Buccioni (2002) - THE PHYSICAL FORCES IN PLATO PHAEDRUS

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The psychical forces in Plato’s Phaedrus

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Eva Buccioni
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Wilfrid Laurier University
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01Buccioni (bc/d) 25/10/02 3:03 pm Page 331
British Journal for the History of Philosophy 10(3) 2002: 331–357
ARTICLE
THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS

Eva M. Buccioni
INTRODUCTION
The triadic psyche that Socrates likens in the Phaedrus to a winged chariot
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ensemble is commonly interpreted as basically identical with the tripartite

psyche of the Republic. The charioteer, his white and his black horse are
seen to correspond to the rational, spirited, and appetitive parts, respec-
tively. In this paper I argue that a cross-identification of the three psychical
forces with the Republic’s three psychical parts or faculties, prevents us
from exploring the rich detail of the Phaedrean account. First, I explain why
I believe a fresh look at the latter to be philosophically fruitful. After an
explication of the relevant passages from the Phaedrus, I point out six
significant discrepancies that result from this cross-identification. Instead of
attempting then to make the Phaedrus fit the Republic, I explore the details
of the text, and emerge with a fresh interpretation of the three Phaedrean
psychical forces. Last, I show how this interpretation helps to elucidate
Socrates’s account of eros. How it also sheds light on rhetoric, the second
of the dialogue’s twin topics, will not be explored on this occasion.
WHY HAVE A FRESH LOOK?
During the past century, an undogmatic reading of Plato’s dialogues has

gained momentum,1 undogmatic both in the sense of questioning the
tradition that sees Plato as a dogmatist, and also in questioning the validity
1 Hans-Georg Gadamer is one of the strongest proponents of a reappraisal of dogmatic

readings of Plato. Whether his own interpretation is entirely free of dogmatism is a question
that cannot be addressed within the scope of this paper. For a comprehensive list of
Gadamer’s Plato studies, too numerous to cite here, see François Renaud, Die
Resokratisierung Platons, Die Platonische Hermeneutik Hans-Georg Gadamers (Sankt
Augustin: Academia, 1999), 150–1. Some of Gadamer’s Plato studies are collected in
volumes V–VII of his Gesammelte Werke (Tübingen: Mohr, 1985/1991).
British Journal for the History of Philosophy

ISSN 0960-8788 print/ISSN 1469-3526 online © 2002 BSHP
http://www.tandf.co.uk/journals
DOI: 10.1080/09608780210143182
332 EVA M. BUCCIONI
of dogmatic scholarship on Plato’s dialogues.2 Two main interpretive

presuppositions of the dogmatic approach are that the dialogues give direct
access to its author’s philosophical views, and that the tenets of that view
may be reconstructed from the texts. Considering that Plato chose to write
dramatic dialogues, rather than philosophical treatises, and that he himself
does not appear as one of the active characters,3 any interpretation that
saddles the historical Plato with the views of any particular character, gives
rise to serious questions. What evidence do we have that Socrates, for
example, is Plato’s mouthpiece? Even if he figured in every single dialogue
(which is not the case), this would not entitle us to conclude that he
propounds Plato’s own view. We do not usually draw such conclusions when
dealing with serial protagonists in fiction. Take the mystery genre, for
instance, where such protagonists often feature prominently. Are we
entitled to assume automatically that, say, Philip Marlow expresses

Raymond Chandler’s personal views? Only where extensive biographical
and autobiographical evidence is available in support does such a
conclusion seem warranted. We lack this kind of evidence in Plato’s case.
Most of the Plato portrait that has been drawn over the ages derives from
the dialogues themselves and from later sources.4
Moreover, when comparing what is said in different dialogues about
particular concepts or hypotheses, say the psyche or the Forms, puzzling
discrepancies emerge. Some of the arguments are even flawed in fairly
obvious ways. What’s more, Plato directly undermines what he has written
in some dialogues by having protagonists severely criticize elsewhere the
views and arguments that are put forth there. This may lead readers to
2 Broadly speaking, Plato is made out to be a dogmatist by those who take particular tenets,
or who reconstruct a complete philosophical system from the dialogues (or other sources),
and then claim that Plato, the man, held these doctrines. ‘Dogmatist’ also refers, however, to
anyone who insists on particular readings of Plato’s writings as canonical. A more specific
division of the main approaches to Plato’s work emerges from Kenneth Dorter’s article,
‘Three Disappearing Ladders in Plato’ (Philosophy and Rhetoric 29 1996, 3: 279–99). Dorter
distinguishes between ‘foundational’ and ‘provisional’ conceptions. These two categories
are subdivided into: (1a) Platonists who credit Plato with firm doctrines, either of the
written or unwritten variety (e.g. the Tübingen School that tries to reconstruct Plato’s
personal views from what is not written in the dialogues); and (1b) those who see Plato as a
forerunner for their own discipline (i.e. Aristotelians, and analytic interpreters). The second
camp consists of those who de-emphasize dogmatic elements, i.e. (2a) those who follow Paul
Friedländer, and Hans-Georg Gadamer in stressing the literary dimension as limiting the
surface doctrines; and (2b) the French postmodernists who overemphasize the aporetic
element in Plato to the exclusion of positive teachings (pp. 279–80 with n. 2/297).
3 He is mentioned in passing (yet significantly) in two dialogues, but not as expressing any
philosophical view (Apol. 34a2, 38b7; Phd. 59b10).
4 Even Aristotle, the contemporary member of Plato’s academy, draws for the most part on
the dialogues. Indeed, he provides so little information about Plato and his academic
teaching that Ryle, for one, is led to conclude that Aristotle did not know Plato, the man, at
all (Gilbert Ryle, Plato’s Progress, Cambridge: CUP, 1966: 6 and passim). One does not
have to accept Ryle’s extreme conclusion, but the fact remains that we know very little
about the historical Plato from his contemporaries.
THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 333
assume that the ‘earlier’ hypotheses or theories are now perceived to be

faulty or untenable. If all these ‘imperfections’ were restricted to non-
philosophical, or even to secondary characters, they might be explained
by inferior abilities, but they are often put into the mouth of Socrates
himself.
Two seemingly straightforward ways of dealing with such ‘imperfections’
are to explain them as having slipped in unintentionally, or as indicating
stages in Plato’s philosophical development. In other words, he just made
mistakes, and/or had less mature views, and he corrects them in later
works.5 Another and, as I believe, more fruitful reaction to such seeming
imperfections is to take them as deliberate devices to induce philosophical
aporia (perplexity).6 Just as some of the Socratic dialogues as a whole end
in aporia, so do the ‘imperfections’ induce aporia about particular philo-
sophical hypotheses, tenets, or concepts. They cause unease in readers

sensitive to nuances in the texts, who are left with nagging questions. In
short, they prevent such readers from settling into a doctrinal comfort
zone.7 The readers want to explore further and deeper. Consequently,
‘imperfections’ keep the philosophical dialogue alive and, if heeded,
prevent doctrinal petrification of Plato’s philosophy. More importantly,
they open pathways to new interpretive and philosophical discoveries. So,
if we come across discrepancies, instead of trying to explain them away, we
may want to stop and look more closely at the text and see where it leads
us. This is what I propose to do in this paper.
5 I shall not enter, here, into the various aspects of the development theory. The question of
chronology has received new, and probably more reliable, ammunition from stylometric
research. Whereas in the past, dating tended to rely on rather circular argumentation, i.e.
using the contents of the dialogues to date them in the apparent sequence of philosophical
development, the stylistic method relies on differences and development of style. Neverthe-
less this method also has been challenged. Moreover, it remains to be seen to what extent a
new consensus about dating (if ever reached) might alter previous interpretations. For a
recently compiled collection of articles on stylometric research, see Leonard Brandwood,
The Chronology of Plato’s Dialogues (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990).
6 Dorter’s (1996, passim) metaphor of the three disappearing ladders (purification, eros, and
dialectic) addresses this issue on a much broader scale. In order to prevent that the surface
doctrines of the dialogues are taken for the final goal of philosophy, they carry within them-
selves the means for their own effacement. In the present paper, I focus on just one facet of
the aporetic moment, i.e. its potential for opening up fresh interpretive pathways.
7 The provisional nature of the dialogues – the tension between aporia and doctrines, the
flawed arguments and refutations – may even explain why Plato wrote dialogues in the first
place. Dorter, for instance, argues that the dialogues are written in a way that undermines
any attempt to cast their words into doctrines. The surface level of the dialogues has built-in
means for the deconstruction of the arguments. This not only prevents the thoughtful reader
from mistaking the words for the truth, but encourages readers with the appropriate
attitude to engage at a deeper level with the arguments of the text. By the same token, it
discourages readers not willing to look deeper than the surface level (‘Why Did Plato Write
Dialogues?’ presented at McMaster University, 2 November 2000).
334 EVA M. BUCCIONI
THE PSYCHE
Let [the psyche] then resemble the combined power [dynamis] of a winged
team of horses and their charioteer. Now in the case of the gods, horses and
charioteers are all both good and of good stock; whereas in the case of the rest
there is a mixture. In the first place our driver has charge of a pair; secondly
one of them he finds noble and good, and of similar stock, while the other is of
the opposite stock, and opposite in its nature; so that the driving in our case is
necessarily difficult and troublesome.
(246a6–b4)8
With these words Socrates begins his account of the triadic psyche in his
palinode to the god Eros in the Phaedrus. He immediately develops the
initial simile, ‘the psyche resembles/is like the combined power/force . . .’,
into an extended metaphor. First, he creates a preternatural muthos (story)

