This is a modern-English version of Lysis, originally written by Plato. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

Scroll to the bottom of this page and you will find a free ePUB download link for this book.

LYSIS

By Plato

Translated by Benjamin Jowett

INTRODUCTION.

LYSIS, OR FRIENDSHIP

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE

INTRODUCTION.

No answer is given in the Lysis to the question, 'What is Friendship?' any more than in the Charmides to the question, 'What is Temperance?' There are several resemblances in the two Dialogues: the same youthfulness and sense of beauty pervades both of them; they are alike rich in the description of Greek life. The question is again raised of the relation of knowledge to virtue and good, which also recurs in the Laches; and Socrates appears again as the elder friend of the two boys, Lysis and Menexenus. In the Charmides, as also in the Laches, he is described as middle-aged; in the Lysis he is advanced in years.

No answer is given in the Lysis to the question, 'What is Friendship?' just like there’s no answer in the Charmides to the question, 'What is Temperance?' The two Dialogues share some similarities: both have a youthful vibe and an appreciation for beauty; they are also rich in their depictions of Greek life. The question about the connection between knowledge, virtue, and goodness comes up again, which is also seen in the Laches; and Socrates appears once more as the older friend of the two boys, Lysis and Menexenus. In the Charmides, as well as in the Laches, he is portrayed as middle-aged; while in the Lysis, he is older.

The Dialogue consists of two scenes or conversations which seem to have no relation to each other. The first is a conversation between Socrates and Lysis, who, like Charmides, is an Athenian youth of noble descent and of great beauty, goodness, and intelligence: this is carried on in the absence of Menexenus, who is called away to take part in a sacrifice. Socrates asks Lysis whether his father and mother do not love him very much? 'To be sure they do.' 'Then of course they allow him to do exactly as he likes.' 'Of course not: the very slaves have more liberty than he has.' 'But how is this?' 'The reason is that he is not old enough.' 'No; the real reason is that he is not wise enough: for are there not some things which he is allowed to do, although he is not allowed to do others?' 'Yes, because he knows them, and does not know the others.' This leads to the conclusion that all men everywhere will trust him in what he knows, but not in what he does not know; for in such matters he will be unprofitable to them, and do them no good. And no one will love him, if he does them no good; and he can only do them good by knowledge; and as he is still without knowledge, he can have as yet no conceit of knowledge. In this manner Socrates reads a lesson to Hippothales, the foolish lover of Lysis, respecting the style of conversation which he should address to his beloved.

The Dialogue consists of two scenes or conversations that don’t seem to relate to each other. The first is a talk between Socrates and Lysis, who, like Charmides, is an Athenian youth from a noble family, known for his great beauty, goodness, and intelligence. This conversation takes place while Menexenus is away participating in a sacrifice. Socrates asks Lysis if his parents love him a lot. "Of course they do." "Then surely they let him do whatever he wants." "Not at all; even the slaves have more freedom than he does." "How can that be?" "The reason is that he’s not old enough." "No; the real reason is that he’s not wise enough. Aren’t there things he’s allowed to do, while there are others he’s not?" "Yes, because he knows how to do the first ones and doesn’t know the others." This leads to the conclusion that people everywhere will trust him with what he knows, but not with what he doesn’t know; in those areas, he won't be of any use to them. No one will care for him if he can’t benefit them, and he can only help them through knowledge. Since he still lacks knowledge, he can’t yet have any illusions about it. In this way, Socrates gives a lesson to Hippothales, the foolish admirer of Lysis, about how he should speak to his beloved.

After the return of Menexenus, Socrates, at the request of Lysis, asks him a new question: 'What is friendship? You, Menexenus, who have a friend already, can tell me, who am always longing to find one, what is the secret of this great blessing.'

After Menexenus came back, Socrates, at Lysis's request, asked him a new question: 'What is friendship? You, Menexenus, who already have a friend, can tell me—I’m always looking for one—what is the secret of this amazing blessing.'

When one man loves another, which is the friend—he who loves, or he who is loved? Or are both friends? From the first of these suppositions they are driven to the second; and from the second to the third; and neither the two boys nor Socrates are satisfied with any of the three or with all of them. Socrates turns to the poets, who affirm that God brings like to like (Homer), and to philosophers (Empedocles), who also assert that like is the friend of like. But the bad are not friends, for they are not even like themselves, and still less are they like one another. And the good have no need of one another, and therefore do not care about one another. Moreover there are others who say that likeness is a cause of aversion, and unlikeness of love and friendship; and they too adduce the authority of poets and philosophers in support of their doctrines; for Hesiod says that 'potter is jealous of potter, bard of bard;' and subtle doctors tell us that 'moist is the friend of dry, hot of cold,' and the like. But neither can their doctrine be maintained; for then the just would be the friend of the unjust, good of evil.

When one man loves another, who is the friend—the one who loves or the one who is loved? Or are both friends? From the first idea, they are led to the second; and from the second to the third; and neither the two boys nor Socrates are satisfied with any of these options or all of them. Socrates consults the poets, who say that God brings together similar things (Homer), and the philosophers (Empedocles), who also claim that similar things are friends. But the bad people are not friends, as they aren’t even like themselves, let alone like each other. And the good don’t need one another, so they don’t care about each other. Moreover, some argue that similarity causes aversion, while dissimilarity brings love and friendship; they also cite poets and philosophers to back their claims. Hesiod says that 'a potter is envious of another potter, a bard of another bard;' and clever thinkers tell us that 'the moist is the friend of the dry, the hot of the cold,' and so on. But this view can’t hold up either; otherwise, the just would be friends with the unjust, and the good with the evil.

Thus we arrive at the conclusion that like is not the friend of like, nor unlike of unlike; and therefore good is not the friend of good, nor evil of evil, nor good of evil, nor evil of good. What remains but that the indifferent, which is neither good nor evil, should be the friend (not of the indifferent, for that would be 'like the friend of like,' but) of the good, or rather of the beautiful?

Thus, we come to the conclusion that similar things are not friends with similar things, nor are unlike things friends with unlike things; therefore, good isn’t friends with good, nor evil with evil, nor good with evil, nor evil with good. What is left but that the indifferent, which is neither good nor evil, should be a friend (not to the indifferent, because that would be 'like friends with like,' but) to the good, or rather to the beautiful?

But why should the indifferent have this attachment to the beautiful or good? There are circumstances under which such an attachment would be natural. Suppose the indifferent, say the human body, to be desirous of getting rid of some evil, such as disease, which is not essential but only accidental to it (for if the evil were essential the body would cease to be indifferent, and would become evil)—in such a case the indifferent becomes a friend of the good for the sake of getting rid of the evil. In this intermediate 'indifferent' position the philosopher or lover of wisdom stands: he is not wise, and yet not unwise, but he has ignorance accidentally clinging to him, and he yearns for wisdom as the cure of the evil. (Symp.)

But why should those who are indifferent care about what is beautiful or good? There are situations where such an attachment would make sense. Imagine the indifferent, like the human body, wanting to get rid of something bad, like a disease, which isn’t essential but only incidental to it (because if the bad were essential, the body wouldn’t be indifferent anymore; it would be evil)—in this case, the indifferent becomes aligned with the good in order to eliminate the bad. This is the intermediate 'indifferent' position of the philosopher or lover of wisdom: he isn't wise but not completely unwise either; he has ignorance that's just hanging on to him, and he longs for wisdom as a way to heal the bad. (Symp.)

After this explanation has been received with triumphant accord, a fresh dissatisfaction begins to steal over the mind of Socrates: Must not friendship be for the sake of some ulterior end? and what can that final cause or end of friendship be, other than the good? But the good is desired by us only as the cure of evil; and therefore if there were no evil there would be no friendship. Some other explanation then has to be devised. May not desire be the source of friendship? And desire is of what a man wants and of what is congenial to him. But then the congenial cannot be the same as the like; for like, as has been already shown, cannot be the friend of like. Nor can the congenial be the good; for good is not the friend of good, as has been also shown. The problem is unsolved, and the three friends, Socrates, Lysis, and Menexenus, are still unable to find out what a friend is.

After this explanation was received with enthusiastic agreement, a new sense of dissatisfaction started to take hold of Socrates: Mustn't friendship exist for some deeper reason? And what could that ultimate reason for friendship be, other than the good? But we desire the good only as a remedy for evil; therefore, if there were no evil, there would be no friendship. So, a different explanation has to be created. Could desire be the root of friendship? And desire is about what someone wants and what fits with them. But then, what fits can't be exactly the same as what is similar; because, as has been previously shown, like cannot be the friend of like. Nor can what fits be the good; because good is not the friend of good, as has also been demonstrated. The issue remains unresolved, and the three friends, Socrates, Lysis, and Menexenus, are still unable to discover what a friend truly is.

Thus, as in the Charmides and Laches, and several of the other Dialogues of Plato (compare especially the Protagoras and Theaetetus), no conclusion is arrived at. Socrates maintains his character of a 'know nothing;' but the boys have already learned the lesson which he is unable to teach them, and they are free from the conceit of knowledge. (Compare Chrm.) The dialogue is what would be called in the language of Thrasyllus tentative or inquisitive. The subject is continued in the Phaedrus and Symposium, and treated, with a manifest reference to the Lysis, in the eighth and ninth books of the Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle. As in other writings of Plato (for example, the Republic), there is a progress from unconscious morality, illustrated by the friendship of the two youths, and also by the sayings of the poets ('who are our fathers in wisdom,' and yet only tell us half the truth, and in this particular instance are not much improved upon by the philosophers), to a more comprehensive notion of friendship. This, however, is far from being cleared of its perplexity. Two notions appear to be struggling or balancing in the mind of Socrates:—First, the sense that friendship arises out of human needs and wants; Secondly, that the higher form or ideal of friendship exists only for the sake of the good. That friends are not necessarily either like or unlike, is also a truth confirmed by experience. But the use of the terms 'like' or 'good' is too strictly limited; Socrates has allowed himself to be carried away by a sort of eristic or illogical logic against which no definition of friendship would be able to stand. In the course of the argument he makes a distinction between property and accident which is a real contribution to the science of logic. Some higher truths appear through the mist. The manner in which the field of argument is widened, as in the Charmides and Laches by the introduction of the idea of knowledge, so here by the introduction of the good, is deserving of attention. The sense of the inter-dependence of good and evil, and the allusion to the possibility of the non-existence of evil, are also very remarkable.

Thus, like in the Charmides and Laches, and several other dialogues of Plato (especially compare the Protagoras and Theaetetus), no conclusion is reached. Socrates keeps up his persona as a 'know nothing;' meanwhile, the boys have already grasped the lesson he can't teach them, and they don’t suffer from the arrogance of knowledge. (Compare Chrm.) The dialogue is what Thrasyllus would call tentative or inquisitive. The topic continues in the Phaedrus and Symposium and is discussed, with a clear reference to the Lysis, in the eighth and ninth books of Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics. As in other works by Plato (for example, the Republic), there’s a progression from unconscious morality, shown through the friendship of the two youths and the sayings of the poets ('who are our fathers in wisdom,' yet only provide us with half the truth and in this particular case are not much improved upon by the philosophers), to a broader understanding of friendship. However, this concept is still far from clear. Two ideas seem to be at odds in Socrates' mind: first, the belief that friendship stems from human needs and wants; second, that the higher form or ideal of friendship exists solely for the sake of the good. It’s also a truth supported by experience that friends don’t have to be either similar or different. But the terms 'like' or 'good' are too narrowly defined; Socrates has let himself be swayed by a sort of erratic or illogical reasoning that no definition of friendship could withstand. Throughout the argument, he distinguishes between property and accident, which is a valid contribution to the study of logic. Some higher truths emerge through the fog. The way the discussion expands, as in the Charmides and Laches with the introduction of the concept of knowledge, is similar here with the introduction of the good, and is worth noting. The notion of the interdependence of good and evil, along with the reference to the possibility of the non-existence of evil, is also quite significant.

The dialectical interest is fully sustained by the dramatic accompaniments. Observe, first, the scene, which is a Greek Palaestra, at a time when a sacrifice is going on, and the Hermaea are in course of celebration; secondly, the 'accustomed irony' of Socrates, who declares, as in the Symposium, that he is ignorant of all other things, but claims to have a knowledge of the mysteries of love. There are likewise several contrasts of character; first of the dry, caustic Ctesippus, of whom Socrates professes a humorous sort of fear, and Hippothales the flighty lover, who murders sleep by bawling out the name of his beloved; there is also a contrast between the false, exaggerated, sentimental love of Hippothales towards Lysis, and the childlike and innocent friendship of the boys with one another. Some difference appears to be intended between the characters of the more talkative Menexenus and the reserved and simple Lysis. Socrates draws out the latter by a new sort of irony, which is sometimes adopted in talking to children, and consists in asking a leading question which can only be answered in a sense contrary to the intention of the question: 'Your father and mother of course allow you to drive the chariot?' 'No they do not.' When Menexenus returns, the serious dialectic begins. He is described as 'very pugnacious,' and we are thus prepared for the part which a mere youth takes in a difficult argument. But Plato has not forgotten dramatic propriety, and Socrates proposes at last to refer the question to some older person.

