Sousarion Reacts #4: Plato's P*rnography
A Reading of the Lovers (NSFW)
This is my first entry on a work by Plato.
So let me lay a few cards on the table:
In my view, Plato is the greatest philosopher — and the greatest writer — in the Western tradition.
That’s a high bar, and it makes the task of spilling ink on him feel daunting. Not least because so much has already been said by professionals with far more influence — and motion — than I have. Two and a half millennia of interpretation is a heavy weight. What could Sousarion possibly add?
Another layer of difficulty is Plato’s form. He wrote some 35 dialogues — dramatic conversations full of shifting moods, layered ironies, subtle but extensive character work, and narrative developments. And yet, he never appears.
Yes, he composes each word into the mouths of his characters, controls the logic, the pacing, the setting, the outcomes, the cosmos — but he himself is invisible. He’s both omnipresent and absent. This is essential to his art.
Most of the tradition, from Aristotle on down, treats Socrates as Plato’s mouthpiece. “Socrates says x, which really means Plato says x, now I will critique x.” XXX. But this rests on shaky ground.
Socrates is a character, not the real Socrates. He says different things in different contexts, to different audiences, for different purposes. If there is a teaching, it is never without caveats, never without a context, or without the conditions set by dialogue’s setting. Most importantly, never stated in Plato’s own name.
In this way, reading Plato is more like reading Shakespeare than reading the old Kant. Shakespeare doesn’t tell you what to think or feel about his characters or the myriad of positions they take, and actions they carry out. Surprise! Neither does Plato. They both disappear from their dramas, behind the voices of their characters.
That’s part of what makes them great — and what makes engaging with them so difficult. As such, I won’t be ascribing Plato’s words to him directly. I take all the words seriously. I raise my sensitivities and care to who says what, to whom, where, when, and how. Read the room. Vibes are crucial.
Let me add one more challenge to the pile: I’m not writing a dialogue.
What you’re reading now is a monologue — a reaction, from me to you, whoever you are. And however dear you may be, dear reader (and I’m sure you are), this is a different kind of communication.
Plato chose dialogue. He chose indirection, polyphony, conflict, seduction, silence. That form thinks in ways a monologue like this can’t. I’m not claiming to do what he does. From the jump, this won’t be as good or as insightful as engaging the dialogues themselves.
So — read them. They are masterpieces. Not only of philosophical thought, but of writing as such.
The Lovers is not the pinnacle of Plato’s output — not in terms of artistry, or craft, or philosophic depth. But it’s excellent in its own right.
Its ten pages offer a crisp introduction to the style of conversation and cross-examination — dialectics — that runs through nearly every Platonic work. (Except the Letters. For in Plato, there is always an exception.)
So, let’s get into it.
Lovers opens not just with philosophy, but with lust, with posturing, and a very thin veil separating erotic and intellectual dominance. Don’t blink.
Socrates, in this dialogue, is an open pederast. The curtain rises with him casually recounting a visit to a teenage boys’ school in pursuit of extending his male gaze to the young and beautiful.
It’s the human embodiment of the mystical gaze upon the Idea of the Beautiful.
He sees two boys who drive him “wild.” And he spots two others — rivals — who are also “wild” for at least one of the same boys.
The setup isn’t even disguised. And while Socrates narrates the scene casually, there’s a thick layer of predatory tension.
It’s perverse suggestion — and it’s intentional.
Socrates had overheard the teenage boys discussing the philosopher, Anaxagoras. Briefly: Anaxagoras was a natural philosopher who claimed that nous, mind, was the foundational principle of all things — and set the world in motion. He built a system around that idea.
The details of his philosophy aren’t essential here, but I mention him because Socrates, earlier in life, had also studied natural philosophy and been especially taken with Anaxagoras — at first.
But he later rejected it, seeing its inadequacy, and turned toward political philosophy — out of a realization that more important than the stars are the lives we live.
Better to live well than be ignorant of living while studying the heavenly bodies.
(Compare the Socrates of Aristophanes’ Clouds with Socrates’ biographical story in Plato’s Phaedo.)
Socrates wants to speak with the boys. But he doesn’t go straight for them, not yet. He sets his sights on one of the rivals.
Of these two: one is muscular, clearly an athlete. The other studies music (flute playing has always been viewed as effeminate) and is a bit more “delicate,” physically.
Naturally, Socrates approaches the more manly-looking one first.
