Plato on the Written Word

The story goes that king Thamus said many things to god Thoth in praise or blame of the various arts, which it would take too long to repeat; but when they came to the letters…

“This invention, O king,” said Thoth, “will make the Egyptians wiser and will improve their memories; for it is an elixir of memory and wisdom that I have discovered.”

But Thamus replied, “Most ingenious Thoth, one man has the ability to create arts, but it’s another man who has the ability to judge of their usefulness or harmfulness to their future users… And now you, who are the father of letters, have been led by your affection to ascribe to them a power the opposite of that which they really possess. For this invention will produce forgetfulness in the minds of those who learn to use it, because they will not practice their memory. Their trust in writing, produced by external characters which are no part of themselves, will discourage the use of their own memory within them. You have invented an elixir not of memory, but of reminding… and you offer your pupils the appearance of wisdom, not true wisdom… for they will read many things without instruction and will therefore seem to know many things, when they are for the most part ignorant and hard to get along with, since they are not wise, but only appear wise.”

[…]

They used to say, my friend, that the words of the oak in the holy place of Zeus at Dodona were the first prophetic utterances. The people of that time, not being so wise as you young folks, were content in their simplicity to hear an oak or a rock, provided only it spoke the truth… But to you, perhaps, it makes a difference who the speaker is and where he comes from, for you do not consider only whether his words are true or not.

He who thinks, then, that he has left behind him any art in writing, and he who receives it in the belief that anything in writing will be clear and certain, would be an utterly simple person, and in truth ignorant of the prophecy of Thamus, if he thinks written words are of any use except to remind him who already knows the matter about which they are written.

Writing, Phaedrus, has this strange quality, and is very much like painting—for the creatures of painting stand like living beings, but if one asks them a question, they preserve a solemn silence. And so it is with written words: you might think they spoke as if they had intelligence, but if you question them, wishing to know about their sayings, they always say only one and the same thing. And every word, once it has been written, is bandied about alike among those who understand and those who have no interest in it, and it knows not to whom to speak or not to speak… And when ill-treated or unjustly reviled it always needs its father to help it… for it has no power to protect or help itself.

~ Plato