The dialectical interest is fully supported by the dramatic elements. First, take a look at the setting, which is a Greek wrestling school during a sacrifice, with the Hermaea festival being celebrated; second, observe Socrates' typical irony, where he says, just like in the Symposium, that he knows nothing about most things but claims to understand the mysteries of love. There are also various character contrasts: the dry, sarcastic Ctesippus, whom Socrates humorously admits to being slightly afraid of, and Hippothales, the lovestruck romantic who can't sleep because he keeps shouting the name of his beloved; there's a comparison between Hippothales’ false, over-the-top, sentimental love for Lysis and the innocent, childlike friendships between the boys. There seems to be a distinction between the more talkative Menexenus and the quiet, straightforward Lysis. Socrates engages Lysis with a unique form of irony, often used when talking to children, which involves asking a question that leads to an answer opposite to what the question suggests: ‘Your parents obviously let you drive the chariot?’ ‘No, they don’t.’ When Menexenus comes back, serious dialogue begins. He is described as 'very combative,' preparing us for the role a young person plays in a tough debate. But Plato maintains dramatic appropriateness, and Socrates ultimately suggests they consult an older person about the question.

SOME QUESTIONS RELATING TO FRIENDSHIP.

FRIENDSHIP QUESTIONS.

The subject of friendship has a lower place in the modern than in the ancient world, partly because a higher place is assigned by us to love and marriage. The very meaning of the word has become slighter and more superficial; it seems almost to be borrowed from the ancients, and has nearly disappeared in modern treatises on Moral Philosophy. The received examples of friendship are to be found chiefly among the Greeks and Romans. Hence the casuistical or other questions which arise out of the relations of friends have not often been considered seriously in modern times. Many of them will be found to be the same which are discussed in the Lysis. We may ask with Socrates, 1) whether friendship is 'of similars or dissimilars,' or of both; 2) whether such a tie exists between the good only and for the sake of the good; or 3) whether there may not be some peculiar attraction, which draws together 'the neither good nor evil' for the sake of the good and because of the evil; 4) whether friendship is always mutual,—may there not be a one-sided and unrequited friendship? This question, which, like many others, is only one of a laxer or stricter use of words, seems to have greatly exercised the minds both of Aristotle and Plato.

The topic of friendship is less important today than it was in the ancient world, partly because we place greater significance on love and marriage. The very meaning of the word has become shallower and more superficial; it feels almost like it's borrowed from ancient times and has largely faded from modern discussions on Moral Philosophy. The classic examples of friendship mostly come from the Greeks and Romans. As a result, the complex questions that arise from friendships haven't been seriously examined in modern times. Many of these questions are similar to those discussed in the Lysis. We might ask, along with Socrates: 1) Is friendship formed between similar or different people, or both? 2) Does this bond exist only among good people and for the sake of goodness? Or 3) is there some unique attraction that draws together those who are neither good nor bad for the sake of the good as well as because of the bad? 4) Is friendship always mutual, or can there be one-sided and unreciprocated friendship? This question, like many others, is mainly about a looser or stricter use of language, and has clearly engaged the thoughts of both Aristotle and Plato.

5) Can we expect friendship to be permanent, or must we acknowledge with Cicero, 'Nihil difficilius quam amicitiam usque ad extremum vitae permanere'? Is not friendship, even more than love, liable to be swayed by the caprices of fancy? The person who pleased us most at first sight or upon a slight acquaintance, when we have seen him again, and under different circumstances, may make a much less favourable impression on our minds. Young people swear 'eternal friendships,' but at these innocent perjuries their elders laugh. No one forms a friendship with the intention of renouncing it; yet in the course of a varied life it is practically certain that many changes will occur of feeling, opinion, locality, occupation, fortune, which will divide us from some persons and unite us to others. 6) There is an ancient saying, Qui amicos amicum non habet. But is not some less exclusive form of friendship better suited to the condition and nature of man? And in those especially who have no family ties, may not the feeling pass beyond one or a few, and embrace all with whom we come into contact, and, perhaps in a few passionate and exalted natures, all men everywhere? 7) The ancients had their three kinds of friendship, 'for the sake of the pleasant, the useful, and the good:' is the last to be resolved into the two first; or are the two first to be included in the last? The subject was puzzling to them: they could not say that friendship was only a quality, or a relation, or a virtue, or a kind of virtue; and they had not in the age of Plato reached the point of regarding it, like justice, as a form or attribute of virtue. They had another perplexity: 8) How could one of the noblest feelings of human nature be so near to one of the most detestable corruptions of it? (Compare Symposium; Laws).

5) Can we expect friendship to last forever, or should we agree with Cicero that "nothing is harder than for friendship to endure to the end of life"? Isn't friendship, even more than love, likely to be influenced by fleeting whims? The person who impressed us the most at first glance or after a brief encounter might leave a much less positive impression when we see them again in different situations. Young people often promise "eternal friendships," but their elders laugh at these innocent false oaths. No one sets out to end a friendship, yet throughout a varied life, it's almost certain that many changes in feelings, opinions, locations, occupations, and fortunes will separate us from some people while bringing us closer to others. 6) There's an old saying, "He who has friends has no friend." But isn’t some less exclusive form of friendship more fitting for human nature? Especially for those without family ties, couldn’t this feeling extend beyond one or a few individuals to include everyone we meet, and perhaps in some passionate and lofty souls, to all humanity? 7) The ancients categorized friendship into three types: "for the sake of pleasure, usefulness, and the good." Should the last one be broken down into the first two, or do the first two fall under the last? This topic puzzled them; they couldn’t agree that friendship was merely a quality, a relationship, a virtue, or a type of virtue; and during Plato's time, they hadn’t come to see it, like justice, as a form or attribute of virtue. They faced another dilemma: 8) How could one of the noblest emotions of human nature be so close to one of its most despicable corruptions? (Compare Symposium; Laws).

Leaving the Greek or ancient point of view, we may regard the question in a more general way. Friendship is the union of two persons in mutual affection and remembrance of one another. The friend can do for his friend what he cannot do for himself. He can give him counsel in time of difficulty; he can teach him 'to see himself as others see him'; he can stand by him, when all the world are against him; he can gladden and enlighten him by his presence; he 'can divide his sorrows,' he can 'double his joys;' he can anticipate his wants. He will discover ways of helping him without creating a sense of his own superiority; he will find out his mental trials, but only that he may minister to them. Among true friends jealousy has no place: they do not complain of one another for making new friends, or for not revealing some secret of their lives; (in friendship too there must be reserves;) they do not intrude upon one another, and they mutually rejoice in any good which happens to either of them, though it may be to the loss of the other. They may live apart and have little intercourse, but when they meet, the old tie is as strong as ever—according to the common saying, they find one another always the same. The greatest good of friendship is not daily intercourse, for circumstances rarely admit of this; but on the great occasions of life, when the advice of a friend is needed, then the word spoken in season about conduct, about health, about marriage, about business,—the letter written from a distance by a disinterested person who sees with clearer eyes may be of inestimable value. When the heart is failing and despair is setting in, then to hear the voice or grasp the hand of a friend, in a shipwreck, in a defeat, in some other failure or misfortune, may restore the necessary courage and composure to the paralysed and disordered mind, and convert the feeble person into a hero; (compare Symposium).

Stepping away from the Greek or ancient perspective, we can look at the question in a broader sense. Friendship is the bond between two people based on mutual affection and remembrance of one another. A friend can do things for their friend that they can't do for themselves. They can offer advice in tough times; they can help them see themselves as others see them; they can stand by them when the whole world is against them; they can uplift and enlighten them just by being there; they can share their sorrows and multiply their joys; they can anticipate their needs. They’ll find ways to support them without feeling superior; they’ll understand their mental struggles, but only so they can help. Among true friends, jealousy doesn’t exist: they don’t complain about each other making new friends, or about not sharing every detail of their lives; (in friendship, some things must be kept private); they don’t intrude on one another, and they genuinely celebrate each other's good fortune, even if it means sacrifice for the other. They might live apart and have limited contact, but when they reunite, the bond remains just as strong—it's said that they find each other always the same. The real value of friendship isn’t in daily interaction, since that's often not feasible; it’s during those significant moments in life when a friend’s advice is crucial. Whether it’s guidance on behavior, health, marriage, or business, a letter from afar written by someone impartial who sees things more clearly can be priceless. When someone is feeling lost and despair is creeping in, just hearing a friend’s voice or holding their hand in a time of crisis, defeat, or misfortune can restore the necessary courage and calm to a troubled mind, transforming a vulnerable person into a hero; (see Symposium).

It is true that friendships are apt to be disappointing: either we expect too much from them; or we are indolent and do not 'keep them in repair;' or being admitted to intimacy with another, we see his faults too clearly and lose our respect for him; and he loses his affection for us. Friendships may be too violent; and they may be too sensitive. The egotism of one of the parties may be too much for the other. The word of counsel or sympathy has been uttered too obtrusively, at the wrong time, or in the wrong manner; or the need of it has not been perceived until too late. 'Oh if he had only told me' has been the silent thought of many a troubled soul. And some things have to be indicated rather than spoken, because the very mention of them tends to disturb the equability of friendship. The alienation of friends, like many other human evils, is commonly due to a want of tact and insight. There is not enough of the Scimus et hanc veniam petimusque damusque vicissim. The sweet draught of sympathy is not inexhaustible; and it tends to weaken the person who too freely partakes of it. Thus we see that there are many causes which impair the happiness of friends.

It's true that friendships can be disappointing: sometimes we expect too much from them; other times we get lazy and don't maintain them; or when we get close to someone, we see their flaws too clearly and lose respect for them, and they lose their affection for us. Friendships can be too intense or too delicate. One person's selfishness might overwhelm the other. A word of advice or comfort can be given too forcefully, at the wrong time, or in the wrong way; or it might not be recognized as needed until it's too late. Many troubled individuals silently think, "If only he had told me." Some things should be hinted at rather than explicitly stated because just mentioning them can disturb the balance of friendship. The estrangement of friends, like many other human issues, often comes from a lack of tact and understanding. There's not enough of the give-and-take mentality. The sweet ability to empathize isn't endless, and it can drain the person who relies on it too much. So, we see that there are many factors that affect the happiness of friends.

We may expect a friendship almost divine, such as philosophers have sometimes dreamed of: we find what is human. The good of it is necessarily limited; it does not take the place of marriage; it affords rather a solace than an arm of support. It had better not be based on pecuniary obligations; these more often mar than make a friendship. It is most likely to be permanent when the two friends are equal and independent, or when they are engaged together in some common work or have some public interest in common. It exists among the bad or inferior sort of men almost as much as among the good; the bad and good, and 'the neither bad nor good,' are drawn together in a strange manner by personal attachment. The essence of it is loyalty, without which it would cease to be friendship.

We can hope for a nearly divine friendship, like what philosophers sometimes imagine, but what we actually find is very human. The beauty of it is inherently limited; it doesn't replace marriage and offers more comfort than a solid foundation. It’s best if it’s not rooted in financial responsibilities, as those tend to ruin friendships more than help them. It tends to last longest when both friends are equal and independent, or when they share a common goal or interest. It exists among both less admirable people as much as among those who are good; the bad, the good, and those who are neither are strangely drawn together by personal connections. The core of it is loyalty, without which it wouldn’t be true friendship.

Another question 9) may be raised, whether friendship can safely exist between young persons of different sexes, not connected by ties of relationship, and without the thought of love or marriage; whether, again, a wife or a husband should have any intimate friend, besides his or her partner in marriage. The answer to this latter question is rather perplexing, and would probably be different in different countries (compare Sympos.). While we do not deny that great good may result from such attachments, for the mind may be drawn out and the character enlarged by them; yet we feel also that they are attended with many dangers, and that this Romance of Heavenly Love requires a strength, a freedom from passion, a self-control, which, in youth especially, are rarely to be found. The propriety of such friendships must be estimated a good deal by the manner in which public opinion regards them; they must be reconciled with the ordinary duties of life; and they must be justified by the result.

