Bénéton begins Les Régimes Politiques by emphasizing the importance of defining what constitutes a political regime. For him, a political regime is not merely a set of institutions or legal frameworks; it is a broader system encompassing the organization of power, the principles guiding governance, and the relationship between rulers and the ruled. Bénéton stresses that political regimes must be understood in their entirety, considering their formal structures and the underlying values and ideologies that shape their functioning. This holistic approach allows him to draw meaningful comparisons between different regimes and to assess their strengths and weaknesses more effectively.

Central to Bénéton’s analysis is his classification of political regimes, which he derives from classical political theory. He draws heavily on Aristotle’s typology, categorizing regimes based on who rules and for whose benefit. According to this classification, regimes can be broadly divided into three types: monarchy (rule by one), aristocracy (rule by the few), and polity or democracy (rule by the many). These can degenerate into a corrupt form: tyranny, oligarchy, and mob rule, respectively. Bénéton adopts this framework but adapts it to contemporary political realities, recognizing that modern states rarely fit neatly into these categories and that hybrid regimes are increasingly common.

Bénéton contrasts the political structures outlined by Machiavelli, Montesquieu, and Marx with Aristotle’s account of regimes, highlighting the shortcomings of modern approaches and demonstrating Aristotle’s enduring relevance. In seeking to redefine politics in purely pragmatic and amoral terms, Machiavelli dismisses the classical emphasis on the common good and virtue. For Machiavelli, the distinction between just and unjust regimes is irrelevant; the effectiveness of power, secured through force or deceit, is paramount. Bénéton critiques this approach for neglecting the stabilizing role of legitimacy and shared moral values, which Aristotle identified as essential to a well-ordered polis. Unlike Machiavelli’s focus on expediency, Aristotle’s framework insists on aligning political power with justice and the natural order, fostering stable governance through the active consent and virtue of the governed.

Montesquieu’s tripartite classification of regimes—republic, monarchy, and despotism—marks a departure from Aristotle’s nuanced typology that integrates the number of rulers and their orientation toward the common good. While Montesquieu emphasizes the importance of institutional structures and the spirit of laws, Bénéton argues that his analysis lacks the depth of Aristotle’s moral and teleological foundation. Montesquieu focuses on the mechanics of governance and the principles animating different systems, such as virtue in republics and honor in monarchies. Still, he does not address the intrinsic nature of justice and the cultivation of human flourishing as central to political life. By contrast, Aristotle provides a more holistic account, categorizing regimes not merely by their structure but by their alignment with the virtuous development of citizens, thereby situating political life within the broader context of human excellence.

In his critique of political regimes, Marx subordinates politics to economics, reducing regimes to mere instruments of class struggle and modes of production. Bénéton identifies this economic determinism as a fundamental flaw, as it dismisses the autonomy and moral dimensions of political life. Aristotle’s account, by contrast, maintains the primacy of politics as the architectonic science, shaping all other human activities. While Marx envisions the ultimate dissolution of political regimes in a classless society, Aristotle recognizes the perpetual necessity of political structures to mediate human relations and promote the common good. Bénéton concludes that Aristotle’s emphasis on justice, virtue, and the moral purpose of governance offers a superior framework, preserving the intrinsic dignity and complexity of political life in a way that modern theories fail to achieve.

Bénéton critiques the 20th-century behavioral political sciences, as represented by figures like David Easton, Robert Dahl, and Gabriel Almond, for their reductive approach to political regimes. These thinkers prioritize empirical methodologies and systemic generalizations, often modeled on the natural sciences, to analyze political life. Focusing on observable behaviors, patterns, and measurable dynamics reduces regimes to mechanistic frameworks devoid of moral or cultural depth. For example, Easton’s “systems theory” views politics as an input-output process, while Dahl’s pluralist model treats power as dispersed among competing groups, and Almond’s “structural-functionalism” emphasizes universal roles and functions. Bénéton argues that these approaches overlook the qualitative and normative distinctions between regimes, which Aristotle emphasizes as central. Aristotle’s account sees regimes not just as systems of governance but as expressions of ethical and communal life grounded in justice, legitimacy, and the common good—dimensions behavioral political science fails to address.