of the psychical chariot’s travels with the gods to the hyperuranean realm.
This muthos describes a discarnate situation and ends by recounting how
psyches come to be incarnated. Last, the account turns to the inner psychi-
cal struggle ignited by desire for a youth. Socrates’s depiction of it in terms
of the chariot metaphor draws on reality and fiction. Although the struggle
of a charioteer with his unruly horse must have been a familiar sight in
ancient Greece, the anthropomorphized horses belong to the realm of
fiction.
Before we turn to Socrates’s story, I want to draw attention to the term
dynamis used in the initial simile. Among many other connotations, the
Greek word can mean ‘power’ or ‘strength’, and also ‘elementary force’. As
will become clear later, I take it to be used here in the latter sense. This is
not to say that Rowe is wrong in rendering it as ‘power’ (quoted above).
Nonetheless, speaking of ‘elementary forces’ seems more in keeping with
the notion that the combination of these forces is what propels the psyche
already in its discarnate condition. It also avoids seeing the struggle within
the incarnate psyche only as a power struggle, pure and simple.
But let us turn to Socrates’s account. The introduction of the chariot
metaphor is followed by a detailed description of all the soul-chariots’
periodic journey to the upper limits of the heavens to feast on the hyperu-
ranean Beings beyond, such as Beauty, Justice, Knowledge (Epistēmē) and
8 Plato: Phaedrus, C. J. Rowe, translator and commentator (Warminster: Aris & Phillips,
1986). I shall also refer to the translations in Plato, Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, Phaedo,
Phaedrus, Harold North Fowler translator with an introduction by W. R. M. Lamb
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1995); and to Plato Phaedrus, translated with
introduction, notes and an interpretive essay by James H. Nichols Jr. (Ithaca: Cornell
University Press, 1998). For the Greek text of the Phaedrus and all references to line
numbers of Stephanus pagination, I am relying on Platonis Opera, Ionnes Burnet, ed., vol. 2
(Oxford: Clarendon, 1967).
Sōphrosynē.9 The details of the journey reveal that the triadic nature of the
psyche plays a role already at this point, i.e. before the souls are incarnated
into human or animal bodies. In short, the gods’ noble steeds allow for an
easy ascent to the uppermost limits of the heavens and do not interfere with
the gods’ leisurely view of the Beings beyond. The non-divine psychical
chariots have trouble following their lead gods, hampered by their unruly,
ignoble second steed. Some of the non-divine get their wings crushed in the
throng and fall. Only psyches that catch a glimpse of the Beings beyond will
be incarnated into human bodies. The psychical structure is the same for all
souls (animals and humans included). Yet special attention is drawn to
psyches of the followers of the lead god Zeus, i.e. the philosophers’ psyches.
Socrates reveals the psychical structure through the description of the
philosopher’s erotic passion kindled by an encounter with the earthly
beauty of a boy of Zeus-like character. The encounter sparks a yearning for

hyperuranean Beauty once beheld. This yearning is so potent that the lover
is torn between exaltation and despair. He is driven to madness by his
desire to be near the beautiful beloved. The somatic symptoms of this
desire, vividly described as resembling the physical discomfort of a teething
infant, are caused by the budding of new psychical wings.
Instead of giving a romantic account of the wooing of the beloved, Socrates
goes on to describe the lover’s inner psychical struggle in terms of the chariot
metaphor that is now depicted in greater detail. The noble, white horse is a
lover of honour (timē) with sōphrosynē and a sense of shame (aidōs), and a
companion (hetairos) of genuine opinion (alēthinēs doxēs),10 who needs no
9 Sōphrosynē, in Homer and in later poetry, meant ‘soundness of mind, prudence, discretion’,
but is more commonly translated ‘moderation, temperance, self-control’. In a political sense
it refers to a ‘moderate form of government’, i.e. neither oligarchic, tyrannical, nor radically
democratic. I would like to retain the Greek term for now, rather than limiting the meaning
to one of the English terms.
References to the English translation of Greek terms are taken from A Greek-English
Lexicon, compiled by Henry George Liddell and Robert Scott (Oxford: Clarendon, 1996).
10 τιµ ραστ µετ σω ροσνη τε κα αδο, κα ληθιν δξη ταρο . . . (253d6–7).
Fowler translates this ‘he is a friend of honour joined with temperance and modesty, and a
follower of true glory’. The last words of Hackforth’s translation ‘[he is] a lover of glory, but
with temperance and modesty: one that consorts with genuine renown’ bring out a point
that is also addressed by Thompson (see below). I agree with Hackforth that ‘ληθιν
δξη cannot mean “true opinion” ’ in this context (R. Hackforth, Plato’s Phaedrus, trans-
lator and commentator, Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1952, 104/n.1).
As Thompson points out ‘ληθιν δξη, is interpreted verae opinionis: but it may well
be doubted whether this is possible. ληθ δξα has a definite sense in Plato, but where
does he use ληθιν in such connection?’ (Philosophy of Plato and Aristotle, The Phaedrus
of Plato, with English notes and dissertations by W. H. Thompson, NY: Arno, 1973, 72). As
we shall see, it is used in connection with doxa elsewhere, namely in Letter II (311e1), but
not as ‘true opinion’. According to Liddell & Scott (1996), ‘alēthinos’ translates with regard
to persons ‘truthful, trusty’, and of things ‘true, genuine’. The fact that Plato does not use his
usual phrase should alert us that it might be meant in a different way, i.e. as genuine, rather
than true. The latter in connection with doxa is contrasted with epistēmē (knowledge). I
intend to show that this is not the meaning of doxa, here.
336 EVA M. BUCCIONI
whip but obeys the word of command of the driver (253d–e). The black
horse, a companion (hetairos) of hybris and false pretension (alazoneia),11
is so disobedient that he hardly yields to whip and spur (253e). When the
driver catches sight of the beautiful boy, the whole soul is suffused by
warmth, whereupon the black horse leaps into action, intent upon instant
gratification of desire.
Now a curious inner psychical struggle ensues. The black horse uses
anything at its disposal – persuasive talk, verbal abuse, muscle power – to
get its soul-fellows to proposition the youth for sex. ‘And they at first pull
back indignantly and will not be forced to do terrible and unlawful deeds’
(Fowler 254a7–b1).12 Finally, being worn down by the persistent black
horse, they reluctantly promise to go along, but upon drawing close, the
charioteer, overcome by reverence and awe for the beauty of the boy, falls
back so forcefully that he brings both horses down on their haunches. This
struggle takes place many times, alternating between entreaties and
wordless violence on the part of the charioteer supported by the white steed
who is covered in the sweat of shame, and renewed outbursts and revile-
ment from the foulmouthed black beast. Ultimately, the struggle becomes
so fierce that it leaves the black horse bleeding and broken, ready to die of
fear at the very sight of the beloved, ‘and so from that time on the soul of
the lover follows the beloved in reverence and awe’.13 (Fowler 254e8–5a1)
11 βρεω κα λαζονε"α ταρο (253e3) is translated by Fowler as ‘he is a friend of insolence
and pride’. Rowe renders it as ‘companion of excess and boastfulness’ and Nichols,
similarly, as ‘a comrade of wantonness and boasting’. As alazoneia is given as ‘false pre-
tension, imposture, quackery’, it is difficult to see why it should be rendered ‘pride’. ‘Boast-
fulness’ is entered by Liddell & Scott for ‘#π’ λαζονε"α’.
12 % δειν κα παρνοµα ναγκαοµ'νω; paranomos translates when referring to people
‘lawless, violent’; of things ‘unlawful, illegal’. We do not know of any Athenian law that
prohibited sexual intercourse between male citizens. Yet by becoming a companion of
another man for the purpose of sex, a citizen forfeited his citizen privileges and incurred
atimia (loss of honour in a legal sense). If despite that fact, he exercised his political, legal, or
religious privileges, he could be indicted by anyone who chose to do so under the law of
prostitution (graphē hetairēseōs). As the law is phrased loosely, i.e. ‘If any Athenian shall
have ταιρ(σ) (made himself a companion)’, it is open to interpretation what counts as
hetairein. Aeschines’s indictment of Timarchus shows how a clever orator could use this law
for political and personal aims (Or. 1,18–22 and passim). A discussion of the legal issue is
found in A. R. W. Harrison, The Law of Athens (Oxford: Clarendon, 1968), vol. 1, 37–8;
vol. 2 (1971), 171–2. The ambivalent attitude of Athenians towards sexual relationships
between two males is discussed in greatest detail in Kenneth Dover, Greek Homosexuality
(Cambridge, Mass.: HUP, 1989 rev.), and in David M. Halperin, One Hundred Years of
Homosexuality, Chs 1 and 5 (NY: Routledge, 1990).
13 I agree with Price that the fear is not fear of the boy but of ‘the internal sanctions of the
driver’. A. W. Price, ‘Love in the Phaedrus’, in Love and Friendship in Plato and Aristotle,
Oxford: Clarendon, 1989: 83.
THE CROSS-IDENTIFICATION
At first glance, it is not surprising that many commentators transfer what

