the philosophy of mysticism || platonism, mysticism, and madness

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PLATONISM, MYSTICISM, AND MADNESSAuthor(s): Kenneth R. SeeskinSource: The Monist, Vol. 59, No. 4, The Philosophy of Mysticism (OCTOBER, 1976), pp. 574-586Published by: Hegeler InstituteStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/27902449 .

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PLATONISM, MYSTICISM, AND MADNESS

Plato's position in the history of mysticism is unclear. On the one hand, he was an inveterate reformer and an arch rationalist?censoring the works of great poets, prescribing strict laws governing marriage, child rearing, and

personal property, and stressing the need for rigorous training in mathematics. On the other hand, his dialogues are replete with outbreaks of

mythology dealing with topics as mystical as the immortality and transmigra tion of the soul and as broad as the creation and general geography of the cosmos. What is more, there are a handful of well-known passages on the forms of Beauty and Goodness which have stirred the emotions of poets and artists for centuries. In our own time, Plato has been called a mystic, a logi cian, a poet, a totalitarian, a naive optimist, an avowed pessimist, and a host of other things, some flattering, some not so flattering.

Regardless what label we choose to describe Plato's philosophy, it is a curious fact that he seems to have a pronounced strain of mysticism where we

would least expect to find it. Evidence from a number of dialogues suggests that Plato conceived of the search for and acquisition of knowledge not in terms which sound reasonable to us, but in terms which strike us as outlan dish at best and bizarre at worst. Plato thought that love in general and the love of wisdom in particular is a kind of madness (mania) and attributed

religious and at times mystical significance to the intuition of forms?even

comparing it to a Dionysian frenzy. The extreme peculiarity of this language is evident. The intuition of ideal forms or essences may be stimulating or

enlightening, but why would anyone describe it in terms which call to mind

mystery religions and the wild excitement of those possessed by a god? In

particular, why would a man who had a profound distrust of poets and

soothsayers speak this way? Is there anything about this language which con

temporary philosophers should take seriously, or should we brush it aside as

nothing but high-toned rhetoric? The answer to these questions will comprise the subject matter of my essay. Much of what I say will be an interpretation of Plato's most mystical dialogue: the Phaedrus. At the outset, it should be noted that only a small fraction of Plato's commentators have deemed this

aspect of his thought worthy of discussion, let alone of critical evaluation.1

PLATONISM, MYSTICISM, AND MADNESS 575

Let us begin with a quotation from the Phaedrus. "The greatest blessings come to us by way of madness, indeed of madness that is a gift sent by God."2 To understand this startling claim, we must watch as Socrates explains a bit of psychology. There are, he tells us, four varieties of divine madness: that found in (1) prophecy (mantike), (2) religious frenzy, (3) poetic inspiration, and (4) love (eros). Now Socrates does not say that every type of madness is a

blessing, because some forms obviously are the result of physical illness rather than divine dispensation. On the basis of things said elsewhere, it

appears that what is common to the four types of God-sent madness is the idea of possession. Those who experience divine madness are said to be in a state of enthusiasm (enthousiasmos) which means that the god is present in them or that they are full of the god.3 In other words, a person who receives the blessing of divine madness is actually "taken over" by the deity in that the

deity is able to speak or act through that person. One who becomes so in

spired is not responsible for what he does, because he is really nothing more than a medium for a god or muse. Indeed, those who are possessed are able to do things which ordinarily would be quite beyond their powers. Socrates claims that the prophetess at Delphi and the priestesses at Dodona, when

mad, did much for which we are thankful but could do nothing of the sort when sober.4 Likewise, the Ion tells us that poets are unable to compose until some deity takes possession of them and they become enthused (entheos).5

Closely connected with the idea of enthusiasm is that of ecstasy (ekstasis). To be inspired is to be "put out" or "carried away" or, in a literal sense, to stand outside oneself. To some, the notion of ecstasy might have

suggested that during a state of frenzy, the soul somehow takes leave of the

body.6 Hence experiences of ecstasy or enthusiasm are cases of divine in tervention in earthly affairs: a god or daemon enters the body of the madman. As a result, the "disorders" caused by divine madness are beneficial. In addi tion to the obvious benefits of poetry and prophecy, religious ecstasy seems to be useful in curing psychic illnesses. According to a passage in the Phaedrus, people suffering from miseries inflicted on certain old families by divine wrath can be cured by participating in ritual madness and becoming possessed.7 Clearly what is being emphasized in this passage is the kathartic

power of religious ecstasy. The same point is made at Laws 790-91. Those who partake in Bacchic orgies and dance under the spell of music are cured of maladies of the soul just as babies are quieted when rocked in their mothers' arms during a lullaby. In both cases, the ailment that is cured is psychic in

origin. A person experiencing fear or attacks of anxiety (deimata) becomes

tranquil or regains his sanity as a result of a spell cast by music and rhythmic movements. Unfortunately we know very little about the Bacchic or