Game-theory in motion: Identify the prize(s), catch their attention, but instead of going straight for the kill, target a known entity. It’s the old bait-and-deflect. (John Nash wasn’t original. Sorry not sorry.)
Socrates starts his conversation with the rival, knowing the boys are watching.
He elbows the beefier rival — an act that’s both familiar and aggressive — and tosses him a question designed to provoke.
It succeeds.
Now, it’s unclear whether these rivals are older men like Socrates or upperclassmen at the school. Plato doesn’t say. But the elbow is fascinating.
Socrates downplays it, massages the moment, but the action is hostile. A gentle shove, a veiled threat of assertion.
It’s also a probe. Not just of bodies, but beliefs. Philosophy, incarnate in the form of Socrates, has entered, aflame with desire and pushing to dominate. The staging is no accident. Neither is the tension.
The manly rival answers by dismissing the boys’ philosophical conversation, which prompts Socrates to pose a bemused question: does this rival think it’s shameful to philosophize?
Remember: Philosophy is also chasing after youngsters.
Before he can reply, the beefy guy is cut off by the less manly rival, who swoops in to rebuke Socrates for even asking him the question.
Shame for shame.
The logic? The beefy one is more likely to throw someone in a headlock than engage in dialectic, so of course he’d think philosophy is shameful.
And just like that, the manly rival is silenced. He doesn’t speak again in the dialogue.
What do we know of him? He’s thirsting after one of the boys. He’s muscly, athletic. He doesn’t mock or flatter Socrates (the presumed older perv), but postures just enough to appear traditionally manly — a man who thinks his body does the talking.
Socrates says nothing in his defense. Nor does he criticize the less manly rival who interrupted.
Instead, he shifts attention to this latter rival for the rest of the dialogue.
The dramatic weight now falls on their interaction.
Still, subtle narrative hints suggest that Socrates likely holds the silenced one in higher esteem.
But let’s pause to make some increasingly obscene observations.
What exactly do these two rivals represent? And what does Socrates represent? What does Plato have in mind with this ménage-à-trois of rivals?
We’ve mentioned Socrates will lead the conversation toward political philosophy. And here, the seeds of that turn are already visible.
Much of the Platonic corpus unfolds under the shadow of Athens’ devastating defeat in the Peloponnesian War. There are countless references and structural nods to that conflict, which Thucydides famously described as world-historical.
In that framing, the muscly, beefy guy might represent Sparta — all brute force, taciturn pride, and physical dominance.
The other rival, more delicate, more verbal, more eager to argue — resembles Athens. Loquacious. Refined. A tad arrogant.
And Socrates?
He becomes the dialectical synthesis. The superior figure. Perhaps Philosophy itself in the flesh.
Secondly, note this: even if Socrates disrespects the manly rival less, the dude still folds.
Reduced to silence, he lets the other take over without a fight. A strong man who doesn’t speak, doesn’t flex, doesn’t pursue… he might as well not be there.
He’s been sidelined. Revealed as weak. Unmasked as dumb. Maybe too dumb to realize Socrates just entered the arena as a third rival.
Thirdly, Socrates juxtaposes shame with philosophy, which should strike us as strange. Today we apply shame to shameless individuals — especially politicians.
Bribery. Treachery. Debauchery. And yes, pederasty.
Such shameful qualities are as old as politics. And they lurk, eternally, in the shadows of the political arena.
Does Plato (through Socrates) mean to suggest that a practitioner of political philosophy must learn shamelessness? Up to and including predatory abuse?
Perhaps.
But let’s return to the drama: Brawn can’t compete with brains.
And with beefcake benched, the stage is now clear for the less manly rival. Does he have the brains? Or will Socrates dismantle him, too?
Spoiler: Socrates obliterates him.
The discussion turns increasingly technical — not dry, and not lacking in literary texture — but the action now unfolds through speeches, not elbows, gropes, or grabs.
Socrates turns his attention to the musical rival and rephrases his Philosophy x Shameful question into something more palatable: is philosophizing noble?
He receives a resounding yes. And with that, we’re off to the races.
Socrates is now positioned to cross-examine the musical rival with one of his signature What is X? questions. In this case: What is philosophy?
The rival takes the bait. He offers a definition: philosophy is about learning. A philosopher is one who wants to learn everything.
Socrates smiles and presses: let’s investigate what that really means. He follows with a sequence of pointed questions. The most important: consider the art of medicine. A philosopher may study medicine. Wonderful! But that doesn’t make the philosopher a doctor.
