On the Art of Measurement
This dialogue forms the second part of a two-part inquiry in The Statesman, where the first focused on weaving as a metaphor for statesmanship, and the second turns to the art of measurement as the guiding principle that reveals the true nature of the kingly craft. The first part can be read here.
In this central stretch of The Statesman, Plato (through the voice of the Stranger) explores the art of measurement as a foundational principle for discerning truth, justice, and proper governance. The Stranger insists that neither length nor brevity, excess nor deficiency, nor even the value of discourse itself should be judged by surface-level comparisons, but by their fitness to purpose—their alignment with a fixed standard. This standard, called the mean, represents a deeper order, a rational principle by which all things should be measured—not merely in relation to one another, but in relation to what is truly appropriate, moderate, and good.
Through a series of dialectical divisions, the Stranger demonstrates how the kingly art must be separated from other arts—those that produce tools, materials, ornaments, or nourishment. While all these arts are necessary for the functioning of the state, they are merely contingent causes—they support or serve the state, but do not govern it. The true statesman, like the master weaver, does not simply assemble parts but uses measurement guided by reason to harmonize and order the many elements of society. This weaving metaphor returns repeatedly, reinforcing the idea that the statesman’s task is not mechanical or material, but moral and intellectual: to discern and apply the right measure in the midst of complexity.
In breaking down the various classes of possessions and arts—receptacles, vehicles, instruments, materials, ornaments, food, and even playthings—Plato clears away all that does not properly belong to statesmanship, so that its essence might be revealed: the rational art of rightly measuring and ordering human life. Ultimately, this dialogue elevates the art of measurement to something sacred and philosophical—it is a path not only to political order, but to understanding the Good itself.
THE STATESMAN
STR. And no wonder; but perhaps you might change your mind. Now to avoid any such malady, in case it should, as is not unlikely, attack you frequently hereafter, I will propose a principle of procedure which is applicable to all cases of this sort.
Y. SOC. Do so.
STR. First, then, let us scrutinize the general nature of excess and deficiency, for the sake of obtaining a rational basis for any praise or blame we may bestow upon excessive length or brevity in discussions of this kind.
Y. SOC. Yes, that is a good thing to do.
STR. Then the proper subjects for our consideration would, I fancy, be these.
Y. SOC. What?
STR. Length and shortness and excess and deficiency in general; for all of them may be regarded as the subjects of the art of measurement.
Y. SOC. Yes.
[Note: In this section, Plato—through the dialogue between the Stranger and Young Socrates—shifts the discussion toward a deeper principle underlying judgment and decision-making: measurement. The Stranger warns of a kind of “malady” or confusion that arises when one fails to discern properly the right measure in things, whether in speech, action, or character. To address this, he introduces a key idea: that all instances of length and shortness, excess and deficiency, are not merely random or subjective, but belong to the domain of measurement. In other words, understanding what is too much or too little requires knowledge of a proper mean or standard. This theme, resonating with Plato’s broader ethical thought, suggests that the statesman (and by extension, the philosopher or soul-guided person) must be skilled in discerning the right measure in all things—balancing extremes and choosing the appropriate course through rational insight. Measurement here is not only mathematical but also moral and political: a guiding principle for harmony, order, and wise governance.]
STR. Let us, then, divide that art into two parts; that is essential for our present purpose.
Y. SOC. Please tell how to make the division.
STR. In this way: one part is concerned with relative greatness or smallness, the other with the something without which production would not be possible.
[Note: In this passage, the Stranger introduces a crucial distinction within the art of measurement: he divides it into two parts. The first concerns relative greatness or smallness, which refers to comparisons between things—for example, saying one object is larger, longer, or better than another. This kind of measurement is relational, always depending on what it is being compared to. The second part, however, concerns something more fundamental: the standard or principle without which production would not be possible. This refers to the mean—a fixed, rational standard that determines the proper measure or proportion in any art or craft. It is not merely relative, but normative. In weaving, for instance, this might mean finding the right tension, length, and balance to make a functional garment. In ethics or statesmanship, it’s about finding the just mean between extremes. Without this standard, no true art or order can emerge.]