576 KENNETH R. SEESKIN

Corybantic rites which this passage refers to. What incomplete evidence we have indicates that a wild frenzy was induced by the music of pipes, cymbals, and drums to which the god or goddess was supposed to be physically present. It is reasonable to suppose that a delirium of this sort could act as a cure for

anxiety or emotional distress even if one did not accept the body of mystical doctrine which accompanied it. That the effects of these rituals could be beneficial is clear; what is not clear is what they could have in common with the love of wisdom.

Before going further, it would be worthwhile to reiterate a point made by Hackforth.8 Despite their divine origin, none of the forms of madness men tioned above is to be equated with knowledge (episteme). In the first place, prophets, religious enthusiasts, and poets do not really know what they are

saying or what they are doing.9 This fact is borne out by Apology 22 B?C. It is not wisdom (sophia) which enables poets to compose, but either something they possess by nature, or else enthusiasm similar to that of prophets and

soothsayers. Moreover, there is no suggestion that any of these people have a clear or undistorted awareness of forms, numbers, or other ideal entities. In

fact, the prophet, or mystery priest ranks fifth in the order of lives given at Phaedrus 248 D?E, while the poet ranks sixth. According to the Phaedrus

myth, we may conclude that the souls of prophets, mystery priests, and poets have seen more of reality than the souls of artisans, sophists, and tyrants, but less of it than those of philosophers, kings who rule by law, warriors, statesmen, business men, athletes, or physicians.10 Even the fourth type of divine madness, love, cannot be equated with wisdom, since in order to love, or long for wisdom, one cannot already possess it.11 But while none of these forms of madness is either identical with or superior to wisdom, those few souls who ever approach a full and unmediated vision of true reality have felt the madness of love. And, lest there be any confusion on this point, Socrates is careful to distinguish those who are wise (sophoi) from those who are mere

ly clever (deinoi)}2

Socrates' account of love begins with what might seem like a digression: an account of the soul. The technicalities of his proof of the soul's immortali

ty (Phdr. 245 C-246 A) would be beyond the scope of the present inquiry. However, there are several points which are too important to ignore. First, belief in the immortality of the soul or the existence of an entity which is

responsible for our moral and intellectual powers was once a revolutionary idea. Homer depicts psyche as a ghostly shadow or wraith which leaves the

body at death but which has none of the moral excellences of the living.13 In the Odyssey, Achilles remarks that he would rather be a lowly serf in the realm of the living than king over all the dead.14 Even the Socrates of the

Apology is unsure whether death will bring a dreamless sleep or the migration of the soul to another world.15 This uncertainty is resolved by the time of the

Phaedo, where Socrates offers four proofs of the soul's immortality. On the other hand, the immortality of the soul could hardly have been a generally accepted doctrine since Glaucon expresses amazement upon hearing of it from Socrates.16 As to the historical antecedents of Plato's belief in the soul's

immortality, we can only speculate that he was influenced by the mystical tradition, since the idea of achieving immortality through purification (katharsis) was common to a variety of mystery religions and secret cults. It is likely that Plato was introduced to Orphic mysticism via the Pythagoreans, but once again, we know very little about the actual teachings of these cults and it would be foolish to speak with certainty.