has probably become the most common identification of the Republic’s
tripartite psyche more or less unaltered to the Phaedrean psyche.14 As said,
the charioteer, the white horse, and the black horse are taken to represent
the three psychical parts (or faculties) introduced in the Republic, i.e. the
rational, the spirited, and the appetitive parts respectively.15 The intriguing
thing is that at the surface level there are similarities that make such a cross-
identification seem reasonable. But on closer inspection, the doubts set in.
If it were just one small discrepancy, it might be accidental, but there are
more. I want to draw attention to six particular discrepancies between the
two accounts, and shall refer back to them when discussing the text in more
detail.
1 For the most part, the Republic shows a clear division between reason,
spirit and appetite with only minimal overlap. If we were to think of the
chariot ensemble in terms of the reasoning, the spirited, and the appeti-
tive parts, then we would have to conclude that these roles overlap
considerably during the inner psychical struggle in the Phaedrus. Ferrari,
for example, points out that, ‘it is the bad horse who adopts persuasive
language and methods of reason, while the charioteer maintains control
by sheer strength and wordless violence’.16 Why develop the metaphor in
this particular way, if it is to elucidate the conflict between rationality
(aided by a demure spirit) and appetite? Wouldn’t that goal be better
14 See, for example, Hackforth (72), and Gerasimos Santas, ‘Passionate Platonic Love in the
Phaedrus’, Ancient Philosophy 2, fall 1982: 105–14, 110.
15 Needless to say the account of the psyche in the Republic itself is open to interpretation. The
focus of this paper, however, is on how the (probably) most common interpretation has
influenced the reading of the Phaedrus. There are also variations in the Phaedrean identifi-
cation: Ferrari, although in general subscribing to this identification, has many reservations
about it (G. R. F. Ferrari, Listening to the Cicadas, NY: Cambridge University Press, 1987,
185–203 et al.). Moline (9–11 et al.) chooses to label the parts A, B, C instead, but ultimately
accepts the same conceptual content of the parts (Jon Moline, ‘Plato on the Complexity of
the Psyche’, Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 60, 1978: 1–26). McGibbon (56) identifies
the driver with reason, the right horse with thumos (spirit), and the left with passion (D. D.
McGibbon, ‘The Fall of the Soul in Plato’s Phaedrus’, The Classical Quarterly 14, 1964:
56–63). Graeser seems to agree with this, but keeps all the Greek terms used in the
Republic, i.e. nous, thumos, and epithumētikon respectively (Andreas Graeser, Probleme
der Platonischen Seelenteilungslehre, in Zetemata Monographien, München: C. H. Beck,
1969; 42–5). Price also bases his interpretation of the chariot trio on the conventional
Republic identification (70–1; 78–84 et al.), although he admits that the black horse has
taken on two vices of spirit, namely boastfulness and anger (80). Dorter, on the other hand,
identifies the white horse as ‘temperate opinion’, the black one as ‘hybristic desire’, and the
driver remains nous. (283–4) Kenneth Dorter, ‘Imagery and Philosophy in Plato’s
Phaedrus’, Journal of the History of Philosophy 9, July 1971, 3: 279–88.
16 Ferrari 186.
338 EVA M. BUCCIONI
served by bringing out the very animal nature of appetite, instead of

letting the horse talk, cajole, and reason? The image of a bolting stallion
driven to insanity by the smell of a mare in season, would have brought
home the point quite effectively.
2 The second point is related to the first. Not only does the black horse
employ rationality and language, it also exhibits the anger which ought
to be the prerogative of spirit-cum-white horse. Anger is quite in keeping
with the use of animals in the metaphor, but it is assigned to the wrong
horse. As the white horse is not showing anger at all, but quivers with
shame instead, this, too, would amount to a usurpation of roles. Usurpa-
tion or even serious overlap presents a problem when interpreting the
Republic’s psychical parts as faculties, powers, or capacities, especially, as
Moline points out, if they are ‘on the order of those posited by Aristotle
and modern psychologists’.17 Although, according to Moline, a minimal

overlap must be presupposed for Plato’s principle of specialization to
make sense, the facultists’ view that each part has only one particular
function (i.e. appetite being a capacity for certain types of desire and
nothing else) would render talk of one faculty’s usurping the function of
another absurd.18
A solution to the problem of usurpation and extensive overlap has
been offered by Dorter19 in his discussion of the tenet that ‘knowledge
could be overmastered by its inferiors, appetite and spiritedness’,20 and
of the problem of overlap that ensues when appetite and spiritedness are
depicted as capable of reasoning. He holds that ‘abstractly the three
parts are mutually exclusive, but concretely they make use of each other
as part of their essential activity’.21 He goes on to explain that ‘each of
the three concrete parts must involve all three abstract parts but in
different proportions: one in which appetite predominates, another in
which spiritedness predominates, and a third in which reason predomi-
nates’.22 This way, the danger of an infinite regress (i.e. each of the parts
having three parts and so on to infinity) is averted after the first step
from concrete to abstract. Moreover, Dorter links his analysis with a
recent theory of the evolution of the brain as the physiological basis of
the three distinct parts.23 A similar ‘evolution’ emerges in the develop-
ment of the city in the Republic, i.e. from an appetitive (city of pigs), to
a spirited (with only soldier guardians), and finally to a rational (ideal)
17 Moline 1.
18 Moline 7–8. Note that this also throws doubt on crediting Plato with the ‘one function’
doctrine, in the first place.
19 Kenneth Dorter, ‘Virtue, Knowledge, and Wisdom: Bypassing Self-Control’, The Review of
Metaphysics 51, 1997: 313–43.

20 Ibid., 326.
21 Ibid., 327.
22 Ibid., 328.
23 Ibid., 325.
city ruled by philosophers.24 I’m in no position to assess the physiological

basis of the analysis, but otherwise it seems an interesting way to avoid
the facultist dilemma, while giving a good explanation for the minimal
overlap. Yet as long as we presuppose the narrow identification of the
Republic’s tripartite, this would be insufficient to explain the extensive
overlap among the three parts of the triadic psyche in the Phaedrus.
Moreover, the overlap is only one of the problems arising from the trans-
ference of the identification. If it were the only one, it might give grounds
for pause. Seen in conjunction with other discrepancies, it should make
us wonder why the discrepancies are there in the first place. After all, it
would have been easy enough for Plato to avoid them entirely.
3 Socrates describes vividly the struggle of the soul-chariots before the
psyches become incarnated into animals or humans. It is difficult to see
what role appetites play in a discarnate state. Sexual appetites, or

appetite for food and drink are usually associated with bodies. One could,
perhaps, say that the unruly horse represents something else when dis-
carnate and becomes appetite at birth. But in doing so, one admits
already that there is something more generic than appetites of which the
black horse is symbolic. In that case, why identify it with appetites in the
first place?
4 According to some commentators, the white horse plays no significant
role at all. Robinson, for example remarks:
Though in the Phaedrus lip service is paid to tripartition, and the good horse
is called a ‘lover of honour’ and a ‘friend of genuine doxa’ (253D6–7), in
practice it cannot be distinguished from the charioteer. Their desires and
aims are invariably one and the same; there is no hint of that rebellion which
so characterizes the Republic VIII.25
If the white horse is superfluous, why didn’t Plato simply depict the soul
as a one-horse chariot? But Robinson is right to draw attention to the
fact that there is no hint of the rebellious spirit here. This, however, does
not mean that the white horse lacks character. As we shall see presently,
it has plenty of that.
5 This brings us to another discrepancy. The very goodness of the white
horse is at odds with the Republic’s spirited part that enables us to get
angry,26 and needs to be mellowed and relaxed through harmony and
rhythm from early childhood on to prevent it from becoming savage.27
24 Ibid., 329–30.
25 T. M. Robinson, Plato’s Psychology, Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2nd edn 1995;
117.
26 Rep. 436a, 439e, 440a, et al.
27 Rep. 442a.
340 EVA M. BUCCIONI
But if Plato wanted to invoke thumos (i.e. the Republic’s term for
spiritedness), wouldn’t we expect him to use the word at least once in the
Phaedrus? As it stands, the term does not appear at all?28
6 The last point is less of a discrepancy than an interpretive neglect. The
narrowness of a Republic cross-identification, reducing the description
given of the horses (253d–e) to ‘appetite’ and ‘spirit’ (or desire and love
of honour), ignores the richness of the descriptive details given in the
Phaedrus. We would have to assume that Plato merely added the details
as an artistic, gratuitous effect, to give a splash of colour, so to speak.29
As Plato has taken so much trouble to develop the metaphor to this
extent, it is well worth exploring the details.
THE THREE PSYCHICAL FORCES OF THE PHAEDRUS
Let us have a fresh look at the text, beginning with the description of the
white horse. In outward appearance it is said to be ‘straight in form and well
jointed, somewhat hook nosed, white to the sight [and] black eyed’ (Nichols
253d4–6). What this conveys is the sense of high breeding, a thoroughly
civilized horse. By character it is a ‘lover of honour (timē), with sōphrosynē
and a sense of shame’. The characteristic ‘love of honour’ most likely
prompts commentators to identify the white horse with the spirited part.
The spirited part is characterized as ‘honour-loving’ (philotimon) at Republic
581a–b, for example, where it is conjoined with love of victory (philonikon).
Indeed, the latter is definitive of this soul type.30 At the same time, spirited-
ness chases after power (to kratein) and high repute (eudokimein). Whereas
the latter prima facie seems similar to alēthinē doxa (which we shall discuss
later), the other characteristics definitely are not in keeping with those
attributed to the white horse. In fact, as far as I can see, the rest of the
description of the white horse would not have generated the cross-identifi-
cation. As said earlier, the anger (orgē) in the Phaedrean inner psychical
struggle, for the most part, is expressed by the black horse, not the white.
On the contrary, the white horse is covered with the sweat of shame at the
very thought of an attack on the beautiful boy. This high sensitivity seems
28 This is revealed by an electronic search of the Greek text (Burnet edn) on the Thesaurus
Linguae Graecae data base.
29 Cf. Price’s comment:
The two horses . . . quite clearly represent the spirited and appetitive parts of the soul
as distinguished in the Republic, though in a somewhat distinctive form. It is perhaps
for the sake of dramatic contrast that the horse of spirit is very, very good; that of
appetite horrid. More serious explanations of the impeccability of spirit here seem
faulty.
(Price 79)
30 Rep. 581c4.
hardly in keeping with the angry warrior image of the Republic’s spirited
part. And far from needing the soothing influence of harmony and rhythm
to keep wildness in check, the Phaedrean honour-loving force is tame
whether it is discarnate or incarnate.
But what does ‘love of honour’ indicate, if not spiritedness? Light is shed
on what the concept of timē (honour) involved for Plato’s contemporaries,
when considering it in its historical context. One way to explore timē is via
its privation, atimia. In Athenian legal terminology, atimia is defined as loss
of citizen rights and privileges. The latter included the right to vote or speak
in the political or judicial arena, and to hold any political, judiciary, or
religious office or function.31 In short, such a person would be a social and
political non-entity in a society revolving around citizen participation.
Consequently, timē, that is, the enjoyment of full citizen status, is constitu-
tive of a man’s self-identity. It is a shorthand term encompassing the values