Moreover, Bénéton critiques the behavioral sciences’ claim to value-neutrality, which he sees as fundamentally flawed and inadequate for understanding political regimes. By striving for objectivity, thinkers like Dahl and Almond flatten the profound distinctions between democratic, oligarchic, and tyrannical regimes, reducing them to variations in institutional structures or distributions of power. This perspective erases the moral and teleological aspects of political life that Aristotle highlights, particularly the idea that regimes aim at specific ends—some noble, others corrupt. For Aristotle, the regime determines the ethical orientation of its citizens and the pursuit of the common good. In contrast, behavioral science, with its descriptive focus, neglects the question of how regimes cultivate or undermine virtue, leaving its analysis ethically impoverished and unable to evaluate the qualitative differences that make one regime superior to another.

Bénéton underscores how the behavioral sciences’ emphasis on systemic regularities and universal patterns fails to grapple with the historical and cultural particularities that shape regimes. Aristotle’s analysis, rooted in the diversity of political life, acknowledges the interplay of historical, ethical, and social factors in determining a regime’s character. For instance, Aristotle differentiates between regimes based on their alignment with justice and their capacity to promote human flourishing, recognizing the profound consequences of these distinctions for civic life, and in its quest for generality, behavioral political science disregards such nuances, treating regimes as interchangeable mechanisms for managing power. Bénéton concludes that while behavioral approaches offer valuable technical insights, they ultimately fall short of Aristotle’s richer and more holistic understanding of regimes as the foundation of communal and ethical life.

Bénéton’s discussion of democracy is remarkably nuanced and insightful. He recognizes democracy as the dominant political regime of the modern era but carefully distinguishes between different forms of democracy. He differentiates between “classical democracy,” which he associates with direct participation by the citizens in the governance process, and “representative democracy,” which is characterized by the election of representatives who make decisions on behalf of the people. Bénéton argues that while representative democracy is the most prevalent form today, it has its challenges and potential pitfalls.

One of the key themes in Bénéton’s analysis of democracy is the tension between “liberty and equality.” He observes that modern democracies are often torn between the desire to promote individual freedoms and the drive to achieve greater social and economic equality. Bénéton states this tension can lead to contradictions and conflicts within democratic societies. For example, policies promoting equality, such as wealth redistribution, may infringe on individual liberties. In contrast, policies prioritizing freedom, such as laissez-faire economic practices, may exacerbate social inequalities. He argues that managing this tension is one of the central challenges for modern democracies and requires carefully balancing competing values.

Bénéton is also critical of what he sees as the “excesses of democratic egalitarianism.” He warns that an overemphasis on equality can lead to a leveling of society that undermines excellence, merit, and the pursuit of the common good. In his view, democracy should not merely focus on ensuring equal outcomes but should also strive to cultivate virtues and promote the well-being of the community as a whole. Bénéton is concerned that contemporary democracies, in their pursuit of equality, may neglect these higher goals and reduce politics to a mere struggle for power and resources. This, he argues, can lead to the erosion of civic virtue and a decline in the quality of public life.

Another critical aspect of Bénéton’s analysis is his exploration of the “moral foundations of political regimes.” He argues that the legitimacy and stability of any political regime depend on its moral and ethical underpinnings. In this regard, Bénéton is mainly concerned with the role of “virtue” in governance. Drawing on classical political philosophy, he contends that a good regime is one that promotes virtue among its citizens and rulers. For Bénéton, virtue is not just a personal quality bujusticet ajustice public good that is essential for the proper functioning of society. He believes that without a commitment to virtue, political regimes will likely become corrupt and degenerate, leading to tyranny or chaos.

Bénéton’s emphasis on virtue leads him to critique modern liberal democracies, which he believes have largely abandoned the pursuit of virtue in favor of “procedural justice” and individual rights. While he acknowledges the importance of these principles, he argues that they are insufficient for sustaining a healthy political community. Bénéton worries that the focus on individual rights and freedoms can lead to a kind of moral relativism, where the pursuit of self-interest takes precedence over the common good. This, he suggests, can result in a fragmented and atomized society where civic engagement and social cohesion are weakened.

In addition to his critique of modern democracy, Bénéton also explores the dynamics of “authoritarian regimes.” He is particularly interested in how these regimes maintain control and legitimacy in the absence of democratic processes. Bénéton argues that authoritarian regimes often rely on a combination of coercion and consent, using propaganda, surveillance, and repression to suppress dissent while also seeking to cultivate a sense of legitimacy through appeals to tradition, nationalism, or ideology. He notes that while authoritarian regimes can achieve stability, they are often brittle and prone to collapse if their sources of legitimacy are undermined.