Another question 9) might come up: can friendship safely exist between young people of different genders who aren't related and aren't thinking about love or marriage? Also, should a wife or husband have any close friends outside of their partner? The answer to this second question is quite complicated and likely varies from one country to another (see Sympos.). While we recognize that significant benefits can arise from these friendships, as they can help develop the mind and expand one's character, we also acknowledge that they come with many risks. This ideal of Heavenly Love requires a strength, a lack of passion, and self-control that are often hard to find in youth. The appropriateness of such friendships largely depends on how public opinion views them; they need to align with everyday responsibilities and must be validated by their outcomes.

Yet another question, 10). Admitting that friendships cannot be always permanent, we may ask when and upon what conditions should they be dissolved. It would be futile to retain the name when the reality has ceased to be. That two friends should part company whenever the relation between them begins to drag may be better for both of them. But then arises the consideration, how should these friends in youth or friends of the past regard or be regarded by one another? They are parted, but there still remain duties mutually owing by them. They will not admit the world to share in their difference any more than in their friendship; the memory of an old attachment, like the memory of the dead, has a kind of sacredness for them on which they will not allow others to intrude. Neither, if they were ever worthy to bear the name of friends, will either of them entertain any enmity or dislike of the other who was once so much to him. Neither will he by 'shadowed hint reveal' the secrets great or small which an unfortunate mistake has placed within his reach. He who is of a noble mind will dwell upon his own faults rather than those of another, and will be ready to take upon himself the blame of their separation. He will feel pain at the loss of a friend; and he will remember with gratitude his ancient kindness. But he will not lightly renew a tie which has not been lightly broken...These are a few of the Problems of Friendship, some of them suggested by the Lysis, others by modern life, which he who wishes to make or keep a friend may profitably study. (Compare Bacon, Essay on Friendship; Cic. de Amicitia.)

Yet another question, 10). Accepting that friendships can't always last forever, we might ask when and under what circumstances they should end. It would be pointless to keep the label of friendship when the reality is gone. It might be better for both friends to part ways whenever their relationship starts to fizzle out. However, this raises the question of how these friends from youth or from the past should see each other or be seen by one another. They are separated, but there are still mutual responsibilities between them. They won't let the outside world share in their differences any more than in their friendship; the memory of an old bond, like the memory of someone who has passed away, holds a kind of sacredness for them that they won’t allow others to intrude upon. Also, if they were ever truly worthy of the title of friends, neither will harbor any hatred or dislike for the other who once meant so much to them. Nor will either of them, through any subtle hints, reveal the personal secrets, big or small, that an unfortunate mistake has made accessible to them. A person of noble character will focus on their own faults rather than those of another and will be willing to take the blame for their separation. They will feel sorrow at losing a friend and will remember their past kindness with gratitude. But they won't easily restore a connection that hasn’t been easily broken...These are a few of the Problems of Friendship, some of which are prompted by the Lysis, others by modern life, that anyone who wants to make or keep a friend may find useful to explore. (Compare Bacon, Essay on Friendship; Cic. de Amicitia.)

LYSIS, OR FRIENDSHIP

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE:

Socrates, who is the narrator, Menexenus, Hippothales, Lysis, Ctesippus.

SCENE: A newly-erected Palaestra outside the walls of Athens.

SCENE: A newly-built gym outside the walls of Athens.

I was going from the Academy straight to the Lyceum, intending to take the outer road, which is close under the wall. When I came to the postern gate of the city, which is by the fountain of Panops, I fell in with Hippothales, the son of Hieronymus, and Ctesippus the Paeanian, and a company of young men who were standing with them. Hippothales, seeing me approach, asked whence I came and whither I was going.

I was heading straight from the Academy to the Lyceum, planning to take the outer road that runs more closely to the wall. When I reached the back gate of the city, near the fountain of Panops, I ran into Hippothales, the son of Hieronymus, Ctesippus the Paeanian, and a group of young men who were with them. When Hippothales saw me coming, he asked where I was coming from and where I was headed.

I am going, I replied, from the Academy straight to the Lyceum.

I said I'm heading straight from the Academy to the Lyceum.

Then come straight to us, he said, and put in here; you may as well.

Then come directly to us, he said, and put it here; you might as well.

Who are you, I said; and where am I to come?

Who are you? I asked. And where am I supposed to go?

He showed me an enclosed space and an open door over against the wall. And there, he said, is the building at which we all meet: and a goodly company we are.

He showed me a small room and an open door against the wall. And there, he said, is the place where we all gather: and we are a great group.

And what is this building, I asked; and what sort of entertainment have you?

And what is this building, I asked; and what kind of entertainment do you have?

The building, he replied, is a newly erected Palaestra; and the entertainment is generally conversation, to which you are welcome.

The building, he said, is a new gym; and the usual entertainment is conversation, which you’re welcome to join.

Thank you, I said; and is there any teacher there?

Thank you, I said; and is there a teacher there?

Yes, he said, your old friend and admirer, Miccus.

Indeed, I replied; he is a very eminent professor.

Indeed, I replied; he is a very distinguished professor.

Are you disposed, he said, to go with me and see them?

Are you willing, he said, to come with me and see them?

Yes, I said; but I should like to know first, what is expected of me, and who is the favourite among you?

Yes, I said; but I would like to know first, what is expected of me, and who is the favorite among you?

Some persons have one favourite, Socrates, and some another, he said.

Some people have one favorite, Socrates, and others have another, he said.

And who is yours? I asked: tell me that, Hippothales.

And who do you belong to? I asked. Let me know, Hippothales.

At this he blushed; and I said to him, O Hippothales, thou son of Hieronymus! do not say that you are, or that you are not, in love; the confession is too late; for I see that you are not only in love, but are already far gone in your love. Simple and foolish as I am, the Gods have given me the power of understanding affections of this kind.

At this, he flushed; and I said to him, "Oh Hippothales, son of Hieronymus! Don't say whether you are or aren't in love; that confession is too late. I can see that you are not only in love but are already deep into it. Simple and foolish as I am, the gods have given me the ability to understand these kinds of feelings."

Whereupon he blushed more and more.

He blushed more and more.

Ctesippus said: I like to see you blushing, Hippothales, and hesitating to tell Socrates the name; when, if he were with you but for a very short time, you would have plagued him to death by talking about nothing else. Indeed, Socrates, he has literally deafened us, and stopped our ears with the praises of Lysis; and if he is a little intoxicated, there is every likelihood that we may have our sleep murdered with a cry of Lysis. His performances in prose are bad enough, but nothing at all in comparison with his verse; and when he drenches us with his poems and other compositions, it is really too bad; and worse still is his manner of singing them to his love; he has a voice which is truly appalling, and we cannot help hearing him: and now having a question put to him by you, behold he is blushing.

Ctesippus said: I love seeing you blush, Hippothales, and hesitate to tell Socrates the name; when, if he spent just a little time with you, you’d have bugged him to death talking about nothing else. Seriously, Socrates, he has literally deafened us and covered our ears with praises of Lysis; and if he’s a bit tipsy, there's a good chance we'll be kept awake by him shouting Lysis. His prose is bad enough, but that’s nothing compared to his poetry; when he floods us with his poems and other works, it’s really too much; and even worse is how he sings them to his crush; he has a truly awful voice, and we can’t help but hear him: and now, after you’ve asked him a question, look, he’s blushing.

Who is Lysis? I said: I suppose that he must be young; for the name does not recall any one to me.

Who is Lysis? I said: I guess he has to be young; because the name doesn’t ring a bell for me.

Why, he said, his father being a very well-known man, he retains his patronymic, and is not as yet commonly called by his own name; but, although you do not know his name, I am sure that you must know his face, for that is quite enough to distinguish him.

Why, he said, since his father is a very well-known man, he keeps his last name and isn't usually referred to by his first name yet; but, even if you don't know his name, I'm sure you recognize his face, because that's more than enough to identify him.

But tell me whose son he is, I said.

He is the eldest son of Democrates, of the deme of Aexone.

He is the oldest son of Democrates, from the district of Aexone.

Ah, Hippothales, I said; what a noble and really perfect love you have found! I wish that you would favour me with the exhibition which you have been making to the rest of the company, and then I shall be able to judge whether you know what a lover ought to say about his love, either to the youth himself, or to others.

Ah, Hippothales, I said; what a beautiful and truly ideal love you’ve discovered! I wish you would share the display you’ve been presenting to everyone else, so I can see if you really understand what a lover should express about his love, whether to the beloved or to others.

Nay, Socrates, he said; you surely do not attach any importance to what he is saying.

No, Socrates, he said; you can't possibly think what he's saying is important.

Do you mean, I said, that you disown the love of the person whom he says that you love?

Do you mean, I asked, that you reject the love of the person he claims you love?

No; but I deny that I make verses or address compositions to him.

No; but I refuse to say that I write poems or direct works to him.

He is not in his right mind, said Ctesippus; he is talking nonsense, and is stark mad.

He’s not thinking clearly, Ctesippus said; he’s talking nonsense and is completely crazy.

O Hippothales, I said, if you have ever made any verses or songs in honour of your favourite, I do not want to hear them; but I want to know the purport of them, that I may be able to judge of your mode of approaching your fair one.

O Hippothales, I said, if you’ve ever written any verses or songs to praise your favorite, I don’t want to hear them; but I want to know what they mean, so I can understand how you go about impressing your lovely one.

Ctesippus will be able to tell you, he said; for if, as he avers, the sound of my words is always dinning in his ears, he must have a very accurate knowledge and recollection of them.

Ctesippus can fill you in, he said; because if, as he claims, the sound of my words is constantly ringing in his ears, he must have a clear understanding and memory of them.

Yes, indeed, said Ctesippus; I know only too well; and very ridiculous the tale is: for although he is a lover, and very devotedly in love, he has nothing particular to talk about to his beloved which a child might not say. Now is not that ridiculous? He can only speak of the wealth of Democrates, which the whole city celebrates, and grandfather Lysis, and the other ancestors of the youth, and their stud of horses, and their victory at the Pythian games, and at the Isthmus, and at Nemea with four horses and single horses—these are the tales which he composes and repeats. And there is greater twaddle still. Only the day before yesterday he made a poem in which he described the entertainment of Heracles, who was a connexion of the family, setting forth how in virtue of this relationship he was hospitably received by an ancestor of Lysis; this ancestor was himself begotten of Zeus by the daughter of the founder of the deme. And these are the sort of old wives' tales which he sings and recites to us, and we are obliged to listen to him.

"Yes, absolutely," said Ctesippus. "I know all too well; and the story is quite ridiculous. Even though he’s a lover and deeply in love, he has nothing special to talk about with his beloved that a child couldn’t say. Isn’t that silly? He can only mention Democrates' wealth, which everyone in the city knows about, and grandfather Lysis, and the other ancestors of the young man, and their stable of horses, and their victories at the Pythian Games, and at the Isthmus, and at Nemea with four horses and single horses—these are the stories he creates and repeats. And there’s even more nonsense. Just the other day, he wrote a poem describing the feast of Heracles, who was related to the family, explaining how, because of this relationship, he was warmly welcomed by one of Lysis’ ancestors; this ancestor was himself fathered by Zeus through the daughter of the founder of the district. And this is the kind of old wives' tales he sings and recites to us, and we have to listen to him."

When I heard this, I said: O ridiculous Hippothales! how can you be making and singing hymns in honour of yourself before you have won?

When I heard this, I said: Oh, ridiculous Hippothales! How can you be composing and singing hymns in praise of yourself before you’ve even won?

But my songs and verses, he said, are not in honour of myself, Socrates.

But my songs and verses, he said, are not for my own glory, Socrates.

You think not? I said.

You don't think so? I said.

Nay, but what do you think? he replied.

No, but what do you think? he replied.

Most assuredly, I said, those songs are all in your own honour; for if you win your beautiful love, your discourses and songs will be a glory to you, and may be truly regarded as hymns of praise composed in honour of you who have conquered and won such a love; but if he slips away from you, the more you have praised him, the more ridiculous you will look at having lost this fairest and best of blessings; and therefore the wise lover does not praise his beloved until he has won him, because he is afraid of accidents. There is also another danger; the fair, when any one praises or magnifies them, are filled with the spirit of pride and vain-glory. Do you not agree with me?

I'm sure those songs are all about you; if you win your beautiful love, your words and songs will bring you glory and will truly be hymns of praise dedicated to you for winning such a love. But if he slips away, the more you praised him, the more ridiculous you'll seem for losing such a precious blessing. Because of this, a wise lover doesn't praise their beloved until they've secured their affection, fearing any misfortune. There's also another risk; when someone praises or elevates the beautiful, they often become filled with pride and vanity. Don’t you agree?

Yes, he said.

Yeah, he said.

And the more vain-glorious they are, the more difficult is the capture of them?

