One day, while the two of us were engaging one another in

conversation on the hill in front of Miller Outdoor Theatre, he seriously said

to me, “I think it’s time we move on to Plato’s Parmenides.”
“Great,” I said exuberantly.
After that, he jumped right in.
“Well,” he said professionally, “as you already know, the Parmenides is
a tremendously huge and mercilessly ravaging attack on Plato’s Theory of
Forms. The account is most likely a fictional meeting of the two philosophers,
Parmenides and Socrates. Socrates, at the time, is in his prime, being in his
youth, while Parmenides is his elder. Socrates presents Plato’s Theory of
Forms, and Parmenides breaks all of it down, relentlessly and rigorously
turning Plato’s Theory of Forms into a senseless and contradictory vortex of
useless dust.”
“OK,” I said with rapt attention.
“Zeno, a disciple of Parmenides, starts off the discussion,” said
Mithrandir casually. “He says that if the things that are are many, then they
are both like and unlike; however, nothing, he says, can be both like and
unlike. Thus, the things that are are not many. This supports the monistic
approach of Parmenides.”
“But everything can be both like and unlike,” I quickly retorted. “For
example, blue is like turquoise, but blue is unlike red. Nothing can be both
like and unlike when it’s being compared to just one thing; however,
everything can be both like and unlike when it’s being compared to multiple
things.”
“A fine argument,” said Mithrandir engagingly with a soft smile.
“Thank you,” I said in appreciation.
“On a certain level,” said Mithrandir kindly, “Socrates agrees with you.
He denies Zeno’s argument by disagreeing with the assertion that nothing
can be both like and unlike. Socrates lays down the principle of causality,
saying that things that are X are X by partaking in the X. In other words, a
substance is a substance by partaking in its Form, and a Form is a Form by
having its substances partake in it.”
“Also,” carried on Mithrandir, “Socrates lays down the principle of
separation, saying that the X is itself by itself in being separate from and not
identical with the things that partake of it. Basically, even though a
substance partakes in its Form, the Form is separate from the substance.”
“For instance,” I said absorbingly, “things, which are substances, that
are like are like by partaking in the Form of likeness, which is, of course,
separate from the things, which are the substances, which are like. Things,
which are substances, that are unlike are unlike by partaking in the Form of
unlikeness, which is separate from the things, which are substances, which
are unlike.”
“Yes,” said Mithrandir receptively.
 “What’s next?” I asked with interest.
“Well,” said Mithrandir as if he was quite enjoying himself, “Socrates
says that it’s possible for things to partake in both the Forms of likeness and
unlikeness, and therefore, a thing can be both like and unlike. Although he
doesn’t explain why in the Parmenides, he does in another dialogue, though.
Can you think of it?”
“Yes,” I said after thinking for a little bit, “in the Phaedo, Socrates talks
about Simmias being both tall and short in relation to two different people,
which corresponds to my original critique of Zeno’s postulation.”
“Good,” said Mithrandir happily.
“What’s next?” I asked inquisitorially.
“Socrates tells of the principle of impurity,” said Mithrandir. “Since
things, such as substances, have contrary properties, such as being both tall
and short, they are impure and not allotropic. Because of the principle of
impurity, Zeno’s argument that nothing can be both like and unlike is null
and void. Although substances have contrary properties, Forms do not have
contrary properties, which is a firm distinction between the two.”
“Yes,” I said rapidly, “but later on in the Sophist, Socrates says that
Forms, too, have contrary properties.”
“Yes,” Mithrandir agreed, “but we’re not at the Sophist yet, are we?
The Sophist came after the Parmenides. The Parmenides describes the
primordial principles of the Forms, which is later revised in the Sophist.”
“Back to the Parmenides!” Mithrandir said authoritatively. “Thus,
Socrates says that the Forms are pure and allotropic, for they do not have
contrary properties. This means that the Forms cannot be both like and
unlike. Therefore, the Forms are one, while the substances are many.”
“Now, here comes the fun part!” said Mithrandir enthusiastically,
clapping his hands together. “Here comes Parmenides and his vicious
critique of the Forms.”
