Temperance, Tyranny, and the Metaphysical Constitution of the Soul: Plato’s Charmides and the Esoteric Teachings of Reale and Strauss

Among Plato’s so-called “early” dialogues, Charmides stands out as a work of great subtlety and metaphysical depth. On its surface, the dialogue is a simple Socratic exercise in defining the virtue of sophrosyne, commonly rendered as “temperance” or “moderation.” It ends, like many other early dialogues, in aporia: Socrates and his interlocutors fail to establish a definitive account of the virtue, and we are left with uncertainty.

But as Giovanni Reale and Leo Strauss each show in their own way, this surface perplexity conceals a deeper pedagogical structure. The dialogue is not a failure, but a carefully crafted ascent—one that gestures toward the true nature of temperance, virtue, and ultimately, the just soul and the lawful polis. To the attentive reader, Charmides offers a blueprint for understanding the foundations of law, virtue, and rational governance. It is a dialogue not about failure, but about the soul’s awakening to its need for metaphysical order.

The Drama of Charmides: Beauty, Power, and Wisdom

The setting is charged with political and erotic tension. Socrates returns from war and encounters the stunningly beautiful Charmides in the gymnasium. His beauty draws the attention not just of Socrates, but of the whole crowd, his appearance is likened to that of a god. But the question arises: does outward beauty reflect inward order? Does he possess sôphrosynê?

This leads to a series of proposed definitions: temperance is quietness, doing one's own business, self-knowledge, or the knowledge of knowledge. Each is tested and found wanting. Socrates eventually leads his interlocutor—Charmides, but increasingly Critias—into deeper and more abstract waters. The turning point arrives when temperance is equated with knowledge of what one knows and does not know. But this raises troubling questions: Can such a reflexive science be practically useful? Can it produce the Good? Can it bring about happiness?

By the dialogue’s end, all definitions have failed. Yet Socrates closes with a note of moral seriousness: if it turns out that temperance is truly present in Charmides’ soul, he must pursue it with all his might. The virtue remains real, even if our rational grasp of it falters.

Reale’s Reading: From Forms to Principles

Giovanni Reale, the great Italian interpreter of Plato, would likely view Charmides not as a dead-end but as a pointer to Plato’s unwritten doctrines. According to Reale, dialogues that end in aporia  reveal their true teaching only when read in light of Plato’s later metaphysical framework, especially the doctrine of first principles (archai) that undergird the Forms. These principles, most fundamentally, the One and the Indefinite Dyad, constitute the pre-formal ground of intelligibility and being.

Reale argues that the failure to define sôphrosynê dialectically is not a failure at all. Rather, it is a deliberate moment of pedagogical purification, preparing the reader for the metaphysical insight that true virtue cannot be captured by mere logos. Temperance, for Reale, must be viewed as the soul’s harmonious participation in the rational order of Being. To “know oneself” is not psychological introspection but metaphysical self-location: to recognize one’s place in the cosmic hierarchy, ordered toward the Good.  This is a common theme in Reale’s interpretive approach.  One which I share. 

In this light, the aporia of Charmides is not an ending but a threshold. The soul is led, through failed definition, to an experience of its own incompleteness. This prepares it to ascend, not analytically, but noetically, toward the reality of virtue as participation in divine reason.

Strauss’ Reading: Philosophy, Moderation, and Political Danger

Though Leo Strauss never specifically commented on the Charmides, we can apply a reasonable approximation of his approach.  Strauss approaches the dialogue from another angle than Reale.   Strauss, of course, is equally esoteric but more attuned to the political problem. For Strauss, Charmides might be a study in the relationship between philosophy, virtue, and the city. Socrates stands between two dangerous forces: the charismatic, beautiful youth (Charmides), and the powerful, ruthless intellect (Critias), who would later become one of the Thirty Tyrants.

Strauss is always alert to the way Socrates speaks, not just what he says, but how and to whom. Socrates educates not by proclaiming truths, but by leading his interlocutors into productive confusion. His irony protects philosophy from the hostility of the city. In Charmides, Socrates uses temperance as a test: Can Charmides be brought to care more about his soul than his appearance? Can Critias, full of ambition and cleverness, be made to see the limits of mere intellect?

What emerges is a vision of temperance not as an abstract definition, but as a condition for the emergence of philosophy itself. Only the moderate soul is open to the whole. Only the temperate man can govern himself and others justly. Socrates, by refusing to finalize the definition of sôphrosynê, teaches by example, through restraint, a model of lawful self-rule. In this, Strauss sees not failure, but a hidden victory: the philosophical life preserves itself through moderation, irony, and the refusal to force conclusions.

Toward a Metaphysical Jurisprudence

Reale and Strauss, though they might differ in emphasis, converge on a profound insight: Charmides is a dialogue about the soul’s constitution. Temperance is not just a virtue among others, it is the condition for justice, the ground of reason, and the inner form of lawful order.

For my own project in Metaphysical Jurisprudence, Charmides offers a foundational lesson. The law must be more than rules; it must reflect the rational order of the soul. Juridical legitimacy depends not on procedural correctness alone, but on the presence of sôphrosynê—the self-rule of reason in the individual and in the polity. This is not a utopian ideal, but a metaphysical necessity. Where temperance fails, tyranny follows—whether in the soul (as appetite usurps reason) or in the state (as power severs itself from wisdom).

Plato, through Socrates, leads us to this truth not by telling us, but by showing us: in the failure to define temperance, he awakens the soul to its need for the Good. Reale sees this as the soul’s upward ascent toward metaphysical participation. Strauss sees it as the political philosopher’s art of survival and teaching under pressure. Both are right. And both speak to us still, who seek to ground law not in will or power, but in the permanent things.

