clear and certain, must be very simple, and be really ignorant of Ammon’s oracle, when he thinks that written words are something more than a reminder to one who knows the subject of the matters about which they are written. Exactly so, Socrates. For surely, Phædrus, writing shares this troublesome characteristic with painting. The productions of painting stand there as if they were alive, but if you ask them a question, preserve a solemn silence. Just so it is with writing. You may think that they speak with some meaning, but if you ask what that meaning is, there they stand with just the same word in their mouth. When once a thing is written, it is tossed over and over by all who take it in, whether it concerns them or not, and is unable to speak, or to be silent with the proper persons. And if it is maltreated or slandered, it wants its father always to help it, for it can neither defend nor help itself. What you say now is also very true indeed. But, says Socrates, can we not find another word, this one’s lawful brother, and see the process by which it arises, and how much better and abler than the former it is? What word is this, and how does it arise? The word which is written on the disciple’s soul together with true knowledge, which is able to defend itself, and knows how to speak and to be silent with the proper persons. You mean the living and animated word of one who has knowledge, whereof the written word may justly be called the shadow.(390) I mean that indeed. Tell me now; an intelligent gardener, who had seeds that he cared for, and wished to bear fruit, would he hurry with them in summer to the gardens of Adonis, plant them, and rejoice to see them springing up with a fair show in a week? or would he do this for amusement, and in festival-time, if he did it at all, but when he took pains would use his gardener’s art, sow them at the fitting time, and be too glad if, seven months afterwards, he saw them coming to perfection? Certainly, Socrates, that would be the difference between his sport and his earnest. Shall we, then, say that he who possesses the science of justice, honour, and goodness, has less intelligence than the gardener for his own seeds? Surely not. He will not, then, hurry to write them with a pen in ink with words, which cannot on the one hand help themselves with speech, and on the other hand are incapable to teach the truth sufficiently. I should think he would not. He will not; but as for these written flower-borders, he will sow and write them, when he does write them, for amusement, storing up reminders for himself, should he come to a forgetful old age, and for every one who pursues the same footsteps, and he will take pleasure in seeing them springing up tenderly: so when other men fall to other amusements, lubricating themselves at the banquet, or other such things, he will take his amusement here. In this, Socrates, you would substitute a very seemly