{"id":642,"date":"2008-07-31T21:48:10","date_gmt":"2008-08-01T05:48:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/artofmanliness.com\/?page_id=642"},"modified":"2021-04-06T14:55:30","modified_gmt":"2021-04-06T19:55:30","slug":"apology-by-socrates","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.artofmanliness.com\/apology-by-socrates\/","title":{"rendered":"“Apology” by Socrates"},"content":{"rendered":"

How you have felt, O men of Athens, at hearing the speeches of <\/a>my accusers, I cannot tell; but I know that their persuasive words almost <\/a>made me forget who I was – such was the effect of them; and yet they have <\/a>hardly spoken a word of truth. But many as their falsehoods were, there <\/a>was one of them which quite amazed me; – I mean when they told you to be <\/a>upon your guard, and not to let yourselves be deceived by the force of <\/a>my eloquence. They ought to have been ashamed of saying this, because they <\/a>were sure to be detected as soon as I opened my lips and displayed my deficiency; <\/a>they certainly did appear to be most shameless in saying this, unless by <\/a>the force of eloquence they mean the force of truth; for then I do indeed <\/a>admit that I am eloquent. But in how different a way from theirs! Well, <\/a>as I was saying, they have hardly uttered a word, or not more than a word, <\/a>of truth; but you shall hear from me the whole truth: not, however, delivered <\/a>after their manner, in a set oration duly ornamented with words and phrases. <\/a>No indeed! but I shall use the words and arguments which occur to me at <\/a>the moment; for I am certain that this is right, and that at my time of <\/a>life I ought not to be appearing before you, O men of Athens, in the character <\/a>of a juvenile orator – let no one expect this of me. And I must beg of <\/a>you to grant me one favor, which is this – If you hear me using the same <\/a>words in my defence which I have been in the habit of using, and which <\/a>most of you may have heard in the agora, and at the tables of the money-changers, <\/a>or anywhere else, I would ask you not to be surprised at this, and not <\/a>to interrupt me. For I am more than seventy years of age, and this is <\/a>the first time that I have ever appeared in a court of law, and I am quite <\/a>a stranger to the ways of the place; and therefore I would have you regard <\/a>me as if I were really a stranger, whom you would excuse if he spoke in <\/a>his native tongue, and after the fashion of his country; – that I think <\/a>is not an unfair request. Never mind the manner, which may or may not be <\/a>good; but think only of the justice of my cause, and give heed to that: <\/a>let the judge decide justly and the speaker speak truly. <\/a><\/p>\n

And first, I have to reply to the older charges and to my first <\/a>accusers, and then I will go to the later ones. For I have had many accusers, <\/a>who accused me of old, and their false charges have continued during many <\/a>years; and I am more afraid of them than of Anytus and his associates, <\/a>who are dangerous, too, in their own way. But far more dangerous are these, <\/a>who began when you were children, and took possession of your minds with <\/a>their falsehoods, telling of one Socrates, a wise man, who speculated about <\/a>the heaven above, and searched into the earth beneath, and made the worse <\/a>appear the better cause. These are the accusers whom I dread; for they <\/a>are the circulators of this rumor, and their hearers are too apt to fancy <\/a>that speculators of this sort do not believe in the gods. And they are <\/a>many, and their charges against me are of ancient date, and they made them <\/a>in days when you were impressible – in childhood, or perhaps in youth – <\/a>and the cause when heard went by default, for there was none to answer. <\/a>And, hardest of all, their names I do not know and cannot tell; unless <\/a>in the chance of a comic poet. But the main body of these slanderers who <\/a>from envy and malice have wrought upon you – and there are some of them <\/a>who are convinced themselves, and impart their convictions to others – <\/a>all these, I say, are most difficult to deal with; for I cannot have them <\/a>up here, and examine them, and therefore I must simply fight with shadows <\/a>in my own defence, and examine when there is no one who answers. I will <\/a>ask you then to assume with me, as I was saying, that my opponents are <\/a>of two kinds – one recent, the other ancient; and I hope that you will <\/a>see the propriety of my answering the latter first, for these accusations <\/a>you heard long before the others, and much oftener. <\/a><\/p>\n

Well, then, I will make my defence, and I will endeavor in the <\/a>short time which is allowed to do away with this evil opinion of me which <\/a>you have held for such a long time; and I hope I may succeed, if this be <\/a>well for you and me, and that my words may find favor with you. But I know <\/a>that to accomplish this is not easy – I quite see the nature of the task. <\/a>Let the event be as God wills: in obedience to the law I make my <\/a>defence. <\/a><\/p>\n

