Remembering What We Already Know

Socrates, as recorded by Plato, often began with a simple question that exposed a deeper problem. One of those questions was: What is courage? At first, the answers seem obvious. Courage is standing firm in battle. Courage is refusing to run from danger. These examples sound convincing enough.

But Socrates was never satisfied with examples. He wanted the definition — the principle that explains why all of these cases count as courage. And this is where the difficulty begins. If we say courage is simply standing one’s ground, what about the soldier who retreats strategically to save his city? If we say courage is facing danger, what about the reckless person who charges forward without thought or discipline? Each attempt at a definition seems to break down once we test it against other cases.

Testing Definitions

The strength of the Socratic method is that it does not stop at the first answer. Each proposal is tested against further cases until its limits are exposed. If we say courage is standing firm in battle, then we exclude the soldier who retreats to warn his people and saves lives. Surely that too can be courage. The definition is too narrow. If we say courage is facing danger, then we include the hot-headed fighter who charges forward without reason or restraint. That is not courage but recklessness. The definition is too broad.

If we refine it further and say courage is facing danger for a noble purpose, we may feel closer to the mark. But then consider the person who feels no fear at all. If they act without risk to themselves, is it courage? Most would hesitate. Courage seems to require not only the presence of danger but also the ability to overcome fear.

Each attempt captures something important, but none captures the whole. What began as an easy question quickly reveals itself to be far more elusive.

The Paradox

Working through examples and counterexamples reveals something puzzling. We recognize at once that standing firm before an enemy is an example of courage, while reckless rage on the battlefield is a counterexample. We can see that a strategic retreat may still be courageous, while running away out of fear is not.

In each case, our judgments feel clear. We sort the genuine from the false almost instinctively. When asked to explain why — to give the rule that separates the examples from the counterexamples — our words fall short. Every proposed definition either excludes something we know is courage or includes something we know is not.

Here lies the paradox: we seem to know enough to judge between examples and counterexamples, but not enough to define the very thing we are judging. If we already know, why can’t we say it? If we don’t know, how are we so sure in our judgments?

Plato’s Answer: Anamnesis

Plato offered an explanation for this paradox. He proposed that the reason we can recognize examples and counterexamples, even when our definitions fail, is because we already possess the knowledge and intuition at a deeper level. Our souls, he argued, were acquainted with the pure realities — the Forms of courage, justice, knowledge — before birth.

When we entered this life, that knowledge was forgotten. What we call “learning” is in fact a process of recollection. Philosophy, in this view, is not about discovering something entirely new, but about remembering what we once knew but have lost sight of. Socratic questioning, then, is not mere debate — it is a method of drawing out that buried memory, helping us recollect the truth we already carry.

Remembering and Being Reminded

Plato’s theory of anamnesis is striking because it suggests that truth is not something external imposed upon us, but something already present within us, waiting to be recalled. This is what allows us to recognize examples and counterexamples of courage even when we cannot supply the definition: we are remembering what we already know.

The Quran describes revelation in a remarkably similar way. It calls itself adh-dhikr ( الذِّكْر ) — “the Reminder.” Humanity, the Quran teaches, already bore witness to God before birth, acknowledging His Lordship. Yet, that knowledge was obscured in this worldly life, but not erased. Revelation does not implant something foreign; it awakens the truth already imprinted on the soul.

[7:172] Recall that your Lord summoned all the descendants of Adam, and had them bear witness for themselves: “Am I not your Lord?” They all said, “Yes. We bear witness.” Thus, you cannot say on the Day of Resurrection, “We were not aware of this.”
[7:173] Nor can you say, “It was our parents who practiced idolatry, and we simply followed in their footsteps. Will You punish us because of what others have innovated?”

[30:30] Therefore, you shall devote yourself to the religion of strict monotheism. Such is the natural instinct placed into the people by GOD. Such creation of GOD will never change. This is the perfect religion, but most people do not know.

Just as Socratic questioning draws out what is hidden in the mind, the Quran presents itself as calling the heart back to what it has always known. In both accounts, the encounter with truth feels less like being taught and more like being reminded — as if something deep within us is stirred, and we say, “Yes, of course. I knew this all along.”

[2:146] Those who received the scripture recognize the truth herein, as they recognize their own children. Yet, some of them conceal the truth, knowingly.