The Last Days of Socrates

by Plato

  Socrates sat up on the bed and drew up his leg and massaged it, saying as he did so, ‘What a queer thing it is, my friends, this sensation which is popularly called pleasure! It is remarkable how closely it is connected with its apparent opposite, pain.11 They will never come to a man both at once, but if you pursue one of them and catch it, you are virtually compelled always to have the other as well; they are like two bodies attached to the same head. I am sure that if Aesop had thought of it (c) he would have made up a fable about them, something like this: God wanted to stop their continual quarrelling,12 and when he found that it was impossible, he fastened their heads together; so wherever one of them appears, the other is sure to follow after. That’s exactly what seems to be happening to me. Because I had a pain in my leg from the fetter, the pleasure seems to have come as a consequence of it.’

  Here Cebes broke in and said, ‘Oh yes, Socrates, I am glad you reminded me. Evenus13 asked me a day or two ago, as others have done before, about the lyrics which you have (d) been composing lately by adapting Aesop’s fables and the prelude to Apollo; he wanted to know what induced you to write them now after you had gone to prison, when you had never done anything of the kind before. If you would like me to be able to answer Evenus when he asks me again – as I am sure he will – tell me what I am to say.’

  (e) ‘Tell him the truth,’ said Socrates, ‘I did not compose them to rival either him or his poetry – which I knew would not be easy; I did it in the attempt to discover the meaning of certain dreams, and to clear my conscience, in case this was the art which I had been told to practise. It’s like this, you see. In the course of my life I have often had the same dream, appearing in different forms at different times, but always saying the same thing: ‘Socrates, practise and cultivate the arts.’14 In the past I used to think that it was impelling and exhorting me to 61(a) do what I was actually doing; I mean that the dream, like a spectator encouraging a runner in a race, was urging me on to do what I was doing already, that is, practising the arts; because philosophy is the greatest of the arts, and I was practising it. But when my trial had taken place, and this god’s festival15 was delaying my execution, I decided that, in case it should be this popular form of art that the dream intended me to practise, I ought to compose and not disobey; I reasoned that it would be safer not to take my departure (b) before I had cleared my conscience by writing poetry in obedience to the dream. I began with some verses in honour of the god whose festival it was. When I had finished my hymn, I reflected that a poet, if he is to be worthy of the name, ought to work on stories, not discourses; and I was no story-writer. So it was the stories that I knew and had handy which I versified – Aesop’s, the first ones that occurred to me. You can tell Evenus this, Cebes, and bid him farewell from me, (c) and tell him, if he’s wise, to follow me as quickly as he can. I shall be going today, it seems; those are my country’s orders.’

  The philosopher avoids suicide but welcomes death.16

  ‘What a piece of advice for Evenus, Socrates!’ said Simmias. ‘I have had a good deal to do with him before now, and from what I know of him he will not be at all ready to obey you.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t Evenus a philosopher?’

  ‘So I believe,’ said Simmias.

  ‘Well then, he will be quite willing, just like anyone else worthy of his role in philosophy. However, he will hardly do himself violence, because they say that it is not legitimate.’ As (d) he spoke he lowered his feet to the ground, and sat like this for the rest of the discussion.

  Cebes now asked him, ‘Socrates, what do you mean by saying that it is not legitimate to do one’s self violence, although a philosopher will be willing to follow a friend who dies?’

  ‘Why, Cebes, have you and Simmias never heard about these things while you have been with Philolaus?’17

  ‘Nothing definite, Socrates.’

  ‘Well, even my information is only based on hearsay; but I don’t mind at all telling you what I have heard. (e) I suppose that for one who is soon to leave this world there is no more suitable occupation than inquiring into our views about the future life, and trying to imagine what it is like. What else can one do in the time before sunset?’

  ‘Tell me then, Socrates, what are the grounds for saying that suicide is not legitimate? I have heard it described as wrong before now (as you suggested) both by Philolaus, when he was staying with us, and by others as well; but I have never yet heard any definite explanation for it.’

