https://orcid.org/0000-0001-7080-4256
ABSTRACT
How should we understand ‘philosophy' in Plato’s Republic? Sarah Broadie develops a thoroughly practical notion of the philosopher's activity. Her interpretation helps with the old puzzle about the philosopher's qualification to rule. It also addresses a new problem, namely that Plato ought to have subdivided the rational part of the soul into two parts if the philosophers engage in both theoretical and practical thinking. By conceiving of wisdom in practical terms, Broadie downplays the possible conflict between theory and praxis. I argue that her account of the philosopher's conflict between needing to rule and wanting to theorise does not hold up. Therefore, ‘philosophy’ in the Republic should not be understood in purely practical terms.
Sarah Broadie develops a fascinating and completely novel interpretation of the Form of the Good in the Republic in Plato’s Sun-Like Good. However, the book’s covert hero turns out to be philosophical thinking, as practised by the philosophers. Plato’s triptych of Sun, Line, and Cave initially seems to assume intellect as given – it illuminates the objects of thought just as light illuminates the objects of vision. In hindsight, we must wonder how intellect could do so, since the Cave shows vividly that we cannot take intellect for granted. According to Broadie, Plato thus highlights the central panel, the Line. It confirms that intellect can illuminate the objects of thought by sketching how it can do so. Spelling out how the Form of the Good makes things intelligible when it serves as first unhypothetical principle in dialectic occupies most of Broadie’s attention. She interprets the Line as containing a method that Plato’s philosophers in the Republic must master if they are to be philosophers (14–20).
What, then, is the nature of philosophical thinking? How does it work and what is it good for? The distinction between the contemplative and the practical life helps to set Broadie’s fascinating answers in relief. The former revolves around the examination of theoretical questions, such as ‘what is the soul?’ or ‘what does it mean to exist?’, whereas the latter centres either on political activity or else on virtuous actions (ideally, of course, both). Corresponding to the two kinds of life, Aristotle distinguishes between theoretical and practical wisdom, the different virtues that stand at the heart of each kind of life. While the contemplative life is clearly a philosophical life, it is less clear whether Aristotle thinks we need philosophy in order to attain practical wisdom and the rest of virtue.Footnote1 In light of this distinction, we can classify Socrates’ inquiry into the nature of the virtues as theoretical: unlike many of his interlocutors, he does not seem intent on making a political success of himself, but stands aloof from such aspirations. Plato most clearly differentiates between the contemplative and the practical life in the famous digression of the Theaetetus, where Socrates firmly opposes the strictures of the latter in favour of being able to pursue arguments to their conclusions, whatever they may be. He confines philosophy to inquiry, to stilling one’s intellectual curiosity.
In the Republic, Plato deliberately upsets the dichotomy between the practical and the contemplative life. Up to Book V, wisdom has been described in practical terms. The knowledge that makes the city wise stems from the guardians, as they judge well about matters concerning “the city as a whole and the maintenance of good relations” (428c-d). Similarly, in a wise person the rational part of the soul “exercises foresight on behalf of the whole soul” (441e; see also 442c). Initially introduced as a joke in comparison to guard-dogs (376b-d), Socrates develops a rival and much more paradoxical account of wisdom, focusing on the philosophic nature of the guardians. Responding to the question whether the beautiful city could ever come into being, Socrates maintains that philosophers must rule as kings, or anyway political power and philosophy must entirely coincide (473c-e). This proposal seems outrageous because the prevalent understanding of philosophy stands in tension with political efficacy and ruling wisely (487d–488c; see also 495a–496a): philosophers may have arcane knowledge, but no practical skills. If Socrates is serious, how should we understand ‘philosophy’? Who or what is a philosopher? Glaucon’s misunderstanding of the philosopher’s proverbial love of wisdom and learning prompts Socrates to sketch in Books V–VII what a philosopher is, what they do, and how they come into being. In the light of how Socrates defines the philosopher – she has knowledge of ‘what is’ – and the description of the arduous intellectual training that future rulers must undergo, namely ten years of mathematics and five years of training in dialectic, most interpreters read the so-called ‘digression’ as carving out a special domain of theoretical knowledge by reference to which philosophers are defined.
