Pseudo-Symposium

PSEUDO-SYMPOSIUM

In Which I Learn A Valuable Lesson About Truth And Wine

“I feared my visitors were not only destitute, but ‘artistic’”

- taken out of context

“Here we are!” Socrates exclaimed as we approached a finely ornamented marble façade. “This is Agathon’s house. There was a banquet yesterday as well, but it was much too crowded for my liking. Agathon is a gifted poet, if you were unaware, and also one of my close friends. He won a contest yesterday with his tragedy, hence the banquets. If you are serious about gaining some bit of wisdom, then I will formally invite you in. There is bound to be some talk that will interest the two of you. What do you say?”

“We accept your offer,” I answered without checking with Rodolfo. He called me an ass just loudly enough for me to hear.

“I’m glad to hear it! Follow me in and we will see what the night has in store for us!” The gate was flung open by a surly seeming servant.

I knew, of course, what the night had in store for us. I had read it in a book.

Once.

~~

(Which is saying almost nothing, considering my reading retention is horrible, fellow human. A scene or two, perhaps. A rough sketch of the plot. If I like the book enough, perhaps I'll retain a few quotes. And I have reason to suspect that I am not an extraordinary case in this regard.

I wonder: what will you remember after you've finished this book?)

~~

Agathon received us cordially, but took no extra care to introduce us to the men already seated inside, who were already nearing the end of their meal. Some worked slowly upon a plate of olives. Others shoved their last pieces of bread into their mouths. Agathon took to fawning over Socrates as wonderfully as any experienced toady. He was obviously handsome, taller than most and strictly proportionate, like the Vitruvian man, only slightly less naked.

Rodolfo and I, meanwhile, found an empty couch to descend upon. I took this time to point out each of the men to him, starting with the man nearest to me and working counter-clockwise.

“That’s Phaidros,” I started. “I can’t remember exactly what he’s famous for… probably not important, though. Definitely not important. I mean, I would remember otherwise, right? Next is… uhhh… shit. I forget his name. Whatever. But I do know him,” I said, pointing to the next man. “That’s Aristophanes, the poet. You’ve probably heard of him. The Clouds, The Frogs, Lysistrata… No? Don’t worry about it, then. It's not... they don't really hold up, by today's standards. Well, I mean, they hold up by today’s standards, but not my day’s—I mean your day’s… you get what I’m saying. Anyway, then you have Eryximachos, the doctor, Aristedemos, the short man we saw in the streets (How did he get here before us?), and Agathon, of course.”

“Does any of this matter?” Rodolfo whispered.

“To you? Probably not.” He shook his head and slumped further into the chair.

~~

(A brief note on Rodolfo’s name:

You have noticed, perhaps, that Rodolfo is not an Italian name. No, indeed it isn’t; any etymologist worth his salt will tell you that it is Spanish. Although, the intermingling of Spanish and Italian cultures is a well-recorded phenomenon, so the existence of an Italian with a Spanish name doesn’t immediately strike you as fraudulent. It isn’t as though I’ve established Rodolfo’s lineage to be strictly Italian and traditionalist, after all. In fact, it now occurs to you that one of his parents may have been Spanish, although no other hints exist to support this explanation. And the more pressing question: why does it matter? You’ve given no great deal of thought to the ancestry of Rodolfo thus far, apart from making the usual assumptions: i.e. that he must have parents, who themselves had parents, and so on… which—logically pursued—induces a sense of vertigo in you, so you decided to stop after the third or fourth generation.

Unless you are the type that adores compiling family histories, which you treasure, dissect, and analyze with the fervor of any amateur historian or conspiracy theorist—which is the same thing as an amateur historian, except with slightly less rigor and considerably more aliens. There is at least one of these in any given family, unless your family history is so interesting (read: tragic) and the town so small (read again: tragic) that its history becomes public property, passed about from the mouths of children and church folk until it becomes myth. Think, for instance, of the Hatfields and McCoys, Montagues and Capulets, Agamemnon and his kin, Abraham and his many sons… These are just a few of the more popular family myths, by no means the most tragic, or unbelievable, or wonderful…

The original point being: perhaps you are one of those chroniclers, not only of your own family history, but others’ as well. Fictional, historical, personal—it doesn’t matter to you. What matters is tracing the sins backward through time, a sort of moral forensics that, properly applied, should show just why Rodolfo is the way he is. And now that I’ve mentioned parents, your mouth is watering…

Whatever. It doesn’t really matter when it comes right down to it. He’s named Rodolfo. That’s all.)

~~

“It’s uhh…” I paused for a brief second. “Divine translation. They are speaking Greek, you just… can’t hear it.”

“Huh…” He stopped for a moment to listen to the continued speech of the nameless man. He wore a look of marginal concern and confusion. “Why would… Languages divided and joined again. It’s a reverse Babel.”