  ‘Well, you must not lose heart,’ he said; ‘perhaps you are 62(a) about to hear one. However, no doubt you will think it amazing that this18 should be the one straightforward moral question, and that it should never happen in the case of life and death (as it does in all other cases) that sometimes and for some people death is better than life;19 and it probably seems amazing to you that it should be unholy for any to whom death would be an advantage20 to benefit themselves, but that they should have to await the services of someone else.’

  Cebes laughed gently and said, ‘Aye, that it does,’ slipping into his own dialect.

  ‘Yes,’ went on Socrates, ‘put in that way it would seem (b) unreasonable – but no, perhaps it has good reason. The hidden message21 about it from mystics who say that we men are put in a sort of lock-up,22 from which one must not release oneself or run away, seems to me to be a lofty belief and difficult to understand. All the same, Cebes, I believe that this much is true: that we men are in the care of the gods, one of their possessions. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Cebes.

  ‘Then take your own case; if one of your possessions were (c) to destroy itself without intimation from you that you wanted it to die, wouldn’t you be angry with it and punish it, if you had any means of doing so?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘So if you look at it in this way I suppose it is not unreasonable to say that we must not put an end to ourselves until God sends some necessary circumstance like the one which we are facing now.’

  ‘That seems likely, I admit,’ said Cebes. ‘But what you were saying just now, that philosophers would be willing to die (d) without qualms – that seems illogical, Socrates, assuming that we were right in saying a moment ago that God is our keeper and we are his possessions. If our service here is directed by the gods, who are the very best of directors, it is inexplicable that the very wisest of men should not be grieved at quitting it; because he surely cannot expect to provide for himself any better when he is free. (e) On the other hand a stupid person might get the idea that it would be to his advantage to escape from his master; he might not reason it out that one should not escape from a good master, but remain with him as long as possible; and so he might run away unreflectingly. A sensible man would surely wish to remain always with his superior. If you look at it this way, Socrates, the reasonable thing is just the opposite of what we said just now – it’s natural for the wise to be grieved when they die, and for fools to be happy.’

  When Socrates had listened to this he seemed to me to be 63(a) delighted with Cebes’ persistence, and looking round at us he said, ‘You know, Cebes is always tracking down arguments, and he is not at all willing to accept every statement at first hearing.’

  Simmias said, ‘Well, but, Socrates, I actually think that this time there is something in what he says. Why should a really wise man want to desert masters who are better than himself, and to get rid of them so lightly? I think Cebes is aiming his criticism at you, because of the extent to which you make light of leaving not just us, but the gods too, who as you admit are good masters.’

  ‘What you and Cebes say is perfectly fair,’ said Socrates. (b) ‘You mean, I suppose, that I must make a court-style defence against this charge.’

  The new defence speech. Socrates replies to the charge that he is leaving this world far too readily, deserting a world in which he has kindly gods for his masters. He explains why the philosopher should be happy at the prospect of death. The philosopher desir
es to understand the Ideas of things, and is hindered by the distractions of the body. Death will be the culmination of a life’s work in search of wisdom – on which alone morality can be founded.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Simmias.

  ‘Very well then; let me try to make a more convincing defence to you than I made at my trial. If I did not expect to enter the company, first, of other wise and good gods,23 and secondly of men now dead who are better than those who are in this world now, it is true that it would be unjust for me not to grieve at death. As it is, you can be assured that I expect to find myself among good men; while I would not particularly (c) insist on this, I assure you that I could commit myself upon the next point if I could upon anything:24 that I shall find there divine masters who are supremely good. That is why I am not so much distressed as I might be, and why I have a firm hope that there is something in store for those who have died, and (as we have been told since antiquity) something much better for the good than for the wicked.’

  ‘Why is this, Socrates?’ asked Simmias. ‘Do you mean to leave us with your ideas locked in your own mind, or will you communicate them to us too? I think that we also have a (d) claim on this benefit; besides, it will serve as your defence, if we are satisfied with what you say.’

