Agathon — the polished speech, dismantled

Agathon begins by complaining that all the previous speakers have praised the gifts of Eros — courage, harmony, wholeness — without first praising Eros himself. He will reverse the order: first the god, then the gifts. He proceeds in elegant balanced clauses. Eros is the youngest of the gods, not the oldest as Phaedrus claimed; only youth could love beauty. Eros is the most beautiful, because he dwells only in what is beautiful. He is the most delicate, because he steps lightly through the soft places of the soul. The most just, the most temperate, the most courageous, the wisest — Agathon goes through all four cardinal virtues and assigns each to Eros in turn. The audience applauds.

Socrates praises the speech politely and then says he is in trouble. He had agreed to praise Eros not knowing that praising, in this room, apparently meant heaping every fine thing in existence onto the subject regardless of whether the subject actually has it. He thought praising was telling the truth about something. Could he ask Agathon a few questions before he speaks? Of course. The questions are simple. Is love love of something, or of nothing? Of something. Does that something belong to love or not? It is what love wants, so love does not have it. Then love lacks what it loves. And what does love love? Beauty. Then love lacks beauty. Then love is not itself beautiful. Three questions and the speech is undone. Agathon, still gracious, admits he had no idea what he was talking about.

Now, Socrates says, he will tell the truth about Eros, but he cannot do it on his own authority. Years ago a priestess from Mantinea named Diotima — who once delayed the plague at Athens by ten years through her sacrifices — taught him about love. He was as confused then as Agathon is now, and she put him through the same questions. He will report what she said. The dialogue's tone shifts; the comic phase of the evening is over.