“I’m ready,” I said steadily.
“Parmenides,” said Mithrandir thoughtfully, “first asks if there are
separate Forms for all substances. He questions Socrates’ approval of the
notion that there is a separate Form for all substances. Two questions are
being asked here. Is there a Form for all substances? If there is a Form for all
substances, does the Form exist separately from its corresponding
substances?”
After Mithrandir was silent for a couple of seconds, I realized that the
questions he asked were directed towards me, so I answered them.
“Socrates,” I said, “has confidence in the separate existence of certain
Forms, such as justice and beauty. He isn’t certain about the separate
existence of certain Forms, such as humanity. He is really uncertain about
the separate existence of certain Forms, such as hair.
“Very good,” Mithrandir said appraisingly. “So we see that Socrates
has confidence in the separate existence of certain Forms that are non-
physical, conceptual substances. He’s certain that the Forms that are non-
physical exist separately from their substances. He isn’t certain that there
are Forms for physical substances, and he isn’t certain that the Forms that
are physical exist separately from their substances.”
“How does Parmenides next critique the Forms?” I asked wonderingly.
“Next,” said Mithrandir energetically, “Parmenides asks if substances
partake in all of their corresponding Form, or if substances only partake in
some of their corresponding Form. There are two different types, he says.
One is if substance A partakes in Form B, then A gets the whole of B. The
other is if substance A partakes in Form B, then A gets a part of B. What
happens if they partake in all of their corresponding Form?”
“Let’s say,” I responded, “that there are two substances, A
and B, that both partake in their corresponding Form, X. A partakes in all of
X. B partakes in all of X. Therefore, if A and B are in different places, then X
is in two places at the same time.”
“A contradiction!” capitalized Mithrandir. “A Form, therefore, is
separate from itself. This contradicts the notion that every Form is one; since
a Form is in two places at one time, the Form is many.”
“Yes, but Socrates says that just as a day can be in separate places at
the same time without being separate from itself, a Form can be in separate
places at the same time without being separate from itself,” I responded.
“Yes,” said Mithrandir genially, “but Parmenides says that Socrates’
day is like a sail. Different parts of a day are over separate places. A sail can
cover separate places, because separate places are covered by different
parts of the sail. Therefore, the model, if A partakes in X, then A gets a part
of X, needs to be applied.”
“Let’s say,” said Mithrandir calmly, “that three substances, A, B, and C,
are in separate places at the same time. X is their corresponding Form. A, B,
and C partake in X. They partake in separate pieces of X. Therefore, the
separate pieces of X that A, B, and C partake in are numerically different
from one another. If the separate pieces of X weren’t numerically different,
then there would be the same part of X, being in separate places at the
same time. Since the X has numerically different parts, it is divisible,
signifying that it is not one. What does Socrates say about this?
“He says that he has many body parts, yet he is still one. Something
with parts can still be one,” I answered.
“Parmenides then uses four quick arguments,” said Mithrandir. “A is A
by partaking in the A. With the piece model, he says that if A partakes of the
A, then A gets a part of the A. A is largeness. Therefore, every large thing, A,
is large by partaking in a part of the large, the A. If the A that is a part of the
A that A partakes in exists, then the part of the A is smaller than the A.
Therefore, the piece of the A is small. Every large thing, A, is large by having
something small, part of the A, partake in it. Something, A, is made larger by
something small, part of the A, which is said to be contradictory.”
“Yes,” I immediately responded, “but something can be made larger by
something small. For instance, 3 is larger than 2, making 2 small and 3 large.
Having something small, such as 2, partake in something large, such as 3, by
being added to it results in something larger than 3. It results in 5.”
 “That is a good argument,” Mithrandir said softly, “and I’m not going to
argue against it, but I will tell you what Parmenides said next. Equal things
are equal by partaking in part of the equal. If part of the A is smaller than the
A, then the part of the A is unequal to the A. Therefore, the part of the A is
unequal. Thus, equal things are equal by partaking in a part that is unequal,
which, of course, does not make sense.”
“What did Parmenides say after that?” I asked curiously, wondering
anxiously what the answer was going to be.
