Weaving the Soul into Being
This is the first part of a two-part exploration in The Statesman, where Plato introduces weaving as a metaphor for the statesman’s role in weaving a soul into being through the careful integration of opposing qualities. The second part, which turns to the art of measurement as the key to distinguishing true governance from supporting arts, can be read here.
In this section of The Statesman, Plato uses the seemingly humble craft of weaving as an intricate metaphor for the true art of governance, extending also into the formation of the soul. Through the dialogue between the Eleatic Stranger and the young Socrates, we are led step-by-step through the various preparatory processes—from carding and spinning to the crafting of tools—that culminate in the act of weaving itself. The Stranger classifies these processes under two major philosophical principles: the art of division, which separates and clarifies raw materials, and the art of composition, which brings them together into harmonious unity. Each stage has its analog in the cultivation of character and the ordering of the city, suggesting that just as wool must be purified and formed before it can be woven into a garment, so too must the elements of the soul or state be prepared and rightly aligned before true justice or rulership can emerge.
The warp and woof, the two threads joined in weaving, symbolize deeper realities: the active and passive principles, divine reason and human desire, or even the daemon and the individual soul. The Stranger emphasizes that while many arts contribute to this process—some as contingent causes (like tool-making), others more directly involved—the final act of weaving belongs to the one who possesses the kingly art (the royal science) and knows how to integrate opposites with due measure: the true statesman.
THE STATESMAN
STR. The process of weaving is, I take it, a kind of joining together.
Y. SOC. Yes.
STR. But the first part I refer to is a separation of what is combined and matted together.
Y. SOC. What do you mean?
STR. The work of the carder’s art. Or shall we have the face to say that carding is weaving and the carder is a weaver?
Y. SOC. No, certainly not.
STR. And surely if we say the art of making the warp or the woof is the art of weaving, we are employing an irrational and false designation.
Y. SOC. Of course.
STR. Well then, shall we say that the whole arts of fulling and mending are no part of the care and treatment of clothes, or shall we declare that these also are entirely included in the art of weaving?
Y. SOC. By no means.
STR. But surely all these will contest the claim of the art of weaving in the matter of the treatment and the production of clothes; they will grant that the part of weaving is the most important, but will claim that their own parts are of some importance, too.
Y. SOC. Yes, certainly.
STR. Then we must believe that besides these the arts which produce the tools by means of which the works of weaving are accomplished will claim to be collaborators in every work of weaving.
[Note: In this passage, the Stranger is distinguishing between the direct act of weaving and the supporting arts that make weaving possible. He argues that the makers of tools—such as spindles, looms, and shuttles—though not weavers themselves, still contribute essentially to the process. Therefore, they can be seen as collaborators in every finished woven product. This reflects a broader Platonic theme: that true understanding of any art requires recognizing the interdependence of various kinds of knowledge and labor. Even indirect contributors play a role in achieving the final harmony or product.
In The Statesman, Plato (through the Stranger) is gradually working toward identifying the true statesman—the one who possesses the kingly art—as the weaver in the political and metaphysical sense. While many contribute to the production (as collaborators), only the one who directs the composition and harmonious integration of the whole can truly be called the weaver.]
Y. SOC. Quite right.
STR. Will our definition of the art of weaving (I mean the part of it we selected) be satisfactory if we say that of all the activities connected with woollen clothing it is the noblest and the greatest? Or would that, although it contains some truth, yet lack clearness and completeness until we separate from weaving all these other arts?
Y. SOC. You are right.
STR. Then shall our next move be to do this, that our discussion may proceed in due order?
Y. SOC. Certainly.
STR. First, then, let us observe that there are two arts involved in all production.
Y. SOC. What are they?
STR. The one is a contingent cause, the other is the actual cause.
[Note: In this passage, the Stranger introduces a key distinction between two types of causes involved in any act of production: the contingent cause and the actual cause. The contingent cause refers to the supporting or instrumental arts—those that do not directly produce the final product but make production possible by providing the necessary tools or conditions (e.g., the making of spindles, looms, or shuttles in weaving). These are “contingent” because their role is secondary or dependent—they enable the work, but do not themselves shape the final form.
In contrast, the actual cause is the direct creative art—the one that actively brings the thing into being. In the case of weaving, it would be the act of intertwining warp and woof to create the fabric. The actual cause is responsible for the essence and structure of the finished product.
This distinction reflects a broader Platonic concern: to identify not just what contributes to something, but what truly defines and shapes it. The Stranger is guiding the young Socrates (and the reader) toward understanding that true governance—or any higher art—involves identifying what genuinely orders and composes reality, not merely what supports it from the outside.]