I will begin at the beginning, and ask what the accusation is which <\/a>has given rise to this slander of me, and which has encouraged Meletus <\/a>to proceed against me. What do the slanderers say? They shall be my prosecutors, <\/a>and I will sum up their words in an affidavit. “Socrates is an evil-doer, <\/a>and a curious person, who searches into things under the earth and in heaven, <\/a>and he makes the worse appear the better cause; and he teaches the aforesaid <\/a>doctrines to others.” That is the nature of the accusation, and that is <\/a>what you have seen yourselves in the comedy of Aristophanes; who has introduced <\/a>a man whom he calls Socrates, going about and saying that he can walk in <\/a>the air, and talking a deal of nonsense concerning matters of which I do <\/a>not pretend to know either much or little – not that I mean to say anything <\/a>disparaging of anyone who is a student of natural philosophy. I should <\/a>be very sorry if Meletus could lay that to my charge. But the simple truth <\/a>is, O Athenians, that I have nothing to do with these studies. Very many <\/a>of those here present are witnesses to the truth of this, and to them I <\/a>appeal. Speak then, you who have heard me, and tell your neighbors whether <\/a>any of you have ever known me hold forth in few words or in many upon matters <\/a>of this sort. … You hear their answer. And from what they say of this <\/a>you will be able to judge of the truth of the rest. <\/a><\/p>\n

As little foundation is there for the report that I am a teacher, <\/a>and take money; that is no more true than the other. Although, if a man <\/a>is able to teach, I honor him for being paid. There is Gorgias of Leontium, <\/a>and Prodicus of Ceos, and Hippias of Elis, who go the round of the cities, <\/a>and are able to persuade the young men to leave their own citizens, by <\/a>whom they might be taught for nothing, and come to them, whom they not <\/a>only pay, but are thankful if they may be allowed to pay them. There is <\/a>actually a Parian philosopher residing in Athens, of whom I have heard; <\/a>and I came to hear of him in this way: – I met a man who has spent a world <\/a>of money on the Sophists, Callias the son of Hipponicus, and knowing that <\/a>he had sons, I asked him: “Callias,” I said, “if your two sons were foals <\/a>or calves, there would be no difficulty in finding someone to put over <\/a>them; we should hire a trainer of horses or a farmer probably who would <\/a>improve and perfect them in their own proper virtue and excellence; but <\/a>as they are human beings, whom are you thinking of placing over them? Is <\/a>there anyone who understands human and political virtue? You must have <\/a>thought about this as you have sons; is there anyone?” “There is,” he said. <\/a>“Who is he?” said I, “and of what country? and what does he charge?” “Evenus <\/a>the Parian,” he replied; “he is the man, and his charge is five minae.” <\/a>Happy is Evenus, I said to myself, if he really has this wisdom, and teaches <\/a>at such a modest charge. Had I the same, I should have been very proud <\/a>and conceited; but the truth is that I have no knowledge of the <\/a>kind. <\/a><\/p>\n

I dare say, Athenians, that someone among you will reply, “Why <\/a>is this, Socrates, and what is the origin of these accusations of you: <\/a>for there must have been something strange which you have been doing? All <\/a>this great fame and talk about you would never have arisen if you had been <\/a>like other men: tell us, then, why this is, as we should be sorry to judge <\/a>hastily of you.” Now I regard this as a fair challenge, and I will endeavor <\/a>to explain to you the origin of this name of “wise,” and of this evil fame. <\/a>Please to attend then. And although some of you may think I am joking, <\/a>I declare that I will tell you the entire truth. Men of Athens, this reputation <\/a>of mine has come of a certain sort of wisdom which I possess. If you ask <\/a>me what kind of wisdom, I reply, such wisdom as is attainable by man, for <\/a>to that extent I am inclined to believe that I am wise; whereas the persons <\/a>of whom I was speaking have a superhuman wisdom, which I may fail to describe, <\/a>because I have it not myself; and he who says that I have, speaks falsely, <\/a>and is taking away my character. And here, O men of Athens, I must beg <\/a>you not to interrupt me, even if I seem to say something extravagant. For <\/a>the word which I will speak is not mine. I will refer you to a witness <\/a>who is worthy of credit, and will tell you about my wisdom – whether I <\/a>have any, and of what sort – and that witness shall be the god of Delphi. <\/a>You must have known Chaerephon; he was early a friend of mine, and also <\/a>a friend of yours, for he shared in the exile of the people, and returned <\/a>with you. Well, Chaerephon, as you know, was very impetuous in all his <\/a>doings, and he went to Delphi and boldly asked the oracle to tell him whether <\/a>– as I was saying, I must beg you not to interrupt – he asked the oracle <\/a>to tell him whether there was anyone wiser than I was, and the Pythian <\/a>prophetess answered that there was no man wiser. Chaerephon is dead himself, <\/a>but his brother, who is in court, will confirm the truth of this <\/a>story. <\/a><\/p>\n