Bénéton’s analysis of totalitarianism, a particularly extreme form of authoritarianism, contributes significantly to his understanding of political regimes. He identifies totalitarianism as a regime that seeks total control over all aspects of life, including politics, the economy, culture, and even personal beliefs. Bénéton highlights the dangers of totalitarian regimes, particularly their tendency to dehumanize individuals and reduce them to mere instruments of the state. He argues that totalitarianism represents a profound threat to human dignity and freedom and that its emergence is often the result of profound social and political crises that disrupt the normal functioning of democratic institutions.

In Les Régimes Politiques, Bénéton also engages with the concept of “regime change” and the conditions under which political regimes transform. He argues that a combination of internal and external factors, including economic crises, social unrest, wars, and ideological shifts, often drive regime change. Bénéton is particularly interested in how regimes manage or fail to manage these pressures and what this reveals about their strengths and vulnerabilities. He suggests that successful regime change often requires not just the removal of the old regime but the establishment of a new political order that is both legitimate and capable of addressing the underlying causes of the crisis.

Finally, Bénéton concludes his analysis by reflecting on the future of political regimes in the modern world. He is cautiously optimistic about the prospects for democracy but warns that the challenges it faces, particularly the tension between liberty and equality, must be carefully managed. He also emphasizes the importance of cultivating civic virtue and a sense of common purpose in order to sustain democratic governance. Bénéton’s work is a call to political philosophers and practitioners alike to engage deeply with political regimes’ moral and ethical dimensions and seek ways to strengthen the foundations of democratic life.

In conclusion, Philippe Bénéton’s Les Régimes Politiques offers a rich and nuanced exploration of political regimes, drawing on classical political theory while addressing contemporary challenges. Bénéton’s analysis is characterized by its emphasis on the moral and ethical dimensions of governance, particularly the role of virtue in sustaining political order. His critique of modern democracy, focusing on the tension between liberty and equality, provides valuable insights into the challenges facing democratic regimes today. Through his examination of different types of regimes, including authoritarianism and totalitarianism, Bénéton delivers a comprehensive framework for understanding the complexities of political life and the conditions necessary for the success and stability of political regimes.

The post Philippe Bénéton’s Understanding of Political Regimes in Les Régimes Politiques appeared first on The Miskatonian.

Socrates calls this moment of choice “the greatest danger of all” because, here, each soul determines the whole fate of its next cycle of incarnation (618b). This is why, he says, it is so important to study philosophy in this life. By learning which kinds of life are better and worse for our souls, we will be in a position to avoid the common error of choosing an evil life on the basis of surface appearances. The philosopher “will be able, by considering the nature of the soul, to reason out which life is better and which worse and to choose accordingly, calling a life worse if it leads the soul to become more unjust, better if it leads the soul to become more just, and ignoring everything else” (618d–e).

This story has puzzled commentators because it at once seems to give us near-absolute freedom to choose everything about ourselves and simultaneously bind us to an iron fate once chosen.² By this account, the only freedom we have apparently lies outside the experience of this life. Although radical, it is a freedom that we cannot actually experience here and now.

I make no pretense here to give anything like an adequate interpretation of this passage within Plato’s whole philosophy. What matters for our purposes is simply the apparent conception of freedom that is present at the surface level of the text. The careful reader must, of course, account for the fact that the passage is a myth, found in a fictional dialogue, and couched in the hedgy terms of a narrative told by a friend of a friend. In fact, I think this is not the best representation of Plato’s considered views, and as Socrates himself says, there is a “longer way” of inquiry into the true nature of the soul that he does not undertake in the Republic (435c). Independent of the best interpretation of what Plato really meant, however, the indelible image of the myth remains in the minds of later generations and stands as one of the principal founts of inspiration for Western ideas of freedom.

Conceding that much of the imagery is stage-setting brought in to make a deeper point about the the radical responsibility we have for our lives, the nature of the choice itself is also a puzzling kind of freedom. All of the models are given. We are not told who makes them or where they come from. They are just there. Socrates does mention that the number of models is so large that even if someone is the last to choose, he will still be able to choose a good life, but the range of options is a finite, unalterable set nonetheless. The goodness or badness of these options is also objectively given. Some of the models are objectively the right choice (i.e., the “just” and the “mean”), and some of the models are objectively the wrong choice (i.e., the “unjust” and the “extreme”). The main point of the whole myth is that most souls will make the wrong choice because they choose quickly based on surface features and will later come to regret their choice. If there is any difference between the suitability of different lives to different souls, this is left unstated. Finally, choice is here construed as a mere act of selection. There is no sense that souls can interact with or modify the models, although the act of choice modifies the soul.

