DIALECTIC AS A MYSTICAL DISCIPLINE1

Kent Peacock

In Books V VII of the Republic we are presented with a picture of knowledge as something
entirely distinct from right opinion, and we have described to us a method called dialectic by
means of which a suitably endowed person may attain to this knowledge. By knowledge, Plato
means knowledge of the forms, although it is far from clear what this really means. And it is
also not clear exactly what he means by dialectic, or how it is that dialectic leads to this special
sort of knowledge. The key passage, 511b d, is surely one of the most cryptic passages in
philosophical literature, maddening in its suggestiveness. In my talk today I want to risk
presenting an interpretation of what Plato might have meant by all of this, and also briefly allude
to its broader significance.
My key points are these:
Dialectic is not just the art of friendly conversation , but a dialogue carried out in a
particular way, with a particular end in mind.
Plato seemed to want to believe that knowledge of the Forms would allow certain, or
necessary analogical reasoning, even though he was uneasy about the obvious impracticability of
such a scheme.
Problems to be encountered in Platos theory of knowledge are indicative of the
unresolved tension between the mystical and the rational which existed in Greek thought at this
time.
Now, the obvious question which strikes the beginner, when he first hears of this notion
of dialectic, is, how can mere conversation or debate lead to certain knowledge of the
transcendental patterns after which the world is fashioned? It would be very unusual, to say the
least, to expect such a remarkable conclusion to any familiar sort of dialectic, such as might, for
instance, occur in this seminar room. In fact, it is rare that a philosophical debate (as opposed to
a monologue!) comes to any sort of conclusion at all. For instance, we have before us as models
1

This paper is a revised version of a paper originally written for Professor T. M Robinson in 1984. Copyright
1984, 2005 Kent A. Peacock. I am grateful to T. M. Robinson for considerable advice and encouragement; he is, of
course, not responsible for any errors that remain.

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the early Socratic dialogues, in which the debaters are left suspended in a state of aporeia, or
uncertainty. And yet Plato tells us that dialectic is the special technique or method which brings
the potential philosopher to the state of enlightenment which guarantees his authority and
enables him to govern the City.
Part of the answer to this puzzle is obvious: aporeia is itself philosophically enlightening.
In fact there are some who would maintain that aporeia is philosophical enlightenment; that
wisdom consists in a certain openness arising from a recognition of the inadequacy of all human
attempts at definition. But this was not the belief of Plato, at the time of the Republic, although
it might have been the belief of the historical Socrates. Plato clearly believed that one ought to
be able to arrive at genuine knowledge through dialectic. I think it very likely --- and I shall
explain why --- that aporeia was an essential part of the process of the dialectic as he conceived
and probably practiced it, but still it was only an instrument to an end.
We should first go over Platos description of dialectic in the scheme of human
knowledge, before indulging in too much speculation. This scheme is presented to us in the
image of the line, given at the end of Book VI. The different human knowledge types are of
conceived as being mappable onto a linear scale, according to their degree of clarity and
obscurity. For each type of knowledge there is a corresponding object of knowledge. At the
low end of the scale are shadows, reflections in mirrors, mirages, and the like. The next section
belongs to objects of sense, and the knowledge that we have of them is opinion. This includes
all of what we would now call a posteriori knowledge, whether it was derived by hearsay,
experience, or induction. It would include knowledge of how to get to Larissa from Athens, to
refer to the example used in the Meno. In that dialogue knowledge is distinguished from opinion
in a fairly commonsensical way: a person might have a true opinion of how to get to Larissa if,
say, he had heard and believed a correct description of the route. However, he would have
knowledge of the route only if he had actually gone that way himself. By the time we reach the
Republic, this distinction is no longer important. Even if one has gone to Larissa every day of
ones life, on still has only an opinion of how to get there fortunately well founded, if ones
business depends on it. These first two sections of the line constitute the realm of the
intelligible.
Plato gives us no notion of how one could assign a measure to degrees of clarity in order
to define the Divided Line, and it is hard to tell how seriously he took the model to be a

