e who sees knows, as we say, that which he sees; for
perception and sight and knowledge are admitted to be the same.

THEAETETUS: Certainly.

SOCRATES: But he who saw, and has knowledge of that which he saw,
remembers, when he closes his eyes, that which he no longer sees.

THEAETETUS: True.

SOCRATES: And seeing is knowing, and therefore not-seeing is
not-knowing?

THEAETETUS: Very true.

SOCRATES: Then the inference is, that a man may have attained the
knowledge of something, which he may remember and yet not know, because
he does not see; and this has been affirmed by us to be a monstrous
supposition.

THEAETETUS: Most true.

SOCRATES: Thus, then, the assertion that knowledge and perception are
one, involves a manifest impossibility?

THEAETETUS: Yes.

SOCRATES: Then they must be distinguished?

THEAETETUS: I suppose that they must.

SOCRATES: Once more we shall have to begin, and ask 'What is knowledge?'
and yet, Theaetetus, what are we going to do?

THEAETETUS: About what?

SOCRATES: Like a good-for-nothing cock, without having won the victory,
we walk away from the argument and crow.

THEAETETUS: How do you mean?

SOCRATES: After the manner of disputers (Lys.; Phaedo; Republic), we
were satisfied with mere verbal consistency, and were well pleased if in
this way we could gain an advantage. Although professing not to be mere
Eristics, but philosophers, I suspect that we have unconsciously fallen
into the error of that ingenious class of persons.

THEAETETUS: I do not as yet understand you.

SOCRATES: Then I will try to explain myself: just now we asked the
question, whether a man who had learned and remembered could fail to
know, and we showed that a person who had seen might remember when he
had his eyes shut and could not see, and then he would at the same
time remember and not know. But this was an impossibility. And so the
Protagorean fable came to nought, and yours also, who maintained that
knowledge is the same as perception.

THEAETETUS: True.

SOCRATES: And yet, my friend, I rather suspect that the result would
have been different if Protagoras, who was the father of the first of
the two brats, had been alive; he would have had a great deal to say on
their behalf. But he is dead, and we insult over his orphan child; and
even the guardians whom he left, and of whom our friend Theodorus is
one, are unwilling to give any help, and therefore I suppose that I must
take up his cause my