Soc. Then begin again, and answer me, What, according to you and
your friend Gorgias, is the definition of virtue?

   Men. O Socrates, I used to be told, before I knew you, that you
were always doubting yourself and making others doubt; and now you are
casting your spells over me, and I am simply getting bewitched and
enchanted, and am at my wits' end. And if I may venture to make a jest
upon you, you seem to me both in your appearance and in your power
over others to be very like the flat torpedo fish, who torpifies those
who come near him and touch him, as you have now torpified me, I
think. For my soul and my tongue are really torpid, and I do not
know how to answer you; and though I have been delivered of an
infinite variety of speeches about virtue before now, and to many
persons-and very good ones they were, as I thought-at this moment I
cannot even say what virtue is. And I think that. you are very wise in
not voyaging and going away from home, for if you did in other
places as do in Athens, you would be cast into prison as a magician.

  Soc. You are a rogue, Meno, and had all but caught me.

  Men. What do you mean, Socrates?

  Soc. I can tell why you made a simile about me.

  Men. Why?

  Soc. In order that I might make another simile about you. For I know
that all pretty young gentlemen like to have pretty similes made about
them-as well they may-but I shall not return the compliment. As to
my being a torpedo, if the torpedo is torpid as well as the cause of
torpidity in others, then indeed I am a torpedo, but not otherwise;
for I perplex others, not because I am clear, but because I am utterly
perplexed myself. And now I know not what virtue is, and you seem to
be in the same case, although you did once perhaps know before you
touched me. However, I have no objection to join with you in the
enquiry.

  Men. And how will you enquire, Socrates, into that which you do
not know? What will you put forth as the subject of enquiry? And if
you find what you want, how will you ever know that this is the
thing which you did not know?

  Soc. I know, Meno, what you mean; but just see what a tiresome
dispute you are introducing. You argue that man cannot enquire
either about that which he knows, or about that which he does not
know; for if he knows, he has no need to enquire; and if not, he
cannot; for he does not know the, very subject about which he is to
enquire.

  Men. Well, Socrates, and is not the argument sound?

  Soc. I think not.

  Men. Why not?

  Soc. I will tell you why: I have heard from certain wise men and
women who spoke of things divine that-

  Men. What did they say?

  Soc. They spoke of a glorious truth, as I conceive.

  Men. What was it? and who were they?

  Soc. Some of them were priests and priestesses, who had studied
how they might be able to give a reason of their profession: there,
have been poets also, who spoke of these things by inspiration, like
Pindar, and many others who were inspired. And they say-mark, now, and
see whether their words are true-they say that the soul of man is
immortal, and at one time has an end, which is termed dying, and at
another time is born again, but is never destroyed. And the moral
is, that a man ought to live always in perfect holiness. "For in the
ninth year Persephone sends the souls of those from whom she has
received the penalty of ancient crime back again from beneath into the
light of the sun above, and these are they who become noble kings
and mighty men and great in wisdom and are called saintly heroes in
after ages." The soul, then, as being immortal, and having been born
again many times, rand having seen all things that exist, whether in
this world or in the world below, has knowledge of them all; and it is
no wonder that she should be able to call to remembrance all that
she ever knew about virtue, and about everything; for as all nature is
akin, and the soul has learned all things; there is no difficulty in
her eliciting or as men say learning, out of a single recollection
-all the rest, if a man is strenuous and does not faint; for all
enquiry and all learning is but recollection. And therefore we ought
not to listen to this sophistical argument about the impossibility
of enquiry: for it will make us idle; and is sweet only to the
sluggard; but the other saying will make us active and inquisitive. In
that confiding, I will gladly enquire with you into the nature of
virtue.

  Men. Yes, Socrates; but what do you mean by saying that we do not
learn, and that what we call learning is only a process of
recollection? Can you teach me how this is?

  Soc. I told you, Meno, just now that you were a rogue, and now you
ask whether I can teach you, when I am saying that there is no
teaching, but only recollection; and thus you imagine that you will
involve me in a contradiction.