Y. SOC. What do you mean?
STR. Those arts which do not produce the actual thing in question, but which supply to the arts which do produce it the tools without which no art could ever perform its prescribed work, may be called contingent causes, and those which produce the actual thing are causes.
[Note: Before weaving can occur, a series of preparatory steps must be carefully carried out, each belonging to distinct but interrelated arts. The process begins with carding, which separates and untangles raw wool—an act belonging to the art of division, clarifying and purifying the material. This is followed by spinning, in which wool is twisted into strong thread, producing the warp, and softer thread, producing the woof—each crafted through the art of twisting. These preparatory actions, including the making of tools (like spindles and looms) by supporting crafts, are considered contingent causes, necessary for production but not themselves responsible for the final form. Together, they form what the Stranger calls the art of wool-working, which culminates in the art of composition, where the warp and woof are rightly intertwined. Only when all these steps are completed under proper guidance can the final product—a woven garment—emerge, symbolizing the harmony achieved when distinct parts are skillfully unified by the weaver.]
Y. SOC. At any rate, that is reasonable.
STR. Next, then, shall we designate all the arts which produce spindles, shuttles, and the various other tools that partake in the production of clothing as contingent causes, and those which treat and manufacture the clothing itself as causes?
Y. SOC. Quite right.
STR. And among the causal arts we may properly include washing and mending and all the care of clothing in such ways; and, since the art of adornment is a wide one, we may classify them as a part of it under the name of fulling.
Y. SOC. Good.
STR. And, again, carding and spinning and all the processes concerned with the actual fabrication of the clothing under consideration, form collectively one art familiar to every one—the art of wool-working.
[Note: The Stranger identifies carding, spinning, and other related processes as parts of a single, unified craft: the art of wool-working. These are the practical, manual steps involved in transforming raw wool into thread and preparing it for weaving into fabric. By grouping them together under one art, the Stranger emphasizes that although each step—such as detangling fibers (carding) or twisting them into thread (spinning)—may seem separate, they all belong to a larger coordinated process aimed at fabricating cloth.
This move is typical of Plato’s method of classification: he’s not just interested in naming tasks, but in identifying the natural unities of arts or forms. In this case, wool-working is seen as a compositional craft concerned with preparing materials for a greater whole—ultimately leading to weaving. It serves as a middle stage between the tool-making arts (contingent causes) and the final act of weaving (the actual cause), offering a model for understanding how subordinate arts contribute to, but are distinct from, the highest art—which in the political analogy, is statesmanship.]
Y. SOC. Of course.
STR. And wool-working comprises two divisions, and each of these is a part of two arts at once.
Y. SOC. How is that?
STR. Carding, and one half of the use of the weaver’s rod, and the other crafts which separate things that are joined—all this collectively is a part of the art of wool-working; and in all things we found two great arts, that of composition and that of division.
Y. SOC. Yes.
STR. Now carding and all the other processes just mentioned are parts of the art of division; for the art of division in wool and threads, exercised in one way with the hand and in another with the hands, has all the names just mentioned.
[Note: In this line, the Stranger explains that carding and similar preparatory tasks in wool-working belong to the art of division. Literally, carding is the process of separating and untangling fibers, making them usable for spinning and weaving. It is a kind of sorting or discriminating—pulling apart what is matted or confused to prepare it for structured integration. Thus, in weaving, division precedes composition.
Symbolically, Plato uses this as a model for how philosophy treats the soul. Just as fibers must be disentangled before they can be woven into cloth, the elements of the soul—its thoughts, desires, habits—must first be clarified, distinguished, and purified. The “art of division” is akin to dialectic, the philosophical method of separating false from true, or lower from higher, so that the soul may be properly ordered. This process is preparation for harmony.
In short, the art of division teaches us that before the soul can be woven into a unified whole, capable of justice and truth, it must undergo a process of discernment, purification, and inner disentanglement.]
Y. SOC. Yes, certainly.
STR. Then let us again take up something which is at once a part of the arts of composition and of wool-working. Let us put aside all that belongs to division, making two parts of wool-working, by applying the principles of division and of composition.
Y. SOC. Let us make that distinction.
STR. The part which belongs at once to composition and to wool-working, Socrates, you must allow us to divide again, if we are to get a satisfactory concept of the aforesaid art of weaving.
Y. SOC. Then we must divide it.
STR. Yes, we must; and let us call one part of it the art of twisting threads, and the other the art of intertwining them.
