Samara and Matthew were walking between classes after a philosophy class during which they discussed one of Plato’s dialogues. Both of them were extremely confused as to what Plato meant in the dialogue, if he meant anything at all.

Samara: Did Courtney ever tell you about the conversation she had with Plato in one of those weird dreams she always has?
Matt: No, I don’t think she did. She probably knew I would make fun of her about it. What was it about?
Samara: She argued with Plato about dialogues.
Matt: Really. I knew she didn’t like dialogues, but it’s a little weird that she would dream about arguing against Plato over using them.
Samara: Yeah, well… this is Courtney we’re talking about, remember? She’s a little weird anyway.
Matt: Well, yeah, I knew that. Since she didn’t tell me about it, why don’t you?
Samara: Well, I don’t remember it exactly as she told it to me, and we can’t know if she told it to me exactly the way she dreamed it, but it went something like this:

Courtney was walking along the streets of Athens when she ran into Plato, who was hunched over a scroll, writing furiously.
“I have a question for you, Plato,” she said, jolting him out of his thoughts.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any answers. I’m full of questions, myself, assuming Socrates was my mouthpiece, naturally,” Plato replied.
“No, this isn’t a question about the world, or how one should act, or about virtues. This is a question about you.”
“Well, in that case, bring forth the charges,” Plato challenged.
“Since you put it that way, I guess I don’t have any alternative. My question should be simple, but we all know nothing is simple when you’re involved in the conversation, Plato.”
“Should I take that as a compliment?”
“I’m not really sure. You’ll have to figure it out yourself.”
“You worry me, but I’m always interested in questioning.”
“We’ll see about that,” Courtney said.
“You’re making me nervous.”
“My sincerest apologies. Now, Plato, tell me why you used dialogues.”
“What?” Plato looked sincerely confused.
“Dialogues. Why did you use them? I mean, wouldn’t it have been much easier for all involved for you to have just written what you wanted to say instead of hiding behind other people?”
“I wasn’t hiding behind other people.”
“That’s what I mean. If you had something important to say, why not just say it yourself?”
“Well, I suppose I wanted to make people think for themselves,” Plato said.
“And dialogue was the answer?”
“Well, look at it this way: by writing in dialogue form, I hid my meanings in an obvious place.”
“You’re already confusing me. Just tell me what you mean, and do it in a concise manner."
“I thought I was being concise,” Plato said, scratching his head. “Hmm. Okay, by hiding my meaning behind other peoples’ words and other situations, I made people wonder what the point of the dialogue was. Made them think about what I was trying to say, so that it would be more ingrained into their thinking.”
“Like subliminal advertising?”
“Not really. You see, by burying the true gist of what I wanted to say in a dialogue that didn’t necessarily come out and say what I was getting at, or even having anything to do with what I wanted to get across, I made people dig deeper into the dialogue to find out what I was really saying. That way, the people that took the time to find the answers had the answers and those who didn’t… well… didn’t.”
“So you’re saying that the truth is only for people who can understand the deluded conversations you envisioned in a fantasy world?” Courtney asked.
“You make it sound so harsh.”
“Well, that makes it seem like you think only some people are good enough to know the truth, assuming that you spoke the actual truth instead of what you thought was the truth,” Courtney explained.
“So now you want to discuss whether what one thinks is the truth is actually the truth?”
“No, Plato. I’m just saying that, assuming you spoke the truth, only some people are entitled to it?
“I suppose that’s what I’m saying, yes.”
“So truth isn’t for just anyone,” Courtney suggested.
“Well, I don’t think truth should come easily, no. Truth should be sought and worked for, not just handed out to whomever gets into the line.”
“But wouldn’t you agree, Plato, that hiding the truth behind an ambiguous dialogue full of metaphors and double meanings that you intend to hide the truth from those who don’t share the same brain-workings as you?”
“I’m merely making the truth worth seeking,” Plato explained.
“So what happens if someone doesn’t agree, and thus doesn’t take the time to weed through your vague metaphors and unrelated content to get to your real meaning?
“If someone doesn’t want to take the time to discover truth on his own, he doesn’t deserve to know the truth.”
“So you are saying that the truth is for only a select few.”
“Those who work for it, yes,” Plato said.
“Good. We’re in agreement.”
“You think the truth is only for a few? I find that hard to believe.”
“No, I mean we’re in agreement that you think the truth is only for a few people.”
“Oh, then yes, we are in agreement,” Plato said.
“So tell me, Plato, is it possible for someone to read something concise and have trouble deciding whether it’s truthful or not?” Courtney asked.
“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re saying. You might want to use a metaphor.”
“You’re trying to pull a fast one on me, aren’t you, Plato? You know this is a dialogue about how ineffective dialogues are, and you’re trying to make me follow your rules.”
“You’ve caught me,” Plato admitted. “But humor me anyway.”
“I can do this without a metaphor, Plato. Let me try this my way and then if you still honestly don’t understand, I’ll try to construct one for you.
“That sounds fair,” Plato agreed.
“Good,” Courtney said. “Now, if I were to read Nietzsche’s On The Genealogy of Morals, is it possible that I would understand its argument?”
“ I’m not sure why you’d want to, but yes, I suppose you could understand its argument.”
“Good. Now, is it possible that, in the course of reading and understanding his argument, that I would have to think about whether or not I took his conclusion as truth?”
“I should certainly hope not.”
“What do you mean?” Courtney asked.
“I would think it would be utterly clear that his conclusion is completely ludicrous.”
“Okay, how about another example?” Courtney asked, sighing in frustration.
“That might make this easier for me to understand.”
“If I were to read G.E. Moore’s Proof of an External World, do you think that, after reading and understanding his argument, I could, through a process of thought, determine if what I had read was the truth?”
“Yes, of course,” Plato agreed.
“And if I wasn’t sure if it was the truth or not; if I could think of several reasons why Moore’s argument and the opposing argument could either be true, I would have quite a dilemma on my hands.”