The second point not to be ignored is that in all of Plato's writings, the soul never loses its individuality. While there have been people in the history of thought who have called themselves Platonists and have argued for the eventual unity of all souls, there is no evidence that Plato held this view of im

mortality. Plato has individual souls rewarded or punished according to the acts for which each is responsible. There is never any suggestion of actual un ion with God or an all-encompassing Absolute, and if there were, such a doc trine would contradict the Phaedo's third proof of immortality, according to which the soul is like the forms in being self-subsistent (auto kath hauto)}1 Finally it should be noted that for the Greeks, the concepts of immortality and divinity were linked. It would have been difficult to imagine how

something could be one and not partake of the nature of the other. In the Phaedo's third proof of immortality, Socrates asserts twice that the soul is like that which is divine, i.e. the eternal, unchanging forms.18 In addition, the

affinity between the human and the divine soul is defended in the Phaedrus and the Philebus.19 That the human soul partakes of the nature of the divine was also a revolutionary idea and one that was characteristic of Greek

mysticism. By contrast, Homer had once compared the soul to a bat.20

Returning to the Phaedrus, Plato's proof of the soul's immortality represents a significant achievement in the history of thought. If the mystery religions originated belief in the soul's immortality, Plato made that belief

philosophically respectable. The soul's immortality follows from its defini tion as self-moving motion. All soul is immortal because the soul is always in

motion and what is always in motion cannot die. The reason the soul is

always in motion is that what is self-moved could become stationary only if it abandoned its own nature, which is impossible. Moreover, what is self-moved is the original source (arche) of all motion since only what is self-moved re

quires no external impetus in order to be in motion. As the original source of all motion, what is self-moved can be neither generated nor destroyed. If it

were generated, it would have to receive its motion from some other source, but there is no other source from which its motion could originate. If it were

destroyed, all motion would cease, because there would be nothing which moves itself and all other things can move only if acted on by an external source. Hence if there were nothing that is self-moved, the universe would come to a complete standstill and there would be nothing from which its lost motion could be regained. It is assumed, of course, that a universe that is and

always will be static is an absurdity. Since it is the very nature of soul to move

itself, it follows that soul cannot be generated and will never perish. From this we may conclude that, like the gods, the soul is undying.

Granted that all soul is immortal, Plato must explain why the souls of men are inferior to those of gods. His explanation takes the form of a myth which also comprises the major part of his description of the madness of love.

According to that myth, the soul resembles a chariot with a winged charioteer in command of winged horses. All the horses of the gods are of noble stock

while the souls of men have both a noble horse and an ignoble one. Now those souls which still have their wings travel freely through the heavens governing and caring for all that is inanimate; but those souls which have shed their

wings sink down until they secure something solid and become attached to a

body. Because the chariots of the gods contain only horses of noble stock,

they are able to climb the ascent to the arch from which the heavens are sup ported. There they are carried around by the revolution of the cosmos and are

able to gaze at the magnificent sights beyond. But the other souls are

weighted down by the ignoble horse and cannot climb the steep ascent. As a

result, they are prevented from getting a full, unobstructed vision of what lies

beyond the heavens: true Being, without color or shape, intangible, and

available only to the mind. In the wild scramble to follow the lead of the gods, mortal souls grasp only a part of Being and manage to trample over one

another. Those souls whose wings get broken descend and are incarnated in

the bodies of men. The more of Being they have seen, the better is the life

they receive. A fallen soul is reincarnated every thousand years and can

regain its wings after living ten lives?the only exception being the soul which

chooses the life of a philosopher in three successive incarnations.

Having discoursed on the immortality and transmigration of the soul, Socrates now returns to the subject of love. Those souls who have forgotten the vision of true Being or who have become corrupted are not awed by the

sight of earthly beauty; such men care only for pleasure and cannot be lovers in the sense in which Socrates uses the term. But those souls who have not

forgotten the vision of true Being experience madness when they come into

contact with physical beauty. The sight of earthly beauty reminds them of their former glimpse of absolute Beauty. Immediately they begin to sprout wings and long to fly upward away from the realm of semblance. Their lack of interest in earthly concerns causes the rest of mankind to call them mad.21 But this type of madness?a longing to regain that original vision of the eter nal forms?is the most blessed of all. It begins with a feeling of reverance

(sebomai) at the sight of the beloved and becomes a constant yearning for the

beauty the loved one manifests. The lover is beside himself with adoration for the beloved?unable to sleep at night or take any interest in the affairs of day to-day living. Now the regaining of the soul's wings is occasioned by the ex

perience of earthly beauty. Of course the forms of Justice and Temperance have earthly likenesses too, but the likenesses of these forms are too dim to remind the souls of most men of the wonders they once beheld. Only the sight of physical beauty is powerful enough to activate our memory of true Being and cause the soul to grow wings. In other words, love is really an awakening of the soul's desire for knowledge.

The unique place of Beauty in this myth is justified by the claim that it was Beauty which made the strongest impression on the soul before the fall.

