ALLEGORY OF THE CAVE

By Socrates

And now, I said, let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or
unenlightened: Behold! Human beings living in an underground den, which has a
mouth open toward the light and reaching all along the den; here they have been
from their childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that they cannot
move, and can only see before them, being prevented by the chains from turning
round their heads. Above and behind them a fire is blazing at a distance, and
between the fire and the prisoners there is a raised way; and you will see, if
you look, a low wall built along the way, like the screen which marionette
players have in front of them, over which they show the puppets.

I see.

And do you see, I said, men passing along the wall carrying all sorts of
vessels, and statues and figures of animals made of wood and stone and various
materials, which appear over the wall? Some of them are talking, others silent.

You have shown me a strange image, and they are strange prisoners.

Like ourselves, I replied; and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows
of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave?

True, he said; how could they see anything but the shadows if they were never
allowed to move their heads?

And of the objects which are being carried in like manner they would only see
the shadows?

Yes, he said.

And if they were able to converse with one another, would they not suppose that
they were naming what was actually before them?

Very true.

And suppose further that the prison had an echo which came from the other side,
would they not be sure to fancy when one of the passersby spoke that the voice
which they heard came from the passing shadow?

No question, he replied.

To them, I said, the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the
images.

That is certain.

And now look again, and see what will naturally follow if the prisoners are
released and disabused of their error. At first, when any of them is liberated
and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round and walk and look
toward the light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and
he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen
the shadows; and then conceive someone saying to him, that what he saw before
was an illusion, but that now, when he is approaching nearer to being and his
eye is turned toward more real existence, he has a clearer vision -- what will
be his reply? And you may further imagine that his instructor is pointing to
the objects as they pass and requiring him to name them -- will he not be
perplexed? Will he not fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer
than the objects which are now shown to him?

Far truer.

And if he is compelled to look straight at the light, will he not have a pain
in his eyes which will make him turn away to take refuge in the objects of
vision which he can see, and which he will conceive to be in reality clearer
than the things which are now being shown to him?

True, he said.

And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly dragged up a steep and rugged
ascent, and held fast until he is forced into the presence of the sun himself,
is he not likely to be pained and irritated? When he approaches the light his
eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what
are now called realities.

Not all in a moment, he said.

He will require to grow accustomed to the sight of the upper world. And first
he will see the shadows best, next the reflections of men and other objects in
the water, and then the objects themselves; then he will gaze upon the light of
the moon and the stars and the spangled heaven; and he will see the sky and the
stars by night better than the sun or the light of the sun by day?

Certainly.

Last of all he will be able to see the sun, and not mere reflections of it in
the water, but he will see it in his own proper place, and not in another; and
he will contemplate it as it is.

Certainly.

He will then proceed to argue that this is it who makes the seasons and the
years, and is the guardian of all that is in the visible world, and in a
certain way the cause of all things which he and his fellows have been
accustomed to behold?

Clearly, he said, he would first see the sun and then reason about it.

And when he remembered his old habitation, and the wisdom of the den and his
fellow-prisoners, do you not suppose that he would felicitate himself on the
change, and pity them?

Certainly, he would.

And if they were in the habit of conferring honours among themselves on those
who were quickest to observe the passing shadows and to remark which of them
went before, and which followed after, and which were together; and who were
therefore best able to draw conclusions as to the future, do you think that he
would care for such honours and glories, or envy the possessors of them? Would
he not say with Homer, "Better to be the poor servant of a poor master, and to
endure anything, rather than think as they do and live after their manner?"

Yes, he said, I think that he would rather suffer anything than entertain these
false notions and live in this miserable manner.

Imagine once more, I said, such a one coming suddenly out of the sun to be
replaced in his old situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes full of
darkness?

To be sure, he said.

And if there were a contest, and he had to compete in measuring the shadows
with the prisoners who had never moved out of the den, while his sight was
still weak, and before his eyes had become steady (and the time which would be
needed to acquire this new habit of sight might be very considerable), would he
not be ridiculous? Men would say of him that up he went and down he came
without his eyes; and that it was better not even to think of ascending; and if
anyone tried to loose another and lead him up to the light, let them only catch
the offender, and they would put him to death.

No question, he said.