P.  “For that which one does not possess.”

S.  “And is one in love with that which is oneself, or with that which is not?”

P.  “With that which is not oneself, thou mocker.  We are not all, surely, like Narcissus?”

S.  “No, by the dog! not quite all.  But see now:  it appears that when any one is in love with a thing, and longs for it, as thou didst for truth, it must be something which is not himself, and which he does not possess?”

P.  “True.”

S.  “You, then, while you were loving facts as they are, and longing to see them as they are, yet did not possess that which you longed for?”

P.  “True, indeed; else why should I have been driven forth by the anger of the gods, like Bellerophon, to pace the Aleian plain, eating my own soul, if I had possessed that for which I longed?”

S.  “Well said, dear boy.  But see again.  This truth which you loved, and which was not yourself or part of yourself, was certainly also nothing of your own making?-Though they say that Pygmalion was enamoured of the statue which he himself had carved.”

P.  “But he was miserable, Socrates, till the statue became alive.”

S.  “They say so; but what has that to do with the argument?”

P.  “I know not.  But it seems to me horrible, as it did to Pygmalion, to be enamoured of anything which cannot return your love, but is, as it were, your puppet.  Should we not think it a shameful thing, if a mistress were to be enamoured of one of her own slaves?”

S.  “We should; and that, I suppose, because the slave would have no free choice whether to refuse or to return his mistress’s love; but would be compelled, being a slave, to submit to her, even if she were old, or ugly, or hateful to him?”

P.  “Of course.”

S.  “And should we not say, Phaethon, that there was no true enjoyment in such love, even on the part of the mistress; nay, that it was not worthy of the name of love at all, but was merely something base, such as happens to animals?”

P.  “We should say so rightly.”

S.  “Tell me, then, Phaethon-for a strange doubt has entered my mind on account of your words.  This truth of which you were enamoured, seems, from what has been agreed, not to be a part of yourself, nor a creation of your own, like Pygmalion’s statue-how then has it not happened to you to be even more miserable than Pygmalion till you were sure that truth loved you in return?-and, moreover, till you were sure that truth had free choice as to whether it should return or refuse your love?  For, otherwise, you would be in danger of being found suffering the same base passion as a mistress enamoured of a slave who cannot resist her.”

P.  “I am puzzled, Socrates.”

S.  “Shall we rather say, then, that you were enamoured, not of truth itself, but of the spirit of truth?  For we have been all along defining truth to be ‘facts as they are,’ have we not?”