I replied with that famous cop-out:

“The ways of God are beyond man’s understanding.”

~~

But why did God divide the Earth and make communication so impossibly difficult to begin with? This is a question I have often asked myself. I remember, as a child, learning about the city of Babel, the tower of which seemed to challenge God himself. According to the story as I remember it, a powerful King and hunter by the name of Nimrod boasted that upon completion of the infamous tower, he would be near enough to heaven to strike God with an arrow. God, being profoundly displeased with mankind’s growing hubris—and also afraid of arrows, I like to imagine—punished the whole city by sending tongues of fire and confusing their speech. 

I liked this story as a child, for the same reason that any child might; it showed the absolute power of God. He could level cities and stop the sun in the sky. He wasn’t someone to be trifled with. He wouldn’t stand to be insulted. That sort of power is unbelievably cool to a child. God is the ultimate superhero, only slightly less impervious than Superman.

Imagine my surprise so many years later upon reading the passage describing Babel and finding Nimrod almost entirely absent from the account. He was king, that much was true, but all depictions of the fatally ambitious archer seemed to be a product of my imagination (or questionably accurate Sunday-school worksheets). In fact, the description of the construction of the tower is relatively benign by today’s standards. The people wished to make a name for themselves. Who hasn’t wished that at some point? Why else would this book be written? God’s response to this affront of self-conceived relevance is astounding:

“Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language, and this is only the beginning of what they will do. And nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them. Come, let us go down and there confuse their language, so that they may not understand one another's speech.”

Humanity had proved to be united and strong, and God, like a jealous lover, had beaten her down.

~~

After the wine had been mixed and distributed between us, Eryximachos, the doctor, put forward a motion that the piping-girl should withdraw so that we could “entertain each other with talk.” The piping-girl, whose very existence might have easily been neglected were it not for the soft music she produced from her pan-flute, could not have been more than fourteen. She was perfectly innocuous and so slight that I feared she might break in two given a simple misstep or strong crosswind. The request for her removal didn’t seem to offend her. She bowed her head and glided through the nearest door. It was all terribly inhuman. The way she barely brushed a nearby ficus was as a fawn following its mother through the woods: thoughtlessly, intuitively. (Only, there was a great deal of thought transpiring in that head of hers. Thoughts of indignation, ennui, sadness, the future, the past…)

“Only a fool would sell himself into servitude, right?” I whispered to Rodolfo, seeing him also acknowledge her plight with a wrinkle of his nose.

“There is selling,” he answered, “and then there is being sold.”

~~

Eryximachos (the doctor, remember?) had already begun laying out the subject of our talk by the time the piping-girl had disappeared from view. He told us that the idea was not his own, rather, it was one proposed by Phaidros sometime earlier. We were going to take turns, from left to right around the circle we were seated in, to give a speech in praise of Love. Phaidros, it was said, often complained that no suitable ode had ever been composed about Love.

Apart from the fact that this sounded like the world's worst party game... can you even imagine such an absurdity? A world where no praises of Love exist? What a truly dismal thought.

Where would we be without the Romantic Comedy and the Soap Opera?

~~

We began to drink as Phaidros formally began his speech. Rodolfo scoffed at the idea of drinking wine cut with water, but I reminded him it was the custom. As we were both rather tired, we relished the chance to relax and get a little drunk, even if we had to drink out of strange shallow bowls. We settled deeper into our chairs as we listened to Phaidros.

The content of his speech was easy enough to summarize:

Love is the oldest of the Gods, and the one that does the most good for mankind. How, you may ask, does love do the most good? To put it simply, by guilting the lover into avoiding shameful actions, or, to put it less cynically, by forming a bond of mutual accountability. Love is a force that begets and rewards virtuous behavior, according to Phaidros, at least. He also mentioned that an army consisting entirely of lovers would, theoretically, be the most effective kind of army, owing to the fact that they would fight to protect one another with an intensity that no platonic bond could inspire.

I have heard quite a few people theorize that the famous Spartan 300 that held the pass at Thermopylae were, in fact, a battalion of gay lovers. And so what if they were? Does that make their story any less impressive?

~~

After this speech, the floor was given to Rodolfo and I. With no deliberation, I declined, explaining that our travels had tired us and that we were content with simply listening.  Rodolfo grunted in agreement. No one objected, which was wonderful news for the two of us. There is nothing worse than being prodded into giving a performance when you have no desire to do so.

~~

(Perhaps you would like me to attempt my ode now, seeing as I’ve had time to think it over.

