The Allegory of Plato's Cave (and Our Ship)

 

In his masterwork, The Republic, the classical philosopher Plato gives one of the most famous images in literature—the cave allegory. Not only do we want to share this with you, but we also want to add our own allegory from a novella we wrote called Socrates Dances in Heaven. Not that ours is in the same league with Plato’s—but it was inspired by Plato’s image, and this is our way of paying tribute to a great work.

First, here’s Plato (Book VII of The Republic, right at the beginning), putting an image about education in the mouth of his teacher, Socrates (the "I" in the dialogue), as Socrates discusses justice with Glaucon, one of Plato’s brothers:

"Let’s compare our own education and understanding of the world to people in a cave—to human beings in an underground, cave-like dwelling with a long and wide entrance open toward the light. From childhood on, the people who live in this cave have their legs and necks chained so that they can see only straight ahead in front of them. The chains keep them from turning their heads in any other direction.

"The only light in the cave is from a fire burning far above the people and behind them. Between the fire and the chained people there’s a road, built on a kind of stage structure such as you find in theaters—again above and behind the people—along which move other people and animals, some carrying things, some not, some speaking, some not."

"This is a bizarre image of of bizarre prisoners," Glaucon said.

"But they’re just like us," I replied. "Do you think they can see anything of themselves and one another? Or do they merely see the images or shadows that fall on the side of the cave facing them, cast by the fire above them?"

"How could they see one another," Glaucon said, "if they’re forced to keep their heads turned in one direction throughout their whole lives?"

"And what about the shadows on the wall [the men and animals that the shadows on the wall represent that can’t be seen either]? Isn’t it the same with them?"

"Certainly."

"And if the chained people happened to talk to each other, wouldn’t they think it right to give names and descriptions to the shadows they saw in front of them, projected on the cave wall?"

"Of course they would."

"And what if the cave had an echo, so that the side facing the chained people seemed to produce a sound? Whenever one of the men walking above and behind them spoke, would the chained people believe anything other than that the shadow on the wall was addressing them?"

"No, by Zeus," Glaucon said, "I don’t think they’d believe anything else."

"Then for sure," I said, "what the chained people held to be the truth would be nothing more than shadows."

"Certainly," Glaucon assented.

"Now let’s imagine," I said, "what freedom from their chains would be like. Suppose one of the chained people, a man, was released and immediately forced to stand up and look toward the light. He’d necessarily be doing this in pain, because the light would be dazzling. At first, he wouldn’t be able to make out the shapes of the men and animals walking up on the elevated road in front of him—which he’d seen before only as shadows.

"What do you suppose this man would say if someone told him that he’d only been looking at shadows and now he was seeing real things? And how would the man reply if he were asked to describe the nature of these real things [the shadows of which he’d been looking at all his life]? Wouldn’t he feel at a loss? And wouldn’t he be tempted to think that what he’d looked at all his life must be truer than what he’s seeing right now?"

"Yes," replied Glaucon.

"What if the man were forced to look right into the light of the fire? Wouldn’t it hurt his eyes? Wouldn’t he turn away from it? And further, wouldn’t he turn back to the shadows, thinking them more clear and therefore more true than the light itself?"

"Of course he would," Glaucon said.

"Now," I said, "what if someone were to drag that man up to the light, forcing him through a steep and rugged ascent into the light itself—where he couldn’t see anything and his eyes hurt? Wouldn’t the man be distressed, even angry? And wouldn’t he be unable to see anything, even what was being presented to him as the truth of things?

"At least at the begininng, he couldn’t see anything," Glaucon agreed.

"He’d need time and practice, perhaps learning to perceive the truth in stages—first seeing the dim images of things as he had with shadows before, maybe then seeing things reflected in water, and then finally being able to look at the real men and animals that had before just been shadows on his cave wall. As for the bright sky, he’d have to start by looking at it first at night, seeing only the light of the moon and stars, and that way gradually accustom his sight to the full light of day."

"Of course."

"Then as he was able to see the sun, he’d be able to contemplate its nature, to realize that it was the source of seasons and light and the shadows that he and his cave companions had been staring at all their lives."

"Yes, he’d no doubt arrive at this conclusion."

"And wouldn’t this man, being awake to the light, think that his original home lacked real knowledge? And wouldn’t he feel happy at his own transformation and pity those back in the cave?"

"Without a doubt."

"How do you think he’d feel as he thought back on the honors and awards given to those whose perception in the cave was sharpest? Do you think he’d want those honors and awards? Would he envy those cave-dwellers who received prizes because they could make out the shadows better than anyone else or see which shadow came first and which next? Or would he rather undergo anything, even menial labor, rather than think and live the way the cave-dwellers lived?"

"He’d probably rather suffer anything than go back to living the cave-dweller way," Glaucon said.

"Now, let’s imagine what would happen if that man returned to his place in the cave. Wouldn’t his eyes be blinded, as a man coming into darkness suddenly from sunlight?"

"Very much so."

"And what if the man—before his cave-sight returned—were to try to compete with other cave-dwellers about the shadows? Wouldn’t he seem ridiculous to the others? And during the time while his sight was adapting to the darkness, wouldn’t his former friends say that his sight had been ruined by going up to the light? And that he should never try to go back up to the light again, because it would destroy his sight again? Might not his friends even say that anyone who tried to lead him back to the light ought to be stopped, even killed if they could legally kill him?"

"There’s no question about it."