But this theoretical understanding of philosophy raises two major problems. First, what qualifies the philosopher to rule? Why would years of mathematics and dialectical training make anyone a better ruler? Protagoras rightly questions the need for education in maths and astronomy in order to succeed at politics or at deliberating well (Protagoras 318e). Insisting that one needs to grasp what really is, which requires theoretical studies, only raises further problems about the applicability of such knowledge. More precisely, how would abstract knowledge of ‘what really is’ help ruling in the real world, a world that does not possess the clarity and stability of the philosopher’s natural objects of knowledge? Second, would the philosophers not prefer to do what their training prepares them for: theoretical philosophy? Compare again the Theaetetus: a philosopher not only lacks aptitude for matters concerning the city, but also has no interest in them (or indeed in other people, 173c-e; 174b). Instead, he tends towards general questions such as ‘what is justice?’ or ‘is a king happy?’ (175b-c) – the very same topics discussed in the Republic – without feeling the need to apply any of the results or to tease out the practical implications of the arguments, as if that would go beyond the remit of philosophy.
If the philosopher engages primarily in theoretical thinking, it comes as no surprise that the Republic describes the philosopher’s attitude in terms strikingly similar to the Theaetetus (though without likeness to god):
It isn't surprising that the ones who get to this point [sc. seeing the Form of the Good] are unwilling to occupy themselves with human affairs (ta tōn anthrōpōn prattein) and that their souls are always pressing upwards, eager to spend their time above [sc. in the intelligible realm] … What about what happens when someone turns from the contemplation of the divine (theiōn … theōriōn) to the evils of human life?
But there remains a deeper, less noticed problem. The philosopher’s natural or typical use of reason pertains to theoretical claims, insofar as knowledge is naturally set over what is (477b11; 478a13–14; 478a4–5). Therefore, practical reasoning will feel to some extent alien to her as it must include, and be about, what is perceptible, not about what is. In this vein, Socrates contrasts the philosophers with “practical people” (praktikous, 476a), as if this was not a characteristic of being a philosopher.Footnote2 The existence of two functions of reason – one theoretical, one practical – stands in tension with two important principles from Book IV. (1) When constructing the ideal city, Socrates relies on the principle of specialization. Although the philosopher does not take up any of the work performed by the other classes (which would clearly violate the principle), she nevertheless seems to perform different functions, ruling and engaging in theoretical studies. (2) If philosophers want to engage in theoretical study while at the same time forbidding themselves to pursue their research so that they may rule, then the principle of opposites, used to argue for the complexity of the soul in Book IV, would postulate two different parts of the rational part of the soul, contrary to the alleged unity of the rational part. These problems would disappear if the philosopher, once she starts ruling, neither engages in, nor hankers after theoretical philosophy. But this move puts pressure on the question why the philosophers needed to learn theoretical philosophy to begin with.
Broadie’s interpretation offers a solution to the deeper problem by arguing that ‘philosophy’ unifies what appear to be different parts of reason. She connects the practical task of reason in Book IV with the programme of Books V-VII. The ‘digression’ does not confine the philosopher’s primary interest to what we would call theoretical philosophy, but develops a programme of intellectual training that aims at practical wisdom. She begins by pointing out that the most important things to learn for the ruler are the natures of the virtues (503e–504a; reference to 441e–442d). But Book IV falls short of the required level of exactness because it tells us nothing about how the rulers should make decisions. ‘Act in accordance with the virtues!’ does not provide sufficient content for decision-making, because this would presuppose that (a) we know what the virtues are, and (b) that we can tell whether a specific action conforms to the demands of virtue. For both points, we need philosophy, as Broadie understands it:
philosophy can say something definite, even if general and abstract, about the ideal rulers’ kind of method for deciding what to prescribe. For according to Plato there is, in the area in which they have to operate, a rational method, not just hunches and intuitions and semi-articulated inferences of a well-nurtured moral sensibility; and applying the method sure-footedly is not easy. Applying it (and passing it on to future rulers) involves reflective, articulate, understanding of what one is doing. Hence access to the method and practising it well requires one to be a philosopher with special intellectual training. The rulers’ exercise of their special method, and the special training they need for this end, is what Socrates means by ‘the longer route’.
