Euthydemus

​SOCRATES: ”But consider: if it is neither possible to speak falsely, nor to have a false opinion, nor to be ignorant, is there anything else than that it is not even possible to make a mistake when anyone does anything? For in doing it, it is not possible to mistake that which he does. Is this not what you say?” “Quite so,” he said. “This indeed is,” I said, “now that vulgar question. For if we do not make mistakes, either in doing or in speaking or in thinking, by Zeus, if this is so, what have you come to be teachers of? Or did you not just now say that you would transmit virtue most finely to anyone among human beings who is willing to learn?” Then Dionysodorus, breaking in, said, “Are you, Socrates, such a Chronus that you now remember what we said at first, and if I said something last year, you will remember it now, but you will not know what to do with what is being said in the present?” “Indeed,” I said, “they are very difficult—and with good reason, for they are spoken by wise men—since even this last thing you say is extremely difficult to deal with. For what on earth do you mean, Dionysodorus, by ‘I do not know what to do with’? Or is it clear that you mean I do not know how to refute it? Since tell me, what else does this phrase mean to you, ‘I do not know what to do with the arguments’?” “But as to what you say,” he said, “answer instead.” “Before you answer, Dionysodorus?” I said. “Won’t you answer?” he said. “Is that indeed just?” “Just indeed,” he said. “By what argument?” I said. “Or is it clear that it is by this one: that you have now come to us as someone all-wise about arguments, and you know when it is necessary to answer and when it is not? And now you will not answer anything at all, inasmuch as you know that you ought not to?” “You babble,” he said, “neglecting to answer. But, my good man, obey and answer, since you even agree that I am wise.” “I must obey then,” I said, “and it is necessary, as it seems; for you rule. Go on and ask.” “Do those things that think have a soul, or do soulless things think too?” “Those that have a soul.” “Do you know then,” he said, “any phrase that has a soul?” “By Zeus, not I.” ”Why then did you just now ask what the phrase meant to me?” “What else,” I said, “than that I made a mistake through my stupidity? Or did I not make a mistake, but spoke this also correctly, in saying that phrases think? Do you say that I make a mistake or not?”

​SOCRATES: “For if I did not make a mistake, neither will you refute me, wise though you are, nor do you know what to do with the argument; but if I did make a mistake, not even in this case do you speak correctly in claiming that it is not possible to make a mistake. And I am not saying these things against what you said last year. But,” I said, “Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, this argument seems to remain in the same place, and still as of old, having thrown itself down, to fall; and how not to suffer this has not yet been discovered even by your art, and that too when it is so wonderful for the precision of its arguments.” And Ctesippus said, “Wonderful things you say, men of Thurii, or of Chios, or from wherever and in whatever way you delight in being named; since you care nothing about talking nonsense.” And I, fearing lest it should become an insult, again appeased Ctesippus and said, “Ctesippus, what I said just now to Cleinias, I say these same things to you also: that you do not recognize the wisdom of the strangers, how wonderful it is. But they are unwilling to show it to us in earnest, but they imitate Proteus, the Egyptian sophist, playing tricks on us. So let us imitate Menelaus, and not let the two men go until they reveal to us what they are earnest about; for I think something beautiful will appear in them, once they begin to be in earnest. Let us then beg and persuade and pray to them to reveal it. I think then that I myself should again lead the way to show how I pray for them to appear to me; for from where I left off before, I will try to go through the next part of the argument as best as I can, if in some way I might call them out, so that, taking pity and compassion on me, strained and in earnest, they too may become in earnest. And you, Cleinias,” I said, “remind me from where we left off then. Now as I think, it was somewhere here. We agreed in the end that one must philosophize; is that not so?” “Yes,” he said. “And philosophy indeed is the acquisition of knowledge; is it not so?” I said. “Yes,” he said. “What knowledge then, by acquiring it, would we acquire rightly? Is this not simple: that which will benefit us?” “Quite so,” he said. “Would it then benefit us at all, if we knew how to recognize, by going around, where on earth the most gold is buried?” “Perhaps,” he said.