THE POLITICS OF LYING

Socrates' introduction of the Republic's notorious “noble lie” comes near the end of Book 3 (414b-c). “We want one single, grand lie,” he says, “which will be believed by everybody - including the rulers, ideally, but failing that the rest of the city.” Grand lie? Noble lie? G. R. F. Ferrari has a good note on the issue: “The lie is grand or noble (gennaios) by virtue of its civic purpose, but the Greek word can also be used colloquially, giving the meaning 'a true-blue lie,' i.e. a massive, no-doubt-about-it lie (compare the term 'grand larceny').” This is not the only point on which there might be argument about the translation. Some prefer to “lie” the more neutral “falsehood” (which need not imply deliberate deception), others “fiction ” (perhaps trying to prescind from questions of truth and falsehood altogether). Cornford had “bold flight of invention.” I think “lie” is exactly right. But the argument for that will emerge later, in section II.

The noble lie is to serve as charter myth for Plato's good city: a myth of national or civic identity - or rather, two related myths, one grounding that identity in the natural brotherhood of the entire indigenous population (they are all autochthonous, literally born from the earth), the other making the city's differentiated class structure a matter of divine dispensation (the god who molds them puts different metals in their souls). If people can be made to believe it, they will be strongly motivated to care for the city and for each other.

The story of Er, a Pamphylian soldier who died in battle but several days later returned to life on his funeral pyre and reported what his soul had seen and heard in the world beyond, brings the Republic to a close in a visionary mode whose complexity tests the limits of understanding. For three (overlapping) reasons, the narrative raises more questions than it can answer: first, because it undertakes the profoundly ambitious task of presenting a symbolic perspective on the whole of reality, a figurative equivalent of Book 6's theme of “the contemplation of all time and all being” (486a); second, because its densely allusive texture yields a surplus of possible meanings that cannot be adequately encompassed by any single interpretation; and third, because it stands in a kind of challenging counterpoint, combining harmony and dissonance, with the rest of the Republic. Plato weaves into the account of Er's experience numerous strands from the materials of Greek philosophy, science, religion (not least, mystery religion), poetry, historiography, and even visual art. This fascinating multiplicity of sources and associations is not my primary concern here, though some pointers will be provided parenthetically as I proceed. I do, however, want to explore the character of the passage as an elaborate piece of philosophical writing, rather than as the vehicle for a set of putative authorial beliefs. While the myth’s overall significance as an ultimate (i.e., cosmic and eternal) vindication of justice looks clear enough at first sight, it leads us, I shall contend, into realms of irreducibly difficult interpretation.

The Republic is traditionally subtitled “On Justice,” and when we begin reading the dialogue, it seems clear that justice is to be its central topic. Book 1 in fact could be read as an independent dialogue specifically about justice, on the model of those Platonic dialogues devoted to the discussion of single topics, topics such as piety in the Euthyphro, the highly elusive sōphrosunē in the Charmides, or understanding in the Theaetetus. So we might imagine Book 1 as an aporetic dialogue with a central eponymous character and dedicated to an investigation of justice, a dialogue entitled perhaps “Thrasymachus” with the subtitle “On Justice,” the subtitle that Thrasyllus in fact gave to the entire Republic.

But as we read further into the dialogue, and particularly as the argument begins to develop in Book 2, the focus of the discussion appears to shift to a larger concern, a concern with the general topic of virtue, and specifically virtue in relation to individual happiness. When I was first introduced to the Republic as a student, I was told that it is about this question of the relation of virtue to happiness, either in the form of the question of the rewards of virtue or in the form of the cognate question of whether there is a conflict between duty and interest. It is in terms of this larger question that the dialogue is often presented; the surface question remains one concerning the nature of justice, but the larger question that is seen to emerge is some version of the question of whether virtue is sufficient for happiness.

A curious thing happens at the beginning of Republic 2. Socrates and Glaucon are seen to have sharply divergent opinions regarding Socrates' success in his preceding conversation with Thrasymachus. Socrates is sufficiently pleased with how things went that he is ready now to leave. He has made his argument against Thrasymachus who sought, first, to locate justice in the camp of vice and ignorance and, second, to claim for injustice greater profitability than justice (354b). To be sure, Socrates berates himself at the end of Book 1 for letting the question of the nature of justice get away and pursuing these lesser matters instead. And although he there insists - as he frequently does in Plato's dialogues - that until he has knowledge of the nature of a thing he can know nothing else about it, he registers no real doubt about the outcome of his arguments. Indeed, at 368b he says to Glaucon and Adeimantus that “in what I said to Thrasymachus I thought I showed that justice is better than injustice.” The only reason Socrates feels he must stay is because, as he observes, “you did not accept it from me.” Glaucon, and apparently Adeimantus as well, are, then, far less sanguine about Socrates' performance than Socrates himself is. What Socrates regards as a done deal, Glaucon and Adeimantus make him see as a mere “prelude” (357a).