To extend dialectical training beyond providing correct definitions of virtues, the learners need opportunities to acquire reflective understanding of what should be done, a task which they face when taking up positions in the state as part of their education (years sixteen to thirty). Living in a state governed by wise rulers, they can observe the that of practical decision-making, and where decisions differ from what they would have expected, they must learn to see the reasons for the difference. Since the reasons will often be found in the context of making a particular decision, they will become more attentive to changes in context “so as to discover in it reasons for preferring one option over others” (123). Thus, the philosopher needs to become expert in a method, in a way of approaching practical situations, rather than having some kind of context-insensitive knowledge from which the right course of action could be derived. If the Form of the Good is a tool, not an object (as the traditional understanding would have it; 107–10), and philosophy is the expertise to employ the tool, then philosophy cannot be left behind when the philosophers rule. Understood as part of practical wisdom, dialectic will be part and parcel to making important decision. The rulers’ wisdom differs from its use in private life (517c) not least because the rulers come to revere the practice of asking the G-question, i.e. the Form of the Good. This reverence – Broadie’s interpretation of the rulers’ coming to see the good at the end of their education (60–1) – ensures that they never cut corners or are swayed by irrelevant factors such as their own preference or convenience.
This brief sketch ought to convey how Broadie’s interpretation differs from the standard understanding of philosophy in the Republic. As part of her explanation why the philosophers should rule, she also addresses the problem that reason seems to have two functions, practical and theoretical, where practical reason seems alien to philosophers (qua philosopher). Broadie must, of course, acknowledge these two different functions – the philosopher’s mathematical training is purely theoretical – but she denies that the Republic contains a programme for theoretical philosophy because “absorption in fundamental metaphysics and so on … would be irrelevant to the task at hand” (221), namely explaining how the conjunction of philosophy and ruling contributes to bringing about a well-ruled city. She contends:
The project of Books VI and VII was to show, even if only in a sketchy way, what ‘philosophy’ would contribute to the work of running a state. According to the argument of this book, its contribution consists in analytical and critical intelligence and unwavering commitment to rationality in reaching ethical judgments. There is no reason to think that it would include much, or any, self-consciously technical philosophy.
In the remainder of this note, I will cast some doubt on Broadie’s all-too practical conception of philosophy. If philosophy is the exercise of practical wisdom, Broadie seems hard-pressed to explain the philosophers’ reluctance to rule (519c–521b; 540b), a phenomenon that requires understanding philosophy as theoretical endeavour. Good rulers, Socrates maintains early on, would not want to rule (347b-d). To explain their attitude, Broadie contends that the philosophers must have some other, more desirable intellectual activities to which they can turn when they do not need to rule (221). This is problematic for two reasons. First, on Broadie’s interpretation, it is unclear why a philosopher must see her stint of ruling as a service that curtails her freedom to do what she loves.Footnote3 If ruling essentially involves doing philosophy, why would the philosophers, who have been trained primarily to develop and use practical wisdom, be eager to stop doing what they trained for? This would work only if those more desirable activities also count as philosophy – theoretical philosophy – and the philosophers prefer theoretical to practical philosophy. Second, without a conception of theoretical philosophy, Broadie cannot explain how we are to understand a philosopher’s lack of interest in human affairs, paired with a desire to engage in contemplation. What would it mean to be “eager to spend … time above” (517c-d) or to settle on the Isles of the Blessed before one ought to (519c), according to her?
Broadie can offer two responses, both of which are problematic. Socrates argues that the city founders must not only “compel the best natures … to make the ascent and see the good” (519c), but they must also not allow them to stay there. If we think about the Form of the Good as some outstanding object of intellect (as per standard interpretation), we can make sense of the danger: the philosophers remove themselves from practical life to spend the rest of their lives in (theoretical) contemplation of the good (and other divine things). By contrast, if the Form of the Good is merely “the form common to a certain class of questions” (50) – what would it mean that the philosopher wants to stay in the presence of the Form of the Good instead of turning to practical life? In a complex analysis of what it means to “see the Form of the Good”, Broadie distinguishes between different levels on which the philosophers can engage with the Form of the Good. While they do indeed use the G-question from their dialectical training onwards, they only come ‘see’ the Form of the Good at the end of the thirty-year education in the sense that, only then, they are forming a commitment on the meta-level to the Form of the Good as unhypothetical principle of dialectic (60–5). According to Broadie, Plato describes this moment
with special solemnity because … it is when the graduates take a vow to follow the method as such, with its characteristic G-question, in all the real-life decision-making that lies immediately ahead. This, then, is a pre-eminent moment of methodological reflection about or attention to the method.
