A Socratic Stroll
A SOCRATIC STROLL
In Which I Change The Chapter Format For No Ostensible Reason, Although You Suspect It Has Something To Do With Alliteration
“Change of mind is not inconsistency”
- A stuffy British bloke
The story of this particular evening can be found under the title of Symposium by Plato. The trouble is, the account is far from first-hand. Aristedemos (the small man currently walking with Socrates) reported his version to a man named Apollodoros, who then recounted it to Plato, who described it to me (via translator Christopher Gill), who will now recount it to you. It is a small wonder than anything ever gets communicated in this world.
It’s like the children’s game “telephone.” The game is simple: one person whispers a phrase into another person’s ear, then that person whispers what they thought they heard to the next person, and so on until it reaches the last in a long line of people.
“Let’s all go to the park” might become “Let Saul goatee a shark” or “Kickball goat teeth apart” or “As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.” In the end, kids are supposed to learn a valuable lesson: communication is a myth kept alive by our blind insistence that meaning can exist in a purposeless and chaotic universe. Or maybe it’s: communication is hard and whispering makes it harder? Whatever the case, the children have fun.
Still, if I/Christopher Gill/Plato/Apollodoros/Aristedemos was right, then Socrates was going to somehow lose track of his short friend.
~~
Sure enough, within several blocks Aristedemos lost focus and turned down the wrong street. I wanted to stay and watch him as he realized his mistake, scanning the streets with a hint of that toddler-fear lurking behind his eyes. Losing someone in a crowd never fails to incite that instinctual helplessness, even in a grown man. As it was, though, I had a mission, and so I continued to tail the Father of Western Philosophy at what I assumed was a healthy distance. I glanced over to Rodolfo as we quickened our pace.
I should have known that our gambit was obvious, owing to our (or rather my) conspicuous appearance. When we were astride him, he spoke:
“I hope you haven’t come to rob me,” he said with an untouchable smirk. “For you will find that I have nothing of value on me. In fact, I have nothing of real value anywhere, neither here nor at home.” He looked at the pair of us as though we were old friends, despite the accusation of treachery.
“We’re not here to rob you,” I said quickly.
“Then why have you followed me for so long, looking at each other like two guilty men? Or did you think I wouldn’t notice a stranger with an eyepatch walking closely behind me?”
“Forgive me,” I offered with a deferential bow of the head, “I was only anxious to speak with you.”
“Speak with me? But who am I to be deemed so important by men I don’t even know?”
In one of those rare moments of brief mental confusion, like the moment you place the milk in the cupboard and the cereal in the fridge, I accidentally said what I was thinking instead of what was acceptable. The culturally acceptable (albeit sickeningly sycophantic) reply was this:
“You are a wise and humble man who gladly teaches one and all.”
What I said was this:
“You’re Socrates, stupid.” (And honestly, that's fine. Cultural relativism be damned, the man was almost certainly a pedophile. He deserves a lot more than “stupid.”)
~~
At this slip of the tongue Socrates halted and turned towards me. Rodolfo cradled his forehead between his thumb and pointer finger, the universal gesture of disappointment. For approximately three seconds, which feels like an eternity when you’ve insulted the founder of western thought, I stood and awaited his reaction. Some of you might ask why I didn’t apologize immediately. All I can say is this: sometimes when you’ve made a particularly idiotic mistake, the only possible reaction is consternated silence and a short, sharp inhalation through clenched teeth. This was one of those times.
Finally, Socrates lifted the corners of his mouth back into a smirk. He stroked his beard with his left hand, nodded, and said, “Yes, you are quite right in your estimation, both of my identity and my intelligence!”
“No, no! It was a bad joke,” I tried to explain, shaking my head. “I didn’t mean that you’re stupid… I mean… everyone knows you’re the wisest man in Athens.”
“Wisest man in Athens? What fools must inhabit this city if I am the wisest!” he answered with a laugh. “No, you were right the first time. I am nothing but a man who questions… Where is the wisdom in that? But let’s not focus on my knowledge or ability. I’m afraid there is hardly anything to say about it one way or another. You said you wish to speak to me about something, yes? Well, I hope you have no great aversion to walking as we talk. I have a banquet to attend and it wouldn’t suit me to be later than I already am.”
I glanced over to Rodolfo, whose look of pure disdain announced his unwillingness to walk any farther. I gave a curt nod as if to say, “We have to.” He shook his head as if to say, “Go fuck yourself.” I cocked my head slightly to one side and glared at him with my one uncovered eye as if to say, “There’s no need for that kind of language.” Rodolfo took a deep breath, rolled his eyes, and said in his most monotonous voice, “No, of course not. Who doesn’t love a nice walk?"