Y. SOC. What do you mean?
STR. Do you not think that, by the nature of the case, we must say that the greater is greater than the less and than nothing else, and that the less is less than the greater and than nothing else?
Y. SOC. Yes.
STR. But must we not also assert the real existence of excess beyond the standard of the mean, and of inferiority to the mean, whether in words or deeds, and is not the chief difference between good men and bad found in such excess or deficiency?
[Note: This passage is a key moment in Plato’s Statesman, where the Stranger builds on the idea of objective standards—specifically, the mean—as essential to judgment, ethics, and political life. He’s arguing that excess and deficiency are not just relative (i.e., one person talks more than another), but can be measured against a real and objective mean—a proper, fitting amount rooted in reason or nature.
This “mean” is the just measure in speech, action, and moral character. Going beyond it (excess) or falling short of it (deficiency) leads to imbalance—and this is precisely what separates good men from bad men. The good man hits the mark—he speaks neither too much nor too little, acts neither rashly nor cowardly, but chooses the measured middle. This reflects the same idea found in Aristotle’s ethics, where virtue is a mean between extremes.
So, in essence: goodness requires measure, and badness arises from failing to hit the mean—by doing too much or too little of what is appropriate, whether in behavior, speech, or governance.]
Y. SOC. That is clear.
STR. Then we must assume that there are these two kinds of great and small, and these two ways of distinguishing between them; we must not, as we did a little while ago, say that they are relative to one another only, but rather, as we have just said, that one kind is relative in that way, and the other is relative to the standard of the mean. Should we care to learn the reason for this?
[Note: In this passage, the Stranger clarifies a crucial distinction: while some things can be understood as relative to one another (e.g., taller vs. shorter, faster vs. slower), this kind of comparison is insufficient when it comes to true judgment or measurement. He insists that we must go beyond mere relativity and recognize a higher kind of comparison—measurement according to a fixed standard, namely, the mean. One kind of evaluation looks only at how things compare to each other; the other kind assesses how things measure up to an objective ideal or proper measure. This shift is essential in arts like weaving or statesmanship, and even more so in ethics: to determine what is just or virtuous, we must not merely say one person is better than another, but whether either conforms to the right measure—the balanced, fitting, and harmonious mean.
Imagine the soul as a cloak being woven by a divine craftsman or statesman. Each thread in the garment represents a quality—courage, temperance, intellect, desire. If the weaver judges these threads only in relation to each other—for example, saying that one is thicker or longer than another—he may still produce a misshapen, unbalanced garment. But if he weaves according to a fixed standard—a mean that determines the right proportion and placement of each thread in relation to the whole—then the garment becomes strong, harmonious, and beautiful.
Likewise, in the soul: someone may be braver than another or more self-restrained, but unless those qualities conform to the fixed standard of the mean—the just and fitting measure dictated by reason—they fall into excess or deficiency. Too much courage becomes recklessness; too little becomes cowardice. The soul’s garment is only well woven when each virtue is measured not by comparison to others, but by its alignment with what is truly right and ordered. This is the real art of measurement, and the true weaving of a just and well-formed soul.]
Y. SOC. Of course.
STR. If we assert that the greater has no relation to anything except the less, it will never have any relation to the standard of the mean, will it?
[Note: In this sentence, the Stranger highlights the limitation of purely relative thinking. If we say that “greater” only means “greater than something lesser,” then we are trapped in a comparison that never touches anything fixed or objective. It’s like measuring everything with a rubber ruler—it shifts depending on what it’s next to. But the mean—the proper, fitting measure—is a fixed standard, not just a fluctuating midpoint between extremes. If we never relate “greater” or “lesser” to this stable standard, we can’t know whether something is truly too much, too little, or just right. So, without the mean, judgment loses its grounding, and the art of creating order—whether in speech, action, or soul—becomes impossible.]
