Pierre Destrée - Jan Opsomer - Geert Roskam - Utopias in Ancient Thought-De Gruyter (2021)

Utopias in Ancient Thought
Beiträge zur Altertumskunde
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Utopias in
Ancient Thought
Edited by Pierre Destrée, Jan Opsomer and Geert Roskam

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Content
P. Destrée, J. Opsomer, G. Roskam

Preface VII
Giulia Sissa
The quest for the best. Praise, blame, utopia 1
Stephen E. Kidd
What will we do when we get there? Utopia and Dicing in Greek
Comedy 41
Thornton C. Lockwood
What Thomas More learned from Herodotus about Utopia 57
Carol Atack
Temporality and utopia in Xenophon and Isocrates 77
Julia Annas
Plato’s ideal society and Utopia 103
Dimitri El Murr
Plato and Utopia: Philosophy, Power, and Practicability in Plato’s
Republic 121
Antony Hatzistavrou
Plato and the utopia within us 145
Christoph Horn
Aristotle’s ‘City of our Prayers’ within the History of Political
Utopianism 167
Suzanne Husson
Utopia and the quest for autarkeia 185
Gretchen Reydams-Schils
Were the later Stoics anti-utopians? 199
VI Content
Sean McConnell
Cicero and the Golden Age Tradition 213
Iris Sulimani
All Over the World: The Utopian Idea in Diodorus Siculus 231
Inger N.I. Kuin

Laughter in Lucian’s Utopias of the Dead 255
David Engels
Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’ and the Ideal of the ‘Golden Age’ in
Classical Antiquity: Utopias in Ancient China and Classical Antiquity 277
Index locorum 305

P. Destrée, J. Opsomer, G. Roskam
Preface
When Thomas More published his famous work De optimo Reipublicae Statu
deque Nova Insula Utopia, he could not foresee that its title would give rise to
a new literary genre. Other authors very soon developed similar or different uto-
pias, or elaborated dystopias, and since then, this combination of creative phil-
osophical thinking and inventive imagination has never ceased. Although More
thus inaugurated a new and very rich literary tradition, he did not produce his
new genre from nothing. As a matter of fact, he was in more than one respect
indebted to an age-old ancient tradition of ‘utopian thinking’.
Plato, of course, comes to mind as the principal source for such utopian
thinking, but in fact, the tradition itself is considerably older. It can ultimately
be traced back to the earliest phase of Greek literature. In the Odyssey, Homer
described Scheria, the island of the Phaeacians, as a place where nature provid-
ed everything in abundance (7,112– 132). This motif of the bios automatos also oc-
curs in several of Theocritus’ Idylls, in Latin poetry of the Augustan period, and
especially in ancient comedy (see Telecleides, Amphityones fr. 1; PCG VII, p. 668
for a particularly salient example). It is sometimes connected with that of the
‘Golden Age’, the earliest version of which can be found in Hesiod’s Works
and days (109 – 126). Famous adaptations of the ‘Golden Age’ theme can be
found in Aratus (Phaen. 100 – 114) and Vergil’s fourth Eclogue. Both of these mo-
tifs were a constant source of inspiration for later utopian literature. As a rule,
utopian societies indeed benefit from abundant natural blessings, which make
hard work unnecessary, and show all the high moral qualities associated with
primitive generations.
In Aristotelian terms, one might perhaps characterize this motif as the ma-
terial cause, as it were, of a Utopia. But what function does it perform? In
many cases, a Utopia may have a positive role, that of presenting an ideal city,
or state, which allows us human beings the best possible life. As we will see,
Magnesia in Plato’s Laws clearly seems to have such a role. But there is another,
perhaps even more important, if negative, role that is very well exemplified in
Thomas More’s own Utopia: through presenting an ideal case, to help us readers
of such a fiction look at our own real city, or state, with a critical eye. Contrary to
Magnesia, this may very well be the primary function of Kallipolis. This notwith-
standing, as many scholars have suggested, Kallipolis may well have a hidden,
direct ancestor: Aristophanes’ utopian cities of which Nephelokokkugia (‘Cloud-
cuckooland’) is arguably the most famous.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-001
VIII P. Destrée, J. Opsomer, G. Roskam
As Giulia Sissa argues in ‘The quest for the best. Praise, blame, utopia’, com-
edy should be best considered as the actual birthplace of full-fledged Utopia.
Contrary to what one might think, this should come as no surprise. In More’s
Utopia, praise is what best characterizes the passionate presentation that Ra-
phaël Hythlodaeus makes of the utopian society. In classical Athens, praise
and eulogy of the Athenian people and power was a crucial feature. When locat-
ing a new, fictional city in the sky, Aristophanes also uses the language of praise,
or actually self-praise, in order to make his audience laugh, and thus, make them
rethink their own city and their democracy.
There is another sense in which one should not confuse the Golden Age and
Utopia. Thomas More makes it clear that there will be no playing dice in Utopia:
the inhabitants of Utopia do not so much as know “dice or other such foolish
and ruinous games”. And this is the case in ancient texts as well: while dicing
is absent from ancient utopian landscapes (notably in Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazu-
sae) it is present in the landscapes of paradise (both in Teleclides, and Cratinus).
As Stephen Kidd shows (‘What will we do when we get there?: Utopia and Dicing
in Greek Comedy’), in utopia one finds goals like self-improvement and goods
like efficiency, while in paradise, efficiency, self-improvement, even the very con-
cept of goals simply make no sense.
Thus, a utopia, contrary to what paradise would consist in, supposes self-im-
provement, and more generally, something ideal that is to be pursued. In this
respect, the question of the ideal constitution is central to the topic of utopia.
This, of course, became one of the main issues in ancient Greek political philos-
ophy from Plato onwards, but again, the tradition is older than Plato.
In Thomas More’s Utopia, Raphael Hythloday bestows upon the islanders of
Utopia a library of Greek authors, which includes Herodotus (alongside more tra-
ditional political thinkers such as Plato, Aristotle, and Thucydides). Herodotus’
inclusion on the Utopian reading list invites the question of whether his History
is in any sense a work in utopian political theory. As Thornton Lockwood argues
(‘What Thomas More learned from Herodotus about Utopia’), Herodotus focuses
primarily on political and social customs: similar to More, Herodotus uses the
otherness of distant political and social customs as an opportunity to theorize
and evaluate political institutions.
Different ‘utopian’ motifs, then, were in the air long before Plato undertook
to conceive his ideal state in a more systematic and philosophically stringent
way. Moreover, Plato also had other thinkers as more direct predecessors, al-
though our information about them is quite meagre. In the second book of his
Politics, Aristotle mentions the political views of Phaleas of Chalcedon and Hip-
podamus of Miletus. The former especially focused on equality of possessions
and education, developing a new system of dowries (1266a37– 1267b21). The lat-
Preface IX
ter devised a constitution for 10,000 citizens that was largely based on a tripar-
tite structure (1267b22– 1268b25). Although the political ideals of both thinkers
were impracticable and even somewhat naive, their views illustrate a growing
interest in the improvement of existing constitutions and even in the develop-
ment of blueprints of ideal constitutions. Thus, they paved the way for Plato.
Plato has imagined no less than three ‘utopian’ cities: Kallipolis in the Re-
public, Atlantis in the Timaeus and the Critias, and Magnesia in the Laws. In
her ‘Plato’s ideal society and Utopia’, Julia Annas reconsiders their respective
status. In the same way More’s Utopia will do, Kallipolis must be seen, Annas
claims, as a ‘philosophical Utopia’, that is not as an ideal city that should be im-
plemented as it is described but rather as an imaginatively presented society
whose odd and idiosyncratic features are meant to help us readers reflect on
the society in which we live in. And this is also the case with Atlantis. It actually
may explain why Plato apparently decided to leave it unfinished once he realized
how appealing the dystopia of Atlantis (which is supposed to represent Athens
itself and its imperialism) has become to his readers, and therefore not only un-
helpful but even damaging to them. But if Kallipolis is primarily meant as phil-
osophical, Plato was certainly also keen of the idea of trying to produce the best
possible society in the real world. The problem, though, is how to start. There is
no starting point in the Republic: in order to have a perfect society, you must
have citizens educated in the perfect way, which supposes a perfect society.
Hence, Plato’s project of Magnesia, where laws are the central feature: once peo-
ple agree to live under certain perfect laws, and thus are supposed to become
more and more perfect themselves, a perfect city could develop.
The problem of practicability of a Utopia is also dealt by Dimitri El Murr
(‘Philosophy, Power, and Practicability in Plato’s Republic’) and Anthony Hatzis-
tavrou (‘Plato and the utopia within us’). El Murr claims that this problem is in-
timately connected to Socrates’ defence of philosophy in the central books of the
Republic. For the transformation of the image most people have of the philoso-
pher is a key element of Plato’s argument in favour of the practicability of the
ideal city. Hatzistavrou focuses on Plato’s account of the rule of reason as the
‘utopia within us’. Plato, he claims, may have realized how unrealisable such
model of human agency would be at least if one takes it in a purely epistemic
way. Hence his defence of the importance of the laws: the members of the Noc-
turnal Council in the Laws and possibly the philosopher-rulers in the Republic
continue to control their desires by subordinating themselves to the institution
of law. While Plato is ambivalent about the possibility of autonomous rule of rea-
son, he believes that institutionally controlled rule of reason is viable.
Like Plato, Isocrates and Xenophon were deeply impressed by the challeng-
ing and stimulating conversations with Socrates, yet their interests and focus sig-
X P. Destrée, J. Opsomer, G. Roskam
nificantly differed from Plato’s. This is especially true in their own versions of
utopias. In ‘Temporality and utopia in Xenophon and Isocrates’, Carol Atack in-
terprets Xenophon’s and Isocrates’ use of past and imagined political arrange-
ments, such as the patrios politeia (ancestral constitution), as the basis for
their re-imagined ideal versions of Sparta, Persia and Egypt. For them, the myth-
ical past functions as a location for setting political ideals in play in a similar
way to the spatially distinct utopias of later writers, whether Hellenistic ideal cit-
ies or Renaissance literary utopias. Unlike Plato, with his gestures towards the
realisation of plans for Kallipolis and Magnesia, neither has any programme
for restoring the past that they praise. Instead, Xenophon’s and Isocrates’ nostal-
gia for an imagined political past expresses a conservative hostility to political
change, and a longing for personal virtue.
Like Isocrates and Xenophon, Aristotle was far less inclined to elaborate
speculative, political ideals than Plato. It is probably no coincidence that he in-
serted in the second book of his Politics a lengthy attack on Plato’s Republic and
Laws. For his thorough familiarity with the various existing constitutions in the
different cities of the Greek world no doubt helped him to see the weak points
and the infeasibility of Plato’s theoretical ideals. Yet in the later books of his Pol-
itics, Aristotle tries to find out the model of the ideal polis himself.
In ‘Aristotle’s ‘City of our Prayers’ within the History of Political Utopianism’,
Christoph Horn defends the thesis that Aristotle, like Plato, develops a full-fledg-
ed utopia based on his own type of normativity: the aretaic and eudaimonic cri-
terion as formulated at the beginning of Pol. VII. The best constitution is the one
that leaves enough room for those who can develop their virtues – and thereby
arrive at happiness – and that gives political power to these individuals. Aristo-
tle’s utopia is that of his city of prayer (kat’ euchên); the other normatively attrac-
tive models, i. e. kingdom, aristocracy, polity (mixed constitution), and delibera-
tive democracy are measured according to a single scale based on the question
to what extent it leaves room for virtue and happiness.
In Hellenistic philosophy, we again find several traces of ‘utopian’ thinking,
especially in early Cynic and Stoic philosophy. In his own ‘Republic’, Diogenes of
Sinope mainly advocated an ideal of self-sufficiency and personal freedom,
against unreflecting conformism and broadly accepted customs. As Susanne
Husson shows (‘Utopia and the quest for autarkeia’), the cynic claim to be
self-sufficient is not, by itself, contradictory to utopian designing of a perfect
community of sages: indeed other Greek philosophers, like Plato and Aristotle,
faced the same problem and came to distinguish different meanings and levels
of self-sufficiency, in order to solve it. So while cynics similarly claimed to be
self-sufficient, particularly on an economic level, that does not logically imply
a solitary life.
Preface XI
The Stoic Zeno of Citium also wrote a ‘Republic’; several fragments suggest
that in a somewhat similar cynic vein, he also severely criticised the existing cus-
toms (including the pedagogical system and the use of money). As Gretchen Rey-
dams-Schils argues (‘Were the later Stoics anti-utopians?’), the political commu-
nity outlined by Zeno has a function that is analogous to that of the Stoic sage,
who is either non-existent or very rare: just as the sage is meant to guide ordi-
nary human beings in their striving towards the goal of life as stipulated by
the Stoics, an ideal political construct can still affect existing socio-political con-
ditions if it is interpreted as a critique of prevailing practices. It is usually as-
sumed though that later stoics did not follow that radical, transformative view
of politics; focusing on the question of participation in public life and politics,
Reydams-Schils argues that this is not the case.
Unlike the Stoics, Epicurus was not interested at all in utopian constructions
or theoretical drafts of ideal constitutions. He was a sober-minded thinker who
turned to the demands of real life and recommended a careful and rational cal-
culus of pleasure and pain in order to maximise our own pleasure and happi-
ness. Yet there is one interesting Epicurean text that is usually ignored in discus-
sions of ancient utopias, viz. a fascinating fragment from Diogenes of Oenoanda
(56.I.1– 12 Smith), in which he evokes a future ‘Golden Age’, when the life of the
gods will arrive, when everybody will be wise and when there will be no need of
laws or walls, since everything will be full of justice and mutual friendship. This,
for Diogenes, is just a hypothesis (whether or not influenced by the contempo-
rary ideology of the Roman Empire), and nothing suggests that he has in
mind a full-fledged utopian theory, yet he probably found a universal break-
through of Epicurean philosophy an attractive and pleasant idea that was at
least worth mentioning.
Just like the Epicureans, the Academic sceptics showed little enthusiasm for
utopian constructions, although in this tradition as well, the motif of the ‘Golden
Age’ occasionally occurs. In ‘Cicero and the Golden Age tradition’, Sean McCon-
nell makes the case that in De re publica and later philosophical works such as
the Tusculan Disputations Cicero draws on philosophical accounts of the golden
age in his analysis of the Roman res publica and the nature of Roman political
virtue. By emphasising the intrinsic virtues of the Roman people, and the need to
ensure the conditions that allow them to find proper expression in political life,
he offers an achievable means for the Roman res publica to attain its best state,
exemplified by its glorious past: rather than advocate an unworkable and prob-
lematic top-down imposition of a utopian model of an ideal state, Cicero is con-
fident that the best state will come to be from the bottom-up, if the superior na-
ture of the Roman people is simply allowed its full natural expression.
XII P. Destrée, J. Opsomer, G. Roskam
Ancient philosophical tradition thus contains many ideas and motifs that
have a ‘utopian’ flavour. Yet the ancient works that come closest to our modern
concept of utopian literature are perhaps not to be found in philosophical liter-
ature but rather in historiography. That may seem surprising at first sight, but we
may recall that even Plato’s myth of Atlantis is presented as a true discourse
about the past, based on respectable sources.
Theopompus, for his part, relates Silenus’ account of the world. Whereas Eu-
rope, Asia and Libya are only islands, so Silenus argues, there is a big continent
that surrounds the outside of this world, with two big cities on it, called ‘Warlike’
and ‘Pious’. He also mentions the Meropes, in whose country can be found two
rivers, ‘Pleasure’ and ‘Pain’. Whoever eats from the fruits of the trees that grow
on the banks of the river ‘Pain’ never stops lamenting for the rest of his life. But
the person who tastes from the trees alongside the other river, loses all his de-
sires and is gradually rejuvenated until he dies as a baby. Aelian, who is our
source here, concludes by characterizing Theopompus as a clever inventor of sto-
ries, a μυθόλογος (Aelian, Var. hist. 3,18). As a matter of fact, Theopompus com-
bined several ‘utopian’ motifs, including elements from the ‘Golden Age’ and the
bios automatos. Nothing is told, however, about the political constitution of the
Meropes, and it would probably be wrong to regard Theopompus’ account as an
elaborate and carefully considered utopian draft.
Euhemerus introduced his well-known theory about the origin of the gods in
the context of a ‘utopian’ story about the island Panchaea (see Diodorus of Sicily,
5,41– 46). Next to the typical motifs of the abundant life, socio-economic issues
also receive attention, although Euhemerus’ overall discussion of the constitu-
tion of Panchaea was probably rather superficial and his first interest was pre-
sumably with his controversial theory about the gods. Euhemerus’ utopian
work is often compared to that of Iambulus. The latter described his journey
to the Islands of the Sun. There, he entered a fantastic world, inhabited by
strange animals and beautiful people with remarkable customs.
In ‘All Over the World: The Utopian Idea in Diodorus Siculus’, Iris Sulimani
inspects Diodorus’ descriptions of idyllic islands, comparing them with accounts
of utopian and dystopian places found in other authors, and examines Diodorus’
depictions of real lands, contrasting them with those of other writers. Her study
demonstrates that Diodorus, inspired by the events and the politics of his day,
locates the utopian islands on the edges of the oikoumenē, yet on the actual
map of the world. Simultaneously, known lands and islands that bear resem-
blance to these utopian islands may be found either in the remote parts of the
universe or nearby. The impact of Alexander’s campaign and its subsequent de-
velopments, as well as Caesar’s deeds, may explain the prevalence of the utopi-
an idea in Diodorus’ work.
Preface XIII
Authors such as Euhemerus and Iambulus were a welcome source of inspi-

ration for Lucian. His True stories is a particularly clever and humorous variation
on the theme of utopian constructions. Lucian tells the story of a lengthy journey
to several islands (including the moon, the Isle of the Blest, the Isle of Dreams,
and many more; even Aristophanes’ Cloudcuckooland is mentioned), during
which he learned to know their inhabitants and their customs. Especially inter-
esting is the programmatic introduction to the work, in which Lucian bluntly
states that nothing of what he will tell is true, thus straightforwardly opposing
the truth claims of authors such as Iambulus, Ctesias and Homer.
In ‘Laughter in Lucian’s Utopias of the Dead’, Inger Kuin deals with Lucian’s
world of the dead, which could be imagined in many different ways in antiquity,
as a canvas for utopian scenarios. From his writings two different versions of the
underworld emerge: one is the paradisiacal Island of the Blessed in True Stories,
the other the Cynics’ egalitarian dream world of The Dialogues of the Dead, Char-
on, Menippus, and Kataplus. Humour plays a central role in each scenario: it
qualifies or even undermines these underworlds as utopian visions, but at the
same time creates opportunities for coping with death through laughter.
As we have seen, the theme of Golden age plays an important role in the uto-
pian descriptions we find through Greek and Roman antiquity. And this is also a
theme that is prominent in the Classical Chinese literature, in authors such as
Laotse, Confucius, Han Fei and Tao Yuanming. But if some analogies are remark-
able, the place of the State and of religion in a utopian society are rather dissim-
ilar in both contexts. In ‘Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’ and the Ideal of
the ‘Golden Age’ in Classical Antiquity: Utopias in Ancient China and Classical
Antiquity’, David Engels shows that while in the Greek world, intimate links
to the gods or a proper government are important (with the notable exceptions
of the anarchism of the Cynic school and the rationalist approach of Euhemer-
ism), Chinese philosophers of the pre-Buddhist era were generally adverse to de-
pict their utopias as set up and guaranteed by the gods, as well as relied on the
power of institutions.
We may conclude this outline with a brief survey of several ancient attempts
to realize utopian projects. Porphyry relates how his master Plotinus tried to re-
found a city in Campania and give it the name of Platonopolis. There, a group of
philosophers would live under Plato’s laws. But the project was never achieved,
due to the opposition of unnamed opponents from the entourage of the emperor
(Porphyry, Vita Plot. 12). In addition to philosophers, politicians also pursued the
actualisation of their utopian ideals. Agis IV of Sparta, for instance, tried to re-
turn to the Lycurgan constitution and to that purpose proposed a cancellation
of debts and a redistribution of properties. But his noble aspirations were crush-
ed by the rich and the naive young king paid for his lofty ideals with his life (see
XIV P. Destrée, J. Opsomer, G. Roskam
esp. Plutarch’s Life of Agis). More bizarre is the story of Alexarchus, the son of
Antipater and brother of Cassander. Alexarchus founded Uranopolis, a new
city on Mount Athos, and even developed a completely new language for it
(Athenaeus, Deipnosoph. 3, 98df; cf. also Strabo, 7 fr. 35). Aristonicus, finally,
tried to become the new king of Pergamon and therefore started a revolution.
After he suffered defeat in a naval battle, be withdrew to the inland and assem-
bled a group of poor men and slaves, calling them citizens of the town of the
Sun. After a few initial successes, he was defeated and brought to Rome,
where he was executed. A poor end of his utopian dream…
Most of the articles in this volume were originally presented and discussed at an
international conference held in Leuven and Louvain-la-Neuve from 10 to 12
March 2016. The conference was funded by FWO-Flanders and the FNRS. We
also included several other articles which were not presented at the conference
but which were specially written for this collection of studies.
Giulia Sissa
The quest for the best. Praise, blame,
utopia
A utopia can be defined as a piece of fiction that creates a parallel universe. This
is often the infinitely detailed representation of an imaginary society that a text
(or a painting, or an architectural drawing) projects as already existing, in some
place or time. Such a society will have to be exceptional, but entirely possible;
difficult to discover, but now well known; arduous to emulate, and yet exempla-
ry. It will have to be perfect in every way: complete and excellent, just, happy
and stable. From this first definition, we may be tempted to generate a very
long narrative. It would be a history of the Western collective aspiration to the
ultimate good, summum bonum, beginning with mythological dreams about
the past, whether the Golden Age, the state of nature or the Kingdom of Saturn.¹
This, however, might fail to capture the political significance of the utopian
tradition. If we want to understand the distinctive intent of a utopian fiction, we
should start from Thomas More’s dialogue on “The best state of a commonwealth
and on the new island utopia” (De optimo rei publicae statu, deque nova insula
utopia), where the word itself was coined as a pun meaning “no-place” (ou-
topos). In response to the question of what would be a truly happy and just
res publica – an optimal state nowhere to be found in the European, Christian
world – a bizarre character called Raphael Hythlodaeus, whose surname
means “Idel-Talk”, launches into the unexpected praise of people discovered
on a picturesque “new island” in the Atlantic Ocean. Utopia was published in
1516 in Louvain, and in 1518 in Basel; it became an instant best-seller, was trans-
lated into several vernacular languages and set the standards of a genre of po-
litical theory – what we have come to identify as the “utopian” tradition². If
we take seriously the ambition of Utopia, we need to provide a much more spe-
cific definition of utopia. Instead of enrolling Thomas More’s new island into a
vast and vague category, so capacious that it can include Cratinos’ self-roasting
fish, Pherecrates’ rivers of sauce and black broth as well as Hesiod’s Golden Age,
 As examples of this kind of comprehensive notion of utopia, see: Manuel & Manuel 1979; Fer-
guson 1975; Delumeau, 1992; Cleys & Sargent 1999; Ruffell 2000; DuBois 2006; Carsana 2008.
For a comparative account of different definitions of utopia, see Bowman 1976; Davis 1981,
Jouanno 2008.
 More 1516 & 1995.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-002
2 Giulia Sissa
we should try to understand what is it exactly that More invents or, at least, fash-
ions into a paradigm³.
Firstly, a proper utopia represents a society whose absolute happiness de-
pends on factors such as a mode of production, a form of government, an admin-
istration, institutions, laws, customs and manners, sexual morality, and, often,
a dress code, or a diet. This complex, all-inclusive, meticulous assemblage of fea-
tures is precisely what More depicts in Utopia. And the fastidiousness of the de-
scription conveys the spirit of the utopian project: an exemplary society has to be
picture-perfect in all its particulars. It is these visions, as grandiose as they are
detailed, that we should call “utopias”, lest any allusion to some dreamlike form
of wellbeing, such as a tableau of alimentary profusion or a scene of pastoral
bliss, can fall into the same category. There is a profound difference between
such basic reveries, although under the “reign” of an archaic god, and a political
fantasy that transcends mere nostalgia for a carefree lifestyle full of automatic
food. We should agree with Raymond Trousson, when he offers a much more de-
manding definition of utopia:
Je proposerai donc ici de parler d’utopie lorsque, dans le cadre d’un récit (ce qui exclut les
traités politiques), se trouve décrite une communauté (ce qui exclut la robinsonnade), or-
ganisée selon certains principes politiques, économiques, éthiques, restituant la complex-
ité de l’existence sociale (ce qui exclut le monde à l’envers, l’âge d’or, Cocagne ou l’Arca-
die), qu’elle soit présentée comme idéal à réaliser (utopie positive) ou comme la prévision
d’un enfer (l’anti-utopie), qu’elle soit située dans un espace réel, imaginaire ou encore dans
le temps, qu’elle soit enfin décrite au terme d’un voyage imaginaire vraisemblable ou non.⁴
Secondly, we have to go beyond the content of this kind of fiction. We must pay
attention to the form of their expression, and to the circumstances of their utter-
ance. What is said matters, of course, but so too does how, when, where, and for
whom the message is produced. Utopian thinking/speaking uses a particular
mode of discourse: praise. A utopia is not just an excellent state of which I sketch
the contours, but a state that I extol in a rapturous panegyric, and that I invite
you, ipso facto, to contemplate with delight, and in awe. I do not provide plain
information; I execute a dramatic speech act. More precisely I perform what
ancient rhetoric classifies as “display”, showing-off, demonstrative, epideictic
speaking. The utopian imagination makes states that are, literally, admirable –
ready-made to be admired. Utopia is praise. When Raphaël Hythlodaeus extols
 Athenaeus, 6, 267e – 270b. See Kidd in this volume.

 Trousson 2005, 1. See also 1975, 1998. On the need to preserve the political specificity of uto-
pias, see Finley 1975; Davis 1981, Dowson 1992. Hansen 2004 revisits the question of utopia, in
the perspective of representations of the city, in a variety of genres.
the Utopians in More’s Utopia, he does exactly that: he utters a passionate, ap-
preciative declamation.⁵
Thirdly, we have to explain why utopian thinking / speaking was born not in
any old place, but in democratic Athens. Thomas More’s Utopia is meant to be a
remake of the Republic. And even before Plato’s invention of Kallipolis, a “City of
Beauty” that is nowhere to be found on earth, Aristophanes had brought onto
the stage Nephelococcygia, a novel polis, already located up in the sky. The
 With Quintilian and Menander Rhetor (3rd century CE), the praise of cities has become a sub-
genre of epideictic rhetoric. Quintilian, Insitutio oratoria, 3, 7, 26 – 28: “Cities are praised on sim-
ilar lines to men. The founder stands for the father, age gives authority (as with peoples said to be
autochthonous), and the virtues and vices seen in actions are the same as with individuals, the
only special features being those which come from the site and the fortifications. Citizens are a
credit to cities as children are to parents. Public works also can be praised; here magnificence,
use, beauty, and the builder are usually considered; magnificence, for example, in temples, use
in walls, beauty or the builder in both. There are also Encomia of places, like that of Sicily in Cicero,
in which we have an eye both to beauty and to use: beauty in the coasts, in level plains and pleas-
ant scenery; use in healthy or fertile localities.” Menander dedicates several chapters of his treatise
on an Analysis of epideictic speeches to the most felicitous ways of praising countries and cities. The
Introduction to More 1516 & 1995, XXVIII – XXIX presents the hypothesis that More might have been
aware of this particular tradition and, furthermore, of contemporary examples of the praises of cit-
ies. Tinkler 1988 argues that Raphael’s description of the new island, its institutions and its peo-
ple fits the pattern of praise, as it is theorized by Cicero and Quintilian. It does so conventionally
insofar as Raphael sketches an imago of a city (Utopia 106 – 7), namely a vivid picture that does
not need to be plausible. But Raphael’s praise is also somehow unconventional, Tinkler adds,
because it is plain, lacks historical depth and sounds provocative vis-à-vis its own audience.
Whereas Quintilian recommends that a speaker should harmonize his depiction of the merits
and vices of those he praises with the feelings of appreciation and aversion he supposes in
his audience (Inst., 3, 7, 23), Hythlodaeus insists that his listeners would be at odds with the fea-
tures and the values he so enthusiastically extol in the Utopians. Which is the case, it turns out,
including for Thomas More. “It is a praise that self-consciously sets itself against its context”
(Tinkler 1988: 194). Tinkler connects Utopia to contemporary examples of such genre, for in-
stance the Laudatio Florentinae urbis by Leonardo Bruni. In his thorough account of Menander’s
potential influence on Spanish writers of such praises in the fifteenth-century, Ruth 2002, 42
draws attention to the diffusion of his manuscripts and printed books: “Its considerable influ-
ence may be judged not only in the high estimation of its author during the Byzantine era,
but also by the multiple manuscripts through which it was transmitted during the medieval cen-
turies (and accompanied at least once by versions of Aristotle’s Poetics and Rhetoric). In 1508, at
Venice, it appeared in printed form as part of the Aldus edition Rhetores Graeci. The manuscripts
and printed version suggest a likely presence of the text among the Italian humanists of the late
fifteenth century, and its possible transmission to visiting Spanish humanists who would later
write their own laudes urbium for Peninsular cities”. On the style of utopian writing, see Schlang-
er 1973; 2004:103. On Hythlodaeus’ narrative as a declamatio, see: Surtz 1949. The model of Hy-
hlodaeus’ praise of pleasure is Erasmus’ Praise of Folly.
4 Giulia Sissa
praise an ancient utopia performs, I will argue, responds to a crucial feature of

Athenian political culture: the constant eulogy of the People by the People, i. e.
self-praise.⁶ The first utopias, Nephelococcygia and Kallipolis, rebound on the at-
tribution of excellence to Athens, by Athenian speakers and among an audience
made up of Athenian citizens. These parallel worlds are actually a hypothetical
self-contained reality that co-exists with Athens, in Athens. They are meant to
outwit this particular polis. This is not a matter of geographical localization,
but of political culture: it is the beloved, and endlessly eulogized government
by the Athenian people, that these dissenting Athenians challenge in their
own words.
And here, again, Thomas More creates a similar dialectic: by heaping admi-
ration on a nova insula, Raphael Hythlodaeus shows that Christian Europe is not
only flawed, but immensely vain. The backdrop is a world where the merger of
the classical tradition and Christianity is supposed to grant the highest stand-
ards. But your justice, Raphael claims, is nothing but a futile boast (frustra iac-
tetis exercitam), a righteousness more “specious than fair or expedient” (specio-
sam magis quam aut iustam aut utilem)”. Should he give advice to a prince, he
would expose precisely that phony showing off. ⁷
Fourthly, we have to focus on the theatrical situation. Utopia was born not
merely in a certain polis, but in a distinct culture. Democracy, as Alexis de Toc-
queville rightly argued about its modern instantiation, changes what it does not
create. In antiquity, popular rule was first and foremost a form of government,
consisting of institutions, practices and rituals, but it enacted and generated
ideas and ideals, discourses and self-representations. Public speaking was
vital in the collective deliberations in the assembly and the Council, in the trials
held in the law-courts and in official occasions like state funerals. Democratic
political culture was vocal, eloquent, and, more to the point, it was immensely
 For a history of praise in Greek and Roman culture, see Pernot 1993. On the importance of
praise and blame in the representation of Greek society, see the classical contributions: Detienne
1973 & 1994; Nagy 1979; Kurke 1991. More recently: Elmer 2013 (on epainos, understood as ap-
proval and collective consent); Kathryn Morgan (2016) examines the political aspects of the
praise of kings, with particular attention to language, the use of the superlative, and the impact
of praise upon the addressees.
 More writes: “Restrict the right of the rich to buy up anything and everything and then to ex-
ercise a kind of monopoly. Let fewer people be brought up in idleness. Let agriculture be re-
stored and the wool-manufacture revived as an honest trade, so there will be useful work for
the idle throng … Certainly unless you cure these evils it is futile to boast of your justice in pun-
ishing theft (frustra iactetis exercitam in vindicanda furta iustitiam). Your policy may look super-
ficially like justice, but in reality it is neither just nor expedient (speciosam magis quam aut ius-
tam aut utilem)” (I,21).
and institutionally boastful. Athenian speakers were happy to repeat that democ-
racy was not merely their own political form, but the very best one. There was a
public venue, however, where a codified, dramatic discourse broadcasted that all
this self-glorification was just ridiculous: the theatre. Utopian speaking/thinking
was invented in these unique circumstances: the comic theatre. Utopia was born
in jest.
On the basis of these premises, I hope to argue persuasively that the focus of
utopia is a dynamic of praise exported, inflated and, ultimately, punctured.
1 Praise
Praise is a discourse that brings into light the greatness of excellence. One has to
demonstrate that actions are of that quality (ἔστιν δ᾽ ἔπαινος λόγος ἐμφανίζων
μέγεθος ἀρετῆς. δεῖ οὖν τὰς πράξεις ἐπιδεικνύναι ὡς τοιαῦται).⁸
The preferred, distinctive mode of praise, Aristotle claims, is amplification,
namely the attribution of grandness and beauty.
Amplification is most suitable for epideictic speakers (ἡ μὲν αὔξησις ἐπιτηδειοτάτη τοῖς
ἐπιδεικτικοῖς), since they take into consideration actions, about which there is agreement,
so that what remains to do is to attribute grandness and beauty (μέγεθος περιθεῖναι καὶ
κάλλος).⁹
Praise is not meant to produce an informative account of what someone has

done, but only its augmentation and embellishment. The orator has to “sur-
round” (περιτίθημι) the action he is talking about with qualities that are explic-
itly overstated. He will improve it, enhance it, and make it bigger. He will convey
his own admiration, in order to make the audience believe and feel the same. He
will “show off”, ἐπιδείκνυμι. Aristotle’s normative definition captures the gist of
praise in practice. Orators, as we shall see in a moment, indulge in the superla-
tive that grammatically amplifies the matter at hand. Athens, they are not shy to
say, is the best. They themselves always do their best.
A well-known episode of Athenian political life will offer a cameo of epideic-
tic language at work, both in the procedures of democratic politics and in the
self-representation of democratic leaders. In 336 BCE, at the suggestion of a
man called Ctesiphon, the assembly awarded a golden crown to a prominent pol-
 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1, 9, 33.

 Ibid., 1, 9, 40. Gorgias eloquence is epideictic (Plato, Gorgias, 447a). On Aristotle’s appreciation
of the political impact of epideictic rhetoric, see Balot 2013.
6 Giulia Sissa
itician and powerful orator, Demosthenes. The coronation was to have taken
place in the theater of Dionysos and would have been even more splendid
than usual. Unfortunately, everything went wrong. One of Demosthenes’ foes,
Aeschines – whom Demosthenes had accused of betraying the interests of the
city, as ambassador to king Philip of Macedonia – attacked Ctesiphon, claiming
that the decree conferring the crown to Demosthenes was illegal. In his own de-
fense, Demosthenes uttered a famous speech, On the crown. Better to make his
case, he set out to quote verbatim the official dedication. “In words and deeds”,
the decree stated, “Demosthenes had done his best for the people”, (πράττοντα
καὶ λέγοντα τὰ βέλτιστά με τῷ δήμῳ διατελεῖν). He had always been eager (προ-
θύμος) to act as well as he could. By acknowledging his accomplishments and
his advice in a piece of legislation, a decree, Demosthenes went on to argue,
the People had praised (ἐπαινεῖν) him unconditionally.¹⁰ The decree itself was
at the same time a political act and a speech-act: the attribution of superlative
qualities, in the very formula of a deliberation made by the People.
As a shrewd interpreter of his own political activity, Demosthenes tried to
make unequivocally clear the connection between the standards embedded in
the buon governo of the People, the speech-acts of the People, and his own be-
havior. The point of his oration was that the decree on the crown was itself a
piece of ἐπαινεῖν, a praise he fully deserved. He was, indeed, as great as the peo-
ple had claimed he was. The aggrandizement of the polis, he also argued in an-
other speech On the Chersonese, depended upon good citizens. And good citi-
zens “must always say what is the best (τὸ βέλτιστον)”.¹¹ Successful action,
 Demosthenes, On the Crown, 57. David Whitehead (1993) includes prothumia among the vir-
tues mentioned in Attic inscriptions. Brad Cook writes: “By combining πρόθυμος with εὔνοια De-
mosthenes, Ctesiphon, and the Athenians passing decrees with these terms emphasized their
concern for and praise of an enthusiastic loyalty that promised to continue into the future its
past record of devotion to Athens. Such past and current constancy is frequently stressed in in-
scriptions by the phrase καὶ νῦν καὶ ἐν τῷ πρόσθεν χρόνῳ, “both now and in the past,” as too
with the shorter phrase, ἐν παντὶ καιρῷ, “on every occasion,” which is the very phrase used by
Demosthenes to qualify the good citizen’s εὔνοια in the conclusion of his speech (18.321).” (Cook
2009: 44) On selection by lot in Athens, and on Plato’s and Aristotle’s views, see Demont, 2010.
The engagement to say what seems to be best can be found in the Iliad, 8, 315: αὐτὰρ ἐγὼν ἐρέω
ὥς μοι δοκεῖ εἶναι ἄριστα (Achilles is speaking).
 Demosthenes, On the Chersonese, 72. Cf. Ps-Andocides, 4, 12: “I think a bad leader is the kind
of man that is concerned only with the present time, but does not think ahead to the future, and
recommends what is most pleasing (hedusta) to the masses, neglecting their best interest (βέλ-
τιστα)”. See also Aristotle on the Thirty’s apparent intent to act for the best in 403: “They mur-
dered both sycophants and those who associated with the δῆμος to gratify it in deviation from
the best policy (τὸ βέλτιστον) because they were criminals, and when this happened the city
rejoiced, thinking they acted for the best (τοῦ βελτίστου χάριν).” (AP, 35, 3).
political and military, was the result of the deeds of the People following the
best (ἄ ριστα, βέλτιστα) recommendations of their leaders.¹² Demosthenes claim-
ed that he had always advised the city in this fashion, namely for the best (τὰ
βέλτιστα).¹³
Demosthenes’ self-fashioning as the exemplary citizen of an exemplary city
shows how the attribution of “grandness and beauty” to the polis becomes the
amplification of the speaker himself. The polis is the best; we must do our best;
we do our best; we are the best. Praise means self-praise. The awareness of hav-
ing always aimed at the highest level of excellence in an excellent city seamless-
ly becomes pride. For Demosthenes, and for other Athenian politicians, institu-
tionalized and ubiquitous diligence was to generate boastfulness – both in the
plural, and in the singular. Since we all try our best, I am the best.
This is the tip of a very large iceberg.¹⁴ We know how crucially important
praise and blame are in the political life of the Athenian δῆμος. The endorsement
of the aristocratic, Homeric model of kleos within democratic culture; the official
occasions of epideictic high eloquence, such as Funeral Orations; the pervasive
use of self-congratulation, in any venue of public speaking; the commitment to
“the best” (τὰ βέλτιστα) in ritualized utterances such as the Bouleutic oath; the
honorific decrees in favour of meritorious citizens: these are the many aspects of
a coherent adhesion, in words and deeds, to the same quest. The quest for what
is best. In the context of Athenian political culture, therefore, we can speak of
democratic perfectionism.
2 Τὰ βέλτιστα
Perfectionism is usually an aspirational concern for betterment. When the citi-
zens selected by lot as potential members of the Boulé declare under oath
that they will do their best for the city, they make a serious pledge that engages
their good faith. When, after their tenure in office, the same citizens are submit-
ted to an examination, they have to give account of how well they have per-
formed.
The commitment to the best, τὰ βέλτιστα, was set out in the formula of a sol-
emn, and binding promise: the Bouleutic oath. Aristotle tells us that this oath
 Ibid., 75.
 Ibid., 73; cf. 1.
 I have discussed the presence of this language in oratory and in the speech-acts of democrat-
ic life in Sissa 2017.
8 Giulia Sissa
was first employed, in 501 BCE, a few years after the reforms of Cleisthenes.¹⁵
Lysias and Demosthenes mention its performance, as a basic feature of the dem-
ocratic routine, as if it had always existed. Before taking office, the men who had
been selected by lot, in order to serve as members of the Council, had to swear
that they would “deliberate to give the best possible advice to the city” (τὰ βέλ-
τιστα βουλεύσειν τῇ πόλει).¹⁶ This pledge obliged each of them to aim at a high
level of performance, and they were held accountable.¹⁷ The entire Boulé, (not
just individual deciders) must respect engagement.¹⁸ This institutionalized intent
was reinforced through rewards and incentives. In recognition for their excep-
tional service, the People may confer upon the Councilors a crown. The prytans
were entitled to wear one such wreath, when in office; the entire Council could
be likewise rewarded, at the end of their one-year tenure, if what they had ac-
complished was truly remarkable.¹⁹ Exceptionally, the People could bestow
this highly valued symbolic adornment, by decree, on a meritorious citizen. In
a solemn public ceremony, held in a meeting of the Council or the Assembly,
the crown was to be placed on the head of the happy recipient. This is what De-
mosthenes expected, but sadly failed to receive. An inscription from the 4th cen-
tury BCE lists the names of Athenians “whom the People crowned, having
judged that, as Councilors, they had had made the best decisions” (τούσδε ἐστε-
φάνωσεν ὁ δῆμος κρίνας ἄ ριστα βεβουλευκέναι).²⁰
This effort to deliver decisions and services of optimal quality, in the day-to-
day governance of the city, tells us that the quest for the best possible state, in
Athens, started as a best practice. It was, first of all, a certain way of doing busi-
ness: to do it well, superlatively well. It was the disciplined and ritualized pro-
 Aristotle, Constitution of the Athenians, 22, 2– 3.

 Lysias, 31, 1– 2: “I have taken oath before entering the Council-chamber that my counsel
would be for the best advantage of the State … and feel bound to abide by the oaths that
I have sworn.” Cf. Idem, 30, 10 on accusations that the Council “was not seeking the best inter-
ests of the State”. In Against Neaira, 4, Demosthenes replaces the polis with the people (δῆμος):
“… and he had sworn that, as member of the Council, he would act for the best interests of the
Athenian people”. A. Sommerstein and A. Bayliss write: “In short the Bouleutic oath should be
seen as an oath “to give (the best) counsel (to the Athenian people) in accordance with the law”
(2013: 40 – 42).
 For a synthetic understanding of the responsibilities of the Council, see Blackwell 2003.
 A decree of 352/1 solves a complicated problem of territorial jurisdiction on land for the sanc-
tuary of Demeter in Eleusis. The conclusion is that “if the decree was incomplete, the Boule had
full power to decree what seems to them to be best” (ἐὰν δέ του προσδέηι τόδε τὸ ψήφισμα, τὴν
βουλὴν κυρίαν εἶναι ψηφίζεσθαι, ὅ τι ἂν αὐτῆι δοκῆι ἄριστον εἶναι: IG II³ 292, 85 – 86).
 See Blackwell 2003: 17– 28.
 see also IG II3 1 306
duction of a plurality of doxai, indeed, but with the intention of getting things
done, to everyone’s best ability. Everyone was allowed to speak his mind –
but not just to blurt out whatever first came into it. Everyone was urged to
give advice to his fellow citizens – but with the warning that he had to aim as
high as he possibly could. Speaking was free, and yet framed, formatted and
bound to a strong sense of obligation and responsibility. One had to care for
the polis, indeed. One had to aspire to goodness, beauty and utility. Oaths, de-
crees, and invocations reinforced these high standards. A system of quality con-
trol – the audits and examinations of magistrates, before and after their service –
made sure that those pledges were not empty words. The eloquence of political
speakers would echo, and corroborate, this pragmatic ambition.
I am arguing here for a compelling context that explains the success and per-
vasiveness of all this resounding pride. It is a practice – the best practice of pop-
ular rule – that sets the stage for the performance of praise and self-praise. The
Athenians learned to cultivate the best, τὰ βέλτιστα, not only when risking their
lives on the battlefield, but also in their most mundane, political routines. Praise
was not just a form of patriotic discourse, or a superficial import from a pre-dem-
ocratic background, or the compensatory self-promotion of ordinary folks, but
the outspoken awareness and the rhetorical extension of how they did business.
The simple exercise of day-to-day politics trained the Athenian men to strive for
the best. They were not shy about their success. To care for the polis, to commit
themselves earnestly (προθύμως) to provide high quality service, in their admin-
istrative responsibilities, was the least the People could do. Praise, uttered in
public, set in stone or concretized in the leaves of a crown, was their reward.
Self-praise, the frank endorsement of that reward.²¹
3 Παράδειγμα
In the same political culture, however, the commitment to act and speak as well
as one possibly could also generates a form of self-satisfied exceptionalism. This
language bears testimony to the pursuit of a model to emulate, a παράδειγμα, but
such παράδειγμα is discovered at home, already accomplished and finished. Per-
fection has already happened. “We are perfect!”. The only space for improve-
ment remains the possibility to emulate and hopefully surpass, generation
after generation, the excellence of which we hold the monopoly anyway.
 As a general approach to ancient democracy, I share the perspective of Josiah Ober (see Ober
2008; and 2017).
10 Giulia Sissa
Thucydides has Pericles make this claim in the Funeral Oration he allegedly
delivered in 431 BCE:
We use a form of government that does not emulate the laws of the neighbours, being a
paradigm for others, more than theirs imitators (χρώμεθα γὰρ πολιτείᾳ οὐ ζηλούσῃ τοὺς
τῶν πέλας νόμους, παράδειγμα δὲ μᾶλλον αὐτοὶ ὄντες τισὶν ἢ μιμούμενοι ἑτέρους).²²
We stand as a παράδειγμα for others to mimic. We offer an “education to Hellas”

(τῆς Ἑλλάδος παίδευσις).²³ Isocrates revisits the same theme in one of his most
enthusiastic speeches in praise of Athens, the Panegyricus:
For, finding the Hellenes living without laws and dwelling in scattered places, some humili-
ated by oppressive forms of government, others being destroyed on account of anarchy,
Athens delivered them from these evils by acquiring authority over some and by setting her-
self as an example for others (τοῖς δ᾽ αὑτὴν παράδειγμα ποιήσασα); for she was the first to
lay down laws and establish a polity.²⁴
Utopian praise echoes these superlatives. Utopias do not come out of nowhere.
Utopias are indeed rooted in the society where they emerge as a thought-experi-
ment about an alternative polis – alternative to Athens. More precisely, it is a cer-
tain kind of political parole, a certain kind of pragmatic use of language that an-
chors a utopia to the political culture where it belongs. Utopias create unknown,
unimaginable, splendid polities, and, by creating them, they are already going
into raptures over their justice and bliss. But those other polities are the best,
in comparison and contrast – and, more to the point, in competition –, with a
surrounding world that already boasts about itself. The first of those boastful
worlds, as I said, is Athens. Greek utopias are actually Athenian dramas. They
present an alternative to a quintessentially Athenian practice of discourse:
self-praise. Written as hyperbolic encomia, never bland, understated, mildly crit-
ical descriptions, utopias extol impossibly exotic, lost, found or new, places. This
makes Greek utopias specific as well as inspiring for later political fantasies.
Utopias offer a variation of exactly the same quest that transpires in the fu-
neral orations. The difference is that the παράδειγμα has now been found some-
where else. It is a model that, as Socrates says at the end of the Republic, is
 Thucydides, 2, 37, 1.
 Thucydides, 2, 41, 1.
 Isocrates, Panegyricus, 39. The theme of exemplarity runs through Isocrates oratory. Rulers
should stand as good paradeigmata for their subjects (2, 31; 3, 37).
placed “nowhere on earth” (γῆς γε οὐδαμοῦ) – and certainly not at home –, but
“lays in discourses” (ἐν λόγοις κειμένῃ), up in the sky.²⁵
Probably there lays a paradigm in the sky, for anyone who wishes to see, and for anyone
who sees, to found as a colony, in himself (ἐν οὐρανῷ ἴσως παράδειγμα ἀνάκειται τῷ βου-
λομένῳ ὁρᾶν καὶ ὁρῶντι ἑαυτὸν κατοικίζειν).²⁶
One can “colonize” oneself, so to speak, by looking intently at the pattern that
the dialogue has been designing. Earlier in the conversation, when imagining
in advance the foundation of such city, Socrates had anticipated that the philos-
ophers would have to use “the good itself” as a paradigm:
We shall require them to turn upwards the vision of their souls and fix their gaze on that
which sheds light on all, and when they have thus beheld the good itself they shall use it as
a pattern for the right ordering of the state and the citizens and themselves (καὶ ἰδόντας
τὸ ἀγαθὸν αὐτό, παραδείγματι χρωμένους ἐκείνῳ, καὶ πόλιν καὶ ἰδιώτας καὶ ἑαυτοὺς
κοσμεῖν).²⁷
The potential rulers were to outline the best πολιτείαν by looking at a divine
παράδειγμα and at “what is by nature the just, the beautiful, the wise and all
things of the kind” (πρός τε τὸ φύσει δίκαιον καὶ καλὸν καὶ σῶφρον καὶ πάντα
τὰ τοιαῦτα).²⁸ Kallipolis was designed according to a παράδειγμα and will be-
come, in turn, a παράδειγμα.
The resonance as well as the dissonance with Isocrates’ and Thucydides’
language is striking. These speakers all share the focus on the all-important no-
tion of a παράδειγμα. But whereas the audience of the funeral oration are exhort-
ed to contemplate “the power of the polis” (τὴν τῆς πόλεως δύναμιν) and to ad-
mire such power to the point of becoming “lovers of their city” (θεωμένους καὶ
ἐραστὰς γιγνομένους αὐτῆς), Socrates’ interlocutors learn that the sole object
worthy of contemplation (ὁρᾶν) is Kallipolis, a state made in heaven and crafted
in words.²⁹ If they so wish, they will have to look hard at that celestial pattern,
and they will be able to transplant it into in themselves. In this metaphorical col-
onization, the historical reality of Athens is neither perfected as in the good will
of democratic governance, nor augmented as it happens in epideictic eloquence,
 Plato, Republic, 9, 592a 6 – 7. Goldschmidt 1945.

 Plato, Republic, 9, 592b 2– 3. Diogenes Laertius, II. 7: Anaxagoras was accused of not caring
for his country. “Indeed, I am greatly concerned with my country,” he replied and pointed to
heaven.
 Ibid., 7, 540a – b.
 Ibid., 6, 500e – 501c.
 Thucydides, 2, 43, 1.
12 Giulia Sissa
but purely and simply bypassed. Whereas the survivors of Athenian wars must
endeavour to match the valour of the dead and regard their own much-loved
polis as a παράδειγμα – for the speech itself places them in the position of look-
ing ecstatically at Athens, and of learning their lesson – Adeimantus and Glau-
con agree with Socrates that only a heavenly best government, the ἀριστοκρατία
they have outlined in their conversation, deserves to be emulated and copied.
When reading Plato after Thucydides and Isocrates, we shift from an earthly
paradigm to a celestial one. Plato does not trust popular rule to care for quality
because, as we will see in a moment, the people could not possibly be a philos-
opher. Plato also despises the democratic use of words such as “good” or “bad”,
as meaningless utterances by rhetors who merely flatter the Δῆμος. Democratic
commitment to “the best” is non-existent; democratic discourse about “the best”
is nonsense. Since democracy gives power to ordinary individuals, neglects ed-
ucation, and selects leaders by lot, it is structurally indifferent to goodness.³⁰
 This interpretation of the emergence of utopian thinking/speaking, situated in its Athenian

context, resonates with the line of thought of Josiah Ober (1991; 2001), who has argued for a
pragmatic theory of democratic activity, made up of felicitous speech acts. Through words
and deeds the Athenian people made a world for themselves, so that they could get along to-
gether and get quite a number of things done – for instance they governed their polis and
their empire for more than a century. Plato, I agree with Ober, casts a disdainful “Logopolis”
against this successful “demopolis”. In Ober’s words, “Logopolis is designed from the beginning
as the antithesis of the polis outside Cephalus’ door, the one most characterized by the rule of
shoemakers” (1999: 222). Sara Monoson, on the contrary, has undertaken the ambitious task of
“a fundamental rethinking of the relationship between Plato’s thought and the practice of de-
mocracy” (2001: 16). “I turn to wider cultural resources for expressions of Athenian democratic
thought”, she writes. “Specifically, I look to civic ritual performances, oral traditions, popular
legends, and other Athenian cultural practices.” (17). All this in view of demonstrating that in
its political imaginary, Athens gets close to Plato. The funeral oration, she argues, projects a vi-
sion of the city as one. “This aspect of Plato’s vision (the unity of the polis) actually engages
local, democratic structures of political discourse at the level of the imaginary. Embracing the
idea of the unified whole as well as some other ideals tracked in the chapters to follow, Plato’s
vision has some kinship with the city’s own patriotic self-image.” (22, contra Ober). Monoson’s
project may well appear to be commendable, but it misses the essential. If we want to under-
stand Plato’s thinking about δημοκρατία, our task is to grasp Plato’s systematic strategy in
the representation of the people. Beyond generic convergences, what matters is the deafening
dissonance between, on the one hand the caricatures of the δῆμος that Plato sketches in the Re-
public and the Protagoras, and what the δῆμος in question was actually trying and caring to ac-
complish, on the other. For Plato, as we will see in the course of the paper, the ruling δῆμος
shows nothing but contempt (καταφρόνησις) towards this effort and this care. For Plato, the
people in power “trample under foot” (καταπατέω) the only true concern for good government,
namely the education of the leaders. For Plato, the people replace “the good” by its opposite,
namely whatever anyone might wish. I have developed different aspects of this argument in
Praise, therefore, is the most significant flaw of democracy for it voices the hy-
pocrisy of a regime that despises quality, and yet pretends to like it. Athens is
but a travesty of goodness. Unwarranted, biased and self-interested, praise is
the symptom of its shamelessness.
In the Republic, praise is transferred, displaced and relocated faraway – in
the only place where it is well deserved. We are urged to stare up there from a
distance, rather than down here.
Utopia is a gesture.
4 ᾿Aλαζονεία
This redirection of looks occurs firstly in the theatre.
In play after play, ancient comedy exposes the loud, bragging vanity (ἀλαζο-
νεία) of the Athenian people. It mocks the servile flattery of political leaders,
eager to please the masses who, in turn, are easily swindled precisely because
they are gullible. And they are gullible because they are prone to self-love. In Di-
onysus’ theatre, laughter operates a systematic deflation of the self-referential
superlative, typical of democratic rhetoric. Aristophanes’ characters replace epi-
deictic amplification with a different kind of enhancement: extra-large ugliness.
The cult of “the best” yields to a cheerful exaggeration of “the worst” through
hyperbolic scorn, repetitive scatological language, pitiless invective, overstressed
disparagement of anything noble, and famously gigantic props. Everything is
overstated, heavy, offensive. Blame replaces praise. In the space / time of Diony-
sus’ theatre, it is Athens as a whole that is utterly derided. Far from being the
best, the city itself fares so badly that it needs to be reformed, rescued or rein-
vented. This dire diagnosis is put forward in the opening scenes of such plays
as Ecclesiazusae, Birds, Wealth, not to mention the sinister light shed on the
polis in Acharnians, Lysistrata and Frogs. The city badly needs to be “saved” –
nothing less! – not from an external threat, but from its own government and
its own people.³¹
At the beginning of Ecclesiazusae, for instance, Praxagora utters a damning
speech:
My country (chora) is as dear to me as it is to you, and I groan, I am grieved at all that is

happening in it. I see her being subject to rulers who are always bad (ὁρῶ γὰρ αὐτὴν προ-
Sissa 2017. In a different theoretical perspective, the effectiveness of the spoken word in the con-
tinuous creation of the polis, guides the thought of Barbara Cassin (2000).
 Aristophanes, Ecclesiazusae, 209.
14 Giulia Sissa
στάταισι χρωμένην ἀεὶ πονηροῖς). If you appoint fresh chiefs, they will do still worse (χρη-
στὸς γένηται).³²
In Birds, two ordinary Athenians Euelpides and Pistetairos announce that they
are leaving Athens for a similar reason:
honored on account of our tribe and family and living as citizens in the midst of our fellow-
citizens (ἀστοὶ μετ᾽ ἀστῶν), we have flown from our fatherland with two feet. We do not
hate it on account of its not being great and happy (αὐτὴν μὲν οὐ μισοῦντ᾽ ἐκείνην τὴν
πόλιν τὸ μὴ οὐ μεγάλην εἶναι φύσει κεὐδαίμονα), … but the Athenians spend their whole
lives singing judgments from their law-courts.³³
The two disgruntled Athenians are now “wandering in search of a quiet place”
(πλανώμεθα ζητοῦντε τόπον ἀπράγμονα), where they might “settle and spend
their lives” (ὅποι καθιδρυθέν τε διαγενοίμεθ᾽ ἄν).³⁴ They are, more to the point,
founding a colony in a manner that is ritual, codified and well recognizable in
an Athenian context, namely by carrying a basket, a branch of myrtle and fire
in a pot.³⁵ Life in that new polis will have to be as relaxed as “lying down on
a soft goat’s skin coverlet” (σισύραν ἐγκατακλινῆναι μαλθακήν), for Athens’ col-
ony will have to be “not greater than Athens, but rather more comfortable”
(μείζω μὲν οὐδέν, προσφορωτέραν δὲ νῷν).³⁶ They certainly do not care to
move to an ἀριστοκρατία, but to a place where pleasure reigns unchecked, as
parties start early in the morning and erotic access to boys, including a neigh-
bor’s son, is completely free.³⁷ Apragmosune replaces the contentious business
of the law courts; unrestricted enjoyment of food, drink and sex supplants the
customary Athenian regulations. If there is an ideal pattern to Pistetairos and Eu-
elpides’ search, this is it! The colony will have to be the opposite of the metrop-
olis.
The Acharnians begins with an assembly on the Pnyx, where Diceopolis, the
protagonist, laments that people show up late and are expected to discuss trivial
matters rather than the most important topic of the day, namely the prospect of
making peace with Sparta. When the assembly finally begins, the first speaker,
Amphitheos, is a caricature of a fop. He introduces himself as an immortal,
the offspring of the divine dynasty of Demeter and Triptolemus, Celeus and Phae-
 Aristophanes, Ecclesiazusae, 174– 188.

 Aristophanes, Birds, 33 – 41.
 Ibid., 44– 45.
 Ibid., 43. On the language of colonization in this passage, see Malkin 1987: 120 – 122.
 Ibid., 90.
 Ibid., 125 – 143.
narete, and his own father, Lucinus. It is the gods, he declares, who have charged
him to treat with the Lacedaemonians.³⁸ The boast goes on with the arrival of the
ambassadors who had been sent on a mission to the Great King of Persia: in Di-
ceopolis’ words, they are but “peacocks”, and “pieces of boastfulness” (ἀλα-
ζόνευμα).³⁹ One of the ambassadors parades and swaggers about his preposter-
ous adventures in Persia. “You are indeed a big braggard!” (σὺ μὲν ἀλαζὼν εἶ
μέγας), Diceopolis launches to him.⁴⁰ A envoy from the King of Thrace is also an-
other ἀλαζὼν, and so is Lamachos, the general and war monger who antagonizes
Diceopolis.⁴¹ When Diceopolis, a modest farmer from the deme of Acharnia, goes
on to strike a truce directly with Sparta, he abandons the rest of the polis to an
elite of ἀλαζόνες who, in the eyes of all the other Athenians, seem to get away
with their imposture. Athens is in dire straits.
5 Εἰρωνεία
In Aristophanes’ plays, Athens is presented as deserving blame, not praise. But
there is more. Firstly, comedic blame does not simply stigmatize human and po-
litical flaws, it does so in jest. Secondly, laughter springs precisely from a parody
of praise, as if the amplified attribution of qualities to an object were itself ridic-
ulous. The very appreciation of a person or a thing is hardly taken seriously, but
rather denounced, exaggerated and scorned as undeserved, disproportioned, hy-
perbolic flattery. Thirdly, this parody exposes both the abuse of praise and its
consequences on the receiving side. Praise encourages self-praise. Flattery rein-
forces self-delusion. Let me clarify these three points, for the utopian gesture can
only be understood in this context.
Comedy has to bring on stage characters and actions that lend themselves to
laughter. Laughability is the essential challenge for a playwright, and Aristo-
phanes proved notoriously successful. But what makes an audience laugh? We
can think of multiple modern theories of laughter, but Plato offers a culturally
embedded insight into Aristophanes’ success.⁴²
 Aristophanes, Acharnians, 47– 54.

 Ibid., 63.
 Ibid., 88; 109.
 Ibid., 135.
 On the critical and I would say anthropological significance of Plato’s understanding of com-
edy, see Major 2006: “Plato, not without a sense of humor even in his most crabbed works, pro-
vides our most detailed account from antiquity of alazoneia on stage and its relationship to
laughter. Always concerned with the care of the soul and likewise vexed at impurity of all
16 Giulia Sissa
The trigger of laughter, Socrates argues in the Philebus, is precisely self-am-

plification. The ridicule itself can be defined as the pretence to be better than
what one is, in regard to wealth, beauty or virtue, and especially wisdom.
Most people overestimate their own moral qualities, “thinking that they excel
in virtue when they do not.” And since wisdom is the form of excellence to
which the majority lay claim, they are “full of conflicts and of a false conceit
of wisdom” (μεστὸν ἐρίδων καὶ δοξοσοφίας ἐστὶ ψευδοῦς).⁴³ Self-deluded people
should be divided into two groups: the weak and harmless versus the powerful
and vindictive, the former being ridiculous, and the latter hateful (γελοῖα μὲν
ὁπόσα ἀσθενῆ, μισητὰ δ᾽ ὁπόσα ἐρρωμένα). The pretentiousness of the mighty
is not in the least funny, therefore, but that of the feeble is hilarious. At this
point, Socrates adds a further specification to the ridicule: friendship versus en-
mity. “Did we not say that it is envy (φθόνος) that causes pleasure in the evils of
friends (ἡδονὴν δὲ ἐπὶ τοῖς τῶν φίλων κακοῖς)?”, Socrates asks.⁴⁴ Whenever we
laugh at our friends on account of their inoffensive vanity, this is envy. But
φθόνος is an unjust pain and also a pleasure (λύπη τις ἄδικός ἐστί που καὶ
ἡδονή).⁴⁵ Therefore it is unjust, Socrates concludes, to laugh at the innocuous
self-ignorance of our friends, instead of being sorry for them. The same laughter,
however, would be acceptable vis-à-vis enemies, for “it is neither unjust nor en-
vious (οὔτ᾽ ἄδικον οὔτε φθονερόν) to rejoice in the misfortunes of our ene-
mies.”⁴⁶ This comes across as a lesson in civility, which can help us behave in
sorts, Plato devotes much of his late dialogue the Philebus to analyzing the complex mixtures of
pleasure and pain that constitute much of human experience. … In his account, Plato does not
give a name to the mechanism he describes, but other authors use the term alazoneia to refer to
this dynamic of individuals claiming more than is true for themselves. Xenophon has Socrates
discuss the alazon as someone who seeks to get a reputation for skills he does not possess, but
who will be laughed at if his deception is discovered (Mem. 1.7.2– 3).” (133 – 134). Major adds that
although Plato and Xenophon are not contemporaries of Aristophanes’, they “do isolate a cul-
tural mechanism in classical Athens which is unlikely to have changed markedly between the
last quarter of the fifth century and the mid-fourth century”. Major takes the Philebus as a
touch stone in his discussion of the performance dynamic, in the parabasis of the Clouds.
 Plato, Philebus, 48c – 50b.
 Plato, Philebus, 50a 2– 3.
 Plato, Philebus, 49d 1.
 Plato, Philebus, 49d 3 – 4. The distinction of friends and foes explains why there must be
some civility in the refutation of the people Socrates mingles with. They may well be ignorant
and vain, thus “full of conflicts and of a false conceit of wisdom” (μεστὸν ἐρίδων καὶ δοξοσοφίας
ἐστὶ ψευδοῦς), but they are not enemies. Andrea Nightingale (1993) argues that Socrates refuses
to play the game of the encomiastic competition. His ἔλεγχος is a lesson of εἰρωνεία, and anti-
praise, but with no invective or humiliation of the interlocutor. Livio Rossetti (2000) also insists
on the ‘potential’ for laughter in the dialogue, and on Socrates’ effort to refrain from open de-
our social dealings. How about the theatre? Since comedy, as Socrates goes on to
say, is but the theatrical performance of what lends itself to laughter, it must rep-
resent characters who are pompous, conceited, self-important but not danger-
ous. Such characters finds themselves exposed to the unfriendly merriment of
the audience – a crowd of righteous enemies and / or invidious friends.
This theory of laughter deserves to be taken seriously as a critical under-
standing of old comedy. But Plato is not merely an Athenian philosopher, intent
on making sense of a local practice. His own dialogues are dramas in which Soc-
rates never stops restarting the same operation: to challenge precisely what here
he calls δοξοσοφία, namely the illusion of knowledge. Socratic dialogues, I will
argue, are a paradoxical adaptation of what happens in a theatre: in both situa-
tions, εἰρωνεία responds to ἀλαζονεία.⁴⁷ In the dialogue, this response is amica-
ble good humour. In the theatre, it is uncharitable scorn.⁴⁸
Socrates’ cross-examination, the ἔλεγχος, is meant to make people aware of
their contradictions, confusions, false opinions and true ignorance. Pretension is
self-deception. Self-esteem is overestimation. Whenever we fail to question our
beliefs, to claim that we are knowledgeable about anything is to entertain a con-
ceited image of ourselves. It amounts to indulging in ludicrous self-praise. Fur-
thermore, praise itself deserves to be playfully deflated, as an unexamined,
and thus unwarranted attribution of qualities to people or things. Agathon in
the Symposium, and Aspasia in the Menexenus – the former heaping superlatives
onto Eros, the latter puffing up a hyperbolic panegyric of Athens –, impersonate
the silliness of naïve trust in this thoughtless manner of speech.⁴⁹ In all its Athe-
nian variations, Socrates explains, praise is misleading and delusional. One
predicates qualities that have no ground in truth, for one fails to give account
rision. On laughter in Plato’s normative political thought and in the Philebus, with a special at-
tention to Socrates, see Naas 2016. The negative light shed on the abuse of laughter resonates
with Republic 10, 606c, where Socrates criticizes comedy on account of its habit-forming
power. By indulging in comic theatre, we become buffoons in our own life. Mockery should tar-
get only the right sort of people, namely inoffensive enemies whom we can deride with impunity.
 This reading of Plato and Aristophanes, which I have first outlined in Sissa 2011, is compat-
ible with the in-depth discussions by John Lombardini 2018, especially chapter 2. A different line
of thought can be found in Tanner 2017.
 On derision as the prevailing kind of laughter that occurs in comedy, see Sommerstein 2009:
104– 115.
 Plato, Symposium, 198d-e. I have discussed Agathon’s abuse of praise and Socrates’ refuta-
tion, in Sissa 2012. On Plato’s criticism of praise, see Nightingale 1993. On Plato’s normative vi-
sion of epainos in the Laws: Morgan 2013. On the multiple interpretations of the Menexenos:
Kahn 1963; Pappas & Zelcer 2015 take the Menexenos seriously.
18 Giulia Sissa
of the reasons why the object of the predication may deserve such an optimistic
assessment.
In contrast, in the situation of the dialogue, Socrates practices an elaborate
strategy. He starts with a self-minimalization that involves his notorious profes-
sions of ignorance, but also a more general claim to ineptitude.⁵⁰ This posture
sets the stage for a predictable interaction. By posing as a hopeless incompetent,
Socrates coaxes his interlocutors to speak their own mind: “I know nothing,
please tell me what you think!” Then the pretension to knowledge unravels.
The dynamic of the ἔλεγχος usually elicits compliance but it results in mor-
tification, shame or, occasionally, anger. People are not all daft.⁵¹ They may de-
tect the potential mockery, as in the case of Thrasymachos in the Republic, Cal-
licles in the Gorgias and Alcibiades in the Symposium. ⁵² When this happens –
 P. W. Gooch (1987: 101) offers a comprehensive account of Socrates’ self-minimization, which

extends self-depreciation beyond the profession of ignorance: These are “disclaimers about his
ability to remember, or to follow or to make long speeches, to be good at debate or rhetoric. And
Plato lets us know that his modesty in such matters is only mock-modesty. Phaedrus chides Soc-
rates for being coy about his rhetorical powers (236d); Alcibiades remarks in the Protagoras that
Socrates was only joking when he said he was a forgetful sort of person (336d; cf. Meno 71c); the
Socrates who insists on short questions and answers in that dialogue goes on to speak at length
and to spin arguments of great complexity. But the problem with his disclaimers is that, while on
occasion they could wear a certain grace, at other times they look for all the world like little
tricks; and worse, they can be provocative and annoying. Protagoras found this so: Socrates’ dis-
simulation about his memory almost broke up their discussion. There is exactly the same prob-
lem of perception and motive at the heart of what many commentators think Aristotle must have
had preeminently in mind with his citation of Socrates: Socrates’ profession of ignorance”.
 In Xenophon’s Memorabilia, 4, 4, 9, Hippias too confronts Socrates: “for it’s enough that you
mock (καταγελάω) others, questioning and examining everybody, and never willing to render an
account yourself or to state an opinion about anything (ἀρκεῖ γὰρ ὅτι τῶν ἄλλων καταγελᾷς ἐρω-
τῶν μὲν καὶ ἐλέγχων πάντας, αὐτὸς δ᾽οὐδενὶ θέλων ὑπέχειν λόγον οὐδὲ γνώμη ἀποφαίνεσθαι
περὶ οὐδενός).
 Plato, Rep., 337a; Gorgias 489e. See also Plato, Symposium, 216e and 218d (Alcibades protest-
ing at Socrates’ little games) and Apology, 38a (Socrates mentioning his detractors’ accusations).
Aristophanes also uses the verb “to ironize” (εἰρωνεύομαι) in this precise sense in Birds,
1210 – 11, when Iris pretends not to know which gate she has used to enter Nephelococcygia,
and Pistetairos accuses her of dissembling (εἰρωνεύομαι). See Clouds, 445 – 450 on Strepsiades
hoping to learn from Socrates to become an εἴρων. On εἰρωνεία in Aristophanes and Plato, see
Nehamas 1999 (“Socratic Irony”); Lane 2006; Wolfsdorf 2008. I follow David Wolfsdorf objec-
tions to the interpretation of εἰρωνεία merely as “deception” (Lane). The self-referential rele-
vance seems to be prevailing in Plato’s dialogues, where Socrates plays his “usual” game of
mock-modesty, in order to induce people to speak their mind and lend themselves to refutation.
Wolfsdorf draws attention to Socrates’ “vulpine” strategy of camouflaging better to capture his
prey. I agree with Melissa Lane, however, that the aggressive connotation of εἰρωνεία is essen-
tial. Socrates’ travesty of not-knowing is indeed perceived as annoying, harassing and manipu-
namely when Socrates’ victims grow impatient with his fictitious ignorance
(εἰρωνεύομαι) and his tiresome questions –, then they call the ἔλεγχος “εἰρω-
νεία”. This is an accusation, and the accusers have a point. The ἔλεγχος is indeed
an entrapment that, as I have mentioned, starts with Socrates’ affectation of all
sorts of disabilities, so that people are induced to speak their mind.⁵³ Further-
more, to perfect his vulpine snare, Socrates adds adulation to his mock-modesty.
When Thrasymachos accuses him of using his εἰωθυῖα εἰρωνεία, Socrates replies
“That’s because you are wise, Thrasymachos! (σοφὸς γὰρ εἶ!)”. When addressing
Callicles, Socrates emphatically calls him ὦ δαιμόνιε, ὦ θαυμάσιε, only to wel-
come his responses as empty words.⁵⁴ Thrasymachos, Callicles, Alcibiades,
and most of the other men Socrates engages in Athens’ many venues, do think
that they are wise and wonderful – this is precisely their vulnerability.
If, as we hear in the Philebus, one’s belief that s/he knows better is inherent-
ly ludicrous, then Socrates appears to expose not merely people’s actual short-
comings, but also their irresistible tendency to make fools of themselves. All
those talkative experts who ignore their ignorance about justice, friendship,
knowledge, politics or religion are potentially comic characters. They are ἀλα-
ζόνες. In Plato’s dialogues, however, Socrates abstains from bursting into laugh-
ter. His reaction to vanity is not that of a cackling spectator of comedy. He does
not take pleasure in the disparity between pretence and reality. That would be
envy. Instead he responds as a friend. This is why, rather than making fun of
his foolish interlocutors, he starts with his exasperating little queries, just to clar-
ify, just to make sure that he fully understands what they mean so that they are
all on the same page. This is also why Thrasymachos’ protest is compatible with
Socrates’ own claims that his questioning may well be disconcerting, unsettling,
disturbing, but is nevertheless a cathartic, maieutic, healthy therapy. He is a pain
lative. When the word εἰρωνεία is uttered, it conveys the impatience of such characters as Thra-
symachos in the Republic, Callicles in the Gorgias or Alcibiades in the Symposium. It is they who
call the bluff of εἰρωνεία. It is they who expose Socrates as an unsavory character, an εἴρων. It is
not he, obviously, who would show his hand. Pierre Destrée (2013) also argues for an ironist in-
terpretation of εἰρωνεία, adding that its purpose is protreptic, for Socrates’ treatment of his in-
terlocutors invites the readers to detach themselves from the opinions they might share with
them. This interpretation extends the situational effect of εἰρωνεία to the audience of the dia-
logues.
 I have discussed Socrates’ strategy of self-depreciation in Sissa 1990, and Sissa 2000. In
Sissa 1986, I had argued that Socrates’ disingenuous interrogations had to be understood in con-
nection with the judicial cross-examination that Socrates practice in the Apology. This interpre-
tation has later been taken up by Louis-André Dorion (1990).
 Plato, Republic, 337a; Gorgias, 489e.
20 Giulia Sissa
in the neck – a notorious gadfly – but for a good cause. The ἔλεγχος is a friendly
cure.
Εἰρωνεία creates a dynamic situation. It places the interlocutors in the seem-
ingly flattering, and yet awkward position of being unduly complimented: Socra-
tes knows nothing at all, but they are very smart indeed! Let them venture into
definitions and explanations! He will limit himself to asking a couple of ques-
tions. By luring people to reveal what they really think, εἰρωνεία is both a
setup and a wake-up call. Irony, therefore, is an antidote to ridicule. Or, as Aris-
totle explains in the Nicomachean Ethics, the εἴρων is the antithesis of the ἀλα-
ζὼν. The former downplays his worth, whereas the latter exaggerates his own
merits – Socrates being recognized as an exemplary εἴρων.⁵⁵ Aristotle’s portrayal
draws attention to the humorous aspect of εἰρωνεία: both the buffoon (βωμο-
λόχος) and the εἴρων “create laughability” (ποιεῖ τὸ γελοῖον), but whereas the
former jokes for the sake of others, the ironist jokes at his own expense.⁵⁶
 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1127a-b, especially 1127b 22– 26: “Self-depreciators, who un-
derstate their own merits, seem of a more refined character, for they seem to speak not for
the sake of gain, but in order to avoid bombast (οἱ δ᾽ εἴρωνες ἐπὶ τὸ ἔλαττον λέγοντες χαριέστε-
ροι μὲν τὰ ἤθη φαίνονται: οὐ γὰρ κέρδους ἕνεκα δοκοῦσι λέγειν, ἀλλὰ φεύγοντες τὸ ὀγκηρόν).
These also mostly disown qualities held in high esteem, as Socrates used to do.” Excessive self-
minimization can become a form of boastfulness. But a moderate use of self-depreciation is gra-
cious. P. W. Gooch (1987) argues that Aristotle redefines the εἴρων, in order to portray Socrates in
a favorable light, as a refined, understated philosopher intent on denying commonly held be-
liefs.
 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 3, 1419b8 – 10: “Irony is more worthy of a free man than buffoonery, for
the ironist provokes laughter at himself, whereas the buffoon provokes laughter at another per-
son” (ἔστιδ᾽ἡ εἰρωνεία τῆς βωμολοχίας ἐλευθεριώτερον: ὁ μὲν γὰρ αὑτοῦ ἕνεκα ποιεῖ τὸ γελοῖον,
ὁ δὲ βωμολόχος ἑτέρου). The understanding of this passage is controversial. Pierre Destrée dis-
cusses the reasons why “αὑτοῦ ἕνεκα” should be translated as laughing “in his beard” (sous
cape), rather than “laughing at himself” (2013: 20). The two meanings are not incompatible: Soc-
rates creates a comic effect on account of his own wit, which he may well enjoy all by himself,
but this γελοῖον is self-deprecation anyway. But does Socrates laugh? Livio Rossetti, in his ac-
count of the spectacular situation of a Socratic dialogue, speaks of “virtual ridicule (ridicule vir-
tuel)”, and of the ironist smiling “in his inner self while trying to conceal such reaction (dans son
for intérieur tout en s’efforçant de déguiser une telle réaction)” (2000: 258). John Lombardini also
takes Socratic εἰρωνεία as “a type of solipsistic irony, one in which the primary audience of such
irony is the ironist herself” (2018: 125). On this account, it is the εἴρων who “sub-laughs” to him-
self. The Platonic use of the word when referred to Socrates, however, points specifically to a
self-referential move that makes others laugh. Socrates himself does not seem to accompany
his own utterances with smiles or chuckles. It is Thrasymachos, on the contrary, who bursts
into a sardonic laughter while denouncing Socrates’ “usual irony” (εἰωθυῖα εἰρωνεία, Republic,
337a). In the Platonic scenario, the εἴρων makes himself laughable for an unfriendly audience.
Along these Aristotelian lines, we can take one step further and argue that
the εἴρων responds to the ἀλαζὼν. Socrates’ argument that the trigger of laughter
is the overestimation of oneself, especially in regard to knowledge, sheds light
on the humbling, and even humiliating, potential of the ἔλεγχος as εἰρωνεία.
Someone is making a fool of himself, by pontificating about justice or friendship
or love. The elegant and friendly way to puncture the inflated self-image of such
a conceited fellow is to turn up the volume of your flattery, and to dim yourself –
with a straight face. But the dialectic of εἰρωνεία versus ἀλαζονεία sheds light
also onto the theatrical situation, and the unique experience of the Athenian
spectators watching a comic performance.
Aristophanes’ plays do indeed bring onto the stage the power of praise itself
– and of self-praise –, as the primary source of laughter, for ἀλαζονεία, of which
we have discussed a massive example in the Acharnians, is omnipresent.⁵⁷ But,
as Cedric Whitman had argued, the focus on ἀλαζονεία goes far beyond a recur-
rent thematic feature of the comedic genre.⁵⁸ Vanity is intrinsically, quintessen-
tially ridiculous. In its relentless attack on disappointing braggers, self-satisfied
mediocrities, smug poets, idle-talking intellectuals, blissfully cheated husbands,
fading beauties – and, above all, vainglorious generals, parading ambassadors,
incompetent statesmen, misleading politicians, inept citizens and absurd poli-
cies – comedy initiates a counter-culture of euphoric demystification. The target
is the entire culture of democracy, a regime steeped in self-esteem. If we read Ar-
istophanes through the lens of the Philebus, we can take stock of this systemic
strategy. Everything and everyone are fair game for mockery, as long as they de-
serve to be put down, by taking the wraps off and by unmasking false pretences.
In other words: as long as there is too much praise and self-praise going on –
which is the bread and butter of democracy.
This point, the solidarity of praise and self-praise, is crucial, for ἀλαζονεία
reveals that nothing is more ridiculous than a complicit exchange of flattery
and credulity, admiration and self-esteem. Anyone may become susceptible to
mockery, whenever they take themselves seriously and readily agree with
those who extol them. Once again, the designated victims of Aristophanes’ abra-
sive derision are those who think most highly of themselves: gods, celebrities,
orators, generals, women, poets, parvenus, knights, hoplites, ambassadors, phi-
losophers, peacocks and other colourful birds.⁵⁹ They are all ἀλαζόνες, afflicted
 On ἀλαζονεία in comedy: Gruber 1983: 109 – 10; MacDowell 1987; Major 2006: 135; Mihre 2014.
 Whitman 1964: 26 – 27.
 R. Saetta Cottone (2005) takes up the question of the insults addressed to individuals, iden-
tified by name and cruelly exposed to the public. Saetta Cottone provides an overview of the
ongoing critical debate on loidoria, with a ‘pragmatic’ conclusion. The insult of well-known citi-
22 Giulia Sissa
by a self-importance that helps them believe what others try to make them be-
lieve. Their pride is shown to be not a form of superiority, but rather one of abys-
mal naiveté. Conceit impairs their vision of themselves and makes them fall into
the trap of adulation. It is a liability. Coxcombs allow themselves to be conned.
To mock them is to dress them down. This is why it is they who become funny.
The theatre makes fun of tragically proud people.
Unlike Socrates, the Athenians do laugh loudly at all this boastfulness.
6 Δῆμος and δῆμος

One particular play epitomizes brilliantly the theatrical situation of Athenian
comedy: Aristophanes’ Knights. ⁶⁰ A dotard, greedy, lazy and above all, bound-
lessly credulous, character called “Δῆμος” personifies the People. An unscrupu-
lous Paphlagonian slave starts to spoil, flatter, and over-feed him. Two citizens
lament this situation. The exaggeration of all these forms of servility is, as we
would say, so ridiculous, outlandish, over the top that it can only be false –
and thus incredible. The slave acts outrageously. Who could fail to see through
his fawning unctuousness? Nobody, except for his victim. Δῆμος is unable to re-
alize that the man is taking him for a ride: he is too stupid, of a stupidity that is
steeped in his self-assurance. He simply believes that he deserves all the homage
he receives. He enjoys his aggrandizement. The slave holds forth with his acco-
lades and brings more and more food, precisely because he knows exactly where
the vulnerability of People lays: the dotty old folk lacks self-awareness. You can
make him gobble anything he might like. Whereas the Sausage-seller will be
hailed as a perfect politician on account of his abysmal ignorance – he is barely
literate, and that much he knows –, Demos is unscathed by self-doubt. By bask-
ing in the slave’s compliments and by savouring his presents, he reveals his
sense of his own value, at the antipodes of the dismal reality. The People are
truly hopeless. The worst they are, the best they think about themselves. This
zens, who might be sitting on the stands, was a way to engage the spectators in the dramatic
action, to force them, so to speak, to laugh at themselves (352). This conclusion comes close
to my argument, except that collective laughter can only become self-deprecating in the anon-
ymous mockery of everyone – the δῆμος or the polis. See also: Riu 1995. On the categories of
individuals who were most exposed to comic mockery, see Sommerstein 1996 (331: “Virtually
anyone in the public eye could expect to become a target of comic satire”); Pritchard 2013:
113 – 120; Kawalko Roselli 2011; Robson 2017.
 For a reading of the play, which offers a compatible focus on boastfulness and “self-reflec-
tive” laughter, see Lombardini 2012.
is why individuals like the Paphlagonian slave, a fictional version of Cleon, can
succeed in a democracy. They simply know how to take advantage of the Peo-
ple’s vanity.
By this caricature of the Athenian People at large, Aristophanes pushes to
the extreme the political orchestration of laughter. On stage, Δῆμος struts, bliss-
fully blind to his inglorious liability: he is the victim of toadyish demagogues,
but remains as full of self-esteem and as pretentious, as he is easy to fool. On
the grades, the actual Athenian δῆμος laughs – light-heartedly or sardonically,
we are welcome to guess. By taking pleasure in the parody of Δῆμος, the Athe-
nian δῆμος laugh at themselves. Their laughter is a collective response of self-de-
rision, namely of collective “irony,” in the sense that we encounter in Plato’s dia-
logues. The illusion of beauty, wealth, virtue and knowledge is the quintessential
springboard of laughter. Socrates’ εἰρωνεία, as I have argued, slyly provokes it,
only to dissolve self-confidence, question after question. The theatre creates a sit-
uation that is different from that of a dialogue, of course, but something compa-
rable happens. Let us probe this comparison.
In a dialogue, by feigning ignorance, Socrates leads his interlocutors to ac-
knowledge their own contradictions. Plato’s characters usually comply and come
to admit to their confusion. They accept to see themselves through Socrates’ lens,
and thus ultimately concur with him about their bona fide not-knowing. But it
can also happen that, caught off guard, someone like Thrasymachos may instead
burst into laughter, mock the εἴρων and even call him disgusting (βδελυρὸς).⁶¹
Thrasymachos feels that he is being made into a laughing stock and he does
not like it in the least. He is too full of himself to endorse Socrates’ refutation:
he balks at “Socrates’ usual irony” (ἡ εἰωθυῖα εἰρωνεία Σωκράτους). He under-
stands that irony is a joke, that the joke is on him – and cannot take it. He
even tries to walk away.⁶² Thrasymachos echoes therefore Hippias’ protest in
Xenophon’s Memorabilia: “It’s enough that you mock (καταγελάω) others, ques-
tioning and examining everybody, and never willing to give account or to express
an opinion about anything”(ἀρκεῖ γὰρ ὅτι τῶν ἄλλων καταγελᾷς ἐρωτῶν μὲν καὶ
ἐλέγχων πάντας, αὐτὸς δ᾽οὐδενὶ θέλων ὑπέχειν λόγον οὐδὲ γνώμη ἀποφαίνεσθαι
περὶ οὐδενός).⁶³ Hippias and Thrasymachos feel dressed down in front of a par-
terre of acquaintances who might laugh at them.
 Plato, Republic, 2, 337 a: “Ye gods! here we have the well-known irony of Socrates (ἡ εἰωθυῖα
εἰρωνεία Σωκράτους), and I knew it and predicted that when it came to replying you would re-
fuse and feign ignorance (εἰρωνεύομαι) and do anything rather than answer any question that
anyone asked you.”; 338d: βδελυρὸς.
 Ibid., 344d.
 Xenophon’s Memorabilia. 4, 4, 9.
24 Giulia Sissa
In the theatre, on the contrary, it is the performance that sets the Athenian
spectators in an “ironic” perspective for, although the characters who represent
them on stage may well be pompous dupes, they themselves are not. The viewers
can recognize themselves aped and caricatured in Lamachos, the war monger or
in Amphitheos, the fop, but, as long as they keep laughing, they consent to a sys-
tematic self-denigration – as if they agreed with the playwright. The play itself
leads the audience to pick holes in a burlesque rendition of themselves. The
joke is on them, but it is still funny. The Knights is emblematic because Δῆμος
is meant to represents all of the Athenians at once. Like him, they think they
know a lot, but they know nothing and believe whomever may blandish them.
This is ridiculous! The spectators keep laughing at the mimetic version of them-
selves – and stay glued to their seats. Unlike Thrasymachus, they can take a joke.
By the simple fact of laughing at themselves, those same spectators prove to be
capable of a glimpse of self-knowledge. They are a laughing stock, but in the
sense that they have the last laugh. They, the δῆμος, are smarter than Δῆμος.
The latter is an ἀλαζὼν; the former, an εἴρων.
The theatrical situation is exceptional, and yet paradoxically connected to
the culturally ingrained habit of amplifying the merit of the democratic polis.
The magnification of the People, as we said, is omnipresent in all public venues,
especially in deliberative and epideictic oratory, but here it finds its undoing. In
the time-space of Dionysus’ festivals, the audience themselves, as a group of or-
dinary members of the Athenian people, perform an act of political autocritique.
It is of course a wicked playwright, Aristophanes, that makes this happen. He is
the one who makes them laugh at themselves. But it is they who do the laughing.
It is as if they were suddenly able to catch out their own flaws and to see the
pitfalls of their own self-government. These are contentiousness, corruption,
greed, ignorance, belligerency, but one inescapable weakness runs through all
these imperfections: the potential for pride, complacency and naïveté. This cap-
tures the actual inclination of democratic political culture to cultivate overconfi-
dence. But for a brief moment, the chorus of Athenian self-praise breaks down,
in an explosion of hilarious self-awareness. In the anti-narcissistic mirror of a
play, the Athenians take a look at their deficiencies, but also at their usual blind-
ness to these very flaws. They are used to boasting about themselves. All of a
sudden, their boastfulness deserves a moment of exhilarating vilification. And
this is welcome because a lack of self-knowledge is bad, but also because it
lays them open to others’ flattery. We can call this emotional situation – to be
induced to laughing at our own expense – “εἰρωνεία”. Aristophanes has con-
trived this interplay – I make you minimize yourself, ordinary Athenians, by
showing you, via my characters, what kind of persons you are, incompetent
and vain. Socrates does the same in his own philosophical comedies – I make
you join me, in the awareness of not-knowing, by laying bare your being “full of
conflicts and of a false conceit of wisdom” (μεστὸν ἐρίδων καὶ δοξοσοφίας ἐστὶ
ψευδοῦς).⁶⁴
In Athens, comedy is entertainment. But it is also a political strategy that, by
aiming at anyone who is anyone, targets a uniquely proud political culture. Athe-
nian democracy takes itself seriously. Comedy makes fun of it. Orators boast that
popular rule is the best political order. Comedy laughs at such posturing. In the
theatre, democracy becomes ridiculous, but it is the demos who has the last
laugh.
It is this particular kind of laughter, occurring in a unique situation, that en-
gendered what we have come to call “utopias”.
7 Great and flourishing

We usually call “utopian” a variable number of Aristophanes’ plays that invent
an alternative reality, either an imaginary city or the radical transformation of
Athens itself: Birds, Women at the Assembly, sometimes Wealth. ⁶⁵ It would be
wrong, however, to disconnect these plays from the others. The theatre sets up
one comic perspective: to make people laugh at what they usually praise; to
make them scorn what they deeply care about, namely their own values, their
laws, their paradigmatic way of life, their great government and, ultimately,
themselves. All Aristophanes’ plays, with their different plots and characters,
share this perspective. Knights in particular makes all this exceptionally clear
for, once again, Δῆμος is the very personification of the People and, as such,
he is supposed to combine all the flaws of democracy. He embodies above all
the major vulnerability of popular rule: leaders and orators have to persuade
the masses to support their policies, the masses have to vote on issues they
know nothing about, and all have to love and praise their polis. The people, al-
 Plato, Philebus, 48c – 50b.