So, if one of us falls ill, should we ask the philosopher or the doctor what to do? Obviously, the doctor.
The philosopher might dabble in everything, but when it comes to actual expertise, the specialist wins. Always.
No one wants second-rate wisdom when they can get first-rate guidance.
The rival is silenced.
Socrates’ example of medicine doubles as a jab at Anaxagoras — the natural philosopher the boys had been discussing together. Anaxagoras taught that mind was the source of everything.
Like the youths, Socrates had once been taken by that idea. But now he exposes its hollowness.
Just because we learn with the mind doesn’t mean everything reduces to the mind: You don’t go to a metaphysician for medical advice.
(Ahead of his time by 1,800 years, Descartes’ cogito ergo sum is refuted.)
Nature requires specialists. Specialists who are doers. Not grand theorists of the All.
Socrates has now defeated both rivals.
He’s ready to step forward as the only real lover by redefining philosophy entirely. Real philosophy, he says, is not the study of nature, but of the soul.
Political philosophy, properly practiced, is the doctoring of the soul: revealing what life in society actually is, and showing how to live truthfully and best within it.
It peels back vulgarity, hedonism, and political delusion. It educates desire.
It’s a bold claim. And it lands… Sort of.
But let’s skip the academic analysis.
The real questions are:
Is Socrates right?
And does he get the boys?
The answer to both: a resounding no.
Yes, he dismantles Anaxagoras. Yes, he earns the rapt attention of the boys. But attention is not the same as conquest.
Even worse, political philosophy — his new offering — remains susceptible to the same objection he pinned on the natural philosophers:
If we want to understand politics, should we ask a philosopher? Or a politician?
A theorist? Or someone who’s held power, governed bodies, made hard decisions?
Even in Athens, there was a vast gap between political philosophy and political practice — between Plato and Pericles. (Note: Pericles received tutoring from Anaxagoras.)
History is full of political actors. It’s not full of political philosophers.
The latter advise, criticize, sometimes provoke; the former rule, fail, get murdered, get remembered. Many philosophers were jailed or killed for thinking out loud. And politicians? For acting too boldly, or not boldly enough.
Still, we look to political leaders as the experts. And when we consult the philosophers?
We find a graveyard of ideas, brilliant and largely ignored.
Plato’s Republic? Never built.
His Laws? Never attempted.
Aristotle’s Politics? Respected, but unused.
Machiavelli? Quoted more than followed.
Kant’s peace? Fiction.
Hegel’s monarchy? Outdated.
Marx’s communism? Misused.
Rawls’ veil of ignorance? Please.
The history of political philosophy is full of insight. But when its ideas do reach power, they arrive bastardized. No state has ever followed a philosopher’s work in full. Not even close.
Why?
Because politics depends on phronesis — prudence, or practical wisdom — and on luck. A philosopher might sketch the contours of wisdom, but can’t transfer it. Socrates admits as much in another dialogue, Protagoras: virtue can’t be taught. And phronesis is a virtue.
So what is Socrates doing?
He’s not educating.
He’s seducing.
He charms with contradiction and illusion, guiding — corrupting — the young into disillusionment. And then offering a second-best truth. He exposes, undermines, dazzles. Not to save, but to dominate.
And this is his game. His kink.
He makes a spectacle of it across dialogues — Charmides, Phaedrus, Symposium, to name a few.
Especially the Symposium.
That’s where the mask drops. Towards the end, the symposium is interrupted by a drunken Alcibiades, the infamous Athenian general, golden boy, and Socrates’ beloved, who recalls the night they shared a bed. Socrates remained so composed about it that young Alcibiades had to initiate the seduction himself. But Socrates just lay there. Unmoved. Unbothered. A limp noodle.
It’s not that he didn’t want him. It’s that he’s sterile.
The predator was a performance.
And in the Lovers, it happens again. He defeats the rivals. He redirects the boys’ minds. He reorients the conversation. But he doesn’t “get” them. They’re not conquered or converted. Their hearts remain untouched. All he offers is a change of method, not of love.
Is it better?
That’s debatable.
This is what I mean by Plato’s pornography. The erotic charge is everywhere visible, undeniable. But the climax never comes. The seduction halts at the edge. What’s offered is a tease. A fantasy.
We’re left with tension.
Left holding it.
Cut short.
Cut off.
Blue-balled.
Maybe eunuch’ed.
Still, instructive.
Plato never gives it all.
Editor’s note: No teenagers were seduced in the writing of this essay. (Probably.)