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Phaedrus
Phaedrus. What is this word and how is it begotten, as you say?
Socrates
Socrates. The word which is written with intelligence in the mind of the learner, which is able to defend itself and knows to whom it should speak, and before whom to be silent.
Phaedrus
Phaedrus. You mean the living and breathing word of him who knows, of which the written word may justly be called the image.
Socrates
Socrates. Exactly. Now tell me this. Would a sensible husbandman, who has seeds which he cares for and which he wishes to bear fruit, plant them with serious purpose in the heat of summer in some garden of Adonis, and delight in seeing them appear in beauty in eight days, or would he do that sort of thing, when he did it at all, only in play and for amusement? Would he not, when he was in earnest, follow the rules of husbandry, plant his seeds in fitting ground, and be pleased when those which he had sowed reached their perfection in the eighth month?
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Phaedrus
Phaedrus. Yes, Socrates, he would, as you say, act in that way when in earnest and in the other way only for amusement.
Socrates
Socrates. And shall we suppose that he who has knowledge of the just and the good and beautiful has less sense about his seeds than the husbandman?
Phaedrus
Phaedrus. By no means.
Socrates
Socrates. Then he will not, when in earnest, write them in ink, sowing them through a pen with words which cannot defend themselves by argument and cannot teach the truth effectually.
Phaedrus
Phaedrus. No, at least, probably not.
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