Reading: Socrates' Death and Plato's Theory of Forms

We now come to a famous character in the history of Greece: Socrates of Athens. Plato, a great admirer of Socrates, is the primary author who writes about him. Some scholars believe, based on certain evidence, that Plato might have been related to Socrates, perhaps as a nephew. Regardless of their potential familial ties, it's evident that Plato held Socrates in high esteem, admiring him for his philosophical prowess, kindness, and debating skills.

Many wondered if Socrates was one of the Sophists. I touched on this topic earlier when discussing the Sophists. There were clear distinctions between Socrates and the Sophists. Notably, while Sophists charged for their teachings, Socrates did not. He frequented the marketplace, engaged in conversations, and imparted his wisdom without ever requesting payment. He was often skeptical of popular views in Athens. In several dialogues, Plato depicted Socrates outwitting those who claimed vast knowledge, humbling them in public. It's likely that Socrates' ability to out-argue his peers irritated many, leading to trumped-up charges against him. He was accused of corrupting the youth and atheism, implying disbelief in the recognized gods of Greece. However, Plato's portrayal suggests Socrates was innocent.

Presented by Plato, Socrates was a man who recognized his own ignorance. He consistently challenged prevailing ideas about morality, justice, and virtue. His debates often left his opponents flustered. Other accounts, like those from the playwright Aristophanes, also attest to Socrates' real-life presence and his knack for vexing others.

Socrates was put on trial in Athens, where a simple majority from 413 jurors could convict. He was found guilty and sentenced to death for the alleged corruption and atheism. However, it's crucial to understand that death sentences were often circumvented by bribes, resulting in release or, at worst, exile. But Socrates, in respect for the law, declined to offer a bribe and willingly drank poison hemlock, leading to his death. Plato documented this poignant moment with deep emotion.

Plato's depiction reveals a scene where Socrates, imprisoned and awaiting his fate, contemplates death. He hypothesizes about the nature of death, suggesting it's either a state of nonexistence or a passage to another realm. In the latter, he imagines meeting ancient heroes and continuing his quest for true knowledge. He expresses hope and courage, emphasizing that true virtue is protected by the divine.

Plato's account moves further into Socrates' final moments, detailing his interaction with the jailer who brings the fatal poison. Despite the tragic situation, Socrates remains composed, showing gratitude and understanding even towards the man administering his death. Before consuming the poison, Socrates, recalling a ritual in Athenian culture, inquires about making a libation—an offering to the gods.

That's the libation? Shall we share it among us who may or may not partake? The jailer answered, "We only prepare the cup. Sovereignties. That's all we are empowered to do." "I understand," he said, "but I may and must ask the gods for a safe journey from this to the other world." After offering a prayer, he raised the cup to his lips and readily, cheerfully drank the poison. Up until that point, most of us had controlled our sorrow. But seeing him drink and realizing he had finished it, we lost control. I couldn't help but cry, covering my face, devastated at the thought of losing such a friend. I wasn't the first; Crito, unable to restrain his tears, stood up and I followed. At that moment, Apollodorus, who had been crying all along, broke into loud sobs, affecting us all. Only Socrates remained calm. "Why this outburst?" he said. "I sent the women away to avoid this very display. I've been told a man should die peacefully. Quiet down and show patience." Ashamed, we wiped our tears. Socrates walked around until his legs weakened, then he lay down as instructed. The man administering the poison examined him, pressing his foot hard. "Do you feel that?" he asked. "No," Socrates replied. As the coldness moved upwards, he commented, "When the poison reaches my heart, it will be the end." As the cold reached his upper body, he unveiled his face and uttered his last words, "Crito, I owe a rooster to Asclepius. Will you ensure the debt is paid?" "The debt will be paid," Crito answered. "Anything else?" Socrates didn't respond. Moments later, attendants uncovered him; his eyes had lost their light. Crito closed his eyes and mouth. Thus ended the life of our friend. I can confidently say he was the wisest, justest, and best man I've known—a heartfelt tribute from Plato to his admired mentor and the philosopher he aspired to emulate.

The early dialogues of Plato predominantly feature Socrates.

Plato writes for a general audience; his technical lectures have been lost to time. We know people traveled globally to attend his renowned lecture on 'the good,' which surprisingly focused on mathematics. We rely on secondary accounts for this since the lecture itself was lost. His popular writings, intended for the Athenian intelligentsia, have survived in the form of dialogues. A topic arises, a claim is made, and intense discussion follows, with Socrates invariably emerging as the superior debater, steering the conversation toward truth.

In later dialogues, Socrates recedes into the background. Plato, although ever reluctant to name himself, reflects on issues Socrates raised, pondering three centuries of philosophical debate. Plato formulated his inquiries based on his predecessors and personal experiences. For instance, he questions how we conceive concepts without sensory input? Or how can linguistic terms have meaning if there's no reference in reality?

For example, consider mathematics. In geometry, how do we conceptualize a one-dimensional line or a dimensionless point? We never encounter these in reality, yet we have distinct ideas of them. Similarly, where does our understanding of abstract concepts like the square root come from?

Another quandary is the semantics of expressions like "the present King of France." Since France has no king, how do we assign meaning to such phrases?

In essence, Plato's work continuously strives to understand the nature of knowledge, language, and existence.

