A Dialogue with Plato

It was a quiet evening, and as I walked through the corridors of my mind, lost in thought, I suddenly found myself in a room unlike any I had ever seen. Marble columns stood tall, and the air seemed heavy with wisdom. Seated at the centre, in a chair that exuded authority, was none other than Plato himself. His face, calm and thoughtful, bore the marks of someone who had been through centuries of contemplation. I approached him, somewhat hesitantly, but determined.

Me: Plato, great philosopher, I have often pondered upon your works, especially your dialogues. They are remarkable, but I must confess that they leave me frustrated at times. You raise profound questions, yet seldom do you give answers. Why did you choose this path? Why not provide us with the answers instead of leaving us in the dark?

Plato: Ah, young seeker, you are not the first to feel this frustration. Many who have walked the path of philosophy have wondered why I left so many questions unanswered. But let me ask you this: What is more valuable to the mind — an answer handed down to you, or the journey of discovering it for yourself?

Me: Surely the journey is important, but isn’t an answer equally so? Without answers, how can we make sense of the questions? How can we navigate through the complexities of life if we are constantly wandering, without the certainty of truth?

Plato: You raise a valid concern. However, certainty can sometimes be a prison. When an answer is given, the mind is at rest, but the restlessness that comes with questioning is the flame that drives inquiry, that compels us to look deeper. Do you not see? By providing answers, I would be extinguishing that flame. Instead, I offered dialogues as a way to encourage others to think, to reflect, and to seek their truths.

Me: But surely, some guidance would have helped? Take the allegory of the cave, for instance. You describe the prisoners, the shadows, and the journey to the outside world. But even then, you don’t provide a clear answer. Is the journey out of the cave supposed to symbolize enlightenment? Or is it something else? Couldn’t you have at least told us what you truly meant?

Plato: (smiling) The allegory of the cave is perhaps one of my most misunderstood dialogues, but I intended it that way. The shadows on the wall, the blinding light of the sun — these are not just metaphors to be explained; they are experiences to be lived. If I were to tell you what the cave symbolizes, I would be robbing you of the opportunity to experience that realization for yourself. If I were to give you the answers, you might nod in agreement, but would you truly understand? The journey of the soul towards knowledge is not a path that can be mapped out with words alone.

Me: I see your point, but it still feels incomplete. If I were in your place, I would have offered more direct insights. Your student Aristotle, for example, was much more straightforward in his approach. He laid out his ideas systematically, and many have found great clarity in his works. Why didn’t you follow a similar path?

Plato: Aristotle was brilliant, no doubt, and his method has its merits. But consider this: Aristotle’s works have given many answers, and yet, centuries later, we still grapple with the same fundamental questions. His answers have not resolved the human condition. In contrast, my dialogues remain open, inviting interpretation, and through that, they stay alive. Each reader finds something new, something relevant to their time, their experience. Would you prefer to have answers that become obsolete or questions that remain eternally relevant?

Me: That’s an interesting thought, but doesn’t that lead to endless ambiguity? Isn’t there a risk that people will misinterpret your works, and twist them to suit their ends?

Plato: Ah, but that is the nature of wisdom. It cannot be confined to a single form or interpretation. People will always seek to understand the world in ways that make sense to them. My dialogues were meant to inspire thought, not dictate it. Misinterpretation is inevitable, but so is enlightenment. The wise will sift through the ambiguity and find meaning. The task of philosophy is not to hand out truths but to guide individuals towards them.

Me: But if that’s the case, doesn’t that place too much responsibility on the individual? What about those who are not trained in philosophy, those who don’t have the time or ability to engage deeply with your works? Shouldn’t they have access to clearer answers, to help them navigate their lives?

Plato: Not all will indeed walk the path of philosophy, but the questions I raise are not reserved for philosophers alone. The dialogues I’ve written are accessible to anyone willing to think, to reflect. I did not write them in the technical language of a scholar but in the language of the people. Socrates, my teacher, engaged with all kinds of individuals — soldiers, poets, politicians — and through conversation, he revealed the wisdom that lay dormant in them. The same is possible for anyone who encounters my dialogues.

Me: So, you believe that through conversation and reflection, even the most complex ideas can be understood by anyone?