 See Dobrov 1997. The theme of a past life in which work and slaves were not needed, because
tools moved themselves and in which food and drink were overabundant is typical of Old Com-
edy. See Athenaeus, 6, 467e: “The Old Comic poets offer passages like the following, in which they
discuss life in ancient times and claim that no one relied on slaves. Cratinus in Gods of Wealth
(fr. 176): for whom Cronus was king long ago, when they played knucklebones with loaves of
bread, and Aeginetan barley-cakes, ripe and full of lumps, were used to pay fees in the wrestling
schools”. The banqueteer goes on quoting a series of long passages on the same condition of
alimentary wealth (467e – 470c). Interestingly, Aristophanes barely figures as a source. Baldry
1953; Ruffel 2000.
26 Giulia Sissa
legedly in the position of ruling, are actually hostage to those who, feigning to
help, try to sway them. It is public speakers such as Cleon, the man beyond
the Paphlagonian slave, that hold real power – that of making Δῆμος do what-
ever they want. And their ammunitions are words and deeds that convey
sheer flattery. The play exposes precisely Δῆμος’ vulnerability before the eyes
of the Athenian δῆμος, who then laugh at their own foibles.
The “utopian” plays do exactly the same, for the invention of preposterous
poleis, such as Nephelococcygia, or a new Athens ruled by women, or blessed by
Wealth is simply part of the same theatrical and cultural experience. These plays
push to the extreme the scorn of Athens, and of Athens’ exceptionalism. Not of
this or that Athenian, but of the polis itself and its vainglorious politics. In order
to jeer at Athens, the “utopian” plays produce an even more hyperbolic encomi-
um, only directed toward a different place. The best dwells somewhere else – in
an alternative world to this one. Irony, with an exotic twist. Irony, still.
In Aristophanes’ Birds, as I have mentioned, Athens is “great and flourish-
ing”, everyone knows and says that, and yet some people cannot bear to live
there.⁶⁶ The polis is actually filled with painful regulations, unfair denuncia-
tions, threatening law-suits and turbulent conflict. The judges sing incessantly,
more assiduously than the cicadas. This portrayal of Athenian life is the exact
opposite of the synergy of words and deeds, social harmony and honest pleas-
ure, as the Funeral Oration would have it. Athens is no παράδειγμα, quite the
contrary! Two well-meaning citizens set out to find, and ultimately found,
a truly agreeable and tranquil city. This will be located as far as possible from
home, up in the air and on a cloud.
We have already commented upon this unflattering beginning, a perfect ex-
ample of Aristophanes’ standard blame of Athens. Now let us see what happens
to Euelpides’ and Pistetairos’ project: let us follow the plot. Flying with their two
feet, the two men go and visit Tereus, a tyrant now transformed into a hoopoe, in
search for directions. To him they reveal the purpose of their quest. Once they
understand that the kind of place they are looking for – quiet, comfortable
and full of delights – is nowhere to be found on earth, they decide to create
one from scratch. They will do so right there, in the sky. But since the sky is
 Thought-provoking interpretations of the play as a utopia: Konstan 1990 and 1995 (see
29 – 44 on Birds); Henderson 1998; Zimmermann 1991; Sommerstein 2004. Sommerstein exam-
ines the narrative and dramatic construction of Pistetairos’ power, at the expense of the
birds– whose naïveté, I will add, depends entirely on their vanity. See also: Sommerstein
2009; Carrière 1979: 105 – 107; Thiercy 2006; Corbel-Morana 2010 (an interesting contextualiza-
tion of the quest for the best possible state).
not an empty space, they need to persuade its native dwellers, the Birds, to help
them found a colony of Athens, Nephelococcygia.
To do so they astound the Birds by revealing to them their ancestral heritage.
Do they know, Pistetairos asks them, that these now wretched and homeless
creatures, were once the most powerful and the most majestic living beings of
all? Immediately the Birds start to believe that they are more venerable than
the Olympians, immeasurably superior to all human beings. A grandiloquent
chorus improvises a Theogony, which places the origin of the world in a primor-
dial egg. The first gods were all winged bipeds – Eros the first of all. The geneal-
ogy of the Birds is a pastiche of Hesiod and Orphic poetry, certainly, but also ech-
oes a political myth: the representation of a noble pedigree. Such representation,
so dear to the Athenians – descendants of three divine powers: Athena, He-
phaestus and Earth – was a commonplace, precisely in the funeral orations.⁶⁷
Here is a light version, zero gravity, of autochthony. Based on praise, as glitzy
as it is coarse, the aerial city is rapidly filled with braggarts (ἀλαζόνες) who mi-
grate from Athens, eager to settle in the new polis. These imposters are actually
flatterers who fuel even more the vanity of the Birds, by spreading compliments,
hymns and predictions in honour of the new lords of the world. A herald show-
ers Pistetairos with superlatives: “Oh! blessed Pistetairos, the wisest, the most
illustrious, the most gracious, thrice happy …”, before offering him a golden
crown in recognition of his supreme wisdom (σοφίας οὕνεκα), which he happily
accepts.⁶⁸
The Birds fall passionately in love with themselves. “Soon every man will
call this city populous”, intones the chorus. “Fortune favours us. Love for my
city possesses people (κατέχουσι δ᾽ ἔρωτες ἐμᾶς πόλεως)”.⁶⁹ Now all men are
erastai, lovers of the city! That collective eros for the polis to which Pericles’ Fu-
neral Oration exhorted the Athenians in earnest, blossoms spontaneously in
Nephelococcygia. There is even a parody of the funeral eulogy. The praises of
the birds are now sung in unison – and everywhere. The wings themselves are
nothing but exalting logoi. ⁷⁰
The Birds agree with the Athenian ἀλαζόνες, endorse enthusiastically their
ἀλαζονεία, and end up creating a colony of Athens, full of Athenians. Wings
are applied to the new-comers, but these hastily enhanced humans are still
the same old fellow-citizens whom Pistetairos and Euelpides were desperately
 Lysias, Epitaphios, 17; Isocrates, Panegyricus, 25; Demosthenes, Epitaphios, 3.

 Aristophanes, Birds, 1271– 1276.
 Ibid., 1313 – 1316.
 Ibid., 1436 – 1445.
28 Giulia Sissa
trying to leave behind.⁷¹ Worse, individual birds who disagree with the human
government of Nephelococcygia – Pistetairos having to marry Basileia – end
up roasted and covered in grated cheese.⁷² As in the Knights, the action revolves
around the perverse synergy of flattery and credulity that characterizes demo-
cratic politics. Like Δῆμος in the Knights, the Birds and their human leader
excel in gullibility. They enjoy compliments so much that they believe anything
they like to hear. Self-love, passionate and eloquent, is the key to their foolish-
ness. They fall prey to manipulation.
Both plays, therefore, place before the eyes of the viewers a caricature of
their own experience as the addressees of gratifying oratory – such as Demos-
thenes’ speeches, or the funeral orations. They are given the opportunity to
laugh, for a moment, at their own compliance with the most solemn forms of
public rhetoric.
Since vanity is the thematic thread of the Birds, we are left with the question
of how “utopian” Nephelococcygia can be. This is not supposed to be a perfectly
just polis, for it is meant to be a cushy spot. “Will not man cohabit here with ev-
erything that is beautiful?”, chants the chorus. This is wisdom (Σοφία), love
(Πόθος), ambrosia (᾿Aμβροσία), the Graces (Χάριτες), and the face of Tranquility
(Ἡσυχία).⁷³ By marrying Basileia, Pistetairos will acquire soundness of judg-
ment, good legislation, moderation, but also the fleet, slander, the public pay-
master and the triobolus (τὴν εὐβουλίαν τὴν εὐνομίαν, τὴν σωφροσύνην, τὰ
νεώρια, τὴν λοιδορίαν, τὸν κωλακρέτην, τὰ τριώβολα).⁷⁴ The city in the sky
ends up mirroring the worst of Athens. It is not even a new polis, for it is just
a colony of Athens. It comes to exist because Athens was to blame in the first
place, but, over the time of the play, it becomes a deracinated replica of Athens –
a place made up of flattery and conceit. The final choral song goes into raptures:
“Oh, you, who do so well; you who are beyond words, thrice blissful race of the
winged birds, receive your tyrant in your fortunate dwellings. He is approaching
his glittering golden palace, no all-brilliant star to see shines like this; not even
the far-reaching flame of the beams of the sun shines like this”.⁷⁵ Praise is dis-
placed, exaggerated and caricatured. Peacocks, hoopoes and other multi-col-
oured creatures anatomically embody what is laughable. By laughing at them,
the spectators laugh at themselves.
 Ingo on metamorphosis in Birds.

 Ibid., 1482– 1489.
 Ibid., 1318 – 1322.
 Ibid., 1537– 1541.
 Ibid., 1706 – 1712.
In Plato’s Philebus, it will suffice to watch what Aristophanes makes happen

in the theatre, for Socrates to outline a theory of laughter that resonates with his
usual εἰρωνεία.
Utopia was born in jest, as a parallel world that does not go anywhere.
8 ἀριστοκρατία
Let us now move on the wings of words, to another city in the sky, Plato’s Kal-
lipolis.⁷⁶ The only one “good and right constitution” (5, 449 a: ἀγαθὴν μὲν τοίνυν
τὴν τοιαύτην πόλιν τε καὶ πολιτείαν καὶ ὀρθὴν καλῶ), the one that properly can
be called ἀριστοκρατία, is designed in logoi, in the Republic. ⁷⁷ The very founda-
tion of Kallipolis in logoi is the project to achieve optimal results. The community
of women and children, in particular, is meant to deliver “the best”, τὸ
ἄριστον.⁷⁸ This attribution of high quality could be understood, after all, as
yet another utterance of praise. But Socrates in not bragging. The ascription of
excellence to this particular polis is well deserved. A dialogue on justice, the Re-
public offers a meditation of what is really “the good” and what is truly “the
best”, thus substantiating the superlative. Whereas the amplifications that re-
sound in the epideictic language of democracy are unwarranted, the quest for
the best follows a pattern. The rulers of Kallipolis, being philosophers, do
know what is the good, which they use as a divine παράδειγμα.⁷⁹ More to the
point, the goodness of Kallipolis is systematically set in contrast with the simu-
lacrum of goodness of anything that comes from the δῆμος. The People may well
pontificate about this or that being good, but they do not even know what they
are talking about.
Kallipolis is not just a beautiful city: it is “Beauty City”. It embodies Kallos
itself. There is a reason for its having the very best government: the best people
 Arlene Saxonehouse (1978) argues for a profound connection between Birds and Republic.
Kallipolis is allegedly a utopia, Saxonhouse argues, but it is actually a polis full of animals, es-
pecially the dog-like Guardians. This reveals that not even this particular polis can possibly be
just. Politics cannot achieve justice. I disagree on the injustice of Kallipolis, but I also argue for a
connection between the two cities in the sky.
 Republic 8, 544e – 545a: “Now we have already gone through the man corresponding to the
government of the best, whom we aver to be the truly good and just man.” (τὸν μὲν δὴ τῇ
ἀριστοκρατίᾳ ὅμοιον διεληλύθαμεν ἤδη, ὃν ἀγαθόν τε καὶ δίκαιον ὀρθῶς φαμεν εἶναι).
 Ibid., 5, 456 c – 457a.
 Ibid., 5, 475c – 480a, on the knowledge of the forms, of which only philosophers become
able.
30 Giulia Sissa
are in charge.⁸⁰ It is the quality of individual characters, Socrates explains in a

crucial passage, that determines the quality of cities.⁸¹ Only a good man can gov-
ern well. One can only become a “good man” over a long period of time and, cru-
cially, thanks to a painstaking education. This means that the formation of elites
is paramount. Whenever a polis fails to select and train its potential leaders, it
neglects a basic principle: excellence is not a given but must be acquired.
Now, Athens is grossly culpable for having neglected to do this, for democracy
affords to all male, adult citizens the equal opportunity to participate in political
life, through rotation, randomization and short tenure in office.⁸² This turn-over
is the very opposite of the effort to elect the best people. In a δημοκρατία, anyone
can become a temporary ruler. Since the many in charge of the administration
are undistinguished individuals, randomly chosen, there can never be any ἄρι-
στοι at the helm of the city. Without ἄριστοι, there cannot be any attempt to ach-
ieve τὸ ἄριστον, nor τὸ βέλτιστον, nor any superlative goodness. There is no ἀρι-
στοκρατία. Concern for quality is structurally alien to popular rule. As a
consequence, political discourse disregards true merit. Anyone can attribute
beauty to whatever they happen to like. Praise and blame roam free.
On the contrary, Socrates argues that a city needs to equip itself with ἄρι-
στοι, for only such persons will be able to produce opinions (δόγματα) that
are the best for the city.
You have to look for those who are the best guardians of the opinion that is theirs, that they
should do what in each occasion, seems to be best for the city (ὃ ἂν τῇ πόλει ἀεὶ δοκῶσι
βέλτιστον εἶναι αὑτοῖς ποιεῖν).⁸³
The ἄριστοι will advise for what they deem to be best (βέλτιστον). Socrates places
them in a stark opposition with the leaders of a democratic multitude. The δόγ-
ματα of the latter is just an opinion, nothing more. Protagaras or Gorgias, Socra-
tes claims,
teach nothing else than these opinions of the multitude, which they opine (δόγματα, ἃ
δοξάζουσιν) whenever they get together – and call this knowledge ‘wisdom’ (μὴ ἄλλα παι-
δεύειν ἢ ταῦτα τὰ τῶν πολλῶν δόγματα, ἃ δοξάζουσιν ὅταν ἁθροισθῶσιν, καὶ σοφίαν ταύ-
την καλεῖν).⁸⁴
 Ibid., 4, 445d. For a systematic study on knowledge as the foundation of good government
see El Murr 2014.
 Ibid., 8, 544 d – e.
 For a reading of the Republic against the background of Athenian politics, see Nails 2012.
 Ibid., 413c.
 Ibid., 6, 493a.
The sophistai merely reinforce collective beliefs, and label them as “σοφία”. But
there is no significance to these words, because a multitude has simply no stand-
ards of value. They ignore what is the beautiful and the ugly, the right and the
wrong, the good and the bad.⁸⁵ The people ignore the meaning of the words
they use, and their bad educators only corroborate their ignorance. This is
why the people can only blurt out whatever comes to their mind – nothing better
than that. This is the fundamental difference between Kallipolis and Athens. The
“opinions which they (the many) opine” (δόγματα, ἃ δοξάζουσιν, 493a) are nec-
essarily at a far cry from the kind of opinion of which the ἄριστοι are capable,
since the latter are competent men, selected and educated to think that “they
must do what, in every occasion, they feel is best for the city” (ὃ ἂν τῇ πόλει
ἀεὶ δοκῶσι βέλτιστον εἶναι αὑτοῖς ποιεῖν, 413c). Note that the ἄριστοι produce
opinions rather than science, but at least they try to attain to βέλτιστον. The
only superiority of the best people, Socrates argues, is that they are demanding,
exigent, exacting at the highest possible degree. They are neither omnipotent,
nor even omniscient. They are not super-men. They care a great deal for the city.
Concern defines an original intentionality. This is the basic effort that makes
possible political activity and opens up the possibility of excellence.
Since we want them to be the best of the guardians, must they not be “superlative guard-
ians” of the city?” “Yes.” “They must then be intelligent in such matters and capable, and
furthermore the champions of the care of the city?” (νῦν δ᾽, ἐπειδὴ φυλάκων αὐτοὺς ἀρί-
στους δεῖ εἶναι, ἆρ᾽ οὐ φυλακικωτάτους πόλεως; ναί. οὐκοῦν φρονίμους τε εἰς τοῦτο δεῖ
ὑπάρχειν καὶ δυνατοὺς καὶ ἔτι κηδεμόνας τῆς πόλεως).⁸⁶
9 Φυλάσσειν
Φυλάσσειν means κήδεσθαι. Protecting is caring. The Guardians are actually
care-givers. The philosophers-kings will have to be their superlative version:
φυλακικώτατοι. They are κηδεμόνες τῆς πόλεως: the champions of the care of
the city. They watch over it. To care for each other reciprocally; to care for the
city: this is, after all, the ultimate goal of the noble lie. “Well even that, I say,
would serve to make them worry about the city and about each other” (τῆς
πόλεώς τε καὶ ἀλλήλων κήδεσθαι).⁸⁷ What makes the beauty of Kallipolis, the ex-
cellence of ἀριστοκρατία, is the primordial orientation of its leaders toward the
 Ibid., 6, 493b.
 Ibid., 3, 412c – d
 Ibid., 3, 415d.
32 Giulia Sissa
city, more exactly toward the city’s own good. They strive to do what is best for
the polis. This is the foundational belief, of which they are the super-guardians.
They must care for the belief that they must care for the polis.
“Then we must pick out from the other guardians such men as to our observation appear
through the entire course of their lives to do, with a total commitment, what they consider
to be in the interest of the state, and who would be least likely to consent to do the oppo-
site. … I think, then, we shall have to observe them at every period of life, to see if they are
“guardians” of this opinion and never, by sorcery nor by force, can be brought to expel (out
of forgetfulness) the opinion that they must do what is best for the state.⁸⁸
This is Plato’s utopia.

It is an intentional project, grounded in care. This is also Plato’s profoundly
critical response to δημοκρατία, the regime that “tramples under foot” (καταπα-
τέω) not merely excellence, but any concern for excellence. By despising the
meritocratic recruitment and the proper education of its leaders, a δημοκρατία
not only contributes to the degeneration of Kallipolis’ ἀριστοκρατία, but literally
“stumps on top” of knowledge, the very cause of its superiority. The δῆμος’ clogs
crush, first of all, the formation of excellent men, without whom the quest for
goodness cannot even start because, as we said, “what is best for the polis”
only matters for that kind of men. The δῆμος does not care to find rulers who
care.⁸⁹
The result will be not only casual, mindless, bad government, but also the
proliferation of gratuitous praise because, to restate this key point, the “so-
phists” supposedly “instruct” ordinary people to attribute beauty and goodness
to laws, decrees, policies or individuals, but they actually do nothing but vali-
date those people’s pre-existing opinions. No one has the slightest idea of
what they are talking about. They fail to grasp what is truly good and beautiful.
This is precisely the danger about which Socrates warns Agathon in the Sympo-
sium: praise is nothing but the ascription of amplified goodness and beauty to an
object, with no regard for the truth. When this abusive applause is addressed to
oneself, Socrates adds in the Philebus, it becomes ridiculous.
In this logic, democracy is a comedy. Incompetent people hold the power to
judge and approve decisions they cannot understand. They are supposed to
know what they actually ignore, and they themselves imagine that they know.
Misleading mentors feign to educate them, whereas they simply confirm their
thoughtless language. Self-interested leaders flatter the masses.
 Ibid., 3, 412 d – e.
 Ibid., 8, 558 b – c.
The democratic farce culminates in two vivid images.

In one of these tableaux, the people is like a “big animal”, capricious and
hyper-sensitive to coaxing, whom political leaders feed and caress, “calling
“good” what pleases him, and “bad” what he dislikes, without giving any other
account of those judgments” (οἷς μὲν χαίροι ἐκεῖνο ἀγαθὰ καλῶν, οἷς δὲ ἄχθοιτο
κακά, ἄλλον δὲ μηδένα ἔχοι λόγον περὶ αὐτῶν).⁹⁰ In another dramatic scenario,
the people are likened to the sailors on a ship. The captain is competent, but un-
able to master his crew. The sailors fight for control of the rudder,
each claiming that it is his right to steer though he has never learned and cannot point out
his teacher or any time when he studied it. And what is more, they affirm that it cannot be
taught at all, but they are ready to make mincemeat of anyone who says that it can be
taught. ⁹¹
Although navigation is a complex technique that requires knowledge of the sky,

the stars, the seasons, the winds and the sea, these sailors cannot bear the
thought that all this should be learned. They care only for power. To this effect,
they praise and celebrate as a navigator any man who is willing to help them
seize the helm, by “persuading or constraining the shipmaster to let them
rule”.⁹² Praise and blame are the ammunitions for the competitors in this strug-
gle for unskilled leadership.
We have now come full circle. Both Aristophanes and Plato make fun of a
δῆμος that is quintessentially ridiculous. As a collective agent, the people are
the control model of ignorance, unwariness, and pretension to know. The Athe-
nian people are all ἀλαζόνες, in a sense, because democracy itself places them in
the position of displaying, exhibiting, sporting – and using in the governance of
the city – the semblance of a knowledge they have never acquired. As in Aristo-
phanes’ Knights and Birds, in the δημοκρατία portrayed in Plato’s dialogues, flat-
tery and self-importance replace any possible care to learn – humbly and pains-
takingly. The people, Plato laments, cannot possibly be a philosopher.⁹³ Δῆμος is
a comic character. Democracy is ἀλαζονεία made into a form of government.
Both in the performance dynamic of the theatre and in the friendly setting of
Socrates’ dialogues, εἰρωνεία exposes this fundamental flaw of democratic cul-
ture. Plato captures the gist of Aristophanic comedy, theorizes the mechanism of
 Ibid., 493
 Ibid., 488a – d.
 Ibid., 488d.
 Plato, Republic, 6, 494a: “To be a philosopher, I said, is impossible for the multitude
(φιλόσοφον μὲν ἄρα, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, πλῆθος ἀδύνατον εἶναι)”.
34 Giulia Sissa
laughter, and adapts the game of irony versus vanity to his own private plays. In
the Republic, moreover, he brings into full light the comedy of democracy, a re-
gime of empowered ἀλαζόνες who deserve to be derided.
Aristophanes and Plato, in conclusion, failed to understand democratic per-
fectionism. This is, sadly, the birth (and the truth) of utopia.
10 Post scriptum, or the Isles of the Blessed

In the Menexenos, Aspasia utters a Periclean funeral oration, in which she claims
that the government of Athens “is in truth a rule of the best, with the approval of
the multitude (ἔστι δὲ τῇ ἀληθείᾳ μετ᾽ εὐδοξίας πλήθους ἀριστοκρατία)”. More to
the point “while the multitude has control over most things in the city, they al-
ways give offices and power to those they believe are the best (ἐγκρατὲς δὲ τῆς
πόλεως τὰ πολλὰ τὸ πλῆθος, τὰς δὲ ἀρχὰς δίδωσι καὶ κράτος τοῖς ἀεὶ δόξασιν ἀρί-
στοις εἶναι)”.⁹⁴ This superior synthesis of a “government of the best” (ἀριστοκρα-
τία) and the “good doxa” (εὐδοξία) of the πλῆθος points to the very question
raised in the Republic, about the range of possibilities available to ordinary peo-
ple. Are they able to aim at the best? According to Aspasia, the answer is affir-
mative, for the Athenian multitude are capable of good judgment, which allows
them to select only leaders who are ἄριστοι, and to support them at the helm of
the city. Athens is suddenly the place where “the man who is deemed to be wise
and good has power and holds office (ὁ δόξας σοφὸς ἢ ἀγαθὸς εἶναι κρατεῖ καὶ
ἄρχει)”.
Really? If this were the case, then we would be in Kallipolis, not in the city
that, according to Socrates, solemnly tramples under foot any concern for the
best. This cannot be serious.
This praise of the Athenians among the Athenians, which becomes therefore
a narcissistic self-praise, is doubly absurd.⁹⁵ The speech is, firstly, an exercise in
the art of ἐπαινεῖν, filled with the kind of hyperbolic language that a speaker like
Agathon might use. Secondly, Aspasia attributes to the people a concern for
quality and an ability to identify the best rulers, which goes against anything
Socrates has ever said in Plato’s dialogues, from the Apology to the Republic.
We have emphasized how the best practice of Kallipolis, a true ἀριστοκρατία,
 Plato, Menexenos, 238d.

 Aristotle quotes the Menexenos (235d) in the Rhetoric, 1, 9, 30 when he recommends to take
the audience into consideration. As Socrates sad, it is not difficult to praise the Athenians
among the Athenians (ὥσπερ γὰρ ὁ Σωκράτης ἔλεγεν, οὐ χαλεπὸν ᾿Aθηναίους ἐν ᾿Aθηναίοις ἐπαι-
νεῖν).
is first of all a matter of attitude, intent, carefulness for an education that pre-
pares the future “super-guardians” to perform their task as well as they possibly
can. Democracy crushes precisely that kind of care for the polis.
Aspasia speaks like an ἀλαζὼν, feeding the habit of a crowd of ἀλαζόνες.
She can recite the entire history of Athens! She is indeed the one who knows
our own city! She magnifies, amplifies us: she is great, and we are great! But Soc-
rates, the εἴρων, invites us to share his own standpoint: let us minimize our-
selves and admire this marvel in awe! And like Socrates, we may feel that,
wow!, we are suddenly swept off our feet and transported to the Ilsles of the
Blessed. If this is Athens, then Athens is an island of bliss! We may well believe
that we walk in the streets of Athens, down to the Piraeus, in a meadow on
the outskirt of town, on the ground of Attica, but in truth we dwell in a place
that belongs in the mythological tradition. The Isles of the Blessed (μακάρων
νήσοι), Hesiod narrates in Works and Days, are located along the shore of
deep Ocean, apart from men, beyond the extreme boundaries of the earth (ἐς πεί-
ρατα γαίης). Out there, live forever the heroes who fought at Troy and Thebes,
enjoying a carefree life, for the soil spontaneously bears fruit for them thrice a
year. A venerable god, Cronos, rules over them.⁹⁶
Whereas Hesiod’s landscape is merely a pastoral vagary, in Socrates’ mouth
the Isles of the Blessed stand as a metaphor of an admirable πολιτεία: an aris-
tocracy with the approval of the multitude, where equal opportunity, civility and
virtues flourish. All the goodness of Athens derives from its unique government.
It is Aspasia’s polis, therefore, that floats in the extra-terrestrial space of myth-
ology. It is a place no-where to be found on earth, a utopia.
I have argued for a definition of “utopia” as something far more specific
than an idyllic time/space. A utopia is a complex, hypothetical parallel world.
It is primarily a political fantasy. It is made up of admiration, in response to
the self-aggrandizement of its surrounding political culture. This is exactly
what Plato fashions in response to Aspasia’s epideictic eloquence. Aspasia am-
plifies Athens among the Athenians, thus creating a unanimous expression of
pride. Socrates, the εἴρων, reacts to this chorus of ἀλαζονεία. With his εἰωθυῖα
εἰρωνεία, he insinuates that if this eulogy were true, then we would be living
in the Isles of the Blessed. This poetic reverie conveys the experience of the
best form of government, but counterfactually so: if, and only if, this polis – As-
pasia’s polis – were Athens, then Athens would be pure heaven. To believe it, we
should forget quite a bit of Plato’s thinking about democracy. Athens is the home
of the “big animal”. Athens sails like a drunken boat. Athens is the land where
 Hesiod, Works and Days, 166 – 173.

36 Giulia Sissa
the People are in charge of the most daunting responsibility, government, but
disdain education, hold office by chance and speak freely not knowing what
they are talking about. Athens is a boastful democratic polis. The Menexenos,
therefore, exemplifies the utopian gesture, as a parody. Surely, all this magnifi-
cence cannot possibly be attributed to this place, down here. We must be talking
about somewhere else: the polis of the Birds, that of the philosophers or that of
the greatest of heroes. Which means, once again, a place nowhere to be found on
earth, a utopia.
Aspasia’s charm lasts only for three days. Utopia was born in jest and goes
nowhere.
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Whitman, C. (1964), Aristophanes and the Comic Hero. Harvard UP.
Wolfsdorf, D. (2008), “Eironeia in Aristophanes and Plato”, Classical Quarterly 58: 666 – 72.
Zimmermann, B. (1991), “Nephelokokkygia. Riflessioni sull’utopia comica,” in W. Roesler &
B. Zimmermann (ed.), Carnevale e utopia nella Grecia antica, Bari, 53 – 101.
Stephen E. Kidd
What will we do when we get there?
Utopia and Dicing in Greek Comedy
What will we do when we get there? Thomas More makes it clear in Utopia that
there will be no playing dice: the inhabitants of Utopia do not so much as know
“dice or other such foolish and ruinous games” (aleam atque id genus ineptos
ac perniciosos ludos ne cognoscunt quidem) he writes, and repeats the pro-
nouncement throughout his text.¹ Even before discussing the imaginary land,
one of his characters criticizes the plagues of 16th-century society which include
“dice, cards, backgammon, tennis, bowling, and quoits, in which money slips
away so fast” (alea, charta, fritillus, pila, sphaera, discus, an non haec celeriter
exhausta pecunia).² Contrast this with the utopian natives whose upbringing
has been so virtuous that they cannot even discern the pleasure of such vices:
they ask “what pleasure can there be… in throwing dice on a playing-table?”
(nam quid habet, inquiunt, uoluptatis, talos in alueum proiicere), and muse fur-
ther, “if there were any pleasure in the action, wouldn’t doing it over and over
again make one tired of it?” (quod toties fecisti, ut si quid uoluptatis inesset,
oriri tamen potuisset ex frequenti usu satietas).³
More’s erasure of dicing from his utopia is something that is shared among
ancient utopias as well. Aristophanes’ Praxagora in the Assembly Women, for ex-
ample, remarks that there will be no more dicing in her ideal communist state,
and there is good reason to think that Plato, Aristotle, and others would have
followed suit on this point. On the other hand, there is a curious counterpoint
to be found in other comic fragments, which I will call the counterpoint of para-
dise. In fragments of Cratinus and Teleclides, where a land of plenty or Time of
Cronus is depicted, dicing is a clear, almost celebrated feature of the landscape.
This no doubt has to do with the fact that dicing and games more generally were
present as festival activities, where citizens attempted and maybe even caught a
glimpse of some more permanent paradise.
The question of this chapter arises from these two landscapes placed side by
side: why is dicing absent from utopian landscapes but present in the landscapes
of paradise? I will argue that the answer has to do with the different goods and
goals of each place. In utopia one finds goals like self-improvement and goods
 Logan, Adams, Miller 2004: 128 – 9.

 Logan, Adams, Miller 2004: 66 – 7.
 Logan, Adams, Miller 2004: 170 – 1.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-003
42 Stephen E. Kidd
like efficiency, while in paradise, efficiency, self-improvement, even goals them-

selves simply make no sense. I will begin this argument by looking at the frag-
ments from old comedy where dicing, specifically with knucklebones (astraga-
loi), is included into the landscape. This expands into a broader picture of
paradise, which so often resembles contemporary festivals. Then I will turn to
the Assembly Women and contextualize that exclusion of dicing within the social
thought of the period. Although these other fourth-century texts are not utopian
they are good indicators of the vices generally desired out of contemporary soci-
ety. After posing the question of utopia vs paradise, and considering issues like
gambling and idleness, I will end by considering that paradise of the afterlife,
where dicing and other such frivolous pursuits are played for eternity within
some endlessly present moment.
1 Dicing as a Feature of Paradise

So: what do we do when we get there? Old comedy makes it clear: we eat and
drink and have as much easy sex as we can. Dikaiopolis celebrates at the end of
Acharnians with a great feast, and the chorus sing that he will “drink, garlanded
with flowers… and sleep with a young woman, getting one hell of a massage”
(τῷ μὲν πίνειν στεφανωσαμένῳ… τῷ δὲ καθεύδειν / μετὰ παιδίσκης ὡραιο-
τάτης, / ἀνατριβομένῳ τε τὸ δεῖνα, 1145 – 48); Peisetairus and his fellow citizens
of Nephylococcygia, at the end of Birds, also celebrate a perfumed wedding ban-
quet where the new bride’s beauty is described as “unspeakable” (κάλλος οὐ
φατὸν λέγειν, 1713). And whatever the darkness of Praxagora’s utopia, her prom-
ise that everyone will have “loaves of bread, slices of fish, barley cakes, coats,
wine, garlands, chickpeas” (ἄρτους, τεμάχη, μάζας, χλαίνας, οἶνον, στεφάνους,
ἐρεβίνθους, 606), as well as sex (613) is at least made good with the 64 – syllable
banquet menu at the end of the play (1169 – 76) and Blepyrus running off to enjoy
some carnal delights.⁴
In short, the comic struggles to create more perfect societies not only tend to
pay off, but tend to pay off in a certain direction: namely, a celebration of food,
drink, and sex. But comedy offers another route as well to such achievements of
paradise which seems not to require any struggle or achievement at all. These
are the so-called glimpses of Schlaraffenland in comedy: the visions of lands
of plenty where rivers flow with stew meat and food flies into one’s mouth of
 For the darkness of Praxagora’s utopia, see Said (1999[1979]).

What will we do when we get there? Utopia and Dicing in Greek Comedy 43
its own accord.⁵ In such lands, one can lead a life of pure supine pleasure since
scarcity and its consequence of labor have not been imagined into it. It is worth
considering two fragments from this well-attested tradition, specifically with this
question (what do we do when we get there?) in mind. The first is from Tele-
clides, a poet who appears on the list of victors of the Dionysia in the late
440’s and early 430’s. The fragment is from his play Amphictyoneis (fr. 1 KA =
Ath. 6.268a – d), a title which suggests either a group of delegates, or Amphictyon
the ancient king of Attica, son of Deucalion.⁶ The speaker of the following frag-
ment which describes the past golden age has been believed to be, among oth-
ers, Amphictyon, Deucalion, Dionysus, or Cronus:
Well, I’ll tell you about the life I provided for mortals at the beginning. Peace, first of all,
was (everywhere) like water for your hands. The earth brought forth no fear or disease, but
instead whatever was needed arose of its own accord: every stream gushed with wine, and
barley cakes fought with loaves of bread around the mouths of men, begging them to swal-
low the whitest ones, if they should like. And fish would come home, roasting themselves,
and set themselves on the table; and a river of broth swirling with warm meat would flow
past the couches, and streams of these sauces were at hand for whoever wanted, so that the
opportunity was plentiful to gulp down many a moistened morsel. And in little dishes were
anapests(corrupt) sprinkled with seasonings, and roast thrushes flew down one’s throat ac-
companied by biscuits, and there was a racket from all the flatbread pushing eachother
around the people’s jaws. And with leftover slices of sow’s womb the children played
knucklebones.
λέξω τοίνυν βίον ἐξ ἀρχῆς ὃν ἐγὼ θνητοῖσι παρεῖχον.

εἰρήνη μὲν πρῶτον ἁπάντων ἦν ὥσπερ ὕδωρ κατὰ χειρός.
ἡ γῆ δ᾽ ἔφερ᾽ οὐ δέος οὐδὲ νόσους, ἀλλ᾽ αὐτόματ᾽ ἦν τὰ δέοντα·
οἴνῳ γὰρ ἅπας᾽ ἔρρει χαράδρα, μᾶζαι δ᾽ ἄρτοις ἐμάχοντο
περὶ τοῖς στόμασιν τῶν ἀνθρώπων ἱκετεύουσαι καταπίνειν,
εἴ τι φιλοῖεν, τὰς λευκοτάτας. οἱ δ᾽ ἰχθύες οἴκαδ᾽ ἰόντες
ἐξοπτῶντες σφᾶς αὐτοὺς ἂν παρέκειντ᾽ ἐπὶ ταῖσι τραπέζαις.
ζωμοῦ δ᾽ ἔρρει παρὰ τὰς κλίνας ποταμὸς κρέα θερμὰ κυλίνδων,
ὑποτριμματίων δ᾽ ὀχετοὶ τούτων τοῖς βουλομένοισι παρῆσαν,
ὥστ᾽ ἀφθονία τὴν ἔνθεσιν ἦν ἄρδονθ᾽ ἁπαλὴν καταπίνειν.
λεκανίσκαισιν δ᾽ +ἀνάπαιστα+ παρῆν ἡδυσματίοις κατάπαστα.
ὀπταὶ δὲ κίχλαι μετ᾽ ἀμητίσκων ἐς τὸν φάρυγ᾽ εἰσεπέτοντο·
τῶν δὲ πλακούντων ὠστιζομένων περὶ τὴν γνάθον ἦν ἀλαλητός·
μήτρας δἐ τόμοις καὶ χναυματίοις οἱ παῖδες ἂν ἠστραγάλιζον.
(Teleclides fr. 1 KA = Ath. 6.268a-d)
 For the theme, cf. Farioli 2001: 27– 137; Olson 2007: 99 – 105; Ruffell 2000, 2011: 386 – 93.
 For discussion of this play, cf. Ruffell 2000, Farioli 2001: 74– 91, Storey 2011: 3.288 – 93, Bagor-
do 2013: 43 – 104.
44 Stephen E. Kidd
As the other fragments from this section of Athenaeus show (he quotes from
some seven different comedies), this is all fairly stock comic description of the
golden age.⁷ The life of hedonistic feasting that comic utopias struggle to create
is simply already there in Schlaraffenland.
But although the food and drink are to be expected, this last line about
knucklebones is a little more striking: “the children played knucklebones with
leftover slices of sow’s womb.” Why knucklebones? On the one hand the trope
is clear enough: the speaker wishes to say that children in contemporary society
enjoy playing with knucklebones—the bones of course being the leftovers of a
feast—but in the past, food was in such plenty that it was not the leftover
bones children played with but the very best slices of meat: “sow’s womb” as Tel-
eclides’ character reports. In that sense, the trope could work in any number of
ways: Teleclides only needs to say something like “in the golden age, even the
bones were made of meat.”
On the other hand, this shift from feasting to playing with the bones seems a
natural one to make and Teleclides is not the only one to do it. Cratinus writes or
perhaps already had written something similar: according to Athenaeus, Crati-
nus had produced his Ploutoi before Teleclides’ play and so had inaugurated
this comic fantasy of the golden age—although it should be mentioned that
some modern estimates place the play as late as the early 420’s.⁸ From a number
of papyrus finds, the play purports to be about the Titan Wealth-Gods returning
to earth in search of a lost relative: while doing so, someone (perhaps the chorus
of Wealth-Gods) speaks of the past Golden Age of Cronus:
Those for whom Cronus was king in the old days,

when they played knucklebones with loaves of
bread, and Aeginetan barley-cakes, ripe and luxuriant in lumps, tumbled on the wrestling
grounds.
οἷς δὴ βασιλεὺς Κρόνος ἦν τὸ παλαιόν,

ὅτε τοῖς ἄρτοις ἠστραγάλιζον, μᾶζαι δ᾽ ἐν ταῖσι παλαίστραις
Αἰγιναῖαι κατεβέβληντο δρυπεπεῖς βώλοις τε κομῶσαι.
(Cratinus fr. 176 = Ath. 6.267e)
 Ath. 6.267e lists Cratinus’ Plutuses (fr. 176 KA), Crates’ Beasts (fr. 16 KA), Teleclides’ Amphicty-
ons (fr. 1 KA), Pherecrates, Miners (fr. 113 KA) and Persians (fr. 137 KA), Aristophanes’ Tagēnistai,
Metagenes’ Thuriopersians (fr. 6 KA), and Nicophon’s Sirens (fr. 21 KA). For the relationship be-
tween utopia and slavery in comedy (Athenaeus actually cites these passages during a discus-
sion over slavery), see Sells 2013: 102– 6.
 Storey 2011: 1.346– 7 for discussion; cf. Farioli (2001) 31– 57.
The sense of the trope is the same here as in Teleclides: there was such plenty
in the time of Cronus that even the bones were made of food (here loaves and
barley cakes fill the function rather than meat slices). But that the expression
should be made in the same way calls for some explanation, not so much
along the lines of allusion, which would not fully explain the issue, but rather
regarding the place of knucklebones in the conceptual space of a feast or, by ex-
tension, an imagined time of plenty. Why should such objects or activities be im-
agined into paradise, or as seems more likely, already be at hand when one set
out to imagine paradise?
The primary connection between feasting and knucklebones is that of the
victim and its parts. One might think of the wishbone of the Thanksgiving day
turkey—an American tradition with a medieval pedigree (with a goose not a tur-
key of course)⁹—only here one is dealing with the talus or ankle bone of hoofed
animals like a goat or a sheep.¹⁰ The ankle bone with its four-sides and uneven
nature is suited for throwing and games of chance. One comes across them in
festival contexts: in Plato’s Lysis, for example, Socrates first comes across the
title character among a group of boys throwing knucklebones after the sacrifice
in a festival of Hermes.¹¹ They were still in festival garb, Socrates reports (206e):
After entering [the palaistra grounds], I came upon the boys, who, having finished with the
sacrifice and pretty much all the ceremonial stuff, were throwing knucklebones, all dressed
up in their best clothes. Most were playing outside in the courtyard, but some were playing
“odds and evens” with a great deal of knucklebones in a corner of the dressing room,
choosing them from some baskets.
εἰσελθόντες δὲ κατελάβομεν αὐτόθι τεθυκότας τε τοὺς παῖδας καὶ τὰ περὶ τὰ ἱερεῖα σχεδόν
τι ἤδη πεποιημένα, ἀστραγαλίζοντάς τε δὴ καὶ κεκοσμημένους ἅπαντας οἱ μὲν οὖν πολλοὶ
ἐν τῇ αὐλῇ ἔπαιζον ἔξω, οἱ δέ τινες τοῦ ἀποδυτηρίου ἐν γωνίᾳ ἠρτίαζον ἀστραγάλοις παμ-
πόλλοις, ἐκ φορμίσκων τινῶν προαιρούμενοι…
Clearly not all knucklebones are fresh from the day’s victim—that would suggest
an enormous feast for this festival of Hermes. But still, there seems to be some
connection between knucklebones and the sacrificed victims of which they were
part. This may provide a clue as to why some adults and not just children are
found buried with knucklebones, some numbering into the hundreds: they are
 See Johannes Hartlieb’s (1456) discussion of St. Martin’s Day (The Book of All Forbidden Arts
ch. 79a, translated by Kieckhefer 2017 and discussed at 11).
 For the location of the astragalos, see Arist. HA 2.1, 499b with Nollé 2007: 7 for a picture and
discussion.
 For the context of this passage and the festival, see Bordt 1998 ad loc.
46 Stephen E. Kidd
not just knucklebones, but may be symbols of past sacrifices as well.¹² When the
comedians thus say “even the knucklebones were made of food back then” a
fuller gloss might read “although in festivals today children play with knuckle-
bones, in festivals back then children played with the best slices of meat” or in
the case of Cratinus, fine loaves of bread.
Paradise, at least as these comic fragments suggest, thus looks something
like a Greek festival or feast, where there is not just eating and drinking, but
the playing of games, for example, throwing knucklebones. If this is so, the pic-
ture should not be limited to children: games were part of many festival’s expect-
ed activities for adults as well. Lucian captures this spirit centuries later with his
description: “during [the festival] nothing serious nor business-like is permitted
to be engaged in, but only to drink and get drunk and yell and play and roll
dice…” (ἐν αὐταῖς δὲ ταῖς ἑπτὰ σπουδαῖον μὲν οὐδὲν οὐδὲ ἀγοραῖον διοικήσασθαί
μοι συγκεχώρηται, πίνειν δὲ καὶ μεθύειν καὶ βοᾶν καὶ παίζειν καὶ κυβεύειν…).¹³ He
is describing the Roman Saturnalia, of course, or as he calls it in Greek the Kro-
nia, but classical Athenians too had their own Kronia festival, theirs during the
harvest time, and if the “time of Kronus” fragments are any clue, Lucian’s de-
scription likely bore a resemblance.¹⁴ Another festival close in time to that of
the Kronia, that of Athena Skiras, also had some connection to dicing and gam-
bling, as a number of scholars have argued, since a word for both dicing and dic-
ing-houses is skirapheia. ¹⁵ At the Anthestheria meanwhile, there are some clues
from vase depictions that game play, for example, with knucklebones, was a fea-
ture of the festival.¹⁶ Games were likely spread also more informally among other
institutionalized festival features: Nick Fisher, for example, notes dice found in
the debris of the Odeion at Corinth which suggests that gaming went on during
the intervals between performances.¹⁷ Finally, there are a number of conceptual
 Cf. Simon 1986: 387 “the astragal might commemorate the sacrifice” quoted at Kurke 1999:
288 n. 82; Kurtz and Boardman 1971: 208 – 9 and Fisher 2004: 68 for a grave with 587 knuckle-
bones; for the man buried with 144 knucklebones, see below note.
 Lucian Sat. 2.10 – 11.
 For dicing at the Saturnalia, cf. Martial 4.14.7, 5.84.3, 11.6.2; Suet Aug. 71.1 with Purcell 1995;
for the Athenian Kronia, cf. Demosth. 24.26 with Σ ad loc., Philochoros, FGrH 328 F 97, Plut. Thes.
12.1 with Versnel 1990: 2.99 – 35 and Bremmer 2004: 43 – 46; for connections (and differences)
between the Roman Saturnalia and the Greek Kronia, cf. Versnel 2.136 – 46, Graf 2015: 87– 9.
 For the Skira festival, see Pollux 9.96 – 7 with Burkert 1983: 143 – 9 and Fisher 2004: 72– 4.
 For Choes vase depictions of knucklebones and games, see Van Hoorn cat. nos. 244, 298, 573,
629 with Fisher 2004: 68 for the idea that these depictions do “not necessarily demonstrate that
these games were played specifically during the Anthesteria, but it remains a reasonable possi-
bility.”
 Fisher 2004: 74 n. 70.
links between festivals and play. Aristotle speaks of that freedom from anger
one experiences in contexts of “play, laughter, festival…” (Rhet. 1380b3: ἐν παι-
διᾷ, ἐν γέλωτι, ἐν ἑορτῇ…) while the very word that Plato’s Athenian uses to
describe festivals is “forms of play”: “certain forms of play,” he says, “sacrificing
and singing and dancing” (τινὰς δὴ παιδιάς, θύοντα καὶ ᾄδοντα καὶ ὀρχούμενον,
Laws 7.803e).¹⁸ One might go so far as to say that what one does at a festival is
almost by definition rather like what one does at smaller scale banquets or sym-
posia: one eats, one drinks, and one plays.¹⁹
This festival landscape, it seems, is what paradise looks like. Like Pindar’s
paradise where the landscape is “heavy with golden-fruit trees, with some taking
pleasure in horses, others in playing board games, others with their lyres”²⁰ so
too the comic fragments make it clear: one eats, and one drinks in paradise,
yes: but one also plays dice.
2 No Dicing in Utopia
Paradise, lands of plenty, and the festivals that arise out of them, embrace dicing
and such games as expected features in the landscape. By contrast, utopias tend
to be rather choosy in regards to what sorts of games, if any, are to be allowed
among the citizens. It was already seen how More banished dicing repeatedly
from his Utopia, and ancient social ideals were no different.
Take, for example, Praxagora’s city in the Assembly Women, at least as she
first describes it. Among the social banes that she will sweep away with her rad-
ical reforms is dicing. No more lawsuits, she says, no more crime, and when Ble-
pyrus asks (672): “So there also won’t be any gambling with dice?” Praxagora
answers “No, because what will they use for stakes?” (Βλ. οὐδὲ κυβεύσουσ’
 For the connection between ‘play’ and ‘festival’, cf. Pind. Ol. 1.16 – 17, Herod. 3.55 (where
paignia is ‘a feast’ holiday), 9.11 (Ὑακίνθιά τε ἄγετε καὶ παίζετε); Aristoph. Lys. 700 (with Σ ad
loc: παιγνίαν· ἑορτήν); Pl. Phaedr. 276b (for the sake of “play and festival”), Rep. 2.365a (διὰ
θυσιῶν καὶ παιδιᾶς ἡδονῶν), Leg. 2.657d (παιδιᾷ τε καὶ ἑορτάσει); Men. Sam. 41– 2 (τῆς δ᾽ ἑορτῆς
παιδιὰν πολλὴν ἐχούσης), Epitr. 478 (where συνέπαιζεν refers to participation in the festival Tau-
ropolia).
 For this trinity, cf. Aristoboulos FGrH 139 F 9a (= Ath. 530c), Phoenix Iambs fr. 1 (231– 2 Po-
well = Ath. 530f10 – 11); cf. cf. Amphis Gunaikokratia fr. 8 KA = Ath. 8.336c; Ion Chi. 27.7 West;
Lattimore 1962, 260 – 3. For ‘play’ as the activity of the symposium, Theog. 567– 70; Pind.
Ol. 1.16 – 17, Hermipp. Theoi fr. 24 KA, Pl. Phaedr. 276d, Ps.-Pl. Minos 320a, Xen. Symp. 2.26.7 (παι-
γνιωδέστερον); Hedylus 5 GP.
 I will quote this passage in full below. For the utopian themes of Pyth. 10 and Olymp. 10, see
Morgan in this volume.
48 Stephen E. Kidd
ἆρ’ ἅνθρωποι; / Πρ. περὶ τοῦ γὰρ τοῦτο ποιήσει;). As with the comic fragments
discussed earlier, the initial point here is simple enough: if money becomes
meaningless in a communist utopia, gambling too will become meaningless.
There is nothing to gain or lose because everyone has everything already in
“plenty” (aphthona is her word at 690). The disappearance of dicing, for her,
is as natural a consequence of communism as the disappearance of thievery.
But Praxagora’s banishment of dicing is more than a consequence of com-
munism: it is a marker of dicing as a fourth-century BCE social ill similar to
More’s descriptions of the banes of sixteenth-century society. Dicing, like the
crime and lawsuits which precede it in this passage, was a perceived societal dis-
ease that was commonly wished away, even if not in explicitly utopian texts. So,
for example, in Xenophon’s Oeconimicus, Socrates discusses the forces that con-
trol the idle man, and singles out “certain mistresses disguised as pleasures, dice
games and useless associations of men, which… prevent them from useful work
by ruling them…” (καὶ ἄλλαι δ᾽εἰσὶν ἀπατηλαί τινες δέσποιναι προσποιούμεναι
ἡδοναὶ εἶναι, κυβεῖαί τε καὶ ἀνωφελεῖς ἀνθρώπων ὁμιλίαι, αἳ… διακωλύουσιν αὐ-
τοὺς ἀπὸ τῶν ὠφελίμων ἔργων κρατοῦσαι, 1.19 – 20). In the Memorabilia, Socra-
tes is reported to have taught that work is good and idleness bad: among the
“idle” he singles out “dicers” (τοὺς δὲ κυβεύοντας ἤ τι ἄλλο πονηρὸν καὶ ἐπιζή-
μιον ποιοῦντας ἀργοὺς ἀπεκάλει, 1.2.57). One finds similar sentiments in other
fourth-century writers like Isocrates, Lysias, and Alcidamus.²¹ In comedy too,
the sentiment is widespread: in Wasps, for example, a “love of dice” is listed
among the diseases discussed at the beginning of the play, while later in Wealth
the god laments about being wasted on dice, and how he must leave such hous-
es as soon as he enters.²²
Thus, when Praxagora says there will be no more dicing in her utopia, this
reflects a general social disdain of dicing: she seems not to have been the only
one to wish dicing out of some better society. Even Aristotle who finds a limited
place for “play” (paidia) in the good life of the Politics and Nicomachean Ethics
seems to echo the typical dangers.²³ One reason why the good life cannot consist
of play and games, he argues, is that “people are harmed from them more than
they are improved, neglecting their bodies and possessions” (βλάπτονται γὰρ
ἀπ᾽ αὐτῶν μᾶλλον ἢ ὠφελοῦνται, ἀμελοῦντες τῶν σωμάτων καὶ τῆς κτήσεως,
 Cf. Isoc. Antid. 287, Lys. 14.27, Aeschines In Tim. 53, Alcidam. Odyss. 27; for discussion of
these passages and their negative treatment of dicing see especially Kurke (1999) 283 – 95, Fisher
(2004) 68 – 75.
 Wasps 75 (philokubos) and Wealth 242– 44, respectively.
 For general treatments of Aristotle views on play, cf. Gauthier and Jolif, 1958: 872– 9, Solmsen
1964, Kidd 2016.
EN 10.1176b10 – 11). This sounds a lot like Xenophon’s Socrates regarding estate
management and the deplorable role of ameleia and dicing (1.20), to say nothing
of that stock character of fourth-century oratory: the man who has diced away
his inheritance, or, in the case of Aeschines’ Timarchus, even more.²⁴
Dicing, then, has no place in an ideal society by fourth-century standards.
Like crime and lawsuits it is something wished away. In the next section,
I will pose the question that obviously follows—namely why dicing has no
place in an ideal society—but before doing so, it is worth observing something
particular about comedy when it comes to utopia. Assembly Women, for all its
utopianism, ultimately resembles, and must resemble a typical comic paradise,
where citizens eat, get drunk, and have sex. A Xenophonian scourge of vices
like drunkenness and idleness or an Aristotelian appeal to the joys of contempla-
tion, in lieu of the inebriated festive ending, could only be met with disappointed
jeers from a comic audience, no matter how useful such morals would be for a
utopian program. Comedy would thus seem to resist, almost by generic necessi-
ty, any full commitment to utopian restructuring, since a thorough purge of the
vices typically wished out of society would threaten the fantastic hedonism that
the comic genre demands.²⁵ Yet, the prohibition on dicing remains for the Assem-
bly Women and it is surely to be located among the play’s utopian elements: it is
difficult, after all, to imagine a place for dicing in other utopian texts, for exam-
ple, the Kallipolis of the Republic, where all poetry and music (typical forms of
“play,” paidia, for Plato) have been drastically reduced to only the most virtuous
and self-improving kind.²⁶ Even in the Laws, where the Athenian famously re-
marks that the Magnesian citizens’ lives ought to be spent in play, that “play”
consists of a similarly reduced repertoire of songs and dances in praise of
arete and the divine.²⁷ Although it is never made explicit in such texts, one
might assume, following Praxagora’s lead, that when it comes to dicing, a
fourth-century utopia would resemble More’s, namely a place where citizens,
to quote More again, “do not so much as know dice, or any such foolish and ru-
inous games.”
 Cf. Lys. 14.27, Aeschin. In Tim. 42 with Kurke 1999: 284; cf. Arist. Wasps 75 regarding Amynias
with MacDowell 1971 ad loc.; Columella, Rust. 8.2.5 pignus aleae in reference to Greeks losing
their inheritance at cock-fights.
 For other views on utopia’s relationship to comedy beyond those already cited, cf. Heberlein
1980, López Eire 1984, Konstan and Dillon 1981, Konstan 1995: 15 – 90; Zeitlin 1999, Ceccarelli
2000, Amati 2010.
 For Plato’s usage of play to cover music and dance, cf. Soph. 234a, Pol. 288c, Laws 2.666a-c,
673c-d, 6.771e, 764e.
 For good overview of these themes in the Laws, see Prauscello 2014: 105 – 51.
50 Stephen E. Kidd
3 Why the Disjunction?

Utopia thus erases what Paradise preserves, at least when it comes to dice. What
can be the explanation for this disjunction? If it has been noticed that in the two
comic fragments, knucklebones are mentioned while Praxagora specifies kuboi
or six-sided dice, one might recall Leslie Kurke’s influential idea about a negative
ideology surrounding kuboi as opposed to the positively-charged astragaloi. ²⁸
Maybe, one might argue, the issue is not so much about dicing, but six-sided
dice, kuboi, and so there is no disjunction after all: for both places, astragaloi
are permitted, but not kuboi. But as I have argued elsewhere what has been per-
ceived as an ideology against six-sided dice is actually just a negative ideology
against gambling.²⁹ It is not just the well-attested fact that knucklebones were
often gambled with, but that the very word for “gamble” in Greek is kubeuō.
So, perhaps then, it is this issue of kubeia in the sense of “gambling” that
provides the reason for the divide between utopia and paradise: what utopias
are out to erase is not “foolish” games per se, but rather the gambling that
such games are involved in and the financial destruction they cause. This is real-
ly the sense of Praxagora’s use of kubeuō and surely it is this aspect of dicing
that bothered More so much as one of the quotations above suggested.³⁰
Yet even here, it is debatable whether gambling is really the whole problem.
It is not just that Lucian and others include gambling into the temporary para-
dise of the festival, it is rather that these fourth-century thinkers when they at-
tack dicing and such games hardly mention money at all. Xenophon’s Socrates,
for example, zeroes in on moral issues like idleness (argia) and softness (mala-
kia): such gatherings of men are “useless” he writes (1.19 – 20) and such games,
he explains, keep the men from “useful work” (αἳ διακωλύουσιν αὐτοὺς ἀπὸ τῶν
ὠφελίμων ἔργων). Similarly with Aristotle, as was seen, he conflates gambling
with other forms of paidia as if there were really no ultimate distinction between
the two when it comes to questions of the good life (eudaimonia).³¹ All forms of
play fall short, he goes on to say, since they lack that important element of seri-
 Kurke 1999: 283 – 95.

 Kidd 2017.
 See above notes 1 and 2.
 See Aristotle EN 10.6, 1176b9 – 1177a11. I consider EN 10.6, 1176b10 – 11 (quoted above) a ref-
erence to gambling, although it need not be reduced to gambling.
ousness (spoudē): the real activities of leisure ought to be contemplation or in

the Politics that leisure pursuit opposed to play which he calls diagōgē. ³²
When one considers ancient utopias in light of More’s, it seems that leisure
time ought somehow to be “useful” to use Xenophon’s word. Work is not the goal
—Plato, Aristotle, and More agree—work is for the sake of leisure time, just as
war is for the sake of peace, and so utopias focus themselves and their innova-
tive efficiencies around that ultimate goal. But that achieved leisure time is not
to be spent in idleness, but in improving the soul and self. Consider the reasons
for listening to that reduced repertoire of hymns in the Republic, the reasons for
dancing and singing in the virtuous choruses of the Laws, the reasons for Aris-
totle’s rejection of “play” in favor of contemplation, or, in the case of More, the
reasons for the citizens’ spending their leisure hours listening to public lec-
tures.³³
Dicing and such “foolish games” are erased from certain forms of utopian
thinking, it seems, ultimately not for financial reasons, but for the reason that
such play is not “useful” for anything: there is no self-improvement or increase
in virtue to be won through the repeated act of rolling dice. It is simply a waste of
time. Along these lines, it perhaps should be added that More’s Utopians do have
two games to play in their leisure time, both it seems of the “useful” or “self-im-
proving” variety: one is explicitly described as a battle between virtue and vice.³⁴
4 The Underworld
What, then, of utopia’s doppelganger, paradise? One suspects that it does not set
such a high premium on goods like “usefulness” or “self-improvement.” But to
approach this idea, it is necessary to turn to one final landscape where dicing is
depicted. In the leskhē (leisure center) of the Cnidians at Delphi, a place where
games of all sorts were likely to have been played, there was a famous painting
by Polygnotus, the Nekuia, from the 460’s BCE.³⁵ How it managed to remain there
continuously from that period to the period when Pausanias describes it some
 For the importance of “seriousness” as a criterion for rejecting play, cf. EN 10.6, 1176b32– 34
and 1177a2– 5 with Gastaldi 1987 and Schottländer 1980, for the term’s range in Aristotle; for
contemplation, EN 10.8, 1178b21 ff with Gauthier and Jolif 1958 ad loc.; for diagōgē, see
Pol. 8.3, 1337b33 – 1338a30 with Lord 1982: 56 – 7, Nightingale 2001: 167, Kidd 2016: 360, and Des-
trée 2018.
 Logan, Adams, Miller 2004: 127.
 Logan, Adams, Miller 2004: 129.
 For overview and reconstruction of this painting, see Stansbury-O’Donnell 1990.
52 Stephen E. Kidd
six centuries later, is unclear. Nevertheless, he describes this underworld paint-

ing in detail, including, among other scenes, two scenes of dice playing.
He describes first the part of the painting where the daughters of Pandareus
are depicted (10.30.2): “Polygnotus has painted [these girls] as crowned with
flowers and playing with knucklebones, and gives them the names of Cameiro
and Clytie” (Πολύγνωτος δὲ κόρας τε ἐστεφανωμένας ἄνθεσι καὶ παιζούσας
ἔγραψεν ἀστραγάλοις, ὄνομα δὲ αὐταῖς Καμειρώ τε καὶ Κλυτίη…).³⁶ Here is a
symbolism of innocence with these unmarried girls since knucklebones are so
often counted among childhood toys: these girls play in an eternal childhood.³⁷
This astragaloi scene resembles another eternal dice game which Pausanias de-
scribes in the upper part of the painting (10.30.1): “If you turn your gaze again to
the upper part of the painting, you see… Salaminian Ajax, and also Palamedes
and Thersites playing with dice, the invention of Palamedes; the other Ajax is
looking at them as they play” (εἰ δὲ ἀπίδοις πάλιν ἐς τὸ ἄνω τῆς γραφῆς,
ἔστιν… Αἴας ὁ ἐκ Σαλαμῖνος, καὶ Παλαμήδης τε καὶ Θερσίτης κύβοις χρώμενοι
παιδιᾷ, τοῦ Παλαμήδους τῷ εὑρήματι…). Whether these heroes are gambling
or whether Pausanias is deliberately avoiding the verb kubeuō to suggest they
are not, is uncertain. But either way one cannot help but think of Praxagoras’
question about kubeia for her ideal city: “what would they use for stakes?”
It would be rash to suggest that these are depictions of paradise, especially
regarding this latter group of heroes. Nonetheless these depictions of eternal
games of dice in the afterlife put the paradise-vs.-utopia question into a certain
light. What can self-improvement or maintenance of the soul mean in the after-
life when time has come to an end and the structure of tomorrow or a better to-
morrow has no meaning? Faced with the absurdity of self-improvement in the
afterlife, frivolous games like rolling dice begin to hold their own. The pleasures
of the moment become the good because the moment is the only conceivable
unit of time left.³⁸
Outside of Polygnotus’ painting, games were an established part of the after-
life, at least the afterlife that many hoped for. So Pindar’s depiction of paradise,
which was already partly quoted, is of course the afterlife from one of his threnoi
(fr. 129 Maehler):
 For whom, see Hom. Od. 20.66 – 78.

 Amandry 1984; Dolansky 2012: 274 for the Roman custom of dedicating dolls before mar-
riage.
 For the continuation of philosophy in the underworld, cf. Plat. Apol. 41b, Arist. Protrep. B43
with Horn in this volume. But the conclusion reached at Phaed. 67a-b suggests more of the prob-
lem I am interested here: if death gives access to “truth”, what is a philosopher left to do?
For these [i. e. the good people] the sun shines down on the night there below, and their
suburb [lies] in meadows of red roses and incense of shady… is heavy with golden-fruit
trees, and some take pleasure in horses, others in playing boardgames, others with their
lyres, and among them lovely-flowered prosperity is in bloom.
τοῖσι λάμπει μὲν μένος ἀελίου

τὰν ἐνθάδε νύκτα κάτω,
φοινικορόδοις <δ’> ἐνὶ λειμώνεσσι προάστιον αὐτῶν
καὶ λιβάνων σκιαρᾶν < >
καὶ χρυσοκάρποισιν βέβριθε <δενδρέοις>
καὶ τοὶ μὲν ἵπποις γυμνασίοισι <τε––>
τοὶ δὲ πεσσοῖς
τοὶ δὲ φορμίγγεσσι⸥ τέρποντα⸤ι, παρὰ δέ σφισιν
εὐανθὴς ἅπας τέθ⸥αλεν ὄλβος·
These happy creatures of the afterlife playing pessoi are not so far removed from
the blessed citizens of comedy’s Schlarrafenland who roll astragaloi. The strug-
gles of life are at an end for both, and what remains is the life of enjoyment: ter-
pontai being Pindar’s word. What does such eternal enjoyment mean in the con-
crete? Playing a boardgame.³⁹
This may provide one reason why not just Greek childen but many Greek
adults, at least in the archaic period, were buried with their games—really a
wide-spread Mediterranean practice. A grave in Attica dating to the middle of
the seventh century BCE contains a miniature terracotta gaming table along
with a cubic die;⁴⁰ two other sixth century graves in Athens also contain such
miniature gaming tables with dice.⁴¹ Emily Vermeule refers further to a number
of graves where people are buried along with their cubic dice, and recently Hel-
lenistic burials have been added to the list.⁴² Knucklebones too are regularly
found in burials, not just for women and children, but men as well, for example,
the man from Gordion who was buried with 144 of them.⁴³ Similarly the nearly
200 vases which depict Ajax and Achilles playing a boardgame with dice are al-
most all from Etruscan tombs, with some painters making rather explicit the
 Cf. the good life of the underworld in Aristoph. Frogs 318 – 19 (οἱ μεμυημένοι | ἐνταῦθά που
παίζουσιν) with Dover 1993: 57– 9 for the recurrence of this word in the chorus’s songs; Pl.
Rep. 10.614e for the ‘festival’ connection (οἷον ἐν πανηγύρει) in his own description, while earlier
(2.363c – d) the drunken symposium of the underworld is ascribed to Orphic belief.
 Kallipolite 1963: 123 – 4; pls. 53 – 55.
 See Kübler 1970: 394– 5, 512– 13, cat. no. 129, Schädler 2008: 175, 180 (which has images of
two of the three).
 Vermeule 1979: 79 – 80; for dice finds in Hellenistic burials, see Nankov 2013.
 Vermeule 1979: 78 n. 75. For the woman buried with 587 knucklebones, see above note.
54 Stephen E. Kidd
death themes already lurking in Exekias’ early version.⁴⁴ The Greeks, like many
ancient cultures, took their games with them.⁴⁵
5 Conclusions
When one considers the games of the afterlife, it becomes clearer why dicing is a
feature of the landscape of paradise but erased from the landscapes of utopia.
Self-improvement, self-maintenance, the betterment of the soul: these are
goals for utopia, while they can only be absurdities for paradise. Without time
there can be no goal-oriented structures. It is as if when we ask of paradise
“what do we do when we get there?” the answer seems to be that we eat,
drink, and play. When we ask of utopia “what do we do when we get there?”
the answer seems to be “we try to get there.” This is not to say that utopia is
merely a vague reflection of paradise—as if the recipe for utopia were just para-
dise plus scarcity—or that utopian thinkers somehow misunderstood the nature
of the fantasy, rather like people who fantasize into their lottery winnings the
need to pay taxes. Rather it is the reverse. An endless game of dice strikes not
just us but many of those fourth-century thinkers as a hell not a heaven, and
this anxiety underlies utopia’s appeal. It is not that behind every utopia lies a
paradise, but rather that behind every paradise lies a utopia, as if pleasure
were not some end, but a mere cypher tricking us into to getting some place fur-
ther.
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Thornton C. Lockwood
What Thomas More learned from Herodotus
about Utopia
1 A Utopian Reading List

Thomas More reports that Raphael Hythloday introduced the islanders of Utopia
to the literature of the Greeks. Although Hythloday did not bother with Latin au-
thors (since aside from its poets and historians he thought there was nothing in
that language that they would value), on his fourth voyage to the island he pro-
vided them with a small library. To wit,
Thus they received from me most of Plato’s works and more of Aristotle’s, as well as Theo-
phrastus’ book On Plants, though the latter, I’m sorry to say, was somewhat mutilated….-
They are very fond of Plutarch’s writings, and delighted with the witty persiflage of Lucian.
Among the poets they have Aristophanes, Homer and Euripides, together with Sophocles in
the small typeface of the Aldine edition. Of the historians they possess Thucydides and Her-
odotus, as well as Herodian. (II: 75 – 76)¹
That Hythloday decides to include Herodotus amongst the twelve authors that
comprise his Canon of the classical Greek corpus suggests that he (or More)
placed tremendous value on Herodotus as a source of wisdom for the Utopians.
But Herodotus’ inclusion on the Utopian reading list invites the question: What is
it in Herodotus’ Histories that the Utopians should learn?
In order to determine what the Utopians (or Thomas More himself) learned
from Herodotus, I want to consider a related question, which is whether we
should think of Herodotus in any way as a utopian political theorist. Although
the Histories records important political events in Archaic Greece, such as the
constitutional reforms of Lycurgus and Cleisthenes (2.65 – 66, 5.66 – 69) or the
emergence of the tyranny of Peisistratus in Athens (1.59 – 64), the accounts are
brief and not especially focused on constitutional details.² Familiar, too, is Her-
 For references to More’s Utopia I quote from Logan et al. 2002, with Roman numerals indicat-
ing book and Arabic numbers indicating pages; for the Latin text, I use Logan et al. 1995. Clay
and Purvis 1999: 11– 15 examines the other authors on the Utopian reading list for their signifi-
cance.
 For references to Herodotus’ Histories, I quote from Grene 1987 (with occasional adaptation),
using Arabic numbers for book and paragraphs; for the Greek text I use Hude 1927. Bloomer 1993
argues that Herodotus identifies superlative nomoi as instances of the deeds and wonders that
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-004
58 Thornton C. Lockwood
odotus’ praise of Athens and Sparta: That it was the former, who through self-
government, was ultimately the savior of Greece against the Persians (5.78,
7.139). Or, in the words of Demaratus, that the latter grounded their freedom
and courage in their obedience to law (7.102, 7.104, 7.209). Nonetheless, the
only political or utopian theorizing in the work appears to be the three para-
graphs that make up the “constitutional debate” in which Persian usurpers—in-
cluding the future king Darius—consider the respective merits of isonomia, oligar-
chy, and monarchy (3.80 – 82). My question—whether Herodotus is a utopian
political theorist—seems rather quickly answered in the negative. Such a verdict,
I will argue, is premature. No doubt, when modern thinkers political theorize—in
utopian or pragmatic fashion—their written products look like Aristotle’s prose
(or that of Rawls) much more than anything that what one finds in Herodotus.
But it would be historically chauvinistic to deny Herodotus the status of a polit-
ical theorist solely because he does not share our modern analytical or rhetorical
framework. Aeschylus’ tragedies, Aristophanes’ comedies, Xenophon and Plato’s
dialogues, and Aristotle’s lectures also theorize about politics albeit from the
perspective of very different genres, but that is just to note that “political theo-
rizing” in 5th and 4th Century Greece is a much richer and more varied intellectual
phenomenon than it is today. Reflection on Herodotus as a political thinker in-
vites salutary reflection on the narrowness of our own notions of political theory.
The accuracy of applying the term “utopian” to Herodotus depends upon
one’s understanding of utopianism. To use the language of Manuel and Manuel
1979, although there are “wellsprings” of utopian thought in classical authors,
the concept of utopia is Thomas More’s patrimony (12– 13).³ What More intends
by the term is elucidated by Anemolius’ “Six Lines on the Island of Utopia” (one
of the ancillary materials that More published with Utopia), which captures at
least two of the most important senses of the term:
“No Place” (utopia) was once my name, I lay so far (ob infrequentiam);
But now with Plato’s state I can compare,
Perhaps outdo her (for what he only drew
In empty words I have made live anew
In men and wealth, as well as splendid laws):
“The Good Place” (eutopia) they should call me, with good cause. (Logan 1995: 14)
the proem of the Histories identify as worthy of preservation. Although that claim is not incon-
sistent with my own views about Herodotus’ theoretical or normative exempla, it fails to do jus-
tice to the ethical or political significance of some of those superlatives.
 Clay and Purvis 1999 note that “until 1516, there was no such place and no such thing as uto-
pian literature” (1); nonetheless, they too detect the roots of More’s utopian insights in passages
from Herodotus (4, 162– 65, 168 – 172).
By “utopia” More seems to mean both an especially good place, but I think
equally one which in some profound sense is “infrequent,” other, or “no
place.” Anemolius (or More) certainly thought that the best constitution of Pla-
to’s Republic was in some sense an exercise in utopian political theorizing and
I think a good case can be made for also locating such utopian reflection in Her-
odotus’ Histories. Throughout the first four books of the Histories he examines
the social and political customs of peoples from around the known world that
I think are utopian in both of More’s senses of the term. Admittedly, Herodotus
presents his stories as chronicles that either he himself has observed or that he
has learned about from others (1.5) whereas More’s Utopia, literary contrivances
notwithstanding, is a work in speculative theorizing about political and social
institutions.⁴ Nonetheless, More’s apparent borrowings from Herodotus and
his inclusion of Herodotus on the Utopian reading list suggest to me that More
learned something important about utopia from Herodotus.
My chapter argues that Herodotus’ reflections on the political and social cus-
toms of distant peoples warrants the classification of him as a political utopian
thinker who had much to teach the residents of More’s island of Utopia. In the
first part of my chapter, I argue that although Herodotus shows a lack of interest
in the constitutional organization of political communities, his keenness for ex-
amining cultural institutions with political significance warrants us calling his
work “political.” In the second part of my chapter, I argue that Herodotus is
more than a mere chronicler of political institutions insofar as he provides a
“market” of political institutions that he not only describes but evaluates, all
of which are decidedly “no where.” Herodotus’ depiction of political mores
and customs to his contemporary audience warrants us describing him as a po-
litical theorist, regardless of his remarks about cultural relativism. In the third
part of my chapter, I argue that we should consider Herodotus a qualified utopi-
an political theorist because of his reflections on Archaic Greek colonization and
his contrast of superlative and deficient political constitutions and customs. Fi-
nally, in my conclusion I argue that More’s own practice of utopian theorizing
may deflate some of the tension between utopian and non-utopian political
thought, a lesson I think he learned more from Herodotus than Plato.
 As Rist 2016 shows, More’s Utopia raises a host of exegetical and philosophical questions in
its own right. Although I dwell upon some of the tensions in More’s work in the conclusion of my
chapter, my chapter is ultimately focused on Herodotus rather than More.
2 Is Herodotus’ Histories Political?

As Sara Forsdyke notes, prominent in the interpretation of Herodotus’ Histories is
a strand of scholarship that dismisses him as “a naïve storyteller who had no
deep (sic) of understanding of (or interest in) politics” (Forsdyke 2006: 224).⁵ Al-
though Herodotus reports a number of historical events that are central to the
development of Archaic Greek political institutions, his interest in them is admit-
tedly selective. Take, for instance, his analysis of autocratic rule in Athens in the
6th century under Peisistratus and his sons (c. 560 – 539 BCE), an example of a
more general Archaic political development in which autocratic rulers or “ty-
rants” established political power with populist appeals amidst infighting
among aristocratic families.⁶ Herodotus reports to us the factional squabbling
—between men of the coast, the plain, and the hills—that presented the oppor-
tunity for Peisistratus’ seizure of power and his three different coups. But Hero-
dotus seems more interested in details such as Peisistratus entering Athens with
Phya (during the 2nd coup in 539 BCE), masquerading as Athena, because of the
light that it sheds on purportedly sagacious Athenian judgment [1.59 – 64]). Un-
like, say, the account of Peisistratus in the Athenian Constitution, in Herodotus
there is little discussion of his populism, his economic or tax policies, his build-
ing program, his transformation of the magistrates, or analysis about why his
reign (unlike his sons) was long-lived.⁷
At first glance, Herodotus’ selectivity concerning Peisistratus suggests an al-
most tawdry interest in the fabulous details of his ascensions to power (for in-
stance, his self-inflected wounds, his use of theatrical trickery, or the “uncusto-
mary” treatment of his Alcmaeonid wife). But the family of the Peisistratids are
part of much larger—and quite politically attuned—narrative that runs almost
the length of the Histories. Herodotus is especially sensitive to the place of the
Alcmaeonid family in the development of Athenian political institutions and
clearly the Peisistratids are a sort of foil to them (6.123).⁸ Further, the Peisistratids
are re-occurring characters, as it were, in the broader narrative of Athenian dem-
 Forsdyke evinces Victor Ehrenburg, who comments on 5.67 (the discussion of Cleisthenes’ re-
forms) that Herodotus “had no discriminating knowledge of political and constitutional issues”
(224).
 Dewald 2003 contextualizes Herodotus’ complex treatment of Archaic tyranny, of which the
Peisistratids are but one dynastic example.
 The closest Herodotus comes to such an analysis is his claim that Peisistratus “in no way de-
ranged the existing magistracies or the ordinances but governed the city well and truly accord-
ing to the laws that were established” (5.59); cf. Ath. Const. 13.5, 16.1– 9.
 See further Fornara 1971: 54– 57 and Moles 2002: 37– 42.
ocratic freedom. As Herodotus notes, it is only after Athens sheds its Archaic tyr-
anny that it begins to manifest the strengths and virtues of self-rule (5.78). The
sons of Peisistratus also are ever waiting in the wings, hoping to be re-installed
by the Persians either at the battle of Marathon, or upon Xerxes succession to the
throne, or at the siege of the acropolis (5.65, 6.107, 7.6, 8.52). Although it may be
fair to say that books V – IX of the Histories are less focused upon the constitu-
tional details of political change (hence barely a single paragraph each on the
reforms of Solon and Cleisthenes [1.29, 5.66]), it seems equally selective to char-
acterize the work’s sweeping narrative about the development of Athenian free-
dom as being insufficiently “political.”
The analysis of non-Greek customs in the first four books of the Histories is
especially sensitive to social and political customs and furnishes a political an-
thropology with extensive details—something unimaginable for a thinker with
“no discriminating knowledge of political and constitutional issues” (Forsdyke:
244).⁹ Indeed, Herodotus and More share similar outlooks and interests in the
social and political customs of political philosophizing. Although More describes
the organization of offices on his island (II: 43 – 48, 82– 83), he spends far more
time discussing their socio-political customs, such as their labor practices (II:
48 – 53), their system of distributing goods (II: 53 – 58), their systems of commerce
(II: 58 – 63), their attitudes towards marriage and burial (II: 78 – 81), their foreign
policy and military organization (II: 83 – 93), and their religious beliefs and litur-
gical practices (II: 93 – 107). Rather than think of either More or Herodotus as in-
sufficiently “political,” I would suggest that both authors challenge us to think of
politically significant factors of a society that extend beyond constitutional spec-
ifications or the organization of political offices.
In the first four books of the Histories, Herodotus surveys at length the cus-
toms and practices of several major societies, including Persia, Babylon, Egypt,
Scythia, and Libya (the latter two include numerous smaller social entities or
groupings). Several political themes predominate across his analyses. First, sev-
eral logoi raise the problem of cultural assimilation and the permeability of so-
cietal boundaries. At one end of the extreme are the Scythians, who execute their
ruler Anacharsis for daring to practice Hellenic religions and dress in its attire
(4.76 – 77); at the other end of the spectrum are the Persians, whom, Herodotus
reports, welcome foreign customs more than any other peoples (including the
practice of Greek pederasty [1.135]); somewhere in between lies the case of
Egypt, which initially eschews Greek practices (2.91; cf. 2.154), but which,
 Although my analysis is oriented by parallels between More and Herodotus, Ward 2008 also
argues that the cultural logoi in books I–IV are the basis for Herodotus’ political philosophizing.
under the reign of the philhellenic king Amasis, establishes the port of Naucratis
for Greek merchants and conducts alliances with the Theran colony at Cyrēnē
(2.178 – 82). As Thucydides reminds us in Pericles’ funeral oration (2.39), the
question of assimilation speaks more broadly to the openness of a society,
with Athens and Sparta located at extremes of such a spectrum. Such openness
(or its lack) determines the political freedoms and social trust within a society.
A second socio-political theme that Herodotus chronicles in several logoi is
the question of the malleability of social, political, and gender roles. Herodotus
points out that Egyptian gender roles are the opposite of those practiced in
Greece; everything from whether a specific gender identifies with the household
or the public sphere to whether one urinates standing up or sitting is reversed in
Egypt, which suggests that gender roles are enormously flexible (2.35). Although
Socrates in the Republic makes clear that his “female drama” is controversial for
an Athenian audience (Rep. 5.449c–451c), Herodotus reports numerous societies
in which women are held in common (1.216, 4.104, 4.172, 4.180, 4.203) and several
in which men and women practice gender-egalitarianism (4.26, 4.112). Political
equality (or more precisely, political inequality) is also a matter of flexibility:
Herodotus tells the story of the 7th century Median king Dēiocēs whom he claims
was the first to establish political authority through the construction (literally) of
a multi-walled palace at Ecbatana. Herodotus observes
When all was built, Dēiocēs was the first who established this ceremony: that no one what-
soever should have admittance to the king, but that all should be transacted through mes-
sengers and that the king should be seen by none; moreover, to laugh or to spit in the royal
presence was shameful for all alike. These solemnities he contrived around his own person
so that those who were his equals and of the same age, brought up with him, and of de-
scent as good, and as brave as he, might not, seeing him, be vexed and take to plotting
against him but would judge him to be someone grown quite different—and all because
they did not see him. (1.99)¹⁰
The story of Amasis’ ascent—one I will examine at greater length in part III of my
chapter—represents the same phenomenon (2.172).¹¹ Although it is true that mal-
leability is not a constitutional feature of a society, the possibility of constitution-
al change or reform is a function of political malleability.
A third socio-political theme that Herodotus focuses upon in several logoi is
the question of land distribution and economic inequality. As Hadas points out,
 Contrast Dēiocēs’ establishment of political authority with Egyptian inability to live without
a king (2.147).
 Atack 2020: 13 – 38 explores at length the place of Dēiocēs and Amasis as examples of Her-
odotean monarchs.
it is quite likely that More’s depiction of the Utopian attitude towards silver and
gold—Utopians use the metals only for chamber pots, shackles for slaves, and
jewelry to mark criminals (II: 60 – 61)—is adapted from Herodotus’ depiction of
the Ethiopian use of golden fetters for their prisoners (3.22– 23; cf. 3.130).¹² But
Herodotus the political anthropologist also keenly observes the practices of
land distribution in different societies.¹³ The Scythians, for instance, determined
how much property each of its members would possess based on how much ter-
ritory one could ride on a horse in a single day (4.7). Of the societies that Hero-
dotus studies, Egypt seems to have the most experimentation with policies of
land distribution. Apparently under the reign of King Sesostris,¹⁴ land was div-
ided into equal plots (hence spurring the discovery of geometry), the product
of which was subsequently taxed by the realm (2.109). Additionally, a caste sys-
tem was put in place in which warriors were allocated twelve plots of land, un-
taxed, for their service to the Pharaoh (2.168). But Herodotus also tells the
charming story of an upstart King Sethos¹⁵—a priest of Hephaestus—who elimi-
nated caste privileges for warriors. Sethos met the Assyrian army with his own
that was “not one of warriors, but shopkeepers and handworkers and fellows
from the marketplace” (2.142). Thankfully for the Egyptians, field mice gnawed
through the leather of their opponents’ quivers and shields, bringing about
their defeat on the battlefield. More, of course, identifies structural poverty as
the main cause of crime in his England and eliminates private property from
the island of Utopia (I: 15 – 17, II: 43, 46, 59 – 60).
Herodotus is clearly an interested observer of political culture even if his
focus is not necessarily on its constitutional structure or the arrangement of of-
fices. He depicts a wide array of political and social institutions as radical as any-
thing one might find in Plato or Aristophanes, several of which More incorpo-
rates into his construction of Utopia. Herodotus focuses upon aspects of
political culture that serve as the structural basis for constitutional establish-
ment and reform, such as the openness and malleability of different communi-
 See Hadas 1935: 113 – 14. Herodotus repeatedly underscores the arbitrary or conventional
value of precious metals. The Lydians are the first to use gold and silver for currency and cul-
tures that have an abundance of gold use it liberally for many purposes (1.94, 1.215, 3.98,
4.195 – 96).
 If Aristotle is any guide, the issue of land distribution is central to classical “utopian”
thought. In his account of best constitutions in Politics II, he examines the programs of land dis-
tribution found in Plato, Phaleas of Chalcedon, and Hippodamus of Miletus (Pol 2.5, 7– 8). Aris-
totle himself proposes a radical redistribution of landed property in his own best constitution
(Pol 7.10).
 That is Senusret III (1878 – 1841 BCE), or perhaps an amalgamation of several pharaohs.
 That is Shabataku (c. 702– 690 BCE).
ties. But a political thinker does not simply observe a multitude of political prac-
tices or social institutions (utopian or otherwise); he or she also evaluates those
institutions. If Herodotus’ Histories are clearly “political” in their content, it re-
mains to be show that he himself is a political theorist.
3 Is Herodotus a Political Theorist?

