just a slave to his passions or
causes—well, I call that man a coward. Those men who say they were destined to be here, or that the
world has a plan—I call them bastards. Kant said that the free person wants freedom for herself and for
others. That is an objective ethics—take, for example my student. His action is concrete, but his theories
are abstract. He must make a free decision, and the only thing that matters is whether his choice and his
action is done in the name of freedom.
The third objection is this: “you receive with one hand what you give to the other”, that is to say, our
values are not very serious, since we just chose them; they weren’t, I suppose, given by God or as a
universal law. I reply: I’m sorry, but existentialism is still correct. God does not exist, so values must be
invented. These are just the facts. And anyway, life still has value; it simply does not have value before
you are born. You give your life meaning by choosing what you will do with your life. Thus, you see,
there is the possibility of creating a human community.
There are two kinds of ‘humanism’. There is the humanism that makes heroes out of some and
revels in their successes. This is the humanism of the people who watch the
Olympics or revere astronauts. These people consider themselves honoured by the acts of other
people. This humanism is absurd. It is a cult that leads to fascism.
But there is another kind of humanism, which says that people can stand outside themselves and
transcend themselves. We can see ourselves in the future and pursue transcendent goals. When we step
outside ourselves, we have real knowledge and we truly exist. There is no universe other than the human
universe, the universe of human subjectivity. Existential humanism is the acknowledgement of this
subjectivity and our presence in the human world, while knowing that self-transcendence is what makes
us human. Humanists know that people make the laws that bind them; yet it is by only turning away
from herself and looking out into the world that a person realizes what it means to be human.
Existentialists do not care to prove that God does not exist. Even if God existed, it would not change
anything. That’s our point of view. We don’t think God exists, but it doesn’t really matter. Humankind
must look at itself and see that nothing can save us, not even a proof of the existence of God. In this
sense existentialism is optimistic.
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