so obviously a main concern in Plato’s dialogue. But first I will
try to give Derrida his due in my reading of “Plato’s Phar-
macy,” a philosophical essay full of high terms and dazzling in
its style. Derrida derives his title from Plato’s reference to the
pharmakon,a Greek word that means both “medicine” and
“poison.” (The double meaning is appropriate enough, since
given the state of the medical art in fifth-century Athens, gulp-
ing down a curative potion could be a risky proposition.)
Socrates uses the word pharmakonto describe writing.
And writing, Derrida argues, is presented by the Phaedrusin
the myth of Theuth as both a cure for faulty memory and a
poisonous, corrupting substance. We tend to rely on the writ-
ten word as a substitute for living memory. According to
Socrates, writing down one’s thoughts about philosophical
matters amounts to generating an insufficiently vital series of
formulations. The written record remains far removed from
real philosophy, the energetic conversational thrust and parry
that Socrates shows in his dialogues when he subtly instructs
or forcefully skewers his opponents viva voce. But Plato, unlike
Socrates, writes it all down—and he draws our attention to
this paradox.
Derrida links the pharmakon to the related word phar-
makos,meaning “scapegoat”: a term that Plato never actually
uses in his dialogue, but one that, Derrida implies, he must
have in mind, since Socrates became the scapegoat for Athens.
(And since writing is Socrates’ own whipping boy: for Plato
depicts him as the immortal champion of conversation.)
Plato cherishes the dialogue form because it allows him
to show that knowledge takes the form of a conversation.
Faced with a written text, we can ignore it, put it aside, or re-
main bored or ignorant. But when questioned by a person, we
must answer—or be exposed in our evasions. Derrida makes
the case that Plato’s attempt to exalt speech over writing must
148 Plato, Austin, Nietzsche, Freud