[Symbolism of the Two Threads:
The Warp (often described as the stronger, vertical thread stretched on the loom) can symbolize the active, stable, divine principle—what Plato elsewhere might call Nous (Intellect) or the daemon, the divine spark or guiding thread given by the gods.
The Woof (the horizontal thread woven in and out of the warp) represents the passive, receptive, human soul, moving through time, experience, and choice.
By calling one thread the product of “twisting” (strengthening the individual part) and the other of “intertwining” (joining into a whole), Plato’s Stranger is not only describing fabric, but offering a metaphor for the soul’s spiritual completion. The individual soul, if it remains separate from its guiding daemon or divine measure, is incomplete. But when woven together, the active and passive, the divine and the human, create a unified, living garment of being—a soul rightly ordered.]
Y. SOC. I am not sure I understand. By the art of twisting I think you mean the making of the warp.
STR. Not that only, but also the making of the woof. We shall not find that the woof is made without twisting, shall we?
Y. SOC. No, of course not.
STR. Well, just define warp and woof; perhaps the definition would serve you well at this junction.
Y. SOC. How shall I do it?
STR. In this way: A piece of carded wool, which is lengthened out and is wide, is said to be a lap of wool, is it not?
Y. SOC. Yes.
STR. And if any such lap of wool is twisted with a spindle and made into a hard thread, we call the thread warp; and the art which governs this process is the art of spinning the warp.
[Note: The Stranger continues to break down the stages of weaving by describing how a lap of wool—raw, unformed material—is twisted with a spindle to become a hard thread called the warp. The warp serves as the foundation of the fabric, stretched tightly on the loom and providing the stable structure through which the softer woof threads will later be woven.
Literally, this describes the first essential act of transformation in weaving: turning loose, disordered wool into something strong, ordered, and ready to serve its role in a larger whole. The art of spinning the warp thus represents a form-giving process, shaping raw material into something with tension, direction, and purpose.
Symbolically—especially within Plato’s framework—this can be seen as the formation of the soul’s active principle. The raw wool represents the potential within the human being: unformed, soft, and dispersed. The act of spinning the warp is like the philosophical or divine influence (e.g., the daemon) that gathers and strengthens this potential, giving the soul structure and purpose. The warp may thus stand for the divine or rational order laid down within us, the part of the soul oriented toward the Forms, the Good, and the eternal.
In a spiritual or psychological sense, this passage suggests that before the soul can become part of a harmonious whole—whether in oneself or in society—it must first undergo a process of inner formation: being twisted, refined, and readied for the work of integration. Only then can it participate in the greater weaving, which is the art of living justly.]
Y. SOC. Right.
STR. And the threads, in turn, which are more loosely twisted and have in respect to the force used in the carding a softness adapted to the interweaving with the warp we will call the woof, and the art devoted to these we will call the art of preparing the woof.
Y. SOC. Quite right.
STR. So now the part of the art of weaving which we chose for our discussion is clear to pretty much every understanding; for when that part of the art of composition which is included in the art of weaving forms a web by the right intertwining of woof and warp, we call the entire web a woollen garment, and the art which directs this process we call weaving.
[Note: In this passage, the Stranger brings together all the preparatory steps into their final purpose: the art of composition—the joining of threads—is realized fully in the act of weaving, where warp and woof are rightly intertwined to form a complete fabric. When this is accomplished with proper measure and skill, the result is called a woollen garment, and the directing power behind it is rightly named weaving.
Literally, this marks the culmination of the weaving process: the structured warp and the supple woof are brought together into a unified whole through the weaver’s skill in intertwining them correctly. The focus is no longer on individual parts or tools, but on the harmonious integration that produces something greater than the sum of its parts.
Symbolically, this passage beautifully expresses Plato’s vision of true harmony, whether in the soul, the state, or the cosmos. The warp (the strong, stable thread) can be seen as the rational, divine, or guiding principle—the part of us aligned with the eternal. The woof (softer, more variable) represents the mutable, human, emotional aspects of life. Weaving is the art of uniting these opposites into a just and ordered life.
Thus, the weaver, like the true statesman or philosopher, is not merely a technician but a harmonizer of realities—someone who knows how to bind strength and softness, reason and passion, divine and human, into a coherent garment of being. The resulting “woollen garment” symbolizes the soul rightly ordered, or a just society, both governed by measure, proportion, and unity.]
Y. SOC. Quite right.
STR. Very good. Then why in the world did we not say at once that weaving is the intertwining of woof and warp? Why did we beat about the bush and make a host of futile distinctions?
Y. SOC. For my part, I thought nothing that was said was futile, Stranger.