Although the evidence from the first part of my chapter suggests that Herodotus
is attentive to and sophisticated in his analysis of socio-political aspects of dif-
ferent societies, it is altogether another question whether we should view him as
a political theorist who reflects upon and evaluates political culture. Nonethe-
less, given the evidence I have furnished so far, the burden of proof falls upon
those who wish to deny the claim that Herodotus is a political theorist. One
can think of two arguments against the claim that we should view Herodotus
as a political theorist. First, although both Herodotus and More show a fascina-
tion with political and social customs, one might argue that whereas More de-
rives political institutions in Utopia based on principles of equality and justice,
Herodotus, as an historian, merely chronicles political events or institutions in
different societies. Political history and political theory may overlap, but Herodo-
tus, one might argue, falls more clearly in the former rather than the latter cat-
egory. Secondly, one might argue that Herodotus’ discussion of cultural and po-
litical relativism—and his apparent endorsement of Pindar’s claim that “custom
is king over all” (3.38)—is inconsistent with the practice of normative political
theorizing, especially insofar as such theorizing evaluates trans-cultural customs
and norms. Such an argument denies that thoroughgoing cultural relativists can
justify the evaluation of trans-cultural politico-social institutions and that Hero-
dotus is indeed such a cultural relativist.
The claim that Herodotus merely chronicles rather than theorizes political
culture is undermined by a consensus in Herodotus scholarship that his narra-
tion of events from Archaic Greece is intended to illuminate, and thus theorize,
the late 5th century events of his contemporary audience, who lived through at
least the earliest years of the Archidamian War (431– 421 BCE).¹⁶ Whereas Hero-
dotus’ predecessors chronicled (without evaluation) the res gestae of Persian
 A number of explicit references in the Histories, such as those to the Peloponnesian Wars
(6.98, 7.235, 9.64, 9.73), suggest that Herodotus was composing the Histories as late as the
420s. See further Fornara 1971: 41– 44. Harrison and Irwin 2018 generally (and 8 – 16 specifically)
explore the subsequent consensus that formed around Fornara’s interpretive framework and the
challenges of dating the work’s composition.
kings, Fornara 1971 persuasively argues that Herodotus’ Histories are written se-
lectively to show the relevance of the decline of the Persian Empire to those liv-
ing under the Athenian Empire, especially the central lesson that greatness is
ephemeral and “human happiness is never stable” (1.5). But if Herodotus selec-
tively presents the experience of the Persian Empire as a lesson to his late 5th cen-
tury audience, then he is doing far more than merely chronicling the past; rather,
he re-imagines the past in light of the present and presents the past as a caution-
ary tale about imperialism.¹⁷ As Raaflaub 1978 puts it, “the tragic poet occasion-
ally uses myth to analyze and interpret for his audience some of the most urgent
political problems they are facing in the capacity as citizens. In a similar way,
I suggest, Herodotus uses the Histories of the past to shed light on contemporary
issues.”¹⁸ Herodotus’ use of the past clearly puts him in the camp of the political
theorist, reflecting on the theoretical ramifications of the past, rather than that of
the political historian.
Although scholars such as Fornara, Raaflaub, and Balot have ably sketched
out ways in which Herodotus’ Persian War narrative in Histories V – IX evaluates
late 5th century political practices and implies cautions about Periclean imperi-
alism, less clear is how the various ethnic logoi might present a form of political
theorizing. I suggest that the chronicles of other cultures and institutions in Her-
odotus’ Histories function somewhat like the way Socrates likens a democratic
regime in the Republic as a place that “contains all kinds of constitutions, as
a result of its license” (Rep. 8.557d4– 5). Certainly More appears to have drawn
upon Herodotus’ account of customs in such a fashion (a point I will return to
in my conclusion). The culturally diversity of Herodotus’ ethnic logoi—from the
pacifistic tribes of the Argippaei and the Garamantes, who own no warlike
arms (4.23, 4.174), to the “Man-eaters” who neither practice justice nor uphold
any laws (4.106)—present a veritable “supermarket” of anthropological practices
for the political theorist to reflect upon and evaluate. As I show in part III of my
chapter, clearly Herodotus evaluates such practices as superior and inferior.
Nonetheless, one might argue that such evaluations are undercut because of
Herodotus’ apparent endorsement of Pindar’s claim that custom is king, a posi-
tion that precludes any such normative standpoint according to which one could
 According to Raaflaub 1987, Herodotus teaches that “if the hunger for power becomes exces-
sive, if imperialism, disregarding justice and the rights of others, is pursued to the extreme and
becomes a goal in itself, then danger is inevitable” (247; cf. Raaflaub 2002: 164– 183). Balot 2001:
99 – 135 develops at length Herodotus’ critique of Athenian imperialism.
 Fornara 1971: 23, 35 – 36, 61 already suggested that Herodotus is an imaginative author, more
like a dramatist than a chronicler; Raaflaub 1978 develops Fornara’s original insight at greater
length.
evaluate different political practices. After reporting that Cambyses’ irreligious

treatment of Egyptian practices proves that he was not in full possession of
his faculties, Herodotus reports that
If it were not so, he would never have set about the mockery of what other men hold sacred
and customary. For if there were a proposition put before mankind, according to which
each should, after examination, choose the finest customs in the world (nomous tous kal-
listous ek tōn pantōn nomōn), each nation would certainly think its own customs the best.
Indeed, it is natural for no one but a madman to make a mockery of such things….These are
matters of settled custom, and I think Pindar is right when he says, “custom is king of all”
(nomon pantōn basilea). (3.38)¹⁹
One might argue that Herodotus embraces a form of political relativism in which
trans-cultural objective theorizing is impossible.²⁰
Herodotus’ position is nuanced and, as I showed in the first part of my chap-
ter, he clearly believes that political institutions are variable and malleably.
Nonetheless, it is wrong to ascribe to Herodotus uncritically a position of cultural
relativism based on his quotation of Pindar in 3.38. First, Herodotus invokes Pin-
dar’s view of nomos within his overall evaluation of Cambyses in order to show
that Cambyses was an incompetent—indeed, a “violently distracted” (emanē
megalōs)—king. Whatever relativism stems from the assertion that “custom is
king” does not preclude positive and negative evaluation, which lies at the
basis of political theory. Secondly, however much Herodotus appreciates the
complexity of trans-cultural comparisons, he is deeply committed to trans-cul-
tural ethical lessons, first of which is his claim that good fortune does not
abide in the same place (1.5). From the account of Croesus in Book I to that of
Pausanias in Book IX, Herodotus repeatedly reminds his audience of that
trans-cultural, trans-historical lesson. In contemporary parlance, although Hero-
dotus accepts the truth of descriptive moral relativism, I believe he would reject
both moral objectivism and metaethical moral relativism (Gowans 2019). The
 Plato’s Gorgias quotes Pindar as saying, “Law (nomos), the king of all, of mortals and the
immortal gods, brings on and renders just what is most violent with towering hand”
(484b4– 8). Since Pindar’s verses on nomos do not survive, it is difficult to say whether Herodo-
tus, Plato, or either is representing Pindar’s view accurately. For further details see Asheri 2007:
436 – 37. On the ambiguity of the term nomos, see Humphreys 1987 and Thomas 2000: 102– 134.
 Scholars who have interpreted Herodotus to endorse a form of relativism include Thompson
1996: 135 – 140 and Roy 2010: 149 – 172. Histories 3.38 is standardly included in discussions of eth-
ical relativism, which Herodotus is uncritically taken to endorse (e. g., Wolff 2018: 21– 22). By con-
trast, Fornara 1971: 23 and Hau 2016: 172– 193 place Herodotus within the framework of moral
didacticism.
Herodotean political theorist can justify the claim that although specific moral
customs—such as whether one buries, cremates, or eats the dead—may vary be-
tween cultures, nonetheless there is a transcultural norm that survivors ought to
respect and honor the dead.
4 Is Herodotus’ Histories a work of Utopian

Political Theory?
The first two parts of my chapter have provided evidence to support the claims
that Herodotus has a keen interest in political anthropology and that he does not
simply record such observations but that he engages them in a theoretical or
evaluative way. It remains for my chapter to consider whether Herodotus is in
any way utopian in his reflection on the political institutions of non-Greek cul-
tures and peoples. But here I want to defuse a potential objection. Ryan Balot
has argued that
Apart from a few outliers, classical thought was quintessentially post-utopian. Classical
thinkers were post-utopians, above all, because they saw no way to guarantee the good
life for human beings. They took this view for several related reasons: the universe is not
providential, and luck has too much power to shape our lives; human reason either can-
not recognize the human good or cannot remake the world so as to produce the human
good reliably; and human beings are not naturally sociable or co-operative animals.
(Balot 2008: 78)
Balot does not say whether Herodotus falls into his “post-utopian majority”
(which includes Hesiod, Thucydides, Polybius, Cicero, Livy, and Tacitus). But
if the common characteristic of his “post-utopians” is a modesty about the pos-
sibility of systemic political change (“they supplied no visionary social blue-
prints” [78]), then utopians must be immodest suppliers of visionary social blue-
prints.
As I stipulated at the beginning of my chapter, I draw my notion of “utopian”
from reflection on More’s Utopia: To call a program or institution utopian is at a
minimum to identify it as something infrequent or rare and something which is
good (perhaps even superlatively so). But I contest Ryan’s implied claim that uto-
pians are immodest visionaries. I do not think it follows that because a consti-
tution or cultural practice is utopian that therefore other societies should take
it as a blueprint for change.²¹ Rather, one sense in which I take a constitution
 Clay and Pulvis 1999 note that the island “utopias” of the ancient world (e. g., those of Eu-
or practice to be utopian is if the practice presents a cultural or political “mirror”

that critically sets in contrast another society’s own practices and grounds incre-
mental improvement (a point to which I will return in my conclusion). More’s
discussion of the Utopians’ attitude towards international law makes clear
what I have in mind. About the Utopian attitudes towards international treatises,
More writes that
While other nations are constantly making, breaking, and renewing treaties, the Utopians
make none at all with any nation. If nature, they say, does not bind man adequately to his
fellow man, what good is a treaty? If a man scorns nature herself, is there any reason to
think he will care about mere words? They are confirmed in this view by the fact that in
that part of the world, treatises and alliances between princes are not generally observed
with much good faith. (II: 83)
Rather ironically, More goes on to point out how “sacred and inviolable” are the
treatises in Europe, which are observed by princes who are “all so just and vir-
tuous” (II: 83); clearly, the practices of the Utopians with respect to treatises is
intended to cast a critical shadow upon the practices of European princes. But
More goes on to note that Utopia is a world “as distant from ours in customs
and manner as by the distance the equator puts between us” and that “perhaps
if [the Utopians] lived here they would change their minds” (II: 84). It is hard to
imagine that More is proposing that England abandon all its treatises or forego
making new ones in its international relations. The “rareness” or “infrequency”
of Utopia makes possible practices, such as forgoing international law, the prac-
ticality of which would otherwise be seriously limited in normal societies. I sub-
mit that Herodotus presents political practices and institutions that function in a
fashion similar to those proposed in More’s Utopia.
If one may be utopian without offering a visionary blueprint for social
change, how might Herodotus be utopian? Herodotus’ discussion of the Libyan
colony of Cyrēnē provides a first example of the sort of utopian political theoriz-
ing I think he practices in his Histories. ²² In Herodotus’ account of the establish-
ment of the colony of Cyrēnē, its oikistēs Battus I claims that:
hemeros and Iamboulos) do not posit ideal “blue prints” for other societies to copy. Manuel and
Manuel 1979 note that More’s Utopia is hardly a paradise: it presupposes the enduring existence
of crime and warfare between states (123 – 127).
 Cyrēnē features in both the Egyptian and the Libyan logoi (2.161). In the former case, it is a
Cyrēnaean victory over Apriēs’ army (composed of foreigners, although supporting his rule over
Egypt), that precipitates a populist rebellion against him, one led by Amasis (2.161, 2.169). In the
latter case, Herodotus seizes upon the story of the colonization of Cyrēnē (c. 630 BCE) as the his-
torical backbone of his Libyan speech.
The Cyrenaeans sent to Delphi to ask what order of government they should set up that
they might live to the best advantage (ontina tropon katastēsamenoi kallista an oikeoien).
The Pythia instructed them to bring in from Mantinea, in Arcadia, a commissioner for re-
form. The Cyrenaeans made their request, and the Mantineans gave them the most re-
nowned of their citizens, whose name was Demonax. This man came to Cyrēnē, and, having
learned all the details, divided the people into three tribes. The arrangement was as fol-
lows: one section was made from the Theraeans and the original Libyan inhabitants,
their neighbors; one from the Peloponnesians and Cretans; and a third from all the island-
ers. In another change, he set aside certain domains and certain priesthoods for King Bat-
tus, but all the rest of the original possession of the kings he assigned as public property (es
meson tō[i] dēmō[i]). (4.161)²³
The colonization of Cyrēnē is an example of the more general phenomenon:

Greek colonies provided Greek political theorists with an unprecedented oppor-
tunity “to start from scratch” in their reflection on well-ordered political arrange-
ments. Plato’s Laws, for instance, is presented as a dialogue that reflects upon
how to draw up the Cretan colony of Magnesia, of which the character Cleinias
is a founder.²⁴ Herodotus himself, along with Protagoras, were colonists in the
panhellenic colony that Pericles helped to established at Thurii in the 440s.²⁵
Herodotus’ discussion of Cyrēnē shows that he is familiar with the opportunity
for political theorizing that colonization presents.
Herodotus’ dialogue on constitutions provides a second example of utopian
theorizing that includes reflection on and the determination of superlative con-
stitutions. The dialogue takes place between three major Persian figures in the
Histories, Otanes, who argues for the supremacy of isonomia (a form of popular
rule), Megabyxus, who argues for the supremacy of oligarchy, and Darius (who
argues for the supremacy of monarchy). As Rosen 1988 notes, “Herodotus’ polit-
ical views are obliquely presented in his recording of a conspiracy, a revolution,
and the first political dialogue in western literature” (39).²⁶ Within the dialogue,
Darius argues that
Suppose, for the argument, that all three constitutions are the very best—the best democ-
racy, the best oligarchy, the best monarchy. I declare to you that, of these three at their best,
 Demonax’s diminution of royal prerogative and the reorganization of tribal structures pres-
ents a number of parallels with Cleisthenes’ Athenian reforms of 508 (5.66).
 Ober 1998: 290 – 93 argues for a similar perspective on Aristotle’s account of the best consti-
tution in Politics 7– 8.
 See further Ostwald 1991. Munson 2006: 257– 273 surveys Herodotus’ remarks about western
colonization in light of his connection with Thurii.
 The constitutional debate has generated much commentary, including most recently Pelling
2002, Lévy 2003, Roy 2012, Sissa 2012, Allen 2013, and Linderborg 2019.
monarchy is far superior. Nothing is manifestly better than the one best man. He will have
judgment to match his excellence and will govern the many blamelessly, and what mea-
sures he must device against ill-doers will be wrapped in a similar well-judging silence.
(3.82)
Darius’ arguments against oligarchy and democracy amount to the claim that a
plurality of rulers—whether few or many—inevitably leads to faction (in the case
of oligarchy) or demagoguery (in the case of democracy), both of which will
eventually end up in some sort of despotism. The basic structure of the argument
shows surprising similarity to the argument for kingship in either Plato’s States-
man or Aristotle’s Politics. Its presence in the text argues against the claim that
Herodotus is anti-utopian because it shows him theorizing about the best consti-
tution.
A third example of Herodotus’ utopian political theorizing consists in his
identification of superlative practices or institutions (as distinct from constitu-
tions). In his examination of gender roles within the Babylonian logos and cul-
tural assimilation in the Egyptian and Scythian logoi, Herodotus juxtaposes and
evaluates different cultural practices. In the case of Babylonian gender customs,
Herodotus first recounts what he calls “wisest” (sophōtatos) and “most beauti-
ful” (kallistos):
In every village, once a year, the people did the following: as the girls in the village became
ripe for marriage, they gathered and brought together all such to one place. There was a
great throng of men surrounding it, and the auctioneer put the girls up, one by one, for
sale. He would begin with the best-looking, and after she had been sold and brought a
great price, he would auction off her whose looks were next best. They were all sold to
live with their men. All the rich men of Babylon who were disposed to marriage outbid
one another in buying the beauties. But those of the lower classes who wanted to marry
were not set on fairness of form but took the uglier girls, with money to boot. For when
the auctioneer had gone through all the best-looking girls, he would put up the ugliest
or one that was crippled, and would sell her off: ‘Who will take the least money to live
with this one?’ The money came from the sale of the good-looking girls, so those who
were handsome portioned off the ill-favored and the cripples. (1.196)²⁷
Herodotus notes that this superlatively wise custom has been allowed to elapse
and that instead those without wealth now prostitute their children to generate
dowries (1.196; a practice also found in Lydia [1.93]). Alongside such a practice is
what Herodotus calls the most shameful (aischistos) of Babylonian customs:
 Asheri 2007 notes that “no Babylonian evidence exists for such a custom, and the entire de-
scription gives the impression of a utopian, half-comic Greek fantasy” (210).
Every woman who lives in that country must once in her lifetime go to the temple of Aph-
rodite and sit there and be lain with by a strange man….When once a woman has taken her
seat there, she may not go home again until one of the strangers throws a piece of silver
into her lap and lies with her, outside the temple….Those women who have attained to
great beauty and height depart quickly enough, but those who are ugly abide there a
great while, being unable to fulfill the law. Some, indeed, stay there as much as three or
four years. (1.199)
As Saxonhouse 1996 notes, “The word ‘democracy,’ to be sure, never surfaces in

the discussion of Babylonia, but the egalitarianism at the heart of the principles
of ancient democracy, an egalitarianism here based not on nature but construct-
ed by human ingenuity, is at work” (41). The first institution—the sale of brides—
seeks to offset natural or skin-deep advantages and insure the marital success of
those who are unsuccessful in the genetic lottery. The institution is utopian, and
so justifies Herodotus’ superlative, because it alleviates the arbitrary advantages
of wealth and beauty. By contrast, of course, the rite of sexual passage—regard-
less of its affront to a woman’s consent over her sexual choices—is shameful be-
cause it reverses the intention and the effects of the sale of brides: women are
penalized, indeed potentially detained for years, based on the same arbitrary
characteristics of sexual attractiveness. Herodotus’ contrast of the two practices
within close textual proximity is meant to underscore the utopian wisdom of the
first and the dystopian shamefulness of the second; both illustrations elucidate
institutional mechanisms for addressing arbitrary inequality within one and the
same culture.
The Egyptian and Scythian logoi juxtapose social treatments of assimilation
cross-culturally. In the Egyptian logos, Herodotus tells the story of king Amasis
who overcame Egyptian Hellenophobia and produced a quasi-open society dur-
ing his own reign. Herodotus originally notes that the Egyptians historically
avoided Greek customs, and indeed, the customs of any people other than
their own (2.91).²⁸ But Amasis—a “man of the people” (dēmotēs) who became
king, brought prosperity to his land, ruled his people with wisdom (sophiē),
 Herodotus notes that during the reign of Psammetichus (663 – 609 BCE), Egyptian children
were turned over to Ionians who had supported his revolt against his fellow eleven kings in
order that they could learn Greek (2.154). But Psammetichus kept the Ionians physically isolated
in Egypt and gave no indication of adapting their customs. Egyptian antipathy towards the
Greeks appears to originate in their defeat by colonists from Cyrēnē during the reign of Apriēs
(a.k.a. Wahibre Haaibre c. 589 – 570 BCE), a defeat that ultimately led to a rebellion led by Ama-
sis against Apriēs (4.159, 2.161– 162, 2.169).
and himself died without undergoing a reversal in fortune²⁹—contrived ways to

express his philhellenic views and increase the openness of his kingdom. He in-
troduced what Herodotus calls a “blameless law” (amōmos nomos) concerning
the livelihood of his subjects, one that Solon himself imitated in Athens
(2.177). He established Naucratis, a major port city, for Greeks to trade and
dwell in, made offerings at Delphi, and established alliances and friendship
with the Greek colony at Cyrēnē (2.178, 2.180, 2.181). By contrast, in the Scythian
logos, Herodotus tells the story of Anacharsis, a Scythian who travelled over
much of the world—sight-seeing (theōrēsas)—and had gained great wisdom (so-
phiēn pollen). After making a prayer at a Greek festival to Cybele for safe passage
home, he fulfilled his promise and celebrated her rituals upon his return to Scy-
thia. A fellow Scythian observed his use of foreign customs, informed the king,
and the king executed Anacharsis himself (4.76).³⁰
Although Herodotus produces the story of Anacharsis (and Scyles) to illus-
trate the Scythian practice of taking extreme steps to avoid non-Scythian practi-
ces and to preserve their own customs (4.76, 4.80), it seems difficult not to read
his plight in contrast with that of Amasis. Although both Egypt and Scythia were
xenophobic or closed societies, the wisdom of Amasis allowed him to overcome
Egyptian nomoi against foreigners and positively, if incrementally, improve Egypt
through trade and interaction with Greek colonies. Indeed, Amasis’ transforma-
tion of Egyptian nomoi appears to be a counter-argument to the claim that “cus-
tom is king” (3.38).³¹ Amasis presents an example of how a closed-society can be
nudged towards an open society, unseating the governing xenophobic nomos
and instituting the reign of a new, more open one. The evaluation of social
and political customs, the evaluation of different forms of constitutions, and
the reflection on how to establish a well-ordered colony present examples of Her-
odotus practicing utopian political theorizing. Admittedly, Herodotus is doing
many other things in his text and his examples are not visionary blueprints.
But then again Thomas More himself calls into question whether utopian theo-
 2.172, 2.177, 3.10. Herodotus notes that Amasis reconciled his people to their servitude by mix-
ing hard-work with a lack of aloofness (2.173 – 174). As noted earlier, Herodotus notes that Sethos
tried to emancipate the Egyptian people from the institution of kingship but that they could not
live a day without a king (2.141, 2.147). Presumably Amasis recognizes the limits to which Egyp-
tian nomoi can be changed (even while himself changing their xenophobia).
 Herodotus also offers the story of Scyles, who also imitated a Greek way of life and was also
executed—by beheading—on the spot, when he was observed following Greek practices
(4.78 – 80).
 As Saxonhouse 1996 notes, the story of Amasis suggests “that there is nothing by nature that
gives one man rule over another, that (in modern liberal terms) no one is so different from an-
other to justify his or her rule over another” (48).
rizing consists in supplying immodest visionary social blueprints, a claim

I would like to examine briefly in my conclusion.
5 More’s Utopian Incrementalism

In his contrast between utopian and post-utopian thought in antiquity, Balot
2008 claimed that one of the reasons why post-utopians were modest about
their social ambitions was because “the universe is not providential, and luck
has too much power to shape our lives” (2008: 78). No doubt, such a point ap-
pears to be a wedge between More’s Utopia—which although not explicitly Chris-
tian, is certainly compatible with Christianity—and Herodotus’ Histories, which
over and over demonstrates his thesis that many states that were once great be-
come small, that many that were once small become great, and that “good for-
tune never abides in the same place” (1.5). Herodotus appears to embrace a pro-
foundly tragic worldview in which prosperity is fragile, the vicissitudes of time
level all, and—following Solon—we should call no person happy until he is
dead (1.32).
But if Herodotus is modest in his theological expectations, it is intriguing to
note that More was equally modest about the possibility of improving society by
means of political theorizing. In the first book of Utopia, the character of Thomas
More and Hythloday debate the possibility of the third wave of Plato’s Republic,
namely the claim that to bring a just state into existence either kings must phi-
losophize or philosophers must be kings (Rep. 5.473de). Hythloday is deeply sus-
picious about the possibility that he, as a philosopher, could successfully advise
a king with wisdom because of the pressures to tell the rulers what they want to
hear (and in the context of their discussion, what they want to hear is to expand
their territory and justify additional revenue measures [I: 28 – 32]). Thus Hythlo-
day concludes that “there is no place for philosophy in the councils of kings”
(I: 34).
By contrast, the character of Thomas More in the dialogue presents an “in-
cremental” or what he calls “an indirect approach” to political reform.³² He de-
scribes it as such:
 Rist 2016 notes that the two books of Utopia were composed at different times and argues
that the “Augustinian incrementalism” of the first book is at odds with the more ambitious the-
orizing of the second book (776 – 784). Although I do not believe that my claims about Herodo-
tus’ influence on More are inconsistent with those of Augustine, More may have drawn upon
multiple perspectives in support of his position. It remains striking that the Utopian reading
list includes only Greek (pagan) authors (even though Hythloday introduces the Utopians to
If you cannot pluck up bad ideas by the root, or cure longstanding evils to your heart’s con-
tent, you must not therefore abandon the commonwealth. Don’t give up the ship in a storm
because you cannot hold back the winds. You must not deliver strange and out-of-the-way
speeches to people with whom they will carry no weight because they are firmly persuaded
the other way. Instead, by an indirect approach, you must strive and struggle as best you
can to handle everything tactfully—and thus what you cannot turn to good, you may at
least make as little bad as possible. (I: 35)
If we can assume that the character of Thomas More in any way speaks for the
author Thomas More, then at least on the grounds of More’s description of polit-
ical practice, Herodotus seems much more of a “utopian” than not. At several
places the author More suggests that although Utopia presents a blueprint of
sorts for a new society, its intention is primarily to offer what the French human-
ist Guillaume Budé described in a letter to Thomas Lupset, the printer of More’s
book, in July 31, 1517. After praising More’s treatise at length, he claims that “Our
own age and ages to come will discover in [More’s] narrative a seedbed, so to
speak, of elegant and useful concepts from which they will be able to borrow
practices to be introduced into their own several nations and adapted for use
there” (Logan 1995: 117). If Herodotus is not a utopian in the sense of the author
of a blueprint for the radical transformation of society, he nonetheless appears to
be a resource for utopianism as conceived by the philosopher who coined the
term.³³
References
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Carol Atack
Temporality and utopia in Xenophon and
Isocrates
Greek politeia writing has some similarities with, and is foundational for, later
utopian texts, and in many cases serves a similar purpose to later utopian writ-
ings, in offering criticism of present political institutions and practices through
the presentation of an imagined alternative.¹ This chapter interprets Xenophon’s
and Isocrates’ use of past and imagined political arrangements, such as the pa-
trios politeia (ancestral constitution), as the basis for their re-imagined ideal ver-
sions of Sparta, Persia and Egypt, through evaluative schemes intended for later
utopias, showing how the manipulation of temporality in their works has an ar-
gumentative and political purpose echoed in later debates on the usefulness of
utopian writing.²
The focus on the political practices and culture of the imagined past and the
wish to preserve or return to it unifies the utopian elements in the thought of
Xenophon and Isocrates. While Xenophon and Isocrates are engaged in different
projects, their shared use of the patrios politeia appears to address a similar au-
dience of elite conservative Athenians.³ By creating imaginary societies separat-
ed in time, and often in space, from fourth-century BCE Athens, they were able to
criticise contemporary political practice without openly attacking Athenian de-
mocracy, and being identified as a ‘hater of democracy’ (misodēmos, Isoc. Areo-
pagiticus 57).
Temporality is key to categorising utopias; whether the ideal is found in the
past or future indicates whether it is something lost to be mourned or a goal to
work towards. Nineteenth-century socialists distinguished their ideal societies
by placing them in the (relatively near) future, and thereby marking them as ach-
ievable through political action; Edward Bellamy concluded his remarks on his
own utopian vision by insisting that “The golden age lies before us and not be-
hind us”.⁴ But both Xenophon and Isocrates insist on the superiority of past po-
liteiai, such as those of Sparta and Persia as originally founded, and on the im-
 I would like to thank Paul Cartledge, Tom Phillips, Tim Rood and Malcolm Schofield for help-
ful comments on this chapter, and the organisers of the Leuven conference for their assistance.
 Goodwin and Taylor 1982: 21– 28; Mannheim 1936: 190 – 222; for a critical appraisal of Man-
nheim’s model see Levitas 1990.
 On the connections between the pair as political thinkers see Gray 2000, Azoulay 2006 and
the papers in Tamiolaki 2018.
 Bellamy 2007; see Shklar 1973: 108.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-005
78 Carol Atack
portance of resisting change. Isocrates even repositions elements of Plato’s Kal-

lipolis, the Republic’s vision of a timeless ideal society, in the mythical Egyptian
past he describes in his Busiris.
While the importance to the utopian tradition of politeia writing about Ath-
ens and Sparta has long been acknowledged, surveys of utopian writing often
address this through readings of Plutarch’s lives of Solon and Lycurgus, which
consolidate and embellish a range of material from earlier sources, including
Xenophon and Isocrates.⁵ While Judith Shklar criticised the continuing evocation
of “wistful Spartan utopias” and an interest in classical thought that was “no
longer relevant”, the political argument of Plutarch’s sources provides evidence
of the critical use of concepts of utopia in ancient texts, and also a route through
which these texts influenced later utopian writing.⁶
1 Politeia and utopia

Greek political writing prior to Aristotle typically took the form of the politeia, an
account of the political character and institutions of a city, often offering a snap-
shot and argumentative critique of current political culture (as in ps-Xenophon’s
Constitution of the Athenians); later the genre expanded to include historical ac-
counts of the foundation and political development of a specific polis (such as
Aristotle’s Constitution of the Athenians).⁷ Such politeiai might be free-standing
pamphlet texts, such as Xenophon’s Constitution of the Spartans, or embedded
within more complex narrative works and dialogues, as with the politeia of Per-
sia in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, and that of Athens in Isocrates’ Areopagiticus. ⁸
Gregory Claeys notes that the politeia tradition, with this connection to historical
cities, provided “one of the most direct sources for the ‘realist’ strand in utopian
thought”.⁹
This tradition could be distinguished from the ‘golden age’ arcadia; the sep-
aration and contrast between the two forms, in one of which distribution of
goods is optimised, in the other in which want and the need for regulated distri-
bution vanishes, is important for understanding the political function of Greek
 Claeys 2011: 24– 25; Manuel and Manuel 1979: 94– 99.
 Shklar 1973: 108.
 Bordes 1982 surveys politeia writing; Dawson 1992 reads politeia texts as “communist” uto-
pias.
 Bertelli 1977; Dawson 1992: 35 – 37; Lockwood 2015.
 Claeys 2011: 23; Finley 1975b.
utopian texts.¹⁰ The Golden Age tradition looked back to the mythical past, imag-
ining conditions no longer replicable as one age superseded another, a lost gold-
en age of present gods and the automatic abundance of resources, as in Hesiod’s
golden age (Works and Days 109 – 126).¹¹ In contrast, polis-focused work more
often takes the form of what Doyne Dawson identified as ‘low utopias’, in
which ensuring the just distribution of scarce resources was at issue.¹² The po-
litical writings of Xenophon and Isocrates belong to this latter tradition, in
which political arrangements ensure the just distribution of scarce resources, ex-
cept for the deliberate blurring of categories in Isocrates’ Busiris.
There is a complex interplay between the two traditions, and frequent over-
lap when writers argue that a specific set of political arrangements can re-instan-
tiate the conditions of the golden age of Kronos; when Homer’s Odysseus makes
this connection in likening Penelope to a king under whose rule the order of the
world is so perfect that animals and crops appear in super-abundance out of the
usual season (Homer Od. 19. 109 – 114).¹³ But identifying a rival’s political propos-
als as suggestions of a golden age, and thus an abrogation of politics, was a pow-
erful form of criticism; Plato’s Statesman myth can be read as a critical satire of
theories of virtue kingship, espoused by Xenophon and Isocrates. He positions
such rule in a golden age, the Age of Kronos, marked by the absence of politeiai
(Plt. 271e7– 8); in the opposed temporalities of each direction of the cosmos, the
Age of Kronos is marked by plenty and the active stewardship of divine beings,
while in the Age of Zeus humans must marshal their own resources under con-
ditions of decline and entropy, as the god withdraws.¹⁴
Writers used both space and time to establish distinctions between their
ideal politeiai and those of the degenerate present. Setting the politeia in another
place was one option, and setting it in the past or future time another possibility.
Greek imaginary cities are usually located within the Greek world (Sparta, pro-
 Finley 1975b: 180 – 182; Kumar 1991: 2– 6. Finley cites Giannini’s distinction between the ‘uto-
pia d’evasione’ and the ‘utopia di riconstruzione’ (Giannini 1967: 120); Giannini himself allies the
first type with spatially distinct settings and the second with the temporally distinct.
 Claeys 2011: 17– 19; Manuel and Manuel 1979: 68 – 71. Vincent Geoghegan identifies golden-
age elements in utopian socialist thought (Geoghegan 1987: 56 – 59), and argues that ancestral
constitutions represent the golden age.
 Dawson 1992: 21. The politeiai of Plato’s Athens and Atlantis fall between the categories.
 Gregory Claeys notes a connection between good monarchs and pastoral utopian themes in
the early modern era, as with Shakespeare’s pastoral As You Like It and Queen Elizabeth (Claeys
2011: 23).
 Dimitri El Murr explores the political importance of the Statesman’s golden age myth in El
Murr 2014: 170 – 188, cf. Kahn 2009; Malcolm Schofield surveys Plato’s engagement with the po-
liteia tradition in Schofield 2006: 30 – 43.
80 Carol Atack
posed colonies) or the range of Greek colonisation and cultural contact (Persia,
Egypt and possibly, at the limits, Atlantis). However, given the Athenocentrism of
classical Greek political thought all these locations express distance from the
centre. Later, Hellenistic writers would respond to Alexander’s encounters with
the east by setting imaginary politeiai in more distant locations, such as the In-
dian Ocean, where Euhemerus’ Panchaea was positioned.¹⁵ Beyond geographic
location, the spatial element of the classical Greek politeia is more often con-
cerned with the division and distribution of space within the city, both between
city and surrounding land and within the town itself, as part of its overall con-
cern with distribution of resources between citizens.¹⁶
Politeiai intended as blueprints for new cities or imagined ones might look
to the future for their realisation, albeit in a weak sense of describing something
not yet in existence. Hippodamus of Miletus, for example, offered a blueprint for
a future city rather than an elegy for a past one (Arist. Pol. 2.8. 1267b30 – 37). But
for Xenophon and Isocrates the past offered a more appropriate form of separa-
tion; past perfection (albeit often imaginary) could be set against the present de-
generate form of the same politeia, as in Xenophon’s Constitution of the Spartans
and Cyropaedia, or Isocrates’ Areopagiticus.
Both Xenophon and Isocrates manage the physical co-location of imagined
ideal city and present defective city through the manipulation of time. While
Plato, in his Timaeus-Critias, imagines an earlier geography overlaying the cur-
rent terrain of Attica, wiped out along with his primeval Athens and Atlantis, nei-
ther Xenophon nor Isocrates insists on topographical change to demarcate their
ideal past from non-ideal present. Instead, they set their cities in an undifferen-
tiated past, distinct from the present but also detemporalised; this is a different
kind of past than the sequential historical change from one constitution to an-
other (metabolē politeiōn) mapped by the Aristotelian constitutions.¹⁷
The quality of the past invoked in these works is distinctive. They do not pro-
vide sequential narratives (although they may be inset within narrative works, as
with Xenophon’s past-Persia), but instead imagine a fixed situation set in an un-
specified time.¹⁸ While Plutarch’s biographies of Solon and Lycurgus are cast in
sequential narrative form, the politeia material they incorporate was not original-
 DS 5.41.4– 64.7, Ferguson 1975: 102– 110; Manuel and Manuel 1979: 21. On the spatiality of
utopian writing see Marin 1984, 1993; Vieira 2010: 3 – 8.
 Lévêque and Vidal-Naquet 1996; Vernant 1983.
 As summarised at Ath. Pol. 41.1– 42.1.
 cf. Frye 1973.
ly narrative in form.¹⁹ The contrast between past and present Athens and Sparta,
where the past is a model of a counterfactual alternative to the present, suggests
that temporality is being used as a marker of political intent.
Writing in the early twentieth century, Karl Mannheim aimed to separate uto-
pia and ideology, as two forms of political perspective that worked against anal-
ysis and action; he argued that ideology, associated with dominant groups, fixes
the views of classes or groups so that they are unable to see beyond the collec-
tive viewpoint that stabilises their worldview, whereas utopia, associated with
oppressed groups, “hides certain aspects of reality” and renders the groups in-
capable of action.²⁰
Mannheim then divides utopian thought into four types: chiliastic, liberal-
humanitarian, conservative and socialist-communist. His types are distinguished
by their orientation towards time.²¹ Chiliastic utopianism, exemplified by ana-
baptist and millenarian movements of the mediaeval and early modern period,
emphasises the moment and chance. Liberal-humanitarian and socialist-com-
munist utopias look to the future for their realisation, although in distinctive
ways, with the former placing vague hopes in future political change, while
the latter expects change to take place as capitalism collapses. This orientation
towards the future had become the usual format of nineteenth- and early twen-
tieth-century utopian writing, exemplified by texts from diverse strands of social-
ism, such as the technological utopia of Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward
(1888) and the more straightforwardly revolutionary Reflections on Violence
(1908) of Georges Sorel, who attributes to myth the powers that Mannheim
gives to utopia.²² For Barbara Goodwin and Keith Taylor, “idealisation of the
past and criticism of the present” is one of six possible temporal relations be-
tween utopia and present reality that they identify.²³ It characterised not just an-
cient utopian writing but those taking the “ancient” side against the “moderns”
in later debates.
 One of Plutarch’s achievements in his lives of Solon, Lycurgus and Theseus is to transform
non-narrative politeiai and detemporalised mythical material into linear narratives: see Hawes
2014: 149 – 174; Pelling 1999.
 Mannheim 1936: 36. Mannheim goes on to argue that familiarity with new psychological
thinking on the unconscious might change individuals’ susceptibility to these modes of think-
ing, and that the new science of sociology might significantly modify older forms of utopian
and ideological thought, cf. Goodwin and Taylor 1982: 137– 139; Levitas 1990: 92– 93.
 Mannheim 1936: 211– 215.
 Bellamy 2007; Kumar 1991: 132– 167; Levitas 1990: 73 – 78; Sorel 1999.
 Goodwin and Taylor 1982: 21– 28.
82 Carol Atack
Mannheim’s conservative utopia is distinguished by the emphasis it places

on the past and on gradual change. However, it is also engaged in struggle
with the future-oriented forms of utopia (and is a response to their theorisations,
from a political perspective that is not focused on theory). This focus on the past
brings it into the present: “the presentness and immediacy of the whole past be-
comes an actual experience”.²⁴ In some ways William Morris’ News from No-
where (1890), though ostensibly set in the future, and describing a society
which has undergone violent and revolutionary change leading to a transforma-
tion of economic and social life, is oriented towards the past in its nostalgic evo-
cation of mediaeval working practices and its idealisation of the craft labour ren-
dered unnecessary in Bellamy’s own technological vision.²⁵ Morris was offering a
critical response both to Bellamy’s science fiction and to the industrial capital-
ism of the present, neither of which valued labour in the positive way that Mor-
ris’ aesthetic idealisation of craft does.
In this sense, Xenophon and Isocrates, resisting the political changes en-
tailed by democratic political practices, and looking back to an age of greater fix-
ity of legal arrangements, can be aligned with Mannheim’s conservative type of
utopia with its orientation towards the past. For Xenophon and Isocrates, their
conservative political agenda in responding to present-day crises in Athens,
and to the perceived decline of Sparta and Persia, made both the historical
and the mythical pasts suitable locations for their political utopias.
This past is set against a version of the present that itself has been recast in
ideological terms, so that reimagined and represented past and present are con-
trasted. Ruth Levitas has explored utopian writings as contributions to and at-
tempts to influence the social imaginary, the shared collective view of the people
of how their society is structured or works.²⁶ Charles Taylor describes these col-
lective views as often originating in theories and the work of individual theorists,
which have then infiltrated and been incorporated into the thoughts and beliefs
of the wider public.²⁷ Within this framework, one can treat Greek politeia texts as
documents intended to manipulate the construction of the social imaginary; in
exploring the distinction between the imaginary and the lived political experi-
ence, they contest and manipulate the political imaginary. In the conservative
version of this process, this may involve evoking the past while arguing for
change.
 Mannheim 1936: 212.

 Frye 1973: 44– 46; Goodwin and Taylor 1982: 212; Morris 2003; Roemer 2010.
 Levitas 2013: xiv–xv.
 Taylor 2004: 23 – 24; cf. the more radical approach of Cornelius Castoriadis (Castoriadis 1987,
1997).
This evocation of nostalgia in the process of invoking change resembles that

employed by British prime minister John Major in April 1993, in encouraging his
own Conservative party to support his policy of increasing European integration
via the Maastricht treaty. His speech to pro-European conservatives ended with a
description of continuing tradition, that itself looks back at George Orwell’s de-
scription of political nostalgia:²⁸
Fifty years from now Britain will still be the country of long shadows on county grounds,
warm beer, invincible green suburbs, dog lovers and pools fillers and – as George Orwell
said – “old maids bicycling to Holy Communion through the morning mist” and if we
get our way – Shakespeare still read even in school.
Major’s evocation of a golden past was widely criticised – ‘a load of tosh’, ac-
cording to the Independent’s leader the following day – not least for his failure
to acknowledge that the English identity he evoked was not applicable to the
whole of the United Kingdom.²⁹ At least in contemporary debate, political con-
siderations trumped the aesthetic experience that Major sought to create.
William Morris’ rural England of hard-working craftsmen and aesthetic de-
light in their productions similarly draws on a specific vision of a beautiful
past that is not tied precisely to history, but creates a timeless world that was
better and that can be delivered through the politics of the future. Like Morris,
Xenophon and Isocrates valorise the processes of the past. The idea of the pa-
trios politeia had become an important, albeit highly contested, component of
the Athenian political imaginary by the time they were writing. The first referen-
ces to it in Athenian political discourse of the late fifth-century BCE and at the
restoration of Athenian democracy suggest a broad appeal to traditional practice
rather than to a developed ideology or a specific set of constitutional arrange-
ments, but this changes to appeals to it as a developed and full-featured politeia
later in the fourth century.³⁰ While some scholars have insisted that the reference
is to a historical version of the Athenian constitution, most likely that of Solon
and Drakon, rather than an imaginary ideal that exists as a counterfactual oppo-
site to the present, Isocrates’ development of the idea exploits the blurred boun-
dary between early history and myth to write about the details of Theseus’s po-
 Major 1993, citing Orwell 1941.

 Anonymous 1993. Major’s vision was “comfortably nostalgic”, but an “absurdity” in the div-
ided, post-Thatcher UK (Hewison 1994: 419).
 See Finley 1975c. However, Finley ignores the shift from Athenian debates of the 410s (Ath.
Pol. 29.3; Rhodes 1993: 376 – 377; Shear 2011: 20 – 22, 41– 60) to those of the mid-fourth century
(Mossé 1978, cf. Rhodes 2011).
84 Carol Atack
litical activity in a way more appropriate to history. Isocrates ascribes elements

of the Athenian constitution to Theseus, more usually treated as a founder figure
(Helen 35 – 36, Panathenaicus 129 – 131), and Xenophon’s treatment of the Spartan
constitution also demonstrates the link with the mythical past, although Spartan
taste for such material is suggested by Plato’s Hippias in describing the ‘ancient
stories’ he tells to the Spartans (Pl. Hipp. Ma. 285d6 – e1).³¹ While presenting their
idealised politeiai as snapshots of the ancestral constitution, both Xenophon and
Isocrates detemporalise them, positioning them in a mythical space whose tem-
porality is constituted by its opposition to the present.
2 Xenophon’s past utopias

Xenophon presents two apparent utopias, Sparta and ancient Persia, which
both turn out to be lost past ideals. In the Lacedaemonion Respublica, Xenophon
draws a contrast with decadent present Sparta, rather than with Athens, as one
might expect, while proleptic allusions to the negative consequences for Persia
of its absorption into Cyrus’ expanded empire appear throughout the Cyropae-
dia.
There are both temporal and spatial elements to these idealised societies.
Thomas More’s characters learn about his Utopia from the traveller Raphael
Hythloday, with whom they debate; the narrator of Xenophon’s Lacedaemonion
Respublica, implicitly a witness of Spartan practice, also describes what he has
seen and learned.³² The unnamed narrator is a marked presence in this work;
first person pronouns or verbs mark the opening of several chapters (1, 2, 10,
12, 13, 14, 15), and emphasise the narrator’s individual response to the Spartan
constitution, typically one of wonder (thauma) that dissipates on greater under-
standing.³³ The quality of these responses marks the difference between utopia
and lived political experience.
This politeia focuses on specific features of Spartan political culture and ed-
ucation, rather than providing a complete overview and inventory of institutions
 Among those arguing that the patrios politeia refers to a historical, usually Solonian, consti-
tution, are Rhodes 2006; Ruschenbusch 1958. On Solon as a mythical figure see Mossé 1978,
1979. On the changing use of patrios politeia arguments, see Atack 2010, with Atack 2018, and
on Isocrates’ politicised use of the arguments, Atack 2014.
 Frye 1973: 36 – 37; Manuel and Manuel 1979: 122.
 The verb θαυμάζω is a formula for introducing philosophical inquiry (Gray 2007: 147). Forms
of θαυμάζω in the Lac. Pol.: 1.1, 1.2; with the negative 2.14, 9.6, 12.4, 12.14, 14.7.
and practices.³⁴ Xenophon’s interest is in the political culture, the way of life and
the educational process which produce the Spartan citizen. However, his account
appears to be idealised and an example of the ‘Spartan mirage’; overturning ear-
lier Athenian representations of the city, it presents Sparta as a utopia of virtue.³⁵
Xenophon attributes the origin of the Spartan constitution to a single found-
ing act by Lycurgus. This took place at the boundary between historical and myth-
ical time, synchronously with the return of the Heraclids (Lac. Pol. 10.8).³⁶ Unlike
other accounts, Xenophon does not cite the “Great Rhetra”, or provide an explicit
account of change in the Spartan constitution, which is presented as a single ob-
ject of wonder:³⁷
I was reflecting one day on the fact that, although Sparta has one of the smallest popula-
tions, it has become the most powerful and famous of all Greek states, and I wondered
(ἐθαύμασα/ethaumasa) how this could have come about. However, when I examined the
way of life (ἐπιτηδεύματα) of the Spartiates, I ceased to be surprised (ἐθαύμαζον/ethauma-
zon). Indeed, I admire (θαυμάζω/thaumazō) Lycurgus, the man who established the laws
under which they flourished (ηὐδαιμόνησαν/ēudaimonēsan); I consider him an extremely
wise man. (Lac. Pol. 1.1– 2, translation adapted from Moore 1975)
The complex temporality of the work is hinted at in this opening passage, which
relates the narrator’s changing response to Sparta as he learned more about Ly-
curgus. The narrator’s initial thought, expressed in the aorist, no longer persists;
he no longer (with the imperfect verb ethaumazon) finds this worthy of thauma,
but instead continues, in the present tense, to regard Lycurgus himself as an ob-
ject of thauma.
Xenophon is also keen to set out the difference between Sparta and other
Greek societies; its practices are the opposite of those elsewhere (6.1, 7.1). Partic-
ular differences are seen in its treatment of women and of same-sex relation-
ships; the reorganisation or abolition of property and the household is a recur-
ring theme of classical utopias, notably Plato’s Republic, and is acknowledged in
Lycurgus’ rules for the communal oversight of children and property:³⁸
 Gray 2007: 40 – 41; Lipka 2002: 44– 46.

 Dawson 1992: 26 – 35; Ferguson 1975: 29 – 39; Hodkinson 2005: 239 – 244. Hodkinson argues
that, in covering major political institutions (the ephorate, 8.3 – 4, the gerousia, 10.1– 3), Xeno-
phon’s account goes beyond the usual Athenian focus on Spartan kingship.
 Plutarch Lyc. 1.1– 2 notes the chronology disputed in various of his sources; at 1.5 he notes
that Xenophon’s date is the earliest possible.
 See also Hdt. 1.65.2– 66.1, Pl. Leg. 3.691d8 – 692b1 (separating three “saviours” who reformed
the constitution, Plutarch Lyc. 6 – 7.
 Dawson 1992: 40 – 43; Schofield 2006: 87– 91, 227– 234.
86 Carol Atack
In the following respects, his institutions differed from the ordinary type; in other cities
each man controls (ἄρχουσιν) his own children, servants and property, but Lycurgus, be-
cause he wished the citizens to benefit (ἀπολαύοιεν) from each other without doing any
harm, gave each man equal authority over all children, whether his own or those of others.
(Lac. Pol. 6.1)
Xenophon further complicates the temporality of the work with a palinode,

chapter 14, that emphasises that the description he has given is of a past society
whose practices and customs are no longer observed. The authenticity of this
“enigmatic” (Hodkinson) chapter and its positioning within the work have
been challenged by many scholars, although Noreen Humble has made a strong
case for its authenticity and role within the work’s argumentative structure.³⁹ The
chapter distances the reader from the society described, suggesting that it no
longer exists in its ideal form:
If someone were to ask me, whether I believed that the laws of Lycurgus still remained un-
changed (ἀκίνητοι/akinētoi), by Zeus, I could not say this with confidence (θρασέως) … so it
is no surprise (θαυμάζειν/thaumazein) that such reproaches are being cast at them, for they
obviously (φανεροί/phaneroi) do not obey either the gods or the laws of Lycurgus. (Lac.
Pol. 14.1, 14.7)
The former time (proteron men (14.2, 6), prosthen men 14.3) is contrasted sharply
with the current situation (nun de, 14.3, 4, 5, 6). The explicit statement of this di-
vision between past and present resolves some of the apparent ambiguity and
conditionality of earlier parts of the text. They also illuminate the tension that
underlies the narrator’s account of Sparta and his attitude to it. While Xenophon
has typically been treated as an unqualified enthusiast for Sparta and its culture,
his Spartan politeia taken with his analysis of Sparta in his historical writings
suggests a more guarded and ambivalent perspective. This ambivalence was
read by Leo Strauss as an indication that the document was an ironic critique
of Sparta rather than a eulogy of its claimed original constitution; but it may
be anachronistic to impute the features of twentieth-century dystopias to text
or author, even though many of the features of idealised Sparta are similar to
those satirised by modern dystopians.⁴⁰
 Hodkinson 2005: 249; see also Gray 2007: 217– 221; Humble 2004; Lipka 2002: 27– 31.
 Strauss 1939. However, contextualists might argue that anachronism is a vice inherent to the
Straussian method of “recovery” of ancient texts (cf. Ruderman 2015). More broadly, 20th century
treatments of the imaginary Sparta and of Platonic utopias as a source for totalitarianism (Cross-
man 1937; Popper 1966) represent an important reception tradition, cf. Schofield 2006: 194– 198;
Vieira 2010: 29 – 31.
However, further utopian elements in Xenophon’s writing on Sparta suggest

ways in which the gap between mythical past and present might be bridged. This
appears to be one of the functions of the Spartan kings, who claim descent from
Heracles through the Heraclids, founders of the Dorian states. The unbroken list
of kings serves as a ladder reaching back into the past heroic age. The Lac. Pol.
closes, if the transmitted manuscript is correctly ordered, with a chapter outlin-
ing the peculiar honours given to the Spartan kings (15.1– 9). Kingship, Xeno-
phon stresses, is the only office (μόνη γὰρ δὴ αὕτη ἀρχή) that continues un-
changed in its Lycurgan form:
I also want to describe the agreement Lycurgus made between the king and the city. For this
is the only office (ἀρχή/archē) which remains today in its original form (ἐξ ἀρχῆς/ex arch-
ēs); whereas one would find the constitutions of others to have changed (μετακεκινημένας/
metakekinēmenas) and still to be changing (μετακινουμένας/ metakinoumenas) even now.
(Lac. Pol. 15.1)
The play on both senses of archē draws attention to this unique feature of the
Spartan politeia, and introduces the idea of completed change (metakekinēme-
nas) to political offices, ignored in the earlier part of the text. The presence of
living kings within a polis culture with a particularly strong emphasis on citizen
equality (at least among the elite Spartiate citizens) is paradoxical or anachron-
istic.⁴¹ But their presence as an exemplar for citizens of good character and be-
haviour could help to maintain the culture that Xenophon idealised, and allow
the ideal past to be transmitted to the non-ideal present.
The material presence of the kings emphasises this. While Xenophon does
not explore aspects of topography such as the layout of the city (an important
feature of much politeia writing; Hippodamus of Miletus was a town planner),
he does pay attention to the built environment and to the topology of monarchy,
as well as to the structure of the military camps commanded by the kings
(LP 13.1– 10).⁴²
The idealising presence of the king is explored further in Xenophon’s enco-
mium of the Spartan king Agesilaus, under whom he served on campaign.⁴³
While the appearances of Agesilaus in the Hellenica are fitted into the work’s his-
 Cartledge 2001: 55 – 67 explores the Spartan “peculiarly high symbolic regard for kingship”
(61). The Athenians still had a “king archon” with specific, mostly religious responsibilities
(Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 3.2– 5; retelling the stories of their mythical kings, especially Theseus, provided
opportunities for political analysis (Euripides Suppliants, Isocrates Helen, cf. Atack 2020: 44– 84;
Easterling 1985).
 Paden 2001; Shipley 2005.
 Cartledge 1987: 55 – 66.
88 Carol Atack
torical narrative, his presence in the posthumous encomium is detemporalised,

with no overarching narrative.⁴⁴ Agesilaus lives in a house that is or resembles a
primitive hut such as his Heraclid ancestors would have known.
Anyone who finds this hard to believe should look at (ἰδέτω/idetō) the kind of house that
was sufficient for Agesilaus, and, in particular, look at (θεασάσθω/theasasthō) the front
doors. It would not be implausible to think that these were the very doors that Heracles’
descendant, Aristodemus, acquired and set up on his return home. (Agesilaus 8.7)
The primitive hut is a theme of past-oriented and nostalgic utopias that materi-
alises the idea of the “noble savage”.⁴⁵ It simultaneously connects the present
kings with the distant past, and contrasts that simple primitive past with the lux-
urious practices of other contemporary monarchs and aspirant figures. Agesilaus
exemplifies the simple, primitive life in his practices, such as sitting directly on
the ground rather than on carpets; when the Persian satrap Pharnabazus comes
to meet him, he is shamed into copying the ascetic king’s behaviour (Hellenica
4.1.30).
Xenophon’s Persian politeia (Cyropaedia 1.2) transplants many elements of
his Sparta into a distinctive setting, Persia re-imagined as a polis. But just like
Sparta, the perfect society turns out to be just out of reach; Cyrus, the paradig-
matically successful leader created by this society, has effectively destroyed the
conditions in which its important feature, its educational regime, can continue.⁴⁶
Transplanted to Babylon and replicated in the subordinate satrapies, Persian ed-
ucation fails to produce a new generation of effective leaders (7.5.86). Again, a
palinode sets out the decline (8.8); just as with Xenophon’s other works, the au-
thenticity of this section has been questioned.⁴⁷ However, just as with the condi-
tionality of the Lycurgan heritage of Sparta, the persistence of Persian education
and values has been flagged as a potential problem earlier in the work.⁴⁸
Perhaps because Xenophon’s Persia owes more to his imagination than his
Sparta does, he sets out more detail of its civic topography. Even so, he empha-
sises the rules that govern the use of space rather than the details of the built
environment, such as the separation of commercial and leisure space which en-
sures that the gentlemen do not have to come into contact with traders:⁴⁹
 Pontier 2010.
 Rykwert 1972; Rood, Atack and Phillips 2020: 186 – 7.
 Nadon 2001: 29 – 42 contrasts Xenophon’s Persian and Spartan paideiai; the contrast Newell
1983 finds between his Persia and Media resembles that between utopia and dystopia.
 Gera 1993: 299 – 300; Nadon 2001: 139 – 146.
 Nadon 2001: 141– 144, citing Cyr. 3.3.51– 2 and other passages from book 8.
 See Pontier 2006: 337, 387. Aristotle attributes this practice to Thessaly (Pol. 7.12.1331a30 – 35).
They have a so-called Free Square (ἐλευθέρα ἀγορά/eleuthera agora), where the king’s pal-
ace and other government buildings have been built. From hence are banished to another
place merchandise for sale and its sellers, their cries and their vulgarity, lest their confusion
(τύρβη/turbē) mingle (μιγνύηται/mignuētai) with the good order (εὐκοσμίᾳ/eukosmiai) of
the educated. (Cyr. 1.2.3, translation Ambler 2001)
The exclusion of commerce from the heart of the city hints at Spartan restriction
on the economic activities of Spartiates, and also perhaps a hint of golden-age
thought woven into the politeia, in the satisfaction of needs outside economic
activity (as with the stress on hunting rather than agriculture as the source of
food).⁵⁰ Persian civic space is then further subdivided to emphasise the age-
class divisions that, as in Lycurgan Sparta, structure the lives and responsibili-
ties of citizens:
This square by the government buildings is divided into four parts. One of these is for the
boys, one for the youths, another for the mature men, another for those who are beyond the
years of military service. It is required by law that these divisions attend their several pla-
ces, the boys and the mature men at daybreak, the elders when it suits each of them, except
for appointed days, when they are obliged to be present. (Cyr. 1.2.4)
Thus the space and the time of the Persian polis are organised to emphasise the
roles of citizens in each stage of their lives. The description of the different life
stages emphasises the continuity of the process as the politeia’s practices and
rules serve to deliver a stable society. The persistence and stability of the politeia
are marked by present and perfect verbs.⁵¹ However, Xenophon’s narrative marks
a turning point in the history of Persia, as the youthful Cyrus explores the differ-
ent society of the Medes, gains a taste for military expeditions, and launches the
series of military actions that will result in his capture of Babylon and establish-
ment of an autocratic empire on a completely different scale.
That the Cyropaedia is an educational utopia has long been noted.⁵² Its prin-
cipal problem is to explore how the small-scale society of Persia could be repli-
cated under the changed conditions of empire. Xenophon’s opening questions
seek to identify the origin of the qualities that enabled Cyrus to manage this
process, asking whether they were innate or acquired through education (1.1.6).
 Although Christopher Tuplin has argued that Xenophon’s Persia is distinct from the histor-
ical Sparta, the idea of elite abstention from direct economic activity is related to Athenian La-
conophilia (Tuplin 1994).
 Nadon 2001: 35, citing Waller Newell’s unpublished PhD dissertation.
 Both Frye (1973: 38) and Nadon (2001: 24) cite Edmund Spenser’s introduction to his Faerie
Queene (1590), in which he praises Xenophon’s practice of exemplarity.
90 Carol Atack
The past perfection of Persia before Cyrus is contrasted to Cyrus’ own em-
pire, and both are superior to the corruption and decline Xenophon finds in
the contemporary Persian empire. Using the past to explore empire enables Xen-
ophon to explore the phenomenon of large-scale empire without committing
himself to supporting contemporary instances of despotic rule, but it also raises
the question of whether good customs can be preserved in different circumstan-
ces. Throughout the narrative Xenophon flags practices, particularly those of sol-
diers on campaign, that he claims do persist in present Persia:
There remains even unto this day (νῦν δὲ ἔτι) evidence of their moderate fare (μετρίας διαί-
της) and of their working off by exercise what they eat. (Cyr. 1.2.16)
Although Xenophon marks continuity in this way, as the work progresses the
thought that the new empire might not provide an environment for the secure
continuance of Persian customs is repeatedly flagged, for example:
And as for the children who may be born of us, let us educate them here. We ourselves will
be better by wishing to provide ourselves as the best possible patterns (παραδείγματα/pa-
radeigmata) for our children, and our children could not easily become worthless (πονηροί/
ponēroi), even if they wished to, spending their day in noble and good practices, not even
hearing or seeing anything shameful (αἰσχρόν/aischron). (Cyr. 7.5.86)
However, the Persian politeia was already receding into the past, from the mo-
ment that Cyrus first travelled to the court of his grandfather Astyages, king of
the Medes (1.3.1– 3). However, it is the disputed final chapter of the last book
that moves it even further back, using the same patterns (proteron/prosthen
men… nun de) seen in the palinode of the Lac. Pol. This final chapter is an effec-
tive dystopia, demonstrating the kind of society that might result if the moral
codes praised by Xenophon were rejected. Through a series of reversals, Persia
with its focus on justice and the perfection of the individual becomes a dystopia
of corrupt public life and private excess and depravity. The order held in place by
Cyrus’ unique capabilities begins to disintegrate immediately on his death:
When Cyrus died, however, his sons immediately began to fall into dissension (ἐστασίαζον/
estasiazon), cities and nations immediately revolted (aphistanto), and everything began to
take a turn (ἐτρέποντο/etreponto) for the worse. (Cyr. 8.8.2)
Xenophon gives examples of the deterioration in Persian public life, with injus-
tice and corruption rampant:
And that the children before used to hear cases being justly adjudicated (τὰς δίκας δικαίως
δικαζομένας) and seemed to learn justice (δικαιότητα), this too has been altogether undone,
for now they see clearly that whichever side bribes more (πλέον διδῶσιν) wins. (Cyr. 8.8.13)
Private life is corrupted by the lack of restraint towards food and drink, and the
preference given to Median customs and dress over Persian ones:
But they are also much more delicate now than in Cyrus’ time. Then they still made use of
the education (παιδείᾳ) and continence (ἐγκρατείᾳ) they received from the Persians, as well
as the dress and the luxury of the Medes. Now they look with indifference on the extinction
of the Persians’ perseverance (καρτερίαν/karterian), while they conserve the Medes’ soft-
ness (μαλακίαν/malakian). (Cyr. 8.8.15)
The impact of this decline is apparent in the military (8.8.20 – 26), which has lost
the skills developed under Cyrus and maintained through practice, and now
must rely on Greek mercenaries.
Just as with the Lac. Pol., the juxtaposition of positive and negative descrip-
tions of a society, set against each other as past and present, raises the question
of how Xenophon means his readers to assess each stage of Cyrus’ life and that
of his successors. But the presence of the dystopia of 8.8 should not lead us to
conclude that Xenophon does not idealise or express nostalgia for the earlier so-
cieties. His ambivalence towards the present state of Sparta and Persia is itself
an expression of political nostalgia.
3 Isocrates’ critical utopias

For Isocrates, the imagined ideal past is precisely located in Athens, in two dis-
tinct eras: a more recent historical past, that of the generation which produced
the victors at Marathon, just over a century before the dramatic or actual com-
position dates of his speeches (Panegyricus, Areopagiticus), and that of a more
distant mythical past, the time of Athenian synoecism and the foundation of
its democracy by the king Theseus (Helen, Panathenaicus). In identifying a myth-
ical golden age of democracy in these settings, Isocrates can criticise current
practice and argue for his own political programme, while avoiding the appear-
ance of supporting oligarchy or tyranny within his own political context. He can
also criticise others’ writing: his Egyptian politeia also criticises the sophist Poly-
crates (explicitly) and Plato’s Republic (implicitly). Here the mythicised and de-
temporalised past reflects political discourse rather than practice.
Isocrates presents a past golden age of Athenian democracy, but his pro-
gramme argues for a substantially different political programme for the near fu-
92 Carol Atack
ture. Leadership of a Panhellenic expedition against Persia was a different proj-

ect from the defensive hegemony that the Athenians more usually assumed.⁵³ His
case for Athenian leadership of such a programme was the cultural and political
hegemony of Athens, underpinned by its position as the first and best politeia
and its autochthonous citizenry (Panegyricus 23 – 24). For Isocrates, the best po-
litical arrangements are always those he attributes to Athens: Christian Bouchet,
with good cause, has described his work as a ‘utopia of the centre’.⁵⁴
While this vision of a past perfect Athens lies behind much of Isocrates’ rhet-
oric, it is most clearly set out in a work addressed more closely to Athenian citi-
zens, the Areopagiticus. The past politeia of Athens is described in detail, but it is
an imaginary account; as with Xenophon’s Lac. Pol. the emphasis is on the po-
litical culture of the city and the education through which it is instilled, as well
as more specific description of political institutions and processes, particularly
the reimagined aristocratic Areopagus Council.⁵⁵
The organisation of civic space is an important theme of this work. The
Areopagus is both a physical location in Athens and the detail that identifies
the council that met there. Elsewhere in the work Isocrates emphasises the con-
trast between town and city, and idealises the country estates of the aristocracy
(52– 53). However, time is also a significant theme, and one that is significantly
manipulated. While Xenophon’s comparison between idealised past and experi-
enced present Sparta, rather than present Sparta and present Athens, is unclear
until the final chapters, Isocrates is much more explicit in his comparison be-
tween Athens before democracy was fully developed, and Athens in its current
political state. He acknowledges that Athens is now politically stable, albeit re-
duced from its former imperial glory, but warns that it would be naïve not to ex-
pect further change for the worse, as predicted by his model of change (6 – 7).
Athens cannot maintain the advantages of recent victories (12), and many Athe-
nians complain about the quality of the present democracy (15), while in practice
preferring it to “the one established by their ancestors”.
Isocrates’ explicit alternative is to propose a return to this ancestral demo-
cratic constitution, that he here attributes to Solon, followed by Cleisthenes:
It is in favour of [the democracy of our forefathers] that I intend to speak, and this is the
subject on which I gave notice that I would address you. (16) For I find that the one way
– the only possible way – which can avert future perils from us and deliver us from our
 Isoc. To Philip 9, Panegyricus 17, Panathenaicus 13 – 14.

 Bouchet 2010.
 On the historical function of and changes in the role of the Areopagus Council, see Wallace
1989.
present ills is that we should be willing to restore that earlier democracy (ἐκείνην τὴν δημο-
κρατίαν ἀναλαβεῖν) which was instituted by Solon, who proved himself above all others the
friend of the people (δημοτικώτατος), and which was re-established by Cleisthenes, who
drove out the tyrants and brought the people back into power – (17) a government than
which we could find none more favourable to the populace or more advantageous to the
whole city. (Areopag. 15 – 17, translation Norlin).
In including both Solon and Cleisthenes, Isocrates blurs the historical bounda-
ries and blends distinct periods into a single, idealised whole; it is rare for
fourth-century Athenian authors to say much about Cleisthenes, but Isocrates
wishes to set the Marathon generation in context (Paneg. 75 – 87, cf. De Bigis
27), which necessitates acknowledging Cleisthenes’ role, and suggesting that
he restored the Solonian democracy rather than radically changing it, the
more usual charge.⁵⁶
In Isocrates’ imagined past, offices were given by appointment to suitable
candidates, rather than their holders being selected by lot (23). Those citizens ap-
pointed to office – from those with the leisure time and “sufficient means” (βίον
ἱκανόν, 26) to manage them properly – carried out their duties in the interests of
the commonwealth rather than seeking private gain from their roles. This ensur-
ed stability and security:
And how, pray, could one find a democracy more stable or more just (βεβαιοτέραν ἢ δικαιο-
τέραν) than this, which appointed the most capable men (δυνατωτάτους) to have charge of
its affairs but gave the people authority (κύριον) over these men? (Areopag. 27)
Overseeing the whole politeia is the Council of the Areopagus, an aristocratic

body of former (selected) officials that is charged with ensuring the decency
and good order (eutaxia, 39) of citizens. The individual excellence of its mem-
bers, guaranteed by their noble birth and Athenian upbringing, leads them to
deliver good order (eukosmia, 37):
For our forefathers placed such strong emphasis upon sobriety (σωφροσύνην/sōphrosunē)
that they put the supervision of decorum (εὐκοσμίας/eukosmia) in charge of the Council of
the Areopagus—a body which was composed exclusively of men who were of noble birth
(τοῖς καλῶς γεγονόσι/tois kalōs gegonosi) and had exemplified in their lives exceptional vir-
tue (ἀρετήν/aretē) and sobriety (σωφροσύνην), and which, therefore, naturally excelled all
the other councils of Hellas. (Areopag. 37)
Isocrates goes on to detail the processes through which the Areopagus exerted its
influence, and the differences between its practices and the methods used to
 Cloché 1963: 84– 85; Flaig 2011; Mathieu 1925: 145 – 146.
94 Carol Atack
control citizen behaviour in the current constitution. The Areopagites exerted in-
fluence through their own good example, and through maintaining such close
oversight over citizens that they were able to predict and ward off crime in ad-
vance (47). Unlike the present democracy, they exerted control through their con-
tinuing oversight and without the need for written laws (39 – 42, Paneg. 78). The
past becomes a kind of counterfactual alternative to the present, of the kind that
an opponent of democracy might propose, as Isocrates admits in acknowledging
that he might be seen to hate democracy (misodēmos, 57) and to be making sug-
gestions for revolutionary change (59).
The contrast between ideal and actual Athenian democracy resembles the
distinctions between types of democracy set out by Aristotle in the Politics,
with the ideal of the patrios politeia resembling the first form (Arist. Pol. 4.4.
1291b30 – 1292a17). The Aristotelian Ath. Pol. also describes the power of the Are-
opagus council (Ath. Pol. 8), as well as the first stages of the dismantling of its
powers in Cleisthenes’ reforms. But Isocrates, like Xenophon, is not concerned
with the precise depiction of a historical stage in the evolution of the Athenian
politeia (as the Aristotelian text, for all its difficulties, is) but with the creation
of an imaginary alternative to the deprecated present, that is then endowed
with the cultural authority of the past, and becomes an instance of Mannheim’s
“whole past”.⁵⁷
The cultural conditions and the personal qualities of the past Athenians, and
their activities and their consequences, are Isocrates’ real interest. He imagines
an austere version of the public festivals, stripped of excess by the sober restraint
of the elite and the reluctance of those outside the city to travel in to watch the
public displays (48). Citizens avoid the agora, creating through their practice the
division between citizen and commercial life that both Plato and Xenophon
mandated in their own writings:
And so strictly did they avoid the market-place that, even when they were at times compel-
led to pass through it, they were seen to do this with great modesty (αἰδοῦς/aidōs) and so-
briety (σωφροσύνης/sōphrosunē) of manner. (Areopag. 48)
Isocrates, like John Major in 1993, invokes nostalgia for an imagined past to gath-
er support for his own programme for future action and to insist on the continu-
ity of past and imagined future. His imaginary past Athens, however, is not a
static model but itself changes through his career, as the political situation to
which he was responding changed. The authentic, good democratic Athens
moves back in time from a period historical past, the generation before Mara-
 Cf. Bringmann 1965: 83 – 88 on Isocrates and the patrios politeia.

thon, to the mythical past, in which Theseus the Athenian culture hero becomes
the main political actor. From presenting a utopia headed by a collective citizen
group, the Areopagus, he moves to emphasise the role of the founder king. In
part this is a response to the changing political conditions under which Isocrates
was writing, and particularly to the rise of powerful rulers such as Philip of Mac-
edon.⁵⁸
Isocrates also uses the politeia form to criticise other writers’ idealist use of
the genre. His Busiris is thought to contain an implicit criticism of Plato’s Repub-
lic, associating the politeia of Kallipolis with features of a politeia attributed to
Busiris, founder and king of Egypt.⁵⁹ Busiris was notorious in Athenian myth
as the Ethiopian king who sacrificed visitors, contrary to Greek custom; the
myth is an unusual and extreme example of Greek ethnocentrism, although it
had already been contested by Herodotus.⁶⁰ Isocrates removes Plato’s imaginary
Kallipolis from its location in Socrates’ thought as a timeless ideal, and places it
in a burlesque version of the mythical past, spatially reconfigured outside the
Greek world to emphasise its distance from the Athenian centre. Busiris’ politeia
is both temporally and spatially distinct from the world of the Greek polis, albeit
connected to the heroic age. There are many problems in interpreting this “par-
odic and paradoxical” (Vasunia) response to Plato, and in Isocrates’ subversive
use of positive and negative Greek stereotypes about Egypt within it.⁶¹
The Busiris is presented as a response to and correction of a rhetorical de-
fence of the character by Polycrates, an Athenian sophist of the early fourth cen-
tury, but in citing Polycrates’ Accusation of Socrates (4) Isocrates involves Plato’s
work.⁶² Isocrates places a Platonic politeia into the distant Egyptian past; in
 Panathenaicus 138 – 148; see Atack 2014: 350 – 353.

 On Egypt as a political and philosophical ideal, see Froidefond 1971: 231– 235, and for a post-
colonialist deconstruction of the “Egyptian mirage”, see Vasunia 2001. The Busiris has rarely
been treated as a political work; for Mathieu it is ‘purement littéraire’ (Mathieu 1925: 146).
 Busiris and Heracles were familiar from vase paintings and comedy: see LIMC sv Bousiris,
III.1 147– 152, III.2, Skinner 2012: 104– 106.
 Phiroze Vasunia emphasises these challenges, against readings that take Isocrates’ parodic
mythography at face value, as Martin Bernal did (Bernal 1987: 103 – 106; Vasunia 2001: 193 – 199).
 The limited and late evidence for Polycrates’ works, and the possible structure of his lost
work on Socrates, are surveyed in Livingstone 2001: 29 – 40. The Busiris’ composition date is un-
certain, but following Eucken, against Mathieu, I believe that it cannot predate the circulation of
Plato’s complete Republic: Eucken 1983: 173 – 183; Livingstone 2001: 40 – 47; Mathieu and Bré-
mond 1928 – 62: 1.184– 185.
96 Carol Atack
doing so, he undermines Plato’s creation by presenting it as the product of a

long-ago Egypt.⁶³
He begins by hinting at the life of the golden age, one of plentiful food, al-
though here delivered through agriculture. Busiris’ politeia has been positioned
outside the normal boundaries of the passage of time and the limitations of
human endeavour. Living with the resources of the Nile gives the Egyptians con-
trol over climate and agriculture:
For in addition to the advantages I have mentioned, the Nile has bestowed upon the Egyp-
tians a godlike (ἰσόθεον/isotheon) power in respect to the cultivation of the land; for while
Zeus is the dispenser of rains and droughts to the rest of mankind, each Egyptian has made
himself master (κύριος/kurios) of both of these on his own account. (Busiris 13, translation
Van Hook)
While the Egyptians must practise agriculture, unlike humans living in typical
golden age accounts, they do so like gods, controlling the artificial climate to en-
sure the success of their efforts, and thus removing the possibility of failure that
normally accompanies human endeavour. The specific setting of Egypt ensures
this possibility; the advantages that Busiris has commandeered are due to the
spatial location of the society not to its political organisation. It is in these de-
tails that Busiris’ skill as a lawgiver becomes apparent, as Isocrates describes
the organisational details of the Egyptian politeia. Like Kallipolis, it is marked
by fixed class divisions (15), and the requirement that workers stick to their
own technē (16 – 18), so that each worker achieves a high standard in their spe-
cialist task. The lower quality produced by changing roles, or through the rota-
tion of offices, is a charge Isocrates also makes elsewhere; the permanence of
kingship and appointments made under it makes for better rule than the chang-
ing magistrates of a democracy (Nicocles 17– 18).
Just as Xenophon praised Lycurgus’ constitution for its resistance to change,
Isocrates observes that those features which make the Egyptian constitution re-
sistant to change have made it popular with philosophers and subject to imita-
tion, notably by the Spartans.
…also with respect to the system (σύνταξιν ) which enables them to preserve royalty and
their political institutions in general, they have been so successful that philosophers
who undertake to discuss such topics and have won the greatest reputation (μάλιστ᾽
εὐδοκιμοῦντας/malist’ eudokimountas) prefer (προαιρεῖσθαι/prohaireisthai) above all others
the Egyptian form of government, and that the Lacedaemonians, on the other hand, govern
 Allan Bloom read the Busiris as “evidently” praising Socratic politics and defending his re-
ligion, rather than criticising them (Bloom 1955: 202).
their own city in admirable fashion because they imitate (μιμουμένους/mimoumenous) cer-
tain of the Egyptian customs. (Busiris 17)
The “philosophers” have long been identified with Plato and Athenian Lacono-
philes in the tradition of the Spartan mirage (cf. Herodotus 2.80, 6.60); the de-
scription of the Egyptian paideia, which works through the study of subjects
included in the Republic’s programme for the philosophical education of guard-
ians (22– 23), with phronēsis as its goal (21), strengthens the link.⁶⁴ Egyptian
ideas were not just transmitted through Sparta’s imitation of its constitution, Iso-
crates goes on to suggest, but through their influence on Pythagoras (27– 28).
This may be the charge against Plato of plagiarism of Pythagorean texts that be-
came well established in antiquity (Diogenes Laertius LP 8.54).
Isocrates manipulates myth to suggest that ideal politeiai that offer the pos-
sibility of political change, such as Plato’s Kallipolis, draw on the past rather
than offering innovation, and aim to re-instantiate a golden age rather than to
ameliorate the arrangements of the contemporary polis. While Plato too praises
the stability and antiquity of Egypt, in contrast to the changeability of Greek
music and laws (Laws 2.656d1– 657b8, 7.799a1– b8), he does not attribute this,
or Egypt’s political arrangements and culture, to a single lawgiver or founder,
but to collective decision-making.⁶⁵ Isocrates, on the other hand, insists on Busi-
ris’ sole authorship of the Egyptian constitution; this is the basis on which Busi-
ris should be defended, rather than for any improbable deeds (31– 32). He con-
tests the chronology of previous accounts that attempt to link different myths
(8, 37), deploying first the methodology of chronography and then a criticism
of poets’ slanders of the gods, a further connection to Plato’s Republic with its
criticisms of poetic accounts of the gods.
In using the politeia as the vehicle for praise and in using it to express am-
bivalence, Isocrates follows Xenophon’s writing on Sparta, praising mythical
lawgivers and asserting the importance of kings in the maintenance of establish-
ed culture and customs. In hinting that Plato’s radical proposals were an imita-
tion of Egyptian practice he questions the possibility of innovation in utopian
projects and insists on the priority of ancient constitutions as the model for po-
litical reform.
 Wilamowitz suggested that Pythagoreans rather than Plato are Isocrates’ target: Eucken
1983: 179; Livingstone 2001: 137– 138; Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1919: II.116, n.113.
 Brisson 1987; Froidefond 1971: 267– 342.
98 Carol Atack
4 Conclusion: before utopia

Both Xenophon and Isocrates use the politeia genre to criticise current political
and cultural arrangements. They set imagined, de-historicised and timeless ideal
past versions of politeiai against degenerate present versions, using similar lan-
guage of political good order and personal self-restraint to do so.
The mythical past functions as a location for setting political ideals in play
in a similar way to the spatially distinct utopias of later writers, whether Hellen-
istic ideal cities or Renaissance literary utopias. Neither Xenophon nor Isocrates
has any programme for restoring the past that they praise; while scholars have
debated the seriousness of his proposals as a plan for change, Plato does outline
a process by which a city could be transformed into a Kallipolis. Instead, Xeno-
phon’s and Isocrates’ nostalgia for an imagined political past expresses a conser-
vative hostility to political change, and a longing for personal virtue.
In opposing the possibility for change, Xenophon and Isocrates prefigure the
concerns and the methods of later forms of conservatism. In placing their ideal
societies in an unachievable past, they offer a critique of utopianism while using
its devices.
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Julia Annas
Plato’s ideal society and Utopia
1 A familiar story
Plato is best known for his dialogue that we call Republic. The main thing that
readers of the work (apart from specialists) remember is the idea of philosopher
rulers. In the dialogue Socrates, the main speaker, describes a society to be
based on the principle that rulers should be people with knowledge, and,
given the conditions which it turns out are required for someone to have knowl-
edge, only a few will have it and so be fit to rule, and by that point they will be
philosophers. The ideal society will be run by philosopher rulers or “guardians”,
who rule because they have knowledge of what is best for everyone in the soci-
ety; they themselves will be unselfish servants of the best interests of the society.
A familiar story about Plato’s political thinking goes as follows: Plato’s ideal
society and its philosopher rulers come from a period when Plato was very opti-
mistic about human nature and its capacity to acquire knowledge and to apply it
impartially and incorruptibly. Later, however, he grew disillusioned about hu-
mans’ ability to rule uncorrupted by power, and in his later political work, the
Laws, he replaces the rule of knowledgeable rulers by the rule of law. Plato’s po-
litical thinking thus follows an arc from optimism to pessimism about human
nature. This account of Plato’s progress (or regress) may come with a dubious bi-
ographical story about Plato’s becoming disillusioned by a failed intervention in
politics in Sicily.¹ Even if we believe that story, however, it is detachable from the
claim that he moved in a disillusioned direction. Sometimes this account is sum-
med up in the claim that Plato’s thinking became “less utopian”.
This familiar story is, I claim, wrong in every major point. Although we do
have good reason to think that the Laws is later than the Republic, it is mistaken
to think of the Republic as the product of optimism about human nature, and the
Laws as the product of later disillusioned pessimism. Further, the familiar story
is misleading when it is presented as a lessening of interest in utopia. Plato is
doing two things in the Republic, which have very different upshots for his
later reflections. He is giving an account of the ideally just society and individ-
ual, and he is also giving us the first philosophical utopia. These are distinct,
and very different.
 On the unlikelihood that the so-called ‘Seventh Letter’ gives us usable biographical informa-
tion, see Irwin 2009 and Burnyeat and Frede 2015.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-006
104 Julia Annas
“But surely they are the same thing?” I shall be arguing that they are not,
and that recognizing that they are not enables us to make better sense of
what Plato is doing in his ongoing engagement with justice in society and in
the individual.
2 The ideal state: first attempt

Plato has, throughout all his work, a constant and passionate interest in the
ideal form of society. The ideal society is one in which the citizens live happy
lives. Further, they do so not by making their main aim money, or a pleasant
life, or power, as is the case with most people in our societies. They learn to
live happily by being educated to be good people, people with the virtues of
courage, self-control, wisdom and justice. They are people, that is, who think
it more important to be honest than to win competitions or make money; people
who value health rather than indulgence, standing up for what is good rather
than going along with the powerful. Plato is entirely serious about this. We
should remember that happy lives here are not lives of pleasant feeling but flour-
ishing lives, as the Greek word eudaimonia is often translated. Still, we should
not underestimate the shock value of Plato’s claim, not just to us but also to
his audience. We will live happy, flourishing lives, the claim goes, by (and
only by) being good, co-operative people, not by being competitive and ruthless,
always asking what the payoff will be for me. This claim did not sound immedi-
ately plausible to Plato’s contemporaries any more than it may do to us. But Plato
believes unwaveringly that it is true, and much of his work is devoted to persuad-
ing us of it, from many directions. The Republic is only the most familiar work
that does this.
The Republic is about “how we should live,” as Socrates says in book 1. Soc-
rates’ friends Glaucon and Adeimantus pose as starkly as possible the challenge
to an individual who thinks it worthwhile to be just. In fact, they say, this person
would suffer every kind of injustice and misrepresentation, while the unjust per-
son would flourish. Socrates undertakes the quixotic-seeming task of showing
that actually the just person, even suffering the worst that can happen to him
or her in the actual world, is still happier than the unjust person who has
every worldly advantage. But the case for this can be made out only by explain-
ing to us the nature of justice, and to do this we need to consider justice not only
in the individual but in the state. We quickly move to a strong claim. Justice, the
main virtue of the good person, is actually the very same thing in the state as it is
in the individual person (“in the soul”, as he puts it). We look at the state to see
justice in “larger letters”, but we find exactly the same thing in both cases. Jus-
tice is a relation, a relation between the parts of a unified whole. In both the
state and the individual, it is the relation that holds when the rational part edu-
cates the other parts to respond to good reasons, so that both state and individ-
ual become unified, rational wholes. One result of this, which is emphasized at
the end of the main argument, is that when as an individual, I seek to become
just, I should try to conform myself, as an individual, to the structure of the ideal
state.² It would be completely missing the point for me to try to become like the
people in the ideal state, such as the philosopher rulers.³
The Republic is not, then, only, or even mainly, about the ideal state. It is
centrally about justice, justice in the individual soul and justice illustrated on
a larger scale in the state. (In the ancient world its title is sometimes taken to
be On Justice).
Famously, the requirements of justice in the state are unsettling. Correspond-
ing to the role of reason in the person, the state is to be ruled by a class of
‘guardians’ who rationally grasp what is best for the state as a whole. There is
also a class of ‘auxiliaries’ or military, who put the guardians’ commands into
action, and then the rest, envisaged as a population of farmers, with some crafts-
men. These three classes are kept strictly distinct as functioning parts of the
state. The farming part of the population have all the money, but no political
power; the rule of the guardians is not accountable to the other citizens.
Kallipolis, as this ideal state is often called, is completely, uncompromising-
ly and unapologetically different from any society that we (and Plato’s audience)
have been aware of. We are not being asked to think of a society that we could
get to by altering some of our institutions. Kallipolis is radically different from
any of our societies. Secondly, Plato underlines this by putting stress on the
point that we will never create an ideal society by trying to improve our institu-
tions. They are fundamentally misguided; we need a radical break, a clean
sweep. He uses the metaphor of an artist who needs a clean surface on which
to draw something new.
Plato is being deliberately challenging here, as challenging as he can be.
And this raises a question, because he also thinks that the ideal society of Kal-
lipolis is not merely an idle dream, but something which could – in ideal condi-
 The famous passage at Republic 592a-b.