Beauty it was ours to see in all its brightness in those days when, amidst that hap py company, we beheld with our eyes that blessed vision, ourselves in the train of Zeus, others following some other god; then were we all initiated into that mystery which is rightly accounted blessed beyond all others; whole and un blemished were we that did celebrate it, untouched by the evils that awaited us in days to come, whole and unblemished likewise, free from all alloy, steadfast and blissful were the spectacles on which we gazed in the moment of final revelation; pure was the light that shone around us, and pure were we, without taint of that prison-house which now we are encompassed withal, and call a body, fast bound therein as an oyster in its shell. [Phdr. 250 B-C]22

Though "analysis" of this passage seems out of place, its imagery is quite revealing and deserves comment. The souls which see the vision of Beauty are said to be initiated into the most blessed of mysteries (entelounto ton teleton). These mysteries are celebrated (orgiazo) by souls who are untouched by evil, pure (katharos), and not yet implanted in a body. To a contemporary of

Plato, this imagery might have called to mind something like the mystical rites practised at Eleusis. These rites began with a holy procession from

Athens to Eleusis. Along the way, the participants engaged in a variety of rituals intended to cleanse or purify the soul. The procession ended when the

worshippers approached a temple where they beheld a sacred vision. Un

doubtedly, the chief attraction of these rites was the promise of immortality to all those initiated into the mysteries.

In the myth of the Phaedrus, the sacred vision at Eleusis has been re

placed by the vision of Beauty and ultimately by the entire world of forms. Instead of a procession from Athens to a holy shrine we have the flight of the soul from the realm of semblance to that of Being. In lieu of sacrifices, incan

tations, and libations, Plato has given us recollection and dialectic. In both

cases, however, the final revelation is available only to those who have achieved the required degree of purity. While blessed immortality awaits the souls who behold the sacred vision at Eleusis, continued heavenly existence awaits the souls who get a full view of the forms. What is more, we must not

forget that according to the Phaedrus 243 E?245 C, the regrowing of the soul's wings resembles religious ecstasy in being a type of madness. At 249

C-D, we are told that the philosopher is initiated into perfect mysteries (teleous aei teletas teloumenos) and regarded by the many as insane because

they do not realize that he is divinely inspired (enthousiazo). The imagery of the Phaedrus could be written off as over-heated rhetoric

if it were unique to that dialogue, but it is not. The close parallel between

philosophic and religious enlightenment can be found in the Phaedo:

And I fancy that those men who established the mysteries were not unenlight ened, but in reality had a hidden meaning when they said long ago that whoever goes uninitiated and unsanctified to the other world will lie in the mire, but he who arrives there initiated and purified will dwell with the gods. For as they say in the mysteries, 'the thyrsus-bearers are many, but the mystics few'; and these

mystics [Bacchoi] are, I believe, those who have been true philosophers. And I in my life have, so far as I could, left nothing undone, and have striven in every way to make myself one of them. [69 C-D]23

Consistent with this passage is Socrates willingness to describe the forms in

religious or quasi-religious terms. In the Phaedo, they are called pure,24 undying,25 and even divine.26 Roughly the same terminology is used to describe the form of Beauty in the Symposium.21 Indeed Diotima herself calls the famous ascent passage an initiation into the mysteries of love.28 Again, the ultimate vision of Beauty may be compared to the vision of a sacred ritual or religious article. He who has seen Beauty itself becomes the friend of god, and, if men ever achieve immortality, he will achieve it. The language of puri ty and divinity also occurs in the Republic, where references to philosophic vi sion or revelation are well known.29 Yet, even these additional passages could be disregarded if there were not some important, philosophic reason why Plato attributes religious significance to the intuition of forms. In short, we must ask what the point of this imagery really is.

In this section I wish to argue that there are three major reasons why Plato compared the search for and eventual acquisition of knowledge with

religious ecstasy. First, the acquisition of knowledge resembles religious ecstasy in the effects it has on the soul. Second, Plato's forms are not merely exalted objects of awareness, but sustaining causes necessary for the soul's

well-being. Third, just as religious enthusiasts believe that they take on some

of the characteristics of the god when inspired, so the philosopher mysterious ly comes to possess the very qualities he is contemplating. Let us consider

these points one at a time. It will be remembered that those who partake in religious frenzies are

sometimes cured of psychic illnesses. These illnesses are caused by a condi tion which is surely universal to mankind: anxiety. Since most men covet

things like riches, good looks, physical prowess, and political popularity, they have much to be anxious about. A speech which sways the assembly one day may fail the next. Immense wealth acquired over a long period of time can be

lost almost overnight. Those gifted with good looks and physical prowess will

lose them as the body grows older. Thus the fortunes of most men can change

suddenly and without warning; to a large extent their well-being is dependent on chance. But notice what happens when someone receives the gift of love.

