For I do nothing but go about persuading you all, old and young alike, to take thought neither for your body nor your wealth, but first and foremost for the greatest improvement of your soul.
- Socrates

Prelude

Although he wrote nothing, belonged to no school, and claimed no special knowledge, he became the western world's most famous philosopher: Socrates - the very name embodies the image of the archetype, the bearded old sage wrapped in a shabby garment, wandering incessantly about the city of Athens questioning its citizens concerning the knowledge they falsely believe themselves to possess.

Socrates, son of Sophronicus the sculptor, was born in Athens in 470 bc. He continued the method of dialectic, or question-and-answer technique, of Zeno and Protagoras, but its mood became one of Socratic irony: he typically began an encounter by first claiming ignorance, and then proceeding to question his interlocutor, seeking definitions whose rejection created aporia, or perplexity, thus leading the interlocutor to realize that he did not really know what he thought he knew. At other times, Socrates used his method to draw out from someone knowledge he possessed but of which he had been previously unaware. In such a manner Socrates became, like his mother, a "midwife," but one who helped give birth to truth. Although he was dubious of claims to knowledge, his scepticism was tempered with a belief that only by rational inquiry can man approach truth. And the approach to truth is necessary, for, since no one sins knowingly, an understanding of how to live well can help to make one virtuous; the acquiring of such knowledge is worthier of one's attention than are such things as mere wealth and fame. For Socrates, the ultimate end of all human striving is eudaimonia, or happiness, specifically the happiness which comes from living virtuously.

In being sentenced to die, Socrates became western philosophy's first martyr, though by no means its last.

The Sting Of the Gadfly

Athens, 399 bc, at the Court of Justice
THE FINAL COUNT IS TAKING PLACE. Socrates has already been found guilty by 281 votes to 220 votes; he now awaits the sentence of the Court. As there is no fixed penalty for Socrates' alleged crime, both the prosecution and the defence have been obliged to suggest suitable punishment. Meletus proposed death as the penalty; Socrates countered with what he feels he deserves for having decided long ago not to spend his life in comfort, but rather to go about the city trying to improve his fellow citizens. "What does such a man deserve," he asked, "who has neglected those things valued so much by other men - wealth, family, military and civic appointments, public oratory - in order to gain the leisure required to exhort others to concern themselves first and foremost with their soul?" His answer: free meals in the prytaneum, that round building in the agora, where the Athenians have seen fit to honour the winners at the Olympic Games and others deemed worthy. "This is what I truly deserve," he declared with perfect candour. And he added, "If you insist on a fine, then by all means fine me according to my ability to pay - say, one mina; yes, that would be just, although Plato, Crito, and several others have urged me to suggest a thirty minae fine, which they will guarantee. Well, then, propose thirty minae, should you prefer a fine rather than free meals in the prytaneum as my punishment." This is how Socrates set forth his proposed punishment to the Court, much to the dismay of his closest friends, who immediately sensed the danger inherent in so honest an answer.

It was Meletus, a rich man, the hook-nosed one with the lanky hair and sparse beard, who, with the support of Dikon, an orator, and Anytus, a democratic politician well aware of Socrates' frequent criticisms of Athenian democracy, brought against Socrates the charges of impiety and of corrupting the youth of Athens. There are few among Socrates' friends who doubt that Anytus is the main force behind the charges, but, in any case, it is Meletus who is the spokesman. Of course, those who are well acquainted with Socrates understand the ridiculous nature of such charges, for they know how the appearance of this shabbily dressed, snub-nosed, paunchy, barefoot - many would even say ugly - philosopher belies his inner beauty. But they understand also how easily swayed are the unthinking masses.

At this very moment Socrates is recounting to himself what he has already explained in detail to the Athenians assembled here today: how his close friend Chaerephon went to the oracle of Apollo at Delphi and how the god answered his question, "Is there anyone wiser than Socrates?" The priestess replied, "There is no one." Socrates recalls how he had been unable at first to comprehend the god's meaning, for he knew that he was not the least bit wise; and yet he knew also that the god could not lie.