held by society, and vouches for mutual respect among citizens.
It is easy to see that honour is closely tied to the concept of shame (aidōs),
because behaviour or actions that fail to live up to the shared sense of
honour inflict shame. The most obvious example is cowardice in war that
shames both the coward and his community. A man, on the other hand, who
is brave in battle fights for his community and receives honour through it.
But there is also a non-judiciary sense of atimia that is, nevertheless, linked
31 Atimia is often translated as ‘disfranchisement’. But, as MacDowell points out, one has to
keep in mind that atimia involved more than just a loss of the right to vote.
A disfranchised citizen was not allowed to enter temples or the Agora. He could not
hold public office, nor be a member of the Boule or a juror. He could not speak in the
Ekklesia or in the law-court (though he could be present in a court without speaking)
. . . The ban on speaking in court may well have been in practice the most irksome part
of disfranchisement: a disfranchised citizen may have had to endure many personal
injuries and insults because he was not able to prosecute.
(Douglas M. MacDowell, The Law in Classical Athens, London:
Thames and Hudson, 1978: 74)
Atimia was the penalty inflicted for a variety of offenses, for example, it was incurred, as said
earlier, by Athenian males who rendered sexual services for rewards. But it also applied to
procurers and those who hired a minor as prostitute, and to adulterers (Harrison, 1968: 37
and 35). It was inflicted also on suspected oligarchs after the government of the Four-
hundred had been toppled in 411, and on the soldiers who had actively supported the
regime (Martin Ostwald, From Popular Sovereignty to the Sovereignty of Law, Berkeley:
UCP, 1996: 421–2). Partial or total loss of citizen rights was also the punishment for debtors
to the state, sycophants and other offenders. A debtor was, for instance, someone who had
been ransomed by a fellow citizen from enemy bondage, but had failed to refund the money.
Until he made full payment he was deprived of all citizen privileges. (Harrison, 1968: 39; see
also MacDowell 64–5). The threat of partial atimia, for example, was incurred by someone
who failed to obtain one-fifth of the jurors’ votes as prosecutor in certain law cases.
(Harrison, 1968: 116; see also Murray, ‘The Solonian law of hubris’ in Nomos, Essays in
Athenian law, politics and society, Cartledge, Millett & Todd, eds (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1990: 140).
342 EVA M. BUCCIONI
to the legal sense. In civil life a slight to one’s honour through being treated
with hybris by a fellow citizen causes loss of honour and shame. It distresses
not only the victim, but also friends and associates, and so, is public. And
not only the victim but anyone who so chose (ho boulmenos) could appeal
to the community to punish the perpetrator by indicting him under a charge
of hybris.32 The very fact that such offenses were prosecuted under a public
charge demonstrates the communal nature of honour.33 Honour is in-
dependent of social status and political views. Even though there is,
perhaps, more evidence of democrats publicly expressing concern about
hybristic behaviour as a threat to the ideal of equality (isonomia), it is a
serious threat to the whole community.34 Although democrats, oligarchs,
and aristocrats alike may do it to others, this does not mean that they do
not condemn it when others treat them with hybris. In general, hybristic
attacks with intent to harm others either emotionally or physically, not only
undermine the basic self-respect of community members, but also the
mutual respect that is the foundation of societal congregation.35 As such
they threaten or damage the community. This is why anyone who so
chooses can prosecute the offender, conveying a shared responsibility to
safeguard against breaches of trust.
So we can understand why timē – i.e. what the citizen, who incurs atimia
officially or unofficially, is deprived of – is a crucial, if not the most crucial,
communal value. To the Greek mind, honour is not merely a private
concern. It is deeply embedded in the public sphere, and consequently a
social or communal value. Accordingly, the white horse, who is said to be
32 Aeschines, 1.15.
33 In a legal sense atimia could be incurred only through legal procedures, that is, a conviction
in court, or implicitly through committing acts that entailed the loss of citizen privileges (e.g.
‘prostituting’ oneself). Notwithstanding, wrongful detention at the hands of another person,
for example, could be interpreted as a complete deprivation of citizen rights and privileges.
The case of Diokles of Phlya who walled up his victim, thus ‘depriving him of his citizen
status and treating him as a slave’, is a case in point (Murray 141, referring to Isaeus, 8.41;
also referred to by Fisher, ‘The law of hubris in Athens’ in Nomos, 125). The graphē hybreōs
(charge of hybris) was to safeguard the honour of the citizen and his dependents. As a public
case, any citizen who so chose could prosecute, whether victim, guardian , or fellow citizen
(MacDowell 57–8). So the onus is on the community at large to demand retribution for
infringements on people’s honour. That hybris is also a violation of communal trust is
argued by Aeschines. He construes the charge of hybris to cover hybris committed against
one’s own body when a citizen offers his body for sexual services to another man. As
Aeschines puts it, how can the community trust someone not to sell the interests of the city
if he is willing to sell himself? (Aesch.1.29).
34 One obvious reason why we find more evidence in forensic oratory of democrats using this
accusation is the fact that, after the restoration of democracy in 403, few (if any) Athenians
would admit in front of a democratic court to non-democratic leanings. They usually accuse
the other party of oligarchic tendencies. For a detailed account of the social and political
aspects of hybris, see N. R. E. Fisher, Hybris, A Study in the Values of Honour and Shame in
Ancient Greece, Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1992: 96–104; 121–31.
35 Note, though, that Socrates himself occasionally is called hybristic. But as I shall explain
later, the hybristic force can be used in a positive way.

a lover of honour (timē), represents the psychical force that drives the indi-
vidual to seek social integration, as only the community can bestow (and
take away) timē. I would like to call it the socially cooperative or communal
force of the psyche. Let us now see whether the other descriptive details
support this identification.
The descriptive addition of sōphrosynē, should immediately alert us. As
mentioned, the spirited part needs to be soothed through education to
foster harmony and rhythm. Should such education be neglected, spirited-
ness turns into savagery as, for example, in warriors who are only trained
to kill. Moreover, sōphrosynē is not the prerogative of the spirited part.
Socrates refers to it in the Republic as some kind of order (kosmos), the
mastery (enkrateia) of certain pleasures (hēdonōn tinōn) and desires
(epithumiōn).36 It is not ascribed, however, to one particular part of the
psyche. Rather, it emerges when all three parts are in friendly and harmoni-
ous relations, all three believing that the rational part (logistikon) should
rule and the other parts be ruled.37 Far from being characterized by
sōphrosynē, spiritedness, as mentioned, craves power and victory. Con-
versely, in the palinode of the Phaedrus, sōphrosynē is not a relational
product of the dynamics among the parts, but is used to characterize the
white horse, even in the prenatal state. (The charioteer beholds Sōphrosynē
among the Beings, but it is not he who represents sōphrosynē in the psyche.)
As we saw, the white horse is never headstrong. It neither craves power nor
victory, but follows obediently. It is a stable force by its very nature. We
may take that as expressing the crucial contribution of sōphrosynē (in-
adequately rendered as ‘moderation’ and ‘temperance’) to social and
communal integrability. If humans (and other social animals) did not have
an inherent predisposition for sōphrosynē, communal association could
never come about. Our inherent selfishness would reign unchecked, as will
become evident once we discuss the other two psychic forces.
But let us first consider one more descriptive detail of the communal
force. The white horse is also designated a ‘companion of genuine (alēthinēs)
opinion (doxēs)’. The Greek term doxa has several connotations. I want to
consider, first, those concerned with the mental beliefs and evaluations an
agent forms, i.e. doxa in the sense of ‘notion, opinion, conjecture, judge-
ment’. In the Republic, for example, doxa is used in the sense of ‘opinion’
in contrast to knowledge (epistēmē ). Yet this is not a reason to take it in
the same sense here. Even in the Republic, doxa as ‘opinion’ is not in any
way tied to the spirited element. Far from being an emotive concept or a
character trait, doxa is epistemological (if that is not a contradiction in
terms). It refers to the middle ground of the epistemological hierarchy
illustrated by the divided line. But as Socrates points out there, doxa
(opinion) results from the nature of the object with which the psyche is
36 Rep. 430e6–7.
37 Rep. 442c10–d1; see also 431a3–6.
344 EVA M. BUCCIONI
concerned, i.e. doxa pertains to the realm of sense perception, whereas