Plato: Precisely. Philosophy is not an elite pursuit. It is a conversation, a dialogue between the soul and the world. By asking questions, I invite that dialogue. Answers, on the other hand, close the door. They suggest that the work is done, that the inquiry is over. But life itself is an ongoing inquiry, is it not?

Me: Yes, but in today’s world, people seek certainty. They want answers, especially in times of crisis. Don’t you think your method might leave them feeling more lost than found?

Plato: Perhaps, but certainty is often an illusion. It can provide comfort, but it can also prevent growth. The discomfort of not knowing is what pushes us forward. It forces us to seek, to learn, to grow. The questions I left behind are not meant to confuse or frustrate; they are meant to challenge. And in that challenge lies the opportunity for transformation.

Me: If I were in your shoes, I think I would have provided a balance — some answers, at least, alongside the questions. That way, people could reflect but also feel that they are making progress.

Plato: And perhaps that would work for some. But I trust the human spirit to find its way. People are more capable than we often give them credit for. The act of questioning, of not having all the answers, is what drives progress. Consider this: If you had all the answers, what would be left to strive for?

Me: I suppose that’s true. But it’s still difficult to accept. I can’t help but feel that, without some answers, we’re left in a constant state of uncertainty.

Plato: And that, my friend, is the essence of the human condition. To live is to embrace uncertainty. But within that uncertainty lies the freedom to think, to question, to grow. The dialogues I’ve left behind are not incomplete — they are as complete as life itself, which is always evolving, always seeking, never static.

Me: So, you believe that it is through the journey of questioning, rather than the destination of answers, that we find true wisdom?

Plato: Exactly. The journey is the answer. In questioning, we become more than we were before. And that, in the end, is what matters most.

Plato gave me a knowing smile, and I felt a strange sense of peace wash over me. The answers I had sought were not in his words but in the journey of engaging with them. The questions, as frustrating as they were, had done their work. They had ignited a flame within me, a flame that would continue to burn, as long as I kept asking.

Me: Plato, before I leave, there’s one more thing that I’ve been curious about. Your work, The Symposium, is often cited when discussing love. In that dialogue, you explore so many different perspectives, but like your other works, you don’t seem to provide a clear definition of love. Why didn’t you?

Plato: (smiling) Ah, love. One of the most elusive and complex of human experiences. You are right, The Symposium offers many perspectives on love, yet does not provide a single, definitive answer. But tell me, if I had given you one answer, one fixed definition of love, would it have satisfied you? Would it encompass the entirety of what love can be?

Me: Maybe not entirely. Love, after all, seems to change depending on the person or the situation. But surely there’s some common thread, something we can all agree on about what love is?

Plato: Love is indeed vast and multifaceted. In The Symposium, I wanted to present love as a journey, much like the journey toward wisdom. From the base physical desire for beauty to the love of the soul, and finally, the love of pure knowledge or the divine. But to give you a singular definition would have been to diminish its complexity. Love is not one thing — it is many things, and it transforms as we grow. Consider Socrates’ recounting of Diotima’s speech in The Symposium. She describes love as a ladder, where we begin by loving physical beauty, but eventually, if we are wise, we transcend that and come to love something much greater — truth itself.

Me: I see that, but love is also deeply personal. In The Symposium, you focus a lot on love as a philosophical and abstract concept. What about love between two people? The love that brings joy and also pain, that makes us feel connected, and yet so vulnerable? Isn’t that just as important?

Plato: Absolutely, the love between individuals is an essential part of the human experience. But in The Symposium, I wanted to push the discussion beyond that personal realm, to show that love is a force that drives us towards something higher. The love between two people can be beautiful, but it is often tied to desire, and desire can be fleeting. What happens when the object of your love changes, or when the passion fades? If your love is solely tied to the physical or the temporary, it will eventually leave you wanting. But if you can learn to love beyond the person — if you can love their mind, their virtues, and ultimately, the good itself — then love becomes something enduring, something eternal.

Me: So, you’re saying that true love is not just about personal connection, but about seeking something greater, like truth or wisdom?

