
“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”
PLATO
When you first dip your toes into the sea of philosophy, you may feel weird due to the time regression. (I did.)
Unlike other disciplines that begin with contemporary theories and the latest research, philosophy insists on dragging you back to the dusty corridors of ancient thought.
You encounter Plato, specifically his Republic, almost immediately. It’s a peculiar ritual, isn’t it? If you’ve wondered why this is the case—and why philosophy doesn’t kick off with more modern thinkers—you’re not alone.
A Strange But Necessary Timeline
Imagine studying economics but skipping Adam Smith, or taking a biology course without ever hearing of Linnaeus. Wouldn’t that feel incomplete? Yet even in these fields, the ancient texts don’t dominate introductory courses. Instead, modern principles and research take center stage. So why does philosophy insist on starting with Plato, a thinker from over two millennia ago? Why does it push you into the labyrinth of Socratic dialogues, allegories of caves, and questions about justice?
To understand, you need to confront a deeper question: What is philosophy for you? Unlike the sciences or economics, philosophy isn’t primarily about empirical discoveries or linear progress. It’s about foundational questions, the kind that have haunted humans across eras.
And for better or worse, Plato asked these questions better—or at least more provocatively—than most.
The Timelessness of Plato’s Questions
When you read The Republic, you aren’t just reading one of the earliest philosophical texts. You’re encountering a blueprint for intellectual inquiry.
Plato didn’t merely ask questions; he structured them in ways that force you to think deeply. His dialogue about justice, for example, isn’t just a dry academic debate. It’s a living, breathing conversation that makes you interrogate what justice means in your life.
Here’s the kicker: many of these questions haven’t been definitively answered. What is the ideal society? What is the relationship between the individual and the state? How do you define the good life? Philosophers today grapple with these questions just as Plato’s contemporaries did. When you read his works, you’re stepping into a conversation that stretches across centuries. It’s like being handed a thread in a tapestry that connects past and present.
The Myth of Progress in Philosophy
You might think that philosophy, like science or technology, evolves by discarding outdated ideas for newer, shinier ones. But philosophy doesn’t work that way.
If you’ve ever wrestled with existential questions, you know they don’t “expire.” Instead, they evolve with you. Plato’s works aren’t ancient relics—they’re starting points.
Other disciplines progress by building on prior knowledge, often leaving the past behind. Chemistry no longer dwells on Lavoisier’s initial discoveries, because we’ve moved far beyond them.
Philosophy, by contrast, isn’t about progress in the same linear sense. It’s about revisiting fundamental questions that remain relevant. When you read Plato, you aren’t studying something obsolete; you’re engaging with ideas that remain as alive as the thoughts in your head.
The Allegory of Your Journey
Think about Plato’s famous Allegory of the Cave. If you’ve ever felt trapped by limited perspectives or struggled to see beyond your assumptions, you’re living that allegory.
The shadowy figures in the cave aren’t just a metaphor for ancient Greeks; they’re about you. Philosophy forces you to confront the shadows on your personal walls and ask whether they represent reality or illusions.
Plato’s allegories and dialogues aren’t just educational—they’re transformative. They teach you not what to think but how to think.
And this is perhaps the crux of why philosophy starts with Plato.
When you begin this journey, it’s not about acquiring information but cultivating a mindset.
What About Modern Thinkers?
It’s tempting to suggest starting with contemporary philosophers—after all, they’re closer to your world.
They grapple with modern dilemmas: climate change, artificial brains, and social justice. Wouldn’t it make more sense to dive into thinkers who deal with these pressing concerns?
Here’s where the paradox emerges: you can’t fully appreciate modern philosophy without understanding its roots.
Contemporary philosophers are in conversation with the ancients. Nietzsche, for example, constantly wrestled with Plato. Understanding existentialism, political philosophy, or even postmodernism requires you to trace the lineage back to its beginnings.
Reading Plato first doesn’t mean dismissing modernity; it means preparing you for it. When you encounter thinkers like Judith Butler, Michel Foucault, or Peter Singer, you’ll see how their ideas resonate with—or challenge—the foundations laid by Plato.
Without the context of those ancient dialogues, the modern ones might feel unmoored.
The Interpersonal Invitation
At this point, you might be asking yourself, What does this mean for me? Well, let’s be honest: philosophy is a deeply personal endeavor. It’s not just about abstract ideas; it’s about how those ideas shape your understanding of the world.
Reading Plato isn’t about glorifying the past; it’s about equipping you with tools to navigate your present.
When you read his works, you’re not just engaging with a historical figure. You’re engaging with yourself—your assumptions, your beliefs, your values.
Philosophy demands vulnerability, and Plato’s dialogues are structured to make you question what you thought you knew. It’s not always comfortable, but it’s profoundly rewarding.
Takeaway
I’ll admit that starting with Plato can feel frustrating. Why read a text written in an era so alien to your own? Yet every time I’ve returned to his works, I’ve found something new. Plato doesn’t offer you answers on a silver platter; he forces you to dig for them. And in the digging, you discover more about yourself.
Philosophy isn’t about providing you with a neat roadmap. It’s about equipping you with a compass, even if you’re unsure where you’re heading.
Plato’s works might feel ancient, but their resonance is startlingly fresh.
They’re not about the past—they’re about you, here and now.
So, the next time you find yourself in the opening chapters of The Republic, don’t see it as a dusty relic.
See it as an invitation. Plato isn’t pulling you backward; he’s pushing you forward, into the endless, exhilarating journey of thought. And if that feels like a paradox, well, welcome to philosophy.
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