Why do I mention this? Because I am going to explain to you why <\/a>I have such an evil name. When I heard the answer, I said to myself, What <\/a>can the god mean? and what is the interpretation of this riddle? for I <\/a>know that I have no wisdom, small or great. What can he mean when he says <\/a>that I am the wisest of men? And yet he is a god and cannot lie; that would <\/a>be against his nature. After a long consideration, I at last thought of <\/a>a method of trying the question. I reflected that if I could only find <\/a>a man wiser than myself, then I might go to the god with a refutation in <\/a>my hand. I should say to him, “Here is a man who is wiser than I am; but <\/a>you said that I was the wisest.” Accordingly I went to one who had the <\/a>reputation of wisdom, and observed to him – his name I need not mention; <\/a>he was a politician whom I selected for examination – and the result was <\/a>as follows: When I began to talk with him, I could not help thinking that <\/a>he was not really wise, although he was thought wise by many, and wiser <\/a>still by himself; and I went and tried to explain to him that he thought <\/a>himself wise, but was not really wise; and the consequence was that he <\/a>hated me, and his enmity was shared by several who were present and heard <\/a>me. So I left him, saying to myself, as I went away: Well, although I do <\/a>not suppose that either of us knows anything really beautiful and good, <\/a>I am better off than he is – for he knows nothing, and thinks that he knows. <\/a>I neither know nor think that I know. In this latter particular, then, <\/a>I seem to have slightly the advantage of him. Then I went to another, who <\/a>had still higher philosophical pretensions, and my conclusion was exactly <\/a>the same. I made another enemy of him, and of many others besides <\/a>him. <\/a><\/p>\n

After this I went to one man after another, being not unconscious <\/a>of the enmity which I provoked, and I lamented and feared this: but necessity <\/a>was laid upon me – the word of God, I thought, ought to be considered first. <\/a>And I said to myself, Go I must to all who appear to know, and find out <\/a>the meaning of the oracle. And I swear to you, Athenians, by the dog I <\/a>swear! – for I must tell you the truth – the result of my mission was just <\/a>this: I found that the men most in repute were all but the most foolish; <\/a>and that some inferior men were really wiser and better. I will tell you <\/a>the tale of my wanderings and of the “Herculean” labors, as I may call <\/a>them, which I endured only to find at last the oracle irrefutable. When <\/a>I left the politicians, I went to the poets; tragic, dithyrambic, and all <\/a>sorts. And there, I said to myself, you will be detected; now you will <\/a>find out that you are more ignorant than they are. Accordingly, I took <\/a>them some of the most elaborate passages in their own writings, and asked <\/a>what was the meaning of them – thinking that they would teach me something. <\/a>Will you believe me? I am almost ashamed to speak of this, but still I <\/a>must say that there is hardly a person present who would not have talked <\/a>better about their poetry than they did themselves. That showed me in an <\/a>instant that not by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius <\/a>and inspiration; they are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many <\/a>fine things, but do not understand the meaning of them. And the poets appeared <\/a>to me to be much in the same case; and I further observed that upon the <\/a>strength of their poetry they believed themselves to be the wisest of men <\/a>in other things in which they were not wise. So I departed, conceiving <\/a>myself to be superior to them for the same reason that I was superior to <\/a>the politicians. <\/a><\/p>\n

At last I went to the artisans, for I was conscious that I knew <\/a>nothing at all, as I may say, and I was sure that they knew many fine things; <\/a>and in this I was not mistaken, for they did know many things of which <\/a>I was ignorant, and in this they certainly were wiser than I was. But I <\/a>observed that even the good artisans fell into the same error as the poets; <\/a>because they were good workmen they thought that they also knew all sorts <\/a>of high matters, and this defect in them overshadowed their wisdom – therefore <\/a>I asked myself on behalf of the oracle, whether I would like to be as I <\/a>was, neither having their knowledge nor their ignorance, or like them in <\/a>both; and I made answer to myself and the oracle that I was better off <\/a>as I was. <\/a><\/p>\n