epistēmē pertains to the intelligible realm.38 Although only few people are
able to attain epistēmē, everyone can achieve doxa with respect to the visible
world. Some people have true opinion (alēthēs doxa), but there is no indi-
cation that this is a property of the spirited element, nor is it unique to the
timocratic man. On the contrary, doxa as ‘opinion’ belongs to any nous to
the extent to which it lacks epistēmē.
Moreover, doxa in the Republic is modified by the adjective ‘alēthēs’,
whereas the Phaedrus uses ‘alēthinē’. The very fact that Plato does not use
his usual terminology here should alert us to a difference in meaning. The
only other place within the Platonic corpus where we find this particular
combination, i.e. alēthinē doxa, is in Letter II (311e1). The author of the
letter is speaking of the relationship between wise men aligned with men of
greatest power, and points out that many of them fail to conduct their
relations in a manner that will ensure good repute in posterity. He urges
Dionysios to mend their relationship while there is still time. He goes on to
say: ‘With regard to philosophy, I maintain that its genuine reputation
(alēthinēn doxan) will be the more fitting if we conduct ourselves well, and
the more paltry if we conduct ourselves badly’.
This usage is perfectly in keeping with the second set of connotations,
namely those related to values. In that sense doxa means ‘the opinion
others have of one, estimation, repute, honour, glory, popular repute’. As
said, the spirited part pursues eudokimein (approval, repute, esteem, popu-
larity). But this pursuit of popular repute is conjoined with love of victory
and power. The latter do not suggest modesty accompanied by genuine
repute (alēthinē doxa). I’m not suggesting that they are unconnected. On
the contrary, both refer to ‘repute’, but not with the same meaning. To give
an example, the descriptors of spiritedness may make one think of someone
like Alcibiades, but those of the white horse would not conjure up his
image.
In the sense of ‘repute’, doxa is a social valuation and has meaning only
within the perimeter of a societal framework. It is ‘genuine’ (alēthinē),
because it describes an elementary force. The descriptor fits in well with the
other qualities attributed to the white horse. Both honour and shame are
also societal valuations (even if one were to see them vis-à-vis a divine
social order as a frame of reference). The white horse is also said to be so
obedient that it needs no whip but responds to the spoken command of the
driver (253d7–8). In other words, it is able and willing to understand and
follow rules and commands. It would make little sense to see that as refer-
ring to doxa being obedient to nous in an epistemic sense. Apart from the
difficulty of ascribing separate cognitive faculties to the psyche, i.e. one that
generates doxa and another one that generates epistēmē, it seems redun-
dant to see the former faculty as obedient to the latter. If the latter were in
38 Rep. 508b–11e.
charge, so to speak, one would have no need for the former. In other words,
if one truly knows something, it makes little sense to say that one has also
true opinion about it. If, on the other hand, we see the qualities of the white
horse as innate societal predispositions, we can make sense out of all of
them. Both sōphrosynē and the ability to follow rules are crucial precon-
ditions for human communal living. Unchecked selfishness, intemperance,
and defiance against order, on the other hand, make communal life imposs-
ible. They can exist only in an anarchy – that is, in the complete absence of
order, rules, and governing principles – where no one cares about another.
We don’t have far to look, to find out from whence hybristic selfishness
arises. Let us look closely then at the black horse. Its outward appearance
stands in strong contrast to that of the white horse. It ‘is crooked in shape,
gross, a random collection of parts, with a short, powerful neck, flat-nosed,
black-skinned, grey-eyed [and] bloodshot’ (253e1–3 Rowe). In short, this

is horse nature at its rawest, untouched by the influence of careful
breeding. It is the antithesis to the Athenian ideal of beauty. In character
it is the companion of hybris and alazoneia (false pretension, imposture,
quackery).
Hybris is a crucial Greek concept. Dover defines it as treating ‘other
people as one pleases, with an arrogant confidence that one will escape
paying the penalty for violating their rights and disobeying any law or moral
rule accepted by society’.39 Fisher calls it ‘essentially the serious assault on
the honour of another which is likely to cause shame, and lead to anger and
attempts at revenge’.40 In fourth-century forensic orations, plaintiffs often
accuse each other of hybristic intent and may be sure that democratic jurors
pay close attention to such allegations. As said earlier, a specific law against
hybris was intended to protect citizens, their families and slaves from being
treated with hybris.41 Hybris and honour are antithetical to the extent that
hybris issues from an inflation of oneself, whereas honour emerges from the
communal. A person who treats others with hybris intends to elevate
himself above other people. If solely hybristic, the act shows contempt for
others, and therefore, breaks the common bond and violates the shared
sense of honour.
But why is the black horse called a ‘companion of false pretense’, i.e. an
impostor? As we remember from our description of the struggle within the
soul, the black horse tries to take the lead and urges its team-mate and
driver to follow suit. As mentioned, the fact that it actually tries to persuade
the other two and uses abusive language when those two fall back on their
39 K. J. Dover 1989: 34.

40 Fisher 1992: 1.
41 Aeschines 1.15. Fisher (1992: 68–82) argues (with Murray, ‘Solonian Law’) convincingly that
this law was introduced already by Solon. Although plaintiffs and defendants alike
frequently accuse each other of hybristic intent, this form of charge was rarely used as
official indictment. Fisher (66–7) offers some explanations why other charges were
preferred as formal accusation.
346 EVA M. BUCCIONI
word, seems inconsistent with the division of the Republic’s tripartite

psyche. Saying that persuasion and reasoning ought to be the prerogative
of the rational element (nous) may appear literalistic. But this is not the
only discrepancy. The appetitive element should be the only part of the
psyche that desires (epithumein). Yet it is the charioteer who first is
attracted by the boy’s beauty, and his reaction suffuses the soul with warmth
and longing. The white horse is obedient, and instead of ‘leaping on the
loved one’ (Rowe), it holds back. The implication, however, is that the
white horse, too, is moved by desire, but holds back in response to the
charioteer (253e5–4a3). Again, the black horse’s reaction to what it sees as
a breach of promise is characterized by violent anger, an emotion that
should be the prerogative of the spirited part. It is hybristic, because it flouts
the concerns and pleas of the other two, and as we can see from the other
two’s indignation at being forced into something ‘terrible and lawless’, it

also flouts laws and convention (254b1). Its attempt to take over the lead
shows that it tries to usurp the role of the charioteer.
Part of this role, as we’ll see in a moment, is to determine the course, give
directions, impose order, and punish disobedience. In short, it is the
deliberative, regulatory, ordering, and punitive role of a governing force.
As such it is the very antithesis to the anarchic, self-serving (hybristic) force.
So if the latter tries to usurp the role of the former, it is pretending to do
something for which it is not equipped. In trying to lead and rule the others,
it is merely attempting to serve its own ends to the detriment of the whole.
It is an impostor who pretends to be able to lead others, despite the fact
that selfishness by its very nature revolves only around itself, and has no
goal to share with others. Its ‘relations’ to others are solely exploitative. It
is anti-social, because hybris undermines and destroys social cohesion; it is
asocial, because hybris is fundamentally self-interested; and it is anarchic,
because hybris defies order and governance.
But does the latter disqualify it from ruling others? To answer this we
have to examine the role of the governing force. ‘All soul (psychē pasa)42
takes care (epimeleitai) of all that is soulless and traverses the entire
heavens, coming to be in one or another. And so being perfectly winged it
travels through the air and controls the entire cosmos (246b6–c2, my trans.).
This is the first indication that the role of soul is to care (epimeleithai) and
control or manage (dioikein). Soon it becomes clear that this role in its
perfection is fulfilled by the highest divinity, ‘Zeus, the great leader [who
is] putting all things in order (diakosmōn panta) and caring for all’ (246e4–6
Rowe). The other souls try to follow, the divine ones without difficulty (as
42 Scholars are in disagreement whether psychē pasa refers to ‘all soul’ or ‘every soul’. The
Greek allows for both. The first is seen to refer to a world soul that is undifferentiated. I’m
taking it in this generic sense. Soul becomes differentiated only when ‘coming to be in
something or other’, i.e. when enabling something soulless to come to be ensouled. Soul’s
essential role, though, the caring and managing, is the same generically and when individu-
ated (see also Ferrari: 124–5).
they have only good horses and themselves are leaders of their own
entourage), the non-divine with the greatest difficulty due to their
mismatched steeds. As mentioned earlier, in the heavenly travels of the
soul-chariots, the aim is to catch sight of the real Beings, but it is the pilot
of the soul alone who can observe the Beings ‘with which the class of true
knowledge (epistēmē) is concerned’ (247c8 Nichols). This pilot (kubernētēs)
is nous (247c7–8).
The identification of the charioteer with nous would seem to be a strong
point in favour of taking it as the rational element of the psyche. But
Socrates continues to say that ‘the mind (dianoia) of a god is nourished by
uncontaminated nous and epistēmē’ (247d1–2) and this also holds for every
other psyche, because it is made happy by gazing at what is true, i.e.
the Beings, among them justice (dikaiosynē), sōphrosynē, and epistēmē
(247d6–7). Shortly after, the jostling of the soul-chariots during their