~~
(I walked a lot while writing this section. I don't mean walking and writing at the same time, of course. That would be difficult. I've gotten into the habit of taking walks, is all. It's a habit I relearn every so often, especially when I am in a contemplative period of my life.
And I certainly have a lot to contemplate. The two-going-on-three year relationship is over. That much was predictable. Also predictable: my descent into depression, aided by the unloving embrace of Winter. A one-act play of mine is produced by a local theatre company. The play is about a cynic at war with a universe that only manifests good things. The production barely sustains me.
Only I've got the order all wrong. We put up the play before I break up with her. But then...
All I know is that it is cold and I am miserable and that I am taking walks. That is all you need to know. Hopefully the context helps.)
~~
I mouthed an apology to Rodolfo as we began to follow the pig-nosed philosopher, but he ignored this half-hearted gesture. I wanted to remind him that if we didn’t follow Socrates then we might end up staying in Greece for much longer than necessary, but I decided that it wasn’t worth the effort. I was about to explain myself to Socrates when Rodolfo spoke up.
“So you’re Socrates, huh?” He said, proving that the awkwardness of small-talk transcends mere time and space.
“Indeed I am! How do you two know of me, anyway? Perhaps you were speaking to some of the sophists in town and my name came up? I have to warn you. Those men aren’t all that they claim to be. It’s wise to be distrustful of—"
“No, no. Where I come from you’re more famous than any other learned man… except Plato, of course.” Rodolfo was clearly unaware of, or blithely apathetic about, our current historical context. For clarification: Plato couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old in 416 BC. I elbowed Rodolfo in the side to stop him from continuing.
“I, famous? And Plato? I was unaware that my fame reached outside of Athens, but I’m far more amazed that you know the name of my pupil. Where are you from, did you say? And what could you have heard about Plato? I admit he shows a great deal of promise, but—”
I skirted half of the question in an attempt to cover our tracks.
“Sparta!” I blurted out without much consideration, “We’re from Sparta.”
“Sparta?” Socrates eyed Rodolfo skeptically. “You don’t look very Spartan to me… Have they changed the infamous Spartan diet recently?”
“Oh, well, that’s because… We haven’t been in Sparta for quite some time. Rodolfo here,” I gestured without looking at his scowl, “found an unfettered diet to be… more to his liking.” I could hear him mutter some obscenity under his breath as he shook his head and looked to the sky.
~~
Although he was certainly not Spartan in appearance, I should like to take this moment to say that Rodolfo was not terribly overweight either. He was beginning to round, as so many men and women do as they reach that semicentennial age. Perhaps it was due to the sedentary nature of his work. Perhaps so much sitting and riding and peddling should necessarily round you out as you age. Or perhaps it was his fondness for wine that aided the gentle curvature of his gut. Whatever the cause, he was certainly no less fit than the vast majority of men and women you see today. (And even if he wasn’t, what would it matter?)
Of course, it was no wonder that a spindly, old ascetic would view Rodolfo as a hulking sort of man. Let it be known that I defended you, Rodolfo, if only theoretically and several thousand years too late!
~~
“But he just said that I’m renowned in Sparta. How could he know if you haven’t been there recently?” Socrates’ face grew more critical as he exchanged glances with both of us.
“Oh, I meant lived! We haven’t lived there for quite some time but we visit… every so often, of course. You know how it is, being away from home.”
“Actually, I don’t. I’ve never spent much time outside of Athens. I find that I can do the most good here, where I was born. But you’ve brought me interesting news! I should like to tell Plato of his growing fame outside the city, but I still can’t imagine why—"
“That’s probably not a good idea,” Rodolfo chimed in. “It’s never a good to inflate a young man’s ego, right?”
“True, true… Still, I must say it is rather unbelievable.”
“I could see how you might be skeptical,” I said as I adjusted the back strap of my eyepatch.
“I hope this isn’t insensitive of me, and I know it has little to do with your line of inquiry, but how did you lose your eye?” Socrates asked.
“In combat,” I lied.
~~
Dear reader,
I hope you do not look down on me for telling such trivial lies about my eyepatch. The truth is, that strange strip of cloth is more important than I have previously indicated. It’s not merely an accessory to my absurd self-image.
It is a plot device.
There will be more discussions and elucidations about the patch later, I am sure, so I will avoid going into the details here. I just wanted to make sure that you were aware of its profound importance within the story, dear reader. That is all.