“Absolutely.”
“But, would you say that, through careful consideration, I could, after a while, determine which argument - Moore’s or his opponent’s - was truthful?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Good. Now, would you consider that to be a great undertaking?”
“What do you mean?” Plato asked.
“You’re wearing me out, Plato.”
“I’m only trying to understand what you’re arguing. Please continue,” Plato insisted.
“Okay, fine. Would you agree that determining whether Moore’s argument or his opponent’s argument was the truth would be a difficult task?”
“In all probability, yes.”
“And would you agree, great writer of dialogues, that that task would be much more difficult if I had been required to find his real meaning - that which he states in a clear and concise manner in his current version - had he written it in the form in which you wrote?”
“I’m not quite sure I understand your question, Courtney.”
“Work with me, Plato. You agreed with me that the task of determining whether Moore or his opponent is right is a difficult one.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Plato agreed.
“Would you also agree that if Moore and his opponent had hidden their arguments behind a dialogue filled with metaphors that didn’t directly relate to the argument itself, it would make my task of determining who is right much more difficult.”
“Difficult, yes,” Plato agreed. “But also more meaningful.”
“We’ll deal with the meaningfulness of it later. You would agree that having to dig up the meaning from a vague dialogue would making finding the truth in the argument a more cumbersome task, would you not?”
“I would,” Plato said.
“Okay, then. Now, would you agree, as well, that in having to uncover the argument from a vague dialogue that’s heavy with metaphors not relating directly to the argument itself, the reader could become confused as to what the real argument is?”
“That’s the point.”
“The point is to confuse your reader away from the truth?” Courtney asked.
“No, the point is to confuse my reader into making them want to find the truth.”
“Granted, but don’t you think it’s possible that the argument could be so well hidden under the metaphors and dialogue banter that the argument itself could be confused with the metaphors and dialogue?” Plato shook his head, not understanding the question.
“Let me rephrase. Do you think it’s a possibility that the reader is so confused by the vagueness of the dialogue that he’s not sure where the superficiality of the dialogue stops and the argument starts? I mean, is it possible that the dialogue and argument could become confused?”
“Then the reader will be more inclined to keep searching the dialogue for clues to the argument.”
“No, the reader will be more inclined to put the book down and write you off as a lunatic.”
“You’re too harsh for me, Courtney.”
“I’m just being honest,” Courtney insisted.
“The truth hurts, I’m afraid.”
“Now, do you think it’s possible that by hiding the real argument behind a façade of simpler arguments and metaphors, your real argument could become skewed and distorted?” Courtney continued.
“I suppose it’s possible, but the point is to make the reader realize there’s something more to the argument than the façade of simpler arguments and metaphors.”
“Yes, but don’t you agree that your façade is so well-constructed that even the smartest, most philosophical reader could get the two confused?”
“Are you flattering me?” Plato asked.
“Answer the question, Plato.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Plato relented.
“Then why take the chance on being credited with an argument that you didn’t mean for people to credit you with?”
“You’re referring to the façade, right?” Plato asked.
“Yes. By hiding your real argument behind your façade, taking the chance that the façade is so well-constructed (or poorly constructed, depending on how you look at it), you’re also taking the chance that someone doesn’t find your real argument and credits you with the shallow and superficial argument you presented in the façade?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Why would you take that chance?”
“To avoid criticisms while I was still living, perhaps. If I constructed a façade that the people would accept, but still understand the underlying and real meaning, I wouldn’t have to take the risk of being prosecuted for going against the city,” Plato explained.
“So why not arrange to have it published or released after your death and avoid that risk?”
“I suppose I could have.”
“You know, Plato, I think you could have been much more famous and revered had you not confused so many people with your vagueness and metaphorical dialogues. The way I look at it, if you have something to say, you should just say it in a clear and concise way, so that you don’t run the risk of having an argument you don’t support credited to you. If you don’t want to run the risk of being held accountable for your argument, publish it anonymously or don’t publish it at all. But if I remember correctly, as you told the story, Socrates was willing to die for what he believed in. Now, if you really were as passionate about your arguments and what you believed in as he was, I think you should be just as willing to die for your beliefs, just as he did.”
“You think so, huh?” Plato pondered that suggestion.
“Absolutely. Otherwise, what’s the point in believing in anything? Honestly, Plato. Your account of Socrates’ death in the Apology was quite stunning.”
“Well, I am greatly appreciative of your compliments.”
“See, you made Socrates seem like he was taunting the jury into giving him the death penalty so that he could become a martyr for his beliefs. He believed he was right and he provoked the jury to make a martyr of him. He turned out to be much more famous than you, Plato. I’d like to know how many people actually know that the Apology was actually your account of Socrates’ trial and that all of what Socrates is known for was accounted for by you, Plato.”
“As I said before, Courtney, your words are harsh.”
“Harsh, but true.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Plato offered.
“About what?”
“Maybe it would have been a better idea for me to just give my arguments in their truest and most clear form. But the past has occurred and there’s nothing I can do about that.
“How right you are.”
“You should really consider looking into my arguments further and extracting my real meaning from them and publishing them for me,” Plato suggested.
“What a task you’ve assigned me. I’m afraid the burden is much too great. I’ll leave that to the existing Platonic scholars. I think I’ll stick to what’s already been written clearly and concisely.”
“As you wish, Courtney.”