Y. SOC. No.
STR. Will not this doctrine destroy the arts and their works one and all, and do away also with statesmanship, which we are now trying to define, and with weaving, which we did define? For all these are doubtless careful about excess and deficiency in relation to the standard of the mean; they regard them not as non-existent, but as real difficulties in actual practice, and it is in this way, when they preserve the standard of the mean, that all their works are good and beautiful.
[Note: Here, the Stranger argues that if we reject the existence of a fixed standard—the mean—we undermine the very foundation of all true arts, including weaving and statesmanship. These arts succeed only by carefully navigating excess and deficiency, measuring every act or element against a stable ideal, and it is through this alignment with the mean that their works become orderly, effective, and beautiful.]
Y. SOC. Certainly.
STR. And if we do away with the art of statesmanship, our subsequent search for the kingly art will be hopeless, will it not?
Y. SOC. Certainly.
STR. Then just as in the case of the sophist we forced the conclusion that not-being exists, since that was the point at which we had lost our hold of the argument, so now we must force this second conclusion, that the greater and the less are to be measured in relation, not only to one another, but also to the establishment of the standard of the mean, must we not? For if this is not admitted, neither the statesman nor any other man who has knowledge of practical affairs can be said without any doubt to exist.
[Note: In this line, the Stranger insists that we must go beyond comparing things merely to each other (greater vs. less) and instead recognize a fixed standard—the mean—as the true measure. Without this standard, our judgments remain unstable and purely relative; only by grounding comparison in the mean can we arrive at meaningful, objective understanding, especially in arts like statesmanship.]
Y. SOC. Then we must by all means do now the same that we did then.
STR. This, Socrates, is a still greater task than that was; and yet we remember how long that took us; but it is perfectly fair to make about them some such assumption as this.
Y. SOC. As what?
STR. That sometime we shall need this principle of the mean for the demonstration of absolute precise truth. But our belief that the demonstration is for our present purpose good and sufficient is, in my opinion, magnificently supported by this argument—that we must believe that all the arts alike exist and that the greater and the less are measured in relation not only to one another but also to the establishment of the standard of the mean. If the one exists, they exist also, and if they exist, it exists also, but neither can ever exist if the other does not.
[Note: Here, the Stranger suggests that the principle of the mean is not just practical but ultimately foundational to discovering absolute, precise truth. At some point—especially in philosophy, ethics, or governance—we must rely on this fixed standard to move beyond opinion or relativity and ground our reasoning in what is universally and objectively true. In Platonic terms, this principle points upward to the Form of the Good—the highest reality and ultimate measure by which all things are known, ordered, and made beautiful. The mean, in this sense, is not merely a balance but a reflection of the absolute standard of truth and value that underlies all genuine knowledge and art.]
Y. SOC. That is quite right. But what comes next?
STR. We should evidently divide the science of measurement into two parts in accordance with what has been said. One part comprises all the arts which measure number, length, depth, breadth, and thickness in relation to their opposites; the other comprises those which measure them in relation to the moderate, the fitting, the opportune, the needful, and all the other standards that are situated in the mean between the extremes.
Y. SOC. Both of your divisions are extensive, and there is a great difference between them.
STR. Yes, for what many clever persons occasionally say, Socrates, fancying that it is a wise remark, namely, that the science of measurement has to do with everything, is precisely the same as what we have just said. For in a certain way all things which are in the province of art do partake of measurement; but because people are not in the habit of considering things by dividing them into classes, they hastily put these widely different relations into the same category, thinking they are alike; and again they do the opposite of this when they fail to divide other things into parts. What they ought to do is this: when a person at first sees only the unity or common quality of many things, he must not give up until he sees all the differences in them, so far as they exist in classes; and conversely, when all sorts of dissimilarities are seen in a large number of objects he must find it impossible to be discouraged or to stop until he has gathered into one circle of similarity all the things which are related to each other and has included them in some sort of class on the basis of their essential nature. No more need be said, then, about this or about deficiency and excess; let us only bear carefully in mind that two kinds of measurement which apply to them have been found, and let us remember what those kinds are.
