THE ALLEGORY OF THE CAVE

By

Plato

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Plato, 428–348BC

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From the Republic Book VII

Socrates: Let me offer an image of human nature in its being

educated or enlightened and its being uneducated or

unenlightened. I shall liken it to a condition of the following kind:

—Behold! Human beings living from birth to death in an

underground cave!

The cave has long entrance, which opens to the daylight outside.

These humans have been in this cave from childhood. Their legs

and necks are chained so that they cannot move. Thus, they can

only look at what is immediately in front of them—the cave

wall—being prevented by the chains from turning their heads even

a little. Now, above and behind these prisoners there is a fire

blazing at a distance. And between the prisoners and the fire is a

raised road-way. And more, a low wall has been built along the

road-way, like the screen which puppeteers have in front of them,

over which they show an audience their puppets.

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Glaucon: I see.

Socrates: Then imagine also that along this wall there are other

human beings, passersby, who carry with them all manner of

objects and artifacts: vessels, and statues of men, and figures of

animals made of wood and stone, and various other materials, all

of which appear above the wall as so many puppets. And as would

be expected, some of these travelers in the cave utter sounds as

they pass by while others remain silent.

Glaucon: It is a strange image and very strange prisoners indeed

that you are showing to me, Socrates.

Socrates: But they are just like us, Glaucon.

Tell me, do you suppose that these prisoners could see anything of

themselves or their fellow prisoners? Or would they see only the

shadows of themselves and the shadows of their fellows, which

are cast by the fire onto the opposite side of the cave facing them?

Glaucon: They could see only the shadows!

Socrates: And what about the various objects which are being

carried along the road-way by the travelers behind them? Would it

also be the case that they could only see the shadows of those

objects?

Glaucon: Yes, only the shadows.

Socrates: And how would the prisoners spend their time, if they

were able to discuss things with one another. Would they not

assume that the shadows were the real things, and wouldn’t they

give names to those shadows, taking them to be real?

Glaucon: Yes, indeed they would.

Socrates: Now suppose further that this cave produced an echo

which came from the side facing the prisoners. Would not the

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prisoners believe that when one of the passers-by spoke, that the

voice which they heard came from the passing shadows in front of

them?

Glaucon: No question. They would believe the voice originated

from the shadow on the wall in front of them, because it appeared

to originate from there.

Socrates: Certainly, such men as these would hold that the truth is

nothing other than the shadows of artificial things.

Glaucon: Most definitely, Socrates.

Socrates: Now let’s imagine what would naturally follow if such

men were released from their bondage and cured from their

delusions. For instance, say one man is let loose. He is forced

suddenly to stand, turn his neck around, and then escorted toward

the fire. Certainly, all of these actions would cause much pain.

And the glow from the fire would itself be intense—dazzling and

disorienting him. He would be too distressed to see properly the

objects of which he used to see only the shadows.

What do you suppose this person would say if someone were to

tell him that everything he had seen before on the cave wall was

mere illusion, so much empty nonsense? What if the prisoner were

told that he is now nearer to reality and seeing more clearly,

precisely because he has now been turned toward things that are

more real—what might be the liberated prisoner’s reply?

Now further imagine that his instructor is pointing to the objects as

they are carried by and requiring the freed prisoner to name them.

But because of the disorienting glare of the flame, will he not be

perplexed and, being in a state of shock, unable to name them?

Will he not still imagine that the shadows which he formerly saw,

which were so familiar, are truer and more real than the objects

which are now shown to him?

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Glaucon: Yes, he would incorrectly believe that what he formerly

saw was truer than the objects he is now being shown.

Socrates: And if his instructor forced him to look straight at the

light, will the freed prisoner not have pain in his eyes, compelling

him to look away? Indeed, will he not try to flee back to those

earlier things which he is able to see and make sense of?

Glaucon: Truly, this is how the distressed prisoner would

respond.

Socrates: And suppose next that his liberator dragged him by

force away from the fire, dragged him upward along the steep,

rugged ascent, dragged him right up to the mouth of the cave, and

held him directly into the coming sunlight. Imagine the freed

prisoner’s agitation now. Wouldn’t he be beyond “distressed”?

And when his eyes absorb the light, full of sun-beam for the first

time in his life, wouldn’t he be so overwhelmed by the glare of it

all that he would be as good as blind—not even able to see a single

one of those statues behind him that he was just told were real?

Glaucon: He wouldn’t be able to see them at all, at least not right

away.

Socrates: Then I suppose that he would have to grow quite

accustomed to this disoriented, aggravated state, provided that he

dares to venture further from the mouth of the cave and explore

the new surroundings outside the cave.

And once outside of the cave—if he does venture further—first he

would find it easiest to look merely at the shadows of things; after

a time, then the reflections of people and other objects in the

water; and only later could he clearly look upon things themselves.

And after that, he would find it easier to observe the heavenly

bodies and the sky itself only during the night. And so he could

look at the light of the moon and the stars rather than at the sun

and its light by day.

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Glaucon: Certainly.

Socrates: Thus, the very last thing the freed prisoner would be

able look at would be the sun itself and gaze at it without relying

on its reflection in water or any other medium, but as it is in itself.

Glaucon: Necessarily, Socrates.

Socrates: And after this he would already be in a position to

conclude that the sun is the source of the seasons and the years,

and is the steward of all things in the visible place, and is in a

certain way even the cause of all those things he and his fellow

prisoners used to see.

Glaucon: Clearly, he would first see the sun and then he would be

able to draw that conclusion.