It was thus that he set about seeking the god's true meaning. He did so by questioning, one by one, a considerable number of his fellow citizens who were reputed to possess great wisdom. In each case Socrates was able to show not only that such a man possessed no true wisdom, but that he was less wise even than those ordinary citizens with no reputation whatsoever for wisdom.

All of this aroused great indignation on the part of those questioned in such a fashion, as well as among bystanders who observed the proceedings. Nonetheless, Socrates was able to draw a conclusion after many such encounters with politicians, poets, and artisans: they, like he, really knew nothing worth knowing, but unlike him they thought they knew something worthwhile. Socrates at least knew that he possessed no knowledge of value at all, and it was this recognition alone which made him wiser than others. This, he concluded, was the god's meaning. And thus he was able to divine the task the god had set before him - to go about the polis as a sort of gadfly, stinging his fellow citizens into shame for caring about wealth and prestige while ignoring truth, wisdom, and the culturing of their souls.

Socrates continued to perform this commended service by questioning men throughout the polis, day by day, testing their beliefs, and ultimately showing them that they had far to go to achieve that arete, or excellence, which they had presumed to be already their possession. Those who thought they knew the meaning of, and could adequately define and explain, such difficult notions as justice, knowledge, and piety, for example, were relentlessly interrogated by Socrates until they became able to see clearly the folly of their own presumption, and to recognize their ignorance. Unlike Anaxagoras, Socrates has written nothing; and unlike the Sophists, the gadfly of Athens charges no fee for such learning as he imparts to others; he is merely obeying the god's command.

Socrates' present ruminations are interrupted by the arrival of the Court's decision: he is sentenced to die. He takes the news in calmly, passively, his mind already having travelled to another recollection: that of how he has always called into question everything and placed it before the sober judgement of reason. What this amounts to in practical terms is that he has continually threatened the very customs of Athenian social and religious life. He knows that this has been too much for the most powerful segments of democratic Athenian society to bear (it has been five years now since the Spartan-imposed rule of the Thirty ended and democracy was restored at Athens); for who can tell where such questioning might lead, what changes might be called for should Socrates' perception of the lack of harmony between reason and worldly conduct become widespread! Yet, in a moment of sceptical self-doubt, he asks himself, "Have I been right in thinking that no one errs knowingly? Is knowledge sufficient to bring about the good?"

But now Socrates is roused by his friends to conscious awareness of the fate that awaits him. In the face of death, he takes one last opportunity to speak, not in order to save himself, but in order to enlighten those who have condemned him.

"Let me begin by saying to those of you who have voted for my death that it is a pity you did not wait a little time, for, as you can plainly see, I am already an old man quite close to my natural end. You would have gained somewhat by showing a bit of patience in this matter, for as surely as I stand here condemned by you to die, you will stand condemned by those who will now see the Athenian state as the instrument that put to death a wise man, Socrates. I tell you, it matters little that I am not really wise, for they will say this in any case. But let me ask you a couple of questions before go, for you all know how I love to seek answers.

"First, why have I been convicted here today, and, furthermore, sentenced to death by a greater majority than that which found me guilty? Perhaps you think - or would like to think - that it is because lacked the persuasive power of arguments that might have convinced you to acquit me. No, this is not the reason. What lacked today was the kind of disgraceful impudence which might have impelled me, as it has so many others in previous trials, to beg for my life, to weep and wail, or to say things which knew you wanted to hear, merely so as to escape punishment, or even to bring forward my family so as to garner your sympathy. But, no, would prefer to die having spoken as always do than to live by speaking as you would wish me to. Life, after all, is not worth the sacrifice of one's soul.

"But let me ask you something else - namely, whether there is anything harder to escape than death. Perhaps you think there is no such thing; after all, death is inevitable for everyone but the gods. Yet there is indeed something much harder to escape than one's mortality. Speak of the unrighteousness, the evil, that runs more swiftly even than death. Old as I am, I have naturally been overtaken by death's swiftness; but you, my accusers and condemners, though both cunning and quick, are already overtaken by wickedness. Thus, I shall depart under penalty of death while you leave this place today condemned by the truth to evil-doing and injustice.