Is it a prejudice merely of Western thinking to suppose that learning and knowledge want definition and a due measure of objectivity? Given that learning is such an important element in Confucian thought, it might seem strange that commentators such as Hall and Ames and Chad Hansen deny that Confucius is interested in the pursuit of definitions. They contrast Confucius with ancient Greek thinkers such as Aristotle, for whom definitions are key. I want to show that definition and what we call “objectivity” are among the goals of name rectification for Confucius and for practices of study in classical China. Name rectification, in turn, is best understood to be a matter of adjusting language with its objectives so that a harmony of the human and the nonhuman orders, as well as human social harmony, is the outcome. Naming is not merely a political or aesthetic phenomenon. I begin this chapter with Aristotle. It is well known that concern with definition permeates his entire corpus, but it is not so well known why definition is crucial. I say why and then contrast this with Confucius and his tradition. Although the rectification of names always serves practice, I disagree with commentators such as Ames and Hansen, who insist that Confucius is never interested in getting the “right” name that would, like a definition, align language with nonhuman nature. I argue that Confucius is concerned with this alignment, which is served by rectification.

Whether or to what degree Plato's Republic is a utopian work depends on what one means by “utopia,” a word with a notoriously wide range of meanings. I shall simply stipulate that by “utopia” I mean a description of an imagined society put forward by its author as better than any existing society, past or present. The limiting case (relevant to the Republic) is the portrayal not just of a better society but of the best society. I call a “mere utopia” a description of an ideal society meant or recognized by its author to be an impossible society - a society in some sense better than any historical society, but which could never actually exist.

Socrates calls his ideal city “Callipolis.” Did Plato think Callipolis was realizable? Did he really believe that the city he portrays in the Republic is the best human society? As with so much else in Plato, scholars disagree. One mainstream interpretation, which fits most easily the surface of the text and which I share, is that Plato intends the society described in the Republic to be a utopia that is not a mere utopia. Socrates paints a picture in words of the best human society, one difficult but not impossible to realize.

Compared with classical Athens, or indeed with any society existing today, the conditions in Callipolis are extraordinary. Communism of property, abolition of the family, tight control of every aspect of life by the philosophical ruling class, maximal “unity” of thought and feeling among the citizens – features such as these have led critics from Aristotle onward to criticize Callipolis as so contrary to human nature as to be both impossible and undesirable.

Alasdair MacIntyre argues in “Incommensurability, Truth, and the Conversation between Confucians and Aristotelians about the Virtues” that despite certain agreements about the virtues, Confucian and Aristotelian traditions are ultimately incommensurable. By this, MacIntyre means that each of these systems “has its own standard and measures of interpretation, explanation, and justification internal to itself,” so that when dealing with rival claims, there are “no shared standards and measures, external to both systems and neutral between them, to which appeal might be made to adjudicate between” them. For instance, a Confucian may notice that an act of giving fails to conform to li (ritual propriety) (e.g., one might have neglected to use both hands and bow in the act), a lack that prevents the act from being truly generous and the agent from being ren (the highest Confucian virtue – sometimes translated as benevolence, humaneness, or authoritative conduct). Such an omission, according to MacIntyre, is necessarily “invisible to the Aristotelian.” The Aristotelian, who lacks even the words to translate li, therefore would fail to see the moral shortcoming. By the same token, an Aristotelian may notice that an act fails to conform to the order of the psychê (soul) for a citizen of a polis (state), where both psychê and polis are understood in very specific teleological ways. The shortcoming is “invisible” to the Confucian because the standard is lacking – the Confucian even lacks the words for psychê and polis.

In the Republic Plato's fictional character Socrates develops an elaborate argument to support the thesis that justice pays, because only the just, not the unjust, have access to happiness. The procedure that Socrates adopts in order to make this argument is of a special sort. He derives claims about the human soul from claims that he makes about human society - the polis or “city.” It is a procedure of crucial importance within the work as a whole.

Where and how is the comparison between city and soul introduced (section I)? What developments does it subsequently undergo (section II)? In which passages of the dialogue are characteristics of the soul derived from characteristics of the city, and what are these characteristics (section III)? How far does the similarity between city and soul extend, and what does Socrates do when he comes up against its limits (section IV)? How does the fact that the procedure is analogical influence the conception of the soul (section V) and of the city (section VI) in this dialogue? What role do causal relations between city and soul have to play - city coming to be formed by soul (section VII), and soul coming to be formed by city (section VIII)?

The interpretation presented in this chapter is one that I have elsewhere substantiated against the background of the extensive scholarly literature on the topic. I can do no more than allude to this debate here. Often, where I differ from the (older) scholarly consensus, those points of difference result from a broader difference of methodology. Accordingly, I offer a brief account of my methodology in section IX. The chapter concludes with a summary of its results (section X).