 This is one consequence of the fact that the Republic answers the question of how I, an indi-
vidual, should live. If I ask how I, as an individual, benefit from being a good person, the fol-
lowing answer is manifestly irrelevant: “Well, if the ideal state came into being you would be a
philosopher ruler”. We can learn some things from considering the sketchily presented lives of
the citizens of Kallipolis, but they are not part of the main argument about justice in the indi-
vidual.
106 Julia Annas
tions, of course – come about. But how are we to take the first steps towards
bringing about the ideal society? How are we even to start getting from here
to there?
In keeping with the idea of the clean slate, Plato sometimes suggests that we
might be able to make a clean sweep of institutions. In one notorious passage he
suggests sending away from a city anyone over the age of 10, so that a whole gen-
eration could grow up and be educated under radically new institutions. But this
cannot work, given his own insistence on the radical nature of the break needed.
For the people to do the sending away and educating will still be people who
have been themselves brought up under the old, disastrously wrong institutions,
and are therefore still tainted with all the defects that motivated sending away
the other adults.⁴ The more radical the difference between the ideal state and
us, and the more the stress on the need for a clean sweep and the futility of
merely changing existing institutions, the more hopeless it looks to find any
way from here to there. Kallipolis, it seems, can be brought about only by people
who have already been brought up in Kallipolis, so the process can never get
started. We have no way to break into the circle.
It is sometimes suggested that this problem is not damaging for Plato, since
he thinks that once in a great while someone might come along who had escaped
the corruptions of existing societies. Such a person would be liberated from the
faulty thought-patterns of existing societies and so could organize and shepherd
through a radical change of the kind needed to produce an utterly different so-
ciety like Kallipolis. The circle could thus be broken into. (Of course this would
require him to use force on uncomprehending and so unappreciative people
whose society was being reformed, but Plato is unbothered by this.) However,
this move fails because of a fact about Kallipolis which has not been mentioned
so far.
One aspect of the familiar story about Plato’s political thought which I men-
tioned is the idea that when writing the Republic Plato believed in the rule of rea-
son exercised through knowledgeable rulers with absolute power, whereas he
later became disillusioned about the prospect of any human being exercising ab-
solute power without corrruption, So he introduced the idea, in the Laws, of all
citizens being subject to the absolute authority of the laws. So the story goes. One
reason that this cannot be right is that, although it is not much remarked upon,
laws play a large role in the Republic.
 540d1– 541b1. The leaders of the project are called ‘philosophers’ at 540d4, but this simply
evades the problem of people growing up in actual societies being able to become philosophers,
without the extensive training required in Kallipolis.
Kallipolis has laws just as any Greek city does; Greeks couldn’t imagine a
city running without laws any more than we can. So Socrates and his partners,
in building up the sketch of Kallipolis, frequently call themselves “lawgivers” for
the city. This is a metaphor, but it’s taken very seriously: often Socrates moves
directly from something’s being a good for the city to its being an appropriate
object for legislation.⁵ Moreover, law pervades the central analogy between per-
son and city. The decline of the progessively worse states is presented as a de-
cline in citizens’ willingness to obey their laws. And the role of reason in organ-
izing the lives of good people is often expressed in terms of law.⁶ The rulers’
education in particular is established by important laws, and the rulers are edu-
cated both to enforce laws and to be scrupulously law-abiding themselves; even
their games are to train them to follow laws willingly. But given this tight relation
between laws and the rulers’ education, we can see that nobody who hasn’t been
educated under the laws of Kallipolis can have the knowledge that would be
needed to establish Kallipolis. We can’t break into the circle after all.
Does this matter? The Republic is obviously not meant as a blueprint for peo-
ple to go out and apply in the actual world. Plato’s stress on the radical break
between any actual state and his ideal state means that anyone who did try to
go out and educate children under 10 would be grievously mistaken about
their own qualifications for doing so.And Plato is clear that this applies to him-
self too; the Republic emphatically does not contain the kind of knowledge that
would be needed to be a philosopher ruler. (For one thing, it is full of the kind of
metaphors, images and appeals to the imagination which the philosopher rulers’
higher education will stringently avoid.) The role of the ideal state in the Repub-
lic is officially just what Plato says it is at the end of the main argument: when
I strive to improve, I should aim to conform the relation of the parts of my soul to
that of the relation of parts of the ideal state, and for this it is utterly irrelevant
whether or not the state exists in our world. Still, Plato does insist that Kallipolis
is not beyond human nature: it is not merely an idle dream. So the feasibility of
embodying Kallipolis in the actual world matters to Plato.
 For example, the importance of unity in the ideal society is represented as its being the high-
est good that a lawgiver can aim at in crafting laws (462a2– 7). This point about law in the Re-
public is discussed at greater length, with references, in Annas: 2012 and in Annas: 2017.
 The passage at 425 – 427 has been inflated and often misinterpreted. The claim there is not
that laws are unimportant in a city of good people, but only that good people, brought up
among good basic laws, will work out small details of legislation for themselves without its hav-
ing to be laid down for them. These minor regulations can be relied on to be in the spirit of the
major laws.
108 Julia Annas
3 Utopia unfinished
Here we run up against a striking feature of the Republic. There are passages in
which Socrates describes the way of life of the rulers. These will be so devoted to
the common good that they will have no families of their own. Sex will be regu-
lated by officials who will, by means of a rigged lottery, bring together at festivals
the people they want to “breed” together. The resulting children will be brought
up communally. There will be no private property or private houses, and no pri-
vacy. Women will be trained to be guardians and have the same way of life as the
men, including military training.
This idea of abolishing the family and private property was, unsurprisingly,
notorious from the first. But here the point at issue is, what is the point of these
passages? They are not a part of the main argument of the book, which gives the
reader reasons to be just in the actual world as it is. And as I try to make myself
just I should aim to conform the structure of my soul to that of the ideal state,
not to that of any of the people in it. It would be a mistake to think of myself
as being, or trying to be like, one of the rulers. That could happen only in the
ideal state, and the ideal state is not a part of the argument that I have reason
to be just in the world as it is. As Plato emphasises, it’s irrelevant for the
main argument whether the ideal state actually exists or not. And this is fortu-
nate, since, as we have seen, he has a systematic problem about bringing the
ideal state into existence.
Also, we do not need the famous passages about the rulers’ communal way
of life for the main argument of the Republic. Indeed, these passages lay the
main argument open to the common misinterpretation that the answer to the
question, why I should be just, is to be found in the ideal state where I would
(I hope!) be a philosopher ruler. But this answer is utterly irrelevant to Plato’s
claim that he will justify my being just even in the worst possible circumstances
of the actual world.
So what are these passages doing? I suggest that they are best understood as
the first philosophical utopia. Utopia has been defined in different ways, but the
understanding of it that I will make use of is: an account of a fantastic and imag-
inatively presented society which, though not necessarily perfect or ideal, is de-
signed to make us reflect back adversely on the ways in which our society differs
from it. A good example of utopia in this sense is Thomas More’s Utopia. Here we
have a society where communal living and common possession of goods is pre-
sented in a way designed to make the reader reflect on the problems raised by
private property and selfishness in contemporary sixteenth-century England.
More’s Utopia is far from an ideal society. Not only are the Utopians not Christi-
an, they are refined hedonists.⁷ They are also tolerant of all religions, something
strongly opposed by More himself, who unhesitatingly tortured Protestants.
More’s Utopia is designed to appeal to the imagination in ways that will make
the reader reflect critically on his or her own society.⁸
Plato’s is, I suggest, the first philosophical utopia. It has non-philosophical
predecessors in Hesiod’s account of the Golden Age, and some of Aristophanes’
fantasies, but it is the first which comes from serious political thought about so-
ciety (even though it is, as stressed, not part of the main argument of the Repub-
lic).⁹
The account of the lives of the rulers in the ideal state of Kallipolis is familiar
because it is famously provocative (as it is meant to be). It is a picture of com-
munal life which appeals to our imagination. It encourages us to disapprove
of our individualistic, competitive way of life, each person “dragging into his
own house” everything he can, thinking of his own pleasures and pains as
being different from those of others.¹⁰ It is meant to make Greeks feel ashamed
of the way they wage war against other Greeks, and, famously, it is meant to
make men reflect on their attitudes to, and assumptions about, women.
This utopian picture in the Republic is extended and made more vivid in
“the Atlantis story”, a narrative in the opening frame dialogue of the Timaeus
and continued in the unfinished dialogue Critias. As the Timaeus opens, Socrates
has been telling friends about the rulers’ lives in the Republic, stressing the most
notorious aspects, such as the new roles for women, the community of children,
the rigging of the apparently random sexual encounters and, prominently, the
way that citizens of Kallipolis make war. (Notably, there is no mention of the
point that the rulers of what is called the best form of state are to be philoso-
phers.) Socrates now says that these people have been depicted in a static pic-
ture, and he wants to see them in motion. In other words, he wants a story
about them.
 Unlike the inhabitants of Francis Bacon’s The New Atlantis (who miraculously receive Chris-
tian scriptures before the date they were actually written).
 The work is famously elusive in this respect; we are surely meant to think that the Utopians’
communal lifestyle would obviate the contemporary problems described in book 1, but More
clearly does not want to make the Utopians’ tolerance and hedonism make us reflect adversely
on contemporary religious intolerance.
 Plato himself refers to the “Golden Age” of Kronos in the Statesman and the Laws. The Laws
passage takes the Golden Age to be one where humans were ruled by reason externally, by dai-
mones. But it is not a perfect world, since the inhabitants fail to take advantage of its resources
to devote themselves to philosophical thinking.
 464c-d.
110 Julia Annas
At this point one of the friends, Critias, says that, by an extraordinary

chance, Socrates’ discussion of the best state reminded him of a story that his
grandfather told him long ago. (We now get a long account of the transmission
of the story, which involves Egyptian priests who preserved the records of soci-
eties which vanished in great natural disasters.) Thus Athenians of Plato’s day,
we are told, need to be told about the wonderful exploits of their own ancestors,
who turn out to be exactly like the people described in what I have called the
utopian part of the Republic. Kallipolis existed! It was a real historical society,
ancient Athens! What luck that this story was fortuitously preserved!
This introduction signals to the reader that what follows is fiction, and in-
deed the Atlantis story is recognized by Plato’s readers as fiction (though not al-
ways, as we’ll see). Then we get the story. Ancient Athens’ finest deed, we are
now told, was to stand alone against mighty Atlantis, a powerful island society
in the Atlantic, which invaded the Mediterranean and theatened to bring Greek
cities under its control. Plato’s audience thinks at once of the Athens of the Per-
sian wars, which defeated a far larger Persian invading force at the battle of Mar-
athon. But as the story proceeds we find another layer. Ancient virtuous Athens,
Kallipolis in action, turns out to have been a land power, described in ways mak-
ing her like the Sparta of Plato’s day. And as Atlantis is described, it turns out to
be a sea power, which invades other peoples and acquires an empire. Now the
audience remembers the Athens of Plato’s own youth, a powerful and imperalist
sea power. The defeat of Atlantis by ancient Athens now turns out to suggest the
Peloponnesian war, where Athens’ imperialist ambitions led to her utter defeat
by Sparta. After the defeat of Atlantis, we are told, both Atlantis and Athens
were destroyed in a great natural cataclysm of earthquakes and floods.
The Atlantis story functions on more than one level. It is significant that not
only the defeated vicious Atlanteans, but the victorious virtuous ancient Atheni-
ans, are utterly destroyed, so that no history remains of the great exploit (and
it is only an accident that the story survives in Egypt and eventually surfaces
again – otherwise there could be no story). This brings out an interesting impli-
cation of Plato’s defence of justice for its own sake in the Republic. The ancient
Athenians fight against Atlantis because it is the just thing to do. They do not
oppose Atlantis, against overwhelming odds, in hope of material reward, or
even lasting fame. Justice is its own reward; the message of the Republic is
that it is always better to be just than to be unjust, even when justice lands
you in the worst situation that the world can inflict on you. There is nothing
for the ancient Athenians to regret about the disappearance of knowledge of
their great victory. In Greek culture heroes often fight to get lasting fame, but
for Plato this is a serious mistake. On this level the story fits well with the cos-
mology of the Timaeus which it introduces, in which the cosmos as a whole is

ordered for the best, and also for the best of each part – as a part of the whole.
The Atlantis story makes the kind of point that utopias are intended to make,
namely to get the audience to rethink their attitude to their own society. Plato’s
audience are to be encouraged to criticize their own society, historical Athens,
for greed and competitiveness by contrast with virtuous ancient Athens, Kallip-
olis in action. Plato’s Athenian audience are encouraged to be ashamed, not
proud, of Athens’ history as an imperialist sea power. Plato is particularly clever
here. First he suggests to his audience that the defeat of invading Atlantis by an-
cient Athens will be a forerunner of the battle of Marathon, where historic Athens
defeated the invading Persians. But as ancient Athens and Atlantis are de-
scribed, it becomes clear that it is historic Athens which is the counterpart of
the Atlantean invaders, and historic Sparta which is the counterpart of virtuous
ancient Athens. As often, Plato is being as challenging and offensive to his au-
dience as he can be.
The Atlantis story carries out one prominent function of utopia – to get us to
rethink our attitudes to our own society. Athenians in particular are urged to re-
think patriotism which is based on past heroism and ignores the ugly side of
Athenian imperialist history.¹¹ But the Atlantis story is unfinished – dramatically
so, since it ends with an incomplete sentence. Although we know the main “plot”
of the story, it breaks off before the narrative gets going.
We don’t know why Plato never completed the Atlantis story, any more than
people in antiquity did, and we can only speculate. But one reason strongly sug-
gests itself (of course it does not exclude others). Plato gives us a long descrip-
tion of Atlantis, which, though west of the Mediterranean, has features like those
of societies to the east. (We can see it as an early example of “Orientalism”.) It is
exotic and fantastically rich. Everything is on a huge scale and lavish. The tem-
ple of Poseidon, for example, is three times the size of the Parthenon, covered in
gold and silver, filled with and surrounded by solid gold statues. The fertile
country supports herds of elephants, and has springs of hot water as well as
 The dramatic date of the dialogue seems to be before the end of the Peloponnesian war. One
of the people present is Hermocrates, the Syracusan leader most responsible for the utter defeat
of the imperialist Athenian expedition to Sicily. Moreover, Critias, in spite of dating difficulties, is
surely meant to remind us of the reign of the Thirty Tyrants after Athens’ final defeat. One of
these was the Critias who was Plato’s uncle. For Plato’s actual audience this would all be in
the past, but historians have plausibly suggested that Plato has in mind the resurgence of Athe-
nian sea power and imperialist ambitions in the 4th century. For Plato the Athenians of his own
day have failed to learn their lesson from defeat.
112 Julia Annas
cold. Plato fills out the exotic picture for us with realistic detail about ships,
walls and temples.
The point of this for Plato is obvious: it is the wealth of Atlantis that makes it
hard for them to sustain their earlier virtue and leads them to develop an attach-
ment to money and power. We are to see the wealth, power and ambition of At-
lantis as a bad thing, and to see Atlantis as a dystopia to contrast with the utopia
of virtuous ancient Athens, the actual embodiment of Kallipolis. But here Plato
comes up against something that spoils his message: vicious Atlantis is far more
interesting and appealing to us than is virtuous ancient Athens.
This becomes clear with the reception history of the Atlantis story. From the
early modern period there was an intense European interest in discovering At-
lantis. This took complicated forms, since explorers and scholars had to integrate
the Atlantis story with biblical history and then with information about the
Americas. What’s notable is that Atlantis comes to be seen as a wonderful lost
civilization, not as a dystopia which deserved to be destroyed. Indeed scholars
in 17th century Spain and Italy appealed to it as the forerunner of their own na-
tion’s cultures. So did the great 17th century Swedish scholar Olof Rudbeck, who
produced a Nordic origin for European civilization in finding the ruins of Atlantis
at Gamla Uppsala, prehistoric burial mounds outside his university city of Up-
psala. Not till the early nineteenth century did it become accepted that the Atlan-
tis story is a fiction, and until then its main use was to provide an origin story for
a number of groups.
In the nineteenth century a new tradition got started: Atlantis as the focus of
fantasy and science fiction. One of the first was Jules Verne’s Ten Thousand Lea-
gues under the Sea, where undersea explorers find the ruins of Atlantis. Since
then both traditions, of Atlantis as a fantasy place and Atlantis as a real lost
city, have flourished. Improvements in undersea archaeology have made no im-
pact on true believers in the reality of Atlantis, which has been “discovered” in
the Atlantic, at Troy, in Ireland, in Brazil, in the Greek island of Thera, and many
other places. It is still going strong. The popular author Gavin Menzies, whose
two previous books claimed that the Chinese discovered America, and started
the Italian Renaissance, now has a book which “proves” that Atlantis was the
empire of the Minoan Greeks (not a new theory, incidentally). Meanwhile the sci-
ence fiction writer Harry Turtledove has written a history of Atlantis which is an
alternative history of the eastern United States, thus continuing the tradition of
claiming Atlantis as our founding country.
Both these still flourishing traditions respond to the Atlantis story in what is
for Plato the exactly wrong way. Instead of being inspired by ancient Athens, the
utopia, Kallipolis in action, we get fascinated by Atlantis. Plato discovered,
whether consciously or not, that created fictions are not as easily diverted to eth-
ical ends as he had hoped. Plato’s own myths successfully reconfigure the ma-
terials of traditional myths to make ethical claims, but fiction is resistant to
this. It fixes our attention on particulars – especially exotic, interestingly differ-
ent particulars like a city with massive golden temples – so that we resist the in-
tended redirection to the ethical lesson. However aware he was of this point,
Plato dropped his narrative of utopia before finishing it. And he didn’t again
write about utopia, the fictional place that is “no place” (outopia) but which
we imagine as a “good place” (eutopia) in order to focus on the faults of our
own society. Trying to embarrass your audience by getting them to identify
with Atlantis doesn’t work if Atlantis turns out to be fascinating, something
we want to think further about and develop in different ways. Utopia, then,
does not suit what Plato wants to do, and he drops it, in the middle of a sen-
tence. When he returns to the issue of the ideal society of good, happy citizens
in his later work Laws, he uses a different approach.
4 The ideal society: second attempt

As I mentioned, it is often thought that in the Laws Plato pictures a society or-
ganized by laws and inhabited by lawabiding citizens because he has given
up on the idea of incorruptible rulers. It’s true that in the work we do find the
claim that humans need laws because nobody has the requisite knowledge to
rule, and if he did have it, he would not be able to remain above corruption.¹²
But this is not the only thing going on. In the Laws Plato improves on the ap-
proach of the Republic in three ways.
Firstly, and most importantly, he now has a way to solve the Republic’s prob-
lem, which was that the changes needed to produce a good society are so radical
that we need an utterly clean break; but the only people who can produce this
without disastrous mistake would have to be themselves the products of the
good society. So we have no way from here to there. What makes this an unavoid-
 874e – 875d: “It is necessary that humans should establish laws and live in accordance with
them; otherwise they do not differ at all from the most savage wild animals…No human is born
with a nature able to recognize what benefits humans in forming society and, having recognized
this, to be able and willing always to do what is best. Firstly it is difficult to recognize that the
true political skill must care for what is common and not what is individual …Secondly, suppose
that someone did adequately grasp that this is the case….and then got absolute rule over a city,
with no-one to call him to account – he would never be able to abide by this resolve…..his
human nature will always urge him to greed and self-interested actions, since it will irrationally
flee pain and pursue pleasure, making these prior to what is more just and better.”
114 Julia Annas
able problem, we saw, was that products of the good society have been educated
according to the laws of the good society, and so can’t be replaced by anyone not
so brought up, however good a person they may be their own society.
In the Laws Plato has his characters, a Cretan, a Spartan and an Athenian,
sketch a code of laws for a proposed new city in Crete, Magnesia. This code is an
ideal one; it is to be the code of laws for a city in which the citizens are to flour-
ish and live happily, and in which they do so by aiming always to be good, co-
operative people, rather than aiming to be rich or powerful. (This is, after all, the
only kind of society that Plato thinks is worth bringing about.) The law code is
not a blueprint to be put directly into action. However, Plato has managed to
break into the circle. The lawcode is to be established, and then the city is to
be started by inviting immigrants to be citizens in Magnesia under these laws.
These are to be ordinary people educated in a variety of societies. It was common
in the ancient Greek world for new cities to be set up, often with a population
emigrating from many other cities, so Plato is here using a quite ordinary and
familiar model, one known to work in the real world.¹³
What is different in Plato is the assumption that we can set up ideally good
laws, which will lead to a society of virtuous, and so happy people, and that or-
dinary people can be brought in and educated to live under these laws. Eventu-
ally, as future generations are brought up under them, citizens will, he thinks,
find living under these laws easy and effortless, since they will appreciate the
benefits of living in a good society structured by such laws. In this they are help-
ed by one of Plato’s inventions. Although citizens are to be brought up to be
strictly law-abiding, they are also to understand their laws. They are to be
brought up under a system of education that everyone must participate in.
This will enable them to appreciate the benefits of a society whose overarching
aim is virtue, and to remain untempted by money, glamour and power. Further,
the laws are to have “preludes” or preambles which explain the point of the law,
This enables the person to whom the law might appear as an imposition to ap-
preciate that there is good reason for the law: it structures a practice which en-
courages virtue – courage, for example, or fairness – rather than encouraging
selfishness or competitiveness.
The Laws describes in detail the education that the citizens are to receive. In
many ways it resembles the education of the guardians in the Republic – it is to
be an education of character rather than just a conveying of skills. It differs in
that in the Laws all citizens are to be educated in this way – education of char-
 Although most new cities were sent out from a single parent city, some were founded with
mixed populations from the start; Thurioi, in southern Italy, was a well-known example.
acter is to unite all the citizens who share the laws of their city. Everyone will
have the same obedient and appreciative attitude towards the laws, rather
than some citizens obeying them unquestioningly while only the rulers under-
stand them and their role in making the city one where all the citizens flourish.
However much or little Plato consciously had this in mind, he has solved his
Republic problem: how we to get from here to there. The approach is now to use a
familiar and successful model, the setting up of a new city with a mixture of new
citizens, but with an unusual law-code. The cities Plato is familiar with have laws
which are produced by compromises between various political groups, and their
aim is greater wealth, or imperialist power. Plato suggests that we could instead
have what he calls the only real laws.¹⁴ These are laws which structure a society
in which the overall aim is for the citizens to be good, virtuous people and thus
to live happily. As with the Republic, he is not giving us an example of this ideal
law-making, but showing us the kind of thing that needs to be done for us to pro-
duce an ideally good society. And this time there is a way for us to begin, a meth-
od we can understand.
But what of the status of the laws that Plato makes his characters in the
Laws produce? They are to be laws under which people are to be educated to
be virtuous – but why think that a conversation between three old men, which
is what the Laws consists of, would produce laws that measure up to this?
Here is Plato’s second move in rethinking the path to the ideal society.
The way the laws of Magnesia are specified is not just by three old men chat-
ting in a loosely connected and sometimes frankly rambling way, with one of
them, the Athenian, doing most of the talking.The project of constructing laws
for the ideal city is more structured than that. (This may not be obvious from
the way the dialogue itself wanders around topics.)
Magnesia is in Crete, a place where a city could plausibly be founded based
on a social system like Sparta’s (since Cretan and Spartan laws were similar).
That is, all (male) citizens are educated from a young age under a system focus-
sing them on the community rather than their family. In Sparta and Crete this
education aimed relentlessly at military dominance and victory, along with strict
obedience to the laws. Plato approves of the compulsory public education,
though he thinks it should be extended to women as well as men. He also appro-
ves of the idea that citizens should be obedient to their laws and regard them as
in all essentials a finished matter. But he disapproves of the narrow focus of
Spartan education on military victory and dominance. Unifying the citizens
 I am not here able to take up the issues of law as divine reason embodied in cities, or the
resemblances between Plato’s view of law in this work and the Stoic idea of natural law.
116 Julia Annas
through a common education which stresses their common goals and common
goods should, he thinks, be directed to a wider and better aim than militarism.
It should be directed to the aim of the citizens becoming virtuous in general –
people who are brave, but more importantly have the virtues of wisdom, self-
control and justice.
The main speaker is an Athenian, and this is deliberate. He is there to pro-
pose laws many of which are more or less modified versions of Athenian law.
(This is one of several reasons for holding that he is not just a mouthpiece for
Plato himself.) This fact about the role of the Athenian was made clear in a
scholarly work by Glenn Morrow some time ago.¹⁵ We are used to the idea
that Plato strongly disapproved of his own city and its democratic institutions,
so it may at first seem odd that his ideal lawcode should introduce so much
from Athens. But, although he still has no use for democracy of the Athenian
kind, he clearly recognizes two positive features of Athenian society. Athens is
a highly participatory political society (as Sparta was not). An Athenian citizen
could expect to serve in some public capacity at some point in his life, since
so many offices were decided by lottery; at any time a fair percentage of Athenian
citizens were employed in a public capacity for a year. The resulting turnover, to-
gether with a system of audits after a term of office, led to a culture of account-
ability. Magnesia would come near the top of an international list of countries
free from corruption (and Sparta emphatically would not).
Magnesia thus represents one of Plato’s many attempts to have the best of
two worlds. Citizens of Plato’s ideal state will have the Spartan kind of attitude
to their laws; they will regard them as established and not to be endlessly litigat-
ed or added to. Moreover they will all share a common education which will
strengthen their cultural ties to their fellow-citizens and set bounds to concern
for their own families. But they will have the Athenian kind of attitude to partic-
ipating in active citizenship, and expecting everyone to take their turn in helping
to run public matters. They will also expect accountability, and hence freedom
from corruption, in all their officials.¹⁶ Plato expects this combination to result
in citizens who have a better conception of the common good than either Spar-
tans or Athenians. The citizens of Magnesia will appreciate the importance of
aiming to be virtuous – wise, just, self-controlled and courageous – in a way
that takes precedence over any aim to be rich or powerful. This is, Plato thinks,
because they are educated under laws which embody good values, rather than
 Morrow: 1993.
 The highest office is that of auditor, the officials who audit and check up on other officials.
Plato transfers to them the honours given in his society to winners in sports and other prominent
public figures.
merely being the product of political compromises. Again, the Laws itself does
not claim to present these laws, any more than the Republic exhibits the knowl-
edge that it talks about.¹⁷ But it shows us how to go about getting from here, ac-
tual defective societies, to there, the ideal state where people live virtuously and
flourish.
Thirdly, Plato deliberately adopts a new method of arguing for his project. In
the Republic the actual features of the ideal state are the product of top-down
argument from principles, such as the principle that it is knowledge that entitles
someone to rule. In the Laws Plato moves to what I call “changing from within”.
He takes an existing society and way of life – in this case that of Crete, which he
thinks is like Sparta – and tries to get people who participate in that way of life to
enlarge their view of what is valuable in it and what its aim should be.
So we find the Athenian talking to Cleinias, the Cretan, and being surprising-
ly deferential to him – that is, to the culture he represents, since the actual per-
son Cleinias is portrayed as very limited intellectually. This deference comes out
in two ways. Firstly, the Cretan on occasion protests that the Athenian is finding
fault with Cretan laws and institutions. When this happens, this is exactly what
the Athenian is doing, but he always avoids conflict by denying this and keeping
Cleinias on board with the argument.¹⁸ The Athenian is faulting Cretan culture in
order to improve it, by enlarging its aims. Further, not only does the Athenian do
this, he persuades his hearers that that is what they are doing too. Cretan laws,
he keeps insisting, really do aim at all of virtue, not just military courage.¹⁹ This
is not in fact true – the whole problem with Cretan laws, which the Athenian
hammers home, is that they have too narrow an aim, and produce only soldierly
virtues. But Plato (and in this he is not unusual in the ancient world) sees no
objection to falsehood in a good cause, where the result can’t be brought
about some other way. And the Athenian’s friends go along with him, and
allow him to present his ideal laws as the real content of their own laws – though
a content that they find hard to discover!
This isn’t a method that we find anywhere else in Plato, probably because
this is the only dialogue where the speakers are explicitly ordinary people, the
discussion is kept at a level where ordinary people can understand it, and
 At 811c-e the Laws itself appears to be recommended as what Saunders calls a “set text” for
education; but this surely means that education must be based on the principles behind the leg-
islation in the Laws, not that the text itself should be taught. See Meyer: 2011.
 630d, 667a.
 628e – 632d, 659c – 663d, 705d-e.
118 Julia Annas
very little appeal is made to philosophical argument.²⁰ In his last work on the
ideal society Plato shows us where we need to start if we are to get anywhere
towards an ideal society – the society where people are wise, just, self-controlled
and brave, and hence live flourishing lives. We need to start with ordinary people
who are ignorant of philosophy and probably suspicious of it, and persuade
them in terms that they can accept that their society and culture should be al-
tered for the better. To do this, we need to get them to accept change from inside
their own cultures, and when those cultures are themselves very resistant to
change, it’s important to take them seriously and try to enlarge people’s under-
standing of them from within, rather than expecting them to accept conclusions
drawn from principles unfamiliar to them. If we do this we may, like the Atheni-
an, broaden the minds even of people who are satisfied with their own culture,
and get them to become better people by enlarging their view of the aim and
hence nature of their society.
5 Conclusion
I began by saying that our understanding of Plato’s political thought tends to be
dominated by philosopher rulers and the idea that Plato started out optimistic
about human nature and then got disillusioned. I hope I have gone some way
towards suggesting a more complex picture of Plato’s thinking. At a very general
level his political and social thinking never wavers: the ideal society is one
where people lead flourishing lives, because they are virtuous and co-operative
rather than greedy, violent and competitive. But he produces, as has been seen,
two quite different accounts of this, and also utterly different methods for how
we can, or cannot, get there. This is not disillusion; the Laws shows us a remark-
ably original and fresh approach to the ideal society. Further, Plato is also, I have
suggested, the author of the first philosophical Utopia, the fantastic sketch of the
society that gets us, the readers, to be critical of our own societies. We will prob-
ably disagree as to Plato’s degree of success in one or all of these three endeav-
ours. But it is at any rate clear that Plato’s political thought offers us several orig-
inal alternatives. It deserves to be studied and explored for more than the
philosopher rulers who have dominated interest, and led to over-emphasis on
the Republic, treated as a single political argument and in isolation from Plato’s
later thinking.
 And when it is, as in Book 10, it is made very explicit that the Spartan and Cretan are not
able to follow the philosophical part of the Athenian’s argument.
References
Annas, J. (2012), “Virtue and Law in the Republic,” in R. Patterson et al (eds.), Presocratics
and Plato: Festschrift at Delphi in Honor of Charles Kahn. Las Vegas: Parmenides Press,
165 – 182.
Annas, J. (2017) Virtue and Law in Plato and Beyond, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Burnyeat, M. and M. Frede (edited by D. Scott), The Pseudo-Platonic Seventh Letter, Oxford:
Irwin, T. (2009), “The inside story of the Seventh Letter: a sceptical introduction,” Rhizai VI.2,
127 – 160.
Meyer, S. S. (2011), “Legislation as a tragedy: On Plato’s Laws VII, 817b – d,” in F. G.
Hermann and P. Destree (eds.), Plato and the Poets, Leiden: Brill, 387 – 402.
Morrow, G. (1993), Plato’s Cretan City, Princeton: Princeton University Press (reprinted from
the 1960 edition).
Dimitri El Murr
Plato and Utopia: Philosophy, Power, and
Practicability in Plato’s Republic
Take any book devoted to the concept of utopia, or to the story of utopias
throughout the centuries: it is most likely that it will begin with a chapter devot-
ed to Plato, and more specifically to Plato’s chef d’oeuvre, the Republic. So much
is true of Lewis Mumford’s influential 1922 essay The Story of Utopias,¹ which fa-
mously distinguishes utopias of escape from utopias of reconstruction, and
makes Plato’s Republic a paradigmatic example of the latter. So much is also
true of Jean Servier’s comprehensive Histoire de l’Utopie, whose main endeavour
is to tell apart millenarianism from utopianism. The first, Servier argues, has
been a prevalent source of all revolutions against social and political orders
throughout history, while the second merely encompasses the anxiety of philos-
ophers and intellectuals who dream of a just and well-ordered city because they
refuse true egalitarianism and fear anarchy more than anything else.² In Servier’s
highly critical reconstruction of the history of utopian thinking, Plato’s Republic
plays a central role, paving the way, as it were, to the later, full-fledged concep-
tions of utopia, notably Thomas More’s.³
A good deal of supplementary evidence could of course be adduced to vouch
for the importance of the Republic in any serious history of utopian thinking. In-
stead of giving into this tedious exercise, suffice it to say here that the inventor of
the very word utopia ⁴ and corresponding literary genre, Thomas More, made no
mystery that his De optimo Reipublicae statu deque nova insula Utopia libellus,
Note: A first version of this paper was delivered at the conference on Ancient Utopias organised
by P. Destrée, J. Opsomer, and G. Roskam, and held jointly at Leuven University and the Univer-
sité de Louvain-la-Neuve in March 2016. Later drafts were then presented in 2017 and 2018 at
Yale University, the University of Copenhagen, and the École Normale Supérieure in Paris. I am
grateful to the organisers of and participants to these events for very helpful discussion. I am
particularly grateful to David Charles, Brad Inwood, and Ben Morison for discussing this paper
further with me, and to Verity Harte and David Sedley for penetrating written comments. A short-
er and slightly different version of this paper has appeared in French: see El Murr 2018.
 Mumford 1962 (ch. 2 is devoted to the Republic).

 Servier 1967.
 Servier 1967: 53: “la cité juste dont Platon a tracé le plan prépare les utopies des siècles à
venir.”
 On the neologisms of Thomas More, and notably his choice of naming his book Utopia rather
than Nusquama, see Vieira 2010: 3 – 5.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-007
122 Dimitri El Murr
whose 500th birthday was celebrated in 2016, was deeply connected to Plato’s
project in the Republic. For in the edition which appeared in Basel in 1518, the
reference to Plato’s Republic comes in as early as the epigraph.⁵ It was thus
none other than Thomas More himself who made Plato’s Republic the archetype
of the distinct literary genre thereafter associated to his name.⁶ This, for sure, en-
lightens More’s philosophical and political agenda.⁷ But does it cast any light on
Plato’s project in the Republic? Should one infer from the importance conferred
on Plato in More’s Utopia that the Republic as a whole is an example, indeed the
first, of utopian narrative?⁸
In reaction to a scholarly propensity to label ‘utopia’ any and all sorts of lit-
erary projects,⁹ Pierre-François Moreau, in his classic book on utopian narra-
tives,¹⁰ claims there are four features distinctive of any “récit utopique” worthy
of the name: (1) closure, (2) difference, (3) social organisation, and (4) rationali-
ty.¹¹ Utopian narratives, he argues, depict closed systems, which are almost en-
tirely self-referential and therefore conceived to be stable. They also describe sys-
tems that are radically different from reality, systems where the question of
practicability is never asked and the connection with the real world never con-
 See More 2002: 117.
Utopia priscis dicta, ob infrequentiam, ‘No-place was once my name, I lay so far;
Nunc civitatis æmula Platonicæ, But now with Plato’s state I can compare,
Fortasse victrix, (nam quod illa litteris Perhaps outdo her (for what he only drew
Delineavit, hoc ego una præstiti, In empty words I have made live anew
Viris et opibus, optimisque legibus) In men and wealth, as well as splendid laws).
Eutopia merito sum vocanda nomine. ‘The Good Place’ they should call me, with good cause.
 There is a vast scholarly literature available on the Platonic background of More’s Utopia: see
e. g. Starnes 1990, and Lacroix 2007: 13 – 20.
 “More composed the Utopia as a rewriting of Plato’s Republic in which he answered its central
question in a form that would be relevant to his own day. The Utopia is the Republic recast in a
new mould applicable to the demands of contemporary Christianity as these were understood by
More and his circle of reforming friends. In a word, it is a Christianized Republic.” (Starnes
1990: 3)
 According to Raymond Trousson, Plato should rightly be seen as the creator of the genre. See
Trousson 1975: 33: “Platon est généralement considéré comme le véritable créateur du genre uto-
pique, et c’est justice.”
 This tendency is well evidenced nowadays in the still growing number of dictionaries and en-
cyclopaedias devoted to listing and classifying all kinds of literary, philosophical, and architec-
tural projects of alternative societies: see Snodgrass 1995, Trahair 1999, Riot-Sarcey, Bouchet and
Picon 2002, Morris and Kross 2004.
 Moreau 1982.
 For interesting comments on these features, see Macherey 2011: 32– 36.
Plato and Utopia: Philosophy, Power, and Practicability in Plato’s Republic 123
sidered. Utopias imply a deep socialization of every aspect of human existence,

which concerns especially the division of labour and the regulation of social con-
duct and sexual behaviour. Last, utopias are understood as entirely rational or-
ganisations, where rationality amounts to living in conformity with nature, this
principle providing in turn the basis of both an anthropological and a political
system. According to Moreau, these four, deeply coherent features are distinctive
of the very essence of a utopian narrative
Does Plato’s Republic tick all the boxes? Features (3) and (4) are obviously
prominent in Socrates’ design of a Kallipolis that displays not only a strictly hi-
erarchical social system based on the division of labour and property but one
that is said to be “according to nature” (kata phusin). Given Socrates’ views on
how the ideal city will wage war against Greek and Barbarian cities, the Kallip-
olis could, however, scarcely be considered a closed system and feature (1) might
not seem as obviously related to the Republic as the previous ones. Yet, it is true
that the ideal city of the Republic is not so much concerned with foreign policy as
with its inner harmony and social system. Hence, regarding features (1), (3) and
(4), the Republic may count as a utopian narrative.
Things are more complicated as far as feature (2) is concerned. For Moreau’s
rejection of the practicability claim is remarkably rigid. He writes: “à qui préten-
drait que ces mondes sont invivables, on ferait remarquer qu’ils ne sont pas faits
pour y vivre. Sans quoi leurs auteurs auraient écrit des projets de réforme, et non
des utopies.”¹² According to Moreau, utopian narratives and blueprints for action
should therefore be seen as mutually exclusive projects.
This brings me to the main issue I wish to address in this paper. How does
the Republic approach the question of the practicability of the ideal city?¹³ If Mor-
eau is right, and if indeed the very essence of the literary genre of utopian nar-
rative excludes any consideration on realizability, then Plato’s Republic, whose
central books address this issue at length, cannot count as a utopia. Alternative-
ly, should this lead us to consider the Republic a mere political program and
blueprint for action, or even worse, a radically anti-utopian, totalitarian project,
 Moreau 1982: 98.

 I should make clear that this question is merely an aspect of the broader question whether
the Republic as a whole is utopian, a notoriously difficult question which has given rise to much
scholarly literature. To my knowledge, the best comprehensive account on the subject is Chap-
ter 5 of Schofield 2006. For recent developments, see Morrison 2007, Zuolo 2009, Ferrari 2013,
and Lacroix 2014. My own modest contribution, restricted to the issue of practicability, follows
the path opened by Burnyeat 2000.
124 Dimitri El Murr
as e. g. Karl Popper famously argued?¹⁴ Neither of these two options does justice
to Plato’s subtle approach to the issue of practicability in the central books of the
Republic. ¹⁵ For Plato is neither uninterested in the issue of practicability nor ob-
sessed by it: he is keen on addressing it, because he is convinced that it should
be addressed (for reasons we shall consider), but he also makes clear that this
issue is not, indeed should not, be the most important one. This is, at least,
what I shall argue, my main contention being that the question of the practica-
bility of the ideally just city is intimately connected to Socrates’ defence of phi-
losophy in the central books of the Republic. For the transformation of the image
most people have of the philosopher is a key element of Plato’s argument in fa-
vour of the practicability of the ideal city.
1 Desirability and practicability in the Republic’s

central digression
1.1 Desirability and practicability
In Books 5 – 7 of the Republic, where Socrates famously broaches crucial issues

of Platonic ontology and epistemology, ancient and modern readers alike have
found some of Plato’s most vivid images and purple passages. Yet, the philo-
sophical importance and extraordinary fame of these central books should not
prompt the reader of the Republic to overlook that they form a coherent
 On Popper’s reading of the Republic and the issue of utopianism, see Lane 1999 who con-
vincingly shows that Popper’s and Leo Strauss’ otherwise antagonistic reading of the Republic
confront utopianism as “a common foe.”
 According to Raymond Ruyer, a French philosopher who authored an influential book on
utopia and utopianism, Plato’s conception of practicability is “extraordinarily simplistic”: “L’u-
topiste a tendance à s’en tenir à la première phase, la contemplation du but. Il en reste même
souvent à la contemplation de l’idéal, non précisé en un but bien défini. Il a tendance à croire
qu’en regardant attentivement l’idéal, il fera, de son accomplissement, une pure affaire de co-
piage, de calquage. […] Le plus grand des auteurs d’utopie, Platon, en offre un exemple tout
à fait caractéristique. La conception platonicienne d’un monde des Idées – essences et valeurs
– dont le statut est différent de celui du monde réel, et qui sert de modèle à celui-ci, est une
conception géniale qui reste toujours vraie. […] Par contre, la conception platonicienne du
mode d’actualisation de l’idéal par copiage est, au moins dans la République, extraordinaire-
ment simpliste. Pour Platon, réaliser un État juste, c’est essentiellement en bien copier
l’Idée.” (Ruyer 1950: 60 – 61) In my view, it is Ruyer’s reading of the central books of the Republic
that is “extraordinarily simplistic.”
whole, deeply unified by a philosophical question that connects them tightly to

one another as well as to the overall argument of the dialogue.
At the beginning of book 5 (449a – 451b), Socrates is about to move to
book 8. But the main characters resist this move and ask him to explain how
the community of women and children he has alluded to at 423e – 424a will be
practically organized. Socrates, who had seen them coming, is reluctant to
give into the demands of his interlocutors:
“‘You’re lucky’, I said, ‘that it isn’t you that has to try to explain it, because there’s a lot
that’s hard to believe (πολλὰς γὰρ ἀπιστίας ἔχει), even more than with what we were talking
about before. Not only might one not believe my proposals possible (ὡς δυνατά); even if
they were entirely possible, there’ll still be doubts as to whether they’re for the best (καὶ
εἰ ὅτι μάλιστα γένοιτο, ὡς ἄριστ’ ἂν εἴη ταῦτα). That’s why one hesitates to get involved
with it all, in case it looks like mere wishful thinking (εὐχή), my dear friends.’” (Rep. 5,
450c6 – d2, trans. Rowe)¹⁶
In this passage occur the two distinct questions unifying the stretch of argument
that extends through the central digression: are Socrates’ proposals desirable?
Are they practicable? ¹⁷ More often than not, as the later reception of Plato’s Re-
public amply demonstrates,¹⁸ interpreters of the Republic have expressed doubts
on the desirability and/or practicability of the ideal city. By having Socrates fear,
in this passage, that his proposals might be considered mere wishful thinking,¹⁹
Plato proves himself well aware of this risk, anticipating, as it were, the vexed
question of the utopian character of his Kallipolis. ²⁰
Appended to this paper is the analytical summary of what I take to be the
structure of the argument running through the central digression. On this sum-
mary, I wish to make three remarks.
(1) It should be clear that the question of the desirability and practicability of
the ideal city is running, and repeatedly emphasized, throughout books 5, 6
and 7. Notably, book 5 opens with this question and book 7 ends with it, before
book 8 reboots Socrates’ initial project of examining non-ideal constitutions.
(2) It should also be clear that some of the Republic’s most famous passages
on ontology, epistemology, education, and notably philosophia, are part of this
wider argument devoted to the issue of practicability. To this view, one might per-
 All translations of the Republic are borrowed from Rowe 2012.

 This crucial point has been forcefully emphasized by Burnyeat 2000 and Vegetti 2000.
 Starting with Aristotle’s severe criticisms of Plato’s ideal city in his Politics, II, ch. 2– 5.
 ‘Wishful thinking’ stands for the Greek εὐχή (literally ‘prayer’ but here ‘wish-thought’). On
the importance of this word for the argument on practicability, see Burnyeat 2000: 301– 2.
 Vegetti (2000: 117) makes a similar point.
126 Dimitri El Murr
haps oppose the following passage at 502c, which seems to introduce a clear
break in the argument running through the central digression.
“Now that we’ve finally dealt with that point (οὐκοῦν ἐπειδὴ τοῦτο μόγις τέλος ἔσχεν),
should we go on to the remaining question (τὰ ἐπίλοιπα δὴ μετὰ τοῦτο λεκτέον) – how
are there going to be these saviours of ours in the city, preserving the regime? What studies
and pursuits will they need to shape them, and at what sorts of age should they embark on
each of these?” (Rep. 6, 502c9 – d2)
“That point” clearly refers to the desirability and practicability of the ideal city,
whereas “the remaining question” refers to a new point, introducing thereby the
long stretch of argument specifically dedicated to the nature and education of
the philosophical rulers. Consider, however, the conclusion of this argument,
which is also the conclusion of the whole central digression.
“‘So now’, I said, ‘do you agree that the city and its institutions as we’ve described them are
not mere wishful thinking, and that what we’ve described may be difficult to realize, but is
nevertheless possible, in a way – that is, in just the way we indicated: if true philosophers,
whether one or more than one, should come to power in a city, dismissing as illiberal and
worthless the rewards people now aspire to, making it their first priority to get things right,
with the rewards that come from that, and treating what is just as the greatest and most
indispensable thing, all the time putting themselves at its service and making it grow as
they put that city of theirs in due order?’” (Rep. 7, 540d1– e2)
I find significant that Plato thinks it necessary to end the central digression with
the very issue that launched it in the first place: with a reminder of the practic-
ability claim, and a last defence against those who might think he indulges into
mere wishful thinking. Of course, I do not wish to suggest that the famous pas-
sages of books 6 and 7 devoted to the nature of philosophical education and
knowledge are reducible to the issue of practicability and do not have a wider
impact. My point is that the conclusion of the central digression indicates that
theses passages devoted to philosophia and philosophical education are meant
to play a distinct role in the overarching concern of the digression.
(3) Last, the analytical summary shows that the two claims, the desirability
claim and the practicability claim, are not addressed at the same length and, as
it were, with the same philosophical urgency.
As far as the question of desirability is concerned, Socrates’ argument con-
sists in showing, first, that the best education makes the best citizens and sec-
ond, that the more unity the city can achieve, the better it is.²¹. Because the
 This last argument is amply discussed and rejected by Aristotle in the Politics: see II, 2,
1261a16 – 22 and II, 5, 1263b30 – 37.
ideal city has the best citizens (whether male or female) to guard and preserve it,
and because it will prevent any form of civil strife from occurring, it is supremely
desirable.
Concerning practicability, things are much more complex, and Socrates
spares no effort in addressing this issue, as evidenced in the analytical summary.
In an important passage (458 a – b),²² Socrates, although he claimed from the
start that his proposals should not be seen as mere “wishful thinking,” asks per-
mission to indulge in it, thereby postponing the examination of his proposals’
claim to practicability. This, or so I suggest, indicates that the two questions
are not on the same level, and that the desirability claim is not as problematic
as the practicability claim. Why so? Deciding whether the proposals characteriz-
ing the ideal city are desirable may only be a matter of showing how desirable
consequences follow from earlier premises. But such an argument cannot
work regarding the claim to practicability, for establishing that a proposal is
practicable implies going beyond the mere level of principles. In turn, showing
how Socrates’ proposals could be implemented in the actual world is needed to
avoid the ridicule which prevented Socrates from entering this issue altogether.
1.2 The ‘three waves’ motif
Preventing ridicule, or radical disbelief, is one constant preoccupation on Socra-

tes’ part. A preoccupation so constant that it gives rise to the three waves motif
(τρικυμία) that confers its literary unity upon the whole argument on the desir-
ability and practicability of the ideal city. Let us consider how this motif unfolds
in the Republic’s central digression. Although the actual reference to the wave
(κῦμα) metaphor occurs at 457b7, when Socrates reflects back on the first wave
he has just survived, a connected metaphor was introduced as early as 453d,
in the middle of the discussion of the equal aptitudes of men and women. By
comparing his handling of the argument to the situation of a man lost at sea,
Socrates was then pointing out that he needed to swim through the argument
to reach a safe conclusion.
The trikumia motif introduced later is distinctly more complex. Each of the
three waves of this trikumia represents the violent reaction of popular opinion
that is prompted by the three radical political changes, which, Socrates argues,
are conditions of possibility of the Kallipolis, conditions that he must prove to be
both desirable and practicable. So Socrates and his interlocutors are now not
 Rightly emphasized by Burnyeat 2000: 301.

128 Dimitri El Murr
only lost at sea, but need to swim against the tide. Socrates’ swimming through
these waves thus represents his endeavour to overcome the power of popular
opinion. For what Socrates describes as a fear for ridicule is really a fear of
being so paradoxical that his measures will fall into disbelief and ill repute
(473c8: ἀδοξία). This, I suggest, is a crucial point to make sense of Plato’s repeat-
ed claim to practicability. Even more so, because, as we shall see, the waves of
disbelief are increasingly hard to overcome.
1.3 The first wave
The first wave is concerned with the equal aptitude of men and women as guards
of the Kallipolis. Female guards, Socrates argues, shall have a similar upbringing
and education as male guards, and similar activities, especially waging war
(451b – 452e). The two questions of the practicability and desirability of this
first measure are examined in turn and give rise to uneven treatments. As for
the desirability claim, the conclusion reached at 457a3 – c2²³ follows from a
very simple argument Socrates puts forward at 456c – e. Given 1) that men and
women shall undergo the same pedagogic process, and 2) that education in
the ideal city produces the best of citizens, it follows that 3) education will pro-
duce the best of female citizens. Having the best citizens possible is most desir-
able for any city. Therefore Socrates’ proposal is most desirable.
Concerning the practicability claim, the gist of the argument lies in the ap-
peal to the conformity with nature.
“‘So women of this sort must be selected to live, and share the guarding, with men of the
same sort, given that they will be up to it, and are akin to them in nature.’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘And mustn’t we assign the same pursuits to the same natures?’
‘We must.’
‘In that case we’ve come round in a circle, back to where we were before [see 451e] we
agree there’s nothing contrary to nature about assigning music and physical training to the
women guards.’
‘Absolutely right.’
‘So there was nothing impossible about the law we proposed to lay down, and it
wasn’t mere wishful thinking, given that what we were laying down was actually in accord-
 Rep., V, 457b7– c2: “Then can we claim that we’re surviving this first wave, as it were, by what
we’re saying about the law relating to women – well enough, at least, not to have been totally
washed away? Our proposal is that both our guards and our guardesses should share all their
pursuits in common: can we claim that somehow or other our argument is hanging together,
that this is something that’s both possible and beneficial?”
ance with nature; it seems it’s what we do now, contrary to what we’re proposing, that’s
unnatural.’
‘It does seem so.’
‘Now didn’t we set out to look into whether we were proposing things that were both
possible and best?’
‘We did.’
‘And we’re agreed that they’re possible?’
‘Yes.’“(Rep. 5, 456b1– c9)
Because men and women have a distinct nature, it should follow from the prin-
ciple of specialization that Socrates introduced as early as book 2 that they have
distinct activities. If so, how could there be female guards? In response to this
objection, Socrates shows that difference in nature has several meanings, and
notably that sexual difference, which is just one example of such difference,
has no impact whatsoever on the issue at stake, i. e. the ability to guard the
city. Establishing an education common to male and female guards is therefore
in conformity with nature without conflicting with the principle of specializa-
tion.²⁴
This conformity with nature entails the practicability of the measure alto-
gether, as 456c makes clear: “So there was nothing impossible about the law
we proposed to lay down, and it wasn’t mere wishful thinking, given that
what we were laying down was actually in accordance with nature.” This tight
logical connection between nature and possibility is key to understanding
how Socrates argues for the existence of guards, for it recalls an earlier argu-
ment. At Rep. 2, 374d – 376d, while reflecting on the needs of the city for luxury,
Socrates claimed that guards ought to have a specific nature, simultaneously
gentle and high-spirited, to fulfil their task. But within a single individual,
how is the alliance of such contrary qualities possible? We know it is, argued
Socrates, thanks to the analogy introduced earlier between guards and watch-
dogs. For the very existence of well-bred dogs proves that this alliance is in con-
formity with nature, therefore possible, and that so is the specific character of
well educated guards.²⁵ Socrates then concluded: “In which case what we
were talking about isn’t impossible, and what we’re looking for in a guard
 One interesting question that I shall leave untouched here is why Plato has Socrates reach
such a conclusion in a passage loaded with references to antilogy and eristic argument (see
Rep. 5, 453b – 455b, and esp. Glaucon’s remark at 454a1– 2: Ἦ γενναία […] ἡ δύναμις τῆς ἀντιλο-
γικῆς τέχνης.) I address this issue in detail in El Murr 2020.
 Davis (1964: 400) claims that this passage shows that “for the discussants in the Republic,
[…] possibility is proved by actuality,” but conformity with nature and actuality are not strictly
equivalent concepts.
130 Dimitri El Murr
isn’t an unnatural combination.’” (375e6 – 7: Τοῦτο μὲν ἄρα, ἦν δ’ ἐγώ, δυνατόν,

καὶ οὐ παρὰ φύσιν ζητοῦμεν τοιοῦτον εἶναι τὸν φύλακα.)
1.4 The second wave
Once this first wave is overcome, the second one is introduced in the form of a
law:
“That these women, all of them, should belong in common to all these men, and that none
of the women should cohabit exclusively with any one man; the children, too, should be
held in common, so that neither will any father know his own offspring, nor any child
his father.” (Rep. 5, 457c10 – d3)
As Glaucon makes immediately clear, this is a much bigger wave than the previ-
ous one. For that very reason it will be much more difficult to believe that it’s
practicable and beneficial.²⁶ Glaucon nonetheless asks Socrates to show that it
is both. As noted earlier, this is where Socrates asks permission to postpone
the examination of how the community of women and children is practicable,
to show first that it is most desirable for the city.
Socrates then devotes eight Stephanus pages or so (458b – 466d) to showing
what kind of communal life the guards would lead, and what kind of sexual and
birth policy this life would imply. These measures would produce, he argues, a
community where the sense of belonging and propriety would be utterly trans-
formed and alien to actual practices, a community where no civil strife and so-
cial dissent could ever occur.²⁷ Because of these consequences, this form of com-
munity is most desirable. At 466d, Socrates reminds himself that he should now
be addressing the practicability claim. But he cannot resist digressing even fur-
ther and so considers several matters of military education and war waging
(466d – 471c), up to a point where Glaucon abruptly stops him and reminds
him of what was promised earlier.²⁸ As Glaucon puts it, Socrates could indeed
 Rep. 5, 457d4– 5: “This, he said, is much bigger than the last one, if you really expect us to
believe either that it’s possible or that it’s beneficial (πολύ, ἔφη τοῦτο ἐκείνου μεῖζον πρὸς ἀπι-
στίαν καὶ τοῦ δυνατοῦ πέρι καὶ τοῦ ὠφελίμου).”
 On the community of guards and the role played by philia within this community, see El Murr
2012 and El Murr 2017.
 Rep. 5, 471c4– 7: “It seems to me, Socrates, that if one allows you to go on talking about
things of this sort, you’ll forget altogether to deal with the subject you earlier pushed to one
side in favour of these other ones: namely, the possibility of the realization of these political ar-
rangements of ours, and exactly how their realization would be possible.”
go on explaining all the benefits that would come from the community of wives
and children (Glaucon even lists a few other benefits Socrates did not consider).
But we already know that this community is most desirable. What we need to
know now is whether and how it is practicable (471e5: ὡς δυνατὸν καὶ ᾗ δυνατόν)
This dramatic move calls for three remarks.
Firstly, as with the previous wave, the two claims on desirability and prac-
ticability are distinct, giving rise to consecutive analyses. There is, however, a
sharp contrast with what happened before because the difference between the
two claims is now dramatically emphasized. Socrates resists examining the prac-
ticability claim, although he was eager to distance himself from those who in-
dulge into mere wishful thought.
Secondly, while constantly delaying his announced examination of the prac-
ticability claim, Socrates builds on Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae, which has long
been recognized as the sub-text of his description of the communal life of
guards.²⁹ Reflecting on the role the allusion to Aristophanes plays for the prac-
ticability claim of Socrates’ proposal, Burnyeat rightly argues that Plato uses the
Ecclesiazusae in the service of his philosophical concerns: by using this comic
fantasy well-known by his readership, Plato helps the reader break free from
“the conventional perspectives of ordinary life” (Burnyeat 2000: 305). Burnyeat
adds (306): “not merely are we to take comic fantasy seriously, but in Plato’s
view we must indulge in fantasy in order to take it seriously and see its practic-
ability.” Just as Aristophanes’ comedy helps us see the world in a very different
light, alien to conventions and habits, the second wave may be overcome if we
accept that the true meaning of having women and children in common is not
sexual freedom but sexuality and birth control subservient to the common good.
My third and last remark will provide a transition to the second part of this
paper. In lieu of a response to Glaucon’s request, Socrates makes yet another,
very important move, which he describes as the third wave that needs to be over-
come.
“‘I hadn’t expected this sudden attack on my argument,’ I said; ‘I see you’ve no sympathy
for my hanging back. Perhaps you don’t realize that just when I’ve barely escaped out from
under the first two waves that were threatening me, you’re now bringing on the third, the
biggest and hardest of them to overcome; when you see it and hear it, then you’ll complete-
 That Socrates alludes to comedy in book 5 of the Republic is made clear notably by his earlier
reference to the “female drama” (451c1: τὸ γυναικεῖον δρᾶμα) and his mention of laughter and
ridicule throughout. On the relation of book 5 of the Republic to Aristophanes’ Assembly-Women,
there is a vast scholarship. Adam (1902: 345 – 355) provides an interesting overview of this schol-
arship from the mid – 18th century to the beginning of the 20th century. For recent develop-
ments, see Sommerstein 1998: 13 – 18.
132 Dimitri El Murr
ly feel for me, and understand my fear and hesitation about trying to discuss, or even men-
tioning, so unlikely sounding an idea.’” (Rep. 5, 472a1– 7)
This passage shows that the third wave has an altogether different status from
the two previous ones. So much is clear when one reflects on the trikumia meta-
phor itself and Plato’s reasons for choosing it. As David Sedley has convincingly
argued, this motif refers not to three ordinary waves on the beach, but to an ac-
tual cataclysmic tsunami, a phenomenon that, according to the evidence exam-
ined by Sedley, was already understood in Antiquity (and later) as consisting in a
set of three consecutive waves.³⁰ Socrates also points out that this third wave is
“the biggest and hardest” wave among the three (472a4: τὸ μέγιστον καὶ χαλε-
πώτατον τῆς τρικυμίας). As Sedley points out, this is in perfect agreement
with our ancient evidence on, and actual knowledge of tsunamis, which support
the idea that the third and final wave is often the biggest and most damaging. So,
as the discussion moves into considering the third wave, at 472a, the kind of cat-
aclysmic phenomenon Plato alludes to becomes increasingly clear. Correctly un-
derstood, the trikumia motif indicates how radical and destructive of actual po-
litical structures Plato’s proposals are meant to be.
But why is it only retrospectively, when the third wave breaks in, that we re-
alize we are in the middle of a tsunami that might wash us away in a deluge of
incredulity? I suggest that Plato has carefully manufactured this dramatic effect
to emphasize the particular status of the third wave. For the third wave is not
yet another condition of the desirability and practicability of the ideally just
city: it is, as it were, a super-condition, the condition of the two previous
ones.³¹ This is why Socrates does not immediately give in to Glaucon’s demands.
The practicability claim of Socrates’ first measure was entirely dependent on the
logical connection between what is natural and what is possible. But as far as
the second wave is concerned, things are much more complex, because the bur-
den of customs and actual practices is so heavy that a much more radical change
is needed.
2 The third wave

As the third wave breaks in, Socrates elucidates how the practicability claim he
has made concerning the ideal city should be understood.
 See Sedley 2005.

 This is well noted by Ferrari (2013: 135).
2.1 Paradigm, practicability, and approximation
The analysis of the practicability of the community of wives and children begins
with a distinction made on Socrates’s part between two different understandings
of possibility, a distinction that will turn out to be crucial for the rest of the argu-
ment.
“‘Then it was a paradigm we wanted’, I said, ‘when we started looking for the sort of thing
justice is in itself, and the perfectly just man, were he ever to come into existence – what he
would be like, if he did; similarly with injustice and the most unjust man. Our aim was to
use the perfectly just and the perfectly unjust man as reference points, so that however
these two did in relation to happiness and its opposite, we’d be compelled to accept that
whichever of ourselves resembled them as closely as was possible would have a portion
of happiness most like theirs. We weren’t aiming to show that what we were describing
was possible as such.’
‘That much is certainly true,’ he said.
‘Well then, do you think a painter is any less good a painter if he paints a paradigm of
what the most beautiful human being would be like, and manages to render every detail in
his painting accordingly, but isn’t able to demonstrate the possibility of such a man’s com-
ing into existence?’
‘Zeus! No, I certainly don’t,’ he said.
‘Well, weren’t we too creating a paradigm – in speech, of a good city? That’s what
we’re claiming, isn’t it?’
‘We certainly are.’
‘So do you think that what we’ve been saying is any less well said just because we may
not be able to show it possible to found a city as we were proposing?’
‘No indeed,’ he said.
‘So that’s the truth of the matter,’ I said. ‘But if I’ve got to try my hardest even so, for
your sake, and show how best, and under what conditions, it would all be most possible,
I ask you to make the same concessions to me, as I make my attempt, that you agreed to
just now.’
‘What concessions?’
‘Is it possible for anything to be realized in practice as it is described in words, or is it
rather in the nature of things for actions to be further removed from the truth than words
are, even if some deny it? How about you? Do you accept it?’
‘I do,’ he said.” (Rep. 5, 472c4– 473a4)
Socrates begins with reminding Glaucon of earlier concessions. In their search

for justice itself and the perfectly just man, they have been looking for a para-
digm, a perfect and pure case, which would serve as a reference point. Thanks
to this paradigm, they are now able to judge what kind of life is closer to, and
which one is the most remote from, the paradigmatic case. But they were not
concerned whether this paradigm could come to existence, i. e. whether a per-
fectly just man could exist. The same goes for the ideally just city: a paradigm
134 Dimitri El Murr
of a perfectly good city has been created in speech, a paradigm which is no less
true and valuable if one is unable to show how this city could come into exis-
tence.³²
As André Laks has shown,³³ what is crucial in this argument is that Socrates
is not using the standard concept of possibility, one that could anachronistically
be labelled ‘Kantian,’ according to which a possible concept differs from a real
object only insofar as the object actually exists. What Socrates calls for here is
another concept of possibility that might be labelled ‘possibility by approxima-
tion,’ where the reproducibility of the paradigm depends on an approximation of
the model. This notion of possibility presupposes of course that the perfect re-
producibility of the paradigm is unattainable, because, as Socrates puts it, “ac-
tion is further removed from the truth than words” (473a1– 2: φύσιν ἔχει πρᾶξιν
λέξεως ἧττον ἀληθείας ἐφάπτεσθαι). Socrates then concludes:
“Then don’t make me have to prove that the sorts of things we’ve been describing would be
realizable in practice, in every detail. If we’re able to show how a city might be governed in
a way that comes closest to our description, that should be enough for you to declare that
we’ve discovered how the things you yourself are prescribing are possible. Won’t you be
content to achieve this much? I certainly would.” (Rep. 5, 473a5 – b2)
This is a radical shift in the argument on the practicability of the ideal city. Soc-
rates and Glaucon agree that there are metaphysical obstacles to the realization
of the ideal city. But this is not the problem addressed here. I agree with Bur-
nyeat (2000: 299) that this problem is alluded to so as to be set aside. The ques-
tion that Socrates and his interlocutors are facing is not how to overcome the
metaphysical obstacles to the realization of the ideal city: these obstacles cannot
be overcome, and indeed, it is worth remembering that even the ideal city will
 At the end of book 9, 592a-b, Socrates returns to the idea that his conversation with Glaucon
and Adimantus provides a paradeigma of the good city. According to Glaucon, the just man’s
own city, his real fatherland, is indeed the city-in-words constructed in the Republic. To
which Socrates adds: ‘But it makes no difference whether it actually exists anywhere or will
exist (διαφέρει δὲ οὐδὲν εἴτε που ἔστιν εἴτε ἔσται); only in this city’s affairs will he take a
part, and no other’s’ (592b3 – 4). This last sentence is often brought in the discussion of the pos-
sibility of the ideal city. Yet, the point of the passage is not the existence of the Kallipolis (this is
the point addressed in book 5), but rather the idea that the question of its existence is irrelevant
for the main project of the dialogue, which is to define what the best human life is. I am grateful
to Brad Inwood for pressing me to take this passage into account, and to Verity Harte for sharing
her own view of it with me.
 Laks 1990: 214– 216 and Laks 2012: 22– 29.
eventually collapse.³⁴ The problem addressed in the passage quoted earlier is

rather how to overcome the human obstacles that have prevented the establish-
ment of an approximation of the ideal city. Just as painters, Socrates has painted
Kallipolis, which is a perfect imaginary exemplification of an ideally just city. The
question concerning practicability now consists in examining how the best ap-
proximation of that paradigm could ever come to existence.
2.2 Philosophy and the power of doxa
This sudden shift leads to another no less radical turn in the argument.
“The next step, it seems, is for us to try to search out and identify precisely what it is that’s
done badly in cities as they currently are, and what accounts for their not being run in the
way we want. What is the smallest change needed to introduce this kind of regime into a
city? Preferably, it would be one thing that changed, or if not one, two; and if not two, the
minimum number possible, and the smallest and least disruptive.” (Rep. 5, 473b4– 9)
“What is the smallest change needed to introduce this kind of regime into a
city?” (473b6 – 7: καὶ τίνος ἂν σμικροτάτου μεταβαλόντος ἔλθοι εἰς τοῦτον τὸν
τρόπον τῆς πολιτείας πόλις), asks Socrates. Despite its simplicity, this question
is quite extraordinary, for it changes entirely how the practicability claim is
framed. From now on, Socrates is not so much asking how an ideal city could
be practicable as how an actual city could be, as it were, idealized. ³⁵ Following
his understanding of the practicability claim, Socrates is now considering the
practicability of an approximation of the ideal city and needs to reflect on how
this approximation could ever come to be. This passage also confirms that the
coincidence of power and philosophy in a philosopher-king, or a philosopher-
queen, is the condition of the practicability of the ideal city inasmuch as it is
the condition of other conditions. If this “small” change is introduced in actual
cities, the philosopher-king will use the ideal city as a paradigm that he will do
his best to approximate as closely as possible.
Although in the passage quoted above, Socrates presents his proposal so as
to minimize its disruptive effects, he is well aware that it will appear “very un-
likely” (473e2: πολὺ παρὰ δόξαν, echoing the earlier παράδοξον λόγον at 472a6).
 See Rep. 8, 546a1– 3: “Hard though it is for a city like yours to be moved, put together as it is,
still, since everything that has come into being must also perish, even a thing so well construct-
ed will not last for ever.”
 This is Jacques Brunschwig’s suggestive way of formulating the problem: see Brunschwig
2001: 885.
136 Dimitri El Murr
To understand how this proposal, making philosophers kings or kings philoso-

phers, is paradoxical, one needs only to recall Callicles, according to whom the
philosopher is surely the least capable of governing anyone (Gorg. 484c – 485e).
I suggest, however, that Socrates’ phrase here has a deeper meaning. Showing
that the practicability claim of the ideal city isn’t mere wishful thinking will
imply fighting against the very power that, since the beginning of the digression,
has brought disbelief and ridicule to the proposals put forward. This power is of
course the power of doxa, opinion. In that sense, Socrates’ proposal that philos-
ophers be kings/queens or kings/queens be philosophers is not only against cus-
tom or habits: it is πολὺ παρὰ δόξαν precisely because it is directed against that
all too powerful principle that governs most of men’s decisions, actions and val-
ues.
This explains the whole project that starts with Socrates’s casual remark at
473b4 (τὸ δὲ δὴ μετὰ τοῦτο). The actual process of defining what a philosopher
is (such is the task devoted to section 474d – 488a of the Republic) stems from the
need to counter-balance the power of doxa, and in fine, to radically transform the
image of the philosopher in popular opinion. The very structure of the long
stretch of argument starting at 474d and ending at 502c points in the same direc-
tion and indicates that this is one of the goals pursued by Socrates. Hence the sig-
nificant role conferred on Adimantus’ objection at 487b – 488a on which this
whole section of the Republic hinges.³⁶ Once the true “philosophical nature”
(philosophos phusis) is defined, and the philosopher distinguished from the
philodoxos, Socrates thinks that the philosopher’s ability and entitlement to
rule follow from his true nature and correct education. This is an interesting
move on Socrates’ part, consisting in inferring from nature to practicability, as
he previously did when responding to the first wave. But Adimantus is con-
cerned that this will not do, and that more argument is needed to persuade
those who will object that Socrates has tricked them “with this new-fangled
kind of petteia that uses words instead of pieces” (487c2– 3: ὑπὸ πεττείας αὖ
ταύτης τινὸς ἑτέρας, οὐκ ἐν ψήφοις ἀλλ’ ἐν λόγοις). This crystal-clear allusion
to the usual confusion, constantly criticised by Plato, between Socratic dialectic
and sophistic eristic, is significant and confirms that the issue at stake is the true
philosopher’s image in popular opinion.
This image is precisely described by Adimantus:
[…] someone might well say that he has no way of arguing against you as you put each
question to him, but nevertheless he can perfectly well see that if people take up philoso-
phy, not just in order to complete their education, and as something to be abandoned be-
 See sections 3.3 and 3.4 in the appended Analytical summary.

fore they’ve grown up, but rather as something to spend their time on even after that, they
mostly become downright peculiar, not to say totally corrupted, and even the ones that
seem the most respectable, when they’re subjected to this kind of treatment by the pursuit
you praise so much, turn out to be of no use to their cities. (Rep. 6, 487c4– d5)
It should be noted that Socrates agrees with Adimantus: philosophers indeed

have a bad name. This is yet another crucial aspect of doxa that needs to be over-
come. To do so, Socrates’ argument will consist in discharging philosophy from
the blame the actual so-called philosophers legitimately deserve.
2.3 The practicability of philosopher-kings
It is now high time to sum up the salient aspects of Plato’s approach to the ideal
city’s claim to practicability. Socrates’ first proposal (the equal education of male
and female guards) is said to be kata phusin, hence practicable. Socrates’ second
proposal (the community of wives and children) is surely also considered kata
phusin, but given how opposed it is to customs and habits, the appeal to the con-
formity with nature cannot suffice, and a further argument to confirm the prac-
ticability claim is needed. This leads Socrates to finally make clear what practic-
ability exactly means. Practicability is approximate realization, which allows for
the reproducibility of the paradigm and its necessary adjustment to facts (as op-
posed to logoi) and historical variables. This crucial move shows that Plato is
well aware that natural possibility is not sufficient to avoid the charge of mere
wishful thinking or, as we would put it, utopianism. A second type of condition
is needed at the level of force and political action,³⁷ and this is what the philos-
opher-king proposal crucially provides.
But how is this super-condition practicable? What makes the idea of the co-
incidence of power and philosophy more than mere wishful thinking?
A first answer is provided by Socrates in the concluding section (starting at
497a) of the long argument corresponding to the third wave.
“‘So those were the problems we foresaw back then,’ I said, ‘when for all our trepidation we
found the truth compelling us to say that no city or regime, and equally no individual man,
would ever achieve completion until some chance brought it about that these philosophers
of ours – the few, currently described as useless, that have not gone to the bad – are com-
pelled, whether they wish it or not, to take charge of a city, and to put themselves at the
city’s service, or else the sons of those presently wielding princely or kingly power, or
those kings and princes themselves, came by some sort of divine inspiration to be pos-
 Vegetti (2000: 126 – 130) rightly emphasizes this crucial point.

138 Dimitri El Murr
sessed by an unfeigned passion for true philosophy. I myself declare that I have no reason
for declaring either or both of these outcomes impossible; if they were, we’d justly be laugh-
ed at, for mere empty and wishful thinking – right?’
‘Right.’
‘So if something either has happened, in the endless reach of past time, or is now hap-
pening in some region far beyond the ken of us Greeks, or else will happen at some time in
the future, to compel top philosophers to take charge of a city, on this point we’re ready and
willing to fight our corner: that the regime we’ve described has come into existence, and
exists, or will exist, only when the Muse, herself, takes control of a city. It’s not impossible
for her to do so – we’re not talking about something that’s impossible; just difficult – that
much we’re agreed about.’” (Rep. 6, 499a11– d6)
In this extraordinary passage, Socrates offers one of his last reflections of the
practicability of the ideal city. It is possible, he says, that some chance, some
necessity, or some divine inspiration may turn actual rulers, or their heirs,
into philosophers. But how could we believe that this possibility is more than
a very improbable eventuality? Socrates proposes that we counter this alleged
improbability by using our imagination and extend the boundaries of space
and time. In what conditions, he asks, could we be criticized for having uttered
mere wishful thinking? Only if it could be proved that in the endless past philos-
opher-kings have never occurred, or else if it could be proved that nowhere now
in the wide world is there a philosopher-king, and nowhere will there be one in
the future. Thanks to this indefinite expansion of time and space, Socrates coun-
ter-attacks those who might consider that all this talk about power and philos-
ophy is utopian dreaming, for the outcome of this curious thought-experiment
is that it is now the non existence of the philosopher-king that turns out to be im-
probable.
This answer to the problem of the practicability of the ideal city will hardly
be considered a compelling argument. But should it be read as an argument at
all? I would suggest rather that these grandiose considerations beyond the limits
of space and time neatly capture Plato’s specific approach to the issue of the
practicability of his political proposals. As a serious political philosopher,
Plato is bound to meet the requirements of practicability, and thus provide argu-
ments that would show that some of these proposals, or an approximation of
them, would be practicable. But as a serious philosopher tout court, Plato
wants us to understand that the requirements of practicability have nothing to
do with the intrinsic truth of his proposals (which makes them desirable).³⁸
This is why it is from this very point of view, the global and timeless standpoint
 See Schofield (2006: 240) who makes this point crystal clear.
of philosophical truth, that the issue of practicability becomes, in the end, so

readily unproblematic.
Conclusion
I wish to conclude by suggesting that the Republic meets the practicability claim
of its proposals at yet another level.
As I have tried to argue extensively, the passages books 5 and 6 devote to the
philosopher (i. e. to the nature of his phusis and specific knowledge, to his bad
reputation, to his education) are part of a wider argument designed to show
that the super-condition of the ideal city (the philosopher-king/queen) is practi-
cable. Yet, these passages also offer a distinctive image of the philosopher, alter-
native to his image in popular opinion. In my view, these two aspects of the cen-
tral books of the Republic are intimately connected.
At Rep. 6, 488a – 489d, Socrates explains to Adimantus why it is that philos-
ophers have such a bad reputation: popular opinion considers that they are at
best “useless” (489b3: ἄχρηστοι), at worst, “totally corrupted” (489d3: παμπόνη-
ροι). Socrates then devotes nearly ten Stephanus pages to explaining why this
double image of the philosopher has become preeminent in popular opinion.
The main reason why a philosophical nature becomes corrupt is bad education.
If philosophy were taught differently and at a suitable age, Socrates adds, the
philosophical nature would develop harmoniously (498b – c). Adimantus re-
mains sceptical and thinks most people, including Thrasymachus, would remain
too. But Socrates is more optimistic:
“‘We’re not going to give up trying until either we convince (πείσωμεν) both him and every-
body else, or we do something for them that will help them when they’ve been reborn, in
some future life, and they encounter discussions like this again.
‘You’re looking at a short time, then,’ he said.
‘No time at all, in fact,’ I said, ‘when it’s compared with the whole of time. But it’s no
surprise if most ordinary people aren’t convinced by what’s being said, because they ha-
ven’t ever seen realized what’s now been theorized.” (Rep. 6, 498d1– 8)
Socrates here acknowledges that his present discussion with Glaucon and Adi-
mantus partly aims at transforming the image of the philosopher by explaining
his true nature and usefulness against the prejudices that make him useless
140 Dimitri El Murr
and dangerous in popular opinion.³⁹ But Socrates’ optimistic belief that this task
is not out of reach is nowhere clearer than in the following passage:
“‘My fine friend,’ I said to him, ‘don’t write off ordinary people so completely. They’ll surely
think differently if you take on a soothing instead of a combative tone, and try to free them
from their prejudice against the love of knowledge by pointing out to them who it is you
have in mind by “philosophers”– describing their true nature, as we did just now, and
what they typically do, so that they don’t imagine you’re talking about the same people
they are. If they’re given this new perspective, you really will find them taking a different
view, and giving different answers to your questions. Or do you really think anyone will be
harsh and malicious to someone who is neither the one nor the other to them, when in him-
self he’s gentle and lacking in malice? I’ll get in before you and say that I think responding
like that to gentleness requires a natural harshness you won’t find in the mass of the peo-
ple, only in a few individuals.’” (Rep. 6, 499d10 – 500a7)
Getting the majority of people a different view of philosophia is Socrates’ main

agenda as he broaches the issue of the philosophos phusis. The discussion on
philosophy in the central books of the Republic should therefore be considered
an exercise in the art of persuasion (see πείσωμεν at 498d1), aiming at substitut-
ing Plato’s own image of the philosopher to the discredited image summoned by
Adimantus.⁴⁰
Read along these lines, the sections of the central books devoted to philos-
ophy turn out to play an important part in the practicability claim of the third
wave. By establishing, among its readership, a new image of the philosopher,
against actual opinions and prejudices, the dialogue contributes to make possi-
ble the “smallest change” needed to implement an approximation of the ideal
city, and thus plays a part, at some performative level, as it were, to the third
wave’s claim to practicability.⁴¹
Resorting to the Republic’s own literary and persuasive strategy with its
readership might seem a particularly feeble way to make sense of the practica-
bility of philosopher-kings. But, as Socrates puts it in a passage quoted above,
“the whole of time” is, after all, the appropriate scale to judge whether or not
Plato was such a utopian thinker that he actually believed his chef d’oeuvre
could eventually change the world.
 A similar strategy of persuasion can be found, or so I claim, in Plato’s Politicus concerning

the king (basileus) whose negative image Plato wants to get rid of: see El Murr 2014: 257– 261.
 It is no accident that in the lines between the passages quoted above, Plato targets Isocrates
whose rival conception of philosophia he despises: see Rep. 6, 498e.
 This idea seems to be close to what Ferrari 2013 labels “writerly utopianism,” although I am
still unclear what this word – used to translate Roland Barthes’ concept of texte scriptible (not
mentioned by Ferrari) – exactly means.
Appendix: Analytical summary of the central

digression of the Republic (books 5 – 7)
0. Prelude to the digression (449a – 451b): desirability and practicability
1. The first wave (451b – 457c)
1.1. (451b – 456b) That human nature of the female variety is capable of shar-
ing with the male in guarding and other tasks is practicable
1.2. (456c – 457c) This is not only practicable but desirable for a city
2. The second wave (457c – 471c)
2.1. (457c – 458b) Glaucon and Socrates on practicability and desirability
2.2. (458b – 466d) The desirability of the community of wives and children
2.2.1. (458b – 461e) The communal life of guards implies sexual policy
and educational control.
2.2.1. (461e – 466d) It is most desirable because it provides the greatest
unity to the community and prevents any risk of civil war or social
dissent.
2.3. (466d – 471e) The practicability of the community of wives and children
(the examination of this point is postponed to the next section)
3. The third wave (472a – 541b)
3.1. (472b – 473b) Paradigm, practicability, and approximation
3.2. (473b – 474d) The third wave is the coming together of philosophy and
political power.
3.3. (474d – 488a) What is a philosopher?
3.3.1. (474d – 475d) First definition: the philosopher is a ‘lover of wis-
dom’ (this definition is rejected).
3.3.2. (475e – 484a) Second definition: the philosopher is a lover of truth
(this definition is accepted).
3.3.3. (484a – 487a) As a consequence of the previous definition, the
philosophical nature (ἡ φιλόσοφος φύσις) is the most fitted to
rule.
3.3.4. (487b – 488a) Objection: (Adimantus breaks in) to most people,
philosophers are either totally corrupted (487d2– 3: παμπονήρους)
or useless (d 5: ἀχρήστους). Why then claim that philosophers
should rule?
3.4. (488a – 497a) Why do philosophers have such a bad name?
3.4.1. (488a – 489d) Philosophy is not to blame: (some) philosophers are
useless because cities do not use them.
3.4.2. (489d – 493e) Philosophy is not to blame: (some) philosophers are
depraved because they are badly educated and corrupted.
142 Dimitri El Murr
3.4.3. (494a – 497a) Why this situation is inevitable in actual cities.