Y. SOC. We will remember.
STR. Now that we have finished this discussion, let us take up another which concerns the actual objects of our inquiry and the conduct of such discussions in general.
Y. SOC. What is it?
STR. Suppose we were asked the following question about a group of pupils learning their letters: “When a pupil is asked of what letters some word or other is composed, is the question asked for the sake of the one particular word before him or rather to make him more learned about all words in the lesson?”
Y. SOC. Clearly to make him more learned about them all.
STR. And how about our own investigation of the statesman? Has it been undertaken for the sake of this particular subject or rather to make us better thinkers about all subjects?
Y. SOC. Clearly this also is done with a view to them all.
STR. Of course no man of sense would wish to pursue the discussion of weaving for its own sake; but most people, it seems to me, fail to notice that some things have sensible resemblances which are easily perceived; and it is not at all difficult to show them when anyone wishes, in response to a request for an explanation of some one of them, to exhibit them easily without trouble and really without explanation. But, on the other hand, the greatest and noblest conceptions have no image wrought plainly for human vision, which he who wishes to satisfy the mind of the inquirer can apply to some one of his senses and by mere exhibition satisfy the mind.
We must therefore endeavour by practice to acquire the power of giving and understanding a rational definition of each one of them; for immaterial things, which are the noblest and greatest, can be exhibited by reason only, and it is for their sake that all we are saying is said. But it is always easier to practise in small matters than in greater ones.
[Note: The Stranger distinguishes between simple, visible things and higher, invisible truths. He begins by acknowledging that no reasonable person would dwell on weaving purely for its own sake—its purpose is metaphorical. Weaving, and things like it, have sensible resemblances—they are tangible, easy to understand, and can be demonstrated directly to the senses. However, the noblest and most profound ideas—such as justice, the soul, or the statesman’s art—cannot be shown to the eyes or touched. They have no physical image or likeness. These truths require something more: the power of reason. One cannot simply “point to” virtue or wisdom; one must define, explain, and understand such things through dialectic and careful philosophical inquiry. This is Plato’s larger point: true knowledge, especially of the highest realities, is not gained by looking at things, but by thinking well.]
Y. SOC. Excellent.
STR. Let us, then, remember the reason for all that we have said about these matters.
Y. SOC. What is the reason?
STR. The reason is chiefly just that irritating impatience which we exhibited in relation to the long talk about weaving and the revolution of the universe and the sophist’s long talk about the existence of not-being. We felt that they were too long, and we reproached ourselves for all of them, fearing that our talk was not only long, but irrelevant. Consider, therefore, that the reason for what has just been said is my wish to avoid any such impatience in the future.
Y. SOC. Very well. Please go on with what you have to say.
STR. What I have to say, then, is that you and I, remembering what has just been said, must praise or blame the brevity or length of our several discussions, not by comparing their various lengths with one another, but with reference to that part of the science of measurement which we said before must be borne in mind. I mean the standard of fitness.
[Note: The Stranger returns to the core Platonic principle of measuring by the standard of fitness or appropriateness, rather than by superficial comparison. He argues that the value of a philosophical discussion—whether long or short—should not be judged merely in relation to others by length alone, but by how well it fits the purpose of discovering truth. This is part of the broader “science of measurement” discussed earlier in The Statesman, where things are judged not by relative extremes, but by a fixed standard or mean. In this case, that standard is fitness: does the discussion serve the goal of understanding, clarity, and intellectual improvement? If so, then it is well-measured—regardless of how long or short it is.]