"All right, then. Let’s take this whole allegory and apply it to everything we’ve said so far. What we see with our eyes and experience through our senses is like the cave, while the sun, the center of the universe, is like the fire that illumines the cave. As you probably expect—and I agree with your expectations—the ascent from the cave is like the soul’s ascent to the Realm of Ideas. Of course, just because we agree on this doesn’t make it true; there may be some god or power somewhere who knows the truth about these things. But this is the way it appears to me: that of all the subjects of human knowledge, the last and most difficult to be seen is the Idea of the Good.

"But once seen, it is clear that the Idea of the Good is the source of everything. In the visible realm, it’s the source of physical light, and in the consciousness realm, it’s the source of truth and wisdom. And any person who wants to act with justice, either personally or publicly, must see it."

[The rendition we use here is our own, though we recommend translations by Allan Bloom and Robin Waterfield. It’s always useful to compare translations of Plato’s works. By the way, if the classical scholar R. E. Allen produces a translation, get it; he’s one of our favorite translators.]

Now here’s our "ship allegory" from our novella, Socrates Dances in Heaven. Socrates is talking with William Shakespeare, Benjamin Franklin, and the fourth-century Alexandrian philosopher Hypatia:

Socrates pauses to stare at her a moment. "That’s a wonderful image, Hypatia. And it makes me recall a fable I once used."

"You used fables, Socrates?" Shakespeare asks.

"Yes, of course. What you now possess as Plato’s work, The Republic, is one long fable. Plato and I, as well as others who worked with us, realized that if we were to tap the highest capacities of human thought, we needed to appeal not only to higher reason but also to what you would call higher intuition and higher emotions. So we used fables and stories and allegories. May I tell you one?"

They all agree that he should.

"Well," Socrates begins, "there is a bark, a great ship, I think you would say, afloat on a great ocean. The ship speeds ahead on a great voyage with a grand purpose, though some of its passengers are not aware of the purpose or they have forgotten it over time, especially those sitting inside.

"The inside-sitters, or insiders I’ll call them, enjoy the comfort of the inside, so they seldom if ever leave it. They don’t go out into the sea air, so at times they even forget they’re afloat. Some who have been inside for many years even deny that they are afloat. Or they allow that they may be afloat but that they are simply drifting on the sea, with no purpose at all.

"Outside are those who stand in the wind and sometimes the cold. They stare ahead and try to see as much of the ship’s grand purpose as their individual vision will allow. They expand their perspective as much as possible, seeing as much of the ship as they can, studying the insiders and the outsiders. They study the sea, and they stare into the space before them, sometimes seeing a beautiful morning, sometimes a dark night, sometimes calm, sometimes a storm.

"They sense that, for some reason or other that they can only dimly recall, this is their job. They are to be at this post. In my day, we called such persons philosophers. For my fable, I shall call them Watchers.

"Now a problem arises; let’s say a storm is coming or perhaps the ship is about to hit some huge obstacle, a rock or—

"An iceberg?" Hypatia ventures.

"I’m not certain what an iceberg is," Socrates replies, "But an iceberg will do. So the outsiders notice that something is strange in the sea before them, and they try to determine the source of the strangeness. They may disagree as to the source, but they agree that something is amiss and that they should get someone to turn the ship.

"So some of the outsiders go inside and try to warn the insiders. But feeling nothing, the insiders are skeptical. They want the Watchers to go away, so they ignore them, even grumbling that the Watchers are implying that the ship is going in some direction it shouldn’t be, while the insiders claim that the ship is going in no direction at all, so it either can’t be in trouble or the trouble is simply that it is directionless, and there’s nothing anyone can do about that.

"The Watchers, of course, realize that if they remain with these insiders, the ship will go down, and all will perish, including the insiders. So they try to find those who can change the direction of the ship, those who, though living inside, are not mere insiders but have committed themselves to running the ship.

"Now those who run the ship are of three types. First and foremost are those who are good, expert guides and know navigation, and these have selflessly stood at their posts to guide the ship through difficult or calm waters.

"The second type is represented by those who, though committed to running the ship, lack either the training or the experience. They have the dedication, but they lack the knowledge or they are untried.

"The last type is represented by those who—either with knowledge or without knowledege of running the ship—want to run it for their own imagined gain. They focus only on themselves, and so almost perversely, they try to deceive the insiders about what’s really happening. Worse, they try to thwart the Watchers by blocking their watching or by keeping the Watchers away from the insiders.

"So the immediate task for the Watchers is to contact the selfless ones while avoiding the selfish ones, though the latter sometimes disguise themselves as the former, making the task more difficult. Further, the Watchers must try to find those who have both the knowledge and experience to turn the ship.

"To make matters more difficult, the Watchers must try to inform the insiders about what’s really happening, so that as the ship turns, the insiders can go with it, rather than joining the selfish ones in trying to turn the ship to some lesser aim. Since the selfish ones try to deceive the insiders, some insiders will take the selfish ones to be their saviors, following the selfish ones in great movements, blocking the work of the Watchers.

"But the Watchers never quit. They know their work is difficult, but they also know what it is, and they know the types of people who inhabit the ship. Even more, they know their own character, and they’ve learned through hard trials how to be consistent with that character."

As Socrates pauses, apparently finished, Franklin says, "This is a fine image, my friend. Is this where we find ourselves in our work on this planet?"

"I think so," replies Socrates. "We find ourselves struggling with the deceivers and the insiders, but we must never, even in a crisis, lose sight of the ship’s great destiny and our role in that destiny."

Hypatia puts her hand on her friend’s shoulder. "This is an allegory of which Plato himself would be proud, I think."

"I hope so," replies Socrates.