(P.S. I cannot stand the term “dear reader”. How worn out and patronizing two words can be! But what can I replace them with? A simple “you” is often too brusque and anything more specific like “idiot who keeps reading this garbage” tends to be insulting. I need a word or two that can accurately describe my attempted empathy—but ultimate disassociation—with you, the reader. Therefore, all future instances of “dear reader” shall be substituted with the infinitely more accurate and uncanny phrase “fellow human.”)
~~
(P.P.S. What is the purpose of a postscript? Why not include such information in the bulk of your letter? Why do movies and books constantly use the postscript as some sort of “important information” device, as though its original purpose was not the direct opposite of this? Is this really what passes for irony? Might as well just raze the firehouse and be done with it, I say.)
~~
“Combat? Ah, yes… I once went to battle when I was a youth. I was actually quite a dependable soldier if you may believe it,” Socrates mused while pulling a tuft of his beard. I was already getting bored. It was a testament to Socrates’ profound tediousness that even Rodolfo, thoroughly displaced as he was, managed a yawn. Or perhaps it was the walking.
It was probably both.
“I see no reason not to believe it, but I haven’t come to talk about war. I’m unfortunately more interested in personal matters, if you would be willing to entertain me.”
“Personal matters? Go right ahead! What sort of problem have you stumbled upon?”
“I’m not sure how to put it, precisely…” I said, pausing for a few moments. “I’m trying to learn life’s secrets so that I can do something great with my life… but I’m not sure where to look and what to ask. I’ve already visited one wise man, but I don’t know if he really told me anything I hadn’t already known.”
“Well then, you wish me to tell you the secret of life itself? That’s not a personal matter at all, my friend. A personal matter would be something specific to you, but as far as I know everyone would like to know the secret of life. Alright, alright, I’ll try to indulge you… but where to begin? What did your wise man tell you?”
“He told me to pay more attention to things as they are, rather than things as I think of them… that I should try to understand the world before I could change it. He also told me to appear as a good man even if I was naturally wicked… and that’s about it, really.” I finished, lamely.
“That’s not bad advice,” Socrates remarked. (Indeed, he was bound to find it agreeable considering Da Vinci was a Platonist.) “But it leaves me with a few questions. Firstly, what is good?”
I was familiar enough with this particular line of questioning to oblige the man. In fact, I may have been too familiar with it, as my answer was disgustingly rehearsed, “Good is the exercise of justice, temperance, and virtue in all things, I suppose.”
“Do you suppose? I am unsure of this answer. Can you clarify further? I’m afraid that while temperance is easily enough defined and agreed upon, justice and virtue are not. What is justice, then? Is it the right of the powerful, or some general law of reciprocity? Or is it something else altogether?”
“Consistency,” was my answer.
“Consistency?” Socrates echoed. “Well, I’d love to unravel that riddle but we’re not far from Agathon’s house and I’m afraid that the last time I had a discussion about justice it turned into an all-day event. You could have filled a book with the amount of dialogue we exchanged.” (This is not a funny joke.)
~~
It may surprise you to know that Socrates did not look kindly on the written word. Books were, to him, a mere image of knowledge, like a statue is a mere image of its subject. Just as a statue could not answer questions, neither could text approach actual understanding.
This is absurd, of course. But no one can be right 100% of the time; Newton was an alchemist, after all.
~~
“I must ask you one thing before we arrive...” Socrates continued. “Why do you desire to change the world?”
“What do you mean ‘Why do I desire to change the world?' There are so many problems that need solving and people that need helping. Why shouldn’t I want to change the world?”
“Well, if that’s the case… why don’t you try to address the problems that present themselves to you? Certainly you can find some men in need of something that you can provide?”
“Sure, there are any number of things that I could do. But I want to make the largest impact that I can. I want to live the best life possible.”
“And you want me to tell you how to do that?”
“If it’s possible,” I replied. Socrates gave an inaudible chuckle and shook his head.
“I’m sorry to let you down this way, but I’m afraid it isn’t possible. No one knows how to do anything perfectly, despite his best efforts. The best you can do is attempt to do good as often as possible and actively try to learn from any mistakes you make along the way. Find something you’re gifted at and cultivate that talent. In other words—"
“Stick to what you do best,” Rodolfo finished, slightly proud of himself for being as wise as Socrates and slightly annoyed for this same reason.
“Exactly!” rejoined Socrates. “You would do well to listen to your portly friend.”
Rodolfo’s face lit up in indignation, but I elbowed him in the ribs before he could verbalize whatever insult was crystallizing in his mouth. Had I known how the rest of the evening would go, I would have been happy to watch Rodolfo tear Socrates a new one.
