Republic

”What about this?” I said. “Would a god wish to lie, either in word or in deed, by presenting a phantom?” “I do not know,” he said. “Do you not know,” I said, “that the true lie, if one may call it that, is hated by all gods and men?” “How do you mean?” he said. “In this way,” I said, “that to lie in the most sovereign part of themselves and about the most sovereign things is what no one willingly wishes, but rather everyone fears most of all to possess it there.” “Even now,” he said, “I do not yet understand.” ”For you think,” I said, “that I am saying something solemn; but I mean that to lie and to have been deceived in the soul about the things that are, and to be ignorant, and to have and possess the lie there, is what everyone would least accept, and they hate it most of all in such a case.” “Very much so,” he said. “But indeed, most correctly, as I was just saying, this would be called the true lie: the ignorance in the soul of the one who has been deceived. For the lie in words is a kind of imitation of the affection in the soul, and an image that arises later, not a completely unmixed lie. Or is it not so?” “Entirely so.” “Then the lie in reality is hated not only by gods but also by men.” “So it seems to me.” “What then about the lie in words? When and for whom is it useful, so as not to be deserving of hatred? Is it not against enemies, and with those called friends, when through madness or some folly they attempt to do something bad, that it then becomes useful as a preventive medicine? And in those mythologies we were just speaking of, because of our not knowing where the truth lies concerning ancient things, by making the lie as like the truth as possible, do we not make it useful in this way?” “Very much so,” he said. “In which of these ways, then, is the lie useful to God? Would He lie because of not knowing ancient things, by making an imitation?” “That would be ridiculous,” he said. “Then there is no lying poet in God.” “I do not think so.” “But would He lie because of fearing His enemies?” ”Far from it.” “But because of the folly or madness of His own?” “But no one who is foolish or mad is dear to the gods,” he said. “There is then no reason for which a god would lie.” “There is not.” “Therefore, the demonic and the divine is altogether free from falsehood.” “Entirely so,” he said.

”Altogether, then, God is simple and true both in deed and in word, and He neither changes Himself nor deceives others, neither by phantoms nor by words nor by sending signs, neither awake nor in dreams.” ”So it seems to me too,” he said, “as you speak.” “Do you agree then,” I said, “that this is the second pattern in accordance with which we must speak and compose concerning the gods, namely that they are not sorcerers who change themselves, nor do they mislead us with falsehoods in word or in deed?” “I agree.” “While we praise many things in Homer, then, we shall not praise this, the sending of the dream by Zeus to Agamemnon; nor that of Aeschylus, when Thetis says that Apollo, singing at her wedding: ‘ welcomed her happy offspring, free from sickness and living long lives, and having spoken of all my fortunes as dear to the gods, he sang a paean of blessing, gladdening my heart. And I expected the divine, truthful mouth of Phoebus to be free from falsehood, teeming with prophetic art; but he, himself singing, himself present at the feast, himself saying these things, is the very one who killed my son. ‘ When anyone says such things about the gods, we shall be angry and shall not grant a chorus, nor shall we allow teachers to use them for the education of the young, if our guardians are to be god-fearing and divine, as far as it is possible for a human being to be.” “Entirely,” he said, “I agree with these patterns, and I would use them as laws.”