“He said,” said Mithrandir fervently, “that small things are small by
getting a part of the small. Small things, therefore, must have parts. If A is a
part of B, then B is larger than A, and B is large. Therefore, the small is large,
which is contradictory.”
“I see,” I said keenly.
“Next, Parmenides said,” said Mithrandir zealously, “that small things
are small by getting a part of the small. For A to get B is for B to be added to
A. Small things are small by having a part of the small added to them. It’s
contradictory, though, for you can’t make something small by adding
something to it.”
“Fair enough,” I said fleetly, “but what happens next?”
“Let’s say,” said Mithrandir, “that A, B, and C are substances, while X1
is their corresponding Form. A, B, and C are A, B, and C by partaking in the
X1. X1 is one over many, the many being A, B, and C. When X1 is added to A,
B, and C, X1 becomes a substance along with A, B, and C. Therefore, a novel
Form, X2, comes into existence, of which A, B, C, and X1 partake in. When
X2 is added to A, B, C, and X1, a new Form, X3, comes into existence, of
which A, B, C, X1, and X2 partake in. No Form is the same as the substances
that partake in it. Therefore, X2 is numerically distinct from X1, and X3 is
numerically distinct from X2. Since they are different, there are 3 Forms for
the same substance. This contradicts Socrates’ Oneness of the Forms.”
“That’s a good and intriguing argument,” I said prudently, going over it
repeatedly in my head, taking it all in.
“Yes,” said Mithrandir thoughtfully. “What did Socrates say to this
critique?”
“Socrates says,” I said meticulously, “that attacks on the Forms might
be destroyed by seeing the Forms as thoughts. Parmenides then presents
two arguments against this notion. What are they?”
“Parmenides’ first argument,” said Mithrandir profoundly, “states that
all thoughts have intentional objects. Therefore, every thought is of
something rather than of nothing. The object of any thought is one-over-
many. Anything, however, that is one-over-many is a Form. Therefore, the
object of every thought, not the thought itself, is a Form.”
“What about the second argument?” I asked.
“The second argument,” said Mithrandir thoughtfully, “states that
Forms are thoughts. Therefore, following the whole pie model, substances
partake in all of their corresponding thought. Since all substances are
composed of thoughts, all substances, such as leaves and pillows, think.”
 “It is then said that if something partakes in a Form, then that
something is like the Form,” said Mithrandir. “A Form, X1, has three
substances: A, B, and C. A, B, and C are like X1. X1 gets added to A, B, and
C, and X1 gets replaced by X2. X2 gets added and gets replaced by X3. A, B,
C, X1, and X2 are like X3. This, once again, contradicts the oneness of
Forms.”
“If I remember correctly it is then said that relation of likeness is
symmetrical,” I said intuitively. “If A is like B, then B is like A. A and B are
both like by partaking in the Form of likeness. The Form of likeness is like
something, and therefore, it is like. Since something is like the Form of
likeness, then due to symmetry, the Form of likeness is like it. Thus, the
Form of likeness is like.”
“By one-over-many,” said Mithrandir adeptly, “L1 partakes of the Form,
L2. L2 is numerically different from L1. L1 is like L2, since a substance is like
its Form, and because of the symmetry of likeness, L2 is like L1. Therefore,
L2 is like. L1 and L2 are like by partaking in the Form of likeness: L3. L1 and
L2 both partake and are numerically distinct from L3. Thus, there are three
different Forms of likeness, which contradicts the oneness of Forms. Yet
again, the oneness of Forms is contradicted!”
“Now, we are on to the greatest difficulties,” I said reminiscently. “One
problem is that the Forms, as Socrates describes them, cannot be known by
human beings. Another problem is that the Forms, as Socrates describes
them, suggest that human affairs are not known by the Gods. Can you
remind me why?”
“Most certainly,” said Mithrandir courteously. “Nothing that is itself by
itself is in humans. Through the principle of separation, even though a
substance partakes of its Form, the Form is separate, meaning that it is itself
by itself. Since a Form is itself by itself, and since nothing that is itself by
itself is in humans, Forms are not in humans, meaning that the Forms are not
known by humans.”
