Unity, Goodness, and the World's Aim

'I quite agree,' said I, 'truly all thy reasonings hold admirably together.'

Then said she: 'What value wouldst thou put upon the boon shouldst thou come to the knowledge of the absolute good?'

'Oh, an infinite,' said I, 'if only I were so blest as to learn to know God also who is the good.'

'Yet this will I make clear to thee on truest grounds of reason, if only our recent conclusions stand fast.'

'They will.'

'Have we not shown that those things which most men desire are not true and perfect good precisely for this cause—that they differ severally one from another, and, seeing that one is wanting to another, they cannot bestow full and absolute good; but that they become the true good when they are gathered, as it were, into one form and agency, so that that which is independence is likewise power, reverence, renown, and pleasant delight, and unless they are all one and the same, they have no claim to be counted among things desirable?'

'Yes; this was clearly proved, and cannot in any wise be doubted.'

'Now, when things are far from being good while they are different, but become good as soon as they are one, is it not true that these become good by acquiring unity?'

'It seems so,' said I.

'But dost not thou allow that all which is good is good by participation in goodness?'

'It is.'

'Then, thou must on similar grounds admit that unity and goodness are the same; for when the effects of things in their natural working differ not, their essence is one and the same.'

'There is no denying it.'

'Now, dost thou know,' said she, 'that all which is abides and subsists so long as it continues one, but so soon as it ceases to be one it perishes and falls to pieces?'

'In what way?'

'Why, take animals, for example. When soul and body come together, and continue in one, this is, we say, a living creature; but when this unity is broken by the separation of these two, the creature dies, and is clearly no longer living. The body also, while it remains in one form by the joining together of its members, presents a human appearance; but if the separation and dispersal of the parts break up the body's unity, it ceases to be what it was. And if we extend our survey to all other things, without doubt it will manifestly appear that each several thing subsists while it is one, but when it ceases to be one perishes.'

'Yes; when I consider further, I see it to be even as thou sayest.'

'Well, is there aught,' said she, 'which, in so far as it acts conformably to nature, abandons the wish for life, and desires to come to death and corruption?'

'Looking to living creatures, which have some faults of choice, I find none that, without external compulsion, forego the will to live, and of their own accord hasten to destruction. For every creature diligently pursues the end of self-preservation, and shuns death and destruction! As to herbs and trees, and inanimate things generally, I am altogether in doubt what to think.'

'And yet there is no possibility of question about this either, since thou seest how herbs and trees grow in places suitable for them, where, as far as their nature admits, they cannot quickly wither and die. Some spring up in the plains, others in the mountains; some grow in marshes, others cling to rocks; and others, again, find a fertile soil in the barren sands; and if you try to transplant these elsewhere, they wither away. Nature gives to each the soil that suits it, and uses her diligence to prevent any of them dying, so long as it is possible for them to continue alive. Why do they all draw their nourishment from roots as from a mouth dipped into the earth, and distribute the strong bark over the pith? Why are all the softer parts like the pith deeply encased within, while the external parts have the strong texture of wood, and outside of all is the bark to resist the weather's inclemency, like a champion stout in endurance? Again, how great is nature's diligence to secure universal propagation by multiplying seed! Who does not know all these to be contrivances, not only for the present maintenance of a species, but for its lasting continuance, generation after generation, for ever? And do not also the things believed inanimate on like grounds of reason seek each what is proper to itself? Why do the flames shoot lightly upward, while the earth presses downward with its weight, if it is not that these motions and situations are suitable to their respective natures? Moreover, each several thing is preserved by that which is agreeable to its nature, even as it is destroyed by things inimical. Things solid like stones resist disintegration by the close adhesion of their parts. Things fluid like air and water yield easily to what divides them, but swiftly flow back and mingle with those parts from which they have been severed, while fire, again, refuses to be cut at all. And we are not now treating of the voluntary motions of an intelligent soul, but of the drift of nature. Even so is it that we digest our food without thinking about it, and draw our breath unconsciously in sleep; nay, even in living creatures the love of life cometh not of conscious will, but from the principles of nature. For oftentimes in the stress of circumstances will chooses the death which nature shrinks from; and contrarily, in spite of natural appetite, will restrains that work of reproduction by which alone the persistence of perishable creatures is maintained. So entirely does this love of self come from drift of nature, not from animal impulse. Providence has furnished things with this most cogent reason for continuance: they must desire life, so long as it is naturally possible for them to continue living. Wherefore in no way mayst thou doubt but that things naturally aim at continuance of existence, and shun destruction.'

'I confess,' said I, 'that what I lately thought uncertain, I now perceive to be indubitably clear.'

'Now, that which seeks to subsist and continue desires to be one; for if its oneness be gone, its very existence cannot continue.'

'True,' said I.

'All things, then, desire to be one.'

'I agree.'

'But we have proved that one is the very same thing as good.'

'We have.'

'All things, then, seek the good; indeed, you may express the fact by defining good as that which all desire.'

'Nothing could be more truly thought out. Either there is no single end to which all things are relative, or else the end to which all things universally hasten must be the highest good of all.'

Then she: 'Exceedingly do I rejoice, dear pupil; thine eye is now fixed on the very central mark of truth. Moreover, herein is revealed that of which thou didst erstwhile profess thyself ignorant.'

'What is that?' said I.

'The end and aim of the whole universe. Surely it is that which is desired of all; and, since we have concluded the good to be such, we ought to acknowledge the end and aim of the whole universe to be "the good."'