Plato: Precisely. The personal connection is a starting point, a doorway to something more profound. When we love deeply, we are participating in the form of love itself. We are seeking unity with something beyond ourselves. This is why I described love as a kind of divine madness in The Phaedrus — it propels us beyond the ordinary and toward the extraordinary.

Me: But don’t you think that makes love seem too distant, too detached from the emotional realities people experience? For many, love is messy, imperfect, and grounded in human flaws. It’s not always about aspiring to higher truths. Sometimes, it’s just about being with another person, sharing your life, your vulnerabilities, and your imperfections. Isn’t that just as important as striving for the abstract idea of love?

Plato: (pausing for a moment) You are right to point out that love, in its earthly form, is often messy and imperfect. But that, too, has its place. The journey toward higher forms of love does not negate the value of human relationships. Those relationships are the foundation. They teach us about connection, empathy, and vulnerability. But I wanted to show that there is always more. Love between people is a reflection of a greater love — one that transcends the individual and connects us to the divine. The philosopher’s task is to recognize that reflection and follow it to its source.

Me: So, what you’re suggesting is that love, in its highest form, isn’t really about people at all, but about the pursuit of something beyond the personal, something universal?

Plato: Exactly. When we love another person, we are drawn to their beauty, their goodness. But if we can come to see that these qualities are not theirs alone, but a manifestation of a higher truth, then our love deepens. We are no longer loving the person in a possessive or fleeting way, but rather, we are engaging with the very essence of beauty, the essence of goodness. In The Symposium, this is what I wanted to convey through Diotima’s ladder of love: that we start by loving individuals, but through them, we come to love what is eternal.

Me: That’s an incredible idea, but it almost makes love sound impersonal. If the ultimate goal is to love truth or beauty itself, does that mean we should love people less?

Plato: Not at all. It means we can love them more but differently. Think of it like this: If you love someone because they are beautiful, what happens when their beauty fades? If you love them because they are wise, what happens if they make a mistake? But if you love them because they reflect something higher — virtue, goodness, truth — then your love does not waver. It grows. You begin to see them not as a collection of traits, but as a manifestation of the greater whole. In loving them, you are loving the divine, and that is a love that does not fade.

Me: But is that kind of love achievable for everyone? Most people don’t think about love in such philosophical terms. They love because they feel something for another person. After all, they’re connected emotionally, not because they’re seeking higher truths.

Plato: You’re right, not everyone will consciously think of love in these terms. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t participating in the same process. Even when we love on a purely emotional or physical level, we are still reaching for something beyond ourselves. We are seeking unity, connection, and fulfilment. The philosopher merely tries to make this process conscious, to understand the true nature of what we are seeking. And by doing so, we can love more deeply, more purely, and without fear of loss.

Me: That’s a beautiful way of seeing it. But don’t you think it also complicates things? People want to love and be loved for who they are, not because they are a reflection of some abstract ideal.

Plato: I don’t think it has to be one or the other. To love someone for who they are is to love the unique way in which they embody the universal. They are not separate from the higher ideals — they are an expression of them. When we truly love someone, we are drawn to their essence, their soul. And the soul, my friend, is always connected to something greater. So, when you love someone deeply, you are not turning away from the personal — you are diving into the very core of who they are, and through them, touching the divine.

Me: So, in your view, love is both personal and universal, grounded in the individual but always reaching for something more?

Plato: Yes. Love, like all things in life, is a balance. It begins in the personal, in the experience of two souls connecting. But if we are wise, we will not stop there. We will see that love is the force that drives us to transcend ourselves and connect with something larger than ourselves. That is the beauty of love — it is both human and divine, earthly and eternal.

Me: I think I’m beginning to understand. Love isn’t just about finding answers or defining it — it’s about the experience, the journey, and what it reveals to us about ourselves and the world around us.

Plato: Exactly. Love is the greatest of all teachers. Through love, we learn to see the world in a new light and to seek what is beautiful, true, and good. And in that seeking, we find not only the other but ourselves.

With that, Plato gave me a gentle nod, and once again, I felt that same sense of peace. The questions I had about love were still unanswered, but now I understood why. The journey of love, much like philosophy itself, was never meant to have a final answer. It was meant to be lived, to be felt, and through that experience, to discover the deeper truths hidden within.