At 435c-d and again at 504b ff., Socrates indicates that there is a “longer and fuller way” that one must take in order to get “the best possible view” of the soul and its virtues. But in neither passage does Socrates take this “longer way.” At 435c-d he accepts Glaucon's plea to continue with the “methods” they have used so far, giving arguments “at that level.” In the text that follows his reminder at 504b ff. he restricts himself to an indirect indication of its goals by his images of sun, line, and cave and to a programmatic outline of its first phase, the five mathematical studies. If we stay within the dramatic context of the dialogue, we can see why Socrates offers such a partial and incomplete characterization. As keen and receptive as they are on political and ethical matters, Glaucon and Adeimantus are limited interlocutors on metaphysical issues; they have not undergone the mathematical education Socrates prescribes, and they are not in a position to raise critical questions about the Forms or the structure the Forms imply for city and soul. Accordingly, in his initial willingness to forgo the “longer way” (435d) and in his later very introductory account of it, Socrates measures his words to what Glaucon and Adeimantus are prepared to understand.

Plato gives depth to character by writing in three dimensions. In the Republic's main speakers - Socrates and his two younger friends Glaucon and Adeimantus, Plato's real-life brothers - Plato characterizes fully human beings. First to the reader's sight are arguers and arguments, so the logical dimension of character becomes most immediately visible. But these men are not mere talking heads or disembodied minds. They have about them the smell of mortality, with their individual histories, personalities, and commitments. It is not just a question of what arguments are made, but of what sort of man would make a particular argument, or accept it, or long for it. Indeed, Socrates virtually begins his conversation with the brothers by saying he would respond to their arguments differently if he had a different view of their character (368a-b). We catch something of this ethical and psychological dimension of Plato's writing when, for example, Socrates must playfully defend himself in a mock trial, reminding us that one day he will be tried in deadly earnest; when Glaucon lets slip an erotic streak he would prefer not to own; when Adeimantus' limitations are implicitly revealed by having Socrates go beyond them in conversation with his more brilliant brother.

The Republic repeatedly treats eros as if it were unruly or bad and ought to be remade to be more congenial to good government. The illegality of choosing a mate for oneself, compulsory coed exercising in the nude, the imposition of eugenically determined match making, and the enforced discipline of having many sexual partners but no single partner to call “one's own” are decidedly strange institutions. Such attempts to coerce and mold eros to fit abstract justice imply a negative judgment about the political effects of ordinary erotic desire that is not in harmony with the liberated views about love and sex prevalent in most liberal democracies today. Nor are the coercive and legalistic stances toward sexual unions taken in the Republic and other political dialogues (e.g., Pol. 310bff.) in harmony with certain other dialogues of Plato, namely, the “erotic” dialogues, which literally sing the praises of eros: in the Symposium and Phaedrus, eros is said to lead upward to pure beauty and goodness. In fact, the coercive parts of the Republic are not even in harmony with other parts of the Republic itself, for - just after the erotic regimen has been legally imposed - there follows a disquisition on eros that reads like a Symposium in miniature, with a profligate, promiscuous eros providing humanity's primary mode of access to the Forms.

Both Aristotle and Confucius stress that paradigmatic persons exhibit the nature and content of ethical standards. For that reason, their views of what it is to be a paradigmatic person – and what it is to be a person at all – take on a decisive importance. Conversely, because ethics for both authors centers upon character, getting clear about the self that is formed in character will help clarify the nature of ethics in each case.

One of the starkest differences between Aristotle's and Confucius' views of the self or person is the presence of a soul doctrine in Aristotle and the absence of such a doctrine in Confucius. The soul is the primary substance or form that causes an individual to be the kind of being he or she is. Confucius does not have a soul doctrine; he never speaks of a principle of self that is distinct from, and understood by abstracting from, the body and is the cause of the individual's existence. My purpose is to make three arguments. First, habituation into virtue, social relations, and paradigmatic persons are central for both Aristotle and Confucius. Both therefore need a notion of self supportive of them. Second, Aristotle's individualistic metaphysics cannot account for the thick relations this requires. Third, the Confucian self, if entirely relationistic, cannot function as a locus of choice and agency; if fully ritualistic, cannot function as a source of moral norms that might help assess existing social proprieties.

In almost two decades of renewed interest in Confucianism, scholars such as Hall and Ames, Heiner Roetz, and Cheng Chung-ying have appealed to Western figures to help reconstruct Confucian thinking. Following this well-traveled way, I wish to argue in this book that the alliance of Confucius with Aristotle is particularly fruitful.

To talk of the good life is to talk about the kind of person one should become. Aristotle and Confucius both pursue the question of the good life, and both recognize that the question of what kind of person is happy is a question that admits a fairly definite sort of answer. Moreover, the answer of these two quite disparate masters is strikingly similar: the happy life is the life of exemplary virtue. Both thinkers emphasize virtue and the significance of exemplary individuals for training in virtue and the dependence of such training on the right sort of social-political context. Aristotle calls the person of exemplary moral virtue the phronimos; Confucius calls him the junzi. Of course, Aristotle and Confucius hardly agree on every point, and Aristotle's phronimos and Confucius' junzi present different portraits of the living moral paradigm. It is important to notice the similarities and differences and to ask which claims are genuinely normative and which are due to cultural bias. My task in all this is normatively moral as well as scholarly and comparative: I wish to ask who is right about significant ethical issues and what resources each tradition can provide where no answer is extant.