Y. SOC. Quite right.
STR. But we must not always judge of length by fitness, either. For we shall not in the least want a length that is fitted to give pleasure, except, perhaps, as a secondary consideration; and again reason counsels us to accept fitness for the easiest and quickest completion of the inquiry in which we are engaged, not as the first, but as the second thing to be desired. By far our first and most important object should be to exalt the method itself of ability to divide by classes, and therefore, if a discourse, even though it be very long, makes the hearer better able to discover the truth, we should accept it eagerly and should not be offended by its length, or if it is short, we should judge it in the same way. And, moreover, anyone who finds fault with the length of discourses in our discussions, or objects to roundabout methods, must not merely find fault with the speeches for their length and then pass them quickly and hastily by, but he must also show that there is ground for the belief that if they had been briefer they would have made their hearers better dialecticians and quicker to discover through reason the truth of realities.
About other people and the praise or blame they direct towards other qualities in discourse, we need not be concerned; we need not even appear to hear them. But enough of this, if you feel about it as I do; so let us go back to the statesman and apply to him the example of weaving that we spoke of a while ago.
Y. SOC. Very well; let us do so.
STR. The art of the king, then, has been separated from most of the kindred arts, or rather from all the arts that have to do with herds. There remain, however, the arts that have to do with the state itself. These are both causes and contingent causes, and our first duty is to separate them from one another.
Y. SOC. Quite right.
STR. It is not easy to divide them into halves, you know. But I think the reason will nevertheless be clear as we go on.
Y. SOC. Then we had better divide in another way.
STR. Let us divide them, then, like an animal that is sacrificed, by joints, since we cannot bisect them; for we must always divide into a number of parts as near two as possible.
Y. SOC. How shall we do it in the present instance?
STR. Just as in the previous case, you know, we classed all the arts which furnished tools for weaving as contingent causes.
Y. SOC. Yes.
STR. So now we must do the same thing, but it is even more imperative. For all the arts which furnish any implement, great or small, for the state, must be classed as contingent causes; for without them neither state nor statesmanship could ever exist, and yet I do not suppose we shall reckon any of them as the work of the kingly art.
[Note: The Stranger resumes the task of defining statesmanship by refining its distinction from other related arts. He notes that the kingly art (or political leadership) has already been separated from more obvious non-political arts like animal herding, but now must be further distinguished from the arts that support the state, such as those that build tools or provide materials. These supporting arts are necessary—they are called contingent causes—because they make the existence of the state possible. However, they are not themselves the essence of statesmanship. The true statesman’s role is not to produce tools or manage external goods, but to exercise judgment, leadership, and the art of governance. Just as earlier they separated weaving from the production of tools for weaving, here too they must “cut at the joints”—dividing carefully between what merely contributes to statecraft and what truly is the kingly art. The distinction emphasizes that while many arts support society, only the statesman orders and rules it with wisdom.]
Y. SOC. No.
STR. We shall certainly be undertaking a hard task in separating this class from the rest; for it might be said that everything that exists is the instrument of something or other, and the statement seems plausible. But there are possessions of another kind in the state, about which I wish to say something.
Y. SOC. What do you wish to say?
STR. That they do not possess this instrumental function. For they are not, like tools or instruments, made for the purpose of being causes of production, but exist for the preservation of that which has been produced.
Y. SOC. What is this class of possessions?
STR. That very various class which is made with dry and wet materials and such as are wrought by fire and without fire; it is called collectively the class of receptacles; it is a very large class and has, so far as I can see, nothing at all to do with the art we are studying.
Y. SOC. No, of course not.
STR. And there is a third very large class of possessions to be noticed, differing from these; it is found on land and on water, it wanders about and is stationary, it is honourable and without honour, but it has one name, because the whole class is always a seat for some one and exists to be sat upon.
Y. SOC. What is it?
STR. We call it a vehicle, and it certainly is not at all the work of statesmanship, but much rather that of the arts of carpentry, pottery and bronze-working.