The apprehension of physical beauty causes the soul of a lover to lose interest in the affairs of day-to-day living and to be concerned only with the beauty of

its beloved. Likewise, the prisoner who manages to escape from the cave

becomes interested solely in the newly discovered regions and cares nothing for the petty activities of those trapped below. In the "digression" of the

Theaetetus, Socrates claims that the philosopher is not concerned with what

injustice he has done to someone else or someone else has done to him, but in the nature of Justice and Injustice themselves.30 Hence lovers and

philosophers are thought to be mad. But like others who receive the blessing of divine madness, they become immune to the fears and insecurities which

trouble the multitude. Their attention is focussed away from this world on the

wonders which most men have forgotten. A person thus possessed will not

fear the misfortunes which befall his fellow men. Not only is he uninterested in wealth and political popularity, he despises them. And, while he admires

good looks and physical prowess, he does so only because they remind him of

something whose beauty is eternal. Nothing can upset the fortunes of such a

person?not poverty, old age, loss of popularity, nor even death. At Apology 41 D, Socrates confidently asserts that nothing can bring harm to a good man

either in life or after death. Thus he is willing to die a hundred times rather

than abandon his mission.31 If the mystery religious appealed to the fears and aspirations of the mul

titude by promising blessed immortality, Plato's philosophy attempted to

reach a much smaller audience by teaching that the philosopher has nothing to fear from death. Again in the Apology, Socrates expresses the conviction

that fear of death is nothing but a type of conceit.32 Since conceit is really a

form of ignorance (thinking one knows when one does not know), the phil osopher is the last person on earth who should be plagued by the thought of

dying. The ability of philosophy to heal the ills of the soul also is an impor tant theme in the Phaedo. At one point Socrates lists fear, folly, uncertainty, and uncontrollable desire as conditions from which the philosopher will be freed.33 Elsewhere in the same dialogue, he claims that knowledge (phronesis), as well as the other virtues, can purge the soul of pain and fear.34 Hence the kathartic powers of philosophy are not altogether unlike those of

religious frenzy. Yet where one uses cymbals, pipes, and drums to relieve us of our anxieties, the other uses definitions, distinctions, and deductions.

It should be clear by now that Platonic forms are not powerless abstrac tions hovering over the sensible world but contributing nothing of importance to its inhabitants. Of course there are contemporary philosophers who assert the existence of abstract entities, but these entities generally have

nothing to do with our personal well-being and often it is unclear why anyone would want to think about them. Yet according to Plato, the soul does not

just reflect on the forms, like a lover longing for his loved one, it yearns to see them, be like them, and remain in close contact with them. This yearning would make no sense if forms were mere abstractions. We may compare the soul to a starving man in search of food. No one who is starving would prefer an image of a loaf of bread to the real thing, though starving men sometimes

grasp at images if their vision is impaired. In the same way, no soul would

prefer the image of Beauty to Beauty itself, though a soul's vision can be im

paired as well. In the Phaedrw, Forms are said to provide nourishment or sustenance (trepho) for the soul.35 When it ceases to receive this

nourishment, the soul falls back and feeds on semblance (trophe doxaste). While the soul cannot perish, we are certainly supposed to think of the food of semblance as inadequate for its needs. Thus the soul longs for knowledge with the fervor with which a starving man longs for food. An image of this sort would be utterly out of place in contemporary ontologies?even those which receive the label "Platonism." Knowledge of forms is not merely something the soul would like to have, it is its very lifeblood. Clearly the pas sion with which the soul seeks this knowledge is comparable to the most ex treme varieties of religious zeal. As we have seen, the magnificence of these realities is so manifest that there is a virtual stampede of human souls trying to get a glimpse of them. Those few which succeed obtain enough nourish

ment to keep their wings. It is not, therefore, unreasonable to compare the soul's vision of the forms to a religious zealot's ecstatic union with God.

