By thoroughly examining Protagoras’ views as they are presented in Plato’s Protagoras and the Protagorean sections of Plato’s Theaetetus, Robert Bartlett shows with great clarity the gravity of the sophistic challenge to Socratic philosophy. On the basis of the Protagoras alone, we might think that Socrates is able to dismiss much of sophistic thinking with ease because he quickly spots and ultimately reveals a serious defect in it. But in the Theaetetus, we learn that there may be a remedy for this defect that perhaps makes the sophistic challenge more powerful than it first appears. And establishing that this “remedy” is itself defective proves to be extremely difficult, if it is even possible. By painstakingly showing the impressive consistency of Protagoras’ apparently inconsistent arguments in the Protagoras, and by showing how their conspicuous defect may in fact be remediable, Bartlett reveals the depth of the challenge that Protagoras presents to Socrates. And it is through appreciation of this challenge and the Socratic response that one comes to see how Socratic political philosophy may be able to establish its superiority to the teaching of Protagoras in particular and the sophists in general.

Sophistry and Political Philosophy is divided into two main sections: Part One examining the Protagoras and Part Two examining the Protagorean parts of the Theaetetus. The last section of Part Two is a conclusion that deftly knits together the findings from each dialogue.

One of the many impressive features of Part One is Bartlett’s reconciliation of Protagoras’ myth and logos. Bartlett is able to make the seemingly contradictory pieces fit together by arguing persuasively that Protagoras has at least three separate audiences to please. He has the young men who have come for an education in political rhetoric, the many in the assembly whom these young men will have to persuade, and the rare student preparing for a career as a sophist. The author explains how parts of the speech appeal to the different groups, all the while pointing to a consistent view of virtue. Protagoras describes the so-called political virtue of the ruled, which consists of justice, moderation, and piety, and delicately distinguishes it from the true virtue he teaches, which is a wisdom that, as we see elsewhere in the dialogue, requires courage. Part of that wisdom is a sophisticated understanding of political virtue: It is essential to the community but is not virtue in the strict sense. Among other things, Protagoras examines common human behavior and speech to reveal the typically contradictory attitude to political virtue and the sacrifice of one’s own good that it demands. He suggests on fairly solid grounds that one’s own genuine benefit is what we all seek, making his knowledge of that benefit an invaluable commodity. He claims to teach virtue worthy of the name, which is the truth about one’s own good that enables those who have the courage to accept it to lead the best life. This elucidation of Protagoras’ great speech allows the reader to appreciate the remarkable power of his argument.

In the later sections of Part One, however, where Bartlett walks the reader through the great and small parts of Socrates’ strategy as he examines Protagoras’ view bit by bit, he ultimately reveals a major inconsistency in his thinking: Protagoras’ admiration of courage is not altogether compatible with his account of virtue. If courage is a part of virtue, it must itself be good or help us attain what is good. But Protagoras admires courage at least partly because of the risk or sacrifice of one’s good that it entails. This can be seen in Protagoras’ statements and even in his actions in the dialogue (see, e.g., p. 71).

With his account of both the great and small parts of Socrates’ strategy, Bartlett demonstrates the amazing precision and care with which Plato wrote. One is persuaded by Bartlett’s masterful treatment that every odd detail, strange non sequitur, and bizarre omission for which the Protagoras is famous can be neatly fit together in a consistent whole. One of my favorite such explanations is Bartlett’s excellent psychological account of a Socratic failure to respond to one of Protagoras’ obviously fallacious attacks (p. 78).

In Part Two, Bartlett turns to the Theaetetus and begins with an extended introduction that helps situate this famously technical treatment of knowledge in its decidedly political setting. He also makes the interesting and plausible claim that owing to the dramatic account of its production, namely, that Euclides went to Socrates on many occasions to confirm the details of the conversation at the very time he was putting it into writing, this dialogue is presented as the closest thing we get to a written work of Socrates (p. 116). In other words, Plato seems to be suggesting that of all the dialogues, this is the one that Socrates would have written down for posterity. It brings to light the contrast between the insufficient sophistic “remedy” and Socrates’ remedy, or his ingenious way of approaching the problem of knowledge through an unorthodox political investigation.

In the remaining sections, Bartlett guides the reader through the twists and turns of Socrates’ inquiry into what knowledge is. His account is one of the clearest and most readable I have seen, not least because of the many summaries he offers to ensure that none of his readers loses the thread of the argument. Step by step, one sees how a person as intelligent as Protagoras could arrive at the extremely relativistic understanding of knowledge according to which your “perception” broadly understood, including your perception of the good, is true for you. Bartlett demonstrates that this argument, though difficult to believe, is very hard to refute. All of Socrates’ direct efforts to refute it fail. But in a digression, Socrates points to an unexpected path that might lead to a sufficient refutation (p. 185). The author’s account shows that the problem that led Protagoras to adopt his extreme view is the challenge to knowledge posed by religion.

In the conclusion, Bartlett offers a stellar knitting together of what he has shown about Protagoras’ deficient treatment of courage in the Protagoras and the hidden root of that deficiency, which is his failed effort to fully address the claims of religion, as we learn from the Theaetetus. Bartlett helps us understand why Socratic political philosophy may be needed in order to adequately address the problem that Protagoras most impressively recognized but could not solve.

I have no major criticisms of this wonderful book, only a few quibbles to which I am guided by the author’s own great care in explaining every detail. Bartlett maintains that Socrates would not have gone to see Protagoras if he had not been dragged there by Hippocrates (p. 11). Yet Socrates’ comprehensive knowledge of the goings on at Callias’ house perhaps suggests an intention to pay Protagoras a visit. Further, if Socrates had no interest in Protagoras, he could—after his conversation with Hippocrates in which he cataloged the many dangers of sophistry—have advised the boy not to go. His failure to do so, together with Bartlett’s evidence the Socrates can manipulate things as he likes (p. 11), also leads us to wonder whether he did not mean to visit Protagoras all along. If he did, we must consider how this fact bears on the interpretation of the dialogue, especially the parts before 348c (see pp. 71–72).

This is an indispensable book for students and scholars alike. Not only is it an excellent guide to the Protagoras and the Theaetetus, but it also gives the reader a substantial foothold in Socratic political philosophy and demonstrates why Socratic philosophy might be superior to all challenges.