  ‘Very well, I will try,’ he replied. ‘But before I begin, Crito here seems to have been wanting to say something for some time; let us find out what it is.’

  (e) ‘Only this, Socrates,’ said Crito, ‘that the man who is to give you the poison has been asking me for an equally long time to tell you to talk as little as possible; he says that as you talk more it increases your heat, and that you ought not to do anything to affect the action of the poison.25 Otherwise it is sometimes necessary to take a second dose, or even a third.’

  ‘Leave him to his own devices,’ said Socrates. ‘Let him for his part make ready to administer it twice or three times if necessary.’

  ‘I virtually knew your answer,’ said Crito, ‘but he’s been bothering me for ages.’

  ‘Never mind him,’ said Socrates. ‘Now for you, my jury, I want to explain to you how natural it seems to me that a man who has really devoted his life to philosophy should be 64(a) confident in the face of death, and hopeful of winning the greatest of prizes in the next world after death. I will try to make clear to you, Simmias and Cebes, how this can be so.

  ‘Ordinary people seem not to realize that those who really apply themselves in the right way to philosophy are directly and of their own accord preparing themselves for dying and death. If this is true, and they have actually been looking forward to death all their lives, it would of course be absurd to be troubled when the thing comes for which they have so long been preparing and looking forward.’

  Simmias laughed and said, ‘Upon my word, Socrates, you (b) have made me laugh, though I was not at all in the mood for it. I am sure that if they heard what you said, most people would think – and our fellow-countrymen would heartily agree – that it was a very good hit at the philosophers to say that they are half dead already, and that normal people like themselves are quite aware that death would serve the philosophers right.’

  ‘And they would be quite correct, Simmias; except in thinking that they are “quite aware”. They are not at all aware in what sense true philosophers are half dead, or in what sense (c) they deserve death, or what sort of death they deserve. But let us dismiss them and talk among ourselves. Do we believe that there is such a thing as death?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ said Simmias in reply.

  ‘Is it simply the release of the soul from the body? Is death nothing more or less than this, the separate condition of the body by itself when it is released from the soul, and the separate condition by itself of the soul when released from the body? Is death anything else than this?’

  ‘No, just that.’26

  ‘Well then, Simmias, see whether you agree with me; I fancy that this will help us to find out the answer to our problem. (d) Do you think that it’s a philosopher’s business to concern himself with what people call pleasures27 – food and drink, for instance?’

  ‘Certainly not, Socrates,’ said Simmias.

  ‘What about those of sex?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  (e) ‘And what about the other ways in which we devote attention to our bodies? Do you think that a philosopher attaches any importance to them? I mean things like providing himself with smart clothes and shoes and other bodily ornaments; do you think that he values them or despises them – in so far as there is no real necessity for him to go in for that sort of thing?’

  ‘I think the true philosopher despises them,’ he said.

  ‘Then it is your opinion in general that a man of this kind is not preoccupied with the body, but keeps his attention directed as much as he can away from it and towards the soul?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘So it is clear first of all in the case of physical pleasures that the philosopher frees his soul from association with the 65(a) body (so far as is possible) in a way that other men don’t?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘And most people think, do they not, Simmias, that a man who takes neither pleasure nor part in these things does not deserve to live, and that anyone who thinks nothing of pleasures connected with the body has one foot in the grave?’

  ‘That is perfectly true.’

  ‘Now take the acquisition of wisdom; is the body a hindrance or not, if one takes it into partnership to share an investigation? What I mean is this: is there any certainty in (b) human sight and hearing, or is it true, as the poets28 are always dinning into our ears, that we neither hear nor see anything accurately? Yet if these senses are not clear and accurate, the rest29 can hardly be so, because they are all inferior to the first two. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Then when is it that the soul attains to truth? When it tries to investigate anything with the help of the body, it is obviously liable to be led astray.’