But I know, fellow human, that you wouldn’t actually like that. You make it exceptionally clear with your brooding silence that I should avoid the soapbox as much as humanly possible. In fact, you question this entire chapter. Is it necessary to the plot? It seems as if you're about to read a summary of a horrid Greek dialogue, which is what you were worried about last chapter. You warn me not to spend too long here. "Get to the point," you say to the book, shaking it for emphasis.

How infinitely wise you are, fellow human! I’ve been thinking just the same thing. Allow me to remove some of this dross from your sight.)

~~

~~

I will not go through the pain of summarizing every speech here.

Meanwhile, Rodolfo and I became blithely drunk.

The time came for Socrates to speak.

“Well, gentlemen, what lovely speeches you have given. What may I hope to add to something as comprehensive as this? How could I hope to top Aristophanes’ fable or Agathon’s poetry? Therefore, let us be content with what has been said without me sullying the evening with some poor attempt! It is Agathon’s banquet, and it would be bad manners to take the last speech. So we’ll leave it at that! “

~~

Why had I stayed if it wasn’t to argue with him?

“Come on, Socrates,” I half-shouted. “You must be joking. There are still plenty of things to be said about Love, and I’m sure everyone here would love to hear your opinion.”

“No, no. I really have nothing to say on the matter. “

~~

What happened next should serve as an excellent example of the danger of being inflexible and inebriated.

“Bullshit!” I exclaimed while rising to my feet, emboldened by sour grapes. “You know what I’m talking about!” This had the unfortunate effect of silencing the room.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he replied. I could tell by his subdued tone and posture that he was being sincere. Suddenly, I understood.

~~

I had let myself fall prey to that vile and inexcusable propensity: trusting the author. The entire night, up to that point, had occurred more or less the way Plato had recorded, save a few natural embellishments. Because of this, I foolishly assumed it would continue to do so. Each story was accounted for; each point was made, until the very end. When Socrates refused to speak, it was a slap in the face. Plato had used him as a mouthpiece for his own thoughts. (How inexcusable, you say while leering at me.) I had been tricked, and in my own story, no less!

Let this be a lesson to you, fellow human. Do not trust a storyteller! He may hit on the truth every so often, but he rarely relies on fact. His craft is deception, plain and simple. With every nuance he adds, every half-imagined detail, his deceit grows. And do not think that storytellers are limited to those who formally identify as such!

We are all storytellers; the lies we tell are our lives.

~~

(But please, my fellow human, have a modicum of respect for the craft. Trust me for as long as we are here together. You may abandon that trust when we have reached the terminus, but I must ask you to stave off your skepticism until that time. We will never make it there if we can’t trust each other.

Unless, of course, you want to leave. But we have already been over this. Refer to my previous instructions. I am not your captor.)

~~

“No, no, no! That’s such horseshit!” I flailed an arm into the air in accordance with my level of frustration. “You were supposed to give a speech about Love and immortality and death. It’s supposed to be the best part of this whole night! Goddammit! I came all the way from Flor… Sparta, only to get a platitude and a night full of nonsense!”

Everyone was staring now. Phaidros and Agathon seemed offended; Aristedemos and Eryximachos seemed embarrassed; Aristophanes and Rodolfo could barely contain their laughter. I figured there was absolutely no redeeming myself at this point, so I took a breath and continued.

“Tell me I haven’t come here just to be cheated.” Everything seemed frozen except for the oscillating room.

“I’m afraid that you have,” Socrates replied flatly.

~~

Calling Socrates a “boulder of shit” and being kicked out of Agathon’s house were personal lows for me, although this phrase means nothing and everything coming from a person with a documented mood disorder. I ranted to no one in particular as a servant escorted Rodolfo and I from the premises.

“I was supposed to learn something! You were supposed to teach me! Why else would I be here?!” Rodolfo, not forgetting the earlier remarks that Socrates had made in regards to his weight, took advantage of the now hostile environment.

“Yeah, and don’t call me portly, you pig-faced buffoon!”

~~

We stumbled away from the house under cover of night. Luckily, the moon was full enough to light the mostly vacant streets. There were still small handfuls of drunken men milling about. It reminded me of college, only with a few more togas.

We hadn’t walked five blocks before Rodolfo slunk into an alleyway, slumped into a corner, and refused to move. I tried, failingly, to convince him to walk farther, but was unable to convince even myself. There was nowhere to go, no plan, no itinerary, so I relented and slid my back down the adjacent wall.

“Socrates sure is a prick,” he said, laughing to himself.

“He’s just not who I thought he would be.”

“And that surprised you?” he rejoined. I wanted to say something pithy, but exhaustion was beginning to get the better of me.

“Yeah. I guess it did,” I said over Rodolfo’s continued laughter.

“So, where to next, one-eye? What else does God want us to see?”

“Who knows? Hopefully it’s something better than… whatever this was.” (If only I had known!)

I closed my eyes and moved my eyepatch from left to right.