3.5. (497a – 502c) Conclusion on the practicability of the ideal city
3.6. (502c – 540d) New point: the education of the philosopher-rulers
3.7. (540d – 541b) General conclusion on practicability
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Antony Hatzistavrou
Plato and the utopia within us
Utopianism is the imaginative creation of models of political or broadly societal
arrangements which, though it purports to address real political and social con-
cerns, treats the practicability of those models as at least of secondary impor-
tance. Utopian political or societal models have psychological counterparts,
that is, imaginative models of human agency that function as their psychological
underpinnings. The psychological viability of those models of human agency is
similarly treated as being of at least secondary importance. I call those models of
human agency the ‘utopia within us’. Both the political or societal models and
the models of human agency that support them may be criticized for being ‘un-
duly’ utopian if they rest on grossly implausible principles.
Traditionally, discussions of Plato’s utopianism have focused on the nature
of the models of political arrangements that he proposes in primarily the Repub-
lic and the Laws and on their practicability. In this chapter I focus instead on Pla-
to’s account of the psychological underpinnings of those models and examine
the respects in which it may be deemed unduly utopian. I argue that for Plato
the utopia within us is the rule of reason. The rule of reason is exemplified by
the philosopher-rulers in the Republic, by the members of the Nocturnal Council
in the Laws and that rare bird, the true political expert who deserves to enjoy
absolute power in the Statesman and the Laws.
The rule of reason, as described by Plato, suggests a model of psychological
order that is characterised by (a) substantial subordination of irrational desires
to reason which thus unhindered (b) attains some specific type of high-level
knowledge relying exclusively on its own internal states. I argue that Plato asso-
ciates (b) with a grossly implausible form of epistemic individualism but offers a
more plausible psychological theory about the attainment of (a). On the latter
theory law plays a crucial role as it provides strong external incentives for the
control of desires.
I proceed as follows. In the first section I argue that the rule of reason in
Plato has two components, an epistemic and a motivational one. First, the
rule of reason involves some type of high-level knowledge. In the Republic
that high-level knowledge amounts to the dialectical knowledge of the Forms
that the philosopher-rulers possess while in the Laws it amounts primarily to
the knowledge of the unifying element of the four cardinal virtues that the mem-
bers of the Nocturnal Council and the true political expert possess. In the States-
man it involves, inter alia, high-level knowledge of the virtues of moderation and
courage that enables the true political expert to intertwine the characters of
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-008
146 Antony Hatzistavrou
moderate and courageous persons in the city. Second, the rule of reason involves
the virtue of moderation (sōphrosunē) that presupposes enkrateia. The person
who possesses high-level knowledge of the correct moral values should act on
it instead of being side-tracked by other considerations. Those other considera-
tions may be desires of the spirit or the appetitive part according the moral psy-
chology of the Republic or the non-rational desires that contravene the soft cord
of reason according the puppet image in the Laws. In the second section I argue
that the epistemic component of the rule of reason is based on a grossly implau-
sible individualistic justification of knowledge that fails to take into account
what I call ‘substantive’ epistemic dependence. In the third I focus on the moti-
vational component of the rule of reason. I argue that we should distinguish be-
tween autonomous rule of reason and institutionally controlled rule of reason.
The former is exemplified by the true political expert in the Statesman and the
Laws who after he has been properly educated may control his irrational desires
without subordinating himself to a political or legal authority. The latter is exem-
plified by the members of the Nocturnal Council in the Laws and possibly by the
philosopher-rulers in the Republic who continue to control their desires by sub-
ordinating themselves to the institution of law. Plato is ambivalent about the
possibility of autonomous rule of reason but, rather plausibly, considers institu-
tionally controlled rule of reason to be a psychological state that is more likely to
be attained by humans.
1 The rule of reason in Plato

In Republic 9 Socrates claims:
(T1) …to insure that someone like that [a manual worker] is ruled by something similar to
what rules the best person, we say that he ought to be the slave of that best person who has
a divine ruler within himself. It isn’t to harm the slave that we say he must be ruled, which
is what Thrasymachus thought to be true of all subjects, but because it is better for every-
one to be ruled by divine reason, preferably within himself and his own, otherwise imposed
from without, so that as far as possible all will be alike and friends, governed by the same
thing.
…
This is clearly the aim of the law, which is the ally of everyone. But it’s also our aim in
ruling our children, we don’t allow them to be free until we establish a constitution in them,
just as in a city, and – by fostering their best part with our own – equip them with a guard-
ian and ruler similar to our own to take our place. Then, and only then, we set them free.’
(590c8 – 591a3)¹
T1 makes clear that the rule of reason is a psychological state of the agent. A per-
son may be ruled directly by his own reason or indirectly by the reason of the
best person. T1 suggests that indirect rule by the reason of the best person
may take two forms. First, some people who, like the manual workers, are by na-
ture unable to be ruled by their own reason have to obey the law of the city pre-
sumably as promulgated by the best person. Second, others, like the young per-
sons who may eventually be able to be ruled by their own reason, will not only
obey law but also receive a special type of education, until their reason is able to
rule themselves. T1 may create the impression that once one who has the natural
ability to be ruled by one’s own reason completes one’s proper training one no
longer needs to be guided by anything else including law. That would be a mis-
take (and a failure to understand the gist of Plato’s saying that law is the ally of
everyone in the city). But more about that point in section 3.
What does the rule of reason involve? At first approximation it is the rule of
the reason of the best person. And the best person that Plato refers to in T1 is the
philosopher. In Republic 4 Plato provides an initial account of what the rule of
the reason consists in within the context of his theory of the tripartite soul. He
claims that the reasoning part should rule with the assistance of the spirit
over the appetitive part because ‘it is really wise and exercises foresight on be-
half of the whole soul’. (441e4– 5). When that kind of rule obtains one acquires
unity and inner harmony (443d8 – 444a1). In Republic 9 he clarifies that that kind
of unity and harmony can only be achieved by a philosopher (581b5 – e4 and
586e4 – 587a1). The philosopher’s reason grasps the true reality, that is, under-
stands the Forms of different virtues and the Form of the Good and also controls
the motives that emanate from the spirit and the appetitive part. As a result the
soul of the philosopher as a whole pursues the values of reason, namely, the at-
tainment of truth and knowledge. So, the rule of the reason of the philosopher is
‘normative’.² For the reason to rule is for the soul as a whole to pursue the values
of reason.
The normative rule of reason has two components. The first is epistemic. In
order for reason to rule, it should attain truth and knowledge. The second is mo-
tivational. Reason should control the motives that conflict with the aim of attain-
ing truth and knowledge. How should we understand the ability of the philoso-
 Throughout the chapter the translations of the Republic are by Grube and Reeve 1992.
 For the normative rule of reason see Kraut 1973 and Klosko 2006: 77– 82
pher’s reason to control motives that conflict with the values of reason? In the
Republic it is identified with the virtue of moderation (sōphrosunē) that is defined
as a type of harmony between the three parts of the soul, namely, the reasoning
part, the spirit and the appetitive part. Socrates provides a definition of the vir-
tue of moderation thus understood in Republic 4:
(T2) And isn’t he moderate because of the friendly and harmonious relations between the
same parts [that is, the reasoning part, the spirit and the appetitive part], namely, when the
ruler and the ruled believe in common that the rational part should rule and don’t engage
in civil war against it?
Moderation is surely nothing other than that, both in the city and in the individual.’
(442c10 – d3)
Based on that definition we may infer that moderate persons have the following
features. First, since they are ruled by the reasoning part and since, as we have
seen, for Plato the rule of the reasoning part is ultimately normative, they pursue
the values of reason. So, for example, no moderate person would make the ac-
cumulation of wealth his or her aim in life. Second, since their spirit and appe-
titive part willingly accept the rule of the reasoning part, they do not experience
any serious psychological conflicts or have regrets. Finally, it follows from the
fact that they possess those two features that they also have basic self-control
or else enkrateia. That is, they do not fail to act on their belief about what pro-
motes the values of reason. Moderation logically presupposes enkrateia.
The ability to exercise enkrateia is not peculiar to philosophers or indeed to
ordinarily virtuous agents. In the Laws the Athenian stranger acknowledges that
mistaken judgements about what is overall good for the agent may effectively
control one’s non-rational desires. Some people are able to control their own de-
sires for pleasure and are masterful in techniques about how to tempt others
though they are entirely bad (635d2– 4). If they are entirely bad, then, given
the close link between virtue and happiness that the Athenian accepts
(660e2– 661d5), they are not guided by judgements that express what is objec-
tively overall good for them. Rather it is their false beliefs about what is overall
good for them that succeed in controlling their desires.
In a similar manner, in the Republic Socrates recognizes that the oligarchic
person is able to control for the most part (see 554d10) the appetites that conflict
with his, intrinsically evil, pursued value of wealth-making. On the one hand, he
is able to control his ‘dronish’ desires for excessive expenditure by his general
carefulness for his money (554b6 – c3 and 554e7– 555a7). On the other hand,
he is able to honour his financial contracts out of fear that he might endanger
the rest of his wealth (554c11– d4).
So, the rule of reason involves high-level cognitive achievement that is pecu-
liar to philosophers and the virtue of moderation that presupposes an ability to
be enkratic that non-philosophers may successfully exercise even when they pur-
sue evil goals.
Who possesses the psychological state of the rule of reason? As we have
seen, in the Republic, it is the philosophers. But we can reasonably assume
that another three types of personas within the Platonic corpus are also in a sim-
ilar psychological state. The first are the members of the ‘Nocturnal Council’ in
the Laws. They understand not only the differences between the four cardinal vir-
tues (wisdom, moderation, justice and courage) but also what unites them,
namely, what makes them all virtues (965c9 – d3). That knowledge of the unifying
element of the different virtues is considered a precondition for achieving virtue:
unless one is able to tell what unites the virtues, one cannot be sufficiently vir-
tuous (965d6 – e5). They will also have knowledge of the unifying element of a
wide range of evaluative concepts like goodness and beauty (966a5 – 9). Their
knowledge will be articulable and demonstrable: they will be able to demon-
strate using arguments (endeiksin tōi logōi) the truth of their judgements about
what is right and wrong (966b1– 9).
Though Plato does not mention the theory of the Forms in the Laws, one gets
the impression that the kind of articulable and demonstrable knowledge of the
unifying element of the virtues and of general evaluative concepts that the mem-
bers of the Nocturnal Council possess is comparable to the high-level knowledge
of the Forms that the philosophers possess in the Republic. ³ That impression is
further corroborated by the following considerations. First, that knowledge is
characterised as supreme (see, diapherontōs phronein at 964a1– 2), genuine
(see, ōntōs eidenai at 966a6) and exact (see, akribōs idein at 965c10). Second,
it is said to require intellectual capacities above the level of ‘ordinary excellen-
ces’ (dēmosiais aretais, 968a2) that enable the members of the Nocturnal Council
to make statements about virtue that are more exact than the ones made by the
many (964d3 – 5). Third, it presupposes mastery of other high-level sciences.
 To avoid any misunderstanding I do not take a stance here on whether in the Laws (or in the
Statesman) Plato continues to hold the theory of the Forms. My claim is only that some basic
features of the type of high-level knowledge that the members of the Nocturnal Council and,
as I explain shortly in the main text, of the types of high-level knowledge that the true political
experts in the Laws and in the Statesman possess are similar to basic features of the high-level
knowledge of the Forms as described in the Republic. My claim is meant to allow that the precise
content of the types of high-level knowledge that the members of the Nocturnal Council and the
true political experts in the Laws and in the Statesman possess need not be what Plato describes
as Forms in the Republic.
Plato singles out the importance of theology and stipulates that no one can be-
come a member of the Nocturnal Council unless they have a natural affinity with
the divine and have worked hard at studying divine matters (966c8 – d3). Theol-
ogy is not the only science that the members of the Nocturnal Council should
master. Plato also mentions astronomy that should be subordinate to theology
(967b4– 968a1), mathematics (817e5 – 818a4) and a range of unspecified subjects
which it will be ultimately the responsibility of the Nocturnal Council to deter-
mine their nature and manner of study (968d3 – e5).
Furthermore, it is plausible to assume that they also have the virtue of mod-
eration. Plato claims that the members of the Nocturnal Council will be selected
not only on the basis of their cognitive abilities but also on the basis of their
character and behavioural habits (tropōn ēthesin kai ethesin) (968c9 – d3). So,
they must behave virtuously which presupposes that they are moderate and
thus enkratic.
The second type of persona that possesses the psychological state of the rule
of reason is the true political expert in the Laws who, according to Plato, can
very rarely (if ever) be found (875d2 – 3). That person has understanding of the
nature of the common good in a city and of the fact that common and private
good coincide (875a1– b1). It is plausible to assume that that person’s knowledge
is not only above the level of ordinary excellence but is also, like the knowledge
of the members of the Nocturnal Council, supreme, genuine, exact and based on
mastery of other high-level sciences. But in addition to his supreme intellectual
capacities that person is also so supremely in control of himself that he does not
even need to be under the rule of law (875c3 – d2). Thus, we could infer that he is
supremely moderate.
Finally, we may also plausibly consider the true political expert in the States-
man to exemplify the rule of reason. Political expertise as described in the
Statesman involves knowledge about ruling human beings that is considered
by Plato ‘practically the most difficult and most important thing of which to ac-
quire knowledge’ (292d2– 3). Furthermore, political expertise is impossible to be
possessed by the majority of people but is rather the privilege of very few people
(292e1– 293a5). So, political expertise involves a type of high-level knowledge
that requires cognitive abilities ordinary people lack. More specifically, political
expertise is a theoretical type of knowledge that directs a wide range of other sci-
ences, like the science of war or the science of public educators. It directs those
sciences in two ways. First, it controls their timing, that is, it decides when it is
appropriate for them to operate (305c10 – d4). Second, it provides guidelines of
how those sciences will operate and checks their progress (308d1– e8). It is,
thus, plausible to assume that the political expert has a theoretical understand-
ing of a wide range of other sciences that deal with the human good and is epis-
temically superior to those sciences since it supervises them. Furthermore, since

the political expert provides guidelines to other sciences his political expertise
must be articulable.
Finally, political expertise aims at weaving together the two basic human
dispositions, courage (andreia) and moderation (sōphrosunē) (311b7– 9). It is,
thus, plausible to assume that the political expert has an understanding of virtue
that is superior to any understanding of virtue reached by any of the subordinate
sciences. For example, the political expert has a superior understanding of the
nature of courage than the general. Plato does not specify in the Statesman
what the political expert’s understanding of virtue amounts to. And there is
no clear reference in that dialogue to the theory of the Forms. Given, however,
the fact that political expertise is superior to all other sciences that deal with
the human good and requires intellectual capacities that are above the reach
of the many, the political expert should be considered to have a type of high-
level knowledge of virtue.
The political expert should be considered to also possess the virtue of mod-
eration. Like the true political expert in the Laws he is not subject to the rule of
law (293a6 – 296b4). If he is to successfully co-ordinate the activities of the var-
ious sciences that are subordinate to political expertise with a view to promoting
the common good and correctly mix courage and moderation in the city, he
should act on his political expertise and not be distracted or frustrated by any
conflicting desires for self-aggrandisement.
Let me sum-up the basic features of the rule of reason as exemplified by the
philosophers in the Republic, the members of the Nocturnal Council in the Laws
and the true political expert in the Laws and in the Statesman:
1) The rule of reason has an epistemic component, namely, a particular type of
knowledge that is above the level of ordinary intellectual capacities.
2) That high-level knowledge involves comprehensive knowledge (a) of the na-
ture of virtue and human goodness and (b) of the principles of a wide range
of sciences.⁴
3) That high-level knowledge is articulable and demonstrable.
4) The rule of reason also has a motivational component, namely, possession of
the virtue of moderation which presupposes enkrateia.
 As I noted in the previous footnote, I take no stance on whether knowledge of (a) and (b) in
the Laws and the Statesman is best characterized as being knowledge of the Forms on the model
of the theory of the Forms as described in the Republic.
In what follows I will examine whether any of those features of the rule of reason
are unduly utopian.
2 The epistemic component of the rule of reason

I begin with the epistemic component of the rule of reason. There does not seem
to be anything grossly implausible about the assumption that there may be a par-
ticular type of knowledge that is beyond the grasp of ordinary people. There are
familiar examples of intellectual disciplines (for example, mathematics or theo-
retical physics) excellence in which requires exceptional intellectual abilities
that may not be shared by all people. Of course by taking the rule of reason
to depend on the possession of extraordinary intellectual capacities Plato puts
the rule of reason beyond the grasp of the vast majority of people. But that
makes his philosophical outlook elitist and not unduly utopian.
Plato’s account, however, of the type of articulable and demonstrable knowl-
edge of the principles of a wide range of sciences that the rule of reason involves
is more problematic. In the Republic that kind of knowledge is the outcome of
mastery of dialectic.⁵ In the context of the simile of the line (509d1– 511e5)
Plato describes dialectic as the method for attaining proper understanding (no-
ēsis) of the intelligible realm and contrasts it with the method that sciences like
calculation and geometry use which enables their students to attain the lesser
cognitive state of thought (dianoia). Calculation and geometry are able to
reach conclusions about their subject matter from relevant principles but mistak-
enly treat their hypotheses as first principles and fail to give an account of them
(510c1– d4). By contrast:
(T3) [reason using the power of the dialectic] does not consider these hypotheses as first
principles but as stepping stones to take off from, enabling it to reach the unhypothetical
first principle of everything. Having grasped this principle, it reverses itself and, keeping
hold of what follows from it, comes down to a conclusion without making use of anything
visible at all, but only of forms themselves, moving on from forms to forms and ending in
forms.’ (511b4– c2)
The unhypothetical first principle of everything is the Form of the Good. In Re-
public 7 Plato clarifies that in virtue of its ability to identify the Form of the Good
 For Plato’s account of dialectic see Benson 2015. In this section I do not provide a comprehen-
sive reconstruction of Plato’s account of dialectic in the Republic (or discuss the relevant schol-
arly debates about its precise content). I only focus on those aspects of Plato’s account that are
directly relevant to my argument.
dialectic provides a more complete account of each thing than any of the scien-
ces:
(T4) ‘…whenever someone tries through argument and apart from all sense perceptions to
find the being itself of each thing and doesn’t give up until he grasps the good itself with
understanding itself, he reaches the end of the intelligible just as the other reached the end
of the visible.
Absolutely.
And what about this journey? Don’t you call it dialectic?
I do.’ (532a5 – b5)
(T5) ‘…no one will dispute it when we say that there is no other inquiry that systematically
attempts to grasp with respect to each thing itself what the being of it is… (533b1– 3)
(T6) Then, do you call someone who is able to give an account of the being of each thing
dialectical? But insofar as he’s unable to give an account of something, either to himself or
to another, do you deny that he has understanding of it.
How could I do anything else?
Then the same applies to the good. Unless someone can distinguish in an account the
form of the good from everything else, can survive all refutation, as if in battle, striving to
judge things not in accordance with opinion but in accordance with being, and can come
through all this with his account intact, you’ll say that he doesn’t know the good itself or
any other good.’(534b3 – c5)
In T3 Socrates claims that through dialectic one is able to grasp the unhypothet-
ical principle of everything. And in T4, T5 and T6 Socrates claims that dialectic
enables one to grasp and articulate an explanatory account of the being of
each thing. Given that the objects of dialectic are the Forms, Socrates must
mean that dialectic assists one in grasping and articulating a demonstrable ac-
count of the intelligible realm. And if we assume that for Socrates explanation of
the nature of things in the sensible realm is possible provided that it includes
reference to the Forms,⁶ we may ascribe to him the following thesis (which for
convenience I call the science of everything thesis (SET)):
(SET) Dialectic leads to a science of everything in the intelligible and the sensible realm.
Furthermore, that science of everything includes a particular type of what we

may call ‘meta-scientific’ understanding. As Socrates put it:
(T7) …if inquiry into all the subjects we’ve mentioned [calculation, geometry, astronomy,
harmonics] brings out their association and relationship with one another and draws con-
 For that interpretation see Fine 1999.

clusions about their kingship, it does contribute something to our goal and isn’t labor in
vain, but otherwise it is in vain.
I, too, divine that this is true. But you’re still talking about a very big task, Socrates.
Do you mean the prelude, or what? Or don’t you know that all these subjects are mere-
ly preludes to the song itself [namely, dialectic] that must also be learned? (531c9 – d8)
So, the objects of the science of everything also include the principles of the
high-level sciences of calculation, geometry, astronomy and harmonics that
are preparatory studies for the real experts in dialectic, namely, the philoso-
phers. In T3, Socrates claims that dialectic provides an explanatory account of
all the basic hypotheses of those sciences by identifying their unhypothetical
foundation. And in T7 he clarifies that mastery of dialectic presupposes knowl-
edge of the interrelations and kinship between those sciences, which for conven-
ience we may label ‘subordinate sciences’. So, we may ascribe to Plato the fol-
lowing ‘meta-scientific’ thesis (MST):
(MST) Dialectic provides meta-scientific knowledge of the nature of the subordinate scien-
ces that study the intelligible realm which has two components: (a) knowledge of the foun-
dations of the principles of each science and (b) knowledge of the similarities between
those sciences.
SET and MST are not per se grossly implausible. Perhaps one day we may talk of
a science of everything and in fact the progress of science throughout the ages
even if it does not make that prospect highly probable at least does not discredit
a relevant hope as entirely ludicrous. Furthermore, it is plausible to assume that
at some point philosophy of science may produce a model that clearly defines
the interrelations of the conceptual schemes of different sciences and identifies
common fundamental hypotheses.⁷
But even though SET and MST are not per se grossly implausible, Plato ap-
pears to understand them through the prism of an extreme epistemic individual-
ism that is unrealistic. The extreme epistemic individualism (EEI) that I have in
mind may be described as follows:
 Those who are pessimistic about scientific progress may of course find both SET and MST un-
duly utopian. For such sceptics my argument in the remainder of this section still has some
value: it identifies an additional reason for taking Plato’s account of the epistemic component
of the rule of reason to be unduly utopian, namely, his failure to appreciate the importance
of substantive epistemic dependence.
(EEI) In order for one to have proper knowledge in a cognitive domain, D, one must be able
to account for all the relevant justificatory steps of one’s true beliefs about D by relying ex-
clusively on one’s own internal epistemic states.⁸
For Plato the relevant cognitive domain is primarily the intelligible realm, that is,
the Forms, but also the sensible realm to the extent that it can be understood by
reference to the Forms. Through dialectic one justifies one’s beliefs about the
Forms and their empirical manifestations relying exclusively on one’s own
knowledge of the sciences that study the intelligible realm.
I will first briefly explain why EEI is problematic and then argue that in the
Republic Plato is committed to it. EEI is problematic because it disregards the ex-
tent to which our beliefs epistemically depend on the beliefs of others and more
importantly the extent to which the beliefs of an expert epistemically depend on
the beliefs of his peers. By ‘epistemic dependence’ I mean the dependence of our
beliefs on the beliefs of others the evidence for or foundation of which we are
unable to check.⁹ The others may be either experts or laypeople. Our dependence
is the result of epistemic trust. That is, we base our beliefs on the beliefs of others
even though we are unable to check the evidence of those beliefs because we
trust them.
Epistemic dependence is a pervasive feature of our epistemic lives. Our in-
tellect is too small and our life too short to be able to check the evidence for all
the beliefs we have. Even if we are experts in a certain scientific field our rele-
vant beliefs depend on the beliefs of other experts – we simply could not try
to account for the truth of their beliefs and it would be irrational for us to
trust only the beliefs that we have independently established through our own
scientific reasoning.
Epistemic dependence takes two forms. The first we may call ‘provisional’
epistemic dependence. The clearest example of provisional epistemic depend-
ence occurs in education. In order for the learning process to get off the ground,
the students have to epistemically trust the views of their teachers. But once the
educational process has been completed the students may be able to access the
epistemic reasons of the teachers and thus have no need to epistemically rely on
them. For example, once medical students have mastered a specific field of med-
ical science they are able to account for the grounds of the beliefs of their teach-
ers.
The second form we may call ‘substantive’ epistemic dependence. In cases of
substantive epistemic dependence one never reaches a state in which one is able
 For a recent philosophical analysis of epistemic individualism see Pritchard 2015.

 For an analysis of the concept of epistemic dependence see Hardwig 1985.
to account for the grounds of those beliefs of others that one bases one’s own
beliefs on. This may happen for a variety of reasons such as intellectual inability,
absence of relevant training or lack of time and interest.
Plato is aware of epistemic dependence and its value. He describes instances
of provisional epistemic dependence on experts. For example, in the Kallipolis
those who have a philosophical nature will receive education shaped by the phi-
losopher-rulers who have high level knowledge of the Forms (540b5 – 6). During
the process of their education their beliefs epistemically depend on the philo-
sophical expertise of the philosopher-rulers. Plato also recognizes instances of
substantive epistemic dependence. For example, the decisions of elderly mem-
bers of the Nocturnal Council depend on the information about life in Magnesia
offered by the junior members whom they have selected (Laws 12, 964e1– 965a4).
But Plato seems to disregard the importance of the experts’ substantive epis-
temic dependence on other experts. More specifically, he disregards the extent to
which a philosopher’s dialectical knowledge needs to epistemically depend on
(a) beliefs of those experts in the subordinate sciences that study the intelligible
realm, like mathematics or astronomy, and (b) outcomes of dialectical examina-
tions performed by other fellow dialecticians.
What strongly suggests that Plato espouses EEI is his demand in T6 that a
dialectician should be able to provide an account of the being of each thing.
Given Plato’s account of the nature of dialectic in T3-T6 providing an account
of the being of each thing should involve at least three steps: First, identifying
a range of hypotheses within the context of at least one of the sciences (other
than dialectic) that study the intelligible realm which accounts for the being
of that thing; second, explaining the unhypothetical foundation of that range
of hypotheses; and, third, defending the conclusions of the two previous steps
against all possible objections (see especially his claim in T6 that the dialectician
should be able to survive ‘all refutation’). In none of those steps can the dialec-
tician trust the beliefs of experts in the subordinate sciences that study the intel-
ligible realm. He cannot trust their beliefs in the second step as they lack any
understanding of the foundation of their principles. And he cannot trust their
judgement about which range of hypotheses accounts for the being of a partic-
ular thing within the context of their respective subordinate science in the first
step as he needs to be able to defend that account against all possible objections
in the third step.
Similarly, the demand that he defends the conclusions of the first two steps
against all possible objections suggests that he cannot epistemically trust the
conclusions of dialectical examinations by other dialecticians. So, for Plato, a di-
alectician has to rely exclusively on his or her own intellectual resources in pro-
viding an account of the being of each thing.
My interpretation that in the Republic Plato is committed to EEI is further

corroborated by his account of the education that the philosopher-rulers receive.
The main reason why those with the natural aptitude to become philosophers
should study the subordinate sciences is that only someone experienced (empeir-
ōi) in those sciences can grasp what dialectic reveals (533a8 – 11). By experience
here Plato does not mean just some level of familiarity with the subject matter of
the subordinate sciences but a particular type of high-level understanding that
enables the future philosophers to attain a unified account of all the subordinate
sciences (537b8 – c8).¹⁰ Attainment of that level of understanding requires dedi-
cated study of a period of ten years (537d2 – 3). So, it is natural to assume that for
Plato the philosophers can attain sufficient mastery of the subordinate sciences
that does not require them to epistemically trust the traditional experts in those
sciences.
Similarly, Plato’s account of the philosophers’ training in dialectic suggests
that mastery of dialectic is incompatible with substantive epistemic dependence
on other dialecticians. Of course while the young philosophers are trained in di-
alectic they will be supervised by and thus they will have to provisionally epis-
temically trust the established philosophers’ judgements about how dialectic
should be contacted. But the end of training in dialectic is for each one of
them individually to become able to grasp the Form of the Good and then
mould his or her own soul and subsequently the city in accordance with it
(540a4 – b1). The relevant understanding of the Form of the Good which, as we
have seen, involves the ability to provide a demonstrable account of its nature
using dialectic is an internal psychological state of each philosopher and not
a collective epistemic state.
Is Plato committed to EEI in his account of the rule of reason in the States-
man and the Laws? In the Laws the Athenian suggests that the members of the
Nocturnal Council should master theology as well as study a range of unspeci-
fied preliminary studies with a view to exploring their common elements and
consequently constructing coherent laws and rules of conduct (967d4– e3). He
also insists that each member of the Nocturnal Council should be able to offer
reasoned explanations about those laws and rules of conduct that, presumably,
make references to theology and the preliminary studies (967e4– 968a1). The de-
mand that the individual members of the Nocturnal Council are required to mas-
ter the common elements of the preliminary studies and offer rather extensive
reasoned explanations may give the impression that their epistemic state resem-
 That is, Plato here does not treat empeiria as being sharply contrasted with expertise as he
does for example in the Gorgias (463b3 – 4).
bles that of the dialecticians in the Republic. But, given that, as we have already
seen, the precise content and structure of the educational curriculum for the fu-
ture members of the Nocturnal Council remains unspecified, we do not have
much else to corroborate that impression.
Similarly it is tempting to think of the persona of the true political expert as
described in the Statesman and the Laws as a paradigm of extreme epistemic in-
dividualism. For example, in the Statesman his ability to supervise and control
the timing of all the subordinate sciences that aim at the human good may
give the impression that he need not substantively epistemically depend on
their scientific judgements but that he is able to offer demonstrable explanations
of the truth of those judgements. But given that neither in the Statesman nor in
the Laws do we get an account of the education of the true political expert it is
difficult to assess the extent of his reliance on his internal epistemic states for
justifying judgements made in the realm of the subordinate sciences.
To conclude, at least in the Republic and possibly in the Statesman and the
Laws Plato is committed to an extreme epistemic individualism that renders his
account of the epistemic component of the rule of reason grossly psychologically
implausible.
3 The motivational component of the rule of

reason
As we have seen, the person whose soul reason normatively rules will exhibit the
virtue of moderation. One may think that for Plato the virtue of moderation in-
volves complete silencing of the desires that oppose the values of reason. After a
long process of education and many years of law-abiding behaviour a philoso-
pher manages to entirely tame his non-rational desires so that they will never
pose a threat to the normative rule of reason in the future.
On that understanding of what the virtue of moderation involves the philos-
ophers who have reached complete silencing of their non-rational desires are
able to retain the normative rule of reason relying entirely on their own psycho-
logical abilities. There is no fear that they may occasionally be defeated by their
non-rational desires and engage in akratic actions. Their supreme psychological
self-control may be primarily due to the comparative weakness of the non-ration-
al desires that oppose the normative rule of reason. For example, the philoso-
phers’ sexual desires may either be significantly weakened or their desire for
truth or knowledge so overwhelmingly strong that they would never diverge
from their contemplation of the Forms or political duties to have an affair with a
member of the producers.
That understanding of the virtue of moderation would commit Plato to a mo-
tivational counter-part of epistemic individualism that I label ‘motivational indi-
vidualism’. According to it, one can control one’s desires or inclinations that con-
travene the rule of reason by relying exclusively on one’s own internal
psychological states. Motivational individualism may allow provisional motiva-
tional dependence. For example, while during a process of moral training one
may rely on incentives created by law or one’s peers to control one’s desire for
self-aggrandisement. But it is incompatible with substantive motivational de-
pendence. Once one’s moral training is concluded, one need rely on no external
incentives to follow the rule of reason. For convenience I will call the successful
rule of reason which does not involve substantive motivational dependence ‘au-
tonomous’ rule of reason.
Motivational individualism holds true for one type of political persona in
Plato’s dialogues. In the Laws Plato mentions the possibility of a true political
expert who even when he has absolute power manages to retain his virtue
and not fall prey to his non-rational desires for self-aggrandisement (see T8
below). Presumably the same is true of the true political expert in the Statesman
who rules unhindered by any type of institutional control relying exclusively on
his superior knowledge (293a6 – 296b4).
Does Plato believe that that type of political persona is a genuine possibility?
The evidence of the Laws is at least ambivalent. The Athenian claims that such a
person is nowhere to be found though perhaps through the grace of God (see T8
below) he might at some point appear. His ambivalence is evidence that he re-
alises that it is unlikely for the vast majority of those who have a philosophical
nature to attain autonomous rule of reason. As the Athenian explains in the
Laws, it is difficult for one to properly understand that the object of political ex-
pertise is the common good (875a1– b1). But even if someone manages to prop-
erly understand the object of political expertise, when he acquires absolute po-
litical power, he would never serve the common good but rather promote
exclusively his personal good (875b4– 6). Rather:
(T8) …his mortal nature will always rush towards greed and the pursuit of his private inter-
ests while it will, on one hand, irrationally avoid pain and, on the other, seek pleasure val-
uing those two things higher than what is better and more just. And while creating dark-
ness within itself it will fill to the full both itself and the whole city with every evil. For
if ever some human being were born by nature capable as result of some divine lot and
politically powerful, he would need no laws to rule over himself. The reason is that no
law and no order is better than knowledge and it is not fitting for reason (nous) to be
the servant or slave of anyone but rather it should be the ruler of everyone, if of course
one is to be truly free by nature. Now, however, such person is nowhere and in no manner
to be found except only to a small degree. So, we must choose the second-best option,
namely, order and law which can see what holds for the most part but cannot cover every-
thing.’ (875b6 – d3)¹¹
Plato’s point is that with the possible exception of a divinely assisted true polit-
ical expert, no other political expert who acquires absolute power and thus has
no external constraints to his political actions would be able to control his de-
sires for self-aggrandisement relying exclusively on his own internal psycholog-
ical states. Plato’s suggestion is that no individual has absolute power and every-
one is ruled by law. This means that for Plato the rule of law provides sufficient
external incentives for both rulers and subjects to retain their self-control. Plato’s
views about the relation between law and enkrateia become clearer in the so-
called ‘puppet-image’ in the first book of the Laws:
(T9) …Let us consider that each one of us, though we are living creatures, is a divine puppet
that is constructed either as a plaything for the gods or for some serious purpose. For of
course we do not know the latter but we do know this thing, that these states of ours
that are in us like nerves or strings both pull us and, since they are opposite to each
other, pull against one another towards opposing actions that cross the line between virtue
and vice. For, as the argument goes, each one of us should pull against the other cords
while he always follows one of those pulling forces and never abandons it: this is the gold-
en and sacred directing-cord (agōgēn) of calculation (logismos), which is called (epikalou-
menēn) the public law of the city. Since it is golden, it is soft, while the other cords are
hard and iron and resemble a whole variety of other forms. One should always co-operate
with the finest directing-cord of the law. For since calculation is fine but mild and not vio-
lent, its directing-cord needs assistants so that the golden kind in us wins over the other
kinds. (644d7– 645b1)
On the standard interpretation of T9, the puppet image explains how akrasia and
enkrateia are psychologically possible.¹² The iron cords that oppose the soft cord
of reasoning represent the agent’s non-rational desires for pleasure and the
avoidance of pain (644c6 – d1). When the agent follows one of the iron cords,
he acts akratically. When the soft-cord of calculation prevails, he behaves enkrati-
cally.
According to T9, in order for one to remain enkratic one needs to co-operate
with law. Since the cord of calculation in an individual is weaker than the iron
 The translations from Laws are mine.

 For an excellent philosophical analysis of the standard interpretation see Bobonich 2002:
260 – 267. The standard interpretation has been recently challenged by Wilburn 2012: 26. For
some telling criticisms against Wilburn’s challenge see Suavé Meyer 2016: n 19 at 163.
cords of his non-rational desires, it needs assistants in order to prevail over

them. Law is the most important assistant.
How does law help an individual remain enkratic? First, law is backed by
sanctions. Fear of externally imposed sanctions provides an individual with
strong incentives to control their non-rational desires. Secondly, apart from
fear of sanctions, law triggers another kind of fear, namely, the fear of acquiring
a bad reputation before our fellow citizens for failing to say or do something fine.
The Athenian calls this fear ‘shame’ (646e10 – 647a2). In his account of the Athe-
nian democracy during the Persian wars, he identifies a particular type of shame
that we may call ‘civic’. Civic shame both is the product of law (699c2– 4) and in
turn produces a law-abiding disposition (698b6). Law produces civic shame be-
cause it identifies the object of civic shame, that is, it identifies certain norms of
public conduct as fine or disgraceful (728a5 – 7). They are norms which the agent
fears that he may be criticized by his fellow-citizens for failing to adhere to. Civic
shame supports the rule of law in the following way: once it is instilled in peo-
ple, it helps keep under control their non-rational desires for self-aggrandise-
ment that may tempt them to break the law.¹³
To sum up, in the Laws Plato acknowledges that with the exception of some
divinely assisted political experts everyone else, including those who are able to
attain high-level political expertise, need the external incentives of law in order
to retain their self-control. So, even those in whose soul reason normatively rules
and exhibit the virtue of moderation, like the members of the Nocturnal Council,
are in danger of acting akratically unless they are under the rule of law.
It is plausible to assume that the external incentives of law function differ-
ently for the members of the Nocturnal Council than for the ordinary citizens of
Magnesia. Given that the ordinary citizens possess only demotic virtue and lack
the high-level training of the members of the Nocturnal Council, they should not
be considered to possess the proper virtue of moderation.¹⁴ They may have to oc-
casionally or frequently rely on the external incentives of law in order to be mo-
tivated to behave in accordance with reason as citizens of Magnesia. That is,
when they face their strong-desires for self-aggrandisement, for example, strong
sexual desires, considerations of legal sanctions and civic shame may tip for
them the balance of reasons in favour of just and law-abiding behaviour. So,
we can say that law may at least occasionally provide ‘direct’ motivational sup-
port for enkratic action. But that direct motivational support of law is compatible
with their experiencing significant internal conflict and frustration.
 I explore in more detail the function of law in the Laws in Hatzistavrou 2018.
 For demotic moderation see Laws 4, 710a3 – b3.
By contrast, it is plausible to assume that, since the members of the Noctur-

nal Council have high-level understanding of the virtues and attain a level of vir-
tue higher than demotic virtue, they are motivated primarily by their apprecia-
tion of the value of a life guided by reason. As they are properly moderate,
they should not experience significant internal conflict in opting for law-abiding
behaviour as citizens of Magnesia. So, we should not expect law to provide direct
motivational support for their enkratic actions. Rather, as T8 suggests, for them
the external incentives of law function primarily as a safeguard. That is, were
those incentives to disappear, they would eventually be unable to resist the pros-
pect of abusing their absolute political power. We may thus say that law ‘counter-
factually’ supports their enkrateia and consequently the normative rule of their
reason.
Law’s counterfactual support for enkrateia is a form of substantive motiva-
tional dependence. The members of the Nocturnal Council are able to remain
enkratic in the long run only if they live in a regime like that of Magnesia, in
which the rule of law obtains and they themselves are under the rule of law.
Even though while they live in Magnesia they may not be directly motivated
by the external incentives of law as happens with ordinary citizens, absent the
external incentives of law they are bound to become akratic. So, in the Laws
Plato allows for substantive motivational dependence and his account of the mo-
tivational component of the rule of reason in the members of the Nocturnal
Council does not commit him to an extreme form of motivational individualism.
In the Republic, the philosopher-rulers, like the members of the Nocturnal
Council and unlike the true political experts of the Statesman and the Laws,
are under the rule of law. The main reason for giving the reins of power to phi-
losophers is that they are able to preserve the laws of the perfect city
(484b9 – c2). The rulers of the perfect city have to obey the laws that Socrates
has proposed and further legislate in the spirit of Socrates’ laws (458b9 – c5).
Socrates’ laws provide what we may call the main constitutional framework of
the perfect city, since they concern primarily social stratification (for example,
they include norms about the establishment of the three classes) and the distri-
bution of political power (for example, they include norms about the scope of
the authority of the philosopher-rulers and the auxiliaries). Furthermore, the phi-
losopher-rulers are not expected to change any of the important laws of Kallip-
olis (445d8 – e4). So, in the Republic they operate within the rule of law and more
specifically the scope of their political authority is constrained by the constitu-
tional framework provided by the original legislator (that is, Socrates).
Why does Plato make the philosopher-rulers of Kallipolis to be bound by
law? We do not find an explicit answer in the Republic. I will venture a specula-
tive answer that draws on Plato’s account of the function of law in the Laws. In a
nutshell, my suggestion is that law counterfactually support the enkrateia of the

philosopher-rulers. Let me go through the main considerations that provide
some plausibility to my suggestion.
First, it is clear that law does not significantly affect the cognitive compo-
nent of the rule of reason of the philosophers. It is the study of dialectic and
not the study of law of Kallipolis that leads to knowledge of the Forms. So, it
is natural to expect that law affects the motivational component of the rule of
law and ensures that the philosopher-rulers remain enkratic and moderate.
Second, Socrates claims that, in some people, the unnecessary desires of the
appetitive part either entirely lose their force or remain weak and few in number
when they are controlled by law and the desires that follow reason (571b7– c1).¹⁵
If, as is plausible to assume, those people include the philosopher-rulers, then
Socrates allows that some unnecessary desires may always be found in their
soul even though they have no or limited motivational strength. That is further
supported by his subsequent claim that those unnecessary desires are to be
found in every person (hekastōi) even to those who seem to be moderate
(572b4– 5). And since law helps to keep the force of those desires under control,
the absence of law may threaten the enkrateia of the philosopher-rulers. Of
course, since the philosopher-rulers are moderate, they do not experience any
internal conflict and may be motivated to act not because of the external incen-
tives of law but because they appreciate the value of a life guided by reason. Law
may only counterfactually support their enkrateia and need not provide direct
motivational support for enkratic action.
Third, at a crucial juncture of the argument of the Republic Socrates relies on
the authority of law in order to ‘compel’ the philosopher-rulers to follow a course
of action. Within the context of the simile of the cave Socrates repeatedly claims
that they will be compelled to return to the cave, that is, to assume the task of
ruling the Kallipolis (see anagkasai, 519c9, anagkēi 519e4, prosanagkazontes
520a8, anagkasteoi 539e3; cf. 500d4). The kind of compulsion that he has in
mind is legal compulsion (see, nomōi 519e1). So, the philosophers are legally ob-
liged to become rulers.
 I assume that when Socrates claims that in some people the unnecessary desires pantapasin
apallatesthai (571b8) he means, not that they are eradicated and thus could never in the future
tempt them or appear in their dreams (see 571c3 – 7) but rather, that when properly controlled by
law and reason they totally lose their motivational strength. If Socrates literally meant that those
desires are eradicated then we could not make sense of his recommendation that the temperate
man (see sōphronōs at 571d7) should try to control those desires before going to sleep
(571d6 – b2) and his claim that those desires exist in every person even the moderate (572b4– 5).
The philosophers’ reasons for returning to the cave have been the topic of
intense scholarly debate.¹⁶ For the purposes of this chapter I focus only on
one important aspect of Socrates’ argument. Socrates presents the legal demand
that the philosophers rule in turns and do not spend all their time doing philos-
ophy as a just demand addressed to just persons (520e1; cf. 520a6 – 9). Since the
demand is just and justice always pays, the potential failure of the philosophers
to comply with it could be either the result of ignorance of its justness, which is
implausible given their high-level understanding, or more plausibly, an instance
of akrasia, that is, failure to act in accordance with what they know to be just and
thus good for them. So, again we can see that the law that the philosophers rule
in turns aims at safeguarding that the philosophers remain enkratic. Of course,
as Socrates himself acknowledges, since the philosophers are just and thus un-
derstand the justness of the legal demand, it is impossible that they would not
want (see ethelēsousin at 520d7) to rule (520d6 – e1). So, the external incentives of
law do not directly motivate them to rule. But it may still counterfactually sup-
port that they act enkratically: in the absence of the relevant legal demand they
might not be able to resist in the long run the temptation to spend all their time
philosophising.
Undeniably, the philosophers’ desire for an uninterrupted philosophical life
is neither an unnecessary desire of the appetitive part nor the typical desire for
self-aggrandisement that the Athenian warns against in T8. But if my argument
in the previous paragraph is correct, then Socrates intends us to think of it as an
unjust desire and thus to treat the philosophers’ potential acting on it as an in-
stance of akrasia. So, a philosopher could potentially be led astray not only by
some unnecessary desire that is always hidden in his or her soul but also by a
temptation created by a characteristic desire of reason.¹⁷
If my speculative interpretation is correct, then we can understand the sense
in which law is the ally of everyone in the city as stated in T1. The external in-
centives of law may directly motivate the subjects of Kallipolis to win over
their desires for self-aggrandisement and counterfactually safeguard that its rul-
ers would not be defeated in the long run by either some unnecessary desire or
the temptation to abandon their political duties for the sake of uninterrupted en-
 I have argued elsewhere (Hatzistavrou 2006) for a particular interpretation according to

which the mixed life of philosophy and political rule is the best life for the philosophers raised
in Kallipolis and their main motive for undertaking the task of ruling is an entrenched desire to
benefit their city.
 The idea that a desire characteristic of reason may in the circumstances be unjust and thus
potentially lead to akratic action appears paradoxical. My point is that that paradox is created
by the logic of Socrates’ argument. I analyse the paradox in Hatzistavrou (forthcoming).
joyment of philosophy. So, in the Republic the rule of reason is institutionally

controlled.
To conclude, at least in the Republic and possibly in the Statesman and the
Laws, Plato bases the epistemic component of the normative rule of reason on a
grossly implausible epistemic individualism. But at least in the Laws and possi-
bly in the Republic the motivational component of the rule of reason depends on
an ordinary institutionalized means of social control, namely, law and thus ap-
pears to be more psychologically viable.
References
Bobonich, C. (2002), Plato’s Utopia Recast. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Benson, H. (2015), Clitophon’s challenge: Dialectic in Plato’s Meno, Phaedo and Republic.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Fine, G. (1999), “Belief and Knowledge in Republic 5 – 7,” in G. Fine (ed.) Plato. Oxford:
Hatzistavrou, A. (2006), “Happiness and the nature of the philosopher-kings,” in F.G.
Herrmann (ed.) New Essays on Plato. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 95 – 124.
Hatzistavrou, A. (2018), “Plato’s legal positivism in the Laws,” Jurisprudence 9: 209 – 235.
Hatzistavrou, A. (forthcoming), “Law, akrasia and the philosopher-rulers in the Republic.”
Hardwig, J. (1985), “Epistemic dependence,” Journal of Philosophy 82: 335 – 349.
Klosko, G. (2006), The development of Plato’s political theory. Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Kraut, R. (1973), “Reason and justice in Plato’s Republic,” in E. N. Lee, A. P. D. Mourelatos
and R. M. Rorty (eds.) Exegesis and Argument. Assen: Van Gorcum, 207 – 224.
Pritchard, D. (1985), “Epistemic dependence,” Philosophical Perspectives 29: 305 – 324.
Suavé Meyer, S. (2015), Plato Laws 1 & 2. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Willburn, C. (2012), “Akrasia and self-rule in Plato’s Laws,” Oxford Studies in Ancient
Philosophy 43: 25 – 53.
Christoph Horn
Aristotle’s ‘City of our Prayers’ within the
History of Political Utopianism
Aristotle famously describes, in Politics VII.4, the design of a city which he char-
acterizes as the polis ‘of our prayers’ or ‘according to our wishes’ (κατ᾽ εὐχήν:
1325b36). In the scholarly literature, it is a much-debated issue what is meant
by this formula and if it indicates, as the traditional reading supposes, Aristotle’s
ideal of a political constitution as developed in Pol. VII – VIII. There seem to be
four other candidates for the best Aristotelian politeia: (i) kingdom, at least as he
speaks of it in Nicomachean Ethics VIII.12 and in Politics III.16 – 18, (ii) aristocracy
(according to Pol. IV.2), (iii) polity or the ‘mixed constitution’ (i. e. a constitution
that reconciles the interests of rich and poor people: Pol. IV.11), and (iv) direct or
deliberative democracy.¹ Which one is the best for Aristotle? Or should he be
seen as a normative pluralist who takes seriously different political models? Fur-
thermore, if it might be correct (as I believe) that books VII and VIII contain Ar-
istotle’s ideal of a perfect constitution, does the word εὐχή imply that Aristotle is
alluding here to an extreme political utopia, to some transcendent ideal based
on wishful thinking? Or does he develop a model of an optimal polis which
he considers to be realizable? More fundamentally, does Aristotle belong, as is
often accepted by scholars, to the group of anti-utopian, realistic thinkers within
the history of political philosophy? Or might there be a version of political uto-
pianism that can plausibly be applied to Aristotle? Can we perhaps find some
reconciliation between utopianism and realism in Aristotle?
In this paper, I would like to argue in favour of the thesis that the polis κατ᾽
εὐχήν in fact represents Aristotle’s ideal of a political constitution. In my opin-
ion, the formula κατ᾽ εὐχήν should be taken in the (somewhat deflationary)
sense that the most desirable city is something which we have to wish or pray
for since it is based on a number of favorable preconditions that depend on
luck (as has rightly, I think, been pointed out by F.D. Miller Jr. 2009). Neverthe-
less I believe that the ‘city of our prayers’ can be characterized as Aristotle’s po-
litical utopia (section I). Then, in section II, I will discuss the question why we
should consider the ‘city of our prayers’ as Aristotle’s normative ideal – not
the other candidates, i. e. kingdom, aristocracy, polity or mixed constitution, or
 Such a democracy might be seen to appear in the ‘accumulation argument’ of Pol. III.11. And
one may add as a certain evidence the passage Pol. IV.4, 1291b30 – 37; cf. J. Waldron 1995. I argued
against this reading in Ch. Horn 2016.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-009
168 Christoph Horn
a certain version of deliberative democracy. Finally, in section III, I will investi-

gate the normative principle which is subjacent to Aristotle’s judgement on the
best constitution as well as the suboptimal ones.
1 Should we regard the ’city of our prayers‘ as

Aristotle’s political utopia?
Let us begin with the question of political utopianism or realism in Aristotle. It
might be useful to draw here on a well-established distinction between two ver-
sions of utopianism: On the one hand, we find in the history of political thought
descriptive or narrative utopias which outline more or less extravagant images of
social reality (providing fanciful contrasting alternatives to our existing subopti-
mal political conditions). On the other hand, we are confronted with prescriptive
and criteriological utopias that are expressing (perhaps highly demanding) nor-
mative standards (although not beyond any possible realization). On the basis
of this fundamental distinction we can certainly exclude the possibility that Ar-
istotle belongs to the first group (that argues for a type of utopia which might be
exemplified in antiquity by the Aristophanic comedy Ecclesiazusae). Aristotle
never gives us an image of an idealized social community like that of a peaceful
Golden Age, a moral kingdom of ends, or a just and fair realm of communist
equality. But I think he has a good chance to be added to the second group,
as I will try to make plausible in this paper. A simple working definition of po-
litical utopianism in the second, prescriptive sense could be based on two ele-
ments: (a) ideal theoretical normativity (it may be a quite demanding one) and
(b) independence from any likelihood of practical realization (without being ac-
tually impossible). Following this definition, both Plato’s kallipolis and the state
described in Zeno’s Politeia can clearly be characterized as ancient utopias, since
both of them have their fundaments in a Platonic or Stoic form of political nor-
mativity respectively – even if they are far away from the political reality of their
time. It suffices that they are not practically unfeasible – at least according to
their authors.
The case of Aristotle, however, seems to be different from that of Plato or
Zeno. His normative standards (as we know them from the Nicomachean Ethics
and the Politics) look like an anti-utopian approach from the outset. One might
see a testimony for that in his criticism of Plato in Pol. II where both the city of
the Republic and that of the Laws are criticized as deeply unrealistic. Moreover,
he does not, as it seems, put much emphasis on ideal normativity, but rather ac-
centuates the plurality of normatively more or less adequate constitutions in gen-
Aristotle’s ‘City of our Prayers’ within the History of Political Utopianism 169
eral and strategies of their improvement piece by piece. Is Aristotle hence anti-
utopian? Doyne Dawson in his monograph Cities of the Gods (1992) proposes a
third solution: he describes Aristotle as a utopian thinker in a minimalist
sense, namely as one who takes his ideal of a ‘mixed constitution’ from the re-
alist wing of Greek political thought. Seen from this point of view, Aristotle’s uto-
pian thinking – the sort of idealized normativity as we find it in Pol. VII – VIII –
would be restricted to the conservative preference for Sparta or Crete (1992:
35 – 7). If that were true, then Aristotle could argue at best for the kind of norma-
tivity expressed by the Magnesia model in Plato’s Laws, not the more demanding
type of the kallipolis in the Republic.
But I don’t think that this is correct. What I want to defend instead is the the-
sis that Aristotle, like Plato and Zeno, develops a full-fledged utopia based on his
own type of normativity. What seems to be at first glance a normative pluralism
and anti-utopianism turns out to be a highly differentiated use of a single ac-
count of normativity: the aretaic and eudaimonic criterion as formulated at the
beginning of Pol. VII. The best constitution is that which leaves enough room
for those who can develop their virtues – and thereby achieve happiness –
and which gives the political power precisely to these individuals. Aristotle’s are-
taic and eudaimonic utopia is what is meant by the expression ‘city of prayer’
(kat’ euchên…poleôs); the other normatively attractive models, i. e. kingdom, aris-
tocracy, polity (mixed constitution), and deliberative democracy are measured,
I believe, according to a single scale based on the question to what extent it
leaves room for virtue and happiness.
One important challenge to the reading I am defending is the interpretation
of Pol. VII provided by Stephen Salkever (2007). According to Salkever, we should
limit the passage in which Aristotle develops the city kat’ euchên to the chapters
VII.4– 12. By this limitation, Salkever wants to support his general thesis that Ar-
istotle is an anti-utopian thinker. Aristotle’s normative ideal is formulated, ac-
cording to Salkever, in books I and III; it is that of the mixed constitution. The
foundation of the new city, done in Pol. VII – VIII following roughly the paradigm
of Plato’s Laws, is hence ascribed to other (unnamed) theorists. One may find
some support for that view in the fact that Aristotle, by the end of ch. 12,
comes back to the formula of the polis kat’ euchên (or at least alludes to it by
using the term euchê again):
But now it would be a waste of time for us to linger over details like these. The difficulty is
not in imagining but in carrying them out. Talking about them is a matter of prayer (τὸ μὲν
γὰρ λέγειν εὐχῆς ἔργον ἐστί), but the execution of them will depend upon fortune. There-
fore let us say no more about these matters for the present. (Pol. VII.12, 1331b18 – 23; revised
Oxford translation)
170 Christoph Horn
According to Salkever, the entire city kat’ euchên passage does not contain a se-
rious Aristotelian proposal, but reproduces only a debate with unnamed adver-
saries. On this interpretation, the prayer in question is not Aristotle’s; the desir-
ability of the model under consideration is ascribed to people who in fact are
criticized by Aristotle.² If Salkever were correct, we had to locate Aristotle within
the anti-utopian camp. Accordingly, one might read the above quotation as if Ar-
istotle declared that he wants to put an end to a utopian line of thought, ascribed
to other theorists. But what Aristotle in fact rejects in the quoted text is the mere
thinking (noêsai) of a certain political model by contrast to a realization of it
(poiêsai). As the quotation thus implies, Aristotle wants to finish here a topic
that he himself endorses. It is hence not the case that he reproduces other peo-
ple’s opinions, but he doesn’t want to continue with subtle details of a highly
counterfactual proposal. And he adds that we must leave it to chance or fortune
(tuchê). This exactly is the place where the prayer (or wish) comes in; goods
which depend on luck (completely or partially) are not disposible and cannot
simply be planned or intended – they must be objects of prayers. This is quite
similar to what Plato says, in the Republic, about theia moira (V.492e – f) and
the paradeigma en tois ouranois (IX.592b). Thus, as it turns out, Salkever’s read-
ing rests on a mistake. Aristotle is not against a city kat’ euchên; what he usually
rejects are models that are completely unrealizable. Note that, in Pol. II.6, Aris-
totle criticizes Plato’s normative ideal of the Laws as follows:
Now it is true that all the discourses of Socrates possess brilliance, cleverness, originality
and keenness of inquiry, but it is no doubt difficult to be right about everything: for in-
stance with regard to the size of population just mentioned it must not be over-looked
that a territory as large as that of Babylon will be needed for so many inhabitants, or
some other country of unlimited extent, to support five thousand men in idleness and an-
other swarm of women and servants around them many times as numerous. It is proper no
doubt to assume ideal conditions, but not to go beyond all bounds of possibility (δεῖ μὲν
οὖν ὑποτίθεσθαι κατ᾽ εὐχήν, μηδὲν μέντοι ἀδύνατον). (Pol. II.6, 1265a10 – 18).
Socrates as Plato’s mouthpiece develops, according to Aristotle, a model that ac-

tually cannot be realized. The idea of Magnesia in the Laws (presented not by
Socrates, but by an Athenian) presupposes an enormous extension of the terri-
tory and hence it is not realizable. The line of demarcation between acceptable
utopias kat’ euchên and unacceptable ones lies in the criterion whether or not a
model is practically realizable or not. Note that Aristotle, in this passage, uses
the formula kat’ euchên in favour, not against political models which are de-
 A view similar to that of Salkever has been developed by W.H. Ambler 1985.
manding without being over-demanding. To corroborate this observation, we

should look at a text from Pol. VII.4:
And as we have prepared the way by this prefatory discussion of the subject, and have pre-
viously studied all the other forms of constitution, the starting-point for the remainder of our
subject is first to specify the nature of the conditions that are necessary in the case of the city
that is to be constituted in the ideally best manner (δεῖ τὰς ὑποθέσεις εἶναι περὶ τῆς μελλού-
σης κατ᾽ εὐχὴν συνεστάναι πόλεως). For the best constitution cannot be realized without suit-
able equipment. We must therefore posit as granted in advance a number of as it were ideal
conditions, although none of these must be actually impossible (διὸ δεῖ πολλὰ προϋποτεθεῖ-
σθαι καθάπερ εὐχομένους, εἶναι μέντοι μηθὲν τούτων ἀδύνατον). I mean for instance in ref-
erence to number of citizens and territory. (Pol. VII.4, 1325b32– 1326a8)
We saw that Aristotle, in the quotation from II.6, refuses the model of Plato’s
Laws as unattainable. In this context, he explicitly affirms the legitimacy of
an ideal conception (kat’ euchên). In the last quote from VII.4, he comes back
to the very same point using even the same words: a city kat’ euchên should con-
tain a model of an ideal constitution – but it is decisive that its preconditions
must not be impossible. That is what our working definition above meant: a uto-
pia (in the second sense of the term) is a desirable normative ideal that can be
relatively unlikely, due to its demanding standards, but must basically be realiz-
able.
Moreover, when we look at its constitutive elements, it can easily be shown
that the city kat’ euchên as developed in Pol. VII is not un-Aristotelian. On the
contrary, it contains a number of characteristics which can unambiguously be
traced back to Aristotle. The passage begins with a list of presuppositions (hupo-
theseis) which must be given for the establishment of a good polis: these are a
limited number of citizens, the rule of law, and autarchy (ch. 4); these points
are genuine convictions of Aristotle. In ch. 5, we find the detail that the territory
should be big enough so that the citizens can live “in leisure generously and
modestly” (1326b30 – 2) which also perfectly fits Aristotle’s virtue ethics. Ch. 7 re-
peats the famous (and infamous) Aristotelian theory of an immediate link be-
tween climate and ethnic character. Regarding the distribution of land, the fun-
damental point made in the text is to avoid a contrast between poor and rich
citizens – which is, for Aristotle, the root of many basic social evils in democra-
cies and oligarchies. In ch. 9, it is clearly Aristotle’s own voice when it is said that
the best constitution is reached if the polis is happiest, and that this is the case if
and only if virtue is realized. In ch. 10, there is the explicit remark that “we do
not claim that possession of land should be common as others have maintained”
(οὔτε κοινήν φαμεν εἶναι δεῖν τὴν κτῆσιν ὥσπερ τινὲς εἰρήκασιν: 1329b41– 2).
What we hear in this phrase is Aristotle’s own voice. Hence, Pol. VII.4– 12 is
172 Christoph Horn
doubtlessly mirroring Aristotle’s own standpoint. Furthermore, Salkever’s inter-

pretation is contradicted by the fact that Aristotle continues his line of thought,
in Pol. VII.13, by discussing the constitution of a desirable polis. He says e. g., in
ch. 13, that all citizens must participate in the government. And there is no indi-
cation for a rupture between chs. 12 and 13.
There are three more subtle observations adduced by Salkever in favour of
his reading, namely first, unjust slavery, second, the appreciation of manliness
(andreia), and third, conventional religion. Salkever believes that none of
these three elements, as they appear in the passage, can be seen as genuinely
Aristotelian. But in all of these three cases, one might find the reason for the un-
typical points which are in the text in the foundational situation of the city kat’
euchên as a colony. The availability of slaves even beyond the criterion of natural
slavery and the appreciation of manliness can be traced back to the pragmatic
conditions of a foundation. Concerning religion, I fail to see what might be
the dissonance with Aristotle’s theological standpoint. Aristotle emphasizes in
Pol. VII the need for eunomia and eutaxia, and he praises the divine world-
order in the same spirit in which he characterizes the universe in Metaphysics
Lambda 10 (cf. Pol. VII.4, 1326a29 – 35; a similar passage in VII.3, 1325b28 – 30).
2 Which political constitution represents

Aristotle’s normative ideal?
Another challenge to my reading can be based on the observation that the polit-
ical ideal as developed in Pol. VII – VIII is not the only normative model defended
by Aristotle. To some extent, this is plausible in the cases of aristocracy, polity or
‘mixed constitution’ or for some forms of democracy. But it is even far more per-
suasive with regard to monarchy, at least for the so-called pambasileia at the end
of Pol. III. One might think e. g. of the surprisingly strong Aristotelian claim, for-
mulated in Pol. III.17, that an excellent personality needs to be the king of the city
and hence must not be killed, banished, or ostracized:
When therefore it comes about that there is either a whole family or even some one indi-
vidual that differs from the other citizens in virtue so greatly that his virtue exceeds that
of all the others, then it is just for this family to be the royal family or this individual
king, and sovereign over all matters. For, as has been said before, this holds good not
only in accordance with the right that is usually brought forward by those who are found-
ing aristocratic and oligarchic constitutions, and from the other side by those who are
founding democratic ones (for they all make their claim on the ground of superiority,
though not the same superiority), but it also holds good in accordance with the right spo-
ken of before. For it is not seemly to put to death or banish, nor yet obviously to ostracize,
such a man, nor is it seemly to call upon him to take his turn as a subject; for it is not in the
order of nature for the part to overtop the whole, but the man that is so exceptionally out-
standing has come to overtop the whole community. Hence it only remains for the commu-
nity to obey such a man, and for him to be sovereign not in turn but absolutely. (Pol. III.17,
1288a15 – 29)
In this text, Aristotle explicitly defends a monarchy as the best constitution.

However, since a monarchy is not what he recommends in Pol. VII – VIII, there
seems to exist a serious tension in his overall position. The basic problem of
the last quotation is that Aristotle usually goes for political instititionalism
and legalism – i. e. the rule of procedures, offices, and law uncontaminated by
individual emotions or vices – instead of political personalism. Here, however,
he explicitly leaves aside both the maxim of equality and the rotation principle,
and he suspends the accumulation argument as we know it from the same book,
namely from Pol. III.11. Nevertheless even this passage quoted from Pol. III.17
need not amount to a contradiction or some sort of normative pluralism. Aristo-
tle rather seems to apply, within his general aretaic and eudaimonic perspective,
his fundamental principle of cognitive superiority to cases in which an individ-
ual (or a family) turns out to be so outstandingly insightful that he outweighs all
other persons. The normative ideal formulated in our quotation, i. e. the monar-
chical rule of the excellent individual, is compatible, to my mind, both with the
idea of a polis kat’ euchên from book VII and with the model of a mixed consti-
tution. Even if he believes that under normal circumstances a strictly legalist
polis should follow the combined insight of a multitude, his competence princi-
ple leaves room for the exceptional case that there is an absolutely superior in-
dividual (or family) whose capacities even transcend the appropriateness of a
well-organized constitutional order.
Aristotle’s seeming tension should neither be traced back to some normative
pluralism nor to different developmental stages in his life or biographical layers
in his text as it has repeatedly been undertaken since the classical attempt of
Werner Jaeger. We find that line of interpretation to some extent also in Eckart
Schütrumpf impressive commentary on the Politics. ³ I think there is a much
more attractive alternative: namely to accept that the best constitution is formu-
lated in Pol. VII – VIII whereas other normative ideals are defended with regard to
specific circumstances or with regard to more or less suboptimal conditions.
I can refer here to an important claim made in the Nicomachean Ethics. In his
discussion of the phusikon dikaion and the nomikon dikaion in EN V.7 (10), Aris-
totle explicitly claims that there is only one political constitution (politeia) which
 See the explicit defense of this approach in Schütrumpf 2011.

174 Christoph Horn
is by nature everywhere the best: ἀλλὰ μία μόνον πανταχοῦ κατὰ φύσιν ἡ ἀρίστη
(1135a5). If we take this remark seriously and identify the naturally best politeia
with what is said in Pol. VII – VIII, then there is still some room left for the appre-
ciation of other excellent constitutions.⁴
In my opinion, there exists an attractive non-developmentalist way to under-
stand the Aristotelian method of combining diverse normative perspectives.
I think the key passage for an adequate solution is the beginning of bk. IV of
the Politics. As we saw in Pol. VII.4, Aristotle raised the question how the precon-
ditions (hupotheseis) for a polis of an ideal character have to look like. We have
sufficient reason to believe that the city kat’ euchên (from VII.4, 1325b36) is ap-
preciated by Aristotle as his highest normative ideal. Now, the expression kat’
euchên does also appear in Pol. IV.1, 1288b23, where Aristotle deals with subop-
timal political conditions (and it comes back, additionally, somewhat later in
this book, namely in IV.11, 1295a29). None of these uses of kat’ euchên contain
the slightest indication that Aristotle is not formulating his own convictions.⁵
In Pol. IV ch. 1, he reflects on the constitution (politeia) in its ideal form and
declares that it can only be attained “if there is no external impediment” (mêde-
nos empodizontos tôn ektos). He then contrasts the ideal form with the sort of po-
liteia which might be realized under unfavourable circumstances. It is surprising
to see how much attention Aristotle devotes to the study of suboptimal constitu-
tions. Starting with book IV, he discusses this topic throughout the books IV, V,
and VI, not without interruption, but coming back, again and again, to this prob-
lem. What is also astonishing is the fact that he is interested in the topic of sub-
optimal constitutions not only from an empirical and descriptive point of view –
as if he was simply driven by some eagerness to collect curious political phe-
nomena. He discusses them also from a normative point of view so that we
can adequately apply the term ‘non-ideal political normativity’ as it has been
coined, in contemporary political philosophy, by John Rawls. Aristotle’s goal
in this part of his Politics is to foster the true statesman who should be able,
as he declares, to help (boêthein) the existing constitutions (Pol. IV.1, 1289a5 – 7).
Apparently, the first chapter of Pol. IV develops the concept of suboptimal
political normativity. Book IV begins with some epistemological remarks that
are supposed to be valid for “all arts and sciences which are not only fragmen-
tary” (en hapasais tais technais kai tais epistêmais tais mê kata morion genome-
nais: 1288b10 – 1). Following Aristotle, a comprehensive art or science must be
 I follow in this respect the interpretations defended by R. Kraut 2002, F.D. Miller Jr. 2009 and
P. Destrée 2015.
 The occurrences are 1325b36; 1325b39; 1327a4; 1329b25 – 6; 1330a37; and 1332a29.
able to cover all cases subsumed under it, both the ideal and the non-ideal ones.
To illustrate that, Aristotle uses the example of the gumnastikê that is usually fo-
cused on training the best bodies; according to the Aristotelian requirement, it
must be able to deal with all genera of bodies. He distinguishes between three
different cases: (1) the best exercise, we are told, is that which is appropriate
for the best body, (2) there must be a sort of exercise that is suitable for the ma-
jority of people, and (3) the coach or paidotribês must be capable to develop a
training schedule for those who are contented with a lesser level than they
could ideally achieve. Aristotle finishes these reflections by the remark that
the same principle holds also for all other sciences (1288b11– 21).
Two Aristotelian principles well-known from EN I.2 are present in the back-
ground here: First the principle of object-dependent accuracy which implies that
a practical discipline always has to cover a wide field of cases, bot ideal and non-
ideal ones. Second, we find here the principle of action-directedness of all prac-
tical knowledge. We can learn from this passage that there are three non-ideal
cases: either the external conditions are too defective or the character of the peo-
ple to whom the constitution should be applied is insufficient or the intentions
of those who want to realize a good constitution are less ambitious than they
could be. Aristotle apparently believes that the attempt to realize the best possi-
ble constitution would make no sense under unfavourable circumstances (we
will see what these conditions consist in) or if the people are inappropriate for
it or if they don’t want an ideal polis to be realized. Moving then from gumnastikê
to politikê, he is even more detailed with regard to the suboptimal cases:
Hence it is obvious that the constitution too is subject of the same science, which has to
consider what government is best and of what sort it must be, to be most in accordance
with our wish (or prayer), if there were no external impediment (ποία τις ἂν οὖσα
μάλιστ’ εἴη κατ’ εὐχὴν μηδενὸς ἐμποδίζοντος τῶν ἐκτός), and also what kind of govern-
ment is adapted to particular individuals. For the best is often unattainable, and therefore
the true legislator and statesman ought to be acquainted, not only with that which is best in
the abstract, but also with that which is best relatively to circumstances. We should be able
further to say how a state may be constituted under any given conditions; both how it is
originally formed and, when formed, how it may be longest preserved; the supposed
state being so far from having the best constitution that it is unprovided even with the con-
ditions necessary for the best; neither is it the best under the circumstances, but of an in-
ferior type. (Pol. IV.1, 1288b21– 33)
As far as I can see, this passage distinguishes between five different topics which
must be discussed by a comprehensive political science (epistêmê): (i) the best
possible constitution under ideal circumstances, (ii) the best possible constitu-
tion with regard to (certain) human beings, (iii) the best possible constitution
under non-ideal circumstances, (iv) how the polis of (iii) is established, and
176 Christoph Horn
(v) how the polis of (iii) can be stabilized and preserved. All of this seems to con-
tain the programme for books IV and V (but also for VII and VIII). In the passage
which immediately follows, we find a sixth point, namely the question: (vi) which
is in fact the best constitution for the poleis that already exist and how can ex-
isting poleis be improved? Then Aristotle continues:
For it is proper to consider not only what is the best constitution but also what is the one
possible of achievement, and likewise also what is the one that is easier and more generally
shared by all states. But as it is, some students inquire which is the highest form of all even
though requiring much material equipment, while those who rather state some general
form sweep aside the constitutions actually existing and praise that of Sparta or some
other; but the proper course is to bring forward an organization of such a sort that men
will easily be persuaded and be able in the existing circumstances to take part in it,
since to reform a constitution is no less a task than to frame one from the beginning,
just as to re-learn a science is just as hard as to learn it originally; in addition therefore
to the things mentioned the student of politics must also be able to render aid to the con-
stitutions that exist already, as was also said before. (Pol. IV.1, 1288b33 – 1289a7)
Aristotle maintains that it does not suffice to consider the best constitution in
general without considering its practicability. Instead, it is necessary to consider
models that are realizable or can be put into reality on the basis of the existing
states. The circumstances must be good and a general acceptance by the citizens
must be within reach. To put the Aristotelian argument into a comparative per-
spective, take the approach of Rawls. Ideal theory, according to Rawls, makes two
types of idealizing assumptions about its subject matter. First, ideal theory as-
sumes that all agents (i. e. citizens or societies) are generally willing to comply
with whatever principles are chosen. Ideal theory thus idealizes away the possi-
bility of law-breaking, either by individuals (e. g. crime) or societies (e. g. aggres-
sive war). Second, ideal theory assumes reasonably favorable social conditions,
wherein citizens and societies are able to abide by principles of political coop-
eration. Citizens are not so driven by hunger, for example, that their capacity
for moral reasoning is overwhelmed; nor are nations struggling to overcome fam-
ine or the failure of their states.
As we are informed in Pol. V.1 (1301b39 – 40), Aristotle believes that at his
time the basic social conditions in the poleis are favourable for democracies
and oligarchies, but disadvantageous for all other constitutions, especially for
kingdoms and aristocracies. All of this provides good evidence for the thesis
that Aristotle’s use of political normativity is unitarian rather than pluralistic. Ar-
istotle emphasizes that the true statesman, the politikos, should be able, addi-
tionally to his other tasks, to help the existing constitutions (dio pros tois eirême-
nois kai tais huparchousais politeiais dei dunasthai boêthein ton politikon: Pol. IV.1,
1289a5 – 7). In order to do so, he must know both the best possible state of a polis
and the principles of non-ideal normativity: The best possible political state
would be that in which an individual of superior insight would rule. In Aristo-
tle’s Politics, we find a quite constant and affirmative reference to the Platonic
idea that every sort of rule or leadership (archê) should be transferred to those
individuals who are cognitively superior. One might call this the cognition-
based leadership principle. ⁶ As we are informed, this principle holds true for var-
ious relationships: that between masters and slaves, Greeks and barbarians, pa-
rents and children, males and females and, finally, for political governance, even
if each of them has to be taken in a different sense. The general idea behind it
seems to be that insight (phronêsis) is the most relevant virtue for a ruler, and
insight is possessed by outstanding individuals – a principle defended by
Aristotle, e. g., in Pol. III.4. According to this chapter, rulers should have full
knowledge (epistêmê), while for the citizens it suffices to have true opinion
(doxa alêthês: 1277b28 – 9). Aristotle’s use of the epistêmê-doxa alêthês-distinc-
tion reinforces the Platonic flavor of the principle.
The main goal of this basic principle, however, seems to be to avoid the
worst case. This worst case consists in that the legal order and constitutional ar-
rangements of a polis get lost – as it is the case in an extreme form of democracy
and in tyranny. Under such circumstances, i. e. separated from law and justice,
human beings are, as is expressed in Pol. I.2, the most evil of all animals (chô-
ristheis nomou kai dikês cheiriston pantôn: 1253a32– 3). Some of the strategies im-
plicitly adopted by Aristotle in his discussion of non-ideal normativity are the
following:
(1) If there is no individual of superior insight at hand, the best one can do to
guarantee a certain degree of political normativity is to rely on a strictly rule-
based and law-oriented political system. The effect will be a considerable ad-
vantage for the common good.
(2) If the given legal order in a polis is suboptimal, one should try to carefully
improve it.
(a) Always change as little as necessary of an existing legal and constitu-
tional order.
(b) When changing laws, one must respect the fundamental character of
the constitution.
(3) If the existing legal order of a polis is suboptimal, one can also try to im-
prove the law-abidance.
 The most prominent passage is Pol. I.2, 1252a31– 4. I discuss the principle, especially with re-
gard to Pol. III.11, in Horn 2016.
178 Christoph Horn
(4) Sometimes a deviant constitution can be improved by transplanting an ele-

ment into it which comes from another (deviant) constitution.
(5) A constitution that cannot be considerably improved can at least be stabi-
lized.
(6) If there an existing constitution is endangered by the contrast between ex-
treme social groups (especially the poor and the rich people), try to strength-
en the middle class.
In discussing non-ideal political normativity, Aristotle goes far beyond Plato.

Even if one regards the Laws as an expression of the late Platonic intention to
formulate a second-best political system (which is the former standard view
that has come, in the past ten years, under pressure by the interpretations of Bo-
bonich, Laks and others), Aristotle does much more than Plato accepted when
he described Magnesia. Plato’s idea of non-ideal normativity is mainly that of re-
placing the philosopher-kings by legal rules and stable institutions. Aristotle is
even prepared to sacrifice his own virtue-based approach in order to discuss
what is best for the life of the majority of people. The following quotation pro-
vides a persuasive example for this:
We have now to inquire what is the best constitution for most states, and the best life for
most men, neither assuming a standard of virtue which is above ordinary persons, nor an
education which is exceptionally favored by nature and circumstances, nor yet an ideal
state which is a constitution of prayer (μήτε πρὸς πολιτείαν τὴν κατ’ εὐχὴν γινομένην),
but having regard to the life in which the majority are able to share, and to the form of gov-
ernment which states in general can attain. As to those aristocracies, as they are called, of
which we were just now speaking, they either lie beyond the possibilities of the greater
number of states, or they approximate to the so-called constitutional government, and
therefore need no separate discussion. And in fact the conclusion at which we arrive re-
specting all these forms rests upon the same grounds. For if what was said in the Ethics
is true, that the happy life is the life according to virtue lived without impediment, and
that virtue is a mean, then the life which is in a mean, and in a mean attainable by
every one, must be the best. And the same principles of virtue and vice are characteristic
of cities and of constitutions; for the constitution is in a figure the life of the city. (Pol. IV.11,
1295a25 – b1)
As I understand the passage, Aristotle declares that he adopted “in the Ethics”
the unitary standard of aretaic and eudaimonic normativity. The best constitution
remains that which he calls again “the constitution of prayer”. A politeia kat’ eu-
chên, however, would presuppose, according to the text, the highest possible de-
gree of virtue among its citizens. This being impossible in many concrete cases,
one has to follow an attenuated version of the standard. It actually works on the
basis of the doctrine of the mean (mesotês) as it is developed in EN II.6: citizens
should then live according to the principle of the a virtuous mean “which is nec-
essary for the best life and is attainable by every one” (τὸν μέσον ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι
βίον βέλτιστον, <τὸ> τῆς ἑκάστοις ἐνδεχομένης τυχεῖν μεσότητος). The decisive
point for my reading is that Aristotle reduces here the ideal normative standard
to something which is attainable while preserving the fundamental principle. In
this text, one can also clearly see how Aristotle connects the improvement of ex-
isting poleis with those constitutional models that they can or cannot arrive at.
For most of the states, he says, it would be excluded to arrive at the level of an
aristocracy, while the opportunity of becoming a polity lies within their reach.
Aristotle’s alleged ‘political realism’ turns out, in this passage, to be deeply root-
ed in a unitary form of normativity, an axiological monism. But the normative
standard can be applied, in various degrees, to ideal or non-ideal political cir-
cumstances.
3 Which criterion does Aristotle use for

evaluating constitutions?
A crucial theoretical precondition for a non-ideal conception of political norma-
tivity is a value-theory that allows its defender to distinguish between degrees of
the alleged good that is realized in a certain polis or constitution. If you compare
polis A to polis B, you must be able to evaluate them in terms of their diverse
forms of this realization. In Pol. IV.11, we found a monistic theory of value
which permits us to measure the normative quality of a polis according to a sin-
gle criteriological scale. Now, in fact, Aristotle further develops, in Pol. VII, this
sort of theory:
Let us acknowledge then that each one has just so much of happiness as he has of excel-
lence and wisdom, and of excellent and wise action. (Pol. VII.1, 1323b21– 3)
The criterion for the normative goodness of a polis is its realization of happiness
and virtue. Already right at the beginning of Pol. VII, Aristotle claims that the in-
vestigation of the best constitution and the best human life must go hand in
hand. He points out that the best constitution and the best life which can be
attained is relative to the given circumstances (ek tôn huparchotôn autois:
1323a18 – 19). The politeia is better where people can lead a more virtuous and
happier life. Aristotle parallels and connects the happiness of states and that
of individuals:
180 Christoph Horn
On the other hand it remains to say whether the happiness of a state is to be pronounced
the same as that of each individual man, or whether it is different. Here too the answer is
clear: everybody would agree that it is the same; for all those who base the good life upon
wealth in the case of the individual, also assign felicity to the state as a whole if it is weal-
thy; and all who value the life of the tyrant highest, would also say that the state which
rules the widest empire is the happiest; and if any body accepts the individual as happy
on account of virtue, he will also say that the state which is the better morally is the hap-
pier. (εἴ τέ τις τὸν ἕνα δι᾽ ἀρετὴν ἀποδέχεται, καὶ πόλιν εὐδαιμονεστέραν φήσει τὴν σπου-
δαιοτέραν). (Pol. VII.2, 1324a5 – 13)
In this quotation, Aristotle explicitly formulates the idea of immediate correlat-

edness of individual virtue (and happiness) and the happiness of the polis. If it is
permissible to add here what he says against Plato’s kallipolis in Pol. II.5, a state
cannot be said to be happy without its citizens being happy – either all of them
or the majority or at least some parts (1264b17– 19). We find a further formulation
of Aristotle’s unitary normative standard in Pol. VII.8 where he claims:
And the state is one form of partnership of similar people, and its object is the best life that
is possible. And since the greatest good is happiness, and this is some perfect activity or
employment of virtue, and since it has so come about that it is possible for some men to
participate in it, but for others only to a small extent or not at all, it is clear that this is
the cause for there arising different kinds and varieties of state and several forms of con-
stitution (συμβέβηκε δὲ οὕτως ὥστε τοὺς μὲν ἐνδέχεσθαι μετέχειν αὐτῆς τοὺς δὲ μικρὸν
ἢ [40] μηδέν, δῆλον ὡς τοῦτ᾽ αἴτιον τοῦ γίγνεσθαι πόλεως εἴδη καὶ διαφορὰς καὶ πολιτείας
πλείους). [1328b] For as each set of people pursues participation in happiness in a different
manner and by different means they make for themselves different modes of life and differ-
ent constitutions. (Pol. VII.8, 1328a35 – b2)
This last quotation is perhaps the clearest presentation of the aretaic and eudai-
monic principle in Aristotle’s Politics. It expresses in a quite unambiguous form
the idea that the extent to which the constitution of the state can be organized
optimally depends on the capacity of the citizens to participate in virtue and
happiness. Since the state, he says, is a community of equals with the purpose
of leading the best possible life, the diversity of constitutions is correlated with
the ability of the individuals to partake in virtue and happiness.
What is important about the idea of degrees of virtue and happiness and its
correlation with political constitutions is that it rests upon the distinction be-
tween direct or indirect ways of realizing a normative standard. This distinction
does also play a prominent role in the contemporary discussion about non-ideal
political normativity. Also in the debate inaugurated by Rawls there is a distinc-
tion between direct and indirect ways to realize a value in politics (and morals).
Michael Phillips e. g. claims that you can maintain a value sometimes only if you
don’t follow it strictly, but defend its possibility (1985: 565):
[…] it is important to distinguish between acting directly on a value and acting for the sake
of a value. We might characterize this distinction in relation to lists of actions that instan-
tiate the relevant value. In the case of respect for persons, such a list might include truth-
telling, promise keeping, not threatening, and so forth. We act directly on a value when our
act conforms to some description on this list; we act for the sake of a value when we act
with the intent to create a world in which this value is more widely realized.
Very interestingly, R. Kraut (1991) has identified a quite similar strategy in Aris-
totle which he calls ‘principle of approximation’:
But I suggest that Aristotle has a broader notion of what it is to act for the sake of a certain
goal: he thinks that when we try to come as close as we can to achieving an end, then we
are acting for the sake of that end, even if we rightly believe that it is beyond our grasp. In
other words, if what one wants most for a person (oneself or another) is to provide him with
good A, and if one instead promotes good B because he cannot achieve A, and B is the clos-
est approximation to A that he can achieve, then one is acting for the sake of A. (1991: 87)
Fred D. Miller Jr. added a second point to that which he calls the ‘principle of
causal convergence’ and he describes his general line of interpretation as ap-
proximist. ⁷ Practicability regarding the external circumstances, regarding the
character of the people involved, and regarding the willingness to accept the po-
litical order is essential for an appropriate political theory. Aristotle’s way of
dealing with a concrete constitution may, at first glance, sound as if its main ten-
dency is anti-utopian and ‘realistic’.
Aristotle compares the ideal polis to the mythical isles of the blessed (VII.15
1334a31). In the Protrepticus we read (frg. 43 Düring=Iamblichus Protr. 53.2– 10):
One might see that what we say is all the more true if someone transported us in thought,
as it were, to the Isles of the Blessed, for in that place neither use nor benefit would be pro-
 Miller writes (2009: 542): “The second is the principle of causal convergence […]. Given that C
causes E, then the more a cause resembles C the more its effect resembles E. The hotter the water
the closer it comes to boiling.” And he continues (2009: 543): “Granted that these two principles
apply to politics, then the ideal constitution is relevant to every politics. Even if it is not practi-
cally attainable, we can use it as a guide in reforming existing systems on order to come as close
as possible to our policy objective. Although the Aristotelian statesman recognizes ideals, he is
not a utopian perfectionist who remains aloof from politics because the ‘heavenly city’ is out of
reach. For the statesman the best constitution serves as a regulative ideal. This approach may be
described as approximist: Prcatical politics should aim at reforming existing systems so that they
approximate this ideal as closely as feasible […].”
182 Christoph Horn
duced in anything else, and only thinking and observation remains, which we say even now
is a free way of life. If this is true, then surely any one of us would be rightly ashamed if,
when the right was granted to us to settle in the Isles of the Blessed, he was by his own
fault unable to do so. Thus the payment to humans of knowledge is not despicable, and
the good that comes from it is no slight good. For just as the poets who are wise say
that we harvest the fruits donated by justice in Hades, likewise it seems we harvest the
ones donated by intelligence in the Isles of the Blessed.
The text gives us the background of Aristotle’s normative ideal of an optimal

polis by describing the best indiviual life one can imagine: it would be that of
practising philosophy as an intrisically valuable activity. Aristotle puts it as
some sort of thought experiment, namely following the mythological image of
the ‘Isles of the Blessed’. But he does not use that image as a utopia in the
first of the two senses I distinguished above, that of a descriptive, strongly coun-
terfactual scenario. He rather utilizes it to make clear what existing political
communities should bring about: a life of leisure (scholê) that allows free citi-
zens to do things of value and to reach their personal happiness.
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Suzanne Husson
Utopia and the quest for autarkeia
The fact that Diogenes of Sinope chooses to depict a utopian society in his Po-
liteia is apparently inconsistent with the self-sufficiency (autarkeia) he habitually
claims as a practical ideal. Can this contradiction be solved? The solution may
lie in distinguishing different kinds or meanings of self-sufficiency in cynicism,
in order to make them compatible with the design of a perfect society, but any
such attempt runs the risk of being an artificial means of saving cynicism at
all cost¹. So if the only way to understand its consistency is to make those dis-
tinctions, we have to demonstrate the appropriateness of distinguishing different
kinds of self-sufficiency, not only in regard to cynicism but also in other contexts.
If we focus on the relationship between autarkeia in the individual, as a
moral goal elaborated by Greek philosophers and the consequences of that
ideal at a political level – especially in the field of philosophical utopias – it
seems at first glance that personal self-sufficiency is totally incompatible with
the desire to be part of a community. Indeed, to be self-sufficient means to
have no needs, either physical or psychological, so that in a perfect world a
self-sufficient man or woman could live by him or herself, or in a very small com-
munity. It seems that when we look at the notion of self-sufficiency applied to
the individual, we have the image of a hermit in mind, or, roughly, a follower
of Thoreau. As a result, the man or woman claiming to be an authentic autarkes
does have to prove it by being able to both desire and bear a solitary life. And,
since a utopia is a description of a perfect society, it appears to be in contradic-
tion with personal autarkeia. To summarize, as commonly believed, individual
autarkeia leads to individualism, and the latter is incompatible with utopian
thinking.
This meaning of personal autarkeia would be sufficient for us, were it not the
case that the two main examples of philosophical utopias in Hellenistic times
(namely Plato’s and Aristotle’s) are written by thinkers, who moreover recom-
mended individual self-sufficiency. So, why, while already convinced that
human beings can only attain self-realization as citizens, do they maintain per-
sonal autarkeia as an ethical goal? Should we assent to the solutions they found
Note: I’d like to thank the editors of this volume and also John Smith for reading and correcting
my English. Any remaining errors are mine.
 For a critique of the distinction of different meanings of autarkeia in cynicism see Dorion
(forthcoming); for the opposite view see Husson 2011: 76 – 88.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-010
186 Suzanne Husson
for reconciling personal autarkeia with perfect citizenship? And if we do, can we
transpose their solutions to the problem of autarkeia in a cynic utopia?
1 Self-sufficiency in Plato: from God to human

The clearest Platonic instance of self-sufficiency in the individual occurs in the
Timaeus, when the Demiurge produces the world: we already know that the kos-
mos has to be made of four elements (31b – 32c) and that no other body can be
left outside of it (32c – 33b). The question is now: what optimum form should it
take ? It needs no eye (it has nothing to look at), neither respiratory nor digestive
organs, since there is nothing outside to breathe in or eat:
For nothing went out or came into it from anywhere, since there was nothing: it was de-
signed to feed itself on its own waste and to act and be acted upon entirely by itself and
within itself; because its framer thought that it would be better self-sufficient, rather
than dependent upon anything else. (Plato, Timaeus, 33c – d²)
And the reason why the demiurge deems that it is better for a perceptible being to
be self-sufficient is most likely a property of the good. Indeed, the world’s maker
“was good; and in the good no jealousy in any matter can ever arise “, so that “ he
desired that all things should come as near as possible to being like himself “
(29e), that means that “ as near as possible “ all visible beings should become
good.
The autarkeia of the good also appears in the Philebus, at the beginning of
the dialogue, when it comes to the definition of what the human good consists
in. As evidenced it cannot contain only pleasure or intelligence but a mixture of
them:
Socrates – Is it the fate of the good to be of necessity in the category of the perfect or of the
imperfect?
Protarchus – In that of the most perfect of all, of course.
Socrates – And will the good be something sufficient?
Protarchus – Of course. More so than anything else.
Socrates – One thing about it one cannot readily deny is that everything capable of knowing
pursues it, longing to take hold of it and possess it, and they all make no account of any-
thing else unless its accomplishment involves some good. (Plato, Philebus, 20d³)
 All the quotations from the Timaeus are from Cornford (1997). For the Eleatic origins of this
aspect of Plato’s cosmology, see Cornford 1997: 55 – 57.
 All the quotations from the Philebus are from Gosling 1975.
Because the good is an end needing no other goal to be fulfilled, it can be de-
clared the most ἱκανὸν (l.3) of all things (that is to say, of all the things we
might wish for). Furthermore, in 67a, autarcheia is explicitly attributed to it,
as it is contrasted with both pleasure and mind.
Οὐκοῦν παντάπασιν ἐν τούτῳ τῷ λόγῳ καὶ νοῦς ἀπήλλακτο καὶ ἡδονὴ μή τοι τἀγαθόν γε
αὐτὸ μηδ’ ἕτερον αὐτοῖν εἶναι, στερομένοιν αὐταρκείας καὶ τῆς τοῦ ἱκανοῦ καὶ τελέου
δυνάμεως;
Socrates – So far as this argument is concerned thought and pleasure escape the burden at
least of being the good itself, since each lacks self-sufficiency and the capacity to be satis-
fying and complete. (Plato, Philebus, 67a)
As we shall see, man is not a self-sufficient being, but his own good (to the ex-
tent that it is the ultimate end) on the contrary is autarkes. So between the
human condition and human rational purposes there is somehow a discrepancy,
which is not found in the most perfect visible living being, namely the cosmic
divinity. There, we have a self-sufficient being, continuously attaining a self-suf-
ficient good.
We can find here the philosophical rationalization of the naïve picture of a
self-sufficient individual, by which we can learn that this individual doesn’t
exist, except on a metaphysical level⁴ or, if we take seriously the fact that
Plato considers the Timaeus as a myth⁵, on a mythical plan.
During his description, Plato characterizes the autarkeia of the God Universe
at different levels. First, as already seen, he has no physical needs since he feeds
himself, in a circular way, with his own wastage, and suffers no external aggres-
sion (33c – d). But his self-sufficiency has also a psychological side. After the
Demiurge has extended the soul throughout the whole world’s spherical body,
Plato says:
οὐρανὸν ἕνα μόνον ἔρημον κατέστησεν, δι’ ἀρετὴν δὲ αὐτὸν αὑτῷ δυνάμενον συγγίγνεσθαι
καὶ οὐδενὸς ἑτέρου προσδεόμενον, γνώριμον δὲ καὶ φίλον ἱκανῶς αὐτὸν αὑτῷ. διὰ πάντα
δὴ ταῦτα εὐδαίμονα θεὸν αὐτὸν ἐγεννήσατο.
he established one world alone, round and revolving in a circle, solitary but able by reason
of its excellence to bear itself company, needing no other acquaintance or friend but suffi-
cient to itself. (Plato, Timaeus, 34b)
 Because, of course, it’s very hard for us to think that there is such a physical God.
 “A likely story”, “τὸν εἰκότα μῦθον”, Timaeus, 29d.
188 Suzanne Husson
This explanation implies that there is a specific kind of dependence: when a soul
is not able to live without company, that is to say when she fundamentally needs
the presence of fellows. So the self-sufficient soul is able to achieve happiness by
means of this solipsist friendship. This concept is probably an oxymoron, but, for
Plato, insofar as we, dependent beings, need each other’s company, an absolute
self-sufficient soul would not.
So is the autarkeia of the higher physical god, but what happens with hu-
manity? According to Plato, it is clear that human individuals are not self-suffi-
cient, it’s even the reason he gives to explain the birth of cities:
The origin of a city lies, I think, in the fact that we are not, any of us, self-sufficient; we have
all sorts of needs (τυγχάνει ἡμῶν ἕκαστος οὐκ αὐτάρκης, ἀλλὰ πολλῶν ὢν ἐνδεής). Can you
think of any other reason for the foundation of a city? (Plato, Republic II, 369b⁶)
So, it seems very clear that humans are not autarkeis on a biological level. And,
as is well known, the continuation of this text (370d – 371e) expounds the variety
of vital human needs and the need for a division of labour and exchange of prod-
ucts.
On the other hand, it appears that Plato claims a kind of self-sufficiency for
the virtuous man. In book II, when he suggests censoring poetry, especially when
heroes are shown crying and mourning because of the loss of a dear one, he
says:
‒ Our view is that a good man (ὁ ἐπιεικὴς ἀνὴρ) does not regard it as a disaster when
death comes to another good man, his friend.
‒ Yes, that is our view.
‒ So he certainly wouldn’t lament on his friend’s account, as if something awful had hap-
pened to him.
‒ No, he wouldn’t.
‒ But we also say that when it comes to living a good life, a good man is the most capable
of meeting his own needs, and has less need of other people than anyone else has.
‒ True.
‒ So he least of all will regard it as a misfortune to lose a son, or a brother, or some money,
or anything like that.
‒ Yes.
‒ And he least of all will grieve over the loss. He more than anyone can take it in his stride
when an accident of this kind happens to him.
‒ He can indeed. (Plato, Republic III, 387d – e)
 All the quotations from the Republic are from Griffith 2000.
In this passage, Plato doesn’t mean that the good man doesn’t need any friend or
close relative to live with. The proof is that, at the end of book III, he forges the
autochthonia myth, in order to persuade his fellow citizens that they are genuine
brothers and that the territory of the city is their mother (414d – 415a). In the ideal
city brotherhood is a useful, if not indispensable, feeling. And the radical com-
munity of life of the guards and rulers in the Republic indubitably shows that the
aim of the philosophical life is not to imitate God’s loneliness.
So, what does the autarcheia of the ἐπιεικὴς ἀνὴρ mean? Since it is not the
fact that he could live, like God, without any friends but himself, the good man’s
self-sufficiency is only the capacity to endure losses without being upset, and,
may be, to have limited desires. In any case, this moral self-sufficiency, is a rel-
ative (and not absolute) one, for while Plato is careful to highlight that the good
man is most of all men sufficient unto himself for a good life and “has less need
of other people than anyone else has”, he does have needs, and is not absolutely
self-sufficient, as the kosmos is, but his needs are minimal⁷.
Consequently three kinds of self-sufficiency have been distinguished in
Plato:
‒ The first one is the autarkeia of the Good as telos: let us call it a final self-
sufficiency [1].
‒ Secondly the God, in the Timaeus, has been characterized as an absolutely
physically and psychologically self-sufficient being. Here is an example of
absolute ontic self-sufficiency [2]. In this sense, a being is self-sufficient
when he is able to attain this final self-sufficiency [1] by himself, which im-
plies having no needs of any kind.
‒ The third type of self-sufficiency is an ethical one [3], which means a moral
ideal that only applies to moral beings who are not ontically self-sufficient
and yet in that way want to achieve that final self-sufficiency [1]. Hence
the ethical autarkeia in the third book of the Republic, has only a psycholog-
ical meaning for Plato; it rather refers to the capacity to suffer the loss of rel-
atives or material possessions. Accordingly, it doesn’t imply an intention to
rid oneself of economic dependency, or of human affections and relation-
ships.
 The question of whether the self-sufficiency of the good man is compatible with philosophical
and political friendship remains open, and is clearly asked in an aporetic mode in the Lysis,
where the good man is said to be both self-sufficient and having friends (215a – c). Without dis-
cussing this difficult issue (see for instance Penner & Rowe 2005: 88 – 93, where the self-suffi-
ciency of the good man, as interpreted by those two scholars, is nearly the same of the autarch-
eia of the ἐπιεικὴς ἀνὴρ, as it is understood in this paper), we can nevertheless acknowledge that
in the Republic Plato thinks they are compatible.
190 Suzanne Husson
Two conclusions can be drawn from these differentiations: first of all, although
they are not clearly underlined by Plato, there really are different philosophical
meanings of autarkeia each of which is elaborated in a specific context. After all,
if there were just gods i. e. absolute self-sufficient beings, we would not have to
distinguish between final [1] and ontic [2] self-sufficiency, because, in that case,
every being would have automatically attained that final autarkeia. But, precise-
ly, there are human beings and they are not ontically self-sufficient although as-
piring to final autarkeia: so we have to differentiate the autarkeia of the highest
Good from ontic and ethical [3] autarkeia.
Lastly, for Plato, it may be said that as long as it is not confused with the first
two sorts, ethical autarkeia is totally compatible with virtuous citizenship in a
virtuous state. And it doesn’t denote an apathy towards the interests of the
state and fellow citizens, but only a capacity to overcome private frustrations.
So the same individual can aim at both being as mentally autarkes as far as pos-
sible, and at becoming an upstanding citizen. Moreover only to the extent that
he, as an individual, is autarkes, can he exercise political virtue, in as much
as his mental autarkeia releases him from the desires which would arise from
his soul’s lower parts and restrict his attention to bodily and private concerns.
2 Aristotle: from intellection to city

Aristotle acknowledges the results of the Platonic theory, and, for instance, dis-
tinguishes the self-sufficiency of the good as ultimate telos [1] from the possible
self-sufficiency of the substance attaining that good. Thus, as we read in the Nic-
omachean Ethics, that man, while not being self-sufficient unto himself, can at-
tain a self-sufficient good :
[…] the final good is thought to be self-sufficient. Now by self-sufficient we do not mean
that which is sufficient for a man by himself, for one who lives a solitary life, but also
for parents, children, wife, and in general for his friends and fellow citizens, since man
is born for citizenship. […] ; the self-sufficient we now define as that which when isolated
makes life desirable and lacking in nothing; and such we think happiness to be […]. (I, 7,
1097b7– 16⁸)
On the contrary God is self-sufficient: while not described as such in Metaphysics

book Λ [XII], the fact that the Prime Mover’s only activity and essence is self-con-
 All the quotations of the Nicomachean Ethics are from Ross 2009.
templation⁹ shows that the first principle, insofar as it doesn’t need anything
else to be and act, is perfectly self-sufficient. That’s precisely what Aristotle sug-
gests in book XIV, in a difficult passage:
θαυμαστὸν δ’ εἰ τῷ πρώτῳ καὶ ἀϊδίῳ καὶ αὐταρκεστάτῳ τοῦτ’ αὐτὸ πρῶτον οὐχ ὡς ἀγαθὸν
ὑπάρχει, τὸ αὔταρκες καὶ ἡ σωτηρία. ἀλλὰ μὴν οὐ δι’ ἄλλο τι ἄφθαρτον ἢ διότι εὖ ἔχει, οὐδ’
αὔταρκες, ὥστε τὸ μὲν φάναι τὴν ἀρχὴν τοιαύτην εἶναι εὔλογον ἀληθὲς εἶναι.
It would be surprising if what is primary and eternal and most self-sufficient did not pos-
sess this very thing – self-sufficiency and self-maintenance –primarily as a good. In fact it
cannot be indestructible or self-sufficient because of anything other than being good. So
saying that a principle has this character may very well be true. (Aristotle, Metaphysics
N [XIV], 1091b16 – 21¹⁰)
The steps of the argument¹¹ appear to be that:

1. Whatever is primary and eternal possesses self-sufficiency.
2. The reason why it possesses self-sufficiency can only be the fact that it is a
good.
Maybe the second step is implicitly motivated by the self-sufficiency of the good
as it is the ultimate end [1]. If the final good as such is self-sufficient, anything
or anybody who in any way possesses self-sufficiency in a sense has to possess
the good. Indeed, anything or anybody that attained the supreme good, live a
“life desirable and lacking in nothing”; conversely, what is “indestructible or
self-sufficient”, i. e. what lives a life “lacking in nothing”, may be thought of
as a good. However that reasoning is only true when self-sufficiency means
“lacking in nothing for good life (εὖ ζῆν) “, and not “lacking in nothing for
life (ζῆν¹²)”, that is to say “self maintenance”, since a Manichean metaphysician
could forge an indestructible bad principle, that would be both self-sufficient
and bad. Accordingly the argument runs the risk of being a petitio principii: a
self-sufficient principle is good because it lives a good life.
 Aristotle, Metaphysics Λ [XII] 9, 1074b – 1075a.