Leaving aside the text itself and the trappings of the myth, something like this image underlies much of our thinking about freedom. Versions of our future are “out there,” a set of determinate options, some objectively better and some objectively worse. We have the freedom to select from among the cards in the deck, but we can do nothing about the deck itself. Nothing about the cards comes from us, only the act of selection. This freedom-as-selection way of thinking may adequately characterize certain limited scenarios in our daily lives, such as ordering food from a menu or choosing to go to one college out of ten possibilities. It fails, however, to capture much about the way we experience the deeper moments of freedom, and it does not merit the near-universal prevalence that this way of thinking has among philosophical theories of freedom. This conceptual image leaves out any sense that the object of choice, the shape of my life, proceeds from me along with the act of choice.

In a future essay, I hope to develop more fully an alternative to freedom-as-selection, but for now, I will simply suggest that we think of free choice by analogy with artistic creation. A painter does not merely select a painting from a set of possible paintings. (Even if we construe that set as the infinite set of possible arrangements of pigments, picking the arrangement is simply not what the painter does.) Instead, the painting proceeds from within the painter’s own soul, although he must also account for and work with the objective limitations of canvas, oil, and pigment. He may have some conception within his mind before he begins, but as he proceeds, the concrete painting begins to take on a life of its own, and the painter’s internal conception perpetually shifts in conversation with the work that has already been done. The painter freely produced the end result, but he could not have known exactly what it would be before he began the process, and it certainly wasn’t a determinate “option” that he merely selected from a range of other options.

Imagine, therefore, an alternative to the Myth of Er. Imagine that the souls are not confronted with a number of models lying on the floor but instead presented with a block of wet clay. I believe this comes closer to the way we experience freedom and responsibility.

The post Freedom in the Myth of Er appeared first on The Miskatonian.

Historical Appropriation

In Neoplatonic thought, the ultimate source of reality, the Good or the One, transcends the realm of being and thus lies outside the scope of things which are because it is the ground or source for that realm. Plotinus provides a typical expression of this thought:

In order that Being may be brought about, the source must be no Being but Being’s generator (V.2.1).¹

This yields an ontological picture stratified into three levels: (i) the realm of becoming (i.e., spatiotemporal reality), (ii) the realm of being (i.e., the realm of the forms), and (iii) that which is beyond being (i.e., the Good or the One).

The observation that the Good does not belong to the realm of being puts it beyond the possibility of predication and thus beyond knowledge. The Good, therefore, also transcends intelligibility because the proper object of intellect is that which is. This strongly negative stance comes out clearly in writers like Pseudo-Dionysius:

Just as corporal form cannot lay hold of the intangible and incorporeal, by the same standard of truth beings are surpassed by the infinity beyond being, intelligences by that oneness which is beyond intelligence. Indeed the inscrutable One is out of the reach of every rational process. Nor can any words come up to the inexpressible Good, this One, this Source of all unity, this supra-existent Being (588B).²

The Good, therefore, is something that can never be properly known or understood by intellect because it is prior to the very conditions of intelligibility. This understanding of the Good has strong affinities with the apophatic traditions of many religions, and because of this, Platonic texts are often appropriated in this context to forward the view that the Good (or God, or the One) is altogether beyond being and knowledge.

Central to the history of this appropriation, Republic VI contains the famous image of the Good as the sun. Ostensibly, we find the direct claim at 509b that the Good is “beyond being,” yet from the immediate context, it is not altogether clear what this involves. It may mean, as Plotinus and Pseudo-Dionysius would have it, that the Good is not something which is because it is altogether beyond the realm of being as its ground and cause. It may, however, simply mean that the Good surpasses the form of Being in worth and value, but this does not preclude it from belonging, like the other forms, to the realm of things that really are. If this second deflationary reading is correct, then the Good should also appear as a legitimate object of knowledge. Several of Socrates’s claims in this passage support this reading, yet his claims are often qualified in curious ways. I propose that we look closely at the passage and determine just what we can and cannot infer about the Good from this text alone.