  (c) ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Is it not in the course of reasoning, if at all, that the soul gets a clear view of reality?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Surely the soul can reason best when it is free of all distractions such as hearing or sight or pain or pleasure of any kind – that is, when it leaves the body to its own devices,30 becomes as isolated as possible, and strives for reality while avoiding as much physical contact and association as it can.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Then here again the philosopher’s soul is most disdainful (d) of the body, shunning it and seeking to isolate itself.’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘Here are some more questions, Simmias. Do we recognize such a thing as justice itself?’31

  ‘Indeed we do.’

  ‘And beauty itself and goodness too?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you ever seen any of these things with your eyes?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said he.

  (e) ‘Well, have you ever apprehended them with any other bodily sense? By “them” I mean them all, including tallness or health or strength in themselves, the real nature of any given thing – what it actually is. Is it through the body that we get our truest view of them? Isn’t it true that in any inquiry you are likely to attain more nearly to knowledge of your object in proportion to the care and accuracy with which you have prepared yourself to understand that object in itself?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Don’t you think that the person who is most likely to achieve this flawlessly is the one who approaches each object, as far as possible, with the unaided intellect, without taking account of the sense of sight32 in his thinking, or dragging any 66(a) other sense into his reckoning – the man who pursues the truth by applying his pure and unadulterated thought to the pure and unadulterated object, cutting himself off as much as possible from his eyes and ears and virtually all the rest of his body, as an impediment which, if present, pr
events the soul from attaining to the truth and clear thinking? Is not this the person, Simmias, who will reach the goal of reality, if anybody can?’

  ‘What you say is absolutely true, Socrates,’ said Simmias.

  ‘All these considerations,’ said Socrates, ‘must surely (b) prompt serious philosophers to review the position in some such way as this. “It looks as if it’s a side-track, to divert us – and reason along with us – in our investigation.33 So long as we keep to the body and our soul is contaminated with this imperfection, there is no chance of our ever attaining satisfactorily to our object, which we assert to be Truth. In the first place, the body provides us with innumerable distractions in the pursuit of its necessary sustenance, and any (c) diseases which attack us hinder our quest for reality. Besides, the body fills us with loves and desires and fears and all sorts of fancies and a great deal of nonsense, with the result that we literally never get an opportunity to think at all about anything. Wars and revolutions and battles, you see, are due simply and solely to the body and its desires. All wars are undertaken for the acquisition of wealth; and the reason why we have to acquire wealth is the body, because we are slaves (d) in its service. That is why, on all these accounts, we have so little time for philosophy. Worst of all, if we do obtain any leisure from the body’s claims and turn to some line of inquiry, the body intrudes once more into our investigations, interrupting, disturbing, distracting, and preventing us from getting a glimpse of the truth. (e) We are in fact convinced that if we are ever to have pure knowledge of anything, we must get rid of the body and contemplate things in isolation with the soul in isolation. It’s likely, to judge from our argument, that the wisdom which we desire and upon which we profess to have set our hearts will be attainable only when we are dead, and not in our lifetime. If no pure knowledge is possible in the company of the body, then either it is totally impossible 67(a) to acquire knowledge, or it is only possible after death, because it is only then that the soul will be isolated and independent of the body. It seems that so long as we are alive, we shall keep as close as possible to knowledge if we avoid as much as we can all contact and association with the body, except when they are absolutely necessary; and instead of allowing ourselves to become infected with its nature, purify ourselves from it until God himself gives us deliverance. In this way, by keeping ourselves uncontaminated by the follies of the body, we shall probably reach the company of others (b) like ourselves34 and gain direct knowledge of all that is pure and uncontaminated – that is, presumably, of Truth. For one who is not pure himself to attain to the realm of purity would no doubt be a breach of the divine order.” Something to this effect, Simmias, is what I imagine all real lovers of learning must say to one another and believe themselves; don’t you agree with me?’