I can understand what it means, even though there's no such thing. I could use one word to summarize this; I could say, "I'm going to use 'Prance' to mean 'the present King of France'". How do I arrive at that idea? Where do I get that concept? This is similar to the earlier question we posed about lines and points. We don't perceive lines and points with our senses, so how do we form the concept? Plato would argue that lines and points do exist, even if we don't perceive them. We reference them in geometry all the time. But now we delve deeper. What about things that don't exist at all? Unlike lines and points, which exist but we don't perceive, how do we conceptualize things that don't exist at all?

Like "Prance", representing the "present King of France". There's no such person.

So, how is it that our terms have meaning? Plato seems to argue that the most intuitive way to define the meaning of a term is to claim that the meaning of a term is its referent. That is, whatever the term refers to constitutes its meaning. By this logic, if a term lacks a referent, like "the present King of France", it should be devoid of meaning. Yet, such terms do bear meaning.

How is that possible?

Furthermore, how are comparative judgments possible? By "comparative judgment", I refer to situations like being shown five different paintings in a gallery. As one of a panel of judges, I am tasked with ranking them based on their artistic merit. I must decide which is the finest, second finest, and so on. How do I make this decision? Am I comparing the paintings to each other? It might not be that straightforward, especially if the paintings vary significantly in terms of subject and style. When asked to choose the most beautiful, what benchmark am I using for comparison? If it's just the other paintings, that implies I've already had some standard against which to judge them. This conundrum isn't exclusive to art. Consider a council voting on city laws. If presented with several proposals, say, regarding holidays, how do I determine which is the fairest or most just? What standard am I comparing them against?

"That may not strike you as a severe problem. It struck Plato. It was a very important one. Severe? I'm going to come to one last question.

All right.

How can qualities be in many places at once?

Weren't these questions you probably would not have thought of? In other words, he's asking a question: this shirt's blue. And there are other things around this room that are blue. Now, any real object, like the shirt, the windows, a tree, the wall of a house, this desk – real objects – are only in one place at one time. But these qualities of things are in many places at the same time. There are a lot of things that are blue, green, square, triangular, heavy, or light. The list goes on and on. The qualities can be all over the place at the same time, true of many things at once. A thing can only be itself, and it can only be in one place at one time. But qualities aren't like that at all. In science, we usually refer to these as properties of things. Qualities or properties; it's interchangeable. How do we explain that, though? How do things have these characteristics, and the characteristics are all over the place at the same time, true of many things at once? But the things are not like that. They can only be in one place at one time. I'm not going to go on – there are more questions that he raises. But this is enough to give you the idea that you've got somebody with a really inquiring mind looking around the world, reflecting on his mathematics lessons, reflecting on how language, terms, and language seem to acquire their meanings, reflecting on objects and their qualities, properties, and raising all sorts of questions. Now, what's fascinating about this is that Plato came up with a theory, one hypothesis that answers them all. And that's why he found it so convincing. One hypothesis is going to answer every one of those questions and more. You should understand that we evaluate any theory by how well it explains what it intends to explain. Remember earlier, I exposed as a fallacy the idea that in science we test a theory with experiments and if the experiments turn out the way we expect, the theory is proven once and for all. That's not true at all. A successful experiment lends credence to a theory. It's a confirming instance of the theory. But it doesn't prove the theory is true beyond all doubt. And it isn't usually the grounds on which the theory is believed. The experiment is just additional confirmation that we're on the right track. But what convinces people about a theory is how well it explains what it was devised to explain. And here's another kicker: sometimes we propose a theory to explain X, Y, and Z. And we try to show that it explains them pretty well. And in the course of doing that, we discover it also explains A, B, and C. And we didn't even expect that. When it explains what it was invented to explain thoroughly and well, and then on top of that, explains something else it wasn't devised to explain, it begins to look like we've really hit on a feature of reality as it is. And we find that convincing. One of the most convincing features a theory can have. So, what is the theory that Plato proposes here that answers every one of these questions and more?

It's a theory that he calls the theory of the forms.

And by forms, Plato means principles of organization. This is what gives matter its form or shape or organization. In another realm – in the realm of the forms – not the world we live in. Here's the world we live in: we live in the world with trees, mountains, houses, and other people. This is the world of physical things known by sense perception. What gives matter its organization here are the forms in this other realm.

In other words, for every kind of organization, matter can take on in this world, the physical world that we perceive, there's a perfect form for that thing in the other world. This perfect form organizes the matter into that specific kind of thing. So, there is the perfect form for being a tree in the form world. And that's what influences the matter in this world to assume the form of a tree.

Another way to think of form is this: think about a cookie cutter. You have the cookie cutter, the perfect form. You press it down on the cookie dough, and out comes an imperfect cookie. It's not exactly like the form, but the form has given it organization so that now it looks like a star, half moon, or whatever the cutter was supposed to impose on the dough. That's how these forms work. So, in the form world, there's the perfect form for what it is to be a house. And when that combines with matter, you get a physical house that we sense and perceive. There's a perfect form for what it is to be a human being. In fact, there's a perfect form for every object and quality that can exist.

Now, it's crucial to understand that in Plato's theory, the world of forms is more real than the physical world. This means that the real, true essence of things – their real identity – resides in the world of the forms, not in our everyday reality. The world of forms is eternal, unchanging, and perfect. And this, Plato thought, is the reality to which the true philosopher should turn. It's a world of ideas rather than a world of matter.

And that, in a nutshell, is Plato's theory of the forms. It's a profound, revolutionary idea, and one that has had an enormous influence on Western thought."