And the more full of themselves they are, the harder it is to catch them?

I believe you.

I trust you.

What should you say of a hunter who frightened away his prey, and made the capture of the animals which he is hunting more difficult?

What should you think of a hunter who scared off his prey and made it harder to catch the animals he’s chasing?

He would be a bad hunter, undoubtedly.

He would definitely be a terrible hunter.

Yes; and if, instead of soothing them, he were to infuriate them with words and songs, that would show a great want of wit: do you not agree.

Yes; and if, instead of calming them down, he were to anger them with words and songs, that would show a serious lack of sense, wouldn’t you agree?

Yes.

And now reflect, Hippothales, and see whether you are not guilty of all these errors in writing poetry. For I can hardly suppose that you will affirm a man to be a good poet who injures himself by his poetry.

And now think about it, Hippothales, and see if you're not responsible for all these mistakes in writing poetry. Because I can hardly believe that you'd say a person is a good poet if their poetry harms them.

Assuredly not, he said; such a poet would be a fool. And this is the reason why I take you into my counsels, Socrates, and I shall be glad of any further advice which you may have to offer. Will you tell me by what words or actions I may become endeared to my love?

"Definitely not," he said; that kind of poet would be an idiot. And this is why I include you in my conversations, Socrates, and I would appreciate any additional advice you might have. Can you tell me what words or actions might win my love?

That is not easy to determine, I said; but if you will bring your love to me, and will let me talk with him, I may perhaps be able to show you how to converse with him, instead of singing and reciting in the fashion of which you are accused.

That's not easy to figure out, I said; but if you could bring your love to me and let me talk to him, I might be able to show you how to communicate with him, instead of singing and reciting like you've been accused of.

There will be no difficulty in bringing him, he replied; if you will only go with Ctesippus into the Palaestra, and sit down and talk, I believe that he will come of his own accord; for he is fond of listening, Socrates. And as this is the festival of the Hermaea, the young men and boys are all together, and there is no separation between them. He will be sure to come: but if he does not, Ctesippus with whom he is familiar, and whose relation Menexenus is his great friend, shall call him.

No problem bringing him, he replied; if you just go with Ctesippus into the Palaestra, sit down, and chat, I think he’ll come on his own. He really enjoys listening, Socrates. Plus, since it’s the Hermaea festival, all the young men and boys are gathered together with no separation among them. He’s bound to show up; but if he doesn’t, Ctesippus, who he knows well and who is a close friend of Menexenus, will call him.

That will be the way, I said. Thereupon I led Ctesippus into the Palaestra, and the rest followed.

That will be the way, I said. Then I led Ctesippus into the Palaestra, and the others followed.

Upon entering we found that the boys had just been sacrificing; and this part of the festival was nearly at an end. They were all in their white array, and games at dice were going on among them. Most of them were in the outer court amusing themselves; but some were in a corner of the Apodyterium playing at odd and even with a number of dice, which they took out of little wicker baskets. There was also a circle of lookers-on; among them was Lysis. He was standing with the other boys and youths, having a crown upon his head, like a fair vision, and not less worthy of praise for his goodness than for his beauty. We left them, and went over to the opposite side of the room, where, finding a quiet place, we sat down; and then we began to talk. This attracted Lysis, who was constantly turning round to look at us—he was evidently wanting to come to us. For a time he hesitated and had not the courage to come alone; but first of all, his friend Menexenus, leaving his play, entered the Palaestra from the court, and when he saw Ctesippus and myself, was going to take a seat by us; and then Lysis, seeing him, followed, and sat down by his side; and the other boys joined. I should observe that Hippothales, when he saw the crowd, got behind them, where he thought that he would be out of sight of Lysis, lest he should anger him; and there he stood and listened.

When we walked in, we saw that the boys had just finished a sacrifice, and this part of the festival was almost over. They were all dressed in white, and some were playing dice. Most were in the outer court having fun, but a few were in a corner of the Apodyterium playing odd and even with some dice they took from small wicker baskets. There was also a group of spectators, including Lysis, who was standing with the other boys and young men, wearing a crown on his head, looking like a beautiful vision, and deserving praise for both his goodness and his looks. We left them and moved to the other side of the room, where we found a quiet spot to sit down and started talking. This caught Lysis's attention, as he kept glancing over at us—he clearly wanted to join us. For a while, he hesitated, lacking the courage to approach us alone; but then his friend Menexenus left his game and came into the Palaestra from the court. When he saw Ctesippus and me, he was about to sit down with us, and Lysis, noticing him, followed and sat down next to him, and the other boys joined in. I should mention that when Hippothales saw the crowd, he tucked himself behind them, thinking he would be out of Lysis's sight to avoid angering him, and there he stood, listening.

I turned to Menexenus, and said: Son of Demophon, which of you two youths is the elder?

I turned to Menexenus and said, "Son of Demophon, which one of you two is older?"

That is a matter of dispute between us, he said.

That's something we disagree on, he said.

And which is the nobler? Is that also a matter of dispute?

And which is the more noble? Is that also up for debate?

Yes, certainly.

Sure, definitely.

And another disputed point is, which is the fairer?

And another point of disagreement is, which one is fairer?

The two boys laughed.

The two boys chuckled.

I shall not ask which is the richer of the two, I said; for you are friends, are you not?

I won't ask which one is wealthier, I said; because you're friends, right?

Certainly, they replied.

Sure, they replied.

And friends have all things in common, so that one of you can be no richer than the other, if you say truly that you are friends.

And friends share everything in common, so that none of you can be richer than the other, if you genuinely say that you are friends.

They assented. I was about to ask which was the juster of the two, and which was the wiser of the two; but at this moment Menexenus was called away by some one who came and said that the gymnastic-master wanted him. I supposed that he had to offer sacrifice. So he went away, and I asked Lysis some more questions. I dare say, Lysis, I said, that your father and mother love you very much.

They agreed. I was just about to ask which one was more just and which one was more wise; but at that moment, someone came to call Menexenus, saying that the gymnastics coach wanted him. I figured he had to go offer a sacrifice. So he left, and I asked Lysis a few more questions. I bet your parents love you a lot, Lysis, I said.

Certainly, he said.

Sure, he said.

And they would wish you to be perfectly happy.

And they would want you to be completely happy.

Yes.

But do you think that any one is happy who is in the condition of a slave, and who cannot do what he likes?

But do you think anyone is truly happy living as a slave, unable to do what they want?

I should think not indeed, he said.

I definitely don’t think so, he said.

And if your father and mother love you, and desire that you should be happy, no one can doubt that they are very ready to promote your happiness.

And if your dad and mom love you and want you to be happy, no one can doubt that they are more than willing to support your happiness.

Certainly, he replied.

Sure, he replied.

And do they then permit you to do what you like, and never rebuke you or hinder you from doing what you desire?

And do they let you do whatever you want, without ever criticizing you or stopping you from pursuing your desires?

Yes, indeed, Socrates; there are a great many things which they hinder me from doing.

Yes, definitely, Socrates; there are a lot of things that stop me from doing.

What do you mean? I said. Do they want you to be happy, and yet hinder you from doing what you like? for example, if you want to mount one of your father's chariots, and take the reins at a race, they will not allow you to do so—they will prevent you?

What do you mean? I asked. Do they want you to be happy, but still try to stop you from doing what you enjoy? For example, if you want to ride in one of your father's chariots and take the reins in a race, they won't let you do it—they'll stop you?

Certainly, he said, they will not allow me to do so.

Certainly, he said, they won't let me do that.

Whom then will they allow?

Who will they allow then?

There is a charioteer, whom my father pays for driving.

There’s a charioteer that my dad pays to drive.

And do they trust a hireling more than you? and may he do what he likes with the horses? and do they pay him for this?

And do they trust a temp more than you? Can he do whatever he wants with the horses? And do they actually pay him for this?

They do.

But I dare say that you may take the whip and guide the mule-cart if you like;—they will permit that?

But I bet you could take the whip and drive the mule cart if you want to; they’d allow that, right?

Permit me! indeed they will not.

Let me! They definitely won't.

Then, I said, may no one use the whip to the mules?

Then, I said, may no one use a whip on the mules?

Yes, he said, the muleteer.

Yeah, he said, the muleteer.

And is he a slave or a free man?

And is he a slave or a free person?

A slave, he said.

A slave, he stated.

And do they esteem a slave of more value than you who are their son? And do they entrust their property to him rather than to you? and allow him to do what he likes, when they prohibit you? Answer me now: Are you your own master, or do they not even allow that?

And do they value a slave more than you, their son? Do they trust him with their belongings instead of you? Do they let him do whatever he wants while they hold you back? Tell me now: Are you in control of your own life, or don’t they even let you have that?

Nay, he said; of course they do not allow it.

No, he said; of course they don’t allow it.

Then you have a master?

So, you have a boss?

Yes, my tutor; there he is.

And is he a slave?

Is he a slave?

To be sure; he is our slave, he replied.

To be clear, he is our slave, he replied.

Surely, I said, this is a strange thing, that a free man should be governed by a slave. And what does he do with you?

Surely, I said, this is odd, that a free man should be ruled by a slave. And what does he do with you?

He takes me to my teachers.

You do not mean to say that your teachers also rule over you?

You don't mean to suggest that your teachers have control over you too?

Of course they do.

Then I must say that your father is pleased to inflict many lords and masters on you. But at any rate when you go home to your mother, she will let you have your own way, and will not interfere with your happiness; her wool, or the piece of cloth which she is weaving, are at your disposal: I am sure that there is nothing to hinder you from touching her wooden spathe, or her comb, or any other of her spinning implements.

Then I have to say that your father is happy to place several lords and masters in your life. But at least when you go back to your mother, she will let you do what you want and won't interfere with your happiness; her wool, or the piece of fabric she's weaving, is yours to use: I'm sure nothing stops you from using her wooden spindle, her comb, or any of her other spinning tools.

Nay, Socrates, he replied, laughing; not only does she hinder me, but I should be beaten if I were to touch one of them.

"Not at all, Socrates," he answered with a laugh. "Not only does she stop me, but I'd get in trouble if I touched one of them."

Well, I said, this is amazing. And did you ever behave ill to your father or your mother?

Well, I said, this is incredible. And have you ever treated your father or mother badly?

No, indeed, he replied.

No, he replied.

But why then are they so terribly anxious to prevent you from being happy, and doing as you like?—keeping you all day long in subjection to another, and, in a word, doing nothing which you desire; so that you have no good, as would appear, out of their great possessions, which are under the control of anybody rather than of you, and have no use of your own fair person, which is tended and taken care of by another; while you, Lysis, are master of nobody, and can do nothing?

But why are they so eager to stop you from being happy and doing what you want? They keep you under someone else's control all day, making sure you can’t do anything you desire. It seems like you’re getting no benefit from their wealth, which isn’t even in your hands, and you can't enjoy your own life since someone else takes care of everything for you. Meanwhile, you, Lysis, aren’t in charge of anyone and can’t do anything for yourself.

Why, he said, Socrates, the reason is that I am not of age.

"Well," he said, "Socrates, the reason is that I'm not of age."

I doubt whether that is the real reason, I said; for I should imagine that your father Democrates, and your mother, do permit you to do many things already, and do not wait until you are of age: for example, if they want anything read or written, you, I presume, would be the first person in the house who is summoned by them.

I’m not sure that’s the real reason, I said; I would think that your father Democrates and your mother already allow you to do many things and don’t wait until you’re of age. For instance, if they need something read or written, I assume you would be the first person they call in the house.

Very true.

Absolutely true.

And you would be allowed to write or read the letters in any order which you please, or to take up the lyre and tune the notes, and play with the fingers, or strike with the plectrum, exactly as you please, and neither father nor mother would interfere with you.

And you could write or read the letters in any order you want, or pick up the lyre and adjust the notes, and play however you like, whether with your fingers or with a pick, exactly as you wish, and neither your dad nor your mom would bother you.

That is true, he said.

"That's true," he said.

Then what can be the reason, Lysis, I said, why they allow you to do the one and not the other?

Then what do you think, Lysis, is the reason they let you do one but not the other?

I suppose, he said, because I understand the one, and not the other.

"I guess," he said, "because I get one part, but not the other."

Yes, my dear youth, I said, the reason is not any deficiency of years, but a deficiency of knowledge; and whenever your father thinks that you are wiser than he is, he will instantly commit himself and his possessions to you.

Yes, my dear young one, I said, the issue isn’t a lack of age, but a lack of knowledge; and whenever your father believes you are wiser than he is, he will quickly entrust himself and his possessions to you.

I think so.

I believe so.

Aye, I said; and about your neighbour, too, does not the same rule hold as about your father? If he is satisfied that you know more of housekeeping than he does, will he continue to administer his affairs himself, or will he commit them to you?

