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Ion。 Yes。
Soc。 And did you ever know any one who was skilful in pointing out
the excellences and defects of Polygnotus the son of Aglaophon； but
incapable of criticizing other painters； and when the work of any
other painter was produced； went to sleep and was at a loss； and had
no ideas； but when he had to give his opinion about Polygnotus； or
whoever the painter might be； and about him only； woke up and was
attentive and had plenty to say？
Ion。 No indeed； I have never known such a person。
Soc。 Or did you ever know of any one in sculpture； who was skilful
in expounding the merits of Daedalus the son of Metion； or of Epeius
the son of Panopeus； or of Theodorus the Samian； or of any
individual sculptor； but when the works of sculptors in general were
produced； was at a loss and went to sleep and had nothing to say？
Ion。 No indeed； no more than the other。
Soc。 And if I am not mistaken； you never met with any one among
flute…players or harp… players or singers to the harp or rhapsodes who
was able to discourse of Olympus or Thamyras or Orpheus； or Phemius
the rhapsode of Ithaca； but was at a loss when he came to speak of Ion
of Ephesus； and had no notion of his merits or defects？
Ion。 I cannot deny what you say； Socrates。 Nevertheless I am
conscious in my own self； and the world agrees with me in thinking
that I do speak better and have more to say about Homer than any other
man。 But I do not speak equally well about others… tell me the
reason of this。
Soc。 I perceive； Ion； and I will proceed to explain to you what I
imagine to be the reason of this。 The gift which you possess of
speaking excellently about Homer is not an art； but； as I was just
saying； an inspiration； there is a divinity moving you； like that
contained in the stone which Euripides calls a magnet； but which is
commonly known as the stone of Heraclea。 This stone not only
attracts iron rings； but also imparts to them a similar power of
attracting other rings； and sometimes you may see a number of pieces
of iron and rings suspended from one another so as to form quite a
long chain： and all of them derive their power of suspension from
the original stone。 In like manner the Muse first of all inspires
men herself； and from these inspired persons a chain of other
persons is suspended； who take the inspiration。 For all good poets；
epic as well as lyric； compose their beautiful poems not by art； but
because they are inspired and possessed。 And as the Corybantian
revellers when they dance are not in their right mind； so the lyric
poets are not in their right mind when they are composing their
beautiful strains： but when falling under the power of music and metre
they are inspired and possessed； like Bacchic maidens who draw milk
and honey from the rivers when they are under the influence of
Dionysus but not when they are in their right mind。 And the soul of
the lyric poet does the same； as they themselves say； for they tell us
that they bring songs from honeyed fountains； culling them out of
the gardens and dells of the Muses； they； like the bees； winging their
way from flower to flower。 And this is true。 For the poet is a light
and winged and holy thing； and there is no invention in him until he
has been inspired and is out of his senses； and the mind is no
longer in him： when he has not attained to this state； he is powerless
and is unable to utter his oracles。
Many are the noble words in which poets speak concerning the actions
of men； but like yourself when speaking about Homer； they do not speak
of them by any rules of art： they are simply inspired to utter that to
which the Muse impels them； and that only； and when inspired； one of
them will make dithyrambs； another hymns of praise； another choral
strains； another epic or iambic verses… and he who is good at one is
not good any other kind of verse： for not by art does the poet sing；
but by power divine。 Had he learned by rules of art； he would have
known how to speak not of one theme only； but of all； and therefore
God takes away the minds of poets； and uses them as his ministers；
as he also uses diviners and holy prophets； in order that we who
hear them may know them to be speaking not of themselves who utter
these priceless words in a state of unconsciousness； but that God
himself is the speaker； and that through them he is conversing with
us。 And Tynnichus the Chalcidian affords a striking instance of what I
am saying： he wrote nothing that any one would care to remember but
the famous paean which； in every one's mouth； one of the finest
poems ever written； simply an invention of the Muses； as he himself
says。 For in this way； the God would seem to indicate to us and not
allow us to doubt that these beautiful poems are not human； or the
work of man； but divine and the work of God； and that the poets are
only the interpreters of the Gods by whom they are severally
possessed。 Was not this the lesson which the God intended to teach
when by the mouth of the worst of poets he sang the best of songs？
Am I not right； Ion？
Ion。 Yes； indeed； Socrates； I feel that you are； for your words
touch my soul； and I am persuaded that good poets by a divine
inspiration interpret the things of the Gods to us。
Soc。 And you rhapsodists are the interpreters of the poets？
Ion。 There again you are right。
Soc。 Then you are the interpreters of interpreters？
Ion。 Precisely。
Soc。 I wish you would frankly tell me； Ion； what I am going to ask
of you： When you produce the greatest effect upon the audience in
the recitation of some striking passage； such as the apparition of
Odysseus leaping forth on the floor； recognized by the suitors and
casting his arrows at his feet； or the description of Achilles rushing
at Hector； or the sorrows of Andromache； Hecuba； or Priam；… are you in
your right mind？ Are you not carried out of yourself； and does not
your soul in an ecstasy seem to be among the persons or places of
which you are speaking； whether they are in Ithaca or in Troy or
whatever may be the scene of the poem？
Ion。 That proof strikes home to me； Socrates。 For I must frankly
confess that at the tale of pity； my eyes are filled with tears； and
when I speak of horrors； my hair stands on end and my heart throbs。
Soc。 Well； Ion； and what are we to say of a man who at a sacrifice
or festival； when he is dressed in holiday attire and has golden
crowns upon his head； of which nobody has robbed him； appears sweeping
or panic…stricken in the presence of more than twenty thousand
friendly faces； when there is no one despoiling or wronging him；… is
he in his right mind or is he not？
Ion。 No indeed； Socrates； I must say that； strictly speaking； he
is not in his right mind。
Soc。 And are you aware that you produce similar effects on most
spectators？
Ion。 Only too well； for I look down upon them from the stage； and
behold the various emotions of pity； wonder； sternness； stamped upon
their countena