heavenly travels (in which many of them are maimed) is said to be caused
by their great eagerness to see the plain of truth. The pasturage, which is
fitting for the best part of the psyche is found in that meadow. And this is
what nourishes the nature of the wing that lifts up the soul (248b5–c2 Rowe,
adapted).
Note two things: first, epistēmē is one Being among others that is
perceived by the pilot of the psyche. It is not what gives access to the Beings.
This is contrary to the usual understanding that knowledge is knowledge of
something, achieved either through sense perception or (it is believed, for
Plato) through reason. The visual metaphor used here implies intuition
rather than reasoning, i.e. a form of direct access, or immediate apprehen-
sion. Second, here, it is neither dianoia nor nous that is nourished by the
apprehension of the true Beings, but the wings of the soul.43 And the crucial
role of the wings is to lift the whole soul and bring it closer to the divine
and to the realm of the Beings.
Later, Socrates says that only the philosopher’s mind (dianoia) becomes
winged again, because his mind alone comes as close as possible, through
43 Shortly before, Socrates made a somewhat puzzling statement with regard to dianoia and
nous: ‘Just as the dianoia of God is nourished by nous and uncontaminated knowledge
(πιστ(µ) κηράτ*), so also that of every soul in so far as it may care to receive what is
fitting (247d1–3 my trans.). Both dianoia and nous may be translated ‘mind’, but it would
hardly make sense to use it for both here. Other possible translations for dianoia are
‘thought, thinking faculty, understanding, or intelligence’; for nous ‘mind’ as employed in
‘perceiving, thinking, sense, or wit’, but also ‘reason, or intellect’. De Vries (136) remarks
that ‘[h]ere υο and πιστ(µη are potentially identical’. Based on the adjective akēratos,
‘uncontaminated, undefiled, pure’, (which incidentally can be applied to both nous and
epistēmē as they are joined by te kai), it seems that the knowledge in question here is non-
inferential knowledge to which dianoia has immediate access. Of the choices for translating
nous, it seems to me that only ‘intellect’ corresponds to the extent that it, too, may be uncon-
taminated or pure. ‘Thinking’ and ‘reason’, on the other hand, seem to imply a connection
with particular content of thought or reasoning. Accordingly we may like to translate the
above as: ‘Just as the understanding (mind) of God is nourished by intellect and uncontam-
inated knowledge’.
348 EVA M. BUCCIONI
memory of the Beings, to what makes gods divine (249c4–6). Moreover,

followers of Zeus are disposed by nature to philosophy and leadership
(hēgemonikos) (252e1–3). As we saw earlier, Zeus’s role is to put things in
order, to care for all, and to lead. He is not said to philosophize. Indeed, it
would make little sense to say that he does, for he has unimpeded access to
the true Beings. His followers, on the other hand, only catch a glimpse of
them, and if incarnated into a human body, strive most eagerly to recollect
what they saw, viz. they love wisdom.
During the inner psychical struggle, the charioteer initially shows only
the same reaction as the white horse, namely a spontaneous abhorrence of
the ‘terrible and unlawful’ deed. This means that at first he does not take
over the lead but follows unreflectingly the dictates of law and custom. His
epiphanic experience that triggers the recollection of Beauty he once
beheld is the turning-point of the struggle. Just when they are about to
proposition the lad for sex, suddenly ‘[h]is memory (mvēmē) is carried back
to the nature of beauty, and again sees it standing together with self-control
(sōphrosynē) on a holy pedestal’ (254b5–7 Rowe). As before, his
apprehension is intuitive, a sudden insight. Only from that moment on, the
charioteer takes charge and fulfils his guiding role by establishing inner
psychical order. In so doing, he ultimately cares for the other because,
instead of sexually exploiting the youth, he truly cares for him by turning
him towards the philosophical life.
From what has been said, it transpires that soul is essentially informing
the soulless as an ordering and caring force. In the highest (i.e. divine) form,
the psychic forces constitute a unity in purpose and directedness. In its non-
divine form, the psyche differs to the extent that its forces are combined,
yet not unified. Their purpose and directedness is the same as the divine’s,
but in order to fulfil their essential nature, their primary goal must be, first,
to achieve inner unification. The latter, however, will always remain to
some degree fragile. In this sense, then, all non-divine psyches are the same:
to fulfil their essential nature, they have to aim at inner unification. They
come closer to the divine if, beyond achieving this aim, they are also able
to follow and resemble most closely, soul in its highest nature, i.e. putting
things in order and caring for all. This is to say, at a minimal level a psyche
needs to achieve inner psychical order. If that is lacking completely, the
metaphorical soul-chariot careers out of control. Its ability to stay on course
stands in direct relation to the degree of inner unification that it achieves.
Only to the extent that a psyche (at least, temporarily) gains some inner
order may its directedness be turned outward. In the prenatal state, turning
outward is directed towards apprehension of the Beings and the care of the
cosmos. When incarnate it means turning towards recollection of the Beings
once beheld, and towards others through relational, educational, social, and
political concerns. The ones who achieve this to a higher degree are the
psyches that become philosophers, namely the followers of Zeus. The
degree to which inner psychical unification is achieved depends on the
interplay of the inner psychical dynamics. This is to say, the inner psychical
ordering and caring force (the charioteer of the metaphor) must fulfil its
purpose with the aid of the other two forces taking advantage of their
disparity.
But why, we may ask, should there be a disparity between the other two
forces in the non-divine psyche? Why are the forces not united in all
psyches as they are in the divine? Plato presumably would answer that it is
a basic fact of the world that there are non-divine psyches whose inner
forces lack unity. This obviously leads to the question, what causes this
disparity? Given that the essential nature of soul is ‘to order and care for’,
the disparity must be caused by something that impedes upon this goal. As
we saw, ‘ordering and caring’ is directed inward primarily as a prerequisite
to turning outward. In its highest form it is directed outward towards all
others, i.e. it is cosmic. The impediment, then, inhibits this progress from
inward to outward directedness. The self-centred force, if unchecked,
inhibits the psyche’s ascent to higher directedness by keeping the psyche in
constant inner turmoil. In other words, it revolves around itself, and so,
defies inner order. For the incarnate psyche this means that the self-centred
force impedes the progress from egotism to socialization and active care for
others. In other words, it is anti-social or fundamentally asocial.
Does that mean that it is also a fundamentally negative force? Not really
– it is only negative, viz. detrimental, if acting on its own behalf. It lacks
directedness in a higher sense. Left to its own devices, it is an elemental
selfish force, pure self-centeredness that goes nowhere, as it were. In terms
of the preternatural metaphor, it blunders about aimlessly in the throng,
defying the driver’s attempt to give it direction. Even when discarnate, it is
hybristic in the sense that it flouts the rules of cosmic order and the
commands of the driver. When a large number of chariots, thus impeded,
come to be crowded together, chaos will ensue among those whose ordering
principle is too weak to channel the selfish force into a prescribed direction.
In the muthos, the goal is to follow the gods to the hyperuranean realm of
the Beings. By the same token, it must be remembered that the psyches
travel to this realm only on feast days. The rest of the time presumably is
spent in the ordering and care of the cosmos.
So we see that there are two types of psychical occupation, here: (a)
ordering and care, and (b) apprehension of the Beings. As the latter is said
to provide the nourishment for what allows the psyches to move around the
heavens (i.e. their wings), it follows that in order to fulfil (a), they need (b).
From the description, the feasting on the Beings appears to be an individ-
ualistic experience in the sense that, while travelling in company to the
hyperuranean realm, once there the actual apprehension of the Beings is a
private event for each charioteer. The amount of Being they see is also what
individuates the non-divine psyches. We see this from Socrates’s assertion
that the psyches that become incarnated into humans are ranked in accord-
ance with how much they saw of the Beings (248d2–3). We may want to
350 EVA M. BUCCIONI
interpret that to mean that both the selfish and the communal forces must
be utilized to facilitate the private experience of the apprehension of the
Beings. If successfully employed it enables the psyche to achieve the highest
ranking. Nonetheless this private need may not contravene the common
purpose that is the essential nature of psyche. And this is why the other
psychical force, namely the communal force, is of equal importance (and
the white horse of the metaphor is not merely a decorative but an expend-
able addition). Without this force, the ordering and caring would be over-
ridden by the selfish force, i.e. become entirely self-centred. In metaphorical
terms, the charioteer would strive towards the Beings, but would not be
drawn to integration into the society of his lead god. But as we saw, the
ordering, caring force is always already implicitly an outward directed force,
at least in its highest fulfilment. Without the communal force, the latter
cannot be reached.
THE THREE PSYCHICAL FORCES AND EROS
Though the present occasion is not the place to apply this interpretation to
both eros and rhetoric, the twin topics of the dialogue, I would like to show
how it helps to elucidate one of them, and it is only fitting to start with erotic
temptation, that being the topic of the palinode. Moreover, this topic may
be seen by the advocates of the traditional identification as a crucial test,
because the tripartite cross-identification prima facie seems to provide a
straightforward analysis of erotic desire. According to this reading, erotic
passion arises from the appetites and the philosopher’s inner psychical
struggle is the rational part’s successful suppression of the appetites (aided
by the honour-loving spirited part). What this interpretation does not
explain is the need for philosophers’ total abstention from sex. Some of
the other problems to which this interpretation leads, we have already
discussed. Let us see whether our identification of the psychical forces
fares better.
All three psychical forces, even the obedient white horse, were seen as
subject to desire in one form or another. It could be argued that only the
black horse is driven by sexual desire, and so should be equated with the
appetites. This might have been a good point, if the metaphor were used
only for the incarnate state of psyche. But attempts to reconcile appetites
with the account of the prenatal state of the psyche run into problems.
There is no prenatal equivalent of appetites, if it is taken in the sense of
appetites of the flesh, so to speak. If it is not taken in that sense, then I fail
to see how we could still distinguish that type of appetitive desire from the
type of desire the charioteer and the white horse experience. But if there is
no difference, then what distinguishes appetite at all? Suggesting a more
generic concept is already meeting us halfway. As the Phaedrus metaphor
depicts the fundamental nature of the psyche, we should expect the forces
to be more generic than what relates specifically to humans or other