Sure, I said; and the same goes for your neighbor, right? If he is convinced that you know more about managing a household than he does, will he keep handling his own affairs, or will he hand them over to you?

I think that he will commit them to me.

I think he'll trust me with them.

Will not the Athenian people, too, entrust their affairs to you when they see that you have wisdom enough to manage them?

Will the people of Athens not trust you with their affairs when they see that you have the wisdom to handle them?

Yes.

And oh! let me put another case, I said: There is the great king, and he has an eldest son, who is the Prince of Asia;—suppose that you and I go to him and establish to his satisfaction that we are better cooks than his son, will he not entrust to us the prerogative of making soup, and putting in anything that we like while the pot is boiling, rather than to the Prince of Asia, who is his son?

And oh! let me give you another example, I said: There's a great king, and he has an eldest son, who is the Prince of Asia;—imagine if you and I go to him and prove that we are better cooks than his son, won't he trust us with the job of making soup, letting us add whatever we want while it’s boiling, rather than giving that responsibility to the Prince of Asia, his own son?

To us, clearly.

Clearly to us.

And we shall be allowed to throw in salt by handfuls, whereas the son will not be allowed to put in as much as he can take up between his fingers?

And we'll be allowed to throw in handfuls of salt, while the son won't be allowed to add as much as he can pick up with his fingers?

Of course.

Sure thing.

Or suppose again that the son has bad eyes, will he allow him, or will he not allow him, to touch his own eyes if he thinks that he has no knowledge of medicine?

Or suppose again that the son has poor eyesight; will he let him, or will he not let him, touch his own eyes if he believes he has no knowledge of medicine?

He will not allow him.

He won't let him.

Whereas, if he supposes us to have a knowledge of medicine, he will allow us to do what we like with him—even to open the eyes wide and sprinkle ashes upon them, because he supposes that we know what is best?

Whereas, if he thinks we know about medicine, he will let us do whatever we want to him—even to open his eyes wide and sprinkle ashes on them, because he believes that we know what's best?

That is true.

That's true.

And everything in which we appear to him to be wiser than himself or his son he will commit to us?

And he'll trust us with everything he thinks we know better than he or his son?

That is very true, Socrates, he replied.

That’s absolutely true, Socrates, he replied.

Then now, my dear Lysis, I said, you perceive that in things which we know every one will trust us,—Hellenes and barbarians, men and women,—and we may do as we please about them, and no one will like to interfere with us; we shall be free, and masters of others; and these things will be really ours, for we shall be benefited by them. But in things of which we have no understanding, no one will trust us to do as seems good to us—they will hinder us as far as they can; and not only strangers, but father and mother, and the friend, if there be one, who is dearer still, will also hinder us; and we shall be subject to others; and these things will not be ours, for we shall not be benefited by them. Do you agree?

Then now, my dear Lysis, I said, you see that in matters we understand, everyone will trust us—Greeks and non-Greeks, men and women—and we can do as we wish with them, and no one will want to interfere; we'll be free and in control, and these things will truly belong to us, because we will benefit from them. But in areas where we lack understanding, no one will trust us to make our own decisions—they will try to stop us as much as they can; and not just strangers, but our parents, and even the friend who is closest to us, will also try to hold us back; we will be at the mercy of others, and these things will not belong to us, since we won't gain anything from them. Do you agree?

He assented.

He agreed.

And shall we be friends to others, and will any others love us, in as far as we are useless to them?

And will we be friends to others, and will anyone else care about us, as long as we are no use to them?

Certainly not.

Definitely not.

Neither can your father or mother love you, nor can anybody love anybody else, in so far as they are useless to them?

Neither your father nor your mother can love you, and neither can anyone love anyone else, as long as they are useless to them?

No.

And therefore, my boy, if you are wise, all men will be your friends and kindred, for you will be useful and good; but if you are not wise, neither father, nor mother, nor kindred, nor any one else, will be your friends. And in matters of which you have as yet no knowledge, can you have any conceit of knowledge?

And so, my boy, if you're smart, everyone will be your friend and family because you'll be helpful and kind; but if you're not smart, neither your father, mother, relatives, nor anyone else will be your friends. And in areas where you don’t know anything, how can you pretend to be knowledgeable?

That is impossible, he replied.

That's impossible, he replied.

And you, Lysis, if you require a teacher, have not yet attained to wisdom.

And you, Lysis, if you need a teacher, haven't reached wisdom yet.

True.

And therefore you are not conceited, having nothing of which to be conceited.

And so you're not arrogant, since there's nothing for you to be arrogant about.

Indeed, Socrates, I think not.

Actually, Socrates, I don't think so.

When I heard him say this, I turned to Hippothales, and was very nearly making a blunder, for I was going to say to him: That is the way, Hippothales, in which you should talk to your beloved, humbling and lowering him, and not as you do, puffing him up and spoiling him. But I saw that he was in great excitement and confusion at what had been said, and I remembered that, although he was in the neighbourhood, he did not want to be seen by Lysis; so upon second thoughts I refrained.

When I heard him say this, I turned to Hippothales and almost made a mistake, because I was going to tell him: That's how you should talk to your crush, keeping them humble and grounded, not like you do, inflating their ego and spoiling them. But I noticed he was really excited and confused by what had been said, and I recalled that, even though he was close by, he didn't want Lysis to see him; so I thought better of it and held back.

In the meantime Menexenus came back and sat down in his place by Lysis; and Lysis, in a childish and affectionate manner, whispered privately in my ear, so that Menexenus should not hear: Do, Socrates, tell Menexenus what you have been telling me.

In the meantime, Menexenus returned and took his seat next to Lysis; and Lysis, in a playful and affectionate way, leaned in close and whispered to me so Menexenus wouldn't hear: "Come on, Socrates, tell Menexenus what you've been telling me."

Suppose that you tell him yourself, Lysis, I replied; for I am sure that you were attending.

Suppose you tell him yourself, Lysis, I replied; because I’m sure you were paying attention.

Certainly, he replied.

Sure, he replied.

Try, then, to remember the words, and be as exact as you can in repeating them to him, and if you have forgotten anything, ask me again the next time that you see me.

Try to remember the words and be as precise as possible when you repeat them to him. If you forget anything, just ask me again the next time you see me.

I will be sure to do so, Socrates; but go on telling him something new, and let me hear, as long as I am allowed to stay.

I will definitely do that, Socrates; but please keep sharing something new, and let me listen as long as I'm allowed to stay.

I certainly cannot refuse, I said, since you ask me; but then, as you know, Menexenus is very pugnacious, and therefore you must come to the rescue if he attempts to upset me.

I really can’t say no, I said, since you’re asking me; but, as you know, Menexenus is pretty aggressive, so you’ll need to step in if he tries to get in my way.

Yes, indeed, he said; he is very pugnacious, and that is the reason why I want you to argue with him.

Yes, definitely, he said; he is very combative, and that’s why I want you to debate with him.

That I may make a fool of myself?

That I could embarrass myself?

No, indeed, he said; but I want you to put him down.

No, of course not, he said; but I need you to take him down.

That is no easy matter, I replied; for he is a terrible fellow—a pupil of Ctesippus. And there is Ctesippus himself: do you see him?

That’s not an easy situation, I replied; because he’s a really tough guy— a student of Ctesippus. And there’s Ctesippus himself: do you see him?

Never mind, Socrates, you shall argue with him.

Never mind, Socrates, you can debate with him.

Well, I suppose that I must, I replied.

Well, I guess I have to, I replied.

Hereupon Ctesippus complained that we were talking in secret, and keeping the feast to ourselves.

Here, Ctesippus complained that we were talking privately and keeping the celebration to ourselves.

I shall be happy, I said, to let you have a share. Here is Lysis, who does not understand something that I was saying, and wants me to ask Menexenus, who, as he thinks, is likely to know.

I'll be happy to let you have a share. Here is Lysis, who doesn't understand something I mentioned, and wants me to ask Menexenus, who he thinks is probably knowledgeable.

And why do you not ask him? he said.

And why don’t you just ask him? he said.

Very well, I said, I will; and do you, Menexenus, answer. But first I must tell you that I am one who from my childhood upward have set my heart upon a certain thing. All people have their fancies; some desire horses, and others dogs; and some are fond of gold, and others of honour. Now, I have no violent desire of any of these things; but I have a passion for friends; and I would rather have a good friend than the best cock or quail in the world: I would even go further, and say the best horse or dog. Yea, by the dog of Egypt, I should greatly prefer a real friend to all the gold of Darius, or even to Darius himself: I am such a lover of friends as that. And when I see you and Lysis, at your early age, so easily possessed of this treasure, and so soon, he of you, and you of him, I am amazed and delighted, seeing that I myself, although I am now advanced in years, am so far from having made a similar acquisition, that I do not even know in what way a friend is acquired. But I want to ask you a question about this, for you have experience: tell me then, when one loves another, is the lover or the beloved the friend; or may either be the friend?

Sure, I said, I will; and you, Menexenus, answer me. But first, I need to tell you that I’ve been passionate about something since I was a child. Everyone has their interests; some want horses, others dogs; some love gold, while others seek honor. I don’t have a strong desire for any of these things, but I have a deep passion for friendship. I’d choose a good friend over the best rooster or quail in the world, and I’d go even further to say I’d prefer a true friend over the best horse or dog. Truly, by the dog of Egypt, I would much rather have a real friend than all the gold of Darius, or even Darius himself: that’s how much I value friendship. And when I see you and Lysis, at your young age, so easily finding this treasure, with each of you possessing the other so soon, I’m amazed and delighted. I, despite being older, still haven’t figured out how to gain a friend. I want to ask you a question about this, since you have experience: when someone loves another, is it the lover or the beloved who is the friend? Or can either one be the friend?

Either may, I should think, be the friend of either.

Either one could be the friend of the other.

Do you mean, I said, that if only one of them loves the other, they are mutual friends?

Do you mean, I said, that if only one of them loves the other, they are friends with each other?

Yes, he said; that is my meaning.

Yes, he said; that's what I mean.

But what if the lover is not loved in return? which is a very possible case.

But what if the lover isn't loved back? That's a pretty likely situation.

Yes.

Or is, perhaps, even hated? which is a fancy which sometimes is entertained by lovers respecting their beloved. Nothing can exceed their love; and yet they imagine either that they are not loved in return, or that they are hated. Is not that true?

Or is it, maybe, even hated? That's a thought that lovers sometimes have about the ones they adore. Their love knows no bounds; yet, they often think that their feelings aren't reciprocated or that they're actually hated. Isn't that true?

Yes, he said, quite true.

Yeah, he said, totally true.

In that case, the one loves, and the other is loved?

In that case, one person loves, and the other is loved?

Yes.

Then which is the friend of which? Is the lover the friend of the beloved, whether he be loved in return, or hated; or is the beloved the friend; or is there no friendship at all on either side, unless they both love one another?

Then who is the friend of whom? Is the lover a friend to the beloved, whether they’re loved back or hated? Or is the beloved the friend? Or is there no friendship at all unless they both love each other?

There would seem to be none at all.

There doesn’t seem to be any.

Then this notion is not in accordance with our previous one. We were saying that both were friends, if one only loved; but now, unless they both love, neither is a friend.

Then this idea doesn't match our earlier one. We were saying that they were both friends if only one loved; but now, unless they both love, neither of them is a friend.

That appears to be true.

That seems to be true.

Then nothing which does not love in return is beloved by a lover?

Then nothing that doesn't love back is loved by a lover?

I think not.

I don’t think so.

Then they are not lovers of horses, whom the horses do not love in return; nor lovers of quails, nor of dogs, nor of wine, nor of gymnastic exercises, who have no return of love; no, nor of wisdom, unless wisdom loves them in return. Or shall we say that they do love them, although they are not beloved by them; and that the poet was wrong who sings—

Then they are not really horse lovers if the horses don’t love them back; nor are they true admirers of quails, dogs, wine, or exercise if they don’t get love in return; nor are they lovers of wisdom unless wisdom loves them back. Or should we say they do love these things, even if they aren’t loved in return; and that the poet was wrong who sings—

'Happy the man to whom his children are dear, and steeds having single hoofs, and dogs of chase, and the stranger of another land'?

'Blessed is the man whose children are cherished, who has horses with single hooves, hunting dogs, and a visitor from another land'?

I do not think that he was wrong.

I don't think he was wrong.

You think that he is right?

Do you think he’s correct?

Yes.

Then, Menexenus, the conclusion is, that what is beloved, whether loving or hating, may be dear to the lover of it: for example, very young children, too young to love, or even hating their father or mother when they are punished by them, are never dearer to them than at the time when they are being hated by them.

