by Bruce E. R. Thompson.
What is the worst disaster that can befall a person?
Plato gives the answer to that question. I have never heard a better answer, and, following the logic by which he reaches that answer, I believe he is unequivocally right. It isn’t a matter of opinion. His answer applies to you, as well as to me, as well as to him. Some matters in philosophy aren’t “relative.”
First, the worst disaster that can befall a person is not death. We all die. How we die varies, and some deaths are more abhorrent than others. Young is worse that old; painful is worse than painless; alone is worse than in the presence of our loved ones. But once we are dead it is all a wash. Dead is dead—whatever that means—and we all die: the important question is how we have lived.
The worst disaster that can befall a person, according to Plato, is to live a life that is filled with wrongdoing. Each individual wrongdoing is a disaster; a life filled with wrongdoing is the worst disaster of all.
Plato lays out his argument in a dialogue called The Gorgias. Curiously, Gorgias, a famous teacher of rhetoric from out of town, plays only a minor role in the dialogue. He speaks with Socrates only during the first one-sixth of the dialogue. After that, the primary character (aside from Socrates) is Polus, a young follower of Gorgias. Polus argues with Socrates for another two sixths of the dialogue. In the final half of the dialogue Socrates argues with a fellow Athenian, Callicles, who is an important mover and shaker in Athenian government. He and Socrates are men of about the same age (and they have a long-standing dislike of each other).
Gorgias, Polus, and Callicles represent three types of souls.
In the first part of the dialogue Gorgias and Socrates agree on a definition of rhetoric: rhetoric is the skill of persuading without reasoning. Persuasion is the chief means by which we get what we want—especially in a democracy, where the ability to persuade can make a person rich and powerful. But trying to persuade a large audience by means of reasoning will only leave the audience bored and confused, so rhetoric is often employed instead. Gorgias admits that rhetoric, like violence, can be used either justly or unjustly. He himself has never used rhetoric unjustly. He merely teaches the skill and has no aspirations to the wealth and power that can be acquired by means of that skill. He drops out of the discussion feeling satisfied that he and Socrates have come to an agreement.
But Polus is not satisfied. Polus follows Gorgias because he wishes to acquire his skill, but he also imagines that he will someday be wealthy and powerful by means of rhetoric—used unjustly, using lies and deceit if necessary. He wants to know what’s so wrong with that. That’s where the real argument begins.
Socrates asks Polus whether it is worse to do wrong or to be the victim of wrongdoing. Polus (and later Callicles) insist that it is worse to be the victim. But this is not true. Being the victim of wrongdoing may be painful, and it may be embarrassing in the sense that no one likes to admit to being harmed, but it is much more dishonorable to be the cause of someone else’s unjust suffering. The point is not just that history will judge the wrongdoer to be scum; the point is that the wrongdoer will judge himself (or herself) in the same way. The soul of the wrongdoer will be at odds with itself. Polus eventually admits the force of this argument, and reluctantly admits that he was mistaken. He sees that wealth and power are not themselves shameful, but that they must be achieved without wrongdoing, and once acquired they must be used without wrongdoing, if one is to avoid shame.
Socrates then asks whether it is better to be punished for wrongdoing or to escape punishment. Again, Polus (and later Callicles) insist that it is better to escape punishment. But, again, this is wrong. A person who escapes punishment forms a habit of wrongdoing, and eventually will make wrongdoing into a way of life. The person who is punished has a chance to be reformed. And, again, the point is not only that history will praise someone who has repented and reformed, but that the unrepentant and unreformed wrongdoer will make the same judgment. It will know itself to be unworthy of praise. Again, Polus is forced to admit that he was wrong to think that escaping punishment is ultimately a good thing.
By holding these false beliefs, Polus has run the risk of living an unworthy life filled with dishonor and wrongdoing. But Socrates has taken a step in preventing this: by forcing Polus to understand and admit that lies and deceit are shameful, he punishes Polus, and he thereby brings his soul into better accord with itself. Polus drops out of the conversation in a chastened mood. But he is a better person for it—and he knows it.
But now it is Callicles who is unsatisfied, and he is bird of an altogether different feather. He has already spent his life using lies, pandering, and deception to get what he wants. Now he wants to argue that this is the best way to live. To make his point he will continue to lie, pander, and deceive. Everyone watching the discussion sees that Callicles is making a fool of himself. He lies, saying that he does not understand the force of a simple argument, and then lies about his lies. He claims he didn’t say things he clearly did say, and never, never admits that he is wrong, even after he has run out of things to say. He drops out of the conversation in a petulant and angry mood, disavowing it all as nonsense. He refuses to let Socrates punish him, so he gains nothing.
The dialogue ends with a myth about the judgment of souls after death. The myth, of course, is an allegory for what we mean by “happiness.” The ultimate test of happiness is how we judge ourselves as we anticipate our deaths. If we can look back on our lives and say, “I’m proud of what I did. I lived a good life. I treated people well and had many true friends. I have few (or no) regrets,” then we can be said to be happy. If we look back and say, “I’m scum. I know I’m scum. History will judge me as scum (if it remembers me at all). I have no honor. I had no real friends, just people I used and threw away. I am ashamed of myself and regret that I ever lived,” then we are unhappy.
Whenever I teach Introduction to Philosophy, I make The Gorgias part of the course. I find it never goes out of date. There are always politicians who exemplify the character of Callicles: sociopathic, narcissistic liars who try to gain wealth and power by saying whatever they think their audience wants to hear. As it was in ancient Athens, so it is today. Donald Trump is a particularly egregious example, but George Santos is even worse. If you need evidence that he is unhappy in his own skin, just consider this: as I write this, I don’t even know his real name. Perhaps it is Anthony Devolder; perhaps it is something else. He has put great effort into becoming someone he is not. He is ashamed of who he is, and no wonder: no one would want to be him—not even himself.
I pity him. More importantly, he pities himself, and that is the worst disaster that can befall a person.