Socrates: And consider what he would think if he were to reflect

back on his first home in the cave. When he considers what it was

that passed for wisdom in that place, don’t you suppose that he

would consider himself quite happy for the change (even though it

was accompanied by great distress) and feel sorry for those people

still imprisoned in the cave?

Glaucon: Certainly, he would be happier now and feel sorry for

those still in the cave,

Socrates: And think on this, Glaucon. In the cave, among the

captives, there was probably much honor and praise bestowed

upon those prisoners who were the cleverest at making out the

shadows on the wall and who could best remember their order and

sequence so as to correctly predict their future appearances.

Now, would our freed prisoner desire those praises and honors? In

your opinion, Glaucon, would he be at all jealous of the prisoner

most honored among prisoners? Would he be jealous of the

prisoner who held the most power among prisoners? Or would he

say, along with Homer, that he would rather be “a serf in the house

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of some landless man, or indeed anything else in the world, than

hold the opinions they hold and live the life that they do?”

Better to be the poor servant of a poor master, and to

endure anything, rather than think as they do and live in

their fashion.

Glaucon: Yes, I think that he would prefer anything over having

to live a life like theirs. He would rather suffer anything than

entertain their false notions and live in their miserable, ignorant

manner.

Socrates: Now, Glaucon, consider what would happen if he went

back down into the cave to free his comrades, taking back his old

seat among the prisoners? Wouldn’t his eyes be blinded by the

darkness, because he had come in suddenly out of the sunlight and

into the dark?

Glaucon: To be sure.

Socrates: And imagine that while he was still blind and before his

eyes could again grow used to the darkness—a process that would

take considerable time—imagine that he had to once again form

judgments about the shadows on the cave wall, perhaps in some

sort of a competition with the other prisoners. Wouldn’t he be

likely to make a fool out of himself? Being unadjusted to the

darkness of the cave, wouldn’t he appear ridiculous and be the

source of great laugher among the prisoners?

Glaucon: Yes, yes, Socrates. He would appear laughable—a silly

fool.

Socrates: The prisoners would laugh and say: “Well, up he went

with his eyes but down he came without them!”

But those prisoners wouldn’t see him just as a silly fool, Glaucon.

They would perceive him as a dangerous fool. They would believe

that visiting the upper world had corrupted his sight and ruined his

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eyes. They would therefore think it better not to ascend from the

cave. And if there was a person who was set on releasing them

from their prison and compelling them upwards—well, they would

kill this person if they could get their hands on them, so violent a

form their ignorance would take.

Glaucon: No question. They would do just that.

Socrates: Moreover, those who ascend from the cave and attain

this blissful vision, doesn’t it make sense that they would be

unwilling to descend, unwilling to engage in human affairs? For

their souls are ever eager to spend time in the upper world. This

new desire would be very natural, if our allegory may be trusted.

Glaucon: Yes, a very natural desire.

Socrates: Nor should we think it strange that there would be much

clumsiness and blundering for anyone who descends from this

blissful realm and returns to human life with all of its ills.

Certainly, he would behave in a ridiculous manner.

Now, imagine what also would happen on his returns to the cave.

Still blinded and not yet accustomed to the surrounding darkness,

imagine that he was forcibly put on trial and compelled to fight in

the law-courts, or in other places, and forced to argue about the

shadows of justice, or the mere shadows of the representations of

justice. Imagine this person being made to dispute about the

notions of justice held by people who had never seen justice itself.

It would be anything but surprising if this person were to appear a

fool.

Glaucon: Anything but surprising.

Socrates: Now, if a person were intelligent, she would remember

that the disturbance of the eyes are of two kinds and arise from

two causes: the disturbance that is produced either from coming

out of the light and then going into the darkness or the disturbance

caused by coming out of the darkness and going into the light. An

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intelligent person would also recognize that these same things

happen to the soul1 also and so whenever they see a soul that is

confused, weak, and unable to make anything out, they will not be

very quick to laugh at this person. For they will reason about this

person’s confusion first and then go on to consider whether their

soul has come out of the brighter light, and is unable to see

because they are unaccustomed and disturbed by the dark or

whether the confused person, having turned from darkness to the

day, had been dazzled and confused by an excess of light.

Of these two confused souls, the intelligent person will certainly

count the second soul happier because of their state of being and

they will pity the first soul. And if they happen to chuckle at the

first soul, it would not be motivated by scorn, for this soul has

already escaped from ignorance and come into the light.

Glaucon: That is a very good distinction, Socrates.

Socrates: Now, if I am right about all this, we must say the

following about education. Education is not what certain

professors assert it to be, when they say that they can put

knowledge into the soul which was not there before, as though

they were putting sight into blind eyes.

Glaucon: But the experts in education undoubtedly say this.

Socrates: Our argument, on the other hand, shows that the power

and capacity of learning exists in the soul already, and that organ

by which one learns is like an eye which cannot be turned form

darkness to light unless the whole body is turned. In the same way,

the soul as a whole must be turned away from the world of

change—the world of becoming—and turned rather toward reality,

the world of being. The soul must be able to endure looking at the

brightest part of that which is.

Glaucon: Indeed.

1 In Greek “Psyche”: mind, understanding, consciousness, reason.

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Socrates: And must there not be some art of this “turning

around”? This art would be most concerned with the way in which

this power and capacity can most easily and efficiently be re-

oriented. This would not be an art of “producing sight”’ rather,

this art takes as a given the fact that sight is already there but is

merely turned in the wrong direction: the soul is not looking at

what it ought to look at. This art that I am describing, Glaucon, it

would be the art of turning the soul.

Glaucon: Yes, Socrates. And such an art may be presumed to

exist.

The End

Translators used:

Alan Bloom, Desmond Lee, Benjamin Jowett

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