Then, Menexenus, the conclusion is that whatever is loved, whether there is love or hate involved, can be precious to the person who loves it. For example, very young children, who are too young to feel love or even hate their parents when they are being punished by them, are never more dear to those parents than when they are in those moments of being disliked.

I think that what you say is true.

I believe what you're saying is true.

And, if so, not the lover, but the beloved, is the friend or dear one?

And if that's the case, it's not the lover, but the beloved, who is the friend or loved one?

Yes.

And the hated one, and not the hater, is the enemy?

And is it the one who is hated, not the one who hates, who is the enemy?

Clearly.

Then many men are loved by their enemies, and hated by their friends, and are the friends of their enemies, and the enemies of their friends. Yet how absurd, my dear friend, or indeed impossible is this paradox of a man being an enemy to his friend or a friend to his enemy.

Then many men are loved by their enemies, and hated by their friends, and are the friends of their enemies, and the enemies of their friends. Yet how absurd, my dear friend, or even impossible is this paradox of a man being an enemy to his friend or a friend to his enemy.

I quite agree, Socrates, in what you say.

I completely agree with you, Socrates, about what you said.

But if this cannot be, the lover will be the friend of that which is loved?

But if this can't happen, will the lover be the friend of what is loved?

True.

And the hater will be the enemy of that which is hated?

And will the hater be the enemy of what is hated?

Certainly.

Sure.

Yet we must acknowledge in this, as in the preceding instance, that a man may be the friend of one who is not his friend, or who may be his enemy, when he loves that which does not love him or which even hates him. And he may be the enemy of one who is not his enemy, and is even his friend: for example, when he hates that which does not hate him, or which even loves him.

Yet we must recognize here, as in the earlier case, that a person can be a friend to someone who isn't their friend, or who might even be their enemy, when they care for something that doesn't care for them or even actively dislikes them. Conversely, they can be an enemy to someone who isn't their enemy and who might actually be their friend, for instance, when they hate something that doesn't hate them or even loves them.

That appears to be true.

That seems to be true.

But if the lover is not a friend, nor the beloved a friend, nor both together, what are we to say? Whom are we to call friends to one another? Do any remain?

But if the lover isn’t a friend, and the beloved isn’t a friend, and neither of them together is a friend, what should we say? Who can we call friends to one another? Do any friends still exist?

Indeed, Socrates, I cannot find any.

Indeed, Socrates, I can't find any.

But, O Menexenus! I said, may we not have been altogether wrong in our conclusions?

But, oh Menexenus! I said, could we have been completely mistaken in our conclusions?

I am sure that we have been wrong, Socrates, said Lysis. And he blushed as he spoke, the words seeming to come from his lips involuntarily, because his whole mind was taken up with the argument; there was no mistaking his attentive look while he was listening.

"I’m sure we’ve been wrong, Socrates," Lysis said. He blushed as he spoke, the words seeming to slip out without him thinking, because he was completely absorbed in the argument; his attentive look while listening was unmistakable.

I was pleased at the interest which was shown by Lysis, and I wanted to give Menexenus a rest, so I turned to him and said, I think, Lysis, that what you say is true, and that, if we had been right, we should never have gone so far wrong; let us proceed no further in this direction (for the road seems to be getting troublesome), but take the other path into which we turned, and see what the poets have to say; for they are to us in a manner the fathers and authors of wisdom, and they speak of friends in no light or trivial manner, but God himself, as they say, makes them and draws them to one another; and this they express, if I am not mistaken, in the following words:—

I was happy to see Lysis's interest, and since I wanted to give Menexenus a break, I turned to him and said, "I think, Lysis, that what you’re saying is true. If we had been right, we wouldn’t have gone so wrong. Let’s not go any further in this direction (the path seems to be getting difficult), but let’s take the other route we turned onto and see what the poets have to say. They are like the fathers and authors of wisdom for us, and they talk about friends in a serious and significant way. They say that God himself creates friendships and brings people together; and if I’m not mistaken, they express this in the following words:—

'God is ever drawing like towards like, and making them acquainted.'

'God is always bringing similar people together and helping them get to know each other.'

I dare say that you have heard those words.

I bet you’ve heard those words.

Yes, he said; I have.

And have you not also met with the treatises of philosophers who say that like must love like? they are the people who argue and write about nature and the universe.

And haven't you also come across the writings of philosophers who say that like attracts like? They are the ones who discuss and write about nature and the universe.

Very true, he replied.

So true, he replied.

And are they right in saying this?

And are they correct in saying this?

They may be.

They might be.

Perhaps, I said, about half, or possibly, altogether, right, if their meaning were rightly apprehended by us. For the more a bad man has to do with a bad man, and the more nearly he is brought into contact with him, the more he will be likely to hate him, for he injures him; and injurer and injured cannot be friends. Is not that true?

Maybe, I said, about half, or possibly, completely true, if we understood their meaning correctly. Because the more a bad person interacts with another bad person, and the closer they get, the more likely it is that they will hate each other, since one hurts the other; and a person who harms and someone who is harmed cannot be friends. Isn’t that true?

Yes, he said.

Yeah, he said.

Then one half of the saying is untrue, if the wicked are like one another?

Then one half of the saying is false if the wicked are all the same?

That is true.

That's true.

But the real meaning of the saying, as I imagine, is, that the good are like one another, and friends to one another; and that the bad, as is often said of them, are never at unity with one another or with themselves; for they are passionate and restless, and anything which is at variance and enmity with itself is not likely to be in union or harmony with any other thing. Do you not agree?

But the real meaning of the saying, as I see it, is that good people are similar to each other and supportive of one another; while bad people, as is often said, are never in agreement with each other or even with themselves. They are emotional and restless, and anything that is conflicted and at odds with itself is unlikely to be in harmony with anything else. Don’t you agree?

Yes, I do.

Yeah, I do.

Then, my friend, those who say that the like is friendly to the like mean to intimate, if I rightly apprehend them, that the good only is the friend of the good, and of him only; but that the evil never attains to any real friendship, either with good or evil. Do you agree?

Then, my friend, those who say that like attracts like mean to suggest, if I understand them correctly, that only good people can be friends with each other and no one else; but that evil cannot establish any real friendship, whether with good people or other evil ones. Do you agree?

He nodded assent.

He nodded in agreement.

Then now we know how to answer the question 'Who are friends?' for the argument declares 'That the good are friends.'

Then we now know how to answer the question 'Who are friends?' because the argument states 'That the good are friends.'

Yes, he said, that is true.

Yeah, he said, that’s true.

Yes, I replied; and yet I am not quite satisfied with this answer. By heaven, and shall I tell you what I suspect? I will. Assuming that like, inasmuch as he is like, is the friend of like, and useful to him—or rather let me try another way of putting the matter: Can like do any good or harm to like which he could not do to himself, or suffer anything from his like which he would not suffer from himself? And if neither can be of any use to the other, how can they be loved by one another? Can they now?

Yes, I replied; but I’m still not completely satisfied with this answer. By heaven, should I share what I suspect? I will. Assuming that like attracts like, in the sense that he is similar to another and is helpful to him—or let me try to explain it differently: Can one person really do any good or harm to someone who is similar to him that he couldn’t do to himself, or experience anything from that similar person that he wouldn’t experience from himself? And if neither can be of any benefit to the other, how can they truly love one another? Can they?

They cannot.

They can't.

And can he who is not loved be a friend?

And can someone who isn't loved really be a friend?

Certainly not.

Definitely not.

But say that the like is not the friend of the like in so far as he is like; still the good may be the friend of the good in so far as he is good?

But let's say that similar things aren't friends just because they're similar; still, can something good be a friend to something else good just because it's good?

True.

But then again, will not the good, in so far as he is good, be sufficient for himself? Certainly he will. And he who is sufficient wants nothing—that is implied in the word sufficient.

But then again, won't a good person, as far as they are good, be enough for themselves? Of course, they will. And someone who is enough needs nothing—that's what being sufficient means.

Of course not.

And he who wants nothing will desire nothing?

And the person who wants nothing won't desire anything?

He will not.

He's not going to.

Neither can he love that which he does not desire?

Neither can he love what he does not want?

He cannot.

He can't.

And he who loves not is not a lover or friend?

And someone who doesn’t love isn’t a lover or a friend?

Clearly not.

Definitely not.

What place then is there for friendship, if, when absent, good men have no need of one another (for even when alone they are sufficient for themselves), and when present have no use of one another? How can such persons ever be induced to value one another?

What then is the point of friendship if, when apart, good people don't need each other (since even when alone they are enough for themselves), and when together, they have no need for one another? How can these people ever be encouraged to appreciate each other?

They cannot.

They can't.

And friends they cannot be, unless they value one another?

And can they really be friends if they don’t value each other?

Very true.

So true.

But see now, Lysis, whether we are not being deceived in all this—are we not indeed entirely wrong?

But look now, Lysis, are we not being fooled by all of this—are we not completely mistaken?

How so? he replied.

How so? he asked.

Have I not heard some one say, as I just now recollect, that the like is the greatest enemy of the like, the good of the good?—Yes, and he quoted the authority of Hesiod, who says:

Have I not heard someone say, as I remember now, that something similar is the greatest enemy of the similar, the good of the good?—Yes, and he cited Hesiod, who says:

'Potter quarrels with potter, bard with bard, Beggar with beggar;'

'Potters argue with potters, bards with bards, beggars with beggars;'

and of all other things he affirmed, in like manner, 'That of necessity the most like are most full of envy, strife, and hatred of one another, and the most unlike, of friendship. For the poor man is compelled to be the friend of the rich, and the weak requires the aid of the strong, and the sick man of the physician; and every one who is ignorant, has to love and court him who knows.' And indeed he went on to say in grandiloquent language, that the idea of friendship existing between similars is not the truth, but the very reverse of the truth, and that the most opposed are the most friendly; for that everything desires not like but that which is most unlike: for example, the dry desires the moist, the cold the hot, the bitter the sweet, the sharp the blunt, the void the full, the full the void, and so of all other things; for the opposite is the food of the opposite, whereas like receives nothing from like. And I thought that he who said this was a charming man, and that he spoke well. What do the rest of you say?

and about all the other things he claimed, he similarly stated, 'That by nature, those who are most alike are filled with envy, conflict, and hatred for one another, while the most different are filled with friendship. The poor man has to be friends with the rich, the weak needs the support of the strong, and the sick rely on the doctor; and anyone who is ignorant must love and seek out those who are knowledgeable.' He continued with grand language, arguing that the idea of friendship between similar people is not true, but rather the exact opposite of the truth, and that those who are most different are the most friendly; because everything desires not what is like but what is most unlike: for instance, the dry desires the wet, the cold the hot, the bitter the sweet, the sharp the dull, the empty the full, the full the empty, and so on with everything else; because opposites feed off each other, while like things gain nothing from each other. I thought that the person who said this was quite charming and spoke well. What do the rest of you think?

I should say, at first hearing, that he is right, said Menexenus.

"I have to say, at first glance, that he's right," said Menexenus.

Then we are to say that the greatest friendship is of opposites?

Then should we say that the strongest friendships are between opposites?

Exactly.

Right on.

Yes, Menexenus; but will not that be a monstrous answer? and will not the all-wise eristics be down upon us in triumph, and ask, fairly enough, whether love is not the very opposite of hate; and what answer shall we make to them—must we not admit that they speak the truth?

Yes, Menexenus; but won't that be a ridiculous response? And won't the super-smart critics come after us in victory, asking, quite reasonably, whether love isn’t the exact opposite of hate? And what will we say to them—can't we just admit that they are right?

We must.

We have to.

They will then proceed to ask whether the enemy is the friend of the friend, or the friend the friend of the enemy?

They will then ask whether the enemy is a friend of their friend, or if their friend is a friend of the enemy?

Neither, he replied.

Neither, he said.

Well, but is a just man the friend of the unjust, or the temperate of the intemperate, or the good of the bad?

Well, is a fair person a friend to the unfair, or the moderate to the excessive, or the good to the bad?

I do not see how that is possible.

I don't see how that's possible.

And yet, I said, if friendship goes by contraries, the contraries must be friends.

And yet, I said, if friendship is based on opposites, then those opposites must be friends.

They must.

They have to.

Then neither like and like nor unlike and unlike are friends.

Then neither similar nor different people are friends.

I suppose not.

I guess not.

And yet there is a further consideration: may not all these notions of friendship be erroneous? but may not that which is neither good nor evil still in some cases be the friend of the good?

And yet there's another point to think about: could all these ideas about friendship be wrong? But could something that isn’t necessarily good or bad still, in some cases, be a friend to what is good?

