Living in Plato's Republic Draft 1

Here's a draft of something I hope to submit to the Trinity Review, enjoy!

The philosophers have a soul made of gold, the soldiers have souls made of silver, and producers have souls made of a mixture of brass and iron. The people of the Republic have been told that for longer than any one of us can remember. So long as the metals do not mix, the city is necessarily just the philosophers tell us from the Acropolis of Athena. This law excludes us producers because we are not made of finer metals, and I am not made of any finer metal, I am just iron, and that is just. I’m only iron, so I solely paddle through the canals of the ports, cannals that have stretched and grown through the rest of the republic like the veins on the brow of the old philosophers who prattle on, proving their myth to us. I am iron, but my boss is brass, I am iron, but the soldiers who guard us are silver, I am iron, but the philosophers are gold, and I must respect those souls made of finer things. I believed this myth, but not anymore as I shiver in my cell, buried in the bosom of Athena’s Acropolis. I learned truth, a fine virtue, second only to justice, the day the metals mixed.

            My sister, Cleopatra, whose soul was more brass than mine, weaved the fabrics of the philosophers, which were humble, but made of the finest silk from lands beyond the wide borders of the Republic. When I came home one night about six months ago, covered in soot from the smoke stacks that formed the clouds of our, working, brass and iron districts Cleopatra looked more anxious than usual. She was always anxious in some way, for she was always smitten by the philosophers, who fascinated her, which I guess justified her job of dressing them. Though tonight she was blushing, something she’s never done no matter how smitten she was by a philosopher, so I was suspicious, and those suspicions were soon confirmed. One of the philosophers was infatuated with her. Their obsession persisted some years prior, but now he begged her to sneak into the Acropolis so they could sleep together. She pleaded for me to help her.

            I was totally surprised by this obsession that bordered on madness because a philosopher was supposed to be detached, in theory. She told me the philosopher’s name, and his name was Antony, the son of the Philosopher King and the second wisest Philosopher of the Acropolis. However, he was conceived and born on the wrong day, which was a matter that greatly concerned these thinkers whose ‘breeding’ schedule was carefully managed. I never understood why they would breed themselves like how my cousin bred horses, I’m sure there is a very long proof for it. Cleopatra pled so pitifully that I agreed to help her. I knew every canal, including ones that can lead to tunnels that burrow their way into the Acropolis. I wrapped her up in a carpet, loaded her onto my gondola, and navigated my way to the foot of the precipices of the Acropolis. There was a tunnel there for drainage, so I carried her up to musty tunnel. Then, in the Acropolis, I pretended to be a deliveryman, and I indeed was one sometimes. I walked under the marble temples to reason, truth, and justice, all so symmetrically and deliberately planned that I’m frankly bored by them. I walked to the barracks and handed the guard the carpet to carry to Antony’s chambers.

            She was returned safely, and sung the love songs of the poets who worked in the sulfur mines, the grain farms, or the red-hot factories. The poets were condemned here for making lies and irrational mimicry with their poems, which is an injustice I can only laugh at here in my cell because of its irony. This escapade continued for some time, until one night she told me she was with child. My heart dropped because such is the mixing of metals explicitly forbidden. I only tolerated her affair previously, but now she now carries a child of mixed souls, a harbringer of injustice, the destruction of the Republic.

            However, I quickly regained my love for her, for she was always so kind, and the philosophers I met so cruel that I never fully believed that her soul was only made of brass or a philosopher’s soul made of gold. She told me that that night Antony will have the guard sent away, so the three of us could meet to deliberate on our future. She begged me to agree to the meeting so that I could comfort her when she tells her beloved Antony the news. I reluctantly agreed if only to make sure Antony, one of the most powerful philosophers of the Republic, would care for her.

            That night we snuck into the Acropolis and into Antony’s chambers. Cleopatra told Antony the news and they embraced, crying slightly. For a moment I was filled with an utterly foolish modicum of hope. At that moment, a general stumbled into the chambers, evidently to meet with Antony. Antony’s face told me that though he was expecting him, he arrived early. The general saw my sister and drew his sword, claiming that her embrace with Antony dishonors the Republic. A soldier’s first and foremost concern is the Honor of the Republic, and there have been many stories about the general righteously executing cowards and traitors. This General made the Republic’s army strong, but now this honorable man was ready to swing his blade at an unarmed woman. Antony commanded the general to stop, pleading that he should not kill an unarmed woman, especially not an unarmed woman with his child. Antony probably reasoned that to commit such actions would be an injustice. The general stopped, but only in shock, he then shouted at Antony that the child is injustice incarnate and the metals must not mix. The general raised his sword, I tried to intervene, but when I grabbed his arm he threw me at the marble wall, nearly knocking me unconscious.

            When I woke I saw the general, Antony, and my sister dead, mauled by steel blades, but I saw no gold, no silver, no brass, and no iron. I guess I knew that my sister wouldn’t bleed iron because when I accidently cut myself I didn’t bleed iron, but I always assumed that the iron was in the core of my body. I knew the soldiers wouldn’t bleed silver, because when I saw soldiers bleed during their honorary expeditions to slaughter the factory workers none of them bled silver, but I also thought the silver was at the core of their bodies. However, I inspected the wounds, and the swords and daggers were stabbed through the general and Cleopatra’s hearts, and there was no brass, iron or silver there. Antony though, surprised me the most because I never saw a philosopher bleed. I thereby thought that they were beings of gold. They were pure embodiments of justice and would have blood made of gold. They were such perfect people, as we were told, so I could only assume they would bleed a substance as valuable as their contribution to our just society.  But I saw Antony bleeding onto the marble, and I know it was a lie. I always suspected, but now I was certain that the myth was a lie, but what lie could be worth my sister, whose blood is now crusted on the same carpet she first came to this accursed place in. Soon other soldiers and philosophers captured me. Now I rot in this cell.

The Philosopher King visited me, flanked by soldiers, with a cup of hemlock. He told me that the myth of the metals was a lie, but a noble lie, a lie to ensure that our Republic works only to justice. I must die to protect the myth, protect the noble lie, and protect the Republic’s justice. The noble lie was ordained by God, a God so far removed from producers like myself that I frankly forget him most of the time, I only know that his word was pure justly and must be pure law.

I laughed at the Philosopher King, I laughed at the noble lie, and I laughed at God. The Philosopher King was aghast at my hysterical laughter and commanded a soldier to beat me silent. I agreed to drink his dread hemlock. I did not fear his hemlock. I knew this Republic was built on a lie, and the lie was fragile as crystal and would soon break. I knew the Republic claims to be just, kills its enemies, and endlessly moralizes it wretched deeds with its noble lie. If this Republic was just, and a just life was the only life worth living, then I reject this life without fear. I took the hemlock and gulped it down like vintage. I will not live with these philosophers, I do not want to hear their noble lies, and I do not want to live to see them kill more people like my kind sister Cleopatra, who had more gold sprinkled in her soul than any of these philosophers.

We have no metal in our souls, I’ve seen their insides violently ripped apart, and there was only blood, dark as the hemlock running down my neck. 

Author's Note

Any helpful criticism is appreciated.