Republic

​As for the violation of oaths and treaties, which Pandarus committed, if anyone says it came about through Athena and Zeus, we shall not praise it; nor shall we praise the strife and judgment of the gods through Themis and Zeus; nor again, as Aeschylus says, must the young be allowed to hear that: “God implants a cause in mortals, whenever He wills utterly to destroy a house.” But if anyone composes a poem containing these iambic verses, namely the sufferings of Niobe, or those of the Pelopidae, or the Trojan tales, or any other of such things, we must either not allow them to say these are the works of a god, or if they are of a god, they must discover for them pretty much the explanation we are now seeking, and it must be said that God did what was just and good, and they were benefited by being punished. But that those who pay the penalty are wretched, and that the one who did these things was God, the poet must not be allowed to say. But if they should say that because they were in need of punishment, the bad were wretched, and by paying the penalty they were benefited by God, it must be allowed. But as for saying that God, being good, becomes the cause of evils to anyone, we must fight against this in every way, so that no one may say these things in his own city, if it is to be well-governed, nor anyone hear them, whether younger or older, whether telling myths in meter or without meter, as things that would be neither holy to be said if they were said, nor beneficial to us, nor consistent with themselves.” “I cast my vote with you for this law,” he said, “and it pleases me.” “This then,” I said, “would be one of the laws and patterns concerning the gods, in accordance with which those who speak must speak and those who compose must compose: that God is not the cause of all things, but of the good things.” “And indeed it is sufficient,” he said. ”What then of this second one? Do you think God is a sorcerer and capable of appearing, as if by design, at different times in different forms, now becoming Himself and changing His own shape into many forms, and now deceiving us and making us believe such things about Him? Or is He simple and least of all likely to step out of His own form?” “I cannot say so at present,” he said. “What about this? Is it not necessary, if anything steps out of its own form, that it is changed either by itself or by another?” “It is necessary.” “Then are those things that are in the best state least altered and moved by another?”

”For example, a body by food and drink and toil, and every plant by the sun’s heat and winds and such experiences, is it not the healthiest and strongest that is least altered?” “How could it not be?” “And as for the soul, would not the bravest and wisest least be disturbed and altered by any external experience?” “Yes.” “And indeed, surely all composite things—vessels, buildings, and garments—by the same reasoning, those well made and in good condition are least altered by time and other experiences.” “That is so.” ”Everything then that is in a good condition, either by nature or by art or both, admits the least change by another.” “It seems so.” “But indeed God and the things of God are in every way in the best state.” “How could they not be?” “In this way, then, God would least of all have many forms.” “Least of all, indeed.” “But would He change and alter Himself?” “Clearly so,” he said, “if indeed He is altered.” “Does He then change Himself for the better and more beautiful, or for the worse and uglier than Himself?” ”Necessarily for the worse,” he said, “if indeed He is altered; for surely we shall not say that God is lacking in beauty or virtue.” “You speak most rightly,” I said. “And this being so, does it seem to you, Adeimantus, that anyone, whether of gods or men, would willingly make himself worse in any way?” “It is impossible,” he said. “It is impossible then,” I said, “even for a god to wish to alter himself; but as it seems, being most beautiful and best to the limit of possibility, each of them remains always simply in his own form.” “Every necessity, indeed, seems so to me,” he said. ”Let no one of the poets, then, my excellent friend,” I said, “tell us that: ‘ Gods, in the likeness of strangers from abroad, appearing in all kinds of shapes, visit the cities; ‘ nor let anyone lie about Proteus and Thetis, nor introduce Hera in tragedies or other poems altered as a priestess collecting alms for: ‘ the life-giving children of the Argive river Inachus; ‘ and let them not tell us many other such falsehoods. Nor again let mothers, persuaded by these things, frighten their children, telling the myths badly, as though certain gods go about at night, appearing in the likeness of many strangers and of all kinds, so that they may not at once blaspheme against the gods and make their children more cowardly.” “Indeed, they must not,” he said. “But,” I said, “are the gods themselves such as not to change, but they make us think they appear in all kinds of shapes, deceiving and bewitching us?” “Perhaps,” he said.