But perhaps we can dispense with the vow. Broadie’s description of the intellectual progress in relation to the Cave does not include it (although it is working up to it). More plausibly, it maintains that “seeing the Form of the Good” is “a moment of general meta-realisation how the Form of the Good contributes to first-order dialectical inquiry” (63), where first-order inquiry primarily concerns action. In the bad case, the philosophers would want to extend the moment of taking in the glory of the good as long as they can. This account seems to reflect a familiar phenomenon, one that has haunted philosophical ethics from the get-go. While we take ancient Greek ethics to be concerned directly with how we live – and therefore to be immediately relevant for conduct – Aristotle must remind his readers of the goal of ethical theorizing: not knowledge and contemplation, but action (EN I.3; X.9). Aristotle, and those who stay at the level of theory, seem to regard the virtues etc. also as objects of intellectual pursuit. Broadie agrees, but denies that the Form of the Good, even on the meta-level, is an object: it is a tool (64). Thus understood, the reluctant philosophers would want to extend the moment of admiring their tool, testing its power, perhaps, but without wielding it in earnest. While possible, it is hard to see how this tool, an object of admiration or pride, would not be an object of intellect and intellectual inquiry. If there is a theoretical aspect to realizing how the Form of the Good works, then we are back at the standard way describing the problem: the philosophers can take pride in their cognitive achievement – we know how the good works! – which goes hand in hand with contemplating the Form of the Good not as a tool, but as some extraordinary piece of knowledge.
There is another way to explain the philosopher’s reluctance, one that keeps the Form of the Good strictly as tool. If the virtue-definitions are objects of knowledge which we come to know in the light of asking the G-question, the philosophers might worry that they have not, yet, reached the correct and indefeasible definition of justice, say, or fully grasped its implications. In fact, on Broadie’s understanding, it would be impossible for a human to grasp the form of justice in full, because
the intelligible form of e.g. justice is a sort of indefinitely complex or resourceful norm with different qualifications up its sleeve, so to speak, answering to the variety of empirical circumstances … Thus her or his knowledge of the form of justice is never complete knowledge if that means knowledge of the what and the why of what justice would demand in every possible situation.
Future interpreters of the Republic cannot ignore Broadie’s interpretation. The interrogative approach provides by far the most thorough explanation of why philosophers should rule, and how their method of making good decisions would look like. She shows convincingly how dialectic can addresses practical questions, and thereby spells out how the Republic can contain an account of practical philosophy. Her interpretation tries to do away with the theoretical aspect of philosophy, a move that would respond to the deep problem that philosophers would have to perform two potentially conflicting functions of reason. However, since her interpretation must make room for some theoretical inquiry (e.g. on the nature of the virtue), the philosopher’s reason cannot be purely practical, but must also be theoretical. It seems plausible to me that Plato was very much aware of the lures of contemplation, as the crucial passages surrounding the Cave show. As humans, we have a double nature as practical agents and contemplators. Most interpreters find only the latter in the Republic. It is the merit of Broadie’s book to have stressed the practical side of philosophy in the Republic, whether or not this is what philosophers do exclusively.
Notes
1 Arguing against the Grand End interpretation, Broadie thinks that well-brought up people who do not themselves need to be philosophers may nevertheless acquire practical wisdom (Broadie, Ethics With Aristotle, 198–202). Others, like Kraut, “In Defense of the Grand End”, argue that we need philosophical understanding of the human good to guide our actions. While the Republic undoubtedly reserves full virtue to philosophers only, Broadie denies that a crucial element of the Grand End view applies. Plato’s philosophers do not make decisions with a view to a blueprint of the good life, or even with a view to a person’s harmony of the soul. Their decisions are made at the “ground-level” (123–32).
2 The notion of ‘nature’ is notoriously elusive in the Republic. To press this point against Broadie, one would have to argue that education does not change what knowledge is naturally set over. Doing so goes beyond the confines of this note.
3 Cf. the Theaetetus on the philosopher’s leisure.
Bibliography
- Broadie, Sarah. Ethics with Aristotle. Oxford University Press, 1991. 198–202.
- Broadie, Sarah. Plato's Sun-Like Good: Dialectic in the Republic. Cambridge University Press, 2021.
- Kraut, Richard. “In Defense of the Grand End”. Ethics 103, no. 2 (1993).