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representation of the structure of knowledge. The fact that the two subdivisions stand in the same
ratio as the main division should be attributed mainly to Platos love of mathematical neatness,
and the Divided Line itself might be called a mathematical metaphor. The parts of the Divided
Line stand in the so-called Golden Ratio, and there is evidence that the Greeks in Platos time
were aware of some of the intriguing properties of this ubiquitous number and may have used it
in some of their art and architecture. Plato may therefore have been doing in Republic VI what
he did in the Timaeus, which was to postulate (perhaps in a playful spirit) that a mathematical
discovery that was in the air at the time had some special significance in the metaphysical
scheme of things.2
The idea that knowledge of matters of fact, no matter how well founded, is only
opinion, is not strange to us. In part, this simply means that he who knows the road to Larissa
does not know it as a matter of logical certainty. But it reflects the deep metaphysical fact that
roads to towns and all other furniture of the natural world are perpetually in a condition of flux,
Becoming, and therefore can never be fully understood in a stable and reliable way. Roads and
towns are not among the things that are, merely among the things that become.
The lower half of the division of the intelligible is the realm of mathematical knowledge.
The means by which this knowledge is obtained is deductive reasoning; the objects of knowledge
are mathematical propositions. The method of reasoning used is to set up hypotheses, which
from a logical point of view are entirely arbitrary, and proceed by reasoning to a conclusion.
Hypotheses are merely stepping stones (511b) which are to be discarded once a definite
conclusion has been grasped. Plato approves of this business, both because of its relative degree
of certainty and because of its salutary effects in training the mind. But mathematical
conclusions still do not count as real knowledge, because they are uncertain in the following
sense: the soul is forced to use hypotheses in its search for them (511a) and hypotheses
themselves are not first principles. Plato says: the soul...uses as images those very things
which at a lower level were models and which, in comparison with their images, were thought to
be clear and honoured as such. This can be made clear by an example. A triangle scratched in
the sand with a stick could serve as a model against which various triangular objects could be
compared on the visible level. We have here the important notion of model standing in relation
2

For much detail on the mathematics and history of the Golden Ratio, including its role in Greek thought, see Mario
Livio, The Golden Ratio: The Story of Phi, the Worlds Most Astonishing Number. New York: Broadway Books,
2002.

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to its images as a master copy to its many duplicates. (Of course, the triangle may be marked out
after the fact of observation, but once this is done, it may serve as a model.) On the intelligible
level, various actually drawn triangles --- models in relation to the visible level --- may be taken
as images of a conceptual triangle, a triangle which is known only by its definition. In other
words, an hypothesis about a triangle is erected from a base of mere experience. This account of
how hypotheses are arrived at is quite ambiguous in certain important respects. For instance, is
there any creative element in the setting up of hypotheses, or does it involve only the recognition
of what is already there? As important as these problems are, at the moment we need only
concern ourselves with the fact that hypotheses cannot be an adequate basis for genuine
knowledge, because they do not proceed from an indubitable first principle, but are merely taken
as first principles.
The highest objects of knowledge are the forms, and the faculty through which they are
known is called noesis, understanding. I do not want to dwell too much here on the origin of the
doctrine of the forms as such. They are supposed to be the ultimate, irreducible models after
which all things in the phenomenal world are patterned. What I want to look at is the nature of
dialectic, the method by which knowledge of the Forms is attained, and also the kind of use to
which this knowledge might be put.
First, how does dialectic work? Plato describes the process as follows: The other
section of the intelligible is that which reason itself grasps by the power of dialectic. It does
not consider its hypotheses as first principles, but as hypotheses in the true sense of stepping
stones and starting points, in order to reach that which is beyond hypothesis, the first principle...
(511b) All this really tells us is that dialectic begins by the selection of an hypothesis. This
preliminary hypothesis is not used as a premise for deduction, but is posed in order to start the
dialogue. Of course, philosophic discussion often starts this way. One might say, suppose
justice is giving every man his due... and go on from there. Im going to fill in some other
things that we know about dialectic, together which a bit of guesswork, in order that we can see
how Plato might have thought that a process that begins so innocently can end with knowledge
of the first principle.
The basic features of dialectic are these: It is often carried out under the guidance, or with
the active involvement, of an older and wiser teacher. It involves the posing of differing
viewpoints in order to resolve a dispute or to define an important term. It may go on for quite a