While the soul never loses its identity, both experiences involve communion with the sustaining force in one's life.

Finally, it is worth noting that the participants in Bacchic orgies were

supposed to take on some of the characteristics of the god Dionysus?either by devouring his flesh (a sacrificial animal) or by allowing his spirit to enter their bodies. In this way, the worshippers partook of his divinity. In a very

early work, F. M. Cornford once argued that after being exposed to

Pythagorean influences, Plato began to think of forms as spirits or daemons which "dwell in" or "inhabit" particular things.36 In other words, Cornford

thought that the presence of a god to his mystery cult was the model on which Plato conceived of the relation of participation. Though it can be doubted that Plato ever thought of the forms as daemons, Cornford's suggestion is not entirely without merit?particularly insofar as the soul is concerned. The Phaedo argues that the soul is akin (syggenes) to the forms.37 Yet, despite this natural affinity, the soul can become impure if it is seduced by the pleasures of the body. Philosophy is needed to cleanse the soul and make it possible for a return to the things it naturally resembles.38 Twice in the Phaedo Socrates claims that it would be a violation of universal law if one who is not pure were

allowed to come into contact with things that are.39 Thus the study of philosophy makes the soul more and more like the

forms by freeing it of bodily contamination. Nowhere is this thesis better ex

pressed than at Republic 500 C-D. The lover of wisdom will attempt to im itate the eternal order on which he fixes his gaze and make himself like it as

much as possible. By associating with the divine and orderly, the philosopher himself will become as divine and orderly as a man can be. The basic similari

ty between the philosopher's soul and the forms he contemplates also plays an important part in the myth of the Phaedrus.40 The obvious conclusion seems to be that by nurturing the soul, Plato's forms somehow leave their

mark on it. It is as if the forms actually transmit some of their perfections to those who reflect on them. By the time he is ready to die, the soul of a

philosopher will have become so much like a form that its entry into the realm of eternal, unchanging reality will be a foregone conclusion. Now Platonic forms never enter the body (as Dionysus was supposed to) because

they are separate from the things of this world. Nevertheless, awareness of the forms causes the philosopher to partake of their divinity just as the

proper worship of Dionysus caused his followers to take on some of the

characteristics of a god. It is undeniable that the thought of receiving the im

press of a divine being would intensify the ecstasy of philosophers and

mystery priests alike.

We must now face the question whether there is anything in Plato's

description of the intuition of form which contemporary philosophers should take seriously. Can the awareness of Beauty, Goodness, Piety, etc,, actually

resemble religious ecstasy? Or, from the standpoint of the object, can these forms really provide sustenance for the soul? At first sight the answer seems

negative. The abstract entities discussed by contemporary philosophers usually are called upon to solve logical, ontological, or epistemological problems. A philosopher might introduce a theory of universale to explain the

meaning of general terms or to account for the necessity of mathematics. To ask whether awareness of these entities can move us as deeply as communion with God moves a follower of a mystery religion is to ask a question whose answer is so obviously negative that the question seems ridiculous.

The abstract entities of contemporary philosophy generally have nothing to do with our moral, religious, or aesthetic sensibitities. In fact, contem

porary theorists frequently speak in defiance of these sensibilities. What results are ontologies which offer us nothing to strive for or aspire to, which

ignore the hopes and fears of all of us. Given the present philosophical climate, an ontology which ran roughshod over the canons of symbolic logic would be rejected immediately. The same fate would await an ontology which

postulated entities beyond the comprehension of even the most enlightened of intellects. But if both logical and epistemological criteria can be used to evaluate theories which properly fall within the province of ontology, why should moral and aesthetic criteria be ignored? Why is an ontology which violates our aesthetic intuitions any less objectionable than one which violates our logical intuitions? I cannot think of a single answer which would not be

arbitrary. Surely an adequate ontology must tell us whether the universe it describes is one in which our most sincere hopes have any chance of being fulfilled. It must also tell us whether or not it is reasonable to expect the vir tuous to be happy. These questions are as germane to the study of ontology as

questions about consistency or verification. As long as our hopes and fears are ignored, a satisfactory explanation of the way the world is cannot be

given. The mysticism which surrounds the theory of forms is proof that on

tological concerns have not always been divorced from moral and aesthetic ones. Awareness of the forms not only satisfies our curiosity about the struc ture of the universe, it brings peace and harmony to the soul, renders us