How do you mean? he said.

Why really, I said, the truth is that I do not know; but my head is dizzy with thinking of the argument, and therefore I hazard the conjecture, that 'the beautiful is the friend,' as the old proverb says. Beauty is certainly a soft, smooth, slippery thing, and therefore of a nature which easily slips in and permeates our souls. For I affirm that the good is the beautiful. You will agree to that?

Why, really, I said, the truth is that I don't know; but my head is spinning from thinking about the argument, so I take a guess that 'beauty is a friend,' just like the old saying goes. Beauty is definitely a soft, smooth, slippery thing, and has a nature that easily slips in and fills our souls. Because I believe that what is good is also beautiful. Do you agree with that?

Yes.

This I say from a sort of notion that what is neither good nor evil is the friend of the beautiful and the good, and I will tell you why I am inclined to think so: I assume that there are three principles—the good, the bad, and that which is neither good nor bad. You would agree—would you not?

This is what I believe: that what is neither good nor bad is a friend to beauty and goodness. I’ll explain why I think this way: I believe there are three principles—the good, the bad, and what is neither good nor bad. You agree, don’t you?

I agree.

I’m in.

And neither is the good the friend of the good, nor the evil of the evil, nor the good of the evil;—these alternatives are excluded by the previous argument; and therefore, if there be such a thing as friendship or love at all, we must infer that what is neither good nor evil must be the friend, either of the good, or of that which is neither good nor evil, for nothing can be the friend of the bad.

And neither is good friends with other good, nor is evil friends with evil, nor is good friends with evil; these choices are ruled out by the earlier argument. So, if friendship or love exists at all, we have to conclude that something that is neither good nor evil must be friends with either the good or with something that is neither good nor evil, because nothing can be friends with the bad.

True.

But neither can like be the friend of like, as we were just now saying.

But one similar thing can't be friends with another similar thing, as we just mentioned.

True.

And if so, that which is neither good nor evil can have no friend which is neither good nor evil.

And if that’s the case, then something that is neither good nor bad can’t have a friend that is neither good nor bad.

Clearly not.

Definitely not.

Then the good alone is the friend of that only which is neither good nor evil.

Then the good is the friend of what is neither good nor evil.

That may be assumed to be certain.

That can be assumed to be true.

And does not this seem to put us in the right way? Just remark, that the body which is in health requires neither medical nor any other aid, but is well enough; and the healthy man has no love of the physician, because he is in health.

And doesn’t this suggest we’re on the right track? Just notice that a healthy body doesn’t need any medical help or assistance; it’s doing fine on its own. And a healthy person doesn’t seek out a doctor because they’re well.

He has none.

He doesn't have any.

But the sick loves him, because he is sick?

But the sick love him because he is sick?

Certainly.

Sure.

And sickness is an evil, and the art of medicine a good and useful thing?

And illness is a bad thing, but the practice of medicine is good and helpful?

Yes.

But the human body, regarded as a body, is neither good nor evil?

But the human body, seen as a physical entity, is neither good nor bad?

True.

And the body is compelled by reason of disease to court and make friends of the art of medicine?

And the body is forced by illness to seek and become friends with the practice of medicine?

Yes.

Then that which is neither good nor evil becomes the friend of good, by reason of the presence of evil?

Then that which is neither good nor bad becomes the ally of good because of the existence of evil?

So we may infer.

So we can infer.

And clearly this must have happened before that which was neither good nor evil had become altogether corrupted with the element of evil—if itself had become evil it would not still desire and love the good; for, as we were saying, the evil cannot be the friend of the good.

And it's clear this must have happened before what was neither good nor evil became completely corrupted by evil—if it had become evil, it wouldn't still want and love the good; because, as we mentioned, evil cannot be a friend to good.

Impossible.

Not happening.

Further, I must observe that some substances are assimilated when others are present with them; and there are some which are not assimilated: take, for example, the case of an ointment or colour which is put on another substance.

Furthermore, I have to point out that some substances are absorbed when others are around; and there are some that are not absorbed: take, for instance, the example of an ointment or color applied to another substance.

Very good.

Great job.

In such a case, is the substance which is anointed the same as the colour or ointment?

In that case, is the substance that gets anointed the same as the color or the ointment?

What do you mean? he said.

What do you mean? he asked.

This is what I mean: Suppose that I were to cover your auburn locks with white lead, would they be really white, or would they only appear to be white?

This is what I mean: Suppose I were to cover your auburn hair with white lead, would it actually be white, or would it just look white?

They would only appear to be white, he replied.

They would just look white, he replied.

And yet whiteness would be present in them?

And yet, would they still have some whiteness in them?

True.

But that would not make them at all the more white, notwithstanding the presence of white in them—they would not be white any more than black?

But that wouldn't make them any whiter, despite having some white in them—they wouldn't be white any more than they would be black?

No.

But when old age infuses whiteness into them, then they become assimilated, and are white by the presence of white.

But when old age turns them white, they blend in and become white because of the white around them.

Certainly.

Of course.

Now I want to know whether in all cases a substance is assimilated by the presence of another substance; or must the presence be after a peculiar sort?

Now I want to know if a substance is always absorbed by the presence of another substance, or does it need to be in a special way?

The latter, he said.

The latter, he stated.

Then that which is neither good nor evil may be in the presence of evil, but not as yet evil, and that has happened before now?

Then what is neither good nor evil can be in the presence of evil, but not evil itself, and has that happened before?

Yes.

And when anything is in the presence of evil, not being as yet evil, the presence of good arouses the desire of good in that thing; but the presence of evil, which makes a thing evil, takes away the desire and friendship of the good; for that which was once both good and evil has now become evil only, and the good was supposed to have no friendship with the evil?

And when something is near evil but isn’t evil yet, the presence of good stirs the desire for good in that thing; however, the presence of evil, which turns something evil, removes the desire and connection to the good. What was once both good and evil has now become only evil, and it was thought that good and evil shouldn’t be friends?

None.

And therefore we say that those who are already wise, whether Gods or men, are no longer lovers of wisdom; nor can they be lovers of wisdom who are ignorant to the extent of being evil, for no evil or ignorant person is a lover of wisdom. There remain those who have the misfortune to be ignorant, but are not yet hardened in their ignorance, or void of understanding, and do not as yet fancy that they know what they do not know: and therefore those who are the lovers of wisdom are as yet neither good nor bad. But the bad do not love wisdom any more than the good; for, as we have already seen, neither is unlike the friend of unlike, nor like of like. You remember that?

So, we say that those who are already wise, whether they are gods or humans, are no longer seeking wisdom. Also, those who are so ignorant that they become evil cannot be considered lovers of wisdom, because no evil or ignorant person truly loves wisdom. There are still those unfortunate enough to be ignorant, but they haven't become completely resistant to learning or devoid of understanding, and they don’t yet believe they know things they actually don’t. Therefore, those who love wisdom are neither good nor bad at this point. However, both the bad and the good don’t love wisdom; as we’ve seen, friends don’t resemble each other when they are not alike, nor do similar people connect. Do you remember that?

Yes, they both said.

Yeah, they both said.

And so, Lysis and Menexenus, we have discovered the nature of friendship—there can be no doubt of it: Friendship is the love which by reason of the presence of evil the neither good nor evil has of the good, either in the soul, or in the body, or anywhere.

And so, Lysis and Menexenus, we've figured out what friendship really is—there's no question about it: Friendship is the love that arises from the presence of negativity that neither good nor bad has for the good, whether it's in the soul, the body, or anywhere else.

They both agreed and entirely assented, and for a moment I rejoiced and was satisfied like a huntsman just holding fast his prey. But then a most unaccountable suspicion came across me, and I felt that the conclusion was untrue. I was pained, and said, Alas! Lysis and Menexenus, I am afraid that we have been grasping at a shadow only.

They both agreed completely, and for a moment I felt happy and satisfied, like a hunter who has just caught his prey. But then an inexplicable suspicion crossed my mind, and I sensed that our conclusion was false. I was troubled and said, "Oh no! Lysis and Menexenus, I'm afraid we’ve just been chasing a shadow."

Why do you say so? said Menexenus.

Why do you say that? asked Menexenus.

I am afraid, I said, that the argument about friendship is false: arguments, like men, are often pretenders.

I'm sorry, I said, but the argument about friendship is misleading: arguments, just like people, are often just pretending.

How do you mean? he asked.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Well, I said; look at the matter in this way: a friend is the friend of some one; is he not?

Well, I said, let's look at it this way: a friend is a friend to someone, right?

Certainly he is.

Of course he is.

And has he a motive and object in being a friend, or has he no motive and object?

Does he have a reason and goal for being a friend, or does he have neither?

He has a motive and object.

He has a reason and a goal.

And is the object which makes him a friend, dear to him, or neither dear nor hateful to him?

And is the thing that makes him a friend, important to him, or neither important nor disliked by him?

I do not quite follow you, he said.

I don’t really understand what you mean, he said.

I do not wonder at that, I said. But perhaps, if I put the matter in another way, you will be able to follow me, and my own meaning will be clearer to myself. The sick man, as I was just now saying, is the friend of the physician—is he not?

I’m not surprised by that, I said. But maybe if I explain it differently, you’ll understand me better, and I’ll be clearer about what I mean. The sick person, as I just mentioned, is the friend of the doctor—right?

Yes.

And he is the friend of the physician because of disease, and for the sake of health?

And is he a friend of the doctor because of illness and for the sake of health?

Yes.

And disease is an evil?

And is disease really evil?

Certainly.

Sure.

And what of health? I said. Is that good or evil, or neither?

And what about health? I asked. Is it good or bad, or something else entirely?

Good, he replied.

Sounds good, he replied.

And we were saying, I believe, that the body being neither good nor evil, because of disease, that is to say because of evil, is the friend of medicine, and medicine is a good: and medicine has entered into this friendship for the sake of health, and health is a good.

And we were saying, I think, that the body isn’t inherently good or bad, because of illness, which means it has negative aspects. This makes the body a friend to medicine, and medicine is a positive thing. Medicine has formed this connection to promote health, and health is a good thing.

True.

And is health a friend, or not a friend?

And is health a friend or not?

A friend.

A buddy.

And disease is an enemy?

Is disease really an enemy?

Yes.

Then that which is neither good nor evil is the friend of the good because of the evil and hateful, and for the sake of the good and the friend?

Then what is neither good nor evil is the friend of the good because of the evil and hateful, and for the sake of the good and the friend?

Clearly.

Then the friend is a friend for the sake of the friend, and because of the enemy?

Then a friend is a friend for the friend's sake, and what about the enemy?

That is to be inferred.

That’s implied.

Then at this point, my boys, let us take heed, and be on our guard against deceptions. I will not again repeat that the friend is the friend of the friend, and the like of the like, which has been declared by us to be an impossibility; but, in order that this new statement may not delude us, let us attentively examine another point, which I will proceed to explain: Medicine, as we were saying, is a friend, or dear to us for the sake of health?

Then at this point, my friends, let's pay attention and be cautious about deceptions. I won’t say again that a friend is a friend of a friend, and that like attracts like, which we have previously said is impossible; but to make sure this new statement doesn’t mislead us, let’s carefully look at another point that I’m about to explain: Medicine, as we were saying, is like a friend or is precious to us for the sake of our health?

Yes.

Yep.

And health is also dear?

Is health important too?

Certainly.

Sure thing.

And if dear, then dear for the sake of something?

And if it's dear, then dear for a reason?

Yes.

And surely this object must also be dear, as is implied in our previous admissions?

And this object must also be precious, as we hinted at in our earlier statements?

Yes.

Yep.

And that something dear involves something else dear?

And does that something valuable involve something else valuable?

Yes.

But then, proceeding in this way, shall we not arrive at some first principle of friendship or dearness which is not capable of being referred to any other, for the sake of which, as we maintain, all other things are dear, and, having there arrived, we shall stop?

But if we keep going like this, won’t we eventually come to a fundamental principle of friendship or affection that can't be linked to anything else? This principle is what makes all other things precious, and once we find it, will we be satisfied?

True.

My fear is that all those other things, which, as we say, are dear for the sake of another, are illusions and deceptions only, but where that first principle is, there is the true ideal of friendship. Let me put the matter thus: Suppose the case of a great treasure (this may be a son, who is more precious to his father than all his other treasures); would not the father, who values his son above all things, value other things also for the sake of his son? I mean, for instance, if he knew that his son had drunk hemlock, and the father thought that wine would save him, he would value the wine?

My worry is that all those other things, which we say are valuable because of something else, are just illusions and tricks. But where the core principle exists, that's where the real ideal of friendship lies. Let me explain it this way: Imagine a great treasure (this could be a son, who is more precious to his father than all his other possessions); wouldn't a father, who cherishes his son above everything, also value other things for his son's sake? For example, if he knew his son had taken poison and thought that wine could save him, wouldn't he value the wine?