animals.
Given this interpretation of the three psychical forces, what is the
relevance of eros experienced by the incarnate psyche? In the palinode,
Socrates defines eros as the fourth kind of divine madness (249d4–e4). But
when talking about human reaction to its stimulus, that is, to the beauty of
a boy, he likens the most base reaction to that of a hybristic man who, like
a four-footed beast, jumps the object of his desire either to procreate, or for
the purpose of pleasures contrary to nature (250e1–251a1). Much later, in
the discussion of rhetoric, Socrates speaks of the right-handed divine eros,
and the left-handed, presumably, earthly eros that was justly reviled by his
first speech (266a3–b1). As that speech depicted the lover as a person who
is sick, out of his mind and highly detrimental to the well-being of the
beloved, it is clear that his eros differs from the divine. It lacks the latter’s
beneficent qualities. Perhaps it is best to see them as located at opposite
ends of a sliding scale; at the one end is the divine; at the other the earthly
eros.
The earthly eros is motivated by a drive for sex. The sex drive is both the
most powerful drive, and the most selfish one. But isn’t sex a uniquely
shared experience, one may interject, and so, not at all selfish? Surely not
in its biological or animalistic sense. In that sense, the sexual act is the
purest form of selfish gratification without regard for the object of its urge.
It is asocial, because it cares nothing for others, and anti-social because it
is destructive to any sense of community, as it merely exploits. It becomes
a shared experience only if it is tempered by other forces, i.e. the communal
force that is directed towards others, and the leading force whose nature it
is to guide the psychic forces towards the ultimate goal to care for all. So
we have earthly, purely selfish sexually-obsessed eros at one end of a sliding
scale, and divine, caring sexually-abstinent eros at the other end. For the
inner psychical struggle ends ideally (in the philosopher’s case) with total
abstention from sex. It has been argued that the insistence on abstention is
merely the result of Plato’s own disdain for sex,44 and thus, a somewhat
gratuitous addition to his philosophy of eros. If so, the whole inner psychi-
cal struggle would seem gratuitous, if its outcome would only matter to
Plato personally.
Conversely, why does the ideal case of divine erotic madness demand
abstention? It seems to me that the answer lies with the essential nature of
the psyche. As we can gather from Socrates’s account of the life of the
philosopher and his beloved, eros fuels the shared pursuit of philosophy.
The goal of philosophy is to come closest to the prenatal state in the train
44 Nussbaum, for example, believes that the relationship of the philosophic couple is physically
very close with plenty of body contact, just stopping short of orgasmic consummation. And
the latter restriction may just be derived from ‘the old Platonic suspiciousness of the body’
(Martha, C. Nussbaum, ‘ “This story isn’t true”: madness, reason, and recantation in the
Phaedrus’ in The Fragility of Goodness, Cambridge Mass.: CUP, 1986: 220).
352 EVA M. BUCCIONI
of the lead god and to fulfil the essential nature of the soul. We saw that
this entails two things, (a) ordering and care, and (b) apprehension of the
Beings; (b) is necessary for (a). Accordingly, the earthly task of the philoso-
pher is twofold: he has to fulfil his role as someone who brings about order,
by caring for all others. And he must aim to recollect the Beings he once
beheld, in order to nourish his own psyche and enable it to ascend once
more to the divine realm. Moreover, he must be able to fulfil his first task,
by ordering and caring in accordance with his memory of the true order and
true care in a cosmic sense. With regard to his relationship to his beloved,
this means that using the lad for sexual pleasures would be a selfish act that
is not in accordance with the ideal role.45 Then why does Plato see absten-
tion as the ideal for erotic relationships?
The answer lies with the directedness of sex. The sexual act emphasizes
one’s own pleasure and/or that of the other. Even the most unselfish lover
focuses on the individuality of the other. In fact a lover who engages in sex
without this focus implicitly focuses on his or her own pleasure. Unless the
sexual act is motivated by less benign intentions (e.g. a desire to dominate,
or to inflict harm in the case of the violent rapist, for instance) we engage
in sex to satisfy our own desires, and/or that of a particular other – someone
we desire for his or her personal attributes. If we would not care who that
other is, then obviously the act is done for our own satisfaction only. Either
way, our focus is centred on ourselves or on a particular other.
When we look at Socrates’s account of the philosophical lover we realize
that his eros is not directed to a particular other in the sense of personal
uniqueness. His attention is attracted by the beauty of the boy, not because
of the boy’s individual quality, but because it triggers memory of the Beauty
the discarnate psyche once beheld at the heavenly feast (251a–2b).
Moreover his attraction to this beautiful boy, rather than the next one, is
based on the boy’s philosophical nature (his psyche followed the same lead
god, Zeus). There is no indication in the text that the attraction is idiosyn-
cratic, that is, based on the boy’s unique individual characteristics. On the
contrary, it seems entirely generic. The man’s desire to revere and to
sacrifice to his beloved as to the statue of a god emphasizes the impersonal
aspect (251a5–7). Santas, on the other hand, takes the lover’s reverence for
the boy as though he were a god as indication of an ‘overestimation’, i.e. an
idolization of the beloved of which Plato takes note here.46 The problem,
however, arises from taking the relationship as a particularly personal one.
The lover is not overestimating the attractions of the boy, but is over-
whelmed by the memory of true Beauty evoked by that of the boy. What
he reveres is Beauty in mortal beauty, not the individualized personal
attractions of the boy. As Dorter puts it, it is not individuality but typology
45 See Dover (1989: 101–9) and Halperin (‘One Hundred Years of Homosexuality’ in 1990: 33)
for their accounts of the inherent asymmetry in pederastic relationships that was idealized.
46 Santas: 113.
that is the basis for the relationship.47 We are looking for the divine in the
other person, namely the resemblance to the character of our mutual lead
god. And it is this resemblance to the divine which shines through earthly
beauty. In the case of our Phaedrean pair, the ensuing relationship revolves
around the pursuit of the philosophical life.
True enough, they do end up sharing a couch. This may convey the image
of symposia where youths often are depicted as sharing their lover’s couch.
But it also conjures up the scene recounted by Alcibiades in the
Symposium.48 In the Phaedrus it is the youth who wants to embrace and
kiss in his confused gratitude for the friendship of the man (255e–6a). To
some degree the situation is similar to the episode related by Alcibiades,
when he tries in vain to entice Socrates to respond to his amorous advances.
But Alcibiades is not a confused and inexperienced novice to erotic encoun-
ters. Yet despite his seductive pliancy, Socrates remains as much in charge
of himself and the situation as the Phaedrean lover. This being in charge is
due to the strength of the leading and ordering force of the philosopher’s
psyche. And so in both cases the episode goes no further than the beloved’s
caress. In the Phaedrus, the philosopher and his beloved go on to share a
well-ordered49 life spent in the pursuit of philosophy. In other words, they
are not focused on each other (as romantic lovers are often seen to be) but
directed towards a common goal, viz. philosophy. If successful, the philoso-
pher may fulfil his function of ordering and caring for all, and of recollect-
ing the true Beings, as far as that is possible for humans. Engaging in sex
would divert this focus and redirect it towards the person of the other as a
particular individual.
For the philosophical life, as Plato sees it, all three forces prove neces-
sary, because it is not merely a single-minded pursuit of knowledge. The
latter, in fact, would constitute the selfish version of such a life. The function
of the genuine philosopher, i.e. taking the lead in ordering and caring,
entails outward directedness. In other words, the philosopher has a twin
role to fill. On the one hand, is the aim to recollect the Beings. On the other
hand, is the guiding and caring role in the social, educational, and political
spheres. The selfish force, when wisely employed, aids in the pursuit of
philosophy, but it needs to be tempered by the communal force that always
is focused on others. Hybris can prove indispensable when there is a need
to overcome an existing social or political order that is recognized by the
truly philosophical guiding force to be destructive to the community. In
general, the leading force must ensure that a middle course is maintained,
where philosophy does not become a self-serving preoccupation in
complete disregard for the service it should render to the well-being of the
whole, but must also prevent total immersion in the acute demands of the
47 Dorter 1996: 291 and n.14/298.