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long time. The viewpoints that are successively presented tend to be strongly in contrast, often
almost contradictory, and yet unavoidable. Eventually, one may be forced into a state of intense
aporeia, due to the paradox that one seems to be forced to accept. The paradox may be only
sharpened on further discussion. And yet, somehow, out of this comes enlightenment. By what
means? And what does this enlightenment consist of?
I would like to suggest that there is a remarkable parallel between this picture of dialectic,
which I conjecture is not to far from what Plato actually had in mind, and another form of
discipline leading to enlightenment from a very different culture: the discipline of Zen
Buddhism. Now, this is not quite as far-fetched as it seems, despite the obvious great differences
between Zen and Platonic dialectic. The similarity in method is that enlightenment is achieved
by deliberately forcing ones attention on an unresolvable paradox. In Platos method, the
focussing is achieved in the give-and-take of dialectic, and I think it must have been the essence
of the method that the log-jam of aporesis be attained. In Zen, the student is given a koan to
meditate on. The koan is a little story or puzzle whose meaning the student is asked to resolve,
but which is hopelessly, almost fiendishly paradoxical. A well-known example is the demand to
Tell me what is the sound of one hand clapping. It seems silly, but if you insist that there must
be an answer you could work yourself into quite a state of perplexity. Other koans are very
profound and subtle.
The difference in method between Zen and Plato is that Plato uses interminable
discussion to bring the students mind to the necessary state, while the Buddhists use meditation.
I think the Buddhist would argue that meditation is a much more effective means for achieving
the end of enlightenment that he seeks. (Of course, interaction with the teacher is also a vital
part of the process in Zen.) Zen Buddhism has the benefit of over two thousand years of practice
in something that I think Plato was just beginning to get a glimmering of how to use.
The point is this: the human mind has the peculiar ability that if it is deliberately and
intensely focussed on a problematic situation for a long enough time, it can sometimes suddenly
achieve a sudden resolution of the problem. Instances range from the mundane to the sublime,
but the resolution always has the character that it somehow transcends the apparent duality that
was present in the problem situation; an underlying unity is perceived. My suggestion, which
could only be supported by a thorough study of the historical literature, is that Plato or his
followers became fascinated by the power of this faculty and decided to pursue it, using the

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medium of intense debate. This, I think, was the point of the process of dialectic; it was
conversation designed to induce a burst of enlightenment, probably by focussing on an aporetic
situation.
There is a key passage in the Seventh Letter which shows an interesting parallel between
Platos method and the practice of Zen. (It is of course possible that the Seventh Letter was not
actually written by Plato. But I think that it is still a good reflection of what his method was
conceived to be.) Plato says, The truths of philosophy cannot be expressed in words as other
subjects can, but after personal assistance in these studies from a guide, after living for some
time with that guide, suddenly a flash of understanding, as it were, is kindled by a spark that
leaps across... (From R.S. Bluck, Platos Life and Thought.) This is remarkably similar to the
description given by Eugen Herrigel in The Method of Zen and Zen and Zen in the Art of Archery
of the effect that the Master has upon his pupil. But this passage also raises the question of the
nature of knowledge to be gained by dialectic, and brings us back to the Republic.
Once dialectic has been successful, the pupil no longer a pupil has reached the
first principle of all that exists. (This is what is also referred to as the Form of the Good.) Then
Having reached this and keeping hold of what follows from it, it does come down to a
conclusion without making use of anything visible at all, but proceeding by means of Forms and
through Forms to its conclusions which are forms (511c). I do not pretend to be certain of what
this means. But I think it means that Forms are in some way perceived directly when one attains
to enlightenment through dialectic. The Form is perceived as a unity underlying the differences
in the phenomenal world, and the knowledge of the highest form enables one to move to
knowledge of other forms. (This is the meaning of the comparison between knowledge of the
Form of the Good and sunlight.) Exactly how this occurs is not clear, and the Socrates persona
admits that he can only describe it by analogy. I rather doubt that Plato himself ever experienced
this hypothetical supreme state of enlightenment that would enable one to see the Form of the
Good directly. This is evidenced by the way in which Socrates introduces his description of the
phenomenon, as if he were describing an aspiration, not an attainment. However, I do think that
dialectic was practiced as a mystical discipline in the Academy, and that Plato undoubtedly
achieved some sort of impressive, though perhaps inexpressible, illumination. Whatever he
achieved was enough to excite his imagination and make him believe, or hope, that if dialectic

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were practiced well enough it would bring perception of the ultimate first principle, which he
was sure must exist.
But what can be done with this special sort of knowledge? The Zen Masters are quite
clear: nothing. What is attained through the burst of illumination they call satori cannot function
as conceptual knowledge at all. It is inexpressible, and its main use, apart from its value as pure
experience, is perhaps in the attitude or quality of life that its attainment conduces to. In this
respect, I think, Zen is philosophically more sophisticated than Plato. Zen is also quite clear that
the object of mystical perception is not some sort of transcendental particular, as T. M.
Robinsons aptly puts it. Plato, by contrast, wants to believe that a Form is an isolable and
identifiable model against which things in the phenomenal world can be compared. He suggests
that the City be established by the philosopher-kings as an image or copy of the heavenly model
which they are able to know. But whether he actually believes that this could be made to work,
the logic of the theory of Forms seems to allow that if one indeed knows a Form, then one can
with certainty (because true knowledge is certain) identify an appearance of that Form in any of
its instantiations; and this implies that one could in fact have indubitable knowledge of matters of
fact by comparison or by analogy with Forms.
Now it is indeed true that thought and perception could not function without the ability to
recognize form, or pattern or structure. Plato deserves credit for emphasizing this. But we have
to be a little more precise than Plato was about the sorts of inferences that we can expect to be
able to draw from the recognition of a form. I am not prepared to present an adequate theory of
inductive knowledge here today, so I will confine myself to saying that Platos theory of forms
flies rather blatantly in the face of common sense, if one doggedly insists on taking it literally.
Plato was really only interested in exalted things like Beauty, Courage, Goodness, etc. I suspect
that his theory of forms arose partly out of a belief that there ought to be divine archetypes of
such things. There is a distinctly moral cast to the theory. The Form of a thing is the way it
ought to be, and that is why the highest form is of the Good (rather than, say, the True.)
These issues are highlighted in a famous passage in a later dialogue, the Parmenides.
The youthful Socrates is depicted as enthusiastically proclaiming the existence of Forms of all
sorts of elevated things, such as the Beautiful and the Good. But what about the forms of
mundane things such as dirt and hair? Surely it is only a sort of prejudice to deny these humble
entities the right to partake in a Form as well. Socrates is not sure, and Parmenides says to him,