 

From Becoming to Constitution: Plato’s Laws, Ethical Realism, and the American Founding

Heraclitus famously declared that “all things are in flux”—that there is no being, only becoming. This ancient doctrine, so simple in expression, carries radical implications. If the world is in constant change, then stability, knowledge, justice, and law are illusions. In a universe governed by becoming, nothing endures—and without endurance, there is no firm ground for truth or virtue. This is the philosophical crisis that Plato and Aristotle directly confront, and in doing so, they lay the metaphysical foundations for all subsequent moral and political philosophy.

So what are Plato and Aristotle’s responses to establish being? The reply begins with the recognition that Heraclitus is partly right: the world we see, hear, and touch is indeed a world of change. But Plato refuses to accept that change exhausts reality. He responds by positing a two-level ontology: there is a realm of sensible things, which change and decay, and a realm of Forms, which are eternal, unchanging, and intelligible. True being, for Plato, is found in this higher reality. Justice, Beauty, and the Good are not merely names we give to transient experiences; they are real, objective patterns that make experience intelligible in the first place. Without such stable being, no knowledge would be possible.

Aristotle, rejecting the separation of the Forms, affirms that being is found in the world, in substances composed of matter and form. Change, he argues, is not pure flux but the actualization of potential. An acorn becomes an oak, but not at random; it does so because its form, its inner principle of development, directs it. Thus, being is structured, teleological, and knowable—not static, but intelligibly ordered. Both philosophers affirm that being is real and that this reality grounds the possibility of truth, ethics, and law.

This metaphysical realism flows directly into their understanding of virtue and political life. In Plato’s dialogue Protagoras, the question is posed: is virtue one or many? Socrates argues that all the virtues, justice, courage, temperance, piety, are not merely separate traits but expressions of one thing: knowledge of the Good. For this to be true, the Good itself must be real and stable, not shifting with custom or circumstance. If everything is becoming, then the Good is never the same, and virtue collapses into convention. Socrates’s insistence that virtue is one is therefore a defense of metaphysical unity. He is asserting, against Heraclitus and Protagoras, that there is a permanent standard by which human life may be measured.

This vision culminates in Plato’s Laws, a political work written in full maturity, where he asks: what kind of city can be built when philosopher-kings are unavailable? Unlike the Republic, which imagined an ideal ruled by those who grasp the Form of the Good, the Laws turns to a second-best world, our world, and proposes a regime governed not by ideal rulers but by law. Yet this law is not arbitrary. It is still ordered toward virtue, still reflective of the Good, even if in mediated form.

Law, for Plato in the Laws, is reason embodied in institutions. It is a teacher, a guide, a molder of souls. The aim of law is not merely to prevent harm or ensure order, but to lead the soul toward virtue. This is the heart of Plato’s ethical realism: law must be anchored in the moral structure of reality. The city of Magnesia, the fictional regime of the Laws, is meticulously designed to cultivate virtue through education, music, myth, and ritual. The citizens are to be formed from youth in the habits of justice, and these habits are reinforced by a legal code that reflects a higher rational order.

This vision reaches its peak in Book X, where Plato offers a theological justification for the law. He argues that the cosmos is not the product of chance or blind matter, but is governed by intelligent soul—a divine rationality that orders all things. Law, therefore, is sacred because it reflects this cosmic reason. Against the materialists and atheists of his time, Plato defends a world in which justice is not a human invention but a participation in divine order.

All of this may seem far removed from the American Founding. But it is here that our discussion found its most surprising resonance. Does Plato’s Laws anticipate the debates of the Federalist Papers and the design of the U.S. Constitution. The answer is yes.  They are both examples of the classic exercise of true Political Science: deployment of philosophic principles to a particular society.   

Like Plato, the American Founders confronted the problem of constructing a just regime without ideal rulers. They assumed human beings to be flawed, passionate, and ambitious, hardly philosopher-kings. Yet they did not surrender to relativism or power politics. Instead, they crafted a constitutional order that could channel those passions toward the common good. The Constitution, like Plato’s legal code, is a structure of reason: a framework in which law substitutes for virtue, and institutions embody balance and deliberation.

Madison’s words in Federalist No. 51 reflect this exact logic: “If men were angels, no government would be necessary.” Since they are not, we must build systems in which “ambition is made to counteract ambition.” This is not cynicism; it is political realism grounded in a deeper moral commitment. Like Plato, the Founders believed that law must guide rather than reflect human desire.

Furthermore, the Founders grounded their political project in a moral metaphysics, albeit one expressed in the language of natural rights. The Declaration of Independence appeals to “the laws of nature and of nature’s God.” This is not ornamental rhetoric, it reflects the belief that there is a real moral order, accessible to reason, to which human law must conform. In this sense, American constitutionalism is a modern echo of Platonic realism.

Both Plato’s Laws and the American Constitution thus represent attempts to institutionalize the Good, to embed ethical realism into the structures of civic life. Both reject the idea that law is mere will or custom. Both assume that justice is more than utility, that justice is rooted in the structure of being. And both offer strategies for approximating justice in a world where the ideal is out of reach.

From the metaphysical challenge of Heraclitus to the constitutional wisdom of the American Founding, the thread that unites them is a commitment to the reality of justice, the intelligibility of virtue, and the possibility of law grounded in truth.

This is the legacy of metaphysical jurisprudence—a tradition that insists that we can still, even now, speak meaningfully about the Good, build toward it, and bind ourselves to it through law. Plato's Laws and the U.S. Constitution are not worlds apart, but chapters in the same great effort: to bring reason into rule, and to govern not by force, but by what is just.