“Any knowledge that is a Form is more precise than any knowledge
that is in humans,” said Mithrandir professionally. “The gods have any
knowledge that is more precise than any knowledge that is in humans. The
gods have knowledge of the Forms, while humans have knowledge of
substances. Since humans have knowledge that is less precise than the
knowledge the gods have, the gods possess knowledge that is greater than
the knowledge of humans, signifying that the gods have a different kind of
knowledge than the knowledge that the humans possess, which means that
the gods do not have knowledge of human affairs. Only humans have
knowledge of human affairs.”
“Now,” I said in anticipation, “we are on our way to religiously
examining the deductions, which are the things that Parmenides says can
actually save the Forms. By using the deductions, one can concoct an
elaborate defense that will undoubtedly salvage the Forms from total and
utter annihilation. So what are these deductions?”
 I asked in the hopes that Mithrandir would answer me, for I had always
had trouble deciphering exactly what the deductions were; in fact, I even had
trouble understanding how many deductions there were. This is the hardest
part of the Parmenides to decipher.
“That’s a question for you to answer!” said Mithrandir shockingly.
“When you figure it out, you can bring your answer to me, so I can tell you if
it is correct.”
“Come on, man,” I said earnestly. “Can’t you just teach me the
deductions?”
“Nope,” Mithrandir said apologetically. “I’m sorry, but that’s for you to
figure out.”
“Can you at least tell me how many deductions there are?” I asked
perseveringly.
“Well, yes, I think that’s a good idea,” he said cheerfully with a smile.
“There are eight deductions.”
And with that, Mithrandir left me, and I made my way back to my study
to deliberately and ardently scrutinize the last half of Plato’s Parmenides with
the hopes of finding the eight deductions and an unusually unique way of
saving the Forms.
Days on end it took me to find the deductions, and even when I found
what I thought were the supposed eight deductions, I had absolutely,
wholeheartedly, and utterly no idea as to how to conceivably use them to
protect the Forms from a merciless onslaught of wise dialectic. I remember
when I finished studying. On a piece of paper, I hastily wrote what I thought
were the eight deductions, taking them to Mithrandir to see if they were
correct.
Mithrandir was lying down on the hill, carelessly smoking a cigarette,
while scrutinizing the sky for perhaps any intriguing apparitions.
“I found them,” I proudly announced. “The eight deductions. I found
them.”
“Did you?” said Mithrandir, sounding ecstatically delighted. “Let me
see. Let me see,” he said, pointing at my piece of paper.
On the paper was scrawled the following:

Deduction #1 - If the X is, then the X is not Y in relation to itself.

Deduction #2 - If the X is, then the X is Y in relation to the others.
Deduction #3 - If the X is, then the others are Y in relation to the X.
Deduction #4 - If the X is, then the others are not Y in relation to themselves.
Deduction #5 - If the X is not, then the X is Y in relation to the others.
Deduction #6 - If the X is not, then the X is not Y in relation to itself.
Deduction #7 - If the X is not, then the others are Y in relation to the X.
Deduction #8 - If the X is not, then the others are not Y in relation to
themselves.

“Superb!” said Mithrandir, sounding downright enthused. “You found

them. Now, how are you going to use the deductions to save the Forms?”
 I was befuddled, shocked, and bewildered as to why he just asked me,
a simple, mere, trivial, and somewhat unintelligent student of his, one of the
most philosophically hard and challenging questions that had ever sacredly
surfaced upon humanity; it was as if he was treating me as being his
intellectual equal. He made me feel smart, and even though he made me
feel intellectually poor in many instances, for once, I finally believed that if
he thought I might know the answer to this tediously rough and extraneously
callous question, then I might actually be able to come up with it!
“I don’t know,” I admitted somewhat dully, “but I won’t stop trying to
find the answer to that question.”
“Good luck on your search,” he said kindly with a bemusing smile.
“Don’t forget what Parmenides said. He said that in order to save the Forms,
one needs to keep in mind that the Forms have contrary properties.”