"I agree," I said; "for all things stand bound by the firmest reasons."

Then she said: "How highly will you value it, if you come to recognize what the good itself is?"

"Infinitely," I said, "if indeed I may at the same time come to recognize God too, who is the good."

"But this I will lay open by truest reasoning," she said, "provided only that what was concluded a little while ago still stands."

"It will stand."

"Did we not show," she said, "that the things sought by many are for that reason not true and perfect goods, because they differ from one another, and, since one is absent from another, cannot bring full and complete good? But that true good comes about only when they are gathered into one form, as it were, and effective power, so that what is self-sufficiency is the same as power, reverence, renown, and pleasantness; and that unless they are all one and the same, they have nothing for which they should be counted among things to be sought?"

"It was demonstrated," I said, "and can in no way be doubted."

"Things, then, which when they differ are by no means good, but when they have begun to be one become good—is it not by obtaining unity that it comes about that these are good?"

"So it seems," I said.

"But everything that is good, do you grant that it is good by participation in the good, or not?"

"It is so."

"Then by like reasoning you must grant that the one and the good are the same; for the substance of those things whose effect is not naturally different is the same."

"I cannot deny it," I said.

"Do you know, then," she said, "that everything that is remains and subsists just so long as it is one, but perishes and dissolves as soon as it has ceased to be one?"

"In what way?"

"As in living creatures," she said: "when soul and body come together into one and remain, that is called a living creature. But when this unity is dissolved by the separation of the two, it clearly perishes and is no longer a living creature. The body itself too, while it remains in one form by the joining of its members, is seen as a human shape. But if the parts of the body, distributed and separated, have torn apart its unity, it ceases to be what it was. And going through the rest in this way, it will be beyond doubt clear that each thing subsists while it is one, but when it ceases to be one, perishes."

"When I consider it," I said, "it seems to me to be nothing else."

"Is there anything, then," she said, "which, insofar as it acts naturally, abandons the desire of subsisting and seeks to come to destruction and corruption?"

"If I consider living creatures," I said, "which have some nature of willing and not willing, I find nothing that, with no outside compulsion, casts off the intention of remaining and hurries of its own accord to destruction. For every living creature labors to guard its safety, and avoids death and ruin. But what I should agree about herbs and trees, and about wholly inanimate things, I am altogether in doubt."

"And yet there is no reason for you to be in doubt about this either, when you observe that herbs and trees first grow in places suited to them, where, as far as their nature can manage, they cannot quickly dry up and perish. For some spring up in the plains, others on the mountains; some the marshes bear, others cling to rocks; the barren sands are fruitful for some, which, if someone tried to transplant them to other places, would wither. But nature gives each what suits it, and works to keep them from perishing while they can remain. And what of the fact that they all, with their mouths plunged, as it were, into the earth, draw nourishment by their roots, and spread strength through their pith and bark? What of the fact that whatever is softest, like the pith, is always stored away in the inmost place, while outside a certain firmness of wood, and the outermost bark, like a defender able to bear ill, is set against the harshness of the sky? And how great is the diligence of nature, that all things are propagated by multiplied seed! Who does not know that all these are, as it were, certain machines, not only for remaining for a time, but also for remaining as a kind for ever?

"Even those things believed to be inanimate—do not they too each in like manner desire what is their own? For why does lightness carry flames upward, but weight presses earth downward, except that these places and motions suit each? Moreover, what is agreeable to each thing preserves it, just as what is hostile corrupts it. Now, hard things like stones cling most tenaciously to their parts and resist, so as not to be easily dissolved. But liquid things, like air and water, easily yield indeed to whatever divides them, but quickly slip back again into the things from which they were cut off; while fire flees all cutting.

"We are not now discussing the voluntary motions of the knowing soul, but the natural inclination—as when we digest the food we have taken without thinking about it, or draw breath in sleep without knowing it. For not even in living creatures does the love of remaining come from the will of the soul, but from the principles of nature. For often the will, under compelling causes, embraces a death that nature shrinks from; and, on the contrary, that work of begetting, by which alone the long continuance of mortal things endures, and which nature always desires, the will sometimes restrains. To such a degree does this love of self proceed not from the soul's motion, but from natural inclination. For providence gave to the things it created this greatest of all causes for remaining: that they should naturally desire to remain as long as they can. So there is no reason why you could in any way doubt that all things that exist naturally seek the constancy of remaining and avoid ruin."

"I confess," I said, "that I now see beyond doubt what a little while ago seemed uncertain."

"But that which seeks to subsist and remain," she said, "desires to be one; for if this is taken away, not even existence will remain to anything."

"It is true," I said.

"So all things desire the one," she said.

"I have agreed."

"But we have shown that the one is the very thing that is the good."

"Indeed so."

"So all things seek the good—which you may describe thus: that the good itself is what is desired by all."

"Nothing truer could be conceived," I said. "For either all things are referred to nothing as their one, and, deprived of their one summit, as it were, will float without a ruler; or, if there is something toward which all things hurry, that will be the highest of all goods."

And she said: "I rejoice too much, O pupil; for you have fixed in your mind the very mark of the central truth. But in this there has been opened to you what a little while ago you said you did not know."

"What?" I said.

"What the end of all things is," she said. "For it is surely that which is desired by all; and since we have gathered that this is the good, we must confess that the end of all things is the good."