THE ALLEGORY OF THE CAVE

By

Plato

1

Plato, 428–348BC

2

From the Republic Book VII

Socrates: Next then, 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.

Glaucon: I see.

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Socrates: Then also see 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 if the prisoners 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: Suppose further that this cave produced an echo which

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

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

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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 and compelled

suddenly to stand, turn his neck around, look up, and then walk

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 correctly,

precisely because he has now been turned toward things that are

more real—what might be his reply?

And you may further imagine that his instructor is pointing to the

objects as they pass 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?

Glaucon: Yes, he would imagine that what he formerly saw was

truer than the objects he is now being shown.

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Socrates: And if his instructor compelled him to look straight at

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

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

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

Glaucon: Truly, this is how the prisoner would respond.

Socrates: And suppose that someone dragged him by force away

from there, dragged him upward along the steep, rugged ascent,

dragged him right up to the mouth of the cave, holding him

directly into the coming sunlight. Imagine his agitation now.

Wouldn’t he be beyond “distressed”? And when he takes in the

light, his eyes now 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 be able to see a single one of those

things 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 prison-cave and

explore his new surroundings.

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

time, the reflections of people and other objects in the water; and

only later could he clearly look upon the 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.

Glaucon: Certainly.

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Socrates: Thus, the thing he would be able to do last would be to

look directly at 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 said, he would first see the sun and then be

able to draw that conclusion.

Socrates: And when he thinks back on his first home—when he

considers what it was that passed for wisdom in the cave and what

it was that passed for wisdom among his fellow prisoners there—

don’t you suppose he would consider himself quite happy for the

change (though it was accompanied by great distress) and feel

sorry for those people still imprisoned in the cave.

Glaucon: Certainly, he would.

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

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

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

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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, what do you think would happen if he

went back down into the cave and took 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—they

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

visiting the upper world had corrupted his sight and ruined his

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

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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 that while he was still blinded and not yet

accustomed to the surrounding darkness—which would take

considerable time—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. Our

intelligent person would also recognize that these same things

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happen to the soul1 also. And so whenever she sees a soul that is

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

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

their confusion first and then go on to consider whether this

person’s soul has come out of the brighter light, and is unable to

see because they are unaccustomed and disturbed by the dark. Or,

she will consider whether this person, having turned from darkness

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

Of these two confused souls, she will certainly count the first

person happier because of their state of being and she will pity the

second. And if she happens to chuckle at the second soul, it would

not be motivated by scorn, this person has 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 they 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 turn rather toward reality—

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

brightest part of that which is: and we affirm that this is the good,

don’t we?

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 turned

around. 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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GLAUCON: IT IS A STRANGE IMAGE, AND VERY STRANGE PRISONERS INDEED, THAT YOU ARE

SHOWING TO ME,

SOCRATES: BUT THEY ARE JUST LIKE US, GLAUCON.