morally pure, and guarantees our continued happiness. Since this awareness involves our reason as well as our moral, religious, and aesthetic sensibilities, Plato thought it far more rewarding than any other experience could be. There is no possibility of comparing the pleasure of contemplating a beautiful

object with that of achieving a high degree of logical precision or that of es tablishing contact with the divine. All of these experiences reach their culmination in the vision of true reality.41 This is mysticism at its best. If each of our faculties determines the scope of a separate branch of philosophy, then

it is the job of mysticism to show either that the various branches eventually merge or that taken together they form a network of internal relations. Thus

only a mystic could describe the search for and acquisition of knowledge in the way that Plato describes it. Since the boldness of Plato's language sounds outlandish from the standpoint of contemporary philosophy, maybe that is a

sign that contemporary philosophy is in need of reform. Kenneth R. S ees kin

Northwestern University

1. Some of those who have ventured into this area include: Erwin Rohde, Psyche, trans. W. B. Hills (New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1925), chap. XIII; F. M. Cornford, From Religion to Philosophy (London: E. Arnold, 1912), chap. VI; I. M. Linforth, "The Corybantic Rites in Plato," Univ. of California Publications in Classical Philology, vol. 13 (1946), pp. 121-62; W. K. C. Guthrie, The Greeks and Their Gods (London: Methuen, 195?), chap. XII; E.R. Dodds, The Greeks and the Irrational (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1951), chaps. Ill and VII; G. Vlastos, "A Metaphysical Paradox," reprinted in Platonic Studies (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973), pp. 43?57 and "The Individual as an Object of Love in Plato," ibid., pp. 3-34, esp. n. 80 on p. 27. Vlastos agrees that the "convergence" of mania and nous does not seem to have intrigued many commen

tators.

2. Phdr. 244 A. 3. Phdr. 241 E, 244 B, 249 D and E, 253 A, and 255 B. Also see Ion 533 E-534 A

and 536 B-C, Meno 99 D, Symp. 179 A, and Phdr. 244 E-245 A. 4. Phdr. 244 B. 5. Ion 534 B. 6. See Rohde, Psyche, pp. 259-60. 7. Phdr. 244 D-E. See I.M. Linforth, "Telestic Madness in Plato, Phaedrus 244

D-E," University of California Publications in Classical Philology, vol. 13 (1946), pp. 163-72.

8. R. Hackforth, Plato's Phaedrus (Cambridge: At the University Press, 1952), p. 61.

9. In addition to Ion 533-37, see Meno 99 D and Tim. 71 E. 10. Phdr. 248 D-E. 11. Symp. 200 ff. 12. Phdr. 245 C. 13. See, for example, Iliad 16.856 and 23.100. These lines and others with similar

images are discussed and criticized in Rep. III. 14. Odyssey 11.489-91, quoted at Rep. 386 C. 15. Apol. 40 C-D. 16. Rep. 608 D. 17. Phd. 78 D and 79 D. 18. Phd. 80 A-B and 81 A.

19. Compare Phdr. 246 B-C with 246 E. Notice that both divine and human souls are likened to chariots. Also see Phil. 30.

20. Odyssey 24.6-10, quoted at Rep. 387 A. 21. Cf. Tht. 173 C ff. 22. Phdr. 250 B-C, Hackforth trans. 23. Phd. 69 C-D, Fowler trans. Loeb Classical Library (London: William

Heineman, 1914), p. 241. Cf. Symp. 218B. 24. Phd. 79 D, 80 D, and 83 E. 25. Phd. 79 D, 80 B, and 81 A. 26. Phd. 80 B, 81 A, 83 E, 84 A, 86 A. 27. Symp. 211 E. 28. Symp. 209 E-210 A. 29. Rep. 477 A, 478 D, 479, 500 E, and 611 E. Also see Phil. 59 C. 30. Tht. 175 C. 31. Apol 30 B-C. 32. Apol. 29 A. 33. Phd. 81 A. 34. Phd. 69 A-C. 35. Phdr. 247 D-248 B. The same imagery occurs at Phd. 84 A-B and Rep. 490

36. Cornford, From Religion to Philosophy, chaps. Ill and VI. 37. Phd. 79 D. 38. Phd. 80 D-81 A. 39. Phd. 67 and 82 C. 40. Phdr. 250 B-C. 41. Cf. Vlastos, "A Metaphysical Paradox," p. 53.

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