"Let me therefore prophesy, fellow Athenians - for it is in the face of death that one possesses the greatest prophetic power - that after my death an even greater punishment shall settle upon you. This is not what you expected, for you thought that by sentencing me to die you would free yourselves from the burden of giving an account of your own lives. But you will find that others, younger than myself, will be more severe with you than I have; and you will surely be even more offended with them. You have not learned that it is impossible to avoid the reproach of others for your bad living by killing men; on the contrary, the only honourable way is not to persecute and suppress others but to culture yourselves so as to make yourselves good men.

"We still have a few moments before I leave to go to the place where I must die; and so, let me remind you of how remarkable is that which has happened to me on this day. As you know, I have always been shown my path by a divine guide, my daimon, if you prefer. In dubious circumstances, my guide has always turned me back from that which might harm me; but today, as I left my house, and when I came here to the Court, and when I spoke to you the truth of my gadfly nature, I was never at any point opposed by my guide. Why? Because it is obvious that what has happened to me today is not an evil, but, on the contrary, a great good. Yes, it must be so, for my guide would have opposed me were it not so.

"We can say then that death, which is commonly thought of as the greatest of evils, is perhaps a great good instead. For surely death must be one of two things: either a state of nothingness and complete unconsciousness, or, as some men believe, a change and a migration of the soul to another place, from this world to another one. And if the unconsciousness is like the sleep of one who is undisturbed even by the slightest dream, then death will surely be a positive gain. For if a man were to choose that night on which he had slept most soundly and compare it with all the other days and nights of his life, and then tell us how many other days and nights had been spent more pleasantly than this one; I say that such a man, even were he King of Persia, would find precious few. If death is like this, then it must be a great gain for anyone, for then eternity becomes as a single night.

"But what if death is a journey to another place, one where all those who have already died are present? Well, my fellow Athenians, try to imagine what could be better than this. Surely such a journey would be worth the taking, for it would both deliver one from the pretended judges of this world and lead one to the true arbiters who, it is said, pass judgement there - here am speaking of Minos and Rhadamanthus and all such demigods as were righteous in their own lives. And think of those others whom one might meet and converse with there: Orpheus and Hesiod and Homer, for example. Why, if this be true would be willing to die not merely once, but many times. In such another world might meet also the heroes of old, many of whom suffered death through injustice, just as do, and think should find some pleasure in comparing my own sufferings with theirs. But more than all of this is the great pleasure would gain from continuing to question those who claim to possess true knowledge, whether it be such heroes as Odysseus or Sisyphus or any of numberless others. There, at least, one need not fear being put to death for striving to know and to make oneself and others better!

"Therefore, my judges, know this to be a truth most singular: neither in life nor in death is it possible for evil to befall a good person. Such a one will not be neglected by the gods; nor has today's verdict been an accident of chance. I can see that for me to die at this point is a good thing, and that is why my daimon never sought to guide me away from the course I have taken here. That is why I feel no anger toward my accusers or my condemners, for they have not - nor could they have - done me any harm. I do, however, blame them insofar as they did most surely set out to do me injury, though without just cause.

"In view of all this, I have a final request of you, accusers and condemners alike. When my own sons have grown up, I ask that you punish them, and trouble them in the manner I have troubled you, if they appear to care for riches more than for the arete, the excellence, that should be the proper goal of all men. If they pretend to be something when they are really nothing, then reprove them for not caring about what is really important. In doing this you will make certain that my sons receive the justice they deserve. That is all I ask of you with the last words you shall hear me speak.

"I see now that the time has arrived at which we shall leave this place. Hence, farewell to all. I go to die; you to live. Which of these is the better neither you nor can tell. The god alone knows."

© 2007, Paul Rossetti Bjarnason, All Rights Reserved

Excerpted from the new book, Stargazers: Stories Of the First Philosophers by Robert Rossetti Bjarnason, published by O Books and available at all bookstores or online at www.amazon.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Paul Rossetti Bjarnason has an MPhil in Ancient Cultures and has taught high school philosophy. He takes seriously the notion of the flourishing life - not just for the few, but for the many.