 Translation Annas 1988.
 I mean that this argument, which fits into a discussion challenging Platonism in book N
[XIV], should be read independently of the first mover’s goodness demonstration in book Λ
[XII] 7. That one, indeed, doesn’t infer the first mover’s goodness from its self-sufficiency, but
from its capacity to move while remaining motionless. Here, the second step only appeals to
the first principle’s self-sufficiency as such (which is not referred to as a principle of movement
but of motionless beings), to infer from that that it is good.
 See below p. 193.
192 Suzanne Husson
Nevertheless, if we bring that passage and Metaphysics Λ [XII] 7 together: to

the extent that the prime mover is identified by Aristotle as the good (Metaphy-
sics Λ [XII] 7, 1072a27 sq.), it has to be self-sufficient, and since it is the highest
good, it has to be the most self-sufficient.
But, what can be said about self-sufficiency as an ethical ideal for the indi-
vidual [3], as we have already seen in Plato? It appears in Aristotle too, and with
much more depth because the most self-sufficient and most desirable human ac-
tivity is contemplation, as demonstrated in Nicomachean Ethics (X 7, 1177a12–
b26). And precisely a life of contemplation provides the highest self-sufficiency
available to men.
And the self-sufficiency that is spoken of must belong most to the contemplative activity.
For while a philosopher, as well as a just man or one possessing any other virtue, needs
the necessaries of life, when they are sufficiently equipped with things of that sort the
just man needs people towards whom and with whom he shall act justly, and the temperate
man, the brave man, and each of the others is in the same case, but the philosopher, even
when by himself, can contemplate truth, and the better the wiser he is; he can perhaps do
so better if he has fellow workers, but still he is the most self-sufficient. (Nicomachean Eth-
ics, X 7, 1177a27–b1)
As we have said, that doesn’t mean that the philosopher is, in all respects and at
all times, self-sufficient: as a living being he relies on others and on the division
of labour for the “necessaries of life”; when practicing moral virtues like justice,
temperance or courage he needs external circumstances and human relation-
ships; but at the very moment he contemplates, he only needs his own intellect.
So perfect philosophical activity exemplifies the most self-sufficient life and the
individual who succeeds in living a philosophical life is the most autarkes.
As a matter of fact, this consequence of Aristotle’s noetic theory is trouble-
some, because, even though philosophical life is restricted to a small circle in the
state, it identifies the climax of virtue and happiness with a solitary episode of
intellectual activity. There is a risk that solitude would appear to be the horizon
of perfection, which contradicts the political nature of man.
But, actually, as is well known, solitude is not a moral choice for men, but a
rather unnatural option:
ἐκ τούτων οὖν φανερὸν ὅτι τῶν φύσει ἡ πόλις ἐστί, καὶ ὅτι ὁ ἄνθρωπος φύσει πολιτικὸν
ζῷον, καὶ ὁ ἄπολις διὰ φύσιν καὶ οὐ διὰ τύχην ἤτοι φαῦλός ἐστιν, ἢ κρείττων ἢ ἄνθρωπος·
From these things therefore it is clear that the city-state is a natural growth and that man is
by nature a political animal, and a man that is by nature and not merely by fortune citiless
is either low in the scale of humanity or above it. (Aristotle, Politics, I, 1, 1253a2– 5)¹³
To seek solitude, even in contemplation, would divert man from his social na-
ture, maybe that’s why Aristotle seems to hesitate in saying that the sage can per-
haps contemplate “better if he has fellow workers “. At some level, even contem-
plation, requires a community, maybe to make it easier, since continual activities
are easier when performed in company¹⁴.
In summary, while practicing intellection, the philosopher doesn’t need any-
thing or anybody else, but since he is not a mere intellect, he has to perform eth-
ical virtues, like generosity or justice for which the presence of others is needed.
Thus, even thought his activity is autarkes he remains dependent, not only at the
physical level but at the ethical too. Therefore, self-sufficiency of intellection is
intercoupled with political dependence.
But Aristotle goes a step further, since the individual’s political dependence
is supposed to lead to a kind of autarkeia, by itself. While the end of the state is
good living (εὖ ζῆν), and the good, as has been shown, implying some kind of
autarkeia, is it possible, for an individual, to be autarkes at the very time that
he fulfils himself as a citizen, that is to say at the point where his action focuses
on others?
The solution to this difficulty is to ascribe self-sufficiency to the state:
ἡ δ’ ἐκ πλειόνων κωμῶν κοινωνία τέλειος πόλις, ἤδη πάσης ἔχουσα πέρας τῆς αὐταρκείας
ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν, γινομένη μὲν τοῦ ζῆν ἕνεκεν, οὖσα δὲ τοῦ εὖ ζῆν […] ἔτι τὸ οὗ ἕνεκα καὶ τὸ
τέλος βέλτιστον· ἡ δ’ αὐτάρκεια καὶ τέλος καὶ βέλτιστον.
The partnership finally composed of several villages is the city-state; it has at last attained
the limit of virtually complete self-sufficiency, and thus, while it comes into existence for
the sake of life, it exists for the good life. […] Again, the object for which a thing exists,
its end, is its chief good; and self-sufficiency is an end, and a chief good. (Aristotle, Politics,
I, 2, 1252b27– 1253a1)
The self-sufficiency of the state is not only a matter of physical needs to ensure
the simple act of living, (ζῆν); those are already met within the framework of the
family and village. This political autarkeia is a more complex type and apparent-
ly has moral aspects which enable us not only to live, but also to live well¹⁵.
 All the quotations of the Politics are from Rackham 1932.

 Cf. Arist. Eth. Nic., IX, 9, 1170a5 – 6.
 See Stalley- Barker 1998: 320.
194 Suzanne Husson
So, if we summarize, for Aristotle, the individual aims at self-sufficiency [1],

to the extent that the good is self-sufficient as telos.
In addition, scientific enquiry towards the first principle leads to knowledge
of a self-sufficient substance, performing an absolutely self-sufficient activity:
the Prime Mover, which is an instance of ontic self-sufficiency [2].
The individual man is neither physically nor morally self-sufficient, never-
theless he can aim at a self-sufficient activity like intellection, thereby defining
a new kind of self-sufficiency [4], the one concerning activity.
He also aims to be an accomplished citizen and take an active part in a self-
sufficient community, resulting in a political self-sufficiency [5].
Like Plato, Aristotle has not expressly clarified all these different meanings
of self-sufficiency, but he was more aware than his master of the need to do it¹⁶,
and these differentiations are required for reasons of consistency. Furthermore, it
may be added that, since the meanings of being are as diverse as the categories,
self-sufficiency may be polysemic too, for instance the self-sufficiency of a sub-
stance [2] like the Prime Mover is not the same as the self-sufficiency of action [4]
(in intellection).
But more generally, there is a real difficulty for both Plato and Aristotle,
(a) the Good (I mean the ultimate end) is understood as self-sufficient and at
the same time, (b) the divinity is also thought of as self-sufficient, and finally
(c) human moral or intellectual perfection is thought of as a kind of imitation
of God. Part of the solution they gave is to note that the imitation is never the
same as the paradigm, so man (I mean the individual) isn’t expected to be per-
fectly or “divinely” self-sufficient, but only according to his own capacity. Never-
theless, despite that specification, political life doesn’t work very well within that
framework, because it runs the risk of appearing only as a second choice good,
which is totally inconceivable for both thinkers and for utopian thinking. Aware
of that difficulty Aristotle designed the accomplished state as self-sufficient.
3 The Cynics: economic autarkeia and human

relationships
So, what then is the situation regarding cynicism? God’s autarkeia [2]; human
moral good as an imitation of God and an approximation of his self-sufficiency
are all included in the sentence attributed to Diogenes:
 For example in Nicomachean Ethics I, 7, 1097b7– 16, cf. supra p. 190, where final self-suffi-
ciency is distinguished from the ontic one.
ὃς ἔφασκε θεῶν μὲν ἴδιον εἶναι μηδενὸς δεῖσθαι, τῶν δὲ θεοῖς ὁμοίων τὸ ὀλίγων χρῄζειν.
who used to say that it was the privilege of the gods to need nothing and of god-like men to
want but little (Diogenes Laertius, VI, 104¹⁷)
The problem is that they claimed, in a practical way, to be not only morally but
economically self-sufficient and that was one of the meanings of their asceticism
and renunciation of unnatural desires. The Cynics were supposed to constrain
their desires to the point where the spontaneous fruits of nature could meet all
their needs, and claimed that that way of life is the natural condition of mankind¹⁸.
This implies a denial of the need for a division of labour, since each adult
can satisfy his own needs, by collecting natural resources, day by day. And
since, the division of labour explains the birth of the state for Plato, there
might well be a contradiction between cynic self-sufficiency and the theoretical
level of building a perfect community of cynic sages, as expounded in Diogenes’
Politeia or in the Crates’ poem “Pera” (the bag).
There is a city Pera in the midst of wine-dark vapour,

Fair, fruitful, passing squalid, owning nought,
Into which sails nor fool nor parasite
Nor glutton, slave of sensual appetite,
But thyme it bears, garlic, and figs and loaves,
For which things’ sake men fight not each with other,
Nor stand to arms for money or for fame. (Diogenes Laertius, VI, 85)
If the origin of the state is, as in Plato’s Republic, the individual’s inability to
meet his needs, we might be tempted to say that there is no logical need for
the Cynics to live in cities or to imagine perfect cynic cities. After all:
All the curses of tragedy, he used to say, had lighted upon him. At all events he was
Without city, nor house, lacking of homeland
A beggar, a wanderer, living from day to day.
ἄπολις, ἄοικος, πατρίδος ἐστερημένος,

πτωχός, πλανήτης, βίον ἔχων τοὐφ’ ἡμέραν. (Diogenes Laertius, VI, 38¹⁹)
In proclaiming himself ἄπολις, did Diogenes dismiss every sort of political life, or
only the empirical cities of his time? Since he also wrote a Politeia, we are led to
choose the second solution. But how can this be made logically coherent?
 All the quotations from Diogenes Laertius are from Hicks 1925.
 Cf. D.L. VI 44 (SSR VB322), and Dio Chrysostom, Discourses, VI, 26 – 28 (SSR VB583).
 Nauck, T.G.F.2, Adesp. 284 (trans. Hicks modified).
196 Suzanne Husson
The Cynics claimed to be self-sufficient above all on an economic level, but

it doesn’t mean that they claimed to live solitary lives like Plato’s demiurge or
Aristotle’s first mover. After all, the Cynics, who were not interested in theolo-
gy²⁰, didn’t describe solitary gods, sustained by their own wastage, living solip-
sist lives and friendship, enjoying self-contemplation: those metaphysical spec-
ulations were not cynic, so why would they have been the victims of them.
Besides, if we allow Plato and Aristotle to specify various levels of self-suf-
ficiency in order to reconcile political life and their ideal of moral and theoretical
perfection, why should we deny the Cynics this solution, and assign to them a
monolithic autarkeia, incompatible with political life?
So what is cynic self-sufficiency, if it doesn’t aim at solitude? Going back to
Diogenes Laertius VI 104, we can see that the characterization of the sage’s self-
sufficiency as an approximation of God’s is the conclusion of a passage concern-
ing the cynic’s simple life:
They also hold that we should live frugally, eating food for nourishment only and wearing a
single garment. Wealth and fame and high birth they despise. Some at all events are veg-
etarians and drink cold water only and are content with any kind of shelter or tubs, like
Diogenes, who used to say that it was the privilege of the gods to need nothing and of
god-like men to want but little. (D.L. VI 104)
So, the fact that “god-like men […] want but little” is chiefly a matter of physical
needs. As in Plato’s Euthyphro (15a), the gods are autarkeis, because they do not
need help to meet their needs, or maybe they have no bodily needs, but that
doesn’t imply that they live solitary lives, i. e. that they are self-sufficient at a psy-
chological level²¹: these gods who “need nothing”, are many, so there is no rea-
son why they wouldn’t form a community. Similarly, “god-like men”, despite the
fact that they do have bodily needs, are able to minimize them to the point of not
requiring other men to fulfil them. The autarkeia is an economic one [6], or, to be
more specific, it’s the denial of economy itself as a management of earthly re-
sources by men, and is replaced by nature.
As we have already seen, this economical self-sufficiency is made possible
through asceticism and a self-restriction of desires, which match roughly with
the ethical autarkeia [3] encountered in Plato, although the cynic moral ideal en-
compasses, not only the capacity to endure losses, but far more, the abandon-
ment of all desires for the things one can lose.
 Cf. D.L. VI 103 (SSR VB368).

 Like the Demiurge or the Prime Mover.
In addition, cynic self-sufficiency results in freedom from all social conven-

tional links and values, like political domination, prestige and wealth. But, con-
tempt for ordinary social norms like “wealth and fame” shouldn’t be taken to
mean a global rejection of all human relationships. The Cynic can bear loneli-
ness, but that is not his aim, that’s why Diogenes is looking for a man with a
lit lantern in broad daylight²². He intends to live a human relationship coherent
with economic autarkeia and moral liberty, that’s the reason why utopias like Di-
ogene’s Politeia or Crates’ Pera, were written: they outline what a perfect society
would be if it were not based on economic dependence, irrational desires and
political subordination.
Hence, because economic and moral autarkeia don’t involve psychological
self-sufficiency and solitude, utopian thought is not contradictory with cynicism.
References
Annas, J. (1988), Aristotle, Metaphysics, Books M and N, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Brown, L., Ross, D. (2009), Aristotle The Nicomachean Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Cornford, F.M. (1997), Plato’s Cosmology. The Timaeus of Plato, Indianapolis/Cambridge:
Hackett Publishing Company.
Dorion, L.-A., “L’autarcie et le fondement de la cité , Platon, Diogène et Aristote,” in
S. Husson and J. Lemaire (eds.), Les trois Républiques, Platon, Diogène, Zénon. Paris:
Vrin, forthcoming.
Ferrari, G.R.F. (ed.), Griffith, T. (trans.) (2000), Plato: The Republic. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
Gosling, J.C.B., trans. (1975), Plato Philebus. Oxford, Clarendon Press.
Hicks, R.D. (1925), Diogenes Laertius. Lives of Eminent Philosophers. London/New York:
Heinemann (Loeb Classical Library).
Husson, S. (2011), La République de Diogène. Une cité en quête de la nature. Paris: Vrin.
Rackham, H., trans. (1932), Aristotle, Politics, London/Cambridge (Mass.): Harvard University
Press.
Stalley, R.F., Barker, E. (1998), Aristotle. Politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
 Cf. SSR VB272– 279.

Gretchen Reydams-Schils
Were the later Stoics anti-utopians?
Thomas More’s Utopia does not have deep connections to the ancient philosoph-
ical tradition, in part because of its focus on social justice in the first part of the
work, Raphael Hythloday’s account of why he stays away from public life. De-
spite the fact that More is said to have written a dialogue on Plato’s common
ownership of property and wives in his youth and despite the reference to the
king-philosopher and philosopher-king (Rep. 473) in Book One, Utopia has
more traits in common with Plato’s old Athens and Atlantis of Critias’ tale as
well as his Laws than with the structure of the kallipolis in the Republic. ¹
Some features could reasonably remind one of the Cynics’ perspective, as
when we are told that in Utopia future partners get to see one another naked be-
fore getting married, or when gold is used for chamber pots, slaves’ chains, or as
markings of criminals, and jewels as children’s toys.² Its moderate hedonism is
reminiscent of Epicureanism, and its emphasis on rationally ordered virtue and
Providence of Stoicism.³ But as a whole the work’s allusions to the ancient phil-
osophical traditions are limited. Yet it does raise the questions whether a wise
man should attempt to advise a king and whether a better mode of life (if that
is what it represents, given its satirical overtones) can be realized in existing
communities or demands a radically different kind of community, such as Epi-
curus’ Garden, the philosophical schools (especially of the Platonists and their
circles of hetairoi), or monastic settings.
Contrary to Malcom Schofield (1999), I would argue that there is a clear uto-
pian aspect to the Politeia which Zeno of Citium wrote as a counterpart to Plato’s
Republic. The point cited by Philodemus that Zeno saw himself as contributing
“something applicable to the places in which he found himself and the times
in which he lived” is not sufficient to deny this utopian dimension, nor to call
Zeno’s position anti-utopian.⁴ For one thing, Plutarch alludes to the ideal char-
acter of Zeno’s political construct as “picturing as it were a dream or image of a
 For More’s interest in Plato, see Erasmus’ portrait of More in a letter to Ulrich von Hutten,
translated by Nichols 1918: 387– 401.
 See also Chrysippus, Plutarch Stoic. rep. 1048B.
 We are told in Book One that More’s character Raphael Hythloday, because of his interest in
philosophy, had studied more Greek than Latin and that he did not have a high opinion of the
contributions by the Romans except for some works of Seneca and Cicero.
 De Stoicis col. 12.2 – 6 Dorandi: κατ’ ἀρχὰς τοῦ γρά[μ]ματος ἐμφαίνει τὸ πρόσφορον αὐτὴν
ἐκτιθέναι καὶ τοῖς τόποις, ἐν οἷς ὑπῆρχε, καὶ τοῖς χρόνοις, καθ’ οὓς ἔζη.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-011
200 Gretchen Reydams-Schils
philosopher’s well-regulated politeia.”⁵ The political community outlined by

Zeno has a function, I submit, that is analogous to that of the Stoic sage, who
is either non-existent or very rare (Brouwer 2014: 92– 135).⁶ The very scarcity
of the sage undermines the possibility of Zeno’s politeia being realized. Thus,
while rejecting the intelligible dimension of reality that plays such a crucial
role in Plato’s Republic, Zeno’s city is an ideal model in another sense. Just as
the sage, however, is meant to guide ordinary human beings in their striving to-
wards the goal of life as stipulated by the Stoics, an ideal political construct can
still affect existing socio-political conditions if it is interpreted as a critique of
prevailing practices. Zeno’s radical rejection of local laws and customs, his ac-
knowledgment of only the common law (Plutarch De Alex. 329A – B), and his re-
jection of traditional social structures all underscore the utopian dimension of
his politeia.
By contrast to this model, the later Stoics appear to endorse a more realistic
view of human socio-political interaction, and there is evidence that they reject-
ed the more radical aspects of Zeno’s politeia. ⁷ Such a view would be in-line with
the oft-repeated claim that later Stoicism represents a watered down version of
the original doctrine, as a concession to Roman social practices. In a foundation-
al article, however, Daniel Babut (1963) has already pointed out the flaw in this
reasoning for human partnerships: it is much too simplistic to assume that Sto-
icism moved from an endorsement of homoerotic relationships to a more tradi-
tional stance of emphasizing heterosexual marriage.
In this paper I make a similar proposal for the sociability that manifests it-
self in human communities. Two passages from later Stoics, one by Epictetus and
the other by Marcus Aurelius, will allow us to frame the relevant questions. If
one keeps together a number of claims that are attested also for the Early
Stoa, the view that later Stoicism stands merely for a less radical version of po-
litical responsibility is not tenable, especially given that the Stoics of the Roman
imperial period are as aware of the challenges of participating in the politics of
existing communities as their predecessors of the Hellenistic era.
 Plutarch De Alex. 329B: ὥσπερ ὄναρ ἢ εἴδωλον εὐνομίας φιλοσόφου καὶ πολιτείας
ἀνατυπωσάμενος … See also his Lyc. 31, in which he mentions Zeno together with Plato and Di-
ogenes.
 On this point, see also Bees 2011: 304, who, however, overlooks how rare the sage is.
 Philodemus De Stoic. col. 9 – 12, 15; D.L. 7.34. For criticism of Chrysippus, see D.L. 7.187– 189.
1 Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius

A good starting point is provided by two key passages from Epictetus and Marcus
Aurelius. (It often pays off to read the later Stoics in light of each other.)
The passage from Epictetus goes as follows:
For Socrates bore very firmly in mind that no one is master over another’s governing princi-
ple. He willed, accordingly, nothing but was his own. And what is that? [Not to try to make
other people act] in accordance with nature, for that does not belong to one; but, while they
are attending to their own business as they think best, himself none the less to be and to
remain in a state of harmony with nature, attending only to his own business, to the end
that they also may be in harmony with nature. For this is the object which the good and ex-
cellent man has ever before him. To become praetor? No; but if it be given him, to maintain
his own governing principle in these circumstances. To marry? No; but if marriage be given to
him, to maintain himself as one who in these circumstances is in harmony with nature. But if
he wills that his son or his wife make no mistake, he wills that what is not his own should
cease to be not his own. And to be getting an education means this: To be learning what is
your own, and what is not your own (Epictetus Diss. 4.5.4– 7, trans. Oldfather).⁸
And here is the passage from Marcus Aurelius:
The universal cause is a torrent, sweeping everything in its stream.

So, man, what does that mean for you?
Do what nature requires at this moment. Start straight away, if that is in your power:
don’t look over your shoulder to see if people will know.
Don’t hope for Plato’s Republic, but be content with the smallest step forward, and regard
even that result as no mean achievement.
How worthless are these little men in the public eye who think their actions have anything
to do with philosophy! They are full of snot.
And who will change their views?
Without a change of view what alternative is there to slavery –men groaning and going
through the motions of compliance?
Go on, then, talk to me now of Alexander and Philip and Demetrius of Phalerum.
I shall follow them, if they saw the will of universal nature and took themselves to her
school.
 λίαν γὰρ ἀσφαλῶς ἐμέμνητο, ὅτι οὐδεὶς ἀλλοτρίου ἡγεμονικοῦ κυριεύει. οὐδὲν οὖν ἄλλο ἤθε-
λεν ἢ τὸ ἴδιον. τί δ’ ἔστι τοῦτο; οὐχ† ἱκ .. ος οὗτος .. κατὰ φύσιν· τοῦτο γὰρ ἀλλότριον·ἀλλ’ ὅπως
ἐκείνων τὰ ἴδια ποιούντων, ὡς αὐτο<ῖ>ς δοκεῖ, αὐτὸς μηδὲν ἧττον κατὰ φύσιν ἕξει καὶ <δι>εξάξει
μόνον τὰ αὑτοῦ ποιῶν πρὸς τὸ κἀκείνους ἔχειν κατὰ φύσιν. τοῦτο γάρ ἐστιν, ὃ ἀεὶ πρόκειται τῷ
καλῷ καὶ ἀγαθῷ. στρατηγῆσαι; οὔ· ἀλλ’, ἂν διδῶται, ἐπὶ ταύτης τῆς ὕλης τὸ ἴδιον ἡγεμονικὸν
τηρῆσαι. γῆμαι; οὔ· ἄλλ’, ἂν διδῶται γάμος, ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ ὕλῃ κατὰ φύσιν ἔχοντα αὑτὸν τηρῆσαι.
ἂν δὲ θέλῃ τὸν υἱὸν μὴ ἁμαρτάνειν ἢ τὴν γυναῖκα, θέλει τὰ ἀλλότρια μὴ εἶναι ἀλλότρια. καὶ τὸ
παιδεύεσθαι, τοῦτ’ ἔστιν μανθάνειν τὰ ἴδια καὶ τὰ ἀλλότρια.
But if they simply strutted a dramatic role, no one has condemned me to imitate them.
The work of philosophy is simple and modest. Do not seduce me to pompous pride (Marcus
Aurelius 9.29, trans. Hammond, slightly modified).⁹
So, what do these two passages have in common? First, they emphasize the im-
portance of acting “in accordance with nature” (the κατὰ φύσιν, repeated
throughout the Epictetus passage). As a crucial fragment from Chrysippus at-
tests, by this stipulation the Stoics mean the alignment between the nature of
an individual human being as rational and the nature of the universe (D. L.
7.87– 88). This point is confirmed in the passage from Marcus Aurelius in the in-
junction to do “what nature requires at this moment” and to follow the “will of
universal nature.” (A comparison between D.L. 87– 88, 89, and this passage re-
veals that with “common nature”– ἡ κοινὴ φύσις—Marcus Aurelius does not
refer to the reasoning ability shared by all adult human beings, but the nature
of the whole, the universe.)
One could object to this interpretation that, at first glance, Marcus Aurelius
denies the ordered structure of the universe in his opening statement that “the
universal cause is a torrent, sweeping everything in its stream.” Moreover, in
other passages he appears to leave open whether the universe is governed by
Providence or not.¹⁰ But the disjunction in which he typically couches this ques-
tion (“either and ordered structure governed by Providence or randomness re-
sulting from atoms”) does not imply a rejection of Providence and can be read
as an a fortiori argument: if even an Epicurean can remain calm and rational
in the face of challenges, how much more so should a Stoic because of his ad-
herence to the notion of a rationally ordered universe. In this ordered structure,
however, change is the expression of that order and does not undermine it, even
 Χειμάρρους ἡ τῶν ὅλων αἰτία· πάντα φέρει. ἄνθρωπε, τί ποτε; ποίησον ὃ νῦν ἡ φύσις ἀπαιτεῖ,
ὅρμησον, ἐὰν διδῶται, καὶ μὴ περιβλέπου εἴ τις εἴσεται. μὴ τὴν Πλάτωνος πολιτείαν ἔλπιζε, ἀλλὰ
ἀρκοῦ, εἰ τὸ βραχύτατον πρόεισι, καὶ τούτου αὐτοῦ τὴν ἔκβασιν ὡς οὐ μικρόν τί ἐστι διανοοῦ. ὡς
εὐτελῆ δὲ καὶ τὰ πολιτικὰ ταῦτα καί, ὡς οἴεται, φιλοσόφως πρακτικὰ ἀνθρώπια· μυξῶν μεστά.
Δόγμα γὰρ αὐτῶν τίς μεταβαλεῖ; χωρὶς δὲ δογμάτων μεταβολῆς τί ἄλλο ἢ δουλεία στενόντων καὶ
πείθεσθαι προσποιουμένων; ὕπαγε νῦν καὶ ᾿Aλέξανδρον καὶ Φίλιππον καὶ Δημήτριον τὸν Φαλη-
ρέα μοι λέγε. ἕψομαι, εἰ εἶδον, τί ἡ κοινὴ φύσις ἤθελε, καὶ ἑαυτοὺς ἐπαιδαγώγησαν· εἰ δὲ ἐτρα-
γῴδησαν, οὐδείς με κατακέκρικε μιμεῖσθαι. ἁπλοῦν ἐστι καὶ αἰδῆμον τὸ φιλοσοφίας ἔργον· μή με
ἄπαγε ἐπὶ σεμνοτυφίαν.
 For the range of variations of this disjunction, see 4.27, 6.10, 7.32, 8.17, 9.39 f., 10.7, 11.18,
12.14 f., 24. What has escaped general notice is that a similar approach can also be found in Sene-
ca (Ep.16.4– 6) and in Epictetus (F1 Oldfather = 175 Schweighaüser). For a good overview of the
secondary literature and issues at stake, see Gourinat 2012: 75 – 82.
if that change can prove uncomfortable (in the ordinary, non-philosophical

sense) for human beings.¹¹
The second feature Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus share in the quoted passag-
es is their acceptance of traditional social functions and roles. We can safely as-
sume that relinquishing his responsibility as emperor was not a viable option
for Marcus Aurelius. For Epictetus, “maintaining one’s governing principle,”
which he also parses as “remaining in a state of harmony with nature,” is compat-
ible with the political function of a praetor and the social relationship of marriage.
Third, both emphasize that one should have modest expectations for affecting
outcomes. Marcus Aurelius enjoins that one should not “hope for Plato’s Republic”
and be content with “even the smallest step forward.” In addition one should not
strive towards having one’s actions be noted, because “the work of philosophy is
simple and modest.” He explicitly draws a contrast with the grand role of rulers
such as Alexander the Great, rejecting “pompous pride” (σεμνοτυφία). Epictetus
relies on his crucial distinction between “that which is our own and that which
is not our own” to register the point that one should do what circumstances re-
quire in the sense of accepting the roles that one is given.
The main reason why one should have modest expectations in the socio-po-
litical sphere is that one has no control over another’s actions and values. Who
can change the views of wrong-headed people? Marcus Aurelius asks. Strikingly,
he does not consider it acceptable to force others into adhering to the right code
of conduct. Such measures would lead to slavery, discontent, and the hypocrisy
of a merely outward compliance. Epictetus draws on Socrates to state that no one
can have any control over another’s governing principle. Thus it makes no sense
to expect one’s son or wife not to make any mistakes. How another’s governing
principle works is not up to us. Yet, Epictetus also throws out the enigmatic
claim that one can attend to one’s own business with a view to (πρὸς τό) others
being in harmony with nature.
Against the backdrop of a harmony with nature, both the rational nature of
human beings and the rational order of the universe, Epictetus and Marcus Aur-
elius present a picture of involvement in socio-political communities that leaves
room for the traditional social functions and relationships and emphasizes the
need for modest expectations because one cannot control the reasoning process
of another human being. But how are these different components supposed to go
together, and, if one cannot control others or force them to arrive at the correct
value judgments, what does participation in public life look like? Finally, does
 On this point, see Musonius Rufus F42 Lutz, also listed among the fragments of Epictetus (F8
Oldfather), Epictetus Diss. 3.24.10, Marcus Aurelius 2.12, 17, 4.14, 43, 5.23, 33, 6.15, 7.18, 23, 25.
this later Stoic perspective present a diluted version of Stoicism, and a more con-
formist position?
2 A Stoic in Politics
The first indication that the later Stoics do not represent a radical break with the
Hellenistic tradition can be found in Epictetus’ and Marcus Aurelius’ adoption of
the Chrysippean view of harmony with nature (see above). But such a position
could still allow for the co-existence of all rational beings, divine and human,
at the level of the universe, the so-called cosmopolis, while endorsing a more
conformist approach at the level of human communities. So we need to take
the inquiry a step further, with the realizations that (i) a more realistic (but
not conformist) alternative to the radical terms of Zeno’s politeia arises not
only in later Stoicism; and (ii.) neither do attempts at bridging the gap between
the sage and ordinary human beings through the notion of moral progress.
The role of the sages is not limited to the ideal politeia. Our sources record as a
general Stoic stance, also attributed to Zeno, that the sage will take part in politics
in existing local communities and marry.¹² There is no reason to assume that the
specific relevant passages from the so-called Arius Didymus doxography pre-
served by Stobaeus do not represent the original Stoic position. At the end of
the doxography Arius mentions Chrysippus as his main source, and if there are
different versions of a given position he lists individual Stoics. (If these passages
represent original Stoic doctrine, we can draw on similar material from Cicero’s De
officiis, for all its debt to Panaetius, and Seneca’s De otio and De tranquillitate):
(1)…the wise man takes part in politics, especially in such political systems as display some
progress (προκοπήν) toward being complete (or ’perfect,’ τελείας) political systems (Stob.
2.7.11b W., trans. Pomeroy; see also 11m).¹³
(2.a) The man with good sense (τὸν νοῦν <ἔχοντα>) will sometimes (ποτε) be king and as-
sociate with a king who shows natural ability (εὐφυΐαν) and the love of learning (φιλο-
μάθειαν). For we said it is possible to take part in government in accord with preferential
 See D. L. 7.121, Cicero Fin. 3.68, Seneca De otio 3.2– 3. On the problem of the conflicting evi-
dence for Zeno, see Pohlenz 1948: 138 – 139, Baldry 1959: 9 – 10, Schofield 1991: 119 – 127, and
Asmis 1996. For a recent full assessment of the evidence, see now also Wildberger (2018),
esp. sections 6, 7.1 and 8.4.3.
 Ἑπόμενον δὲ τούτοις ὑπάρχειν καὶ τὸ πολιτεύεσθαι τὸν σοφὸν καὶ μάλιστ’ ἐν ταῖς τοιαύταις
πολιτείαις ταῖς ἐμφαινούσαις τινὰ προκοπὴν πρὸς τὰς τελείας πολιτείας·
reasoning (κατὰ τὸν προηγούμενον λόγον), … (Stob. 2.7.11m, p. 111 W., trans. Pomeroy; cf.
also Sen. Ot. 3.3).¹⁴
(2.b) ‘… but [it is possible] also not to take part if something <prevented him> and especially
if he was not going to benefit his country, but assumed that great and difficult dangers
would follow directly from political life’ (Stob. 2.7.11m, p. 111, continued W., trans. Pomeroy;
see also Seneca Ot. 3.3 – 4).¹⁵
The evidence preserved in Stobaeus starts with the general claim that the sage will
take part in politics (1). The specific form this participation can take is in the role
of advisor to a king, especially one who shows promise, in “natural ability” and
“love of learning” (2a). If we are allowed to combine this evidence with Cicero’s,
in his De officiis, it becomes apparent that there are legitimate exceptions to this
general principle, given that it falls under the heading of “preferential reasoning,”
if (i.) one has a special aptitude for philosophy in the strict sense (Off. 1.71), but
with the important proviso that philosophers always serve the common good in
their own manner, for instance by teaching and framing laws¹⁶; (ii.) one suffers
from ill health (Off. 1.71); and (iii.) one “was not going to benefit one’s country”
and run into “great and difficult dangers.”¹⁷ The first exemption would let the
Early Stoics off the hook for the damaging charge of a contradiction: while recom-
mending participation in politics, they themselves abstained from such activity. We
will return to the challenge of the third exemption (see Section III).
One aspect of the Stobaeus passages deserves our special attention in this
context, the idea that the sage’s political participation is warranted in systems
that “display some progress toward being complete (or “perfect”).” Moral prog-
ress, in other words, is not limited to individuals, but can also be at work in
socio-political communities.¹⁸ The claim that later Stoicism is less concerned
with the sage and more with ordinary human beings who strive towards this
type of progress, while legitimate to some extent, needs to be used with caution.
If the Stobaeus evidence, again, can be seen as reflecting the general Stoic
stance, then the notion of progress is already operative at the early stage and
the later Stoics’ approach could well represent a mere shift in emphasis. As in
the Stobaeus passage, Dio of Prusa, who allegedly like Epictetus studied with
 Καὶ βασιλεύσειν τέ ποτε τὸν νοῦν <ἔχοντα> καὶ βασιλεῖ συμβιώσεσθαι καὶ εὐφυΐαν ἐμφαί-
νοντι καὶ φιλομάθειαν. Ἔφαμεν δ’ ὅτι καὶ πολιτεύεσθαι κατὰ τὸν προηγούμενον λόγον οἷόν
ἐστι … For a different perspective on this topic, see also Plutarch Stoic. rep. 1043B–D.
 μὴ πολιτεύεσθαι δὲ ἐάν τι <κωλύῃ> καὶ μάλιστ’ ἂν μηδὲν ὠφελεῖν μέλλῃ τὴν πατρίδα, κινδύ-
νους δὲ παρακολουθεῖν ὑπολαμβάνῃ μεγάλους καὶ χαλεποὺς ἐκ τῆς πολιτείας.
 Cicero Off. 1.155 – 156; see also Seneca Ep. 14.14; Ot. 6.4– 5; Arius Didymus ap. Stob. 2.7.11b.
 On this point, see also Graver 2012: 79.
 On the notion of moral progress, see especially Roskam 2005.
Musonius Rufus, points out that although all human communities pale in com-
parison with the cosmopolis, one can find better and worse ones—implying that
it is the better communities that deserve our efforts (Or. 36.23).¹⁹
The motif of the double fatherland also allows the Stoics to take on political
responsibility in communities as they are, in circumstances as they are given:
ideally one can serve the cosmopolis through one’s local community, though
often local politics is not in line with the rational order of the universe.²⁰ As
Seneca presents this motif:
Let us grasp the idea that there are two commonwealths – the one, a vast and truly common
state, which embraces alike gods and men, in which we look neither to this corner of earth
nor to that but measure the bounds of our citizenship by the path of the sun; the other, the
one to which we have been assigned by the accident of birth. … Some yield service to both
commonwealths at the same time – to the greater, and to the lesser— some only to the less-
er, some only to the greater (De otio 4.1; trans. Basore).²¹
Related to this motif is the very important issue of the connection between
human laws and the law that governs the universe as a whole, expressed in
its rational order. Such a connection, wherever it is posited, however, is extreme-
ly difficult to articulate—a major challenge faced by all natural law systems, and
as we have seen, in his Politeia Zeno appears to have pitted the common law
against the laws of specific communities (Vimercati 2019).
But who are the full members of the cosmopolis? For Zeno and possibly
Chrysippus only the sages would truly belong with the gods.²² Here again, how-
ever, the evidence for Zeno is conflicted, because a passage in Plutarch might
seem to indicate that all human beings would belong (De Alex. 329A – B).
 As I have argued elsewhere (Reydams-Schils 2016), following Brunt (1973) and Schofield
(1991, Or. 36: 57– 64, 84– 92), Dio’s orations contain much valuable information about the
Stoic view of politics. Vogt (2008) does not include this evidence.
 See also Ep. 68; Epictetus Diss. 1.9.10 – 17; Cicero De natura deorum 2.154, Leg. 1.23; Dio
Or. 36.38; Marcus Aurelius 3.11, 6.44. On this point, see also Laurand 2014: 444– 450 and
478 – 507.
 Duas res publicas animo complectamur, alteram magnam et vere publicam, qua dii atque
homines continentur, in qua non ad hunc angulum respicimus aut ad illum, sed terminos civ-
itatis nostrae cum sole metimur; alteram, cui nos adscripsit condicio nascendi. … Quidam
eodem tempore utrique rei publicae dant operam, maiori minorique, quidam tantum minori,
quidam tantum maiori.
 For Zeno, see D.L. 7.32– 33; for Chrysippus, see Philodemus De pietate PHerc. 1428
col. 7.12– 8.4: φρόνιμοι. But note that the full expression of Chrysippus’ view also contains
the broader notion of the community of gods and human beings: τὸν κ[όσ]μον ἕνα τῶν φρο-
νίμ[ω]ν, συνπολειτευ[ό]μενον θεοῖς καὶ ἀνθρώποις, 7.21– 26.
Katja Vogt (2008: 86 – 110, esp. 99) has attempted to resolve this tension by pos-
iting different levels of membership for sages and ordinary human beings, re-
flected in Plutarch’s distinction between δημόται and πολῖται. Another solution
could be that the membership stipulation is context dependent: limited to the
sage in contexts in which the Stoics want to emphasize the gulf separating the
sage and ordinary human beings, expanded when they want to underscore all
adult human beings’ capacity for reasoning.
In most cases we do not have any context for the fragments of the Early Sto-
ics. But we can see variations at work in the later Stoics. In a passage from Mar-
cus Aurelius, for instance (4.4), we can see how a reflection on a human being’s
withdrawal into him- or herself leads to a crucial nuance in the view that all
human beings share reason and a common law, and hence Marcus Aurelius
here limits the membership of the cosmopolis to human beings. In the course
of one oration (36), Dio, for his part, goes through three different views of
who belongs in the cosmopolis: (i) when he emphasizes that all human beings
are children in comparison to the gods, he limits the cosmopolis to the gods
(36.23)²³; (ii.) then he leaves the membership open to all human beings
(36.29 – 31), positing reason as the only dependable foundation of community
and justice; and (iii.) finally he focuses on those who partake of reason and
φρόνησις (36.38), which can be read in a more restrictive sense. However one
may be inclined to interpret these variations, it remains the case that the most
common expression to capture the membership of the cosmopolis, if we take
all the Stoic accounts together, is ‘the community of gods and human beings.’
Included in this material is the following passage in Eusebius, which he
claims to have gotten from Arius Didymus’ Epitome:
The universe is called also the habitation of gods and human beings (θεῶν καὶ ἀνθρώπων)
and the organization of gods and human beings and the things which have come into being
for their sake. For just as city is spoken of in two ways, as the habitation and as the organ-
ization of the inhabitants along with the citizens (τῶν ἐνοικούντων σὺν τοῖς πολίταις), so
also the universe is as it were a city consisting of gods and human beings, the gods exer-
cising the leadership, the human beings subordinate. Community exists between them be-
cause they partake in reason, which is natural law; and all else has come into being for
their sake (Eusebius PE 15.15; trans. Schofield 1991: 66, slightly modified).²⁴
 Philo of Alexandria, because of his own emphasis on the divide between the human and the
divine, in one passage limits membership to God alone (Cher. 120 – 121).
 Λέγεσθαι δὲ κόσμον καὶ τὸ οἰκητήριον θεῶν καὶ ἀνθρώπων <καὶ> <τὸν ἐκ θεῶν καὶ
ἀνθρώπων> καὶ τῶν ἕνεκα τούτων γενομένων συνεστῶτα. ὃν γὰρ τρόπον πόλις λέγεται
διχῶς, τό τε οἰκητήριον καὶ τὸ ἐκ τῶν ἐνοικούντων σὺν τοῖς πολίταις σύστημα, οὕτως καὶ ὁ
κόσμος οἱονεὶ πόλις ἐστὶν ἐκ θεῶν καὶ ἀνθρώπων συνεστῶσα, τῶν μὲν θεῶν τὴν ἡγεμονίαν
This cosmopolis, once again, consists of the gods and human beings, as partak-
ing in reason (λόγος). Note that in this context too there appears to be distinction
between mere inhabitants and citizens. But if we can map the second distinction
between rulers and governed onto this first one (which is not certain, given the
lapidary style of doxographies), the first distinction would refer to the gods as
citizens and the human beings as inhabitants. Alternatively, the “inhabitants”
could refer to other living beings besides humans. In any case there is no distinc-
tion between sages and ordinary human beings operative in this text (pace Vogt
2008: 92, who supplies the distinction).
The membership of the cosmopolis also brings up the question in which
sense the sage can be used as a model for other human beings. One important
aspect of this question is the manner in which the Stoic philosophers themselves
defined their authority in their rapport with their students. The Early Stoics re-
frained from presenting themselves as sages, and this attitude is very pro-
nounced in later Stoicism (Reydams-Schils 2011, Brouwer 2014: 92– 135). Epicte-
tus systematically averts attention from himself and the Early Stoics by using
Socrates and the ideal Cynic as models. He adopts a low authority profile for
himself, and pupils are not meant to attach themselves permanently to his phil-
osophical school, but to return to their original social environments to apply
what they have learned. The philosophical motivations for Epictetus’ stance
point to the importance of the moral agency of individuals, as we have seen
in the passages from Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius with which I started out.
Students of Stoicism are meant to interiorize the norms that are taught, and
these need to be portable precisely in function of assuming one’s role in society.
The theme of being an advisor to kings –a king with an interest in philosophy
in a real, existing society rather than Plato’s philosopher-king—as mentioned in
the Arius Didymus material preserved by Stobaeus, is also clearly present in Mu-
sonius Rufus, who sees the good king as ‘ensouled law’ (νόμος ἔμψυχος, Ramelli
2006). Unfortunately, it has been very difficult to establish any direct connections
between Marcus Aurelius’ actions as a Roman emperor and the philosophical con-
tent of his Meditations, even though Marcus Aurelius, apparently, did show his
philosophical leanings in public (Gourinat 2012: 66– 75).
The general Stoic injunction appears to be that the sage, and by implication
anyone who aspires to being one, will participate in politics if certain conditions
are met. The notion of moral progress applies not only to individuals but also to
communities. The latter option allows one to serve the cosmopolis through the
ἐχόντων, τῶν δὲ ἀνθρώπων ὑποτεταγμένων. Κοινωνίαν δ’ ὑπάρχειν πρὸς ἀλλήλους διὰ τὸ λόγου
μετέχειν, ὅς ἐστι φύσει νόμος· τὰ δ’ ἄλλα πάντα γεγονέναι τούτων ἕνεκα.
specific socio-political community to which one belongs. As the community that

encompasses all local communities, the cosmopolis is open to all human beings
insofar as they partake in reason. In a Stoic like Epictetus we find the injunction
to make philosophical norms portable, to be applied in whichever circumstances
one finds oneself, connected to a low-authority profile of the teacher of philos-
ophy. The role of being an advisor to kings is a specific form of the philosopher’s
responsibility in society. As this summary shows, if we read all these features to-
gether, including the later Stoic sources, they reinforce one another, and a non-
utopian picture of a Stoic in politics emerges.
3 Challenges
There are, however, major challenges that confront this alternative approach, of
assuming one’s responsibilities in existing communities. The first of these we al-
ready encountered in the passages from Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, namely
the problem of convincing others of the correct value assessments. One has no
control over someone else’s governing principle, as Epictetus states, and if
one does not manage to convince others, outward compliance turns into slavery,
according to Marcus Aurelius. But how would this perspective leave room for the
punitive aspects of human law, or what Hazistravou in his contribution to this
volume calls ‘the institutionally controlled use of reason’?
An even greater challenge is posed by the problem that possibly no existing
human political community would be good enough, or show enough progress, to
merit one’s involvement (a point for which there is a precedent in Plato’s Repub-
lic, Rep. 487c – d; 496c–d; Graver 2012: 82). This more pessimistic streak is attest-
ed not only for Chrysippus (SVF 3.324; 694) but also for the later Stoics, so on this
point there is a strong continuity as well. This pessimism creates a noticeable
tension in Seneca’s (incomplete) On Leisure. The work, given its topic, leans to-
wards the defense of leisure and dedicating oneself to the pursuit of philosophy
and to the contemplation of the order in the universe, yet it also emphasizes, as
we have seen above, how even such a pursuit serves the common good. Seneca
too attributes to Zeno the general claim that ‘the sage will engage in public af-
fairs unless something prevents him’ (accedet ad rem publicam, nisi si quid im-
pedierit, De otio 3.2– 3). Among the legitimate exceptions, he, like the source of
Stobaeus (see above) lists the bad condition of a given state (as well as lack of
influence and ill health):
If the state is too corrupt to be helped, if it is wholly dominated by evils, the wise man will
not struggle to no purpose, nor spend himself when nothing is to be gained (Ot. 3.3; trans.
Basore).²⁵
The ending of the work as it has been preserved, however, turns that condition
into a quasi necessity:
But what difference does it make in what manner the wise man arrives at leisure –whether
because no state is available to him or because he is not available to the state—if he is no-
where to find a state? Besides, no state will ever be available to the fastidious searcher.
I ask you to what state should the wise man attach himself? … [examples of Athenians
who killed Socrates and from whom Aristotle fled, and Carthaginians]. If I should attempt
to enumerate them one by one, I should not find a single one which could tolerate the wise
man or which the wise man could tolerate. But if that state which we dream of can nowhere
be found, leisure begins to be a necessity for all of us, because the one thing that might
have been preferred to leisure nowhere exists (De otio 8; trans. Basore).²⁶
But even if no good enough state can be found at any given point in time, that in
itself does not preclude the possibility of better opportunities arising in the future
(or in a community one does not know of as yet), and thus the option of taking
part remains viable. This real possibility of progress, I take it, is fundamentally dif-
ferent from mythical or fictional constructions of an ideal past or future and of an
‘elsewhere,’²⁷ and as such would not be affected by the scarcity of the sage. One
could argue that perhaps Seneca’s view here is colored by his own negative expe-
riences with Nero (see also the Preface to Book Three of his Naturales Quaes-
tiones). This interpretation is not incompatible, however, with the claim that a
streak of this pessimism runs through the entire Stoic tradition. It is present
also in Dio of Prusa, who pushes this line of thought even further.
Like Plutarch (Stoic. rep. 1033B–1034B), Dio mentions the charge against the
Early Stoics that they contradicted their own teachings about political responsi-
bility and honoring one’s fatherland by abandoning their own fatherlands or not
taking part in politics, and like the source in Stobaeus, he allows for exceptions
 Si res publica corruptior est quam ut adiuvari possit, si occupata est malis, non nitetur sa-
piens in supervacuum nec se nihil profuturus impendet.
 quid autem interest, quomodo sapiens ad otium veniat, utrum quia res publica illi deest, an
quia ipse rei publicae, si non ubivis futura res publica est? semper autem deerit fastidiose quaer-
entibus. Interrogo, ad quam rem publicam sapiens sit accessurus. … Si percensere singulas vol-
uero, nullam inveniam, quae sapientem aut quam sapiens pati possit. Quodsi non invenitur illa
res publica, quam nobis fingimus, incipit omnibus esse otium necessarium, quia quod unum
praeferri poterat otio, nusquam est.
 On Plato’s Atlantis story and fiction see Gill (1979).
to this injunction if circumstances are too adverse (Or. 47.2– 3, Reydams-Schils

2016: 139 – 141). He presents the same pessimistic streak we have already encoun-
tered that no political community may be good enough to warrant participation
(Or. 73.5 – 7), but extends it even to the level of the cosmopolis:
Yet the whole sky, beneath which we all have been from the beginning, is of no avail toward
producing concord, neither is our partnership in the universe, a partnership in things di-
vine and majestic, but only, on the contrary, our partnership in things which are petty
and worthless.
… the common father of all, of “both men and gods” [Zeus] cannot check or prevent
the unrighteousness of men (Or. 74.26; trans. Lamar Crosby).²⁸
Even the kinship between all human beings that is anchored in the order of the
universe is to no avail in this context, and even Zeus has no control over the gov-
erning principle of human beings.
But this view is not Dio’s and the Stoics’ last word on the matter, and in Dio’s
orations we can detect two strategies for coping with this challenge (Reydams-
Schils 2016: 141– 144)—strategies that, I would argue, address Raphael Hythlo-
day’s reservations, in More’s Utopia, about taking on a public role. The first strat-
egy one could call ‘dogged persistence,’ a form of sustained care for others that
does not abdicate even in the face of the possibility of failure (Or. 77/78.38–end).
The second strategy entails that one can serve the common good wherever one
finds oneself (Or. 47.4– 7), because one always remains a member of the cosmop-
olis, the community of gods and men, insofar as one strives towards the Stoic life
of reason. In the tradition Musonius Rufus became especially known for this at-
titude of a Stoic philosopher in exile (Reydams-Schils 2005: 83 – 113, esp. 103 –
106). No matter how many human beings are oblivious of its existence, the cos-
mopolis for the Stoics is always here already, in reality, and so it is not a ‘utopia,’
but rather an ‘everywhere.’
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Sean McConnell
Cicero and the Golden Age Tradition
In his dialogues De re publica and De legibus Cicero engages in sophisticated
ways with utopian models of the ideal state and the ideally rational and just so-
ciety.¹ As Jed Atkins argues in Cicero on Politics and the Limits of Reason,² Cicero
ultimately takes a nuanced position in these dialogues: he is happy to use uto-
pian models of the ideal state for reflective contemplation and inspiration (they
show what we should be striving towards), and as a mirror on imperfect political
realities (they help us to diagnose the ways in which we are falling short); but, at
the same time, he highlights the very real practical limits when it comes to im-
plementing such ideal models—by stressing the non-rational aspects of human
nature, the importance of the contingencies of history, and the dangers of imple-
menting political ideals in the face of established traditions and customs, Cicero
shows that such utopian models are, in fact, never achievable fully in practice.
Atkins is right to draw the sober conclusion that in De re publica and De legibus
Cicero does not advocate implementation of the ideal state, despite the real value
he sees in utopian models and aspirations.³
The ideal state, although very important, is not the only utopian element in
Cicero’s political thought. In this chapter I draw attention to Cicero’s engagement
with another utopian tradition that has a rather different relationship to history
and what is practicable given worldly limitations—the tradition of the golden
age, which is prominent not only in Greek myth and literature but also in
Plato and the Peripatetic and Stoic philosophical traditions. I make the case
that Cicero draws on philosophical accounts of the golden age—most significant-
ly that of the Peripatetic Dicaearchus of Messana (c.350 – c.285 bc)—in his anal-
ysis of the Roman res publica and the nature of Roman political virtue. In partic-
ular, I argue that his portrayal of the defining characteristics of the Roman
people recalls closely the attributes of Dicaearchus’ “golden race.” This allows
Cicero to appear more optimistic about the achievability of utopian ideals
than he does when engaging with the ideal state tradition of utopian thought,
for an identification of the Roman people with the golden race implies that
the Romans collectively have the capacity to realise a golden age in the present,
just as they did in the past.
 For detailed critical discussion see, for example, Atkins 2011 and 2013; Amis 2005 and 2008;
Gallagher 2001.
 Atkins 2013.
 See in particular Atkins 2013: 61– 69, 96 – 99, 229 – 238.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-012
214 Sean McConnell
In the first section I address briefly the criticisms of the analytical method
of Plato’s Republic, which appear in the second book of Cicero’s De re publica,
so as to illustrate the preference for ideal models that are rooted in tangible
human history and customs rather than in abstract theorising. In the next sec-
tion I show how fundamental features of utopian golden age narratives accord
with the analytical method of De re publica on a broad structural level. In the
final section I critically assess the full extent of Cicero’s engagement with the
golden age utopian tradition, which shifts the focus to Dicaearchus.
1 History and Ideal Models in De Re Publica

Cicero’s philosophical engagement with utopian political ideals is most apparent
in his partially extant dialogue De re publica, which, as Cicero says in a letter
to his brother Quintus, “concerns the best constitution and the best citizen”
(de optimo statu civitatis et de optimo cive, Q. fr. 3.5.1).⁴ This interest in ideals,
in the normative question of what is best (and what, therefore, all things
being equal, is “most to be desired”; Rep. 1.45), situates Cicero in a tradition
of utopian political thinking that is distinguished most of all by Plato’s Republic.
However, despite a number of obvious parallels between De re publica and Pla-
to’s Republic,⁵ in the second book of the dialogue Cicero clearly seeks to distance
himself from both the method that Plato uses and the conclusions that he reach-
es (2.3, 2.21– 22, 2.51– 52). Consider in particular the following two passages:
quam ob rem, ut ille solebat, ita nunc mea repetet oratio populi Romani originem; libenter
enim etiam verbo utor Catonis. facilius autem, quod est propositum, consequar, si nostram
rem publicam vobis et nascentem et crescentem et adultam et iam firmam atque robustam
ostendero, quam si mihi aliquam, ut apud Platonem Socrates, ipse finxero. (Rep. 2.3)
Scipio: I will therefore follow his [Cato’s] model and take my start from the origin of the Ro-
man people; I am happy to make use of Cato’s own word. I will have an easier time in com-
pleting my task if I show you our commonwealth as it is born, grows up, and comes of age,
and as a strong and well-established state, than if I make up some state as Socrates does in
Plato. (trans. Zetzel)
videtisne igitur unius viri consilio non solum ortum novum populum neque ut in cunabulis
vagientem relictum, sed adultum iam et paene puberem?
 Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are my own.

 The title of Cicero’s dialogue is a direct homage to Plato; both works share a focus on formu-
lating an account of the best state; both works are concerned to show how all citizens in the
state might flourish and live good lives, individually and collectively, so long as “the best”
are in a position to lead or rule; and so forth.
tum Laelius: nos vero videmus, et te quidem ingressum ratione ad disputandum nova,
quae nusquam est in Graecorum libris. nam princeps ille, quo nemo in scribendo praestan-
tior fuit, aream sibi sumsit, in qua civitatem extrueret arbitratu suo, praeclaram ille quidem
fortasse, sed a vita hominum abhorentem et moribus, reliqui disseruerunt sine ullo certo
exemplari formaque rei publicae de generibus et de rationibus civitatum; tu mihi videris
utrumque facturus; es enim ita ingressus, ut, quae ipse reperias, tribuere aliis malis
quam, ut facit apud Platonem Socrates, ipse fingere et illa de urbus situ revoces ad ration-
em, quae a Romulo casu aut necessitate facta sunt, et disputes non vaganti oratione, sed
defixa in una re publica. quare perge, ut instituisti; prospicere enim iam videor te reliquos
reges persequente quasi perfectam rem publicam. (Rep. 2.21– 22)
Scipio: Do you see that the judgement of one man not only created a new people but
brought it to full growth, almost to maturity, not leaving it like some infant bawling in
the cradle?
Laelius: We do see that, and we see that you have introduced a new kind of analysis,
something to be found nowhere in the writings of the Greeks. That great man, the greatest
of all writers, chose his own territory on which to build a state to suit his own ideas. It may
be a noble state, but it is totally alien to human life and customs. All the others wrote about
the types and principles of states without any specific model or form of commonwealth. You
seem to me to be doing both: from the outset, you have preferred to attribute your own dis-
coveries to others rather than inventing it all yourself in the manner of Plato’s Socrates; and
you ascribe to Romulus’ deliberate planning all the features of the site of the city which
were actually the result of chance or necessity. Moreover, your discussion does not wander
but is fixed on one commonwealth. So go on as you have begun; I think I can foresee a
commonwealth being brought to perfection as you go through the remaining kings.
(trans. Zetzel)
Scipio and Laelius both express reservations about Socrates’ method of formu-
lating the ideal state, for two reasons: first, because it is easier (facilius) to
look at a real historical example, in this case the Roman res publica,⁶ rather
than to create something from scratch; second, Socrates’ ideal state is alien to
actual human life and customs, and so it appears unattainable in practice,
whereas a historical example evidently avoids such worries.⁷ On the other
hand, Laelius also suggests that Socrates’ approach is valuable in so far as he
offers a normative model of the best state and does not merely describe the
sorts of state that exist and the political principles that they instantiate, which
 Scipio states explicitly at the end of the first book that the historical example of the Roman res
publica is an exemplum that he will use to illustrate the character of the ideal state (1.70): simul
et qualis sit et optimam esse ostendam expositaque ad exemplum nostra re publica accommodabo
ad eam, si potero, omnem illam orationem, quae est mihi habenda de optimo civitatis stat.
 Cicero makes the same point at De oratore 1.224– 225, in this instance attributing the account
of the ideal state to Plato himself rather than to the character Socrates.
216 Sean McConnell
is what “others” do.⁸ Laelius states that Scipio’s major innovation is to unite the
best of both approaches: with the use of a tangible historical example, the
Roman res publica, he offers a normative model of an ideal that is rooted in ac-
tual human life and customs.⁹
There is, however, some degree of tension between the two aspects of Sci-
pio’s analytical method. Laelius acknowledges that the facts of Roman history
are prone to be fabricated or modified in order to fit the demands of the ideal
(2.22): he observes that some aspects of the site of Rome were really unavoidable
or arbitrary, the result of chance or necessity rather than Romulus’ deliberate de-
sign (et illa de urbus situ revoces ad rationem, quae a Romulo casu aut necessitate
facta sunt); other details might similarly be amended. This has implications for
how we read the account of Roman history in the second book of De re publica. ¹⁰
It is stressed that the most important feature of Scipio’s approach is that the
model of the ideal state is located in historical rather than purely conceptual
space, not that the model is strictly historically accurate so far as the Roman
res publica is concerned.¹¹ We are, therefore, warned to maintain a healthy de-
gree of scepticism about the veracity of the historical narrative, and in places
such scepticism comes strongly to the fore in the text itself. A good example is
the discussion of the fantastic accounts of Romulus’ deification, which are cat-
egorised as fabulae (“stories”) rather than facta (“facts”), but nonetheless ac-
cepted as true since they have social utility and have been passed on by ances-
tral tradition (2.4, 2.18 – 19). There is also a telling remark about the paucity of
evidence available concerning the early kings: sed obscura est historia Romana,
siquidem istius regis matrem hebemus, ignoramus patrem (“But Roman history is
dark, if we only have the mother of this king and do not know who his father
was,” 2.33). The balance between the two aspects of Scipio’s analytical method
is thus clear: Scipio strives to give clarity and substance to the nature of the
ideal state by using illustrations and examples purportedly drawn from the his-
tory of Rome (2.55), but the focus remains capturing the defining characteristics
 These “others” are usually identified as the Peripatetics; see Büchner 1984: 190 and Zetzel
1999: 39 n. 22.
 See further Büchner 1984: 188 – 191 and Atkins 2013: 56 – 61.
 For further discussion of Cicero’s presentation of Roman history in the second book of De re
publica, see, for example, Hathaway 1968; Rawson 1972: 35 – 37; Ferrary 1984; Zetzel 1999: 39 n.
23; Cornell 2001; Fox 2007: 80 – 110; Asmis 2014.
 On this point, see in particular Asmis 2014, who argues that Scipio’s account of the develop-
ment of the Roman republican constitution from its monarchical beginnings to its ideal state is
in fact a myth of Cicero’s creation. Fox 2007: 80 – 110 also stresses the idealisation of Roman his-
tory in the service of illustrating the characteristics of the ideal constitution.
of the ideal—which he admits can be done without any model (exemplum) at all
(2.66)—rather than providing a fully accurate positivist history of the develop-
ment of the Roman res publica (2.64– 66).¹²
Laelius’ claim that Scipio’s approach offers a superior new kind of analysis,
nowhere to be found among the writings of the Greeks, is perhaps accurate with
regard to the tradition of “ideal state” utopian thinking. There is, however, an-
other established mode of utopian thinking that shares a number of features
in common with it: philosophical narratives of the golden age contain a similar
blend of the historical and the ideal.
2 Golden Age Narratives and Scipio’s Mode of

Analysis
Hesiod’s account of the five races in Works and Days (106 – 201) portrays an orig-
inal utopian situation—the golden age or age of Cronus—in which a golden race
of men live happily together with the gods, their every need being met, which is
followed by a steady decline through various stages (punctuated by the race of
heroes) to the miserable state of human life in the present with the race of iron.¹³
The notion of the golden age also features prominently in Greek political philos-
ophy. Thus, for instance, in the dialogues Laws (676a – 679e, 713a – 714b) and
Statesman (268d – 274e), Plato offers an account of human life in the golden
age, stressing its political character and the justice and good laws that prevailed
under divine rule. He also alludes to Hesiod’s five races in the “noble lie” at the
end of the third book of the Republic (414c – 417b), where he defines a golden
kind of human—the philosophers—who are superior to the relatively debased sil-
ver, iron, and bronze kinds.¹⁴ And in the Timaeus (21a – 27b) and Critias, the Myth
 This emphasis is reinforced when Scipio says that the model of nature (imago naturae)—the
rational order of the heavenly bodies—could be used to illustrate the best state instead of the
historical example of Rome or indeed any other human pattern at all (2.66). Hence, he uses
the model of Rome to illustrate the nature of the best constitution, while acknowledging that
the model of Rome is imperfect and arbitrary in various ways. The concluding Dream of Scipio
emphasises even further the pure cosmic ideal in comparison to the base and imperfect earthly
reality. For critical discussion of Cicero’s use of models, see Atkins 2013: 56 – 72 with further ref-
erences to earlier literature.
 For detailed critical discussion of Hesiod’s account and the literary tradition that follows, see
in particular van Noorden 2015 and Kubusch 1986, with further references.
 Later, in the eighth book of the Republic, it is stated explicitly that these categories are the
“races of Hesiod” (τὰ Ἡσιόδου . . . γένη, 547a).
218 Sean McConnell
of Atlantis describes a golden period in the past (the memory of which just barely
survives), an era that is ultimately destroyed by creeping moral degeneracy and a
great flood.¹⁵ The Peripatetic Dicaearchus begins his Life of Greece, a comprehen-
sive historical account of the development of the Greek city-states from human
prehistory onwards, with a portrayal of the golden age in which ancient humans
lived blessed lives enjoying the natural bounty of the earth (Varro, De rust. 2.1.3;
Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.1– 9; Jerome, Adv. Iov. 2.13; Codex Vaticanus 435; = frags. 36,
54, 56 A – B Mirhady).¹⁶ The Cynics address the topic (Dio Chrys. Orat. 6.21– 9),
and there is also a Stoic tradition, most evident in Seneca’s Epistle 90, which con-
trasts the simple and happy lot of early human beings with the corrupted and
miserable situation that is evident in the present.¹⁷
These philosophical golden age narratives share a number of features in
common. As a general rule, they offer a normative account of the best mode
of human existence, the life or form of political community that all things
being equal should be desired. To this end, they illustrate what the full expres-
sion of human nature looks like; and, in particular, they outline certain condi-
tions (either necessary or sufficient) in which that nature might be realised. In
Hesiod’s account of the golden age, the gods are disposed benevolently towards
the golden race, and the world is ordered so that they suffer no harms, have no
unfulfilled desires, and so live pleasurably without toil. The kindly attitudes of
the gods suffice to make the life of the golden race blessed. The philosophers
offer something rather different. Plato stresses the importance of doing philoso-
phy and having a rational and just form of political organisation if human beings
are to overcome their base instincts and flourish (Laws 713a – 714b; Statesman
271d – 274e). The Stoics and Dicaearchus—who, as we shall see in the next sec-
tion, exercises the most influence on Cicero in this regard—stress the point
that in the golden age there was nothing to stymie or corrupt the full expression
of intrinsically good human nature, which, among other things, involves the
proper practice of politics since human nature is political (Varro, De Rust.
 For further discussion of Plato’s treatment of the golden age, see, for example, Vidal-Naquet
1978; Boys-Stones 2001: 10 – 14; Schofield 2006: 203 – 212; van Noorden 2015: 89 – 167.
 The most detailed report is given by Porphyry. The author of Codex Vaticanus 435 is recorded
as Plutarch or Caecilus in the manuscript, but both the date and authorship are uncertain. See
further McConnell 2012: 321– 335; Saunders 2001; Schütrumpf 2001; Ax 2001; Boys-Stones 2001:
14– 17.
 For detailed critical discussion, see in particular Boys-Stones 2001: 7– 10, 18 – 59; also
McConnell 2012: 327– 333.
2.1.3; Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.1– 6; Codex Vaticanus 435 = frag. 36 Mirhady; Sen.
Ep. 90).¹⁸
It is important to stress that these golden age accounts or models of the best
mode of human existence are, to stronger or weaker degrees, situated in histor-
ical rather than purely conceptual space, since they posit a continuous causal
connection between “then” and “now.” Indeed, they all offer explanations for
why present human life and customs differ and have declined from the happy
situation in the past, by identifying causes that purport to be rooted in empirical
fact, in key events that took place in the past (even if, as Plato notes, those
events are so ancient as to be essentially unknowable with any degree of certain-
ty—Statesman 268e – 269c; Laws 678a; Timaeus 20e – 27d). This implies that pre-
sent-day human beings can also achieve in practice the best life that is epitom-
ised by those in the golden age: for, unless conditions have changed irrevocably
in the world, or unless human nature itself is different, there would appear to be
no fundamental barrier to attain what humans in the past achieved. To be sure,
in Hesiod’s account such factors have clearly changed irrevocably: he divorces
the golden age from the present by stressing that there have been fundamental
changes both in human nature (we are not the golden race) and the external en-
vironment (the gods are no longer disposed kindly towards us). Similarly, for
Plato, given certain insurmountable practical limits, we can at best achieve a
likeness of the ideal forms of political organisation that pertained under the di-
rect rule of Cronus (Laws 713a – 714b). Seneca states that human beings in the
golden age were ignorant of virtue and vice, but they were of lofty spirit and
in their innocence they enjoyed a blessed existence under just rule; presently,
however, we are only able to recapture this blessed state through the practice
of philosophy and the attainment of virtue (Ep. 90.44– 46). In contrast, Di-
caearchus is careful to maintain a high degree of continuity: human nature re-
mains the same, and nature in general remains the same; the cause of any failure
to maintain the original golden age scenario lies elsewhere, and he points the
finger at the development of technai and the value placed on the possession
of property that emerges as a result of the pursuit of first pastoral and then ag-
ricultural farming (Varro, De Rust. 1.2.15 – 16; Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.5 – 9; Codex
Vaticanus 435 = frag. 36 Mirhady).¹⁹ But there is no reason to think that the neg-
ative impact of such developments is necessary or insurmountable.
 See further McConnell 2012: 321– 335; also Boys-Stones 2001: 14– 27.
 Porphyry notes that Dicaearchus removes much of the mythical element that is present in
the traditional accounts of the poets, instead casting things in natural terms (De abs. 4.2.3). Por-
phyry also notes that Dicaearchus is keen to ally his developmental narrative about the shifts
220 Sean McConnell
At this point we can appreciate that there are significant affinities between
Scipio’s supposedly innovative mode of analysis in De re publica and philosoph-
ical golden age narratives. First, the concern about the practical realisation of
abstract ideal models (2.21) is countered by looking to the tangible historical ex-
ample of the Roman res publica, but certain accounts of the golden age—in par-
ticular that of Dicaearchus—could readily perform the same role. Second, in
golden age narratives the positivist question whether or not everything actually
happened as described is clearly subordinate to the normative role such narra-
tives play: they illustrate the ideal mode of human existence, and the “facts”
are fabricated or modified to suit. As discussed in Section 1 above, this accords
with Scipio’s method in treating early Roman history in De re publica. Third, the
structure of the account of the development of the Roman republican constitu-
tion matches closely the structure of golden age narratives. To be sure, they ob-
viously differ in that golden age narratives start with an original scenario that is
good and then track a process of decline, whereas Scipio, following the example
of Cato, traces the development of the res publica from its origin, through various
imperfect stages, to the ideal (2.3, 2.22, 2.30, 2.64 – 66). Following Scipio’s ac-
count, however, Cicero, in the prefaces to Books 3 and 5, offers commentary in
his own voice on the decline that has been taking place to the present, diagnos-
ing various faults and outlining remedies that might restore the res publica to a
state of health (3.4– 7, 5.1– 2).²⁰ This intervention by Cicero himself allows us to
see that the basic structure of golden age narratives is still intact in De re publica
as a whole: there is an ideal period followed by a decline; it is just that the “gold-
en age” is not the original position at the ultimate starting point of human exis-
tence, or even at the origin of the Roman res publica, but rather it is located in
quite recent history.²¹
These similarities between golden age narratives and the analytical method
of De re publica pertain on a broad structural level, but the specific details of Ci-
cero’s exploitation of earlier Greek source material are not yet clear. In the next
section I flesh out the full nature and extent of Cicero’s engagement with the uto-
pian golden age tradition of political thought.
from the golden age to pastoralism and then to agriculture with the inquiries of others who have
researched ancient matters (4.2.7– 8).
 For further critical discussion, see, for example, Zarecki 2014: 77– 131; Asmis 2005; Zetzel
1995: 27– 29; Girardet 1983.
 See further McConnell 2012: 343 – 345.
3 The Golden Age and the Golden Race in

Cicero’s Political Thought
Direct evidence for Cicero’s explicit engagement with the golden age utopian tra-
dition is relatively thin on the ground.²² In a letter to Quintus Lepta from early
45 bc he recommends that his young son should learn Hesiod by heart
(Fam. 6.18.5), implying that he has done so himself. However, explicit references
to Hesiod’s verse either take the form of essentially proverbial quotes in Greek
(Fam. 6.18.5; Att. 13.12.3)²³ or concern his directive on the proper repayment of
debts (Brut. 15; Off. 1.48 ~ Hes. W&D 349 – 350); there is no evidence of any en-
gagement with his account of the five races or the golden age.²⁴
Let us turn then to Plato. It is not clear that Cicero was familiar with Plato’s
Statesman, but he certainly had good working knowledge of the Laws and Re-
public. There is no indication that Cicero engaged with the noble lie of Plato’s
Republic,²⁵ nor are there any obvious allusions to the golden age account in
the fourth book of the Laws. ²⁶ The account of the formation of political commun-
ities in the third book of the Laws, which contains some motifs reminiscent of the
depiction of the golden age (676a – 679e), is an important influence on the ac-
count of the development of the Roman res publica in the second book of De
re publica. ²⁷ In the Laws Plato accounts for the development of laws and consti-
tutions as a matter of historical circumstance. However, there is nothing really
historical in the sense of looking at the evidence from the past and seeking to
establish facts; rather Plato showcases a compelling form of philosophical anal-
 It is easy, but relatively uninteresting, to detect in Cicero’s writing a general sense of nostal-
gia and the notion of a superior situation in the past, followed by decline into the present-day.
Indeed, much has been written on Cicero’s practice as a writer of history, the moral value that he
sees in history, his use of historical exempla, his antiquarian interests, his nostalgia for the past,
and so forth—see further, for example, Rawson 1972; Fox 2007; Asmis 2014. In contrast, in this
section I seek to trace firm links to earlier figures in the “golden age” tradition of utopian
thought.
 Thus, at Fam. 6.18.5: τῆς δ’ ἀρετῆς ἱδρῶτα (“sweat before excellence”) ~ Hes. W&D 289; at
Att. 13.12.3: nam hoc etiam Hesiodus ascribit, αἴ κε δύνηαι (“for even Hesiod adds, ‘if you can’”) ~
Hes. W&D 350.
 It is worth noting that at De natura deorum 1.36 and 1.41 Cicero refers to the Stoic interest in
reconciling Hesiod’s traditional gods with their own theology, citing Zeno’s interpretation of Hes-
iod’s Theogony (possibly a treatise) and Book 2 of Chrysippus’ Nature of the Gods.
 He does make a joke about the obscurity of the nuptial number in a letter to Atticus (7.13.5).
 Note that there are explicit references to other passages from the fourth book of the Laws
(Leg. 2.14 ~ Laws 718b–723d; Leg. 2.16 ~ Laws 722d; Leg. 2.41 ~ Laws 716e; Fam. 1.9.12 ~ Laws 711c).
 See further Ferrary 1984 and Atkins 2013: 80 – 119.
222 Sean McConnell
ysis suited to empirical and historical subjects where there is no available docu-
mentary evidence, a method in which one works backwards from current facts to
the processes and first principles that explain the current state of affairs. Cicero
adopts the same sort of method in the second book of De re publica, but there is
no real indication that he also engaged with a Platonic model of the golden age.
Cicero’s translation of Aratus’ epic poem Phaenomena covers the account of
the golden age and the decline of humankind (Cic. Arat. 100 – 141 ~ Arat. Phaen.
96 – 136);²⁸ and in the second book of De natura deorum the Stoic spokesman
Balbus presents a quote from Cicero’s translation in the context of a lengthy
Stoic argument that the world as a whole, and everything within it (the heavenly
bodies, the plants, the animals, and so forth), exist for the use and benefit of hu-
mankind (2.154– 168):
quid de bubus loquar? quorum ipsa terga declarant non esse se ad onus accipiendum fig-
urata, cervices autem natae ad iugum, tum vires umerorum et latitudines ad aratra [ex]tra-
henda. quibus cum terrae subigerentur fissione glebarum, ab illo aureo genere, ut poetae
loquuntur, vis nulla umquam adferebatur;
ferrea tum vero proles exorta repente est
ausaque funestum prima est fabricarier ensem
et gustare manu vinctum domitumque iuvencum. (= Aratea 134– 136)²⁹
tanta putabatur utilitas percipi e bubus ut eorum visceribus vesci scelus haberetur.
(DND 2.159)
What should I say about oxen? The very shape of their backs reveals that they do not exist
for the purpose of carrying burdens, but on the other hand their necks are born for the
yoke, and moreover the strength and size of their shoulders exist for the purpose of drag-
ging the plough. Since the earth was tilled by them through the breaking of clods, by that
golden race, as the poets say, no violence was ever used against them;
But then the iron race suddenly sprang up,
And first dared to forge the deadly sword,
And to eat the ox bound and tamed by its hand.
So great was the utility thought to have been got from oxen that to eat their flesh was
held a crime.
 At line 118 Cicero explicitly refers to the “golden race” (haec manet, in sanctis dum gens
manet aurea terris).
 Although this quote is from Cicero’s own translation of Aratus, certain details of the golden
age and the decline of humankind do not match what we see in the Phaenomena. Most obvious-
ly, the reference to the iron race, so prominent in Hesiod’s account, is not present in Aratus’
poem: he only covers the gold, silver, and bronze races. In Aratus’ poem the bronze race are
the first to kill and eat the oxen (Phaen. 130 – 132). As an explanation for the translation choice,
Johnston 1980: 27 n. 16 hazards that Cicero is trying to align the accounts of Aratus and Hesiod.
For detailed discussion of Aratus’ account, and his relation to Hesiod, see van Noorden 2015:
168 – 203.
The key feature of this Stoic account is that the golden race did not act violently
towards oxen, and in particular did not kill and eat them, for oxen do not serve
the purpose of providing their flesh as food, but rather their bodies are designed
for the human pursuit of agriculture.³⁰ Implied is a natural harmonious co-exis-
tence where the labour of the oxen tilled the earth, and the golden race reaped
the benefits of the crops.³¹ It is interesting to see solid evidence that Cicero was
aware of the Stoic tradition on the golden age, and the model in which human
beings live in accordance with nature, by pursuing a humble agricultural mode
of life, is certainly very influential on Roman utopian thinking in the imperial
period;³² but it is hard to discern much of substance in terms of influence on Ci-
cero’s own political thought.³³
 The act of butchering and eating one’s oxen evidently heralds the arrival of the iron race. The
abstention from eating oxen turns on the idea of acting unnaturally—for oxen serve the purpose
not of providing their flesh as food but of providing the labour to till the fields for crops. On the
other hand, certain animals such as the pig serve the purpose of providing human beings with
food (Cic. DND 2.160). As such, the Stoics do not portray the golden age as involving a vegetarian
mode of life. Complete abstinence from meat is, however, a feature of certain philosophical gold-
en age narratives: for instance, it appears in Plato’s Statesman (271– 272b), where humans are so
close to animals as to be able to converse with them (272b – d); and it is a core feature of Di-
caearchus’ account, where the golden race “killed no being with a soul” (μηδὴν φονεύειν ἔμψυ-
χον) (Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.2; Jerome, Adv. Iov. 2.13) and lived in harmony with the plant and an-
imal kingdoms, with the earth providing its bounty of its own accord (Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.3 – 4;
Jerome, Adv. Iov. 2.13).
 This image of simple agricultural life accords straightforwardly with Aratus’ account of the
golden age (Phaen. 105 – 114; cf. Hes. W&D 109 – 121), but it is explicitly absent in the accounts of
Plato (Statesman 272a), Dicaearchus (Varro, De Rust. 1.2.15 – 16; Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.5 – 9; Jer-
ome, Adv. Iov. 2.13), and interestingly enough Seneca (Sen. Ep. 90.36 – 40), for all of whom agri-
culture is a feature of the decline of humankind. The position of Seneca is indicative of some
discrepancy in the Stoic tradition. This is best explained by looking at Posidonius, whose ac-
count of early human history Seneca critiques throughout Epistle 90. Posidonius condones
the place of agriculture in the golden age since it is a creation of the wise (90.21); in keeping
with the account of providence in De natura deorum, agriculture is a natural human enterprise
that utilises the oxen that have been provided us for this end. Seneca perhaps disagrees for
much the same Stoic reasons: nature itself provides enough of everything that is necessary
for humans without any need for the toils of agriculture or any other science or craft
(90.18 – 43)—so, the argument would go, the fact that oxen are suited for agriculture does not
make it a necessity for humans to pursue it, particularly when the (avoidable) negative by-prod-
ucts of the enterprise are factored in as well.
 See, for example, Johnston 1980 and Evans 2008 with further references.
 Note, however, that in De re publica the second king Numa is credited with softening the
war-like nature of the original Romans and turning them towards peace and justice by encour-
aging the general pursuit of agricultural life (2.25 – 26).
224 Sean McConnell
It is Dicaearchus’ distinctive treatment of the golden age that exercises the

most influence on Cicero.³⁴ In his Life of Greece Dicaearchus presents an original
historical scenario in which ancient human beings led “the best life” (τὸν ἄρι-
στον ἐζηκότας βίον, Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.1), which is characterised by the proper
pursuit of good activities: for example, friendship, marriage, and politics (Por-
phyry, De abs. 4.2.5 – 6; Codex Vaticanus 435 = frag. 36 Mirhady).³⁵ The golden
race led blessed lives because nature provides what is necessary (Porphyry, De
abs. 4.2.2– 5) and, more importantly, they “were naturally the best” (βελτίστους
τε ὄντας φύσει, Porphyry, De abs 4.2.1)—although they were ignorant of philos-
ophy and the art of persuasive speech, they had good character traits that straight-
forwardly found expression in good deeds (Codex Vaticanus 435 = frag. 36 Mirha-
dy), in the bios praktikos or life of practical action (Cic. Att. 2.16.3).³⁶ Cicero’s
portrayal of the defining traits of the Roman people resonates with this depiction
of the golden race.
In De re publica the Roman people are described as originally war-like under
Romulus (2.25), but Numa then softens that propensity through an egalitarian
distribution of land:
ac primum agros, quos bello Romulus ceperat, divisit viritim civibus docuitque sine depop-
ulatione atque praeda posse eos colendis agris abundare commodis omnibus amoremque
eis otii et pacis iniecit, quibus facillime iustitia et dides convalescit, et quorum patrocinio
maxime cultus agrorum perceptioque frugum defenditur. (Rep. 2.26)
And first he divided among the citizens the fields, which Romulus had won in war, giving
each a share, and he taught them that by the cultivation of their fields they could have an
abundance of every kind of commodity without ravaging and plunder. And he implanted in
them the love of leisure and peace, with which justice and good faith most easily grow
stronger, and under whose protection the cultivation of the fields and the enjoyment of
its fruits are most secure.
 From the numerous explicit citations in his own writing, Cicero was evidently familiar with a
great deal of Dicaearchus’ work (Att. 2.2.2, 2.12.4, 2.16.3, 6.2.3, 7.3.1, 13.30.2, 13.32.2, 13.33.2;
Leg. 3.14; Tusc. 1.21, 1.24, 1.41, 1.51, 1.77, 4.71; Div. 1.5, 1.113, 2.100, 2.105; Acad. 2.124; Fin. 4.79;
Off. 2.16 – 17), including in all likelihood the Life of Greece (Att. 6.2.3), which contains the account
of the golden age and is cited explicitly by name by Cicero’s learned friend and contemporary
Varro (De rust 1.2.16). For further discussion of the range of Dicaearchus’ work that was available
to Cicero and his peers, see McConnell 2012: 317– 319.
 See McConnell 2012: 333 – 335.
 For a detailed analysis of the specifics of Dicaearchus’ argument, including interpretative is-
sues concerning the textual evidence, see McConnell 2012: 321– 333.
With the reforms of Numa the Romans develop a tranquil nature in which the
negative effects of their martial character are mitigated, and good faith (fides)
and justice (iustitia) prevail. Cicero then attributes the progression of the res pub-
lica to its best state to the wisdom (sapientia), insight (consilium), and discipline
(disciplina) of these ancient Romans (2.30). In line with this depiction in De re
publica, in the Tusculan Disputations, written in 45 bc, Cicero presents a detailed
list of native Roman virtues when arguing for the superiority of the Roman peo-
ple over the Greeks and all others:
iam illa, quae natura, non litteris adsecuti sunt, neque cum Graecia neque ulla cum gente
sunt conferenda. quae enim tanta gravitas, quae tanta constantia, magnitudo animi, probi-
tas, fides, quae tam excellens in omni genere virtus in ullis fuit, ut sit cum maioribus nost-
ris comparanda? (Tusc. 1.2)
Now, with those things that are attained from nature and not from letters, they cannot be
compared either with the Greeks or with any other people. Where, indeed, has such serious-
ness, such firmness of purpose, greatness of soul, honesty, good faith, where has such pre-
eminence in every kind of virtue been in anyone else, so that it might be compared with our
ancestors?
The explicit reference to natura here is telling: these are not traits that are taught
or that develop owing to a process of formal learning or philosophical reflection,
but rather the virtues pertain naturally as intrinsic qualities in the Roman people
of old.³⁷ These good native traits all find expression in the life of practical action
that Cicero, in line with Dicaearchus, consistently advocates as best (e. g.,
Rep. 1.1– 13, 3.4– 7; Off. 1.62– 91; Att. 2.16.3, 7.3).³⁸ Indeed, in De re publica Cicero
stresses that the Romans of the past led this mode of life, as evident from their
great deeds, which they performed, like the golden race, despite a lack of theo-
 See further Schofield 2009: esp. 199 – 201. These same sentiments are expressed in other
speeches and philosophical works. For example, in his speech Pro Flacco, delivered in 59 bc,
Cicero states: haec enim ratio ac magnitudo animorum in maioribus nostris fuit ut, cum in privatis
rebus suisque sumptibus minimo contenti tenuissimo cultu viverent, in imperio atque in publica
dignitate omnia ad gloriam splendoremque revocarent (“For this moderation and greatness of
soul was in our ancestors so that, although in their private matters and their expenses they
lived content with a little, with the smallest luxury, in the empire and in the honor of the
state they referred everything to glory and splendor,” 28). In Pro Sestio, delivered in 56 bc, he
portrays the Romans as having the national traits of gravitas and magnitudo animi (139, 141).
Note also his comment in the De officiis: maximeque ipse populus Romanus animi magnitudine
excellit (“And most of all the Roman people themselves are celebrated for greatness of soul,”
1.61).
 For critical discussion of Cicero’s treatment of the life of practical action, see further Müller
1965; Büchner 1984: 69 – 74; Blößner 2001; McConnell 2012: 333 – 345.
226 Sean McConnell
retical or philosophical insight (1.1– 13, 3.4– 7).³⁹ The parallels with Dicaearchus
are strong and recurrent, and it is not unreasonable to identify Cicero’s depiction
of the Romans of old with Dicaearchus’ golden race.⁴⁰
In Cicero’s assessment of the Roman people there is also a narrative of de-
cline that echoes Dicaearchus. Consider in particular the preface to the fifth
book of De re publica:
itaque ante nostram memoriam et mos ipse patrius praestantes viros adhibebat, et veterem
morem ac maiorum instituta retinebant excellentes viri. nostra vero aetas cum rem publi-
cam sicut picturam accepisset egregiam, sed iam evanescentem vetustate, non modo eam
coloribus eisdem, quibus fuerat, renovare neglexit, sed ne id quidem curavit, ut formam
slatem eius et extrema tamquam liniamenta servaret. quid enim manet ex antiquis mori-
bus, quibus ille dixit rem stare Romanam? quos ita oblivione obsoletos videmus, ut non
modo non colantur, sed iam ignorentur. nam de viris quid dicam? mores enim ipsi interier-
unt virorum penuria, cuius tanti mali non modo reddenda ratio nobis, sed etiam tamquam
reis capitis quodam modo dicenda causa est. nostris enim vitiis, non casu aliquo, rem pub-
licam verbo retinemus, re ipsa vero iam pridem amisimus. (Rep. 5.1– 2)
And so, before our time, ancestral morality provided outstanding men, and great men pre-
served the morality of old and the institutions of our ancestors. But our own time, having
inherited the commonwealth like a wonderful picture, not only has failed to renew its orig-
inal colors but has not even taken the trouble to preserve at least its shape and outlines.
What remains of the morals of antiquity, upon which Ennius said the Roman stood? We
see that they are so outworn in oblivion that they are not only not cherished but are
now unknown. What am I to say about the men? The morals themselves have passed
away through a shortage of men; and we must not only render an account of such an
evil, but in a sense we must defend ourselves like people being tried for a capital crime.
It is because of our own vices, not because of some bad luck, that we preserve the common-
wealth in name alone but have long ago lost its substance. (trans. Zetzel)
In Dicaearchus’ account the humans of today are different to the golden race
(Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.1): they do not live the same lives since their values
have been corrupted by the development of various technai (Codex Vaticanus
435 = frag. 36 Mirhady; Varro, De Rust. 1.2.15 – 16; Porphyry, De abs. 4.2.5 – 9). Fol-
lowing the model of Dicaearchus, decline must be because of certain corrupting
 There are similar details in Seneca’s Stoic description of the men of the golden age: he de-
clares that they possess greatness of soul as an intrinsic property, before any acquaintance with
philosophy (Ep. 90.44– 46).
 The author of Codex Vaticanus 435 makes such an identification in explicit terms, aligning
the ancient Romans with the golden race described by Dicaearchus: τοιούτους πείθομαι καὶ τοὺς
ὑμετέρους γενέσθαι πατέρας εἶναι γὰρ ἀγαθοὶ ἐβούλοντο καὶ τούτου τοῖς ἔργοις ἐφικνοῦντο (“I
believe that your ancestors were also this way; for they wanted to be good and they achieved this
through their deeds,” 435.19 – 21).
factors that have taken hold in Roman culture rather than some fundamental
change in Roman nature. The alternative is to argue that present-day Romans
are collectively debased in comparison to the Romans of the past, and there
are certainly some inklings of this idea in this passage from De re publica. How-
ever, the corruption is not in the essential nature of the Roman people but rather
in the values—the mores—to which they subscribe and which motivate their ac-
tions. Such a change in Roman morals is not irrevocable or insurmountable: it
can be rectified through an appropriate process that mitigates against the cor-
rupting influences of the present and returns the Romans to their ancestral val-
ues, which provide “outstanding men,” presumably by fostering positive native
Roman qualities such as magnitudo animi and letting them find proper rather
than twisted expression.⁴¹
At this point we can appreciate that Cicero is more optimistic about the prac-
ticability of golden age utopian ideas than he is about the implementation of the
ideal state in practical politics. Dicaearchus offers a model in which we might get
the original ideal position back, by living the life of practical action and by
making sure that the negative impact of various corrupting factors are avoided.
Cicero offers much the same model in the context of the Roman res publica. The
nature of the Roman people is ultimately the same as it was in the past: the Ro-
mans still have their superior native talents and are still in essence the golden
race, but the current socio-political environment is not conducive to the straight-
forward proper expression of such traits. However, the corrupting factors are of
the Romans’ own design—bad values and their associated vices have taken
hold—and so long as they can be purged (a goal towards which Cicero’s own
philosophical enterprise is, at least in part, directed), there will be a return to
the mode of life epitomised by the great men of the past.
4 Conclusion
In addition to the ideal state tradition of utopian thought, Cicero also engages
with Dicaearchus’ account of the golden age, which offers scope for greater pos-
itivity about the practicability of utopian ideals. Cicero draws on the golden age
tradition when assessing the Roman res publica and the nature of Roman polit-
ical virtue, identifying the characteristics of Dicaearchus’ golden race with the
 Magnitudo animi is a positive native quality that has potential for both good and bad, de-
pending on the values to which the individual subscribes—Cicero discusses this at length in
De officiis 1.62– 91. For detailed discussion of Cicero’s treatment of greatness of soul, see McCon-
nell (2017).
228 Sean McConnell
native qualities of the Romans themselves. By emphasising the intrinsic virtues

