Friends and Lovers

On Plato's Symposium

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IT STARTS WITH two friends walking down a path—this is true both for how the Symposium begins and where my story with a dear friend begins. The two of us met on campus at our alma mater many years ago. We were both philosophy majors: curious, awkward, a perfect pair. We were also young and dumb, so naturally that exploded. But over a decade later, we still continue to connect through a love, desire, and longing for similar things.

I sometimes ask myself, “Am I really a reader, or am I more a collector of books?” Faster than I can complete one book, at least five books are added to my “up next” list. What further slows down this process is that the good ones are worth reading over and over and over again—and perhaps none more than Plato’s Symposium. In the same way its narrator, Apollodorus, informs us that he has retold this story many times, it is one I always find myself returning to. It was the first text in undergrad that among a very intense school and work schedule, I didn’t just barely make it through the reading for class… I couldn’t put it down! So when I was struck with the desire to read it again, I did not hesitate to call up my old friend and dive right in.

A room of friends, lovers, and beloveds, gather to discuss love, how beautiful! And in the same way, my friend and I gather (albeit, over video call) to discuss this discussion of love and love itself.

There is something special that happens when navigating a text with others. Not only is there an accountability to stick with the text, but it also requires a level of attentiveness in order to communicate ideas and questions to someone other than your own mind—a level of translation, let’s say. We all bring different experiences, interests, and biases that allow each of our interactions with the same exact text to vary. There is a beauty in seeing the parts that stood out to someone else—some similar, some different—the parts that invoked curiosity and perplexity. And if we are lucky, through these differences and comings together, a new understanding (or at least a deeper recognition of not-knowing) of both the text and life’s complexities emerge.

IN THE MENO, when Socrates wants to question the slave boy, his only prerequisite is “Does he speak Greek?”(82b4) When working, discussing, or sharing curiosities with others for the sake of coming to an understanding, all that is required is quite simple: a common language. For example, at St. John’s College (where Jeremy and John, the founders of Koinos, and I met and became friends), we develop a common language by forming boundaries around the conversation: limiting the discussion to only the text at hand. We do not assume a certain background, knowledge, or understanding; rather, we allow the text to stand on its own as a complete work. What I find so special about discussing the Symposium with my longtime comrade is that we have a shared language that is ever-developing—not only have we shared various phases of life together, we are both deeply interested in the practices of the East.

Though we both began with questions prompted by western philosophy, we later independently furthered our personal, introspective journeys through yoga and meditation. In our Catholic liberal arts education, we were taught that the eastern and western views are very different; however, there are actually immense parallels between how the ancient west and the even more ancient yogic traditions navigate their inquiries regarding truth-seeking and the human experience. So as we once again venture through the Symposium, we are able to discuss how our understanding of the various myths on love have shifted from the first time we read it versus now—after an additional decade of love and longing, of philosophical study, and of life. 

IN ATTIC GREEK, there are different words that in English are generally translated as “love.” In the Symposium, however, the speeches are specific to eros: desire and longing. We can easily think of the “erotic;” yet the speeches offered are not strictly on sexual matters. We are given various myths about the god Eros (his attributes and how he came to be), desires of the body versus those of the soul, the dynamic between lover and beloved, and Aristophanes, the resident comedian, even depicts an image of how longing for an other is built (or in this case, cut) into our very human nature.

But how can we not know what love is? It is everywhere—movies, literature, music, philosophy—and yet, there are so many different interpretations of it! As my friend and I discuss love and the text, we also discuss our attempts at self-love and relationships. Together, we create a sense of community and understanding through our misunderstandings, trials and errors, and successes. Our mutual engagement brings the text to life and shines light on what can sometimes feel like a dim human experience.

Perhaps conversations regarding eros are so difficult because it is this place where the divine and the human clash. But again and again we try. As my favorite translator of Aristotle, Joe Sachs, begins the Metaphysics, “All human beings, by nature, stretch themselves out towards knowing” (980a21)—that is, we long to know, we long for what appears other. So we question, we talk, and we laugh while we discuss some old dead men discussing a topic that is anything but dead.

And as my friend and I have stretched ourselves out towards both the East and West, we have come to find that otherness is indeed simply appearance. Check back, as I further explore these connections in future posts.