Y. SOC. I understand.
[Note: the Stranger continues refining what does not belong to the art of statesmanship by classifying various types of possessions found in a state. First, he distinguishes between tools and instruments, which serve a productive function, and another category of possessions that do not produce but preserve what has been produced—these are receptacles(like storage containers or buildings). Then, he introduces a third category: vehicles—objects like carts or ships that move or carry people, but again, have no role in political governance. These are clearly the domain of craftsmen, such as carpenters, potters, and bronze-workers, not the statesman, whose role is not material or mechanical, but rather ethical, rational, and governing. This process of sorting helps isolate the true nature of the kingly art by removing everything auxiliary or contingent to it, much like carving away everything that is not the form.]
STR. And is there a fourth class? Shall we say that there is one, differing from those three, one to which most of the things we have mentioned belong—all clothing, most arms, all circuit walls of earth or of stone, and countless other things? And since they are all made for defence, they may most rightly be called by the collective name of defence, and this may much more properly be considered for the most part the work of the art of building or of weaving than of statesmanship.
Y. SOC. Certainly.
STR. And should we care to make a fifth class, of ornamentation and painting and all the imitations created by the use of painting and music solely for our pleasure and properly included under one name?
Y. SOC. What is its name?
STR. It is called by some such name as plaything.
Y. SOC. To be sure.
STR. So this one name will properly be applied to all the members of this class; for none of them is practised for any serious purpose, but all of them merely for play.
Y. SOC. I understand that pretty well, too.
STR. And shall we not make a sixth class of that which furnishes to all these the materials of which and in which all the arts we have mentioned fashion their works, a very various class, the offspring of many other arts?
Y. SOC. What do you mean?
[Note: The Stranger continues classifying various types of arts and products in order to further clarify what truly belongs to statesmanship and what does not. He outlines several new classes of goods and activities, such as tools of defense (e.g., clothing, arms, walls), playthings and ornaments (like painting and music used purely for pleasure), and finally, a sixth class: the raw materials used by all other arts. This includes resources like gold, silver, timber, leather, and plant fibers—supplied through mining, tree-felling, and animal processing. These are not ends in themselves, nor do they govern or guide; they are simply the raw matter from which other productive or decorative arts operate. By sorting these out, the Stranger continues his method of division and definition, removing everything external or supportive in order to isolate the true kingly art, which is not about making things, defending with things, or even delighting in things—but about ordering and ruling them all with wisdom.]
STR. Gold and silver and all the products of the mines and all the materials which tree-felling and wood-cutting in general cut and provide for carpentry and basket-weaving; and then, too, the art of stripping the bark from plants and the leather-worker’s art which takes off the skins of animals, and all the other arts which have to do with such matters, and those that make corks and paper and cords and enable us to manufacture classes of things from kinds that are not composite. We call all this, as one class, the primary and simple possession of man, and it is in no way the work of the kingly science.
Y. SOC. Good.
STR. And property in food and all the things which, mingling parts of themselves with parts of the body, have any function of keeping it in health, we may say is the seventh class, and we will call it collectively our nourishment, unless we have some better name to give it. All this we can assign to the arts of husbandry, hunting, gymnastics, medicine, and cooking more properly than to that of statesmanship.
Y. SOC. Of course.
STR. Now I think I have in these seven classes mentioned nearly all kinds of property except tame animals. See: there was the primary possession, which ought in justice to have been placed first, and after this the instrument, receptacle, vehicle, defence, plaything, nourishment. Whatever we have omitted, if some unimportant thing has been overlooked, can find its place in one of those classes; for instance, the group of coins, seals, and stamps, for there is not among these any kinship such as to form a large class, but some of them can be made to fit into the class of ornaments, others into that of instruments, though the classification is somewhat forced. All property in tame animals, except slaves, is included in the art of herding, which has already been divided into parts.