He would.

And also the vessel which contains the wine?

And what about the container that holds the wine?

Certainly.

Sure thing.

But does he therefore value the three measures of wine, or the earthen vessel which contains them, equally with his son? Is not this rather the true state of the case? All his anxiety has regard not to the means which are provided for the sake of an object, but to the object for the sake of which they are provided. And although we may often say that gold and silver are highly valued by us, that is not the truth; for there is a further object, whatever it may be, which we value most of all, and for the sake of which gold and all our other possessions are acquired by us. Am I not right?

But does he really value the three measures of wine, or the clay vessel that holds them, as much as his son? Isn't this actually the true situation? His concern isn't about the means provided for a purpose, but about the purpose itself for which those means exist. And while we often claim that we highly value gold and silver, that's not entirely accurate; there's a deeper purpose, whatever it may be, that we value above all else, and for which we acquire gold and all our other possessions. Am I correct?

Yes, certainly.

Absolutely.

And may not the same be said of the friend? That which is only dear to us for the sake of something else is improperly said to be dear, but the truly dear is that in which all these so-called dear friendships terminate.

And can’t the same be said about friendship? What we hold dear only because of something else isn’t truly cherished, but what we genuinely care about is what all these so-called friendships ultimately lead to.

That, he said, appears to be true.

That seems to be true, he said.

And the truly dear or ultimate principle of friendship is not for the sake of any other or further dear.

And the most important principle of friendship isn't for the sake of anything else.

True.

Then we have done with the notion that friendship has any further object. May we then infer that the good is the friend?

Then we've settled the idea that friendship has any other purpose. Can we then conclude that the good is the friend?

I think so.

I believe so.

And the good is loved for the sake of the evil? Let me put the case in this way: Suppose that of the three principles, good, evil, and that which is neither good nor evil, there remained only the good and the neutral, and that evil went far away, and in no way affected soul or body, nor ever at all that class of things which, as we say, are neither good nor evil in themselves;—would the good be of any use, or other than useless to us? For if there were nothing to hurt us any longer, we should have no need of anything that would do us good. Then would be clearly seen that we did but love and desire the good because of the evil, and as the remedy of the evil, which was the disease; but if there had been no disease, there would have been no need of a remedy. Is not this the nature of the good—to be loved by us who are placed between the two, because of the evil? but there is no use in the good for its own sake.

And is the good loved because of the evil? Let's consider it this way: Imagine that out of the three principles—good, evil, and the neutral—only good and neutral remained, while evil disappeared completely and no longer affected our minds or bodies, nor anything that we usually describe as neither good nor evil; would the good have any purpose, or would it be entirely useless to us? If there were nothing to harm us anymore, we wouldn't need anything that benefits us. It would clearly show that we only love and desire good because of the evil, which was the problem; if there was no problem, there would be no need for a solution. Isn't it true that we value the good because we find ourselves caught between the two, due to the evil? But the good has no value in itself.

I suppose not.

I guess not.

Then the final principle of friendship, in which all other friendships terminated, those, I mean, which are relatively dear and for the sake of something else, is of another and a different nature from them. For they are called dear because of another dear or friend. But with the true friend or dear, the case is quite the reverse; for that is proved to be dear because of the hated, and if the hated were away it would be no longer dear.

Then the last principle of friendship, where all other friendships come to an end—those friendships that are valuable because of something else—has a different nature altogether. They are considered precious because of another friend or something cherished. But with a true friend, it's the opposite; that friendship is shown to be valuable because of what is disliked, and if that dislike were removed, it would no longer hold that value.

Very true, he replied: at any rate not if our present view holds good.

Very true, he replied: at least not if our current perspective stands.

But, oh! will you tell me, I said, whether if evil were to perish, we should hunger any more, or thirst any more, or have any similar desire? Or may we suppose that hunger will remain while men and animals remain, but not so as to be hurtful? And the same of thirst and the other desires,—that they will remain, but will not be evil because evil has perished? Or rather shall I say, that to ask what either will be then or will not be is ridiculous, for who knows? This we do know, that in our present condition hunger may injure us, and may also benefit us:—Is not that true?

But, oh! can you tell me, I asked, if evil were to disappear, would we still feel hunger, thirst, or any similar desires? Or can we assume that hunger will still exist as long as humans and animals exist, but in a way that's not harmful? The same goes for thirst and other desires—that they will still be there, but won’t be bad because evil has vanished? Or should I say that asking what will happen then or not happen is pointless, since who really knows? What we do know is that right now, hunger can hurt us, but it can also help us: isn’t that true?

Yes.

And in like manner thirst or any similar desire may sometimes be a good and sometimes an evil to us, and sometimes neither one nor the other?

And in the same way, thirst or any similar desire can sometimes be good for us, sometimes bad, and sometimes not really either one?

To be sure.

For sure.

But is there any reason why, because evil perishes, that which is not evil should perish with it?

But is there any reason why, just because evil goes away, that which is not evil should go away with it?

None.

Then, even if evil perishes, the desires which are neither good nor evil will remain?

Then, even if evil disappears, the desires that are neither good nor bad will still exist?

Clearly they will.

Obviously, they will.

And must not a man love that which he desires and affects?

And shouldn't a man love what he wants and cares about?

He must.

He has to.

Then, even if evil perishes, there may still remain some elements of love or friendship?

Then, even if evil disappears, might there still be some aspects of love or friendship?

Yes.

But not if evil is the cause of friendship: for in that case nothing will be the friend of any other thing after the destruction of evil; for the effect cannot remain when the cause is destroyed.

But not if evil is the reason for friendship: because in that situation, nothing will be a friend to anything else after evil is gone; the effect cannot stay when the cause is eliminated.

True.

And have we not admitted already that the friend loves something for a reason? and at the time of making the admission we were of opinion that the neither good nor evil loves the good because of the evil?

And haven’t we already accepted that a friend loves something for a reason? And when we made that admission, we thought that neither good nor evil loves the good because of the evil?

Very true.

So true.

But now our view is changed, and we conceive that there must be some other cause of friendship?

But now our perspective has shifted, and we believe that there has to be some other reason for friendship?

I suppose so.

I guess so.

May not the truth be rather, as we were saying just now, that desire is the cause of friendship; for that which desires is dear to that which is desired at the time of desiring it? and may not the other theory have been only a long story about nothing?

Could it be that, as we were just saying, desire is actually the reason for friendship? After all, what we desire holds value to what we seek at that moment, right? And maybe the other idea was just an elaborate tale without substance?

Likely enough.

Probably.

But surely, I said, he who desires, desires that of which he is in want?

But surely, I said, someone who desires wants something they lack?

Yes.

And that of which he is in want is dear to him?

And what he lacks is precious to him?

True.

And he is in want of that of which he is deprived?

And he needs what he's missing?

Certainly.

Sure thing.

Then love, and desire, and friendship would appear to be of the natural or congenial. Such, Lysis and Menexenus, is the inference.

Then love, desire, and friendship seem to be natural or compatible. That's the conclusion, Lysis and Menexenus.

They assented.

They agreed.

Then if you are friends, you must have natures which are congenial to one another?

Then if you’re friends, you must have personalities that match each other, right?

Certainly, they both said.

Sure, they both said.

And I say, my boys, that no one who loves or desires another would ever have loved or desired or affected him, if he had not been in some way congenial to him, either in his soul, or in his character, or in his manners, or in his form.

And I tell you, my friends, that no one who loves or wants someone else would have ever loved or wanted them if they weren't somehow compatible, whether in their soul, character, behavior, or appearance.

Yes, yes, said Menexenus. But Lysis was silent.

Yes, yes, Menexenus said. But Lysis remained silent.

Then, I said, the conclusion is, that what is of a congenial nature must be loved.

Then, I said, the conclusion is that what is naturally suited to us must be loved.

It follows, he said.

It's coming, he said.

Then the lover, who is true and no counterfeit, must of necessity be loved by his love.

Then the true lover, who is genuine and not a fake, must necessarily be loved by his beloved.

Lysis and Menexenus gave a faint assent to this; and Hippothales changed into all manner of colours with delight.

Lysis and Menexenus nodded slightly in agreement, while Hippothales flushed with excitement in all sorts of colors.

Here, intending to revise the argument, I said: Can we point out any difference between the congenial and the like? For if that is possible, then I think, Lysis and Menexenus, there may be some sense in our argument about friendship. But if the congenial is only the like, how will you get rid of the other argument, of the uselessness of like to like in as far as they are like; for to say that what is useless is dear, would be absurd? Suppose, then, that we agree to distinguish between the congenial and the like—in the intoxication of argument, that may perhaps be allowed.

Here, trying to revise the argument, I said: Can we identify any difference between the congenial and the similar? Because if we can, then I think, Lysis and Menexenus, there might be some meaning in our discussion about friendship. But if the congenial is just the same as the similar, how will you dismiss the other argument about the uselessness of similar things to each other as far as they are similar? Because to say that what is useless is valuable would be ridiculous. So, let’s agree to differentiate between the congenial and the similar—perhaps in the heat of the argument, that might be acceptable.

Very true.

So true.

And shall we further say that the good is congenial, and the evil uncongenial to every one? Or again that the evil is congenial to the evil, and the good to the good; and that which is neither good nor evil to that which is neither good nor evil?

And should we also say that good is agreeable to everyone, while evil is not? Or that evil is agreeable to those who are evil, and good to those who are good; and that which is neither good nor evil is suitable to that which is neither good nor evil?

They agreed to the latter alternative.

They picked the second option.

Then, my boys, we have again fallen into the old discarded error; for the unjust will be the friend of the unjust, and the bad of the bad, as well as the good of the good.

Then, my boys, we have once again fallen into the old discarded mistake; for the unjust will be friends with the unjust, and the bad with the bad, just like the good with the good.

That appears to be the result.

That seems to be the outcome.

But again, if we say that the congenial is the same as the good, in that case the good and he only will be the friend of the good.

But again, if we say that what's agreeable is the same as what's good, then the good person will be the only one who is a friend to the good.

True.

But that too was a position of ours which, as you will remember, has been already refuted by ourselves.

But that was also a stance of ours that, as you’ll recall, we have already disproven ourselves.

We remember.

Then what is to be done? Or rather is there anything to be done? I can only, like the wise men who argue in courts, sum up the arguments:—If neither the beloved, nor the lover, nor the like, nor the unlike, nor the good, nor the congenial, nor any other of whom we spoke—for there were such a number of them that I cannot remember all—if none of these are friends, I know not what remains to be said.

Then what should we do? Or is there even anything we can do? I can only, like the wise people who debate in court, summarize the points:—If neither the one we love, nor the lover, nor anyone similar or different, nor the good, nor those who get along, nor any of the others we talked about—there were so many of them that I can't recall all of them—if none of these are friends, I don’t know what else there is to say.

Here I was going to invite the opinion of some older person, when suddenly we were interrupted by the tutors of Lysis and Menexenus, who came upon us like an evil apparition with their brothers, and bade them go home, as it was getting late. At first, we and the by-standers drove them off; but afterwards, as they would not mind, and only went on shouting in their barbarous dialect, and got angry, and kept calling the boys—they appeared to us to have been drinking rather too much at the Hermaea, which made them difficult to manage—we fairly gave way and broke up the company.

Here I was about to ask for the opinion of an older person when we were suddenly interrupted by the tutors of Lysis and Menexenus, who appeared out of nowhere with their brothers and ordered them to go home since it was getting late. At first, we and the bystanders pushed them away, but eventually, since they wouldn’t listen and just kept shouting in their strange language, getting angry and calling the boys over, we thought they had definitely had too much to drink at the Hermaea, which made them hard to deal with. So, we finally gave in and disbanded the group.

I said, however, a few words to the boys at parting: O Menexenus and Lysis, how ridiculous that you two boys, and I, an old boy, who would fain be one of you, should imagine ourselves to be friends—this is what the by-standers will go away and say—and as yet we have not been able to discover what is a friend!

I said a few words to the boys as we were saying goodbye: Oh Menexenus and Lysis, how silly it is that you two boys, and I, an older guy who would really love to be one of you, think of ourselves as friends—this is what the bystanders will think—and we still haven't figured out what a friend really is!

Download ePUB

If you like this ebook, consider a donation!

LYSIS

By Plato

Translated by Benjamin Jowett

Contents

INTRODUCTION.

LYSIS, OR FRIENDSHIP

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE:

Socrates, who is the narrator, Menexenus, Hippothales, Lysis, Ctesippus.