The Sun and Sight

At 508a, Socrates lays the groundwork for the allegory of the sun by pointing out the way that the faculty of sight involves three elements:

1. Objects of sight
2. Power of sight
3. Source of sight

Socrates especially calls attention to the addition of this third element by contrasting the faculty of sight with the other faculties. In the case of hearing, for instance, there is no mediating element between a sound and the faculty of hearing. Provided that the faculty of hearing is present and the object of hearing is present, the activity of hearing happens spontaneously. In the case of sight, however, we need both the light, which makes the objects visible and the sun, “whose light makes our sight see in the finest way and the seen things seen” (508a).³ The sun surpasses light because it is the ultimate “divine source” of sight and being seen. The identification of the sun with the ultimate cause of sight, however, brings about a curious feature of the metaphor as it stands: “though the sun is not itself sight, it is the cause of sight and is seen by the sight it causes” (508b). The sun is now fulfilling not just one but two of the three roles involved with sight. It alone satisfies (iii) in an ultimate sense, but in terms of (ii), the sun is merely one among the infinite variety of visible objects. The sun may clearly stand out as the brightest of all visible objects, but it does belong to the sphere of visible things.

At first, it may appear that this involves the sun in a viscous form of self-causation. After all, how can the sun be both the cause of all visible things and be itself visible? We do not need, however, to say that the sun is the cause of its own existence, merely that it is the cause of itself qua visible thing. Suppose, for instance, that Solon of Athens creates all the laws of Athens and thereby establishes what it means to be a citizen of Athens. In doing so, he does not set himself up as a tyrant, however, but places himself under the laws which he makes. In this sense, Solon is the cause of himself not simpliciter but merely as a citizen. Similarly, the sun is not the source of itself simpliciter, but merely as a visible object.

Socrates goes on to explain at 508c that the sun is that “child of the Good,” an account of which he promises to Glaucon at 506e. The sun is its child and is in its “likeness” because it stands in an analogous relationship to three things—and here Socrates makes explicit a fourth element of sight that was only implicit in his earlier description, namely the whole visible realm:

1. The sun is to sight as the Good is to intellect
2. The sun is to visible objects as the Good is to intelligible objects
3. The sun is to the visible realm as the Good is to the intelligible realm.

Socrates places his primary emphasis on this first respect in which the sun and the Good are similar. Just as the sun is the ultimate origin of sight, that in virtue of which all sight is possible, so too the Good is the ultimate origin of all intellect. Further, just as the sun is not identical with sight itself, neither is the Good identical with intellect or any act of intellect, contra those who would claim that the Good is prudence (505b). From what Socrates says, however, it seems that we are also meant to consider the second and third ways in which the sun is related to visibility in the metaphor. In these terms, the sun is just one among many objects that are visible and is, therefore, within the visible realm like all other visible objects while also being the source of visibility. From this passage so far, it appears that the Good should be taken as merely one among all those things which are intelligible and, therefore, within the realm of being.

This interpretation of the metaphor is supported by the description of the Good that Socrates gives at 508e:

Therefore, say that what provides the truth to the things known and gives the power to the one who knows, is the idea of the Good. And, as the cause of the knowledge and truth, you can understand it to be a thing known; but, as fair as these two are —knowledge and truth—if you believe that it is something different from them and still fairer than they, your belief will be right.

The Good, then, is something known and merely surpasses knowledge and truth in fairness rather than ontologically. Socrates, however, inserts cautionary phrases throughout the passage as a whole, and this last description is no exception. What should we make of the phrase “you can understand it to be”? This seems as though Socrates wishes to back off somewhat from the straightforward assertion that the form of the Good is itself known. Perhaps this description is merely intended as a pedagogical step for Glaucon. In this reading, he would not be wholly wrong to “think of” the Good “as being” something intelligible, but eventually, he will need to leave this partial, metaphorical way of thinking behind as he comes to an adequate understanding. Authors like Plotinus and Pseudo-Dionysius frequently maintain that there are ways of thinking about the Good that are more appropriate than others because they lead the mind toward the recognition that the Good is something ultimately beyond its grasp. Then again, this phrase could be a stronger prescription, and Socrates could be asserting that this is the most appropriate way to think about the Good because this is the way the Good really is. In any case, interpretive caution is called for.

The Sun and Growth

At 509b Socrates asks Glaucon to “pursue our analogy further” and adds another dimension to the metaphor:

I suppose you’ll say the sun not only provides what is seen with the power of being seen, but also with generation, growth, and nourishment although it itself isn’t generation.