48 Significantly, it is Alcibiades who relates the episode (Symp. 219b–e).
49 ‘Kosmioi’, note the allusion to cosmic order.
354 EVA M. BUCCIONI
public sphere (e.g. the social and political scene) to prevent losing sight of
the synoptic sense of ordering and caring for the whole.
Ultimately, how people react to eros is determined by their inner psychi-
cal dynamics. If the selfish asocial force (the hybristic horse) completely
dominates the other two, the person would resemble a psychopathic rapist.
At the other end of the scale is the psyche whose leading force (charioteer)
is completely in control, employing the selfish force as impetus in the ascent
to the Beings, but well-tempered by a strong communal force (the civil
horse) that ensures directedness towards others as a whole. This, of course,
is the Platonic philosopher’s psyche. Most of us fall somewhere in between
those two extreme poles.
CONCLUSION
To sum up: I set out to show that paying close attention to the discrepan-
cies that emerge when imposing the Republic’s soul identification on the
soul-chariot of the Phaedrus, will yield a richer and more fruitful interpre-
tation. By the same token, I needed to show that these discrepancies are
enabling and open up fresh and philosophically interesting pathways.
Importantly, the proposed identification of the psychical forces must
emerge from the textual details. In the process, the discrepancies that
induced aporia and the resulting interpretive problems should dissolve. Let
us reiterate briefly the points of discrepancy and recapitulate how they are
dissolved. First, the strict division into reasoning, spirited, and appetitive
parts cannot be shown to hold for the Phaedrean psyche due to the
considerable overlap (e.g. of the use of reason, of desire, and anger). This
overlap is of no consequence when we identify the three forces as the
governing directional force, the cooperative communal force, and the
selfish asocial force. As we saw, the selfish force may well attempt to usurp
leadership, but merely as an impostor. On the other hand, if the communal
force were most pronounced, the person would simply be a particularly
unselfish law-abiding citizen. It would not mean that this force would turn
against the leading force, but merely that the person would play no leading
role but be a follower of established order. Accordingly, the second
problem, that is, that the black horse exhibits the anger that ought to be the
prerogative of spiritedness (the white horse), is not a concern for our
interpretation. Anger (and other emotions) may very well ensue upon the
frustration of any of our three elemental forces. The way it would be
handled, however, would entirely depend on the inner-psychical dynamics,
and on its cause.
Let us see whether our interpretation can also avoid the third, and most
tricky, problem, namely the charge that it makes little sense to speak of
appetites in connection with the discarnate psyche. We may well ask: what
on earth does it mean for a disembodied soul to be selfish and asocial? It is
one thing to speak of it in metaphorical terms as the black horse’s tendency

to bolt, to defy directedness and integration into the orderly community of
others (i.e. refusal to join the lead god’s entourage). But what does that
signify? Basically it implies that its lack of directedness allows for three
options: it can either move about randomly and aimlessly (colliding with
anything in its path), or it can revolve around itself, or both. In cosmic terms
the latter would depict a celestial object that spins out of control. What
prevents this from happening is, in fact, the presence of gravitational attrac-
tion (our cooperative communal force). In Phaedrean terms, however, a
further force is needed to give directedness and aim, and thus, an overall
design to the whole system. This, of course, is the role of the leading and
guiding force. Only as a whole does psyche order and care for all. This is to
say, all three forces conjoined are necessary to sustain the universe. That
the discarnate psyche is part of the physical cosmos is born out by the
textual details. Both divine and non-divine psyches traverse the heavens,
ordering and caring and animating the inanimate. The Beings alone are
beyond the heavens (246b–7e).
That our interpretation avoids the fourth problem, that is, the claim that
the white horse has no significance, emerged clearly from the analysis of its
description. Without heeding this force, even a philosopher would selfishly
refuse to engage in anything but a single-minded self-serving pursuit of
knowledge. A careful consideration of the descriptive details also sheds
light on the fifth discrepancy, the conflict between the permanent goodness
of the white horse and the corruptibility of spiritedness. Showing the inter-
pretive importance of every descriptor also addresses the sixth point.
Instead of reducing the richness of the description to a minimum, only to
make it fit the Republic-based identification, the textual details were
allowed to speak for themselves. Furthermore, we were able to demon-
strate how this interpretation fares when applied to one of the twin topics
of the dialogue, that is, erotic madness. It remains to be shown that the
identification of the psychical forces also elucidates the second topic,
namely rhetoric, but this task must wait for another occasion.50
Wilfrid Laurier University
50 I would like to thank Ken Dorter, Peter Loptson, Jeff Mitscherling, Jay Lampert, and David
Hitchcock for their helpful comments on an earlier version of this paper. I have presented a
condensed version at the annual meeting of the Canadian Philosophical Association
(Edmonton, May 2000) and would like to thank the commentator, Gerard Naddaf. The
present version owes much to the thorough critique of an anonymous referee. I also wish to
thank Steve Robinson, Doug Al-Maini and Jonathan Lavery, who discussed the earlier
version with me while members of a research group funded by a Brandon University
Research Grant with seed money from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council
of Canada. Last but not least, I want to express my gratitude to SSHRC Canada for years for
generous support.
356 EVA M. BUCCIONI
BIBLIOGRAPHY
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(in chronological order)
Plato’s Phaedrus, R. Hackforth, translator and commentator (Indianapolis: Bobbs-

Merrill, 1952).
Platonis Opera, Ioannes Burnet, editor (Oxford: Clarendon, 1967).
Philosophy of Plato and Aristotle, The Phaedrus of Plato with English notes and
dissertations by W. H. Thompson (NY: Arno, 1973).
Plato: Phaedrus, C. J. Rowe, translator and commentator (Warminster: Aris &
Phillips, 1986).
Plato, Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, Phaedo, Phaedrus, Harold N. Fowler, translator
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995 repr.).
Plato, Complete Works, edited with introduction and notes by John M. Cooper
(Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997).
Plato Phaedrus, translated with introduction, notes, and an interpretive essay by
James H. Nichols Jr. (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998).
References (in alphabetical order)
Aeschines: The Speeches of Aeschines with an English translation by C. D. Adams

(1958) Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
Brandwood, L. (1990) The Chronology of Plato’s Dialogues, Cambridge:
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—— (1976) A Word Index to Plato, Leeds: Maney.
Cartledge, Millett and Todd (eds) (1990) Nomos, Essays in Athenian law, politics
and society, Cambridge, Mass.: Cambridge University Press.
De Vries, G. J. (1969) A Commentary on the Phaedrus of Plato, Amsterdam: Adolf
M. Hakkert.
Dorter, K. (1971) ‘Imagery and Philosophy in Plato’s Phaedrus’, Journal of the
History of Philosophy, 9 (July), 3: 279–88.
—— (1996) ‘Three Disappearing Ladders in Plato’, Philosophy and Rhetoric, 29, 3:
279–99.
—— (1997) ‘Virtue, Knowledge, and Wisdom: Bypassing Self-Control’, The Review
of Metaphysics, 51: 313–43.
—— (2000) ‘Why Did Plato Write Dialogues’, presented at McMaster University
(November 2).
Dover, K. J. (1989) Greek Homosexuality, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press.
Ferrari, G. R. F. (1987) Listening to the Cicadas, New York: Cambridge University
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Fisher, N. R. E. (1992) Hybris, A Study in the Values of Honour and Shame in
Ancient Greece, Warminster: Aris & Phillips.
Gadamer, H-G. (1985–91) Gesammelte Werke, Tübingen: Mohr, vols V & VI, 1985;
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Graeser, A. (1969) Probleme der Platonischen Seelenteilungslehre. Zetemata Mono-

graphien, München: C. H. Beck.
Halperin, D. (1990) One Hundred Years of Homosexuality, New York: Routledge.
Harrison, A. R. W. (1968–71) The Law of Athens, Oxford: Clarendon, vol. 1, 1968,
vol. 2. 1971.
Liddell, H. G. and Scott, R. (compilers) (1996) A Greek-English Lexicon, Oxford:
Clarendon.
MacDowell, D. M. (1978) The Law in Classical Athens, London: Thames &
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McGibbon, D. D. (1964) ‘The Fall of the Soul in Plato’s Phaedrus’, The Classical
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The psychical forces in Plato’s Phaedrus

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British Journal for the History of Philosophy 10(3) 2002: 331–357

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS

ensemble is commonly interpreted as basically identical with the tripartite

WHY HAVE A FRESH LOOK?

During the past century, an undogmatic reading of Plato’s dialogues has

1 Hans-Georg Gadamer is one of the strongest proponents of a reappraisal of dogmatic

British Journal for the History of Philosophy

332 EVA M. BUCCIONI

of dogmatic scholarship on Plato’s dialogues.2 Two main interpretive

entitled to assume automatically that, say, Philip Marlow expresses

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 333

assume that the ‘earlier’ hypotheses or theories are now perceived to be

sophical hypotheses, tenets, or concepts. They cause unease in readers

334 EVA M. BUCCIONI

into an extended metaphor. First, he creates a preternatural muthos (story)

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 335

beauty of a boy of Zeus-like character. The encounter sparks a yearning for

336 EVA M. BUCCIONI

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 337

At first glance, it is not surprising that many commentators transfer what

338 EVA M. BUCCIONI

served by bringing out the very animal nature of appetite, instead of

and modern psychologists’.17 Although, according to Moline, a minimal

Metaphysics 51, 1997: 313–43.

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 339

city ruled by philosophers.24 I’m in no position to assess the physiological

what role appetites play in a discarnate state. Sexual appetites, or

340 EVA M. BUCCIONI

THE THREE PSYCHICAL FORCES OF THE PHAEDRUS

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 341

tive of a man’s self-identity. It is a shorthand term encompassing the values

342 EVA M. BUCCIONI

later, the hybristic force can be used in a positive way.

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 343

344 EVA M. BUCCIONI

concerned, i.e. doxa pertains to the realm of sense perception, whereas

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 345

black-skinned, grey-eyed [and] bloodshot’ (253e1–3 Rowe). In short, this

39 K. J. Dover 1989: 34.

346 EVA M. BUCCIONI

word, seems inconsistent with the division of the Republic’s tripartite

two’s indignation at being forced into something ‘terrible and lawless’, it

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 347

(247d6–7). Shortly after, the jostling of the soul-chariots during their

348 EVA M. BUCCIONI

memory of the Beings, to what makes gods divine (249c4–6). Moreover,

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 349

350 EVA M. BUCCIONI

THE THREE PSYCHICAL FORCES AND EROS

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 351

to be more generic than what relates specifically to humans or other

352 EVA M. BUCCIONI

THE PSYCHICAL FORCES IN PLATO’S PHAEDRUS 353

47 Dorter 1996: 291 and n.14/298.

354 EVA M. BUCCIONI