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you are still young; the time will come, if I am not mistaken, when philosophy will have a
firmer grasp of you, and then you will not despise even the meanest of things. (Quoted in
Russell, Hist. of W. Phil.)
The theory of Forms is very alien to our way of thought, because it depicts the world as
being formed as a hierarchy of archetypes, rather than as evolving by mechanical causation. The
principle of generation is like produces like and this has a converse, analogous in its function
to the Principle of Sufficient Reason: whatever has been produced, must have been produced in
the likeness of something else.
I think that we see Platos philosophy a perfect instance of the sort of tensions that were
current in Greek philosophy in his time. It is not too far wrong to say that the Greeks were
probably the first culture to enthusiastically practice rational thought. They became fascinated
with it, intoxicated with its power. Ortega y Gasset: The Greek believed that he had discovered
in the reason, in the concept, reality itself. Nevertheless they were still full of the older religion
and mysticism, to a greater or less degree. They were not clear about the relative weaknesses
and strengths of each complementary way of thought (and it could be argued that we are not yet,
either.) The Pythagoreans, for instance, blended mathematics with mysticism. They believed for
a while that everything in the world might be describable in terms of ratios of whole numbers, so
that the world could be known completely by the mind. They were encouraged in this belief by
their discovery by the Pythagorean theorem, but this theorem led directly to the result that the
diagonal of a square is incommensurable with its sides. Nevertheless, many Greeks, most
notably Plato, continued the attempt to blend rationalism with mysticism, despite nagging
commonsense and the criticism of sceptics and materialists. I have suggested here that in fact
Plato may have experimented with a form of mystical practice which has since been developed
to a great degree of sophistication by other cultures. Plato sought mystical insight, but he wanted
to believe that it could function as rational knowledge.
I want to conclude this discussion with a comment about the parable of the Cave, which I
have not mentioned yet. I think that the most important insight this story offers is that he who
attains to a high degree of knowledge and it doesnt really matter if it is the absolute
knowledge that Plato fondly supposed was possible will no longer fit into the community
from which he ascended. He will regard the pursuits of that community as trivial and degrading,
even though he can no longer do well at those pursuits himself. In turn, he will be regarded as

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mad, subversive, dangerous, if he tries to offer to the community the enlightenment he has
gained. Once the philosopher has attained a high degree of enlightenment, the aims of the
community are irreconcilable with his own.
Thus we have arrived at a paradox. The very attempt to produce the highest possible
state of human attainment, initiated in order that the City should be well-governed, has produced
a being who can no longer make the aims of the City his own. Plato quite rightly says that we
would be doing him an injury to force him down into the cave again. We can only hope to keep
his attention by reminding him of his duty to those who raised him. However, this hardly
resolves the fundamental tension that has been produced between the philosopher and the City.
At this point the analogy between an individual human being and the City breaks down, unless
we are to assume that the pursuit of philosophy in the individual causes schizophrenia. More
important, the notion of the static State as a possible vehicle for all legitimate human aspiration
and attainment is thrown seriously into question.

References

Herrigel, Eugen. The Method of Zen. NY: Vintage Books, 1974; Pantheon, 1960.
Herrigel, Eugen. Zen in the Art of Archery. NY: Vintage Books, 1971; Pantheon, 1953.
Bluck, R.S. Platos Life and Thought (Including the Seventh Letter.) London: Routledge &
Kegan Paul, 1949.
Livio, Mario. The Golden Ratio: The Story of Phi, the Worlds Most Astonishing Number. New
York: Broadway Books, 2002
Ortega y Gasset, J. The Revolt of the Masses. NY: Norton, 1960.

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