This addition is so brief that it is easy to let it slip by unnoticed, but it is striking just how complex the metaphor has become. The sun already stands in relation to three things (sight, visible things, and the visible realm), and Socrates is now adding generation, growth, and nourishment. In parallel, the Good is the source, not only of the intelligibility in things but also of their “existence” (τὸ εἶναί) and “being” (τὴν οὐσίαν). While he does not state it as explicitly as the other parallels, it seems clear enough that Socrates means to add a fourth parallel between the sun and the Good to the three we have already:

4. The sun is to generation as the Good is to being.

In the metaphor, the sun is the cause of generation wherever it occurs. He is sure to point out that the sun is not identical to generation, just as it is not identical to sight, but we may still ask whether the sun is one of those things subject to the process of generation. In terms of the metaphor, there did not seem to be any internal difficulty in claiming that the sun is both the source of sight and also something that is seen. The sun, in this case, is a causa sui in a weak, non-viscious sense because it is only the cause of itself qua visible object. In the case of generation, however, a stronger self-causation threatens. If the sun is the ultimate source of the process of generation, then it will be a necessary precondition for every instance of it. The sun would need to be already in order to cause its own process of coming to be. Although Socrates remains silent on this point, the logic of the metaphor seems to indicate that the sun lies outside the realm of coming to be in a way that it did not lie outside the realm of sight.

It is at this point that we find the famous claim that the Good is “beyond being,” but we must be sure to read to the end of the sentence:

Therefore, say that not only being known is present in the things known as a consequence of the Good, but also existence [τὸ εἶναί] and being [τὴν οὐσίαν] are in them besides as a result of it, although the Good isn’t being [οὐκ οὐσίας ὄντος τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ] but is still beyond being [ἔτι ἐπέκεινα τῆς οὐσίας], exceeding it in dignity and power. (509b)

According to the traditional reading, this passage claims that the generation of visible objects is analogous to the “being and reality” of the objects of intellect, i.e., the Forms so that the Good is somehow beyond this being and reality because it is the source of it. In the metaphor, the sun is neither something that comes to be nor the process of generation, but the source of both. Given this analogy, we may think that the Good is not itself a being because it is the source of being. The Good, then is beyond being in the sense that it is outside of its scope, transcending the realm of being altogether as its antecedent ground and source.

According to the deflationary reading, when he claims that the Good is not being, Socrates may be making the much less radical claim that the Good is merely non-identical with the form of Being itself. That is to say, he is merely calling attention to the way that they are two distinct forms. This reading is somewhat supported if we understand the phrase “surpassing it in dignity and power” to be a qualification of the claim that the Good is “beyond being” rather than a separate claim in its own right. If this reading is right, the Good is not beyond being simpliciter but merely beyond it in dignity and power.

The observations that the Good is non-identical with being and greater than being in dignity and power are, on their own, compatible with the conclusion that the Good is nevertheless one of those things which are, and therefore is subject to the form of Being in that sense. This passage about the relationship between the Good and being is highly parallel to the earlier passage about its relationship to knowledge. Just as the Good is something distinct from knowledge and “more splendid” than it, the Good is distinct from being and “surpasses it in dignity and power.” Nevertheless, just as the Good is something known, there is no reason to suspect that it is not something that is. We should remember, however, our earlier caution that this may be merely the “right way to think about” the Good rather than the plain truth. If we are to overturn this deflationary reading, we must bring into consideration the logic of what it means for something to be the “source” of being, a logic that is never drawn out explicitly in the text.

Conclusion

The famous description of the Good as “beyond being” at 509b in the analogy of the sun does not immediately or obviously imply a strong ontological transcendence of the Good. It is tempting to cite this passage in discussions of Neoplatonism as though it were a clear statement of Plato’s position, yet there are several indications in the surrounding text that the Good is something that can be known and therefore belongs to the realm of things which are. Nevertheless, the fact that this account is merely an allegory and only proposes to tell the tale of the “child of the Good” taken together with the curious qualifications Socrates attaches to his claims that the Good can be known gives us some interpretive leeway. Ultimately, the logic of viscous ontological self-causation justifies the appropriation of this text within Neoplatonism, but we must be sure to understand that Socrates never brings this logic into the discussion here. When we add this logic, the passage appears in a Neoplatonic light, but if we remove it, the claims of this passage appear much less radical.

The post The Sun and the Good appeared first on The Miskatonian.