Samara: So that was, for the most part, how Courtney’s dream went.
Matt: Yeah, I can see why she didn’t tell me about it.
Samara: Why’s that?
Matt: I definitely would have made fun of her about it.

***********

Question: Read the following excerpts from Nietzsche and Moore. Explain how/if Courtney is right in asserting that their arguments are easier to follow (more clear and concise) than Plato’s dialogues.

On the Genealogy of Morals, Second Essay, Section 1: Friedrich Nietzsche:
“To breed an animal with the right to make promises - is this the paradoxical task that nature has set itself in the case of man? Is it not the real problem regarding man?
“That his problem has been solved to a large extent must seem all the more remarkable to anyone who appreciates the strength of the opposing force, that of forgetfulness. For getting is no mere vis inertiae [inertia] as the superficial imagine; it is rather an active and in the strictest sense positive faculty of repression, that is responsible for the fact that what we experience and absorb enters our consciousness as little while we are digesting it (one might call the process “inpsychation”) as does the thousandfold process, involved in physical nourishment - so-called “incorporation.” To close the doors and windows of consciousness for a time; to remain undisturbed by the noise and struggle of our underworld of utility organs working with and against one another; a little quietness, a little tabula rasa [clean slate] of the consciousness, to make room for new things, above all for the nobler functions and functionaries, for regulation, foresight, premeditation (for our organism is an oligarchy) - that is the purpose of active forgetfulness, which is like a doorkeeper, a preserver of psychic order, repose, and etiquette: so that it will be immediately obvious how there could be no happiness, no cheerfulness, no hope, no pride, no present, without forgetfulness. The man in whom this apparatus of repression is damaged and ceases to function properly may be compared (and more than merely compared) with a dyspeptic - he cannot “have done” with anything.”

Proof of an External World, G.E. Moore:
“But a thing which I perceive would not be a soap-bubble unless its existence at any given time were logically independent of my perception of it at that time; unless that is to say, from the proposition, with regard to a particular time, that it existed at that time, it never follows that I perceived it at that time. But, if it is true that it would not be a soap-bubble, unless it could have existed at any given time without being perceived by me at that time, it is certainly also true that it would not be a soap-bubble, unless it could have existed at any given time, without its being true that I was having any experience of any kind at the time in question: it would not be a soap-bubble, unless, whatever time you take, from the proposition that it existed at that time it does not follow that I was having any experience at that time. That is to say, from the proposition with regard to anything which I am perceiving that it is a soap-bubble, there follows the proposition that it is external to my mind. But if, when I say that anything which I perceive is a soap-bubble, I am implying that it is external to my mind, I am, I think, certainly also implying that it is also external to all other minds: I am implying that it is not a thing of a sort such that things of that sort can only exist at a time when somebody is having an experience. I think, therefore, that from any proposition of the form ‘There’s a soap-bubble!’ there does really follow the proposition ‘There’s an external object!’ And, if this is true of the kind ‘soap-bubble’, it is certainly also true of any other kind (including the kind ‘unicorn’) which is such that, if there are any things of that kind, it follows that there are some things to be met with in space.