of the Roman people, and the need to ensure the conditions that allow them to
find proper expression in political life, he offers an achievable means for the
Roman res publica to attain its best state, exemplified by its glorious past: rather
than advocate an unworkable and problematic top-down imposition of a utopian
model of an ideal state, Cicero has faith that the best state will come to be from
the bottom-up, if the superior nature of the Roman people is simply allowed its
full natural expression.
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Iris Sulimani
All Over the World: The Utopian Idea in
Diodorus Siculus
The “utopian genre” evolved into a fashionable literary category in the Hellenis-
tic period. Diodorus Siculus illustrates this well, describing six island utopias in
the mythological section of his Bibliothēkē, and incorporating various utopian
motifs in his discussions of different parts of the oikoumenē throughout his
work. Preserving the now lost accounts of authors such as Euhemerus and Iam-
bulus, Diodorus depicts at quite some length the imaginary islands of Panchaea
and the Island of the Sun, as well as the Island(s) in the Atlantic Ocean, Hespera,
the Island of the Hyperboreans, and the Island in the River Triton.¹ His descrip-
tions reveal several recurrent motifs. All the islands, for instance, are fertile and
provide an abundance of food for their inhabitants; their climate is mild, thus
contributing to the inhabitants’ good health. Coexistence of peoples and races,
prosperity, happiness, and peace are also found in Diodorus’ accounts of the
utopian islands. Interestingly, such motifs appear in Diodorus’ descriptions of
real places, notably India, Eudaimōn Arabia, Lipara, and Lesbos.
In this study, I explore the utopian notion in Diodorus. I show that, by using
various means and methods, the historian locates the utopian islands, situated
on the edges of the inhabited world, on the actual map of the world. Concomi-
tantly, he mingles not a few of the utopian islands’ characteristics in his descrip-
tions of real lands and islands all over the world. Hence, the first section of this
paper examines Panchaea in depth, and refers briefly to other utopian islands,
as examples that demonstrate the means by which Diodorus portrays imaginary
islands as part of the real world. The second section traces the utopian motifs in
accounts of real lands and islands. Furthermore, comparing Diodorus’ idyllic de-
scriptions with utopian and dystopian narratives of classical and Hellenistic au-
thors, and contrasting his accounts of real lands with those of other writers,
I offer reasons for the distinctions. Finally, I attempt to shed light on Diodorus’
 The accounts of the latter four islands are based, respectively, on Timaeus of Tauromenium,
Dionysius Scytobrachion, Hecataeus of Abdera and, again, Dionysius Scytobrachion. All the de-
scriptions of utopian islands appear in the first pentad, which survived in its entirety, except for
part of Euhemerus’ account, found in the fragmentary Book 6 and known to us from Eusebius’
summary (Praep. Evang. 2.2.59B – 61A). Euhemerus’ Hiera Anagraphe is also preserved in Lactan-
tius’ Institutiones Divinae, with references to Ennius’ now lost translation of Euhemerus’ work
into Latin.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-013
232 Iris Sulimani
motivations for portraying the world in such idyllic colours and to explain the
development of the utopian thought in the Hellenistic period.
1 At the Edges of the Earth: Utopian Islands on

the Actual Map of the World
Descriptions of islands pervade Diodorus’ first six books, which form the mytho-
logical section of his Bibliothēkē. The author even dedicates the entire fifth book
of his universal history to islands, naming it ἡ βίβλος νησιωτική (5.2.1). Being a
proud Greek islander and a Sicilian patriot, his special interest in islands should
not surprise us. His particular interest in imaginary islands, however, is not so
obvious.
1.1 Panchaea
Diodorus discusses the island of Panchaea twice in his Bibliothēkē (5.42.4– 46.7;
6.1.1– 11). Although he omits the name of his source for the island’s depiction in
Book 5, it is widely agreed that he employed Euhemerus for both places.² Yet
here, as elsewhere in his work, Diodorus did not simply reproduce his sources.
He altered and adapted them by inserting additional information, which he
found in other authorities or heard or saw himself, and by expressing his own
thoughts and ideas.³ His descriptions of the utopian islands under discussion
here illustrate this well. Although they are drawn from various sources, these de-
scriptions strikingly resemble each other, thus allowing us to see Diodorus’ own
motives for incorporating the accounts of the utopian islands in his work and
presenting them as part of the real world.
Panchaea is depicted as a fertile island, well–watered and rich in trees,
plants, beasts, and birds of all sorts. It also possesses mines of gold, silver, cop-
per, tin, and iron. Owing to its features, the island provides the inhabitants with
every kind of food, contributing to their health and good life. How does Diodorus
make an island, painted in such idyllic colours, a part of the real world? I suggest
that he accomplishes this by his working methods, as well as by clarifying the
 See, e. g., Gabba 1981: 59; de Angelis and Garstad 2006: 212; Honigman 2009: 1– 2; Winiarczyk
2013: 9. For the collection of Euhemerus’ testimonia, see Winiarczyk 1991.
 See Sulimani 2011: 57– 108 (see also 4– 6 for further studies).
islands’ location, incorporating them in journeys, both ’real’ and ’imaginary’,

and making them resemble real islands.
To begin with Diodorus’ working methods, it is significant that Diodorus,
who puts emphasis on the organization of his work, does not separate the de-
scription of Panchaea from the rest of his discussion, but places it in the appro-
priate section of his Bibliothēkē, that is, in the chapters dealing with the islands
of the south–eastern part of the world within the fifth book (5.41.1).⁴ He begins
elaborating on Panchaea by stating “concerning Panchaea itself, it possesses
many things which are worthy of historical record” (τῆς ἱστορικῆς ἀναγραφῆς
ἄξια, 5.42.4). Diodorus’ pointed comment about the ’historical’ classification of
Panchaea is significant. It employs a wording similar to that used at the begin-
ning of his description of the south–eastern islands, including the adjective ’his-
torical’, and in his entire discussion of Panchaea he never suggests that it has
any kind of imaginary dimension. It is interesting to recall here Diodorus’ refer-
ence to Euhemerus in Book 6. Recounting the views regarding the origin of the
gods, Diodorus distinguishes between the notions of the historians and those of
the writers of myth. Whereas Homer, Hesiod, and Orpheus are given as examples
for the latter, Euhemerus is singled out as a writer of history (6.1.3, 11).
The second feature of Diodorus’ work, indicating that he intended to place
Panchaea on the actual map of the oikoumenē, is his effort to clarify the location
of the island. At the beginning of his account, Diodorus precisely locates Pan-
chaea in real geographical space. He states that “several islands lie opposite
the extremities of this land (i. e. Eudaimōn Arabia) that borders on the Ocean”.
Three of these islands are “worthy of historical record” (ἄξιαι τῆς ἱστορικῆς ἀνα-
γραφῆς): the first is called Hiera; the second lies near it, at a distance of 7 stades;
the third island lies 30 stades distant from Hiera toward the eastern part of the
Ocean. It is many stades in length, and from its easternmost promontory one can
catch sight of India (5.41.4, 42.3). The last is evidently Panchaea; Diodorus refers
to it by name in the next sentence, which opens his detailed description of the
island (5.42.4).⁵ The concluding remark of Diodorus’ discussion (5.46.7) includes
another statement concerning the location of this island: “regarding the islands
(lying) in the Ocean opposite Arabia, we will be satisfied with the things that
have been said.”
Furthermore, Diodorus includes Panchaea in two journeys, one of which is
‘real’ and the other ‘imaginary’. It is necessary, first, to explain my use of the
terms ‘real’ and ‘imaginary’ – and their parallels ‘historical’ and ‘mythical’ –
 For Diodorus’ emphasis on the organization of his work, see Sulimani 2011: 109 – 162.
 See, e. g., Brown 1946: 259 – 260; Winiarczyk 2013: 79 – 81.
234 Iris Sulimani
that appear frequently in the following discussion. Prima facie, these are oppos-
ing pairs; yet, given the fact that the distinction between these terms is not
clear–cut in antiquity in general, and in Diodorus in particular, clarification is
needed.⁶ ‘Historical’ and ‘mythical’ figures are those that Diodorus considered
‘historical’ and ‘mythical’ respectively. Indeed, he occasionally ascribes ‘real’
features to ‘mythical’ figures (or places), but he continues to regard them essen-
tially as mythical. On the other hand, Diodorus may include certain mythical el-
ements in the stories of ‘historical’ figures, but he ultimately defines them as his-
torical. Hence, a journey such as that of Euhemerus is referred to as ‘real’ –
although one may justifiably argue that it is fictitious – since Diodorus consid-
ered Euhemerus a ‘historical’ figure (6.1.3).⁷ Conversely, Zeus’ journey is ‘imagi-
nary’, being made by a god, a ‘mythical’ figure (1.13.4), although it is based on
actual geographical data and although one may argue that Diodorus accepted
a Euhemerist position on Zeus, as he did on Heracles and other mythical figures.
Moreover, a place such as the island of Lipara is ‘real’, for it is undoubtedly lo-
cated on the actual map of the world. The utopian islands, however, are ‘imag-
inary’ or ‘mythical’, because of their vague location and ‘mythical’ nature. Since
one of this study’s aim is to show that the utopian islands are regarded by Diodo-
rus as part of the actual world, this use of the adjective ‘imaginary’ may seem
contradictory, but it allows us to see how blurred the line is between ‘real’
and ‘imaginary’ in Diodorus. It is also compatible with the term ‘utopia’. Coined
by Thomas More, ’utopia’, consisting of the Greek words οὐ and τόπος, is ‘no-
where’.⁸
To resume the discussion of the incorporation of Panchaea in journeys, Di-
odorus states that Euhemerus set sail from Eudaimōn Arabia and, while making
a voyage in the Ocean for many days, he put in at the islands in the open sea,
one of which was called Panchaea (6.1.4) (see Figure 1). The journey of the myth-
ical figure, Zeus, is more detailed (see Figure 2). Visiting Babylon as the guest of
Belus, Zeus made his way to Panchaea, an island that lies “near the Ocean”.⁹ He
then travelled through Syria and met Casius, the ruler of the country, who gave
 Diodorus considered mythological tales an essential part of his universal history (1.3.2, 3.6,
4.1.1– 4), and though sometimes acknowledging the distinction between myth and history
(1.25.4, 98.10), he often blurs it. For myth and history in ancient authors, see, e. g., Buxton
1994: 9 – 17; Fowler 2013: xi–xxi; Fowler 2015: 195 – 209; for these terms in Diodorus and his com-
plex view of the myths, see Sulimani 2011: 10 – 13. See also Sacks 1990: 55 – 82.
 For the idea of fictionality in Hellenistic geographical writing, see Romm 1992: 172– 214; for
fictionality in Euhemerus, see Whitmarsh 2013: 49 – 62, and 31– 32 for Iambulus.
 See, e. g., Clay and Purvis 1999: 1– 15.
 πρὸς τῷ ὠκεανῷ, perhaps “in the ocean” is meant.
his name to Mount Casius. Cilicia was Zeus’ next destination. Diodorus con-
cludes that Zeus visited many other peoples and that he was honoured as a
god by all of them (6.1.10). Both expeditions deserve equal attention, since
both are based on actual geographical data. In fact, the mythical journey is
much more revealing.¹⁰ Since Diodorus habitually uses real geographical data
in his accounts of imaginary journeys throughout the mythical section of his
work, the journey of Zeus may contribute to our understanding of Panchaea’s lo-
cation in Diodorus’ thought.
The account of Euhemerus’ voyage, although brief, nevertheless reflects the
actual features of the Red Sea.¹¹ It is also clearly situated within Hellenistic his-
tory: Euhemerus was a friend of King Cassander and was required by him to
carry out certain royal affairs as well as great journeys to foreign lands;
hence, he took a trip southwards to the Ocean (6.1.4). This indicates that Diodo-
rus connects Panchaea to the geographical developments following Alexander’s
campaign; concomitantly, he echoes the impact of the deeds of Alexander, the
Hellenistic kings, and the Romans on his writing.¹² Leaders throughout the Hel-
lenistic period sent men to investigate foreign lands, both out of curiosity and for
commercial purposes.¹³
Zeus, according to Diodorus, passed through five sites; except for Panchaea,
all of them are not only real, but also significant places. Syria and Cilicia were
traversed by Alexander the Great, as recorded by Diodorus himself (17.27.7,
52.7), a valuable detail, considering the Macedonian king’s impact on Diodorus.
The historian himself describes the features of Cilicia and the Cilician Gates, as
the pass through the Taurus mountain range is called (14.20.1– 2). Babylon, al-
though losing some of its former eminence, continued to be one of the most im-
portant cities of the Seleucids.¹⁴ Finally, Mount Casius, situated near the mouth
 It may be argued that Euhemerus, Diodorus’ source, who was engaged in writing a work of
mythic rationalization (see, recently, Hawes 2014: 25 – 29 with further references), made an effort
to historicize the stories about Zeus and hence used real geographical data to present his jour-
ney as realistic. Nonetheless, in my opinion, Diodorus had his own aims. He regarded myths as
an integral part of history and as such employed them to convey real geographical and historical
data. For him Zeus was a mythological figure who travelled along real routes and spread the cult
of himself, just like Osiris, Heracles, and other heroes, whom Diodorus often used to create prec-
edents for the acts of historical figures and to illustrate various Hellenistic ideas. See, further,
Sulimani 2011. For Zeus’ religious mission, see Garstad 2004.
 According to Diodorus, the Red Sea usually refers to the modern Persian Gulf and the Ara-
bian Sea, but it may also include the modern Red Sea (the ancient Arabian Gulf), as in 3.18.3.
 For the impact of Alexander the Great on the ’the story of Utopia’, see Ferguson 1975: 98 – 110.
 For examples of such expeditions, see Sulimani 2011: 169 – 170.
 See Sulimani 2005: 46 – 48.
236 Iris Sulimani
of the Orontes River (Jebel–el–Akra on the Syrian–Turkish border), is a conspic-

uous landmark.¹⁵
Moreover, Zeus is described as travelling from one site to another in a logical
order, and his route seems to accord with the actual road network. Although
Zeus’ path from Babylon to Panchaea is not clear, his return journey demon-
strates that he made his way along the trade route that leads from Syria to
Asia Minor via the Syrian Gates and Cilicia.¹⁶ This trade route, elsewhere in Di-
odorus, is traversed by both historical and mythical figures. Cyrus the younger,
for instance, made his way from Sardis to Babylon, passing through Cilicia, the
Cilician Gates, the Syrian Gates, and Syria (14.20.1– 21.7), while Alexander the
Great marched through Cilicia, the Syrian Gates, and Syria (17.27.7, 32.2– 4,
52.7). Since Diodorus’ mythical journeys reflect real roads, the expedition of Myr-
ina is also worth mentioning. The Amazon queen came to Syria and, crossing the
Taurus mountain range, entered Asia Minor (3.54.1– 7, 55.4– 11). Finally, it is re-
markable that Diodorus introduces Panchaea into a mythical journey, in which
Zeus visited three sites reached by Alexander, and then continued as far as Pan-
chaea, “which lies in the Ocean” (6.1.10; cf. 5.42.3), whereas the king’s campaign
came to an end at the river Hyphasis (17.93.1). Diodorus emphasizes elsewhere in
his work the expansion of empires beyond the territory that was conquered by
Alexander. Sesostris, for instance, crossed the river Ganges and arrived at the
Ocean, and reached Scythia (1.55.1– 4). These regions attracted later rulers,
such as the Seleucid kings, the Ptolemies, and, in Diodorus’ day, Caesar and Oc-
tavian. Zeus, however, not merely reached a place where Alexander never set
foot; he visited a utopia. Both points show that the Hellenistic era left its
mark on Diodorus’ account.
One further aspect should be introduced to demonstrate that Diodorus in-
tended to integrate the utopian island of Panchaea into the actual map of the
world. Diodorus’ description of Panchaea reveals a salient resemblance to his ac-
counts of real islands, namely, Lipara and Lesbos. To deal with all the similari-
ties in detail would require too long a discussion and hence I only briefly men-
tion some of them.¹⁷ Like Panchaea, Lipara, which lies near Sicily, is the largest
 E. g., Strab. 16.1.12 C 741– 742, 2.5 C 750; Pliny, HN, 5.80; Amm. Marc. 22.14.4; Solin. 36.3
(Mommsen); Pompon. 1.61. See Cook 1925: 981– 983; Lane Fox 2008: 255 – 272. Cf. Apollodorus’
version of Zeus’ journey, which includes Cilicia, Mount Casius, and Syria, but not Panchaea
(Bibl. 1.6.3).
 Strab. 14.2.29 C 663 (cf. Strab. 12.2.10 C 539 – 540; Xen. An. 1.2.5 – 21, 4.1– 6). See, e. g., Mitchell
1993: esp. 124– 136); Syme 1995: 3 – 23; Ma 1999: 35, 115 – 116.
 For a thorough comparison of Lipara and Panchaea, see de Angelis and Garstad 2006: 225 –
230, who argue that Euhemerus, a Sicilian, inspired by Sicilian cultural and political experience,
of a group of islands which also includes an island called Hiera (5.7.1; cf. Strab.
6.2.10 C 275). Both Panchaea and Lipara possess healing springs (5.44.3 – 4,
cf. 43.1– 2; 5.10.1), an abundance of fruit–bearing trees (5.10.3; 5.43.1– 3), natural
resources, and rich mines (5.10.2, 5.46.4). There is a notable city on both Lipara
and Panchaea (5.7.1, 5, 10.1; 5.42.5), and the inhabitants of both islands consist of
natives and various other peoples who coexist (5.7.6; 42.4– 5, 44.6). Similarities
occur also in the mythical past of Lipara and Panchaea. Both islands have stories
of a hero who travelled to the island, left his impression, and later received a cer-
tain honour from the hands of the inhabitants. Zeus, who operated in Panchaea,
was revered as a god by all the peoples that he had visited (5.42.6, 46.3, 6.1.6, 10),
while Liparus, after whom both the island of Lipara and the city which he found-
ed on it were named, received honours equal to those of heroes after his death
(5.7.5 – 6). Finally, Lipara and Panchaea resemble each other in their social struc-
ture and their system of common ownership. In Lipara, the land and the posses-
sions of the inhabitants are made common property; the Liparaians are divided
into two groups, one of which cultivates the land, while the other fights the Tyr-
rhenian pirates (5.9.4– 5). The Panchaeans are divided into three parts, the
priests, the farmers, and the soldiers. The farmers are engaged in tilling the
soil and bring the fruits to the common store (5.45.3 – 5).
Lesbos, in Diodorus’ account, is also painted in colours similar to those of
Panchaea. The historian stresses the beauty of the land and its fertility, empha-
sizing the richness of its soil, its good crops, wholesome air, and mild climate
(5.82.2– 4). Diodorus mentions the notable cities of Lesbos (5.81.7) and discusses
its population, which consisted of various peoples (5.81.1, 4). He also elaborates
on the island’s mythical past, referring to the arrival at the island of three figures
(Xanthus, Macareus, and Lesbus) and to their accomplishments, including por-
tioning out the land between the inhabitants (5.81.2– 7).
It is also significant that some of the parallel motifs reflect the culture of the
Hellenistic era and, more importantly, recur in the Bibliothēkē. One such motif is
the notion that an individual gains honours equal to those of gods and heroes
because of the benefits that he has conferred upon mankind. This idea, echoed
in the legends of Zeus and Liparus, is found throughout Diodorus’ work, in re-
lation to gods and heroes, kings and leaders – notably Alexander the Great
and Julius Caesar.¹⁸ Another example is the idea of the coexistence of various
peoples and races in empires, states, and cities. This reminds us of the practice
used Lipara as one of the models for his depiction of Panchaea, and hence the similarities. De
Angelis and Garstad completely ignore Diodorus’ contribution.
 Alexander: 17.102.4; Caesar: 1.4.7, 4.19.2, 5.21.2, 5.25.4, 32.27.1, 3. See Sulimani 2011: 64– 82.
238 Iris Sulimani
of Alexander, who settled Greek mercenaries, his camp followers, and local in-
habitants in the cities which he founded, as recorded by Diodorus himself
(17.83.2).¹⁹ Since Diodorus is accustomed to using actual data in his mythical
tales, he ascribes similar operations to Heracles in Alesia (4.19.1– 2) and to Myr-
ina in the land of the Atlantians (3.54.5). This practice, in addition, is related to
the notion of the unity of mankind, attributed to Alexander and developed dur-
ing the Hellenistic era. Diodorus was well aware of it and introduced it in his
work.²⁰
The depiction of ’utopian’ islands as resembling real islands bears out
Diodorus’ originality. This is strengthened by his use of sources. He probably em-
ployed Timaeus of Tauromenium for his account of Lipara and Lesbos, while
Euhemerus is his source for Panchaea. The similarities in both style and content
suggest that he did not simply copy his sources. I am not unaware of the fact that
Euhemerus could have been inspired by the actual features of Lipara, especially
if he was a native of the Sicilian Messene.²¹ Yet Diodorus was also a Sicilian and
familiar with Lipara. Moreover, descriptions of islands, both real and imaginary,
that bear a resemblance to Panchaea and Lipara may be detected elsewhere in
his work, regardless of the author whose writings were used: the Island in the
Atlantic Ocean (5.19.1– 20.4) is based on Timaeus of Tauromenium; Hespera in
Lake Tritonis (3.53.4– 5) and the Island in the River Triton (3.67.4– 69.4) are
drawn from Dionysius Scytobrachion; the Island of the Hyperboreans is based
on Hecataeus of Abdera (2.47.1– 6); and for the Island of the Sun Diodorus em-
ployed the narrative of the Greek merchant Iambulus (2.55.1– 60.3).²²
A comparison with the description of Lipara and Lesbos in other authorities
further reinforces Diodorus’ original thought. Pausanias tells of the settlement of
Lipara by colonists from Cnidus, pointing out that they expelled the inhabitants
if these islands were already populated (10.11.3 – 4), in marked contrast to the co-
existence of various peoples described by Diodorus. Strabo seems to be more in-
 Diodorus does not mention Macedonian veterans, who also settled in Alexander’s cities. The
foundation of cities is in itself a typical act of Hellenistic rulers; see Sulimani 2011: 265 – 280.
Although Diodorus does not attribute the establishment of Panara on Panchaea to Zeus, he
does associate the city with him: Panara’s citizens are called ’suppliants of Zeus Triphylius’
(5.42.5).
 E. g., 3.64.7, 5.65.3, 18.4.4. See Sulimani 2011: 319 – 330. Cf. de Angelis and Garstad 2006: 230,
who, again, ignore Diodorus and argue that Euhemerus was inspired by the Sicilian experience
rather than Alexander the Great’s empire.
 De Angelis and Garstad 2006: 213 – 218.
 Iambulus is an obscure figure, mentioned only in Diodorus and Lucian (who describes him
as the author of a delightful false story, Ver. Hist. 1.3, 22– 26). It is assumed that he wrote in the
second or the first century BCE. See, e. g., Winston 1976; Clay and Purvis 1999: 46 – 48, 107– 117.
terested in the history of Lesbos and its famous men (13.2.1– 4 C 616 – 618), while
summarizing the assets of Lipara in a short sentence, mentioning its fruitful soil,
mine, and hot springs (6.2.10 C 275).²³ Although Tacitus calls Lesbos ’the famous
and pleasant island’ (insula nobilis et amoena, Ann. 6.3), no other author offers
as idyllic a picture as Diodorus’.
Furthermore, the way in which the imaginary islands are described in other
sources proves that none of the authors makes them look so ‘utopic’ and, at the
same time, so real, as Diodorus does. The Roman poets – Virgil (G. 2.139), Tibul-
lus (3.2.23), and Ovid (Met. 10.308) – refer to Panchaea as a land rich in aromatic
materials such as frankincense. Strabo has little to say about Panchaea, but it is
the context in which he mentions the island that is of interest: quoting Apollo-
dorus’ criticism of poets and historians who invented marvellous tales, he counts
Euhemerus among such historians, because of his ‘Land of Panchaea’ (7.3.6
C 299; cf. 2.4.2 C 104). Plutarch is harsher, arguing that Euhemerus produced
an incredible mythology and made a voyage to Panchaea, which does not
exist anywhere on earth (De Is. et Os. 23 [Mor. 360a – b]). By contrast, Diodorus
used Euhemerus’ itinerary to make Panchaea a part of the oikoumenē.
1.2 Other Utopian Islands
Diodorus depicts, as mentioned, five other mythical islands: the islands of Iam-
bulus and the Hyperboreans, as well as the islands in Lake Tritonis, the River
Triton, and the Atlantic Ocean. Like Panchaea and the real islands of Lipara
and Lesbos, these islands are blessed with fertile land that affords the inhabi-
tants all the necessities of life. They are rich in fruit–bearing trees or crops,
fish of every variety or goats and sheep. Also, in some of the islands there are
springs, of both warm and cold sweet water, effective for relieving fatigue and
contributing to good health. The climate of the islands is mild and in most
cases Diodorus emphasizes their healthful nature. Furthermore, characteristics
of communal life are attested in the island of Iambulus (2.58.1), like in Lipara,
while the Island in the Atlantic Ocean supplies everything which contributes
to luxury (5.19.2, 4), again, like Lipara.
Except for portraying the utopic islands like real islands, Diodorus uses his
working methods, as well as actual geographical data (while clarifying the loca-
tion of imaginary islands and incorporating them in journeys), in order to inte-
grate these islands into the real map of the world. The account of Iambulus’ is-
 See also Arist. Hist. Animal. 9.37; Hor. Carm. 1.17; Pliny, HN, 37.54.
240 Iris Sulimani
land is a good example to illustrate Diodorus’ working methods. It begins after

Diodorus concludes his discussion of Arabia (2.54.7), stating that he will now
turn to an island that has been discovered in the Ocean to the south and to
the marvels told concerning it (2.55.1– 2). Although Diodorus uses the verb παρα-
δοξολογεῖν (to tell marvels), nothing indicates that he meant to relate a myth,
but rather, to reveal the wonders of the land.²⁴ Another example is Diodorus’ de-
scription of the Island in the Atlantic Ocean, which follows his remark that, hav-
ing discussed the islands that lie within the Pillars of Heracles, he will describe
those that are in the Ocean (5.19.1). Later, as he turns to the Phoenician enter-
prise, he states: “In ancient times it was undiscovered because of its distance
from the entire inhabited world, but it was found later for such reasons” (5.20.1).
Diodorus also takes pain to clarify the location of each island. Thus, Hespera
lies in the lake Tritonis, which is near the Ocean that surrounds the earth and
received its name from a certain river Triton that emptied into it; this lake is
also near Ethiopia and the Atlas Mountain that touches the Ocean (3.53.4). An-
other example is that of the Island of the Hyperboreans, which is no smaller
than Sicily, situated in the north and lies in the Ocean beyond the land of
the Celts (2.47.1). The case of the Island in the Atlantic Ocean is particularly
interesting.²⁵ Diodorus’ pastoral portrayal of the island corresponds with the
descriptions of Homer (Od. 4.560 – 568), Hesiod (Op. 167– 173), and Pindar
(Ol. 2.68 – 74), who also locate the island(s) in the Ocean at the western extremity
of the world. However, whereas the poets regard it as paradise, a faraway place
to which those who were close to the gods arrive in the afterlife, Diodorus pro-
vides actual geographical data: the island lies out at sea off the coast of Libya; it
is situated in the Ocean a number of days voyage from Libya to the west (5.19.1).
Attempts to identify the imaginary islands as real may help illustrate Diodo-
rus’ effort to place the imaginary islands not just anywhere on the actual map,
but on the edges of the universe. According to some scholars, both Panchaea and
Iambulus’ island may be identified with Taprobane (Sri Lanka), on the south–
 Cf. Diod. 5.18.1, where παράδοξον (incredible) is used in reference to the real Balearic Islands
(5.17.1).
 Although Diodorus does not name this island, the similarities between his description and
those of the poets mentioned in the following discussion (notably its location and natural re-
sources) indicate that the Islands of the Blessed– or, rather, the Elysian Fields – are probably
meant. Perhaps Diodorus never ascribes the name μακάρων νῆσοι to his Atlantic island, due
to its divine connotation. Interestingly, he uses this name only to describe a real island, Lesbos
(5.82.2, 3).
eastern extremity of the oikoumenē. ²⁶ The Island of the Hyperboreans, whether or

not Britain is meant, lies on the northern edge of the world, while the Island in
the Atlantic Ocean, identified by some scholars as the largest island of the Ma-
deira group, marks the western extremity of the universe.²⁷ The neighbouring
Hespera and the Island in the River Triton are regarded by Diodorus as lying
in the extreme west, judging from his statement that these islands were far to
the west, near the Atlas Mountain. In Graeco–Roman literature, this mountain
range sometimes forms the western edge of the oikoumenē. ²⁸ This location, as
will be seen, is essential for understanding Diodorus’ reasons for including
the utopian islands in the map of the world.
Each of Diodorus’ utopian islands is, in addition, incorporated into journeys
made by either real or imaginary figures. The journey of Iambulus is interesting
not only from the geographical point of view, but also because of its Hellenistic
reflections (see Figure 3). After being captured by robbers while travelling inland
to the spice–bearing region of Arabia, Iambulus and one of his companions were
taken to the coast of Ethiopia, where they were ordered to navigate towards the
south until they came to a certain fertile island. Having sailed for about four
months, they reached this island, lived there for seven years, but were compelled
to leave. Resuming their voyage, Iambulus’ companion lost his life when they
were shipwrecked on a sandy and marshy coast of India. Iambulus was brought
by the natives to Palibothra, a city that was many days’ journey from the sea,
and with the help of Palibothra’s philhellene king, Iambulus passed over into
Persia and later arrived in Greece (2.55.2– 5, 60.1– 3). As one may clearly see,
the geographical details, even the geomorphological data of the Indian coast-
line, combined in this journey, are accurate.²⁹ Moreover, the description of Iam-
bulus’ adventures alludes to events of the Hellenistic period, hence illustrating
another aspect that contributes to the authenticity of the story. Palibothra, for
instance, which was the starting point of the major highway that ended in Seleu-
cia on the Tigris, was visited by ambassadors sent by the Seleucid kings (Strab.
2.1.9 C 70, 15.1.36 C 702; Pliny, HN, 6.63; Ptol. Geog. 1.12.9). Yet what catches the
attention is the reference to Julius Caesar, and not only to his abduction by pi-
rates (Plut. Caes. 1.4– 2.4). The imaginary inhabitants of the Island of the Sun
 For various identifications of Panchaea and criticism, see Winiarczyk 2013: 18. For Iambulus’
island, see, e. g., Schwarz 1982; Weerakkody 1997: 171– 177.
 For the Island of the Hyperboreans, see Bridgman 2005: 127– 140 with further references. For
the Island in the Atlantic Ocean, see, e. g., Oldfather 1935: 36 – 37 n. 2; Konrad 1994: 106 – 109
with further references.
 E. g., Hesiod, Virgil, and Ovid; see Sulimani 2011: 185.
 E. g., Ahmad: 126 – 131; Nayak 2005: 555 – 556.
242 Iris Sulimani
are described by Diodorus as benevolent men (ἐπιεικεῖς ἀνθρώπους), who treat-

ed the strangers kindly (ἐπιεικῶς, 2.55.4, 56.1). In fact, Diodorus conveys here one
of the recurrent motifs, expressed in almost the same wording in various parts of
his work and inspired by clementia Caesaris. ³⁰
Real geographical data and references to contemporary historical figures ap-
pear also in Diodorus’ account of the Island in the Atlantic. He states that from
ancient times the Phoenicians made voyages for commercial purposes, during
which they founded many settlements in Libya and the western regions of Eu-
rope. Following their successes, they decided to voyage beyond the Pillars of
Heracles into the sea called ‘Ocean’, establishing the city of Gadeira, in which
they built a temple of Heracles. This temple was held in extraordinary honour
from ancient times down to Diodorus’ own day. Distinguished Romans who
had accomplished great deeds offered vows to Heracles, vows that they fulfilled
after they had achieved success. Diodorus adds that the Phoenicians, while ex-
ploring the coast outside the Pillars, were carried off by strong winds into the
Ocean. After many days they were brought to the island under discussion and,
learning of its nature and prosperity, they revealed it to all (5.20.1– 3).
Diodorus’ account is significant not only because of its accurate historical
and geographical data, which make the Island in the Atlantic Ocean part of
the real world, but also because of the allusion to the author’s own day. First,
the Phoenicians’ voyages and their commercial operations were well known,
and Diodorus himself records their deeds, including the foundation of Gadeira,
in the historical section of his work (25.10.1). Even the story that they were blown
off course accords with reality, for they could have landed in the Madeiras or the
Canaries. Secondly, the reference to ’distinguished Romans’ plainly alludes to
Caesar, for whom Diodorus had special admiration. Diodorus may well have
heard the story of Caesar’s visit to the temple of Heracles in Gadeira, where he
had seen the statue of Alexander, asked for his discharge, and later conferred
Roman citizenship upon the people of Gadeira, an act that was interpreted
as a way of showing his gratitude towards the city in which he first felt that
he was destined for glory (Suet. Iul. 7.1; Cass. Dio, 37.52.2, 41.24.1– 2; cf. Livy,
Per. 110; Caes. B Civ. 2.18). Notwithstanding the problematic nature of this
story, Diodorus may have echoed it in his work, as he echoed Caesar’s deification
and clemency.
By integrating utopia into the real map of the world Diodorus uses the
mythological section of his work to describe the expanded oikoumenē of his
age. In this oikoumenē, even the extremities become reachable, since the idyllic
 Sulimani 2011: 82– 109.

islands are situated at the edges of the earth. It may well be that he modified the
accounts of his sources to suit this purpose. Hence, Diodorus’ islands stand in
marked contrast to Plato’s Atlantis. Indeed, the island of Atlantis was fertile
and contained trees and animals of every kind as well as warm and cold springs
of water; its inhabitants, provided with all the provisions they needed, were kind
and noble, conducting themselves with both gentleness and wisdom. However,
this island was located at a distant point in the Atlantic Ocean, beyond the Pil-
lars of Heracles and, moreover, its inhabitants changed their ways and became
arrogant. Consequently, the island of Atlantis was swallowed up by the sea, and
the Ocean at that spot became impassable (Pl. Ti. 24e – 25d, Criti. 108e – 109c,
113c – 121c).³¹
2 All Over the World: Utopian Motifs in

Descriptions of Real Lands and Islands
Several utopian motifs, appearing in Diodorus’ accounts of the imaginary is-
lands in the mythological section of his Bibliothēkē, recur throughout his
work. These motifs are related to real lands and islands in various regions of
the world.
One conspicuous motif is the idyllic description of the fertility of the land
and its products. Some of the places, visited by Alexander the Great and depicted
by Diodorus in his account of the king’s campaign, are illuminating examples.
Thus, Bagistanē, situated near Media, is a magnificent region full of fruit trees
and all other things that bring pleasure to human beings (17.110.5). The country
of the Uxii, located between Susiana and Persis, is watered by many streams and
rich in fruits of all kinds that contribute to the enjoyment of life (17.67.3). Similar-
ly, the oasis of Ammon is covered with trees of every variety, especially fruit
trees. It is also watered by many springs, one of which is called the ’Spring of
the Sun’, for the temperature of its waters changes peculiarly in accordance
with the times of day (17.50.1, 4– 5). The Fortunate Villages of Hyrcania in the
south of the Caspian Sea rightly deserve their name, according to Diodorus,
for they are rich in crops and vines that produce wine in abundance.³² Fruitful
fig trees also grow in these villages, as well as a unique tree, from the leaves
 Cf. Iambulus’ island: the inhabitants asked Iambulus and his friend to leave, because they
were malefactors and educated towards evil habits. For the impact of Plato’s Atlantis on Diodo-
rus’ authorities, see, e. g., Honigman 2009.
 Eudaimōnes kōmai. Cf. Eudaimōn Arabia below.
244 Iris Sulimani
of which honey drops. The inhabitants take great pleasure from this honey, as
from sweat liquor, made by a winged animal, smaller than the bee. Moreover,
the grain that falls to the ground at the harvest grows without being sown
and brings an abundant harvest (17.75.3 – 7).
The notion of foodstuffs produced of themselves is particularly interesting.
Emphasized twice in the story of Iambulus (2.57.1, 59.3), it appears also in Diodo-
rus’ description of Sicily and India. He states that in the plain of Leontini and
many other parts of Sicily the wheat still grows wild in his day (5.2.4).³³ The Her-
aean Mountains, also in Sicily, are rich in fruits, since vines and various other
fruit trees, found there in profusion, spring up of their own accord. In addition,
a multitude of great oak trees which bear fruit of extraordinary size exist on
these mountains. Highlighting the fact that the area produces an abundant sup-
ply of food, Diodorus tells the story of a huge Carthaginian army that was saved
there when it was facing starvation. (4.84.1). In India, some of the fruits grow
wild; these and the roots that sprout in the marshy areas are remarkably
sweet, providing the people with a great quantity of food (2.36.5). In fact, Diodo-
rus’ long discussion of India (2.35.3 – 39.4) follows closely his portrayal of the
utopian islands. India abounds in all kinds of animals, both beasts and birds,
notable for their great size and strength. The land of India is rich in all sorts
of fruit trees, as well as grain, millet, rice, and many other plants useful for
food. The country is well irrigated by the abundance of water supplied by a mul-
titude of rivers and has two rainy seasons. As a result, the land yields two excel-
lent crops each year, as in the Island of the Hyperboreans (2.47.1). Moreover, the
numerous large and fertile plains, remarkable for their beauty, are covered with
many gardens, while cool winds blow in the hill–country and the waters flow
pure at their very sources. Hence, the inhabitants enjoy an abundant supply of
food and, since they also drink water of the finest quality and breathe a pure
air, their height and bodyweight exceed the norm and they are extremely skilled
in the arts. Adding to the idealization of India, Diodorus states that the Indians
have never suffered a famine due the custom, according to which, although they
are engaged in wars, they never ravage the land of their enemies, nor do they
injure those who are engaged in tilling the soil.
 On this occasion, Diodorus also cites Od. 9.109 – 111, where the poet depicts the land of the
Cyclopes, stating that wheat, barley, and vines grow there uncultivated. Yet the land of the Cy-
clopes is more of a dystopia. Pastoral as it was, Odysseus and his friends met there Polyphemus,
a savage man who knew nothing of justice or of law, and experienced horrible events (Od. 9.116 –
566). Thus, whereas Diodorus’ heroes visited pleasant islands and encountered hospitable peo-
ple, Odysseus hoped in vain for the Cyclopes to entertain him as is the due of strangers
(Od. 9.266 – 275).
Lands depicted in a pastoral fashion are detected in all parts of the world.
Further examples from the west include Sardinia and a region of Iberia. Sardinia
gained so much fame for the profusion of its fruits that the Carthaginians went
through many struggles to gain possession of it (4.29.6), while in Iberia the Cel-
tiberians were provided with an abundance food, notably a great quantity of
honey (5.34.2).³⁴ In the southern part of the universe, Eudaimōn Arabia received
its name, according to Diodorus, because of the multitude of fruits and other
good things that grow there. Stating that the land produces every plant that
has a spicy scent and every kind of aromatic material in profusion, Diodorus
mentions plants and materials such as myrrh, frankincense, and cinnamon
and specifies their uses. He adds that the earth itself is full of a vapour resem-
bling sweet incense (2.49.1– 5). Utopian motifs are incorporated in Diodorus’
description of other regions of Arabia. The land of the Debae, for instance,
has many springs of sweet water as well as a river that carries down gold
dust, whereas its mountain is covered with thickets of trees of every variety
(3.45.1– 5).³⁵ Interestingly, Diodorus highlights one of his most typical ’utopian’
characteristics in his account of two regions in Ethiopia – the territory on the
west bank of the Nile and the land of the Rhizophagi (both provide food in
great abundance, 3.10.1– 4, 23.1– 3) – even though these are not pleasant places
to live in, since a multitude of either elephants or lions disturb the lives of the
inhabitants. This strengthens the idea that Diodorus considered utopia as part
of the real world, as I argue below.
Moderate climate and its contribution to the inhabitants’ good health is an-
other utopian motif incorporated in Diodorus’ description of actual lands. Places
visited by Alexander are, again, good examples. Surrounded by hot regions, the
oasis of Ammon has, according to Diodorus, a temperate climate that reminds
one of spring; thus it offers the people a mild temperature (17.50.1). Founded
and planned by Alexander the Great, Alexandria in Egypt was built in such a
way so that the north–western winds of summer blow across a vast area of
sea and cool the air of the city. Thus, Alexander furnished the inhabitants
with a moderate climate and good health (17.52.2). The Heraean Mountains
 See also Diodorus’ account of Hecatompylus (4.18.1; probably Capsa in Numidia, see Sulima-
ni 2011: 171– 175), the Baliares (5.17.2), and Sybaris (12.9.2).
 See also Diod. 3.45.6 – 8: the land of their neighbours, the Alilaei and the Gasandi, produces
everything and is exceptionally fertile.
246 Iris Sulimani
(4.84.1) and India (2.36.1, 38.4) are also singled out by Diodorus for their pure air
and enjoyable weather.³⁶
In his idyllic descriptions, Diodorus underlines the magnificence of the
country and its beauty, as well as its contribution to the health, relaxation,
and enjoyment of the inhabitants. At times, he even stresses the luxury enjoyed
by the inhabitants. Like the Island in the Atlantic Ocean and Lipara, mentioned
above, Alexandria (17.52.5), Persia (19.22.3), and India (2.16.4) offered the people
everything needed for luxury and wealth. Being one of the sources of wealth,
mines of gold, silver, copper, tin, and iron are found in India (2.36.2), as in Pan-
chaea, and Diodorus emphasizes the existence of various mines in the lands
along the coasts of the Arabian Gulf (3.45.7) and in Britain (5.22.1).³⁷
Apart from the idyllic descriptions of the land and its assets, utopian motifs
that reflect the culture of the Hellenistic era and recur in the Bibliothēkē are also
found in Diodorus’ depictions of real places. Like those of Iambulus’ island, the
inhabitants of Britain are hospitable to strangers (5.22.1), whereas the Arabian
Debae also welcome foreigners, though only Boeotians and Peloponnesians, be-
cause of the friendship shown by Heracles for them (3.45.5). The Gauls invite
strangers to their meals, inquiring only afterwards who they are and what
they need (5.28.5). The Indians appoint magistrates to make sure that no foreign-
er will be ill–treated; if any foreigner falls sick, they bring him a physician and, in
case of death they bury him and turn over his property to his relatives (20.42.3).
The Celtiberians are another striking example. Although they are cruel towards
enemies and criminals, Diodorus stresses that they are benevolent and humane
(ἐπιεικεῖς καὶ φιλάνθρωποι) towards strangers, using the same wording that re-
appears in various parts of his work to convey the idea of kindness (5.34.1).³⁸
The notion of magnanimity towards the ’other’ is well connected with the
coexistence of various peoples, another Diodoran ’utopian’ motif. As already no-
ticed, Alexander’s practice inspired Diodorus, and hence it is not surprising to
find his remark that the new settlers and the natives of Lipara had equal rights
(5.7.6), and that in Alesia, since the locals surpassed the others in multitude, all
the inhabitants were barbarized (4.19.1– 2). Diodorus also underlines that India,
 Diodorus discusses the importance of the sun and the the effect of climate on peoples and
their cultures on several occasions, e. g., 2.51.3 – 53.7; 3.2.1, 33.7– 34.8. See also his reference to
the sun in his accounts of utopian Panchaea (5.44.3) and Iambulus island (2.59.7).
 Cf. 3.45.5: the river that carries down gold dust in the land of the Arabian Debae.
 See the discussion of Iambulus’ island above. See also Diodorus’ account of the Egyptian
king Psammetichus, who took measures to secure the lives of foreigners, since his predecessors
had consistently closed Egypt to strangers, either killing or enslaving those who came to Egypt
from abroad (1.67.9 – 11). Cf. Diodorus’ mythical tales in 3.56.2 and 5.7.7.
perhaps his best instance of utopia in the real world, is inhabited by many peo-
ples of every kind (2.38.1).³⁹ Moreover, he states that all the Indians are free and
that they respect the principle of equality in all human beings (2.39.5), like the
people of Iambulus’ island (2.55.4, 58.1), but they are divided into seven castes
(2.40.1– 5), similar to the Panchaeans (5.45.3). The principle of equality appears
also in Diodorus’ discussion of Rhodes (5.59.6) and the Vaccaei in Iberia
(5.34.3), while peaceful coexistence is also a feature of Britain (5.21.6) and
among the Rhizophagi (3.23.2), as in Iambulus’ island (2.55.4). These notions ac-
cord well with the idea of homonoia, the unity of mankind, mentioned above.
The Ethiopians, according to Diodorus, live in freedom and concord (homonoia)
with one another (3.2.4), and the oracle given to Lycurgus of Sparta declared that
the greatest attention should be devoted to both concord (homonoia) and manly
spirit (7.12.23). The impact of Alexander the Great is obvious: recording the last
plans attributed to the king, Diodorus maintains that Alexander intended to es-
tablish cities and to relocate populations from Asia to Europe and from Europe to
Asia, in order to bring the continents to homonoia and friendship of kinsmen
through marriages and family ties (18.4.4).⁴⁰
To illustrate the influence of the utopian idea on Diodorus’ real world, it is
worth mentioning his description of Demetrius Poliorcetes’ rebuilding of Sicyon
in 303 BCE. Destroying the part of the city near the harbour because it was in-
secure, Demetrius moved the people of Sicyon into the acropolis, for its area
was level and large, surrounded on all sides by cliffs. Additionally, it had an
abundance of water that helped the inhabitants to develop rich gardens. Deme-
trius assisted them in building their houses and restored their free government.
Thus, he provided the people of Sicyon both comfort in time of peace and safety
in time of war. Repeating one of his recurring notions, Diodorus concludes
that Demetrius received divine honours from those whom he had benefited
(20.102.20 – 4). A comparison with the accounts of Strabo (8.6.25 C 383) and Pau-
sanias (2.7.1), who merely note that Demetrius rebuilt the city upon a fortified
hill, reinforces Diodorus’ unique approach.
A thorough comparison with other authors would make this paper too long.
Hence, I will briefly present a few further examples illustrating Diodorus’ distinc-
tive perception. To begin with the oasis of Ammon, Curtius Rufus emphasizes
that, although it is located in the desert, it is covered by many trees and has
many springs of sweet water. He also praises its mild climate but, whereas Di-
 Diodorus, however, was aware that coexistence sometimes failed, for he tells of the Greeks
who had been settled in Bactria and Sogdiana who were unhappy to live with other peoples,
thus revolting after Alexander’s death (17.99.5).
 Cf. Plut. Alex. 68.1; Arr. Anab. 7.1.2; Curt. 10.1.17– 18.
248 Iris Sulimani
odorus underlines especially the oasis’ fruit trees (17.50.1), using almost the same
wording as in his accounts of Panchaea (5.43.1), Hespera (5.53.5), and the Islands
in the Atlantic Ocean (5.19.3) and the river Triton (3.68.5), Curtius omits this es-
sential utopian motif (4.7.16 – 17). Herodotus (2.32) and Strabo (17.3.23 C 838) in-
deed mention the oasis’ palm–trees and supply of water, yet they refer to the site
almost in passing and do not give it much attention. India in Strabo’s detailed
account is fertile, well–watered, and produces plenty of food. However, the na-
ture of his discussion, which includes scientific explanations and citations of not
a few authorities, is quite different from that of Diodorus.⁴¹ Furthermore, unlike
Diodorus, Strabo adds ’shortcomings’ such as his statement that both healing
and poisonous herbs grow in India, and makes a comparison to ’better lands’,
stating, for instance, that the Nile has more advantages than the rivers of
India and that the Seres live longer than the Indians. Another feature that
makes Strabo’s description of India more realistic than Diodorus’ is his referen-
ces to similarities with the Greeks, saying, for example, that some of the Indians
use vigorous young men instead of slaves, as the Cretans use the Aphamiotae
and the Laconians the Helots (15.1.20 – 22 C 693 – 5, 1.34 C 701– 2).⁴² Moreover, al-
though referring to the fertile vines and trees of Hyrcania, Strabo does not men-
tion its Fortunate Villages but, rather, emphasizes its inability to prosper as it
should have (11.7.2 C 508 – 509). Describing the territory of the Uxii, Strabo
does not mention its fertility at all (15.3.6 C 729).
One final example should be introduced. Polybius, who, like Diodorus, vis-
ited Alexandria in Egypt, describes the social conditions in the city which, in his
opinion, were unbearable.⁴³ He states that the inhabitants were divided into
three classes: the mercenaries, who were numerous, severe, and unmanageable;
the native Egyptians, quick to anger and not inclined to deal with affairs of
state; and the Alexandrians, who also did not find political affairs appealing.
The latter were a mixed group of people, but thought better than the native Egyp-
tians, since they were originally Greeks and aware of the Greek customs (quoted
in Strab. 17.1.12 C 797). Apart from revealing a lack of unity in a Hellenistic city,
Polybius’ approach differs from that of Diodorus, for he considered the Greeks
better than the local inhabitants. Diodorus, underlining the idea of the coexis-
tence of various peoples and races in cities on several occasions, never mentions
 Cf. Strabo’s discussion of Alexandria (17.1.7 C 792– 793). See also Curtius (4.8.1– 2, 5 – 6),
whose description of Alexandria is brief and lacks Diodorus’ ’utopian’ highlights.
 See also Strabo’s account of Eudaimōn Arabia (16.4.2 C 767– 8, 25 C 782– 3) and the Debae
(16.4.18 C 777).
 For Diodorus’ visit in Egypt, see Diod. 3.38.1, 17.52.6, with Sacks 1990: 85 – 86, 118 n. 3; Suli-
mani 2011: 129 – 131.
Alexandria’s social stratification when discussing the amount of its population

and the census held in the city at the time of his visit (17.52.6).
Conclusions
The significance of the utopian idea in Diodorus’ thought is revealed by his de-
scription of six imaginary islands, locating them on the actual map of the world
and highlighting their resemblance to real places, as well as by his habit of in-
corporating utopian motifs in his accounts of real lands and islands throughout
the Bibliothēkē. The distinctions between Diodorus’ idyllic accounts and the uto-
pian or dystopian narratives of other authors, and the differences between his
portrayals of real lands and those of other writers, further underline the preva-
lence of the utopian motif in his work. Diodorus was obviously interested in the
evolving ‘utopian genre’ that, following the conquests of Alexander, was influ-
enced by the flowering of geographical literature, travel tales, and ethnographic
accounts.⁴⁴ But this interest alone does not explain the prominence of the uto-
pian element in his description of the world. The explanation may be found in
Diodorus’ awareness of the impact of Alexander’s campaign and its subsequent
developments, as well as the politics of his own day.
Diodorus depicts journeys of gods and heroes in realistic ways throughout
the mythological section of his work. One receives the impression that he
draws the map of the world known in his day through these journeys. Thus,
by establishing the utopian islands at a defined geographical site, he hints
that, although far away, they are within reach. ‘Utopia’ is not a Greek word,
yet its components are Greek. Contrary to the negative ou, however, Diodorus’
utopian island has a topos. Simultaneously, known lands and islands that
bear resemblance to the utopian islands may be found either in the remote
parts of the universe or nearby. Painting the world in such a fashion is perfectly
compatible with the longing of Diodorus’ contemporaries for a better world after
years of wars and their destructive consequences.
Furthermore, Diodorus uses his utopian description of both real and imagi-
nary sites to convey contemporary notions, perhaps even to deliver a message.
He recounts the coexistence of various peoples in a certain place and, although
the inhabitants of this place have different cultures from that of the Greeks, they
are situated inside the world. This recalls the notion of the unity of mankind, and
 See, e. g., Gabba 1981: esp. 55 – 60; Hägg 1983: 117– 118; Holzberg 2003: 621– 628; Whitmarsh
2010.
250 Iris Sulimani
the change in the treatment of the ’other’ in the Hellenistic era. By the time of
Diodorus, when Caesar’s accomplishments became no less influential than
those of Alexander, acceptance of and tolerance towards the ’other’ existed
along with conservatism and distinctions between peoples according to racial
and cultural factors.⁴⁵ Diodorus expresses both these conflicting approaches in
his work.⁴⁶
The impact of Alexander and Caesar may also explain Diodorus’ decision to
incorporate the utopian islands into the actual map of the world. It may well be
that the historian intended to offer an ancient and well–established precedent
for the conquests of both leaders.⁴⁷ To take the Island of the Hyperboreans as
an example, in light of Diodorus’ high regard for Caesar and his constant allu-
sions to the Roman leader’s conduct, it is quite possible that Caesar’s invasion
of Britain inspired Diodorus to include it in his work.⁴⁸ Moreover, Diodorus
may have had a personal reason, that is, to glorify islands, and especially his
home island, as the best place for human beings to live. Significantly, he com-
pares both the island of the Hyperboreans and Britain with Sicily (2.47.1, 5.21.3).
With these aims in mind, accompanied by his enthusiasm for geography and
his idea of the important role that mythology had in the general purpose of his-
tory, Diodorus adds a new dimension to the utopian literature that was wide-
spread in his day.⁴⁹ However, despite the idyllic colours in which he portrays
the world, Diodorus’ world is not perfect. His map of the universe includes
dystopia, as in Ethiopia mentioned above, and in Iberia, where the miners
were slaves, engaged in digging underground day and night, and consequently
dying in large numbers (5.36.3, 38.1). Yet such dystopic places do not refute
the idea that Diodorus considered utopia as part of the actual world; on the con-
trary, they make the world imperfect and thus – real.
 Some of Caesar’s deeds accord well with the theory of the unity of mankind. For instance, he
allowed men who had been given Roman citizenship into the senate, including half–barbarian
Gauls, if Suetonius is to be trusted (Suet. Iul. 76, 80; cf. Cic. Fam. 9.15.2), yet he also depicted a
certain German king as a barbarian, irascible and thoughtless (Caes. B Gall. 1.31).
 Sulimani 2011: 315 – 330, 342– 343.
 See, however, Gabba 1981: 59, maintaining that these islands interested those ’who longed to
escape from the present to an egalitarian dream–world’. Cf. Honigman 2009: 35.
 It is interesting to mention the similarities between my conclusion here and the deductions
of scholars such as Hunter (1993; 1996) and Stephens (2003; 2008; 2011) that, in writing his Ar-
gonautica, Apollonius Rhodius had the Ptolemaic context in mind and that he produced a myth
for Ptolemaic rule in North Africa.
 For Diodorus’ interest in geography and his high regard for mythology, see Sacks 1990 and
Sulimani 2011 with further bibliography.
Figure 1: The Journey of Euhemerus
Figure 2: The Journey of Zeus

252 Iris Sulimani
Figure 3: The Journey of Iambulus
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Inger N.I. Kuin
Laughter in Lucian’s Utopias of the Dead
David Hume, the Scottish Enlightenment philosopher, found solace in reading
the works of Lucian of Samosata on his deathbed, in particular his works
about death and dying. According to Adam Smith, Hume enjoyed the piece
Downward Journey, and possibly also some of the Dialogues of the Dead, during
the final days of his life. In the former piece Charon, Hermes, and Clotho trans-
port the tyrant Megapenthes, whose name means ‘greatly suffering,’ to the un-
derworld, along with the poor cobbler Micyllus, whose name can be translated
as ‘little one.’ While Micyllus gladly leaves his humdrum earthly existence be-
hind, Megapenthes keeps trying to convince the underworld personnel to let
him stay among the living a little longer, but without any success. Dialogues
of the Dead is a collection of exchanges between philosophers, poets, kings,
and, occasionally, regular people set in the underworld. As in Downward Journey,
in these exchanges dying is much harder for the formerly rich and powerful than
for the detached philosopher or the poor man. In Lucian’s writing the under-
world is presented as an egalitarian utopia: wealth or power do not matter any-
more, finally everybody is equal.
The anecdote that Hume read Lucian on his deathbed has come down to us
in two letters. Aside from Adam Smith, William Cullen mentions the story in a
letter to John Hunter. Both letters date to the fall of 1776, shortly after Hume’s
death. Smith’s letter contains more detail, and is worth citing at some length.
Writing to William Strahan on November 9, 1776, Smith describes Hume’s en-
gagement with Lucian’s texts as follows:
[A]mong all the excuses which are alleged to Charon for not entering readily into his boat,
he could not find one that fitted him: he had no house to finish, he had no daughter to
provide for, he had no enemies upon whom he wished to revenge himself. “I could not
well imagine,” said he, “what excuse I could make to Charon, in order to obtain a little
delay. I have done every thing of consequence which I ever meant to do, and I could at
no time expect to leave my relations and friends in a better situation than that in which
I am now likely to leave them: I therefore have all reason to die contented.” He then divert-
ed himself with inventing several jocular excuses, which he supposed he might make to
Charon, and with imagining the very surly answers which it might suit the character of
Charon to return to them. “Upon further consideration,” said he, “I thought I might say
to him, “Good Charon, I have been correcting my works for a new edition. Allow me a little
time that I may see how the public receives the alterations.” But Charon would answer,
“When you have seen the effect of these, you will be for making other alterations. There
will be no end of such excuses; so, honest friend, please step into the boat.” But I might
still urge, “Have a little patience, good Charon, I have been endeavouring to open the
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-014
256 Inger N.I. Kuin
eyes of the public. If I live a few years longer, I may have the satisfaction of seeing the
downfall of some of the prevailing systems of superstition.” But Charon would then lose
all temper and decency. “You loitering rogue, that will not happen these many hundred
years. Do you fancy I will grant you a lease for so long a term? Get into the boat this instant,
you lazy loitering rogue.”¹
The excuses that Hume considers but rejects – finishing a house, providing for
his family, exacting revenge from enemies – all come from Downward Journey,
from the mouth of Megapenthes. The two excuses that he does attempt are
also reminiscent of the tyrant’s requests: he, too, wants to know how things
are going among the living, and his desire to get just a little more time “to com-
plete the conquest of the Pisidians, and to impose tribute on Lydia” is as unre-
alistic as Hume’s request to stay alive to see the downfall of superstition.²
Charon’s role, as imagined by Hume, functions in two ways. It allows Hume
through Charon (and through Smith) to make a final snide remark about his
countrymen’s alleged superstition. Secondly, through gentle self-mockery
Hume highlights the utopian egalitarianism of the underworld: Charon can
call a famous philosopher a rogue with impunity in his realm. By emulating Lu-
cian’s text Hume is able to joke about his own impending demise. The anecdote
about Hume reading Lucian on his deathbed highlights the potential of Lucian’s
underworld texts to alleviate people’s fears of death and dying through humour.
This chapter will consider Lucian’s utopian eschatological scenarios with
two central questions in mind. First, what message do these pieces send about
(ancient) utopianism? Second, what is the function of making these eschatolog-
ical utopias humorous? Scholars have recognised the utopian features of Lu-
cian’s underworld texts, but they have been studied primarily for their connec-
tion to Cynic philosophy, on the one hand, and their influence on early
 Adam Smith to William Strahan on November 9, 1776, published in Birkbeck Hill 1888:
xxxiv – xl.
 The relevant passages in Downward Journey are 8 – 9 and 11– 12. In his letter Smith writes in
fact that Hume was reading Dialogues of the Dead, but the contents of that work do not fit with
the rest of the anecdote; Cullen has a truncated version of the same anecdote and does mention
the correct piece, Downward Journey; in another letter by Smith, to Alexander Wedderburn,
Hume is simply said to be reading Lucian’s dialogues and thinking of excuses to delay death,
cf. Baier 2008: 100 – 110. Perhaps Smith got his Lucian texts mixed up, or perhaps he knew
that Hume had been reading both, and thought it necessary only to mention the Dialogues of
the Dead because his correspondent would recognize the other piece from Hume’s parody.
modern utopian thought on the other (Thomas More in particular).³ I focus, in-
stead, on the meta-utopian and humorous aspects of Lucian’s underworld(s),
which are vital to our understanding of these works.
The post-mortem setting of Lucian’s utopianism stands in a long tradition of
using the great beyond to think through idealising world visions. The katabaseis
in Aristophanes and Vergil are good examples, as well as the afterlife myths in
Plato’s Gorgias and Republic, and, perhaps, a now lost utopian katabasis narra-
tive by Menippus. The question arises why the afterlife was seen as a suitable
canvas for utopian thought. The ancients did not have a dogmatic, unified vision
of life after death – in fact ancient ideas about eschatology were often quite
bleak – so when authors present a positive version of the underworld they
have made a conscious decision to do so.⁴ One reason why the afterlife was a
natural space for utopian thought may be that, as the great unknown, it accom-
modates speculative scenarios that cannot be unproven. Additionally, death can
be understood as a state of hindsight: it makes sense to attribute to those who
have departed from life a special, disinterested insight into how it might be
lived best. Ideally they would put these insights, we might imagine, into practice
in their own community of the dead.
In Lucian’s underworld texts the hindsight of the dead translates into two
types of afterlife. On the one hand, there is a group of pieces (Downward Journey,
Dialogues of the Dead, and Menippus) where the underworld represents an ide-
alized egalitarian community: differences in wealth and status have fallen away,
and all dead shades are equal. On the other hand, in the novel True Histories the
blessed ones enjoy a diet of unending milk, honey, and mirth, ‘living’ in a land
of luxurious abundance. Into both scenarios, however, Lucian inserts major
question marks. Would everybody be happy with an egalitarian afterlife? If
there were abundance of everything, would (dead) people really stop fighting
each other over resources? By raising these questions inside his utopian fanta-
sies Lucian undermines the ideal scenarios from within. I will suggest that in Lu-
cian the unfeasibility of a utopian existence even in death – leaving aside the
difficult issue of whether there can be any ‘existence’ in death at all – can be
read as a comment on utopian thought as such. Even beyond the dark notion
 Lucian’s underworld and Cynicism: Baldwin 1961; Relihan 1987. Lucian’s underworld and
early modern utopian thought: Robinson 1979: 130 – 133; Branham 1985; Romm 1991; Marsh
1998: 193 – 197; Raisch 2016.
 On diversity of and changes in attitudes towards death see Sourvinou Inwood 1995 (her survey
only goes to the end of the classical period; by Lucian’s lifetime attitudes had become, if any-
thing, even more diverse on account of the rise of new cults like Mithraism). See Edmonds
2004: 1– 28 on katabasis literature.
258 Inger N.I. Kuin
of having to die to reach utopia, Lucian’s dream worlds expose themselves

through their inner contradictions as ou-topias, ‘no places,’ rather than eu-top-
ias, ‘good places.’
The second issue that this chapter will take up is the possibility that Lucian’s
utopian underworld scenarios were intended to have a therapeutic effect through
humour. The inner contradictions of his utopian underworlds are accompanied
by laughter on the part of the characters, and, in response to this, on the part
of the audience. Freud, in his analysis of humour, paid special attention to
laughter in unlikely, dire circumstances, which he termed ‘gallows humour.’
He viewed this type of laughter as a coping mechanism to dispel negative emo-
tions about death, providing release both to the joker and the audience of the
joke. I will suggest that Lucian’s preoccupation with death and the afterlife
as a source of humour, at least in part, aimed at alleviating people’s fear of
death and dying. Even if they are in fact ou-topias, Lucian’s utopias of the
dead are helpful if not vital imaginary worlds to escape to for a laugh.
The structure of this chapter will be as follows. In the next section I will dis-
cuss Freud’s account of gallows humour, as well as more recent approaches to
this phenomenon. In the third section I turn to Lucian’s seemingly paradisiacal
eschatological scenario in True Histories, and its darker corners. In the fourth
section I treat the three Lucianic pieces (Downward Journey, Dialogues of the
Dead, and Menippus) that together represent the egalitarian version of Lucian’s
underworld. I will conclude this chapter with some brief reflections on the role of
humour in utopianism, using Lucian’s most famous follower, Thomas More, as
an example.
1 Gallows humour
A criminal who was being led out to execution on a Monday remarked: “Well, the
week is beginning nicely.” Freud uses this anecdote as an example of humour
twice, both in Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious, and in his later
essay titled “Humour.”⁵ Many variations on this anecdote exist, with prisoners
about to be executed asking for a scarf so as to not catch a cold, or someone be-
fore a firing squad declining a last cigarette because he is trying to cut down.⁶
The punch line in each instance is the same: the prisoner who is about to die
a violent death denies his imminent demise by casually referring to his (near)
 Freud 1960 [1905]: 284; cf. 1999 [1927]: 4541.

 Scarf joke: also Freud 1960 [1905]: 285 – 286; cigarette joke: Thorson 1993: 23.
future self. In his book on jokes Freud describes Galgenhumor, or gallows hu-
mour, as “the crudest case of humour,” but also as having “something like mag-
nanimity.”⁷ Humour differs from joking in that it requires the participation of
only one person, namely the person who makes a humorous remark about his
or her own circumstances.⁸ A joke is a three way transaction, involving one per-
son making a joke, a second person laughing at the joke, and a third person (ab-
sent or present) who is the victim of the joke.⁹ For Freud humour, then, occurs in
more or less dire circumstances, and as such amounts to strong or mild gallows
humour.
In Jokes Freud explains the function of humour as “a means of obtaining
pleasure in spite of the distressing affects that interfere with it; it acts as a sub-
stitute for the generation of these affects, it puts itself in their place.”¹⁰ In the
essay “Humour” Freud elaborates on the grandeur of gallows humour, describ-
ing it as “a triumph of narcissism.” It makes the ego invulnerable by fending off
the emotions or affects to which a distressing situation would normally give rise.
Instead, traumas are shown to be merely occasions for the ego to gain pleasure.¹¹
Freud locates the strategy of humour in the super-ego, which uses it to console
and protect the ego in a father-like manner.¹²
Although for humour, unlike a joke, interaction is not a prerequisite, an on-
looker will be affected. (Also, given that these anecdotes have entered oral tra-
ditions, someone heard them and passed them on.) According to Freud, prior
to hearing the humorous quip, the onlooker had prepared to call up the emotion-
al impulses that he or she expected the situation of the sufferer to produce. This
expectation is disappointed when the individual, instead of crying or moaning,
makes a jest. The anticipated sympathetic emotion in the onlooker is replaced
with humorous pleasure.¹³ On this interpretation, gallows humour serves as a
coping mechanism both for the suffering individual and for the witness or wit-
nesses to the suffering: the humour enables both parties to escape negative emo-
tions that would otherwise most likely arise from the situation.
In his account of gallows humour Freud also includes literary forms of the
phenomenon. A writer or narrator can describe the behaviour of real or imagina-
ry people in a humorous manner, whether or not the characters display any hu-
 Freud 1960 [1905]: 285.

 Freud 1960 [1905]: 285; cf. 1999 [1927]: 4544.
 Freud 1960 [1905]: 118.
 Freud 1960 [1905]: 284.
 Freud 1999 [1927]: 4542.
 Ibid.: 4544– 4545.
 Ibid.: 4541.
260 Inger N.I. Kuin
mour themselves. In other words, the audience can derive pleasure from the fact
that the suffering of others is presented humorously, even if the character within
the narrative does not participate in the jesting at all.¹⁴
In contemporary scholarship the terms ‘gallows humour’ and ‘dark humour’
are used most often to describe the jesting among medical workers and other
professionals frequently exposed to death. The crude humour that can be prev-
alent among doctors, fire fighters, policemen, or undertakers is commonly un-
derstood as a means of adapting to repeated contact with extreme human suffer-
ing and death. This kind of scholarship clearly takes as a starting point Freud’s
analysis of gallows humour as a strategy to dispel anticipated negative emotion-
al reactions to death or suffering. It departs from Freud’s approach, however, in
that in the situations described the jesting is undertaken not by the sufferers, nor
by a narrator or writer, but by the witnesses. Thorson has expanded Freud’s no-
tion of gallows humour to include this type of jesting about someone else’s (im-
pending) death. He defines gallows humour as necessarily intentional and hav-
ing a coping motive; and, he distinguishes humour to cope with one’s own
suffering and jesting about the suffering of others, respectively, as higher and
lower forms of the same phenomenon.¹⁵
The ancient Greek jokebook Philogelos contains quips that are remarkably
close to modern examples of gallows humour. In two jokes the punchline re-
volves around an unhealthy location being a downside to a particular spot for
a gravesite.¹⁶ Like anecdotes about prisoners asking for a scarf or declining a cig-
arette, these jokes are funny because they allude to future risks of ill health that
are entirely irrelevant as they are precluded by imminent (or even already actual)
death. The dating of this collection is vexed, because the jokes evidently come
from various sources and periods, but it is at the very least likely that many of
them circulated in Lucian’s lifetime.¹⁷ The register, then, of joking about death
and dying, and even more specifically the mechanism of gallows humour where-
 Ibid.: 4541.
 Thorson 1993. For gallows humour among professionals dealing with death see e. g. Watson
2011 (on doctors); Sliter et al. 2014 (on fire fighters); Vivona 2014 (on crime scene investigators).
 Nos. 26 and 73 Dawe. On death, dying, and funerals compare also nos. 18, 22, 29, 38 – 40, 57,
69 – 70, 77, 90, 97, 123, 139, 154, 168, 171, 174, 176, 185, 187, 201, 214, 227, 229, 231, 247– 248, 257– 258
Dawe. In other words, there are thirty-two jokes concerning (human) death and dying, which is a
rather significant number in a collection of 265 jokes in total.
 No. 62 Dawe can securely be dated to 248 CE. The collection as a whole is conventionally
dated to roughly the fourth century CE, Thierfelder 1968: 12– 15; cf. Baldwin 1983: iv-viii;
Dawe 2000: v; Troca Pereira 2013: 13 – 14; Beard 2014: 186 – 201.
by the imminent demise of death is denied through laughter, was current already
in or close to Lucian’s lifetime.
In this chapter I am considering the humour created by Lucian about death,
dying, and the underworld. This means that by definition we are dealing with
humorous descriptions of the emotions of others in extreme circumstances by
an author. Such descriptions, as discussed by Freud, can prevent audience mem-
bers from feeling the negative, empathic affects that would be the anticipated
response to these literary depictions of suffering. Within Lucian’s narratives we
will also encounter, however, examples of ‘first order’ gallows humour, when
the author has characters make fun of their own plight; in these cases the antici-
pated empathic response of the audience is also prevented. This process is anal-
ogous to the relief felt by ‘live’ onlookers when someone jests about their own
extreme circumstances.
The relief provided by both types of gallows humour in Lucian, the ‘literary’
and the ‘onlooker’ kind, goes beyond the realm of empathy in an important way.
When audience members laugh about fear and grief experienced by Lucian’s
characters this laughter is transferable: while the laughter is prompted by the
fear of death, or a lack thereof, of fictional characters, on a deeper level this
laughter can also target and thereby pre-empt their own fears. Sooner or later
death comes for everyone and (some degree of) fear of death can be understood
as a near-universal affliction.¹⁸ When Lucian, as a performer, makes fun of topics
surrounding death he is in the same circumstance as his audience: all are under
the certain threat of death and have to cope with the uncertainty of what dying
entails. Lucian’s humour is capable of at least temporarily dispelling shared
anxieties about one’s own death, or about the loss of loved ones; in this way
it comes quite close to the ‘first order’ gallows humour directed at oneself.
David Hume’s parody of Lucian’s Downward Journey is an example where literary
gallows humour instigated a moment of such real life gallows humour.
2 The utopia of the Island of the Blessed

At the beginning of the second book of True Histories a weary traveller named
‘Lucian’ puts in at the Island of the Blessed (VH 2.5 – 29), having already visited
 I understand fear of death broadly here, including the fear of being dead, of one’s life end-
ing, of the process of dying, and of premature death, cf. Warren 2004: 1– 16.
262 Inger N.I. Kuin
a number of marvellous places, some extra-terrestrial, in the first book. ¹⁹ In the

True Histories the Island has room for any deceased individuals deserving of a
beautiful afterlife, not, as in archaic Greek poetry, only for the heroes. Lucian’s
account of the Island of the Blessed incorporates features of the afterlife as
described in epic, as well as aspects of other, non-eschatological epic locales.
Additionally, it contains elements from descriptions of utopian places in prose
authors, most notably Plato’s Republic. The character ‘Lucian’ and his compan-
ions are allowed to enter the Island alive only by exceptional dispensation
from Rhadamanthus (VH 2.10), which mirrors the katabasis-motif from epic
and drama.²⁰
Lucian’s detailed, fantastical description of life on the Island of the Blessed
turns the place into a crossover between the New Jerusalem of John’s Apocalypse
and Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.²¹ The Island smells of flowers, while bird
song and rustling leaves provide a pleasant soundtrack (VH 2.5). The city on
the Island is opulent: it is surrounded by a large river of myrrh, has a wall
made of emerald, foundations of ivory, seven gates of cinnamon, and beryl tem-
ples with amethyst altars for all the gods (VH 2.11). The inhabitants are naked but
for the purple spider webs they wear (VH 2.12). Nobody grows old, it is always
dawn and always spring (VH 2.12). Food and drink grow and flow freely: grape-
vines yield twelve times a year and fruit-trees thirteen times, bread grows ready-
made on reeds, there are 365 springs of water, 365 springs of honey, 500 springs
of myrrh, seven rivers of milk, and eight rivers of wine (VH 2.13). The inhabitants
lie down for dinner on couches made of flowers. Their wine cups fill automati-
cally, much like the self-filling mixing-bowl in Ovid’s story of Baucis and Phile-
mon (Met. 8.682– 686), and they pass the time with music, poetry (Homer!), and
laughter (VH 2.14– 15).
It will be necessary to take a closer look at the depiction of the laughter of
the inhabitants of the Island of the Blessed. According to the narrator laughter is
an integral part of their blessedness:
 The first-person narrator reveals his name in VH 2.28. On the distinction between narrator
and author in VH see Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 58; Von Möllendorff 2000: 420 – 423; Ní
Mheallaigh 2014: 254– 258.
 At VH 2.10 the Island’s inhabitants are called heroes, but many non-heroes do reside there,
and ‘Lucian’ is promised a spot if he behaves well at VH 2.27– 28, cf. Cat. 24; for there being only
dead heroes on the Island see Hes., Op. 167– 176, Pi., O. 78 – 80 and, Hom., Od. 4.561– 569. On the
many sources for Lucian’s description of the Island see Hall 1981: 339 – 354; Rütten 1997: 62n7;
Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 182– 184; Von Möllendorff 2000: 286 – 308, 321– 338.
 Compare John, Apoc. 21.11– 22.5; cf. Betz 1961: 92– 96; Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 189 –
190; Von Möllendorff 2000: 318 – 321.
The greatest thing that they have for the purpose of good cheer, are two springs next to the
table, one of laughter, and one of pleasure. They all drink from each when the revels begin
and from then on pass the time enjoying themselves and laughing.²²
Only in Lucian do we find springs of laughter and pleasure on the Island of the
Blessed, though scholars have pointed to some possible intertexts. Theopompus’
dystopian city Anostos is surrounded by a river of sorrow and a river of pleasure
(Ael., VH 3.18), and Plutarch also describes laughter as an important ingredient
of the blessed afterlife (De sera 565 f– 566a).²³ The presence of laughter in a uto-
pian afterlife setting is in some sense unsurprising. In Greek thought it is a key
ingredient of festivity, and laughter can even be presented as a life force on a par
with food and drink (for instance in Homeric Hymn to Demeter 200 – 205). What
does seem quite surprising, however, is the fact that the inhabitants of the Island
of the Blessed consume laughter and pleasure from springs.
The Island of the Blessed, in Lucian’s description, offers its residents an ide-
alized, utopian post-mortem existence that caters to all the senses. On this first
account the inhabitants appear to enjoy a never-ending symposium, so how can
they still need springs for pleasure and laughter? Should endless food and drink,
pleasant smells, and music not already provide sufficient pleasure, and induce
blissful laughter? One possibility is that the inhabitants become so accustomed
to their perpetual utopian bliss, that they do not automatically derive pleasure
and mirth from it anymore. The springs perhaps serve as “a refresher of their
feeling of happiness akin to narcotics,”²⁴ reminding them that they in fact are
experiencing pleasure, and should be enjoying laughter. While at first it seemed
simply like the opposite of the laughter elicited by gallows humour – pure mirth
produced by pure bliss – the laughter on the Island of the Blessed is actually
more complex. Imagining shades that have been so dulled by happiness that
they need to be reminded of their joys is darkly humorous. On this interpretation
the two springs represent the first cracks in the utopia of the Island of the
Blessed: eternal bliss is impossible, the author seems to tell us, precisely because
it is eternal.²⁵
 VH 2.16: μέγιστον δὲ δὴ πρὸς εὐφροσύνην ἐκεῖνο ἔχουσιν˙ πηγαί εἰσι δύο παρὰ τὸ συμπόσιον,
ἡ μὲν γέλωτος, ἡ δὲ ἡδονῆς˙ ἐκ τούτων ἑκατέρας πάντες ἐν ἀρχῇ τῆς εὐωχίας πίνουσιν καὶ τὸ
λοιπὸν ἡδόμενοι καὶ γελῶντες διάγουσιν. Texts are from Macleod’s OCT edition; translations
from the Greek are my own.
 Connection to Theopompus: Hall 1981: 347; cf. Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 194; to Plu-
tarch: Von Möllendorff 2000: 327.
 Rütten 1997: 70n33. The translation from the German is mine.
 Compare Halliwell (2008: 443 – 454) on Charon for the idea that in Lucian a positive feature
of the human condition is our ability to find genuine value in our finite existences.
264 Inger N.I. Kuin
On the Island of the Blessed the fulfilment of sexual desire is also amply pro-
vided for. Lucian tells us that the shades enjoy much sexual liberty: they have
the women in common, the boys give themselves freely, and they have sex out
in the open. The narrator comments: “they are in this respect the most Platon-
ic.”²⁶ This is both an allusion to Plato’s Republic, where it is notoriously proposed
that men should share wives (R. 457c), and to the role of some form of homoerot-
ic love between boys and men in Platonic thought. Lucian also teasingly com-
petes with Plato as a utopian author, since his utopia is even more Platonic
than Plato’s. For modern audiences there is an additional joke: in part due to
the influence of Marsilio Ficino, nowadays Platonic of course means the opposite
of what Lucian intends here – the non-sexual, spiritual love that Socrates, ac-
cording to Plato, practiced with his companions.²⁷
From the traveller’s general description of the conditions on the Island the
narrative moves on to a catalogue of the dead, and several events that unfold
during the stay of ‘Lucian’ and his companions. In the catalogue of the dead
Plato is notably absent. The narrator offers the following comment:
Plato alone was not there. And it was said that instead he was living in the city fashioned
by him, under the government and the laws he himself wrote.²⁸
With this remark Lucian, again, presents his Island of the Blessed as a rival to
Plato’s Republic. As it turns out most everyone has ‘chosen’ his utopia over Pla-
to’s. Other philosophers who are absent include the Stoics: they are still climbing
up their steep hill of virtue. The Academicians are also missing, because they
cannot decide whether the Island exists or not. The Island is inhabited, in addi-
tion to the heroes, by Cynic and Epicurean philosophers, famous historic rulers
and politicians, and various writers and poets. Socrates is present, always in the
company of beautiful boys. The narrator believes Hyacinthus must be his favour-
ite, because he refuses him the most (VH 2.17).
The inhabitants of the Island do not spend all their time idling. One thing
they like to do is litigate. Archon Rhadamanthus has to judge several court
cases, which ‘Lucian’ and his companions witness when they first arrive. Rhada-
manthus decides that Ajax can sit with the heroes, as long as he allows himself
 VH 2.19: εἰσὶ περὶ τοῦτο μάλιστα Πλατωνικώτατοι. For another Lucianic reference to R. 457c
see Fug. 18; for a similar use of the adjective Platonic see Str., 7.3.7.
 See Wurm 2008 for Ficino on love in Plato.
 VH 2.17: Πλάτων δὲ μόνος οὐ παρῆν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐλέγετο [καὶ] αὐτὸς ἐν τῇ ἀναπλασθείσῃ ὑπ᾽ αὐτοῦ
πόλει οἰκεῖν χρώμενος τῇ πολιτείᾳ καὶ τοῖς νόμοις οἷς συνέγραψεν. On other notable exclusions
see Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 195 – 200; Von Möllendorff 2000: 345 – 363.
to be treated for insanity by Hippocrates first (VH 2.6 – 7). Helen should live with
Menelaus, instead of Theseus, because the former had suffered much more on
account of her (VH 2.8). Rhadamanthus decides that Alexander outranks Hanni-
bal, and should be seated next to Cyrus of Persia.²⁹ In addition to litigating, the
Island dwellers also have to fight wars. The inhabitants of the Island of the
Wicked attack, and Achilles and Socrates excel in the battle that ensues
(VH 2.23). In another attack a mythical king of Cyprus, Cinyras, tries to steal
away Helen. He is assisted by three of ‘Lucian’s’ comrades, while the narrator
himself, he claims, happened to be taking a nap under the table at the time.
The attempt is thwarted, but Rhadamanthus orders ‘Lucian’ and his comrades
to leave the Island (VH 2.25 – 26).³⁰ As they are about to depart Odysseus man-
ages to slip the narrator a letter for Calypso with remarkable content: he prom-
ises to return to her as soon as he can get away from the Island of the Blessed
(VH 2.29, 2.35)!
While the presence of springs of pleasure and laughter seemed to undermine
implicitly the utopian quality of existence on the Island of the Blessed, the
events that ‘Lucian’ the narrator describes do so explicitly. The Island dwellers
are quarrelling with each other over status (Alexander and Hannibal) and
women (Theseus, Menelaus, and Cinyras). Odysseus wants to leave the Island
of the Blessed. And we learn that even in the underworld there is no safety
from war. Some of these events seem to be inconsistent with Lucian’s initial de-
scription: if women are in common, how come everybody is still competing for
Helen? Other elements just appear very out of place: how can the shades possi-
bly fight over who sits where at a table full of self-filling wine cups?
It has been argued that the narrator’s depiction of life on the Island of the
Blessed serves to ridicule human nature, since even under the most blessed cir-
cumstances, it turns out, we humans manage to be profoundly unhappy as a re-
sult of our own attitudes.³¹ On this interpretation the ennui and over-satisfaction
discussed above, which the springs of pleasure needed to solve, are part of a
larger problem of unhappiness on the Island. On the one hand Lucian’s account
of afterlife paradise raises the philosophical question whether unlimited and un-
compounded pleasure can produce unlimited blessedness. The presence of the
springs suggests that they do not. The other problem is whether humans are ca-
 Compare D. mort. 25 where Scipio convinces Minos of the same, saying that he, Scipio, is
certainly lesser than Alexander but still defeated Hannibal.
 At VH 2.10 Rhadamanthus had promised that they could stay seven months; they are expel-
led after six and a half months. For Cinyras compare Ov., Met. 10.298 – 518, where he engages in
incest with his daughter Myrrha.
 Rütten 1997: 66 – 67, 78 – 79.
266 Inger N.I. Kuin
pable or even suited to live in such a state of bliss. The events on the Island sug-
gest that a major threat to a utopian locale is the fact that its inhabitants bring
their bad natures with them. The conflicts of the Island dwellers expose the uto-
pia of the Island of the Blessed as an ou-topia: even if one wanted to believe that
such a place could exist, the inhabitants would spoil it right away.
Lucian’s account of the Island of the Blessed casts doubt on (eschatological)
utopianism by pointing out that ideal circumstances are insufficient for humans
(as they are) to lead an ideal existence. This criticism is perhaps simplistic – it is
noteworthy that aside from Socratic conversation in his Necracademy (VH 2.23)
there is no system of education on the Island to potentially mitigate the problem
– but the underlying issue, whether perhaps humans need finitude for happi-
ness, is not easily resolved. At the same time, Lucian’s True Histories is anything
but a philosophical treatise. Its primary, stated purpose is to provide its audience
some educated entertainment (VH 1.2– 3). Does the humour of the episode on the
Island of the Blessed succeed? And to what extent can it be understood as gal-
lows humour?
Aside from quick jokes at the expense of Plato and other philosophers, a
strong comic incongruity between the fantastical features described and the me-
thodical, detached tone used to describe them pervades the account of the Island
of the Blessed as a whole. Through his emphatic specificity (e. g., regarding the
number of springs of honey), and his political language (Rhadamanthus is arch-
on and “guards” and “patrols” protect the Island, VH 2.6), Lucian appears to be
parodying the historiography of Herodotus and Thucydides, among others.³² Life
on the Island is clearly too good to be true, yet Lucian stubbornly insists on its
truthfulness through his serious reporting. Another powerful comic incongruity
is the contrast, just discussed, between the idyllic circumstances and the petti-
ness of the characters. The baroque, over the top description evokes in the audi-
ence’s imagination comically scandalous images of drunk shades dressed in pur-
ple spider webs having sex out in the open.
Lucian’s account exposes the Island of the Blessed, at least in part a parody
of earlier utopian thought, as an ou-topia, and the dead themselves are to blame.
This rather pessimistic message, undermining both visions of post-mortem bliss
and utopian ideals for the living, is presented through humour. Some audience
members might indeed have had an idealised vision of what happens after
death, some may have had negative expectations, and some no expectations
 The patrols (περίπολοι) are a reference to ephebes that guarded the frontiers in Athens, Geor-
giadou and Larmour 1998: 186. At VH 1.1– 4 the narrator explicitly announces that he will parody
historiography, cf. Saïd 1994: 150 – 163; Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 28 – 40, 183, 192– 193; Kim
2010: 144– 157.
at all. Whatever one’s outlook is, however, nobody can ever be absolutely sure
about the existence and nature of the afterlife. Lucian’s True Histories presents
the audience with a best-case scenario: there is an afterlife and it is paradise.
But even the best-case scenario quickly turns sour because, it appears, human
misery is incorrigible, and gets imported into afterlife utopia. The many strands
of humour accompanying the episode of the Island of the Blessed throughout
pre-empt, I suggest, the customary fear and apprehension that thinking about
the afterlife – whatever one’s expectation might be – typically evokes. It is in
this sense that the humour of this section of True Histories can be understood
as a kind of gallows humour. Audience members are invited to laugh at the in-
congruities of the miserable paradise of the Island of the Blessed. In doing so
they are also making fun of their own fears and expectations: there is no reason
to think that, if they should ever make it to the Island, they would behave any
better.
The next section of this chapter is concerned with the much more sober ver-
sion of the afterlife in Lucian’s egalitarian underworld pieces, but before turning
to those texts there is one example of gallows humour on the part of the narrator
in True Histories, concerning the also gloomy Islands of the Wicked, that de-
serves brief mention. After their departure the narrator ‘Lucian’ and his com-
rades put in at one of the five Islands of the Wicked, and it is the polar opposite
of the Island of the Blessed. The rocky and infertile island, sown with sword
blades and surrounded by rivers of mud, blood, and fire, smells terrible, looks
murky, and the sounds are scourges and wailing instead of bird song and rus-
tling leaves (VH 2.29 – 30).³³ ‘Lucian’ becomes afraid, but he alleviates this fear
through a joke about himself:
[T]hose who told lies while they were alive and who had written untrue things suffered the
severest punishments of all, among them were Ktesias of Knidos and Herodotus and many
others. On seeing them, I had good hopes for the future, for I was not aware of ever having
told a lie.³⁴
 On the possible sources of this description see Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 213 – 215; Von
Möllendorff 2000: 427– 432.
 VH 2.31: καὶ μεγίστας ἁπασῶν τιμωρίας ὑπέμενον οἱ ψευσάμενοί τι παρὰ τὸν βίον καὶ οἱ μὴ τὰ
ἀληθῆ συγγεγραφότες, ἐν οἷς καὶ Κτησίας ὁ Κνίδιος ἦν καὶ Ἡρόδοτος καὶ ἄλλοι πολλοί. τούτους
οὖν ὁρῶν ἐγὼ χρηστὰς εἶχον εἰς τοὐπιὸν τὰς ἐλπίδας˙ οὐδὲν γὰρ ἐμαυτῷ ψεῦδος εἰπόντι συνη-
πιστάμην. It seems remarkable for Homer and Hesiod to be spared this punishment (both are on
the Island of the Blessed, VH 2.22), but within the program of VH as an exploration of the fault
lines between truth and lies it is rather apt, cf. Von Möllendorff 2000: 432– 436.
268 Inger N.I. Kuin
This joke is a reference to the opening of True Histories. There the narrator harsh-
ly criticises the historiographers for lying, while announcing that he is about to
tell a story entirely made up of lies, truthful only in its honesty about being de-
ceitful (VH 1.3 – 4). The narrator ‘Lucian’ is quick to leave the Island of the
Wicked precisely because he does know that he is a liar.³⁵ ‘Lucian’ tries to sup-
press his fear of death provoked by the gruesome spectacle with a self-conscious
jest.
3 The egalitarian afterlife

The underworld of the pieces Dialogues of the Dead, Menippus, and Downward
Journey, in sharp contrast to VH’s Island of the Blessed, appears as a destitute
and dark place. From the viewpoint of numerous important Lucianic characters,
however, this is actually a good thing. In all three pieces death is depicted as the
great equaliser, erasing the differences between the rich and the poor, the power-
ful and the powerless, and the beautiful and the ugly. Lucian repeatedly shows
this egalitarian underworld through the eyes of characters that experience it as a
utopia because of their philosophical bent, or simply because of the lowly sta-
tion they had in life. Those who enjoy the egalitarianism of this underworld uto-
pia express their pleasure often through laughter.
I begin with a brief example from the piece Menippus to illustrate how much
joy an egalitarian underworld can bring to a philosopher. This dialogue de-
scribes Menippus’ katabasis, forming a diptych of sorts with Icaromenippus,
which featured his ascent to heaven. Menippus, wanting to talk about the best
life with Teiresias, finds a Chaldaean sorcerer who helps him gain access to
the underworld by means of an elaborate ritual and a Heracles-disguise. Hera-
cles, of course, travelled to the underworld to capture Cerberus, and is therefore
a good model; Menippus’ Heracles-disguise is also an imitation of Dionysus’ cos-
tume in Aristophanes Frogs, who copied the hero’s attire for the same reason.
Upon Menippus’ arrival in the underworld he learns that all the dead are strip-
ped of their earthly possessions and status, and he is delighted:
After stripping off all their splendour, I mean their wealth and their lineage and their
power, they stood there naked with hanging head, reviewing point by point their happy
 The first person narrator of the introduction of VH and the narrative are one and the same,
cf. ibid.: 62– 63, 432– 436; contra Georgiadou and Larmour 1998: 216, who distinguish between
the two, and Ní Mheallaigh 2014: 173 – 174, who, in similar vein, attributes a Homer-Odysseus-
like relationship to the narrators.
life among us [i. e. the living] as if it had been a dream. I was enjoying myself thoroughly
seeing all this…³⁶
Menippus continues to describe how he went up to the formerly rich to remind

them of their pleasant previous existence among the living, and upset them even
more (Men. 12). Additionally, the philosopher is pleased to find out that the ugly
Thersites and beautiful Nireus have become indistinguishable (Men. 15), and in
Dialogues of the Dead (5.1) he enjoys seeing that even Helen has become just a
skull!³⁷
Another philosopher who enjoys Lucian’s egalitarian underworld is the
Cynic Diogenes. In Dialogues of the Dead he laughs with delight at Alexander
the Great, who thinks he might still become a god, even though he is stuck in
Hades with Diogenes (D. mort. 13.4). Alexander is brought to tears when Diogenes
lists the luxuries and privileges that he, Alexander that is, had to leave behind
on earth.³⁸ Menippus and Diogenes both seem to take pleasure in the grief of
the formerly rich at being deprived of their status. An important reason for the
philosophers’ pleasure is that it retroactively justifies their scorn for the rich
and powerful while they were still alive. Thinkers like Menippus and Diogenes,
unlike most everyone else, were prepared for this version of the afterlife: they
knew that death would mean the end of having and benefitting from worldly
goods.
Lucian has Diogenes connect the underworld laughter of Cynic philosophers
like himself and Menippus with their well-known laughter among the living. The
ancient traditions about both men contain frequent reference to their joking and
laughing at people less enlightened than them. At the opening of Dialogues of the
Dead Diogenes convinces Menippus to come down to the underworld with the
promise of much laughter. He sends Pollux to fetch him with the following mes-
sage:
Diogenes bids you, Menippus, if you have laughed enough at the things on earth, to come
down here to laugh much more. On earth your laughter was fraught with uncertainty and
many people there wonder: ‘Does anyone have full knowledge of the things that come after
 Men. 12: οἱ δὲ ἀποδυσάμενοι τὰ λαμπρὰ ἐκεῖνα πάντα, πλούτους λέγω καὶ γένη καὶ δυνα-
στείας, γυμνοὶ κάτω νενευκότες παρειστήκεσαν ὥσπερ τινὰ ὄνειρον ἀναπεμπαζόμενοι τὴν
παρ᾽ ἡμῖν εὐδαιμονίαν˙ ὥστ᾽ ἔγωγε ταῦτα ὁρῶν ὑπερέχαιρον…
 A striking second century CE Greek funerary inscription makes the same point asking “Who
can say, having looked at a fleshless corpse, whether it was Hylas or Thersites, passer-by?” (IG
14.2131, cf. Cook 1987: 26). It sadly is impossible to know whether the text had humorous intent.
 There was a tradition that Diogenes and Alexander died on the same day, Plut., Quaest. conv.
717c; D.L., 6.2.79 (citing Diogenes of Magnesia’s Homonymoi).
270 Inger N.I. Kuin
life?’ But here you will not stop laughing, without any doubts, just as I do now, and partic-
ularly when you see rich men and satraps and tyrants so lowly and insignificant, only rec-
ognisable by their groans, because they are weak and contemptible as they recall their life
above.³⁹
Diogenes is relieved that the views he held when he was alive are confirmed in
the underworld. At the same time, he admits retroactively that while he was still
alive he was not entirely sure that he would be right about what happens after
death. Cynic laughter among the living is predicated in large part on the premise
that worldly goods ought not to matter to us because of our own and their fin-
itude, but this notion can only truly be proven in death. Lucian’s egalitarian af-
terlife is a dream come true for Cynic philosophers: their laughter, which in life
was hypothetical, is confirmed, and can finally be given free rein.
Unlike the philosophers, the cobbler Micyllus from the piece Downward Jour-
ney – Hume’s deathbed reading – does not have a stake in being right about the
afterlife, yet he enjoys the egalitarian utopia as much as Diogenes and Menippus.
After the tyrant Megapenthes’ many unsuccessful attempts at staving off death
the poor cobbler Micyllus explains that his life was so full of toil and misery
that dying came as a relief:
By heaven I already see that everything is splendid here among you, the fact that everyone
has equal rank and that nobody is any better than his neighbour is, to me at least, more
than pleasant. And I infer that debtors do not have to pay back their loans here and
that there are no taxes, and, above all, that there is no freezing in winter or falling ill or
being flogged by powerful men. Everything is at peace and the tables are turned: for we
paupers laugh while the rich are distressed and lament.⁴⁰
 D. mort. 1.1: ὦ Μένιππε, κελεύει ὁ Διογένης, εἴ σοι ἱκανῶς τὰ ὑπὲρ γῆς καταγεγέλασται, ἥκειν
ἐνθάδε πολλῷ πλείω ἐπιγελασόμενον˙ ἐκεῖ μὲν γὰρ ἐν ἀμφιβόλῳ σοὶ ἔτι ὁ γέλως ἦν καὶ πολὺ τό
‘τίς γὰρ ὅλως οἶδε τὰ μετὰ τὸν βίον;’ ἐνταῦθα δὲ οὐ παύσῃ βεβαίως γελῶν καθάπερ ἐγὼ νῦν, καὶ
μάλιστα ἐπειδὰν ὁρᾷς τοὺς πλουσίους καὶ σατράπας καὶ τυράννους οὕτω ταπεινοὺς καὶ ἀσήμους,
ἐκ μόνης οἰμωγῆς διαγινωσκομένους, καὶ ὅτι μαλθακοὶ καὶ ἀγεννεῖς εἰσι μεμνημένοι τῶν ἄνω.
Ancient traditions about Cynic laughter: Menippus: D.L., 6.8; Diogenes: D.L., 6.2.24, 36; cf. Re-
lihan 1987 (on Menippus); Branham 1989: 52– 55; Halliwell 2008: 372– 387; Kuin 2019 (on Dio-
genes).
 Cat. 15: καὶ νὴ Δί᾿ ἤδη καλὰ τὰ παρ᾿ ὑμῖν πάντα ὁρῶ· τό τε γὰρ ἰσοτιμίαν ἅπασιν εἶναι καὶ μη-
δένα τοῦ πλησίον διαφέρειν ὑπερήδιστον ἐμοὶ γοῦν δοκεῖ. τεκμαίρομαι δὲ μηδ᾿ ἀπαιτεῖσθαι τὰ
χρέα τοὺς ὀφείλοντας ἐνταῦθα μηδὲ φόρους ὑποτελεῖν, τὸ δὲ μέγιστον, μηδὲ ῥιγοῦν τοῦ χει-
μῶνος μηδὲ νοσεῖν μηδ᾿ ὑπὸ τῶν δυνατωτέρων ῥαπίζεσθαι. εἰρήνη δὲ πᾶσα καὶ πράγματα ἐς
τὸ ἔμπαλιν ἀνεστραμμένα· ἡμεῖς μὲν γὰρ οἱ πένητες γελῶμεν, ἀνιῶνται δὲ καὶ οἰμώζουσιν οἱ
πλούσιοι.
Micyllus’ comment used to be taken as evidence for Lucian’s advocacy for the
poor, and it is easy to understand why. Though this interpretation has fallen
out of favour for Lucian’s corpus as a whole for good reasons, here Micyllus’ ap-
petite for class warfare – excuse the anachronism – is quite clear.⁴¹ The cobbler
is overjoyed to have arrived in a world where all are equal and where the exploi-
tive socio-economic structures of the living no longer apply. Micyllus is also
happy, however, because it is payback time: the formerly poor are laughing
while the formerly rich lament. The cobbler’s comment exposes Lucian’s egalitar-
ian utopia as actually containing a fundamental inequality.
The unequal distribution of laughter in Lucian’s underworld undermines his
egalitarian eschatological utopia. Those who were privileged in life experience
great grief at losing their comforts, while those who were badly off in the
world above are enjoying themselves tremendously by laughing at the grief of
the formerly rich and famous – Cerberus even reports that Menippus and Dio-
genes entered the underworld laughing.⁴² An even more fundamental problem
for Lucian’s egalitarian eschatological utopia comes from the Cynics themselves.
According to them in death everyone is reduced “to the same pile of bones.”⁴³
This of course also applies to cobblers and Cynic philosophers. If Menippus
and Diogenes too have become just bones, from which vantage point are they
to enjoy their underworld laughter at the fact that their suspicions about the
equality of death have been proven? The Cynic’s egalitarian utopia is as much
a ‘no place,’ ou-topos as the Island of the Blessed in VH. ⁴⁴
The dreamed egalitarian afterlife, a revenge fantasy of sorts for the poor and
the Cynics, is another eschatological utopia that cannot be. But even if this
laughter cannot materialise anywhere, what might be the function of imagining
it? It is difficult to interpret the laughter of Menippus, Diogenes, and Micyllus de-
scribed by Lucian, as gallows humour within the narrative. None of these Lu-
cianic characters have a hard time coping with seeing the grief of other under-
world dwellers, which they view as laughably misguided, since to them death
is either a good or, at worst, a neutral outcome. They laugh at the grief of
those who do not understand this, not as a way to stave off negative empathic
emotions, but rather in mirth or even derision. Unlike VH’s self-soothing joke
 Baldwin 1961: 199 – 208; cf. 1973: 107– 113; contra Hall 1981: 221– 241; Jones 1986: 81– 82. Bald-
win’s analysis falls short already for the underworld pieces: not only money and power are taken
away, but also physical beauty and even philosophical pretence, D. mort. 20.5 – 8.
 D. mort. 4.2; see also D. mort. 3.1– 2, 13.4, 22.1 and Men. 17, 20 – 21.
 Halliwell 2008: 458; compare Men. 15 and D. mort. 5.1.
 Menippus to some extent escapes this problem, because its protagonist is still alive during
his katabasis, but few, if any, Cynics or cobblers will have such an experience.
272 Inger N.I. Kuin
by ‘Lucian’ (see above), these pieces, then, do not show gallows humour being
used by characters. Nonetheless, the imagined laughter of the philosophers,
and other comic elements in Dialogues of the Dead, Menippus, and Downward
Journey can still function as gallows humour for audience members, many of
whom would – unlike the enlightened philosophers and cobblers in Lucian’s
pieces – normally suffer negative emotions in response to thinking about
death and dying with respect to themselves or others. The humour of the author’s
egalitarian eschatological utopia can serve to dispel such negative emotions, just
like the humour contained in his account of the underworld in VH.
The ‘enlightened’ laughter of Menippus et al. at fearful and grieving under-
world dwellers draws in audience members to laugh along, precisely in order to
laugh away their own unenlightened fears. It would be especially easy to share
in the Schadenfreude at the excessive grief of the formerly rich, famous, and
beautiful. Another highly comical element is that in these pieces Lucian
makes the underworld resemble the bureaucracy of the world above: the under-
world personnel have targets to meet and supplies to buy.⁴⁵ This banal familiar-
ity is at odds with audience expectations. In other ancient literature Hades is
typically a place of fear, mystery, and monsters (even, for instance, in Aristo-
phanes’ Frogs). A recurring comic element is that those who should be as com-
fortable in the underworld as Menippus and Diogenes, if not more so, are shown
to actually be quite afraid. In Menippus Rhadamanthus himself (Men. 10) is
frightened by the sound of the earth opening to receive Menippus into Hades.
Similarly, Hermes is portrayed as being reluctant to enter to the underworld,
even after very many visits (Cat. 2). Socrates also, contrary to the report of Plato’s
Phaedo, was afraid when he arrived in Hades (D. mort. 4.1). Finally, the paradox-
ical nature of the laughter of the Cynic philosophers and the poor cobblers is in
itself a source of comedy: the certain vindication that Diogenes holds out to Me-
nippus (D. mort. 1.1, see above) as an enticement to come to the underworld is
based on a false promise, that can be fulfilled only in the literary imagination.
It is as much of an illusion to think that you will be able to take your philosoph-
ical victories with you in death, as it is to expect that you will be able to hold on
to your worldly riches. Ultimately none of Lucian’s underworld(s) offer any sin-
cere utopian solutions. Instead, they give receptive audience members an oppor-
tunity to (temporarily) laugh away their fears of loss, death, and dying.
 On meeting targets: Cat. 1– 7, Char. 1– 2; on getting supplies: D. mort. 14. This Lucianic comical
motif bears a striking resemblance to the depiction of the afterlife in NBC’s recent comedy series
The Good Place, which ran for four seasons from 2016 to 2019.
4 Laughter, utopianism, and friendship

The relationship between utopianism and humour is complex for many rea-
sons, a full account of which goes well beyond the scope of this chapter. It is
clear, nonetheless, that utopian thought typically proposes a radical overturning
of life as we know it: a new, (supposedly) better place with new rules and mores.
Because utopianism puts established customs on their head to create a different
framework, it is by definition incongruous with what people are familiar with,
and in this way some comic overtones are often inherent to utopian scenarios.
In contemporary political activism the phrase ‘utopian enactment’ is in fact
used for humorous forms of protest; these can show “how society could be
more generous and fun” by demonstrating “that alternatives to the prevailing
order are possible here and now, however fleeting and temporary.”⁴⁶ Humour
is seen as effective in this context because it makes protesters seem less danger-
ous, and is able to deflect tension. Utopianism, in essence, is about the idea that
life could be different. The boldness of this proposition makes it surprising, and
thereby potentially humorous. In turn, its humorous element deflates the urgen-
cy and potency of the utopian ideal put forward, which, depending on your po-
litical bent, is either a weakness or a safeguard.
In the case of Lucian’s eschatological underworld scenarios humour clearly
contributes to their deflation as utopian visions, but the author in fact rejects
them in far more fundamental ways. The eternal happiness of the Island of
the Blessed is undermined by the deleterious effect of the faults of human nature
persisting even there, and with the springs of laughter and pleasure Lucian may
be suggesting that unending bliss is impossible in principle. The egalitarian un-
derworld turns out to be not only inegalitarian in its distribution of (emotional)
suffering, but also logically impossible: if in death we all become nothing more
than a pile of bones, there is no vantage point from which this utopian (partial)
equality of circumstances can be enjoyed. Against this background, Lucian’s dis-
missal of Plato in VH 2.17 (see above) should perhaps be read as a comment on
utopian thought as such. Plato, according to Lucian, took his utopian vision so
seriously that he chose to live in it. This is a dangerous error. For Lucian utopian
visions are useful imaginative and humorous counterpoints to life as it is, rather
than prescriptive scenarios – doomed to fail in any case – for how life should be.
The fact that Lucian has located his utopian visions in an underworld context
means that the laughter he seeks to provoke with them from his audience mem-
bers can be interpreted specifically as gallows humour. The negative emotions
 Sørensen 2016: 194 and 188.

274 Inger N.I. Kuin
that for most people arise when thinking about losing loved ones, dying, and
death are, at least temporarily, dispelled by laughter.
The degree of influence of Lucian’s utopianism of VH on Thomas More’s Uto-
pia is often measured by how humorous the latter work is – the more humorous
the more Lucianic and vice versa. Giulia Sissa has recently argued that Utopia
should be read as a friendly parody of the utopianism of More’s friend and equal-
ly avid reader of Lucian, Erasmus. The character of Raphael Hythloday, the
complex narrator of the second part of Utopia whose speaking name in playful
Lucianic fashion means ‘idle-talker,’ was Erasmus.⁴⁷ If we accept this interpreta-
tion, we find at the heart of More’s Utopia a strong resonance of Lucian’s view of
utopianism: visions of beautiful future worlds have value primarily as vehicles
for sobering humour. And, as the accounts of David Hume’s final days show,
they have special value indeed if they are able to make us laugh in the face of
death.
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Geschichten. Tü bingen: Narr Verlag.
Warren, J. (2004), Facing Death: Epicurus and His Critics. Oxford, New York: Oxford University
Press.
Watson, K. (2011), “Gallows humor in medicine,” Hastings Center Report 41: 37 – 45.
Wurm, A. (2008), Platonicus Amor. Lesarten der Liebe bei Platon, Plotin und Ficino. Berlin:
De Gruyter.
David Engels
Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’
and the Ideal of the ‘Golden Age’ in
Classical Antiquity: Utopias in Ancient
China and Classical Antiquity
1 Introduction
Cultural comparatism, exceedingly popular during the first half of the 20th cen-
tury and shunned during its second half, is now making its gradual return into
the historical sciences. The reason for this development is obvious: the fall of
the Iron Curtain has initiated a period of history where the ancient ideological
fault lines between capitalism and communism have been replaced by a global
order increasingly dominated not by political systems, but rather by cultural
units, and the return of China, India or the Islamic world to the forefront of
world history has, once again, underlined the astonishing resilience of civilisa-
tions erroneously considered, for many decades, as irremediably out of touch
with ‘modernity’. Consequently, the classical paradigm of the teleology of prog-
ress, leading towards ever more democracy, liberalism and technological prow-
ess, seems more inadequate than ever in order to explain the complex develop-
ments of world history, and rather calls for a comparative approach in order to
discern what trends can be explained from the perspective of human history as a
whole, and what evolutions rather belong to the specific development of individ-
ual societies or cultures.¹
One of the most promising approaches in recent years has been the com-
parison of Chinese with Greco-Roman history, an approach already sketched
by Spengler and Toynbee² and now complemented by a growing number of in
depth-studies of selected single aspects, such as, for example, the similarities
between the Shang-dynasty and Minoan and Mycenaean Greece³, between Soc-
rates and Confucius⁴, between the ‘Spring and Autumn’ Period and Early Mod-
 Cf. also Engels 2015a.

 Spengler 1923; Toynbee 1934/1954; see now also Demandt 1997; Gehler and Rollinger 2014 and
Engels 2021a.
 Breuer 2014.
 Jaspers 1949.
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-015
278 David Engels
ern Europe,⁵ between Sima Qian and (respectively) Herodotus, Polybius, Livy
and Tacitus,⁶ between ethical prescripts⁷ and rhetorical traditions⁸ in China
and the classical Mediterranean world, between the role of the Chinese and
the Roman armies in imperial succession,⁹ and, most popular of all, between
the advent of the Qin- and Han-dynasty and the ascension of imperial Rome,¹⁰
e. g. through the comparison of Caesar and Augustus with Qin Shi Huangdi
and Han Gaotsu.¹¹ It is notable that most of these studies focus on institutional,
historiographical and economic issues; nevertheless, it seems difficult, if not im-
possible to understand the political actions of past societies without confronting
the concrete events to the political thought that lies behind it, as reality and
ideal form an inseparable pair, both conditioning each other.¹²
Political thought, however, finds its most clear expression in the description
of ideal societies. Hence, the study of political utopias should be treated as a cru-
cial part in the study of political philosophy, on the same level as, e. g., the anal-
ysis of more descriptive treaties concerning the virtues and shortcomings of in-
dividual constitutions or political ideas, in China as well as in the West.¹³ This is
why it seems long overdue to complement the comparison of Greco-Roman and
Chinese statecraft with the investigation of the development of historical ideas
and ideals. In order to pave the way for such a future endeavor, we will, in
the following, try to experimentally analyse what is probably the most popular
Chinese utopia, Tao Yuanming’s famous tale ‘The Peach Blossom Source’, and
put it in the broader context of its own times as well as of Greco-Roman utopias
in order to establish to what extent anthropological constants, general morpho-
logical structures common to all human civilisations and local historical and po-
 Hui 2005.
 Herodotus: Martin 2010; Polybius: Bonnaud 2007; Livy: Mutschler 2008; Tacitus: Mutschler
2006 and Mutschler 2007. For a general comparison between Greco-Roman and Chinese histor-
iography, see also Mutschler 1997 and Mutschler 2003.
 King and Schilling 2011.
 Lu 1998.
 Hsing 1980.
 Teggart 1939; Gizewski 1994; Dettenhofer 2006; Mutschler and Mittag 2009; Scheidel 2010
and Scheidel 2015; Auyang 2014.
 Engels 2017a; Engels 2020 and Engels 2021b.
 Cf. on the theoretical background of these reflections the relevant parts in Engels, Geis and
Kleu 2010.
 Cf. in this sense, with special reference to Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’, Rüsen,
Fehr and Rieger 2002; Fokkema 2011 and Zhang 2015: 103 – 122; though without allusion to Clas-
sical Antiquity. A general introduction to the subject of Utopias (in the West) can be found in
Geus 2011.
Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’ and the Ideal of the ‘Golden Age’ 279
litical traditions interacted with each other in the formation and development of
the literary genre of ‘utopias’.¹⁴
2 The Peach Blossom Source – Text and Context

Though Tao Yuanming¹⁵ came from a family of government officials – he was the
great-grandson of the Eastern Jin general Tao Kan (259 – 334) –, he was raised in
a situation of material want and only very moderate political means. Born in 365
(or 352) in Chaisang (modern Jiujiang in Jiangxi province), he was actively engag-
ed during more than 10 years in the civil and military service of the Jin-dynasty
during the period of the ‘Six Dynasties’, when China was deeply divided into nu-
merous kingdoms competing for imperial reunification.¹⁶ The death of his sister
and his disappointment with the everyday-realities of politics and administra-
tion, already hinted at in his earlier poems and prompting a first, short retire-
ment between 395 and 399, convinced him to resign his current position as
aide-de-camp to a local commanding officer in Spring 405, refusing henceforth
to ‘bow like a servant in return for five bushels of grain’; an expression that has
become, since then, proverbial.¹⁷ He changed his name into Tao Qian (‘Qian’
meaning ‘recluse’), took up a live as gentleman farmer, focused on his family
(he had 5 sons) and lived in seclusion for the next 22 years until his death in
427. Tao Yuanming, whose biography is mainly known from allusions coming
from his own works, from an autobiography written quite early in his life and
from a number of later biographies,¹⁸ left approximately 130 works, most of
which are poems or short essays dealing with country life and simple pleasures
such as returning home after the peripeties of court live, tending to one’s fields
 We should stress here that the present paper primarily deals with Chinese and Greco-Roman
utopias, not with ‘ideal states’ (such as Plato’s or Cicero’s Republic). Of course, the limits be-
tween both historical genres are, as already remarked by Cicero himself (cf. e. g. Rep. 2.11.22),
somewhat fluctuating, but as a general guideline, we can consider that an ideal state is con-
ceived with the idea of its practical realisation, and be it only in approximation, and thus
deals very much with technical issues, whereas the utopian state belongs rather to the roman-
esque genre and is more preoccupied with the description of harmony than with the way that
may ultimately lead to it.
 On Tao Yuanming, cf. in general Holzman 1961; Hightower 1970; Ashmore 2010; Yuan and
Knechtges 2014.
 On the historical and cultural background, cf. Dien 2007.
 On the topos of the ‘disengagement’ from the world, cf. Berkowitz 2000.
 See the short biographical notes in the Song shu (488), the Jin shu (648) and the Nan shih
(659), reprinted in David 1983.
280 David Engels
or drinking one’s own, homemade rice wine. The combination between the
seemingly modest subjects of his works, the tone of gentle nostalgia and the
plain, yet elegant style, building upon the example set by the ‘Seven Sages of
the Bamboo Grove’ and prefiguring the later ‘Old-Style-Verse’-movement of the
Tang dynasty, led to Tao Yuanming’s gradual fame as a poet, his best-known
work being the ‘Peach Blossom Source (Táohuā Yuán Jì).¹⁹
As the Western reader may not be so familiar with ancient Chinese literature,
it seems appropriated to quote first the prose-narrative in its entirety, following
the excellent translation by A.R. Davis:²⁰
During the T’ai-yüan period [376 – 396] of China a man of Wu-ling, who made his living as a
fisherman, ascended a stream, forgetful of the distance he travelled. Suddenly he came
upon a grove of peach trees in blossom. They lined the banks for several hundred paces:
among them were no other kinds of tree. The fragrant herbage was fresh and beautiful; fall-
en blossoms lay in profusion. The fisherman, in extreme wonder, again went forward, wish-
ing to go to the end of the grove. The grove ended at the stream’s source, and there he found
a hill. In the hill was a small opening from which a light seemed to come. So he left his boat
and went in through the opening. At first it was very narrow, barely allowing a man to pass,
but as he went on form some tens of paces, it came out into the open air, upon lands level
and wide with houses of a stately appearance. There were fine fields and beautiful pools,
clumps of mulberries and bamboos. The field dykes intersected; cocks crowed and dogs
barked to each other. The clothes of the men and women who came and went, planted
and worked among them were entirely like those of people outside. The white-haired
and the children with their hair in tufts happily enjoyed themselves.
When they saw the fisherman, they were greatly surprised and asked from what place
he came. When he answered all their questions, they invited him to come back to their
home, where they set out wine, killed a chicken and made a meal. They told him that
their ancestors, fleeing from the troubles during the Ch’in period [221– 208 BC], had brought
their wives and children and neighbours to this inaccessible spot and had not gone out
again. Thus they became cut off from people outside. They asked what dynasty it was
now: they did not know that there had been Han [206 BC – AD 220], nor of course Wei
[220 – 265] or Chin. The fisherman told them all he knew, item by item, and at everything
they sighed with grief. He stayed for several days and then took leave of them. The people
of this place said to him: ‘You should not speak of this to those outside.’
When he had gone out, he found his boat and followed the route by which he had
come: everywhere he noted the way. When he reached the commandery, he called on the
prefect and told him this story. The prefect immediately sent a man to go with him and
 On the reception of the ‚Peach Blossom Source’-narrative in later poetry and prose, especial-
ly the works of Meng Haoran (689 – 740), Wang Wei (701– 761), Liu Yuxi (772– 842), Wang Anshi
(1021– 1086) and Kang Yuzi (12th c.), cf. Yang 2007 and Smilack 2010; for painting, cf. e. g. Chen-
Courtin 1979; for Kon Shangren’s (1648 – 1718) play ‘The Peach Blossom Fan’, cf. e. g. Lu 2001:
154– 159.
 Davis 1983.
seek out the places he had previously noted, but they went astray and could not find the
way again. Liu Tzu-chi of Nan-yang, who was a scholar of lofty ideals, heard of it and joy-
fully planned to go. Soon after, before he had carried out his plan, he fell ill and died. After-
wards there was no one who ‘sought the ford’.
This prose account is then immediately followed by a version in poetry; a com-

bination not altogether uncommon in Chinese literature, where poems often re-
peat parts of the action or situation previously described in prose. As the verses
add some significant details to the prose text, the poem also deserves to be quot-
ed in full:
When the Ying upset the heavenly order,

Worthy men fled from their age.
Huang and Ch’i went to Mount Shang,
And these men also went away.
The traces of their going were gradually hidden;
The paths they came by became weedy and abandoned.
Bidding one another, they work hard at farming;
At the sun’s going down they go to their rest.
Mulberries and bamboos let fall abundant shade;
Beans and millet are weeded according to season.
From spring silkworms they collect long threads;
On autumn harvest there is no king’s tax.
Uncultivated paths intersect into the distance;
Cocks crow and dogs bark to one another.
Ritual vessels are still of ancient pattern;
In clothes there are no new fashions.
Children at will run and sing;
Grey-heads joyously go visiting.
By plants flowering they know the season’s mild;
By trees’ leaf-fall realize the wind is harsh.
Although there is no calendar’s record;
The four seasons themselves complete the year.
Joyfully possessing abundant happiness,
Why should they toil for knowledge and cleverness?
Their strange course was hidden five hundred years,
When one morning discovered their divine land.
But the pure and shallow have different sources;
At once it became again secret and secluded.
May I ask the gentlemen who wander within the world,
How they measure what is beyond the dust and noise?
My desire is to tread the light air
And soar high, seeking my fellows.
282 David Engels
The precise symbolical, philosophical and historical signification of the ‘Peach

Blossom Source’ (located not so far from Tao Yuanming’s actual native region²¹)
is one of the most debated questions in Chinese literature, but as the focus of the
present papers lies not so much on this narrative alone than rather on a compar-
ison of this text with classical Greco-Roman utopias, we may confine ourselves to
a very short presentation of the main issues.
A first point concerns the political message of the text. Very obviously, the
tale contains a barely disguised criticism of political power as such: the people
of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ not only sought shelter during the period of the late
‘Warring States’ and the rise of the Qin Empire and thus deserted their former
overlord – an act of political high-treason, after all –, but they also seem scarcely
enthusiast when learning about the formation of the Qin, Han, Wei and Jin em-
pires, although at least the Han empire was held to be, throughout the entire Chi-
nese history, an ultimate summit of classical Chinese civilisation. This obviously
anarchistic subtext of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ corresponds to an attitude deep-
ly embedded in the history of Chinese thought and generally associated with the
school of thought labelled, often somewhat simplistically, as ‘Daoist’.²² Already
very early,²³ Chinese philosophers and mystics idealised the period either preced-
ing the rise of ‘civilisation’ proper or corresponding to the rule of the mythical
‘Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors’ as a Golden Age of freedom, harmony, sim-
plicity and abundance.²⁴ They also advocated the idea that only a return to this
primeval state of society through the eradication of everything linked to the nu-
merous superfluous achievements of civilisation could create happiness, and
thus cultivated a somewhat critical attitude towards all types of statecraft; an
attitude also influencing currents of Warring States historiography such as the
Rong Sheng shi.²⁵ Thus, in the Daodejing, the sage was advised to retire from
public affairs and go seek happiness in a secluded existence,²⁶ whereas the leg-
 The Wu-ling Mountains (today a Unesco World Heritage Site), situated west of Chaisang, run
from Chongqing and East Guizhou to West Hunan and are peopled, not the least because of their
rugged terrain, by many pockets of non-Han ethnic groups, such as the Tujia, Miao, Dong, and
Bai.
 On Daoism, cf. in general Waley 1958; John 1993; Pas and Leung 1998; Kohn 2000; Kim 2003;
Kirkland 2004.
 Cf. in general Bauer 1974.
 On the idealisation of the pre- or protohistoric past in Chinese thought, cf. Ching and Guisso
1991; Kuhn 2008; Pines 2009a; Pines 2009b.
 Cf. Pines 2010.
 Daodejing 2 (transl. J. Legge): “Therefore the sage manages affairs without doing anything,
and / conveys his instructions without the use of speech. / All things spring up, and there is not
one which declines to show / itself; they grow, and there is no claim made for their ownership; /
islator should focus on guaranteeing the utmost simplicity, even primitivism of

the concerned state:
In a little state with a small population, I would so order it, / that, though there were in-
dividuals with the abilities of ten or a / hundred men, there should be no employment of
them; I would make the / people, while looking on death as a grievous thing, yet not re-
move elsewhere (to avoid it). / Though they had boats and carriages, they should have
no occasion / to ride in them; though they had buff coats and sharp weapons, they / should
have no occasion to don or use them. / I would make the people return to the use of knotted
cords (instead of the written characters). / They should think their (coarse) food sweet; their
(plain) clothes / beautiful; their (poor) dwellings places of rest; and their common (simple)
ways sources of enjoyment. / There should be a neighbouring state within sight, and the
voices / of the fowls and dogs should be heard all the way from it to us, but I / would
make the people to old age, even to death, not have any / intercourse with it.²⁷
This political trend somewhat contrasted with the school associated with the tra-
ditionalist and often antiquarian²⁸ thought of Confucius and his pupils who re-
frained from focusing too much on the earliest, barely known history of China as
political example for present times, and preferred to concentrate on the era of
the Western Zhou-dynasty (1046 – 771) with its complex ritualism and its hierar-
chised society,²⁹ as becomes clear when reading Xun Kuang:
These are the king’s regulations: they do not seek to pattern themselves on anything earlier
than the Three Dynasties, they do not reject the model of later kings. Seeking a pattern in
the age before the Three Dynasties will lead to confusion; rejecting the model of later kings
will lead to inelegance.³⁰
The ideological conflict between the defenders of primitivism on the one hand
and of a highly refined traditionalism on the other was to dominate the entirety
of classical Chinese thought. It sometimes even led to paradoxical political con-
stellations, such as the use of Confucianist traditionalism by the authoritarian
they go through their processes, and there is no expectation (of a / reward for the results). The
work is accomplished, and there is no / resting in it (as an achievement).” Cf. e. g. Berkowitz
2000.
 Daodejing 80 (transl. J. Legge). See in general Hendrischke 1992.
 See, e. g., Confucius, Lunyu 7.1 and 7.20 (transl. Legge): “A transmitter and not a maker, be-
lieving in and loving the ancients, I venture to compare myself to old Peng. […] I am not one who
was born in the possession of knowledge; I am one who is fond of antiquity, and earnest in seek-
ing it there.”
 On the later idealisation of the Zhou, cf. Elman and Kern 2010.
 Xunzi 5 (transl. B. Watson).
284 David Engels
Han Empire, as advocated already in the orations of Lu Jia,³¹ or the implicit un-
derstanding between Daoism and the philosophy of Legalism during the Warring
States period. Here, it was held possible by authors such as Han Fei (280 – 233),
who also wrote a commentary on the Daodejing, that ultimate simplicity and
bliss could only be guaranteed by an authoritarian government based on the
ruthless use of force in order to punish even the slightest offenses:³²
Indeed, the sage, in ruling the state, does not count on people’s doing him good, but uti-
lizes their inability to do him wrong. If he counts on people’s doing him good, within the
boundary there will never be enough such persons to count by tens. But if he utilizes peo-
ple’s inability to do him wrong, an entire state can be uniformed. Therefore, the adminis-
trator of the state affairs ought to consider the many but disregard the few. Hence his de-
votion not to virtue but to law.³³
It is an irony of history that the unification of China by the Qin dynasty was
based exactly on just this partly Daoist, partly Legalist school of thought –
with the paradoxical consequence for the understanding of our poem that the
later inhabitants of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ fled into exile in order to escape
precisely the one dynasty which pretended to install, through the force of law
and punishments, the political ideal of simplicity and harmony the secluded vil-
lagers later on managed to realise…³⁴
Another important, though less apparent aspect in the analysis of the ‘Peach
Blossom Land’ is the chiastic opposition between the inhabitants of the utopian
land on the one hand and the fisherman accidentally discovering their abode on
the other. While the first ones fled the political authorities of their times and wish
to remain hidden, the latter, in reversion, immediately and without apparent ne-
cessity, contacts the authorities and tries to lead them, despite his initial prom-
ise, towards the hidden vale. It would fall short of the dimension of the tale to
consider it as a mere variation on the old topos of Lot’s wife or Orpheus and Eur-
ydice³⁵ (a nearly achieved blissful state of existence is cancelled by the breaking
of a promise), as it is not curiosity or another innocent desire that leads to the sin
and the following loss: the fisherman’s decision to contact the authorities is as
conscious as unnecessary. This can only imply one thing: Tao Yuanming wanted
to contrast the utopian anarchists of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ with the obvious-
 Cf. the new edition and commentary by L’Haridon and Feuillas 2012.
 On Legalism, cf. Li 1977, Fu 1996.
 Han Feizi 50.8 (transl. W.K. Liao).
 On the Qin und their use of Legalism, cf. in general Li 1985; Loewe 2006; Lewis 2007; Portal
2007; Pines et al. 2014.
 On this topos, cf., e. g., Bremmer 2004.
ly less happy citizen of the ‘modern’ world who, either out of a sense of misled
civic duty, or out of the wish to benefit from a rich reward, breaks his promise
and, as seems implicitly suggested by the tale, forgoes all chances to find the
way back. The message is obvious: The transformation of the Chinese man
into a thorough homo politicus by the ideological conditioning of 500 years of
imperial power have erased any chance of finding back the way into the Golden
Age of primeval harmony; the only hope lies in the hazard of a fleeting moment’s
discovery… This seems even more obvious as, in contrast to other, later render-
ings of the ‘Peach Blossom Source’,³⁶ Tao Yuanming clearly indicates that the in-
habitants of the valley are perfectly normal human beings and not immortals, as
in some later treatment of the story, probably influenced by late Daoist or Bud-
dhist thought. At the same time, these later renderings also omit to mention the
fisherman’s decision to contact the authorities and merely describe his wish to
return to the hidden land, thus depoliticising the tale even more.³⁷
This leads, of course, to the question of the date of the utopia of the ‘Peach
Blossom Land’. The most conservative and probably also prudent position is to
consider it as an invention by Tao Yuanming himself; inspired perhaps, but not
necessarily, by recent political events³⁸ or by popular legends such as the myth
of Shambhala, well-known in Buddhism and thus probably also in 4th century
China,³⁹ though Tao Yuanming’s treatment of the narrative itself seems rather
tributary of Daoist than of Buddhist thinking.⁴⁰ However, this causes an admit-
 See also Davis 1983: 2.199, who, however, believes that the initial story described the inhab-
itants of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ as being immortals and that it was Tao Yuanming who trans-
formed them into normal human beings.
 See, e. g., the account of the Shu-yi chi B 3a, attributed to Jen Fang (460 – 508), but probably
not earlier than 800: “Wu-ling Source lies in Wu-chung. On the hills there are no other trees, but
only peaches and plums grow there. It is commonly called Peach and Plum Source. Above the
source there is a rocky cavern in which there is a milky stream. By tradition it was here that in
the disorders at the end of Ch’in that the men of Wu-chung fled to escape the trouble. Those who
eat the peaches and plums all become immortals.” Similarly, Wang Wei (699/701– 759/71) wrote
in his Tao-Yuan Xing (6. 7a, l. 19 – 20): “At first by withdrawing to a land apart, they left the
world; / Then they were reported to have become immortals and so did not return.” (translations
follow David 1983: 2.199).
 Cf. Chen 1936, who contextualised the origins of the story in the time of the Kingdom of the
Former Qin under Fu Jian (357– 385), whose inhabitants fled into the North-West and where dis-
covered there by emperor Wu of the Liu Song dynasty in 417 when he overthrow the Jin, which
lead him to replace the Wu-ling region (in the South) by Hung-nung or Shang-lo (in the North).
 Cf. e. g. Bernbaum 1980.
 Cf. e. g. the allusion to the dogs barking, the cocks crowing and the criticism of ‘knowledge’
and ‘cleverness’, direct quotations from the Daodejing (resp. ch. 80 and 18). It should also be
stressed that later authors, such as Kang Yuzi, insisted even more on what they must have per-
286 David Engels
tedly minor, though interesting problem: As Tao Yuanming wrote during the ‘Six
Dynasties’ (220 – 589), a period marked by the disintegration of imperial unity
and the permanent warfare between numerous smaller kingdoms, the dating
of the story into the later period of the imperial unification by the Qin dynasty
may seem somewhat surprising. Indeed, the tale is founded on the opposition
between the harmonious anarchy of the villagers on the one hand and the estab-
lishment of the well-functioning, omnipresent and ultimately oppressive imperi-
al state of the Qin on the other hand. This situation of the rise of a universal em-
pire forcing into exile a previously harmonious population seems not quite
pertinent for the times of Tao Yuanming, with the result that the intended anal-
ogy between the exiles from the Qin-era and the wish of Liu Tzu-chi to join their
community appears somewhat asymmetrical. Hence, it may not be impossible to
imagine that the story originated from a tale already in circulation during the
reign of the Qin or the Han and then transmitted throughout time, until it was
re-actualised by Tao Yuanming.⁴¹ This may not only give a much better explana-
tion for the choice of the Qin-dynasty as chronological setting of the tale, but
may also be the reason behind the double structure of the narrative, where
the same story is, first, presented in prose, then in verse. As the first contains
a series of concrete historical allusions (justifying the inclusion, by the editors
of Tao Yuanming’s works, into the category ‘wen’, i. e. ‘Historical records’⁴²)
and was obviously written in the late 4th or early 5th century, the verse part
could perhaps indeed reproduce the general spirit of a poem from the Qin- or
ceived as an anti-Confucian edge, as the villagers of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ only admit the
voyager after he insists that he is neither functionary nor scribe, two typically Confucian occu-
pations.
 It would point into the same direction that the Soushen Houji, a compilation of supernatural
stories from the early 5th century, wrongly attributed to Tao Yuanming, contains a version of the
prose story of the ‘Peach Blossom Source’ providing names for the fisherman (Huang Tao-chen)
and the prefect (Liu Xin), but omits the reference to the ‘sage of lofty ideals’ (who is later made
the principal character of a story quite parallel to the ‘Peach Blossom Source’: 1.4a – b). Similarly,
a fragment from a Wu-ling chi by Huang Min, probably dating from the 6th, perhaps even 4th or 5th
century, also mentions the story and provides the name of the fisherman (Huang Tao-chen), but
describes him as coming from Lin-yuan, the seat of the prefect of the commandery of Wu-ling.
All this would suggest that the story was circulating in different versions already very early and
could thus be inspired by accounts others than the one by Tao Yuanming. Cf. also Davis 1983:
2.198 – 199. Nevertheless, see the influential article by Chen 1936, attributing the differences
quoted above to the independent circulation of different stages in the completion of the text
by Tao Yuanming himself.
 For a discussion of the issue see Davis 1983: 2.197 f.
Han-period.⁴³ Of course, it may very well be possible that Tao Yuanming invent-
ed the whole story and thus the entirety of the text all by himself, and even if he
did not, he must have wanted to make a certain point by taking the story over
and adapting it to his own period. Perhaps it was less the establishment of
the empire than the analogy between the current state of political disintegration
of China during the ‘Six Dynasties’ and the period of the ‘Warring States’ he had
in mind, focusing thus less on the parallelism of two historical situations evolv-
ing from fragmentation to unification, but rather the impression that the apex of
the Han-Empire set in motion a reverse tendency of history leading down again
from unity to disparity. In this perspective, the first discovery of the hidden
‘Peach Blossom Land’ since its disappearance under the Qin could be read, at
first view, as a sign of hope that the disappearance of the empire made it possi-
ble to see the rise of a harmonious, non-political society. However, such an op-
timistic interpretation would be wholly naïve, as it falls short of explaining the
end of the story: even the ‘scholar of lofty ideals’, the hermit Liu Tzu-chi of Nan-
yang, is incapable to realise his desire to ‘find the ford’⁴⁴, and Tao Yuanming ex-
plicitly states that, after him, nobody even tried.
3 Classical and Chinese Utopias

Let us now consider some similarities and dissimilarities with the utopias of
the Classical World.⁴⁵ Indeed, many elements of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’
may seem quite familiar to those acquainted with classical Greco-Roman uto-
pias, though their specific combination is unique and their analysis rendered ex-
tremely complex because of the uncertainty concerning the initial dating of Tao
Yuanming’s poem. It is obvious that the ideal state of mankind is described and
thus perceived in a quite parallel fashion as well in classical Antiquity as in An-
cient China. Thus, peace, simplicity, abundance and harmony without any or at
 This is not in fundamental opposition to the poem’s only historical reference, the fleeting
allusion to a period of ‘500 years’: the (inexact) chronological mention may either be an addi-
tion by Tao Yuanming himself, or even be a part of the original text, intentionally taking a future
perspective well in line with the self-representation of the Qin (and the Han) Empire as ‘eternal’
and never-ending. This would also explain the round number 500 which does not correspond at
all to the actual time span of rather 600 years between the time of the late Qin (before 221) and
the Taiyuan period (376 – 396).
 This expression is an allusion to Confucius’ Lunyu (18.6) and is not infrequent in the works
of Tao Yuanming.
 Cf. in general Gatz 1967; Ferguson 1975; Günther and Müller 1988; Bichler 1995; Demandt
2000.
288 David Engels
least very little need for the State are already classical features of Homer’s Phaea-
cians, the secluded island dwellers:
These dwelt of old in spacious Hypereia hard by the Cyclopes, men overweening in pride
who plundered them continually and were mightier than they. From thence Nausithous, the
godlike, had removed them, and led and settled them in Scheria far from men that live by
toil. About the city he had drawn a wall, he had built houses and made temples for the
gods, and divided the ploughlands; but he, ere now, had been stricken by fate and had
gone to the house of Hades, and Alcinous was now king, made wise in counsel by the
gods.⁴⁶
Similarly, we may recall Hesiod’s ‘Golden Age’-race⁴⁷:
First of all the deathless gods who dwell on Olympus made a golden race of mortal men
who lived in the time of Cronos when he was reigning in heaven. And they lived like
gods without sorrow of heart, remote and free from toil and grief: miserable age rested
not on them; but with legs and arms never failing they made merry with feasting beyond
the reach of all evils. When they died, it was as though they were overcome with sleep, and
they had all good things; for the fruitful earth unforced bare them fruit abundantly and
without stint. They dwelt in ease and peace upon their lands with many good things,
rich in flocks and loved by the blessed gods.⁴⁸
However, it may seem to be a major difference between Tao Yuanming’s utopia

and the early Greek poets’ descriptions that the latter generally established a
more or less explicit connection between the ideal state of society and the
deeds of the Gods: In Hesiod, it is Cronos who created the race of the Golden
Age and thus ‘biologically’ conditioned their readiness for happiness, whereas
in Homer, the prosperity of the Phaeacians is not only due to the secluded
and privileged situation of their island, but also to their semi-divine descent
from the Giants and even from Poseidon. Even in Vergil, Horace and Ovid, the
coming of the Golden Age is intimately linked with the re-establishment of the
reign of Apollo.⁴⁹ In Tao Yuanming, however, the gods are wholly absent and
play no role whatsoever, which is all the more interesting as this purely
human setting of the story if quite in contrast with the later treatments of the
 See, e. g., Hom., Od. 6.4– 12 (transl. S. Butler); cf. in general Wolf 2006.
 On the Golden Age, cf. Kurfess 1950; Baldry 1952; Van der Waerden 1962; Veit 1960; Kubsch
1986; Sauzeau and Sauzeau 2002.
 Hes., Op. 109 – 120 (transl. H.G. Evelyn-White (Loeb); cf. in general Baldry 1956; Mirgeler
1956; Vernant 1996.
 Concerning the importance of Apollo during the Late Republic and Early Empire, cf. Gagé
1955; Engels 2017b, 455 – 484.
story, as we saw. Of course, the absence of gods as major actors of human history
is not at all unusual in Chinese thought, which has always assumed a somewhat
distant and prudent attitude when it came to reflect on the interactions between
men and gods. Admittedly, it is undeniable that in the Greco-Roman world, at
least the everyday approach of the gods was conditioned by a pragmatism not
dissimilar to that of the Chinese and was mainly based on the famous do ut
des, implying a purely contractual relationship between man and god and
being rather oblivious of questions such as ‘belief’, ‘redemption’ or ‘purity of
heart’. Nevertheless, though the Chinese never faltered in keeping up the rituals
prescribed by their ancestors and, through numerous divination practices, tried
to establish a link between the moral actions of the rulers and the actions of the
forces of nature, the gods were only meant to react, not to act, and men to fulfil
their obligations without intruding too much on the dangerous terrain of the
immortals. Thus, Confucius most prominently exhorted his pupils to ‘Respect
ghosts and spirits, but keep them at a distance’⁵⁰ and asked:
‘While you are not able to serve men, how can you serve their spirits? […] While you do not
know life, how can you know about death?’⁵¹
Consequently, even in classical Daoism, theology is generally less interested in

ontology and spirituality than in magical or mystical practices.⁵² In this regard,
Tao Yuanming’s utopia reflects an attitude towards the supernatural that is
much more reminiscent of Hellenistic utopias such as Euhemerus (ca. 340 –
260) and perhaps also Jambulus (3rd c. BC⁵³), where the gods responsible for
the respective social harmony were described as mere human legislators, later
on symbolically deified out of mere gratitude (or ignorance):
On this island he saw the Panchaeans who dwell there, who excel in piety and honour the
gods with the most magnificent sacrifices and with remarkable votive offerings of silver and
of gold. The island is sacred to the gods, and there are a number of other objects on it which
are admired both for their antiquity and for the great skill of their workmanship, regarding
which severally we have written in the preceding Books. There is also on the island, situ-
ated upon an exceedingly high hill, a sanctuary of Zeus Triphylius, which was established
by him during the time when he was king of all the inhabited world and was still in the
company of men. And in this temple there is a stele of gold on which is inscribed in sum-
 Confucius, Lunyu 6.20 (transl. Legge).

 Confucius, Lunyu 11.11 (transl. Legge). On the attitude of Confucianism towards religion, cf.
Fingarette 1972; Chen 2012.
 On Daoism and Religion, cf. Maspero 1950; Fowler 2005.
 Concerning Jambulus, cf. Winston 1976; Baldassari 1973; di Capua 1989; Schwarz 1982; Holz-
berg 1996.
290 David Engels
mary, in the writing employed by the Panchaeans, the deeds of Uranus and Cronus and
Zeus. Euhemerus goes on to say that Uranus was the first to be king, that he was an hon-
ourable man and beneficent, who was versed in the movement of the stars, and that he was
also the first to honour the gods of the heavens with sacrifices, whence he was called Ur-
anus or ‘Heaven’.⁵⁴
Furthermore, we have to stress the obvious fact that, in China as in Antiquity

(and in most ancient societies), the furthering of harmony and bliss was not con-
ditioned by ‘progress’ in the sense of refinement and complexity or even technol-
ogy, but, to the contrary, by the return to the traditions of the forefathers and
their institutions: the Roman mos maiorum, the Greek patrios nomos ⁵⁵ or the
Chinese xiào, the ‘filial piety’.⁵⁶ Hence, it is not surprising that as well Qin Shi
Huangdi as Roman social reformers and emperors were confronted with the re-
proach of enacting ‘new’ laws and tried to defend themselves against this accu-
sation by stressing (or sometimes inventing) the existence of historical examples
for their political and social projects.⁵⁷ In this perspective, Tao Yuanming’s poem
is an extreme, but by no means unusual form of the typically Chinese longing for
Antiquity, though in China, the wish to go back to the simplicity and soundness
of the past was often so strong that it prompted many philosophers to advocate
the return to an idealised pre-historical society⁵⁸ which even implied the disso-
lution of the state; a form of primitivism only rarely encountered in Classical An-
tiquity.
However, it is noteworthy that the immediate setting of the actually existing
‘Peach Blossom Land’ is not situated, such as Hesiod’s Golden Age or the Chi-
nese speculations about pre- and proto-history, at the beginnings of historical
time, but rather at its end, as is exemplified by Tao Yuanming’s explicit mention
 Fragment from: Diod. Sic. 6.1.4– 8 (transl. C.H. Oldfather, Loeb). On Euhemerus, cf. Brown
1946; Zumschlinge 1976; Winiarczyk 2002; Colpe 1995.
 Concerning the mos maiorum and patrios nomos, cf. Rech 1936; Hölkeskamp 1996; Linke and
Stemmler 2000.
 Concerning the filial piety, cf. Traylor 1988.
 Concerning this use of the ‘argument from Antiquity’, cf. Pilhofer 1990; Gnilka 2005; for
China, see Ching and Guisso 1991 and Kuhn 2008. Concerning the specific case of Augustus
and Qin Shi Huangdi, cf. Engels 2017a; Engels 2020 and Engels 2021b. Thus, concerning Qin
Shi Huangdi, we can refer to the inscription on Mount K’uai-chi, 13 – 15 (transl. Kern (2000:
45): “The Sage of Ch’in looks down on his state, / initially determines achieved forms and
their claims, / manifests and displays the old statutes”. Concerning Augustus, cf. Aug., Res ges-
tae 8 (transl. F.W. Shipley [Loeb]): “By the passage of new laws I restored many traditions of our
ancestors which were then falling into disuse, and I myself set precedents in many things for
posterity to imitate.”
 On the idealisation of the ‚village’ in the post-Han period, see also Michio 1985.
of the imperial unification of China under the Qin. This is not without recalling
the political escapism and the idealisation of rural Italy (or Arcadia) so popular
in Ovid, Horace and Virgil, where the Golden Age is not only described as a past
ideal, but also as an immediate future, even present, such as in Virgil’s much
discussed and tremendously influential 4th Eclogue⁵⁹:
Now is come the last age of the Cumaean prophecy: / The great cycle of periods is born
anew. / Now returns the Maid, returns the reign of Saturn: / Now from high heaven a
new generation comes down. / Yet do thou at that boy’s birth, / In whom the iron race
shall begin to cease, / And the golden to arise over all the world, / Holy Lucina, be gra-
cious; now thine own Apollo reigns.⁶⁰
Nevertheless, there is a major difference between the Golden Age of the imperial
Roman authors and Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Land’. Whereas the Chinese
hidden valley is the fruit of an apolitical, even anarchistic decision and refrains
from any supra-regional political designs, the Golden Age advertised by Virgil
and Horace is profoundly linked to the political hegemony of the Roman Empire
and the hegemonic aims of its politicians, most of all Augustus, as is exemplified
in Virgil’s Aeneid:
Let now thy visionary glance look long / On this thy race, these Romans that be thine. /
Here Caesar, of Iulus’ glorious seed, / Behold ascending to the world of light! / Behold,
at last, that man, for this is he, / So oft unto thy listening ears foretold, / Augustus Caesar,
kindred unto Jove. / He brings a golden age; he shall restore / Old Saturn’s sceptre to our
Latin land, / And o’er remotest Garamant and Ind / His sway extend; the fair dominion /
outruns th’ horizon planets, yea, beyond / The sun’s bright path, where Atlas’ shoulder
bears / Yon dome of heaven set thick with burning stars.⁶¹
Thus, whereas the inhabitants of the ‘Peach Blossom Land’ achieve peace not
through, but against government, the Roman poets advertise the inseparable
link between the Golden Age and Imperial Rome as well as between Saturn
 Concerning Virgil’s 4th eclogue, cf. as general introduction to this complex text, cf. Norden
1924; Corssen 1924; Jeanmaire 1930; Alföldi 1930; Carcopino 1930; Boll 1950; Radke 1959; Hom-
mel 1966; Römisch 1970; Nisbet 1978; Benko 1981; Naumann 1981; Binder 1983; Clausen 1995;
Lefèvre 2000.
 Verg., Ecl. 4.4– 11 (J.W. Mackail). On the revolutionary nature of the political re-actualisation
of the topos of the Golden Age, cf. Engels 2009.
 Verg., Aen. 6.788 – 797 (transl. Th.C. Williams). On Vergil and Aeneas, cf. in general Norden
1901; Binder 1971; Rieks 1981; Buchheit 1963; von Stauffenberg 1976; Pöschl 1981; Strasburger
1983; Froesch 1984.
292 David Engels
and Augustus,⁶² who, by choosing this new name, clearly showed his wish to as-
sociate his person with the most ancestral layers of Roman religion.
Of course, we should not forget that this apparent asymmetry in content is
due, to some extent, to a certain asymmetry of sources. Thus, on the one side,
it is notable that the hope of a new Golden Age was by no means an invention
by the Augustan regime, but was already present in the contemporaries’ minds a
long time ago, only to be adopted (and adapted) by Augustus once he was in a
position of power.⁶³ Furthermore, even under Augustus, it is obvious that, de-
spite censorship and the burning of books,⁶⁴ many authors continued to cling
to a more apolitical ideal of the ‘Golden Age’ and sometimes even hinted,
more or less openly, at the inner contradiction between Augustus’ authoritarian
reforms and the ‘real’ Golden Age. Even Virgil stated that Aeneas entered the un-
derworld not by using the gate of truth (porta cornea), but of dream (porta ebur-
na), thus implicitly deconstructing all his ulterior visions of an impending Augu-
stan ‘Golden Age’,⁶⁵ while Ovid ironically compares Hesiod’s ‘Golden Age’, where
man participated in the gods’ divinity, to his own present times, where only rul-
ers such as Caesar or Augustus claim to be revered with divine honors.⁶⁶ On the
other side, we have to remember that the increasingly negative view on Qin Shi
Huangdi as developed during the Han-era and the destruction of the imperial
library during the Civil War led to the loss of many Qin-era testimonies in
favor of the old regime. However, the few scattered remains suggest that these
texts must have contained features quite similar to the ones from early imperial
Rome. Thus, the inscriptions set up by the first emperor of the Qin as well as his
deliberate choice of the name ‘Shi Huangdi’ clearly show his wish to be associ-
ated with the period of the ‘Three Sovereigns’ (the ‘huang’) and the ‘Five Emper-
ors’ (the ‘di’) and to usher in a new ‘Golden Age’.⁶⁷ At the same time, the great
 Concerning Augustan ideology, cf. e. g. Béranger 1973; Guizzo 1974; Castritius 1982; Eder
1990; Bleicken 1991; Binder 1993; Zanker 2003; Borgies 2017.
 Cf. in general Brisson 1992; Fabre-Serris 1998: 27– 38.
 On the censorship and political persecutions under Augustus, cf. Clarke 1972; Hennig 1973;
Engels 2021b.
 Virg., Aen. 6.893 – 896.
 Cf. e. g. the end of the Metamorphoses. See in general Schmitzer 1990; Urban 2005.
 Cf. Sima Qian, Shiji 6 (Shi Huangdi) (transl. Watson 1961: 42– 43): “’We have respectfully con-
sulted with the court scholars, who tell us that in antiquity there was the Heavenly August,
Earthly August, and Greatly August, of which the Greatly August was the most exalted. Therefore
on pain of death we venture to propose this title, namely, that the king shall be known as Greatly
August. His commands shall be known as edicts and his orders as decrees, and the Son of Heav-
en shall refer to himself by the pronoun zhen.’ The king said: ‘We will drop the Greatly, keep the
August, and adopt the title used by the emperors of high antiquity, calling ourselves Huangdi or
Han-historian Sima Qian clearly refers to the contemporary resistance against

the new rule and its ideological foundations. Thus, he relates the numerous mea-
sures of censorship and purges against the oppositional forces,⁶⁸ retells the story
of the scholars entrusted by Shi Huangdi with the mission of fetching the phar-
maceutics assuring the emperor an eternal life – a topos typically associated
with Daoism and the ‘Golden Age’ – and describes the ideological disputes be-
tween the emperor’s claim to rewind history until the age of the primeval emper-
ors and the scholars’ advise to rather respect the institutions and traditions of
recent history.⁶⁹
In this context, we also have to mention the historical ‘Sitz im Leben’ of Tao
Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’ and go back to the question of its date. In-
deed, whereas an early (Chinese) imperial dating of the legend of the ‘Peach
Blossom Source’ would make even more sense in the light of the many analogies
with early (Roman) imperial utopias, a dating several centuries later seems, at
least at first view, somewhat paradoxical, as the debate about the advantages
and disadvantages of the imperial unification of the Qin and Ha Empire and
the longing for pre-historical simplicity seem somewhat out of date in the
4th or even 5th century. However, should the story indeed have been conceived
by Tao Yuanming alone and not have much earlier roots, the interest for a cul-
tural debate long bygone cannot but recall the place of utopias in Mediterranean
Late Antiquity.⁷⁰ Thus, the author of the ‘Historia Augusta’, probably written
around the end of the 4th or the beginning of the 5th century and thus at the
same time than Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’, developed a similar
fascination for the idea of the Augustan ‘Golden Age’. This becomes most clear
August Emperor. Other matters shall be as in the proposal.’” See e. g. the inscription on Mount
Lang-yeh, 69 – 70 (transl. Kern 2000: 33): His merits surpass those of the Five Thearchs. Mount I,
26 – 29: Kern 2000: 13: “One [rule] followed another down to the Five Thearchs, / And no once
could prohibit or stop them. / Now today, the August Thearch / has unified all under heaven
under one lineage.” For the context, e. g. Puett 2002.
 Concerning the opposition to the Qin and the burning of books, cf. Chan 1972; Neininger
1982; Petersen 1995.
 Sima Qian, Shiji 6 (Shi Huangdi) (transl. Watson 1961: 54): “[…] another academician, a man
of Qi named Chunya Yue, came forward and said: “I have heard that the kings of the Yin and
Zhou dynasties ruled for 1,000 years or more, for they enfeoffed their sons and younger brothers
and their meritorious ministers to aid an support them. Now Your Majesty possesses all within
the seas, yet your sons and younger brothers are mere commoners. […] I have never heard of any
undertaking that failed to imitate the example of antiquity and yet was able to endure for long.”
Cf. in general Engels 2017a, Engels 2020 and Engels 2021b.
 Concerning the personal experience of the decline of the Roman Empire by the late Antique
authors, cf. Vittinghoff 1964; Heinzberger 1976; Maier 1980; Feichtinger 1998.
294 David Engels
when reading the Vita of the emperor Probus, which not only allies, similarly to
the feelings expressed by Tao Yuanming, hope and despair, but is also charac-
terised by a certain learned nostalgia. This feeling is not only typical for the
last pagan aristocrats, lost between the decaying Roman and the rising Empire
of the Franks, but also for the thinkers writing between the end of the Han-
and the advent of the Sui-Empire. Thus, we read in the ‘Vita Probi’:
He, truly conscious of his powers, stood in fear of neither barbarian nor pretender. What
great bliss would then have shone forth, if under his rule there had ceased to be soldiers!
No rations would now be furnished by any provincial, no pay for the troops taken out of the
public largesses, the commonwealth of Rome would keep its treasures forever, no payments
would be made by the prince, no tax required of the holder of land; it was in very truth a
golden age that he promised. There would be no camps, nowhere should we have to hear
the blast of the trumpet, nowhere fashion arms. That throng of fighting-men, which now
harries the commonwealth with civil wars, would be at the plough, would be busy with
study, or learning the arts, or sailing the seas. Add to this, too, that none would be slain
in war. O ye gracious gods, what mighty offence in your eyes has the Roman commonwealth
committed, that ye should have taken from it so noble a prince?⁷¹
Similarly, Rutilius Namatianus, also writing at the beginning of the 5th century,
conjured, on the one hand, the image of a Rome reborn from her present afflic-
tions and preparing to rise, once again, to her ancient position.⁷² On the other
hand, however, it becomes clear from the overall nostalgia of the ‘de reditu
suo’ and the description of the desolate coasts of Late Antique Italy, that the
old days of Republican and classical imperial Rome were long bygone. An anal-
ogous feeling is expressed by Boethius (480 – 524) in his Consolatio philosophiae,
where he compared the ideal of the ‘Golden Age’, described as a period of sim-
plicity and peace quite similar to the society described in Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach
Blossom Source’, to the sorry state of his own present times, where the love of
money and power make it impossible to entertain any hope for the return of pri-
meval felicity:
O happy was that early age of men, / contented with their trusted and unfailing fields, / nor
ruined by the wealth that enervates. / Easily was the acorn got / that used to satisfy their
longwhile fast. / They knew not Bacchus’ gifts, / nor honey mixed therewith. / They knew
not how to tinge with Tyre’s purple dyes / the sheen of China’s silks. / Their sleep kept
health on rush and grass; / the stream gave them to drink as it flowed by: / the lofty
 SHA, Prob. 23.1– 4 (transl. D. Magie). See in general von Haehling 2012.
 Rut. Nam. 1.139 – 140: Illud te reparat, quod cetera regna resolvit: / Ordo renascendi est cres-
cere posse malis. On Rutilius, see Merone 1951 ; Lana 1961 ; Portergield 1971 ; Doblhofer 1972 ;
Quillante 2005 ; Engels 2015b. Concerning the topos of Roma aeterna, cf. Koch 1952; Paschoud
1967; Fuhrmann 1993.
pine to them gave shade. / Not one of them yet clave the ocean’s depths, / nor, carrying
stores of merchandise, / had visited new shores. / Then was not heard the battle’s trump, /
nor had blood made red with bitter hate / the bristling swords of war. / […] Would that our
times could but return / to those old ways! / but love of gain and greed of holding burn /
more fiercely far than Etna’s fires. / Ah! who was the wretch / who first unearthed the mass
of hidden gold, / the gems that only longed to lie unfound? / For full of danger was the
prize he found.⁷³
4 Conclusion
In conclusion, and while it is undeniable that the evolution of political institu-
tions throughout world history confronts us with a bewildering variety of the
most diverse facts, types and evolutions, it does not come as a great surprise
that a comparison of Chinese and Greco-Roman utopias reveals great similari-
ties. Throughout time and space, Chinese classics such as Laotse, Confucius,
Han Fei and Tao Yuanming, or Greek and Roman authors such as Homer, Hesiod,
Euhemerus, Virgil, the writer of the Historia Augusta and Boethius, all valued
goods such as abundance, peace, beauty, good health or social harmony as high-
est goals of a history integrated these features into most, if not all utopian nar-
ratives.
However, despite these analogies, it is interesting to note that Chinese and
Greco-Roman thought often tread different paths when it came to the place of
the State and of religion in a utopian society. While in the classical Mediterra-
nean World of the polis-state, only few writers were able (or willing) to imagine
a utopian society without intimate links to the gods or a proper government
(with the notable exceptions of the anarchism of the Cynic school and the ration-
alist approach of Euhemerism), Chinese philosophers of the pre-Buddhist era
were generally adverse to depict their utopias as set up and guaranteed by the
gods, and preferred to place their success in the hand of humans alone; an atti-
tude typical for the pragmatic and empiricist thinking of Chinese philosophy,
that also extended, in some way, to the place of the State. Here too, though
with some exceptions such as Legalism, we see an approach preferring to rely
on individual morals rather than on the power of institutions, the best State gen-
erally not being the most complex or refined, but rather the one the least visible;
an approach enhanced by the deeply embedded primitivist ideal of early Chinese
 Boeth., Cons. Phil. 2 m 5. Concerning Boethius vision of history in the Consolatio, cf. Scheible
1972 and Gruber 2006.
296 David Engels
thought, focusing on the village and the peasantry as ‘normal’ state of life, not
on the city and the artisan.
Despite these differences, which are doubtlessly rooted in what could be de-
scribed as fundamental differences in Greco-Roman and classical Chinese
‘worldviews’, we cannot but underline the surprising symmetry in the evolution
of utopian thinking in Chinese and Mediterranean Antiquity. Thus, after a period
characterised by a bewildering variety of philosophical schools, be it Hellenistic
philosophy, be it the ‘Hundred Schools’, the imperial unification of the respective
cultural area, long thought in itself to be a purely ‘utopian’ idea, brought with it
considerable unease. On the one hand, the new empire itself consciously instru-
mentalised previous utopias longing for a ‘Golden Age’ of universal peace and
prosperity in order to legitimise its new power, such as the Qin-interpretation
of Daoist and Legalist political thinking or Augustus’ re-actualisation of the
ideal of the Hesiodian ‘Golden Age’. On the other hand, the crude reality of
power – oppression, censorship, corruption, hypocrisy – prompted many think-
ers to fight against what they saw as a cynical manipulation of deeply felt polit-
ical and social hopes, and to devise alternative utopian narratives more or
less explicitly opposed to the respective imperial propaganda, be it Ovid or
some early imperial historians, be it the Qin-age Confucian and partly also Dao-
ist thinkers. This opposition between an ‘imposed’ and a ‘real’ ‘Golden Age’ be-
comes most clear in Tao Yuanming’s story of the ‘Peach Blossom Source’, a nar-
rative not only combining these two fundamental threads of the history of the
‘Golden Age’ as political utopia, but also linking them to the context of Chinese
Late Antiquity. Indeed, in China as well as in the late Roman Empire, the demise
of the universal state gave an additional depth to the idea of the lost ‘Golden
Age’ by integrating a nearly post-historical perspective into the narrative,
where the dreams of the pre-imperial as well as of imperial history have both be-
come tales from a long bygone past. Hence, despite its treacherous simplicity,
Tao Yuanming’s ‘Peach Blossom Source’ enables the reader to access the most
different layers of Chinese political and social thought as through a historical ka-
leidoscope, and if ever a text called for a comparatist methodology in order to
fully exploit all its philosophical and anthropological depth and dimensions,
it is the story of Tao Yuanming’s longing for the Hidden Valley.
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Index locorum
Aristophanes Rhetorica
Acharnenses I.9.33 5
47 – 54 15 I.9.40 5
Aves
33 – 41 14 Boethius
1271 – 1276 27 Consolatio Philosophiae
1313 – 1316 27 2m5 295
1318 – 1322 28
1436 – 1445 27 Cicero
1482 – 1489 28 De finibus
1537 – 1541 28 3.68 204n12
1706 – 1712 28 De natura deorum
Ecclesiazusae 2.159 222
174 – 188 14 De officiis
209 13 1.71 205
672 – 673 47 – 48 De re publica
1.45 214
Aristoteles 2.3 214
Athenaion Politeia 2.21 – 22 215
8 94 2.26 224
41.1 – 42.1 80 2.30 225
Ethica Nicomachea 2.33 216
I.7,1097b7 – 16 190 5.1 – 2 226
IV.7, 1127a – b 20 Epistulae ad Quintum fratrem
X.6, 1176b10 – 11 48 – 49 3.5.1 214
X.7, 1177a12 – b1 192 Tusculanae disputationes
Metaphysica 1.2 225
XII.7, 1072a27 sq. 192
XIV.4, 1091b16 – 21 191 – 192 Confucius
Politica Lunyu
I.1, 1253a2 – 5 192 – 193 11.1 289
I.2, 1252b27 – 1253a1 193
II.6, 1265a10 – 18 170 Cratinus
II.8, 1267b30 – 37 80 fr. 176 KA (Ath. 6.267e) 44 – 45
III.17, 1288a15 – 29 172 – 173
IV.1, 1288b21 – 33 175 Daodejing
IV.1, 1288b33 – 1289a7 176 80 283
IV.4, 1291b30 – 1292a17 94
IV.11, 1295a25 – b1 178 Dio Chrysostomus
VII.1, 1323b21 – 3 179 Orationes
VII.2, 1324a5 – 13 180 36 207
VII.4, 1325b32 – 1326a8 171 36.23 206
VII.12, 1331b18 – 23 169 47.2 – 3 210 – 211
https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110733129-016
306 Index locorum
47.4 – 7 211 Han Feizi

73.5 – 7 211 50.8 284
74.26 211
77/78.38-fin. 211 Herodotus
Historiae
Diodorus Siculus 1.5 59, 65, 66, 73
Bibliotheca historica 1.59 – 64 60
2.49.1 – 5 245 1.99 62
2.55.1 – 2 240 1.196 70
2.55.2 – 5 241 1.199 71
2.55.4 242 2.172 62, 72
2.56.1 242 3.22 – 23 63
2.60.1 – 3 241 3.38 64, 66, 72
3.53.4 240 3.80 – 82 58, 69 – 70
5.10.1, 2, 3 237 4.7 63
5.20.1 240, 242 4.161 69
5.42.4 – 46.7 232 – 234
5.82.2 – 4 237 Hesiodus
6.1.1 – 11 232 – 236 Opera et dies
6.1.4 – 8 289 – 290 109 – 120 288
17.50.1, 4 – 5 243 109 – 126 79
17.67.3 243
17.75.3 – 7 244 Homerus
17.110.5 243 Odyssea
6.4 – 12 288
Diogenes Laertius 19.109 – 114 79
Vitae philosophorum
6.38 195 Isocrates
6.85 195 Areopagiticus
6.104 194 – 195,196 6–7 92
7.34 200n7 12 92
7.87 – 89 202 15 – 17 92 – 93
7.121 204n12 23 93
8.54 97 27 93
37 93
Epictetus 39 93
Dissertationes 39 – 42 94
4.5.4 – 7 201 47 94
48 94
Euhemerus 52 – 53 92
fr. 289 – 290 57 77
Busiris
Eusebius 4 95
Praeparatio evangelica 13 96
15.15 207 – 208 15 96
16 – 18 96 – 97
21 – 23 97
Index locorum 307
27 – 28 97 Pausanias
31 – 32 97 Graeciae descriptio
Helenae encomium 10.30 52
35 – 36 84
Nicocles Philodemus
17 – 18 96 De Stoicis
Panathenaicus col. 9 – 12 200n7
129 – 131 84 col. 12.2 – 6 199n4
Panegyricus
23 – 24 92 Pindarus
39 10 fr. 129 Maehler 52 – 53
75 – 87 93
78 94 Plato
Critias
Lucianus 108e – 109c 243
Cataplus 113c – 121c 243
15 270 Euthyphro
Dialogi mortuorum 15a 196
1.1 269 – 270 Gorgias
Menippus 489e 18
12 268 – 269 Leges 199
Saturnalia I, 644d7 – 645b1 160
2.10 – 11 46 II, 656d1 – 657b8 97
Verae historiae VII, 799a1 – b8 97
2.16 263 VII, 811c – e 117n17
2.17 264 IX, 874e – 875a 113n12
2.19 264 IX, 875b6 – d3 159 – 160
2.31 267 Lysis
206e 45 – 46
Marcus Aurelius Menexenus
Meditationes 238d 17
4.4 207 Philebus
9.29 201 – 202 20d 186
48c – 50b 16
Thomas Morus (ed. Logan et al.) 67a 187
Utopia Politicus
I, 21 4 271e7 – 8 79
I, 34 73 292d2 – 3 150
I, 35 74 Res publica
II, 75 – 76 57 I, 337a 18
II, 83 – 84 68 II, 369b – 371e 188
II, 374d – 376d 129
Musonius Rufus II, 375e6 – 7 130
Dissertationum a Lucio digestarum reliquiae III, 387d – e 188 – 189
VIII 208 III, 412c – d 31
III, 412d – e 32
III, 413c 30
308 Index locorum
III, 414d – 415a 189 VIII, 546a1 – 3 135n34

III, 415d 31 VIII, 557d4 – 5 65
IV, 423e – 424a 125 VIII, 558b – c 32
IV, 425 – 427 107n6 IX, 590c8 – 591a3 146 – 147
IV, 441e4 – 5 147 IX, 592a – b 105, 134n32
IV, 442c10 – d3 148 IX, 592b2 – 3 11
IV, 445d 30 Symposium
V, 449a – 451b 125 216e 18
V, 449c – 451c 62 218d 18
V, 450c6 – d2 125 Timaeus 199
V, 456b1 – c9 128 – 129 24e – 25d 243
V, 456c 129 29e – 33d 186
V, 456c – e 128 33c – d 187
V, 457b7 – c2 128n23 34b 187 – 188
V, 457c10 – d3 130
V, 457d4 – 5 130n26 Plutarchus
V, 458a – b 127 De Alexandri Magni fortuna aut virtute
V, 462a2 – 7 107n5 329a – b 200, 206
V, 464c – d 109n10 De Iside et Osiride
V, 471c4 – 7 130n28 360a – b 239
V, 472a1 – 7 132 De Stoicorum repugnantiis
V, 472c4 – 473a4 133 1033b – 1034b 210
V, 473 199
V, 473a5 – b2 134 Porphyrius
V, 473b4 – 9 135 De abstinentia
V, 473d – e 73 4.2.1 – 6 224
V, 473e2 135
VI, 487b – 488a 136 Seneca
VI, 487c – d 136 – 137, 209 De otio
VI, 488a – d 33 3.2 – 3 204n12, 209 – 210
VI, 488a – 489d 139 3.3 – 4 205
VI, 493a – b 30 – 31 4.1 206
VI, 494a 33 8 210
VI, 496c – d 209 Naturales Quaestiones 3
VI, 498d1 – 8 139 Praefatio 210
VI, 499a11 – d6 137 – 138
VI, 499d10 – 500a7 140 SHA
VI, 502c9 – d2 126 Vita Probi
VI, 511b4 – c2 152 23.1 – 4 294
VII, 531c9 – d8 153 – 154
VII, 532a5 – b5 153 Sima Qian
VII, 533b1 – 3 153 Shiji
VII, 534b3 – c5 153 6 292 – 293
VII, 540a – b 11
VII, 540d1 – e2 126 Stobaeus
VII, 540d1 – 541b1 106n4 Anthologium
VIII, 544d – e 30 2.7.11b 204 – 205
Index locorum 309
2.7.11m 204 – 205 Cyropaedia

1.1.6 89
Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta 1.2 88
III.324 209 1.2.3 89
III.694 209 1.2.4 89
1.2.16 90
Strabo 7.5.86 88, 90
Geographica 8.8 88, 91
7.3.6, 299 239 8.8.2 90
8.8.13 91
Tacitus 8.8.15 91
Annales Lacedaimonion Politeia
6.3 239 1.1 84
1.1 – 2 85
Tao Yuanming 2.1 84
Peach Blossom Source 6.1 85 – 86
277 – 303 7.1 85
10.1 84
Teleclides 10.8 85
fr. 1 KA (Ath. 6.268a – d) 43 – 44 12.1 84
13.1 84
Thucydides 13.1 – 10 87
Historiae 14.1 84, 86
2.37.1 10 14.1 – 7 86
2.41.1 10 15.1 84, 87
15.1 – 9 87
Vergilius Memorabilia
Aeneis 1.2.57 48
6.788 – 797 291 Oeconomicus
Eclogae 1.19 – 20 48
4.4 – 11 291
Xunzi
Xenophon 5 283
Agesilaus
8.7 88

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Utopias in Ancient Thought

Beiträge zur Altertumskunde

Edited by Pierre Destrée, Jan Opsomer and Geert Roskam

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021933287

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek

© 2021 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston

P. Destrée, J. Opsomer, G. Roskam

Inger N.I. Kuin

Index locorum 305

Authors such as Euhemerus and Iambulus were a welcome source of inspi-

 Athenaeus, 6, 267e – 270b. See Kidd in this volume.

praise an ancient utopia performs, I will argue, responds to a crucial feature of

Praise is not meant to produce an informative account of what someone has

 Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1, 9, 33.

 Aristotle, Constitution of the Athenians, 22, 2– 3.

We stand as a παράδειγμα for others to mimic. We offer an “education to Hellas”

 Plato, Republic, 9, 592a 6 – 7. Goldschmidt 1945.

 This interpretation of the emergence of utopian thinking/speaking, situated in its Athenian

My country (chora) is as dear to me as it is to you, and I groan, I am grieved at all that is

 Aristophanes, Ecclesiazusae, 174– 188.

 Aristophanes, Acharnians, 47– 54.

The trigger of laughter, Socrates argues in the Philebus, is precisely self-am-

 P. W. Gooch (1987: 101) offers a comprehensive account of Socrates’ self-minimization, which

6 Δῆμος and δῆμος

7 Great and flourishing

 Plato, Philebus, 48c – 50b.

 Lysias, Epitaphios, 17; Isocrates, Panegyricus, 25; Demosthenes, Epitaphios, 3.

 Ingo on metamorphosis in Birds.

In Plato’s Philebus, it will suffice to watch what Aristophanes makes happen

are in charge.⁸⁰ It is the quality of individual characters, Socrates explains in a

This is Plato’s utopia.

The democratic farce culminates in two vivid images.

Although navigation is a complex technique that requires knowledge of the sky,

10 Post scriptum, or the Isles of the Blessed

 Plato, Menexenos, 238d.

 Hesiod, Works and Days, 166 – 173.

 Logan, Adams, Miller 2004: 128 – 9.

like efficiency, while in paradise, efficiency, self-improvement, even goals them-

1 Dicing as a Feature of Paradise

 For the darkness of Praxagora’s utopia, see Said (1999[1979]).

λέξω τοίνυν βίον ἐξ ἀρχῆς ὃν ἐγὼ θνητοῖσι παρεῖχον.

Those for whom Cronus was king in the old days,

οἷς δὴ βασιλεὺς Κρόνος ἦν τὸ παλαιόν,

3 Why the Disjunction?

 Kurke 1999: 283 – 95.

ousness (spoudē): the real activities of leisure ought to be contemplation or in

six centuries later, is unclear. Nevertheless, he describes this underworld paint-

 For whom, see Hom. Od. 20.66 – 78.

τοῖσι λάμπει μὲν μένος ἀελίου

Olson, S. D. (2007), Broken Laughter, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

1 A Utopian Reading List

2 Is Herodotus’ Histories Political?

3 Is Herodotus a Political Theorist?

evaluate different political practices. After reporting that Cambyses’ irreligious

4 Is Herodotus’ Histories a work of Utopian

or practice to be utopian is if the practice presents a cultural or political “mirror”

The colonization of Cyrēnē is an example of the more general phenomenon:

As Saxonhouse 1996 notes, “The word ‘democracy,’ to be sure, never surfaces in

and himself died without undergoing a reversal in fortune²⁹—contrived ways to

rizing consists in supplying immodest visionary social blueprints, a claim

5 More’s Utopian Incrementalism

portance of resisting change. Isocrates even repositions elements of Plato’s Kal-

1 Politeia and utopia