This investigation has led to my having many enemies of the worst <\/a>and most dangerous kind, and has given occasion also to many calumnies, <\/a>and I am called wise, for my hearers always imagine that I myself possess <\/a>the wisdom which I find wanting in others: but the truth is, O men of Athens, <\/a>that God only is wise; and in this oracle he means to say that the wisdom <\/a>of men is little or nothing; he is not speaking of Socrates, he is only <\/a>using my name as an illustration, as if he said, He, O men, is the wisest, <\/a>who, like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth worth nothing. And <\/a>so I go my way, obedient to the god, and make inquisition into the wisdom <\/a>of anyone, whether citizen or stranger, who appears to be wise; and if <\/a>he is not wise, then in vindication of the oracle I show him that he is <\/a>not wise; and this occupation quite absorbs me, and I have no time to give <\/a>either to any public matter of interest or to any concern of my own, but <\/a>I am in utter poverty by reason of my devotion to the <\/a>god. <\/a><\/p>\n

There is another thing: – young men of the richer classes, who <\/a>have not much to do, come about me of their own accord; they like to hear <\/a>the pretenders examined, and they often imitate me, and examine others <\/a>themselves; there are plenty of persons, as they soon enough discover, <\/a>who think that they know something, but really know little or nothing: <\/a>and then those who are examined by them instead of being angry with themselves <\/a>are angry with me: This confounded Socrates, they say; this villainous <\/a>misleader of youth! – and then if somebody asks them, Why, what evil does <\/a>he practise or teach? they do not know, and cannot tell; but in order that <\/a>they may not appear to be at a loss, they repeat the ready-made charges <\/a>which are used against all philosophers about teaching things up in the <\/a>clouds and under the earth, and having no gods, and making the worse appear <\/a>the better cause; for they do not like to confess that their pretence of <\/a>knowledge has been detected – which is the truth: and as they are numerous <\/a>and ambitious and energetic, and are all in battle array and have persuasive <\/a>tongues, they have filled your ears with their loud and inveterate calumnies. <\/a>And this is the reason why my three accusers, Meletus and Anytus and Lycon, <\/a>have set upon me; Meletus, who has a quarrel with me on behalf of the poets; <\/a>Anytus, on behalf of the craftsmen; Lycon, on behalf of the rhetoricians: <\/a>and as I said at the beginning, I cannot expect to get rid of this mass <\/a>of calumny all in a moment. And this, O men of Athens, is the truth and <\/a>the whole truth; I have concealed nothing, I have dissembled nothing. And <\/a>yet I know that this plainness of speech makes them hate me, and what is <\/a>their hatred but a proof that I am speaking the truth? – this is the occasion <\/a>and reason of their slander of me, as you will find out either in this <\/a>or in any future inquiry. <\/a><\/p>\n

I have said enough in my defence against the first class of my <\/a>accusers; I turn to the second class, who are headed by Meletus, that good <\/a>and patriotic man, as he calls himself. And now I will try to defend myself <\/a>against them: these new accusers must also have their affidavit read. What <\/a>do they say? Something of this sort: – That Socrates is a doer of evil, <\/a>and corrupter of the youth, and he does not believe in the gods of the <\/a>state, and has other new divinities of his own. That is the sort of charge; <\/a>and now let us examine the particular counts. He says that I am a doer <\/a>of evil, who corrupt the youth; but I say, O men of Athens, that Meletus <\/a>is a doer of evil, and the evil is that he makes a joke of a serious matter, <\/a>and is too ready at bringing other men to trial from a pretended zeal and <\/a>interest about matters in which he really never had the smallest interest. <\/a>And the truth of this I will endeavor to prove. <\/a><\/p>\n

Come hither, Meletus, and let me ask a question of you. You think <\/a>a great deal about the improvement of youth? <\/a><\/p>\n

Yes, I do. <\/a><\/p>\n

Tell the judges, then, who is their improver; for you must know, <\/a>as you have taken the pains to discover their corrupter, and are citing <\/a>and accusing me before them. Speak, then, and tell the judges who their <\/a>improver is. Observe, Meletus, that you are silent, and have nothing to <\/a>say. But is not this rather disgraceful, and a very considerable proof <\/a>of what I was saying, that you have no interest in the matter? Speak up, <\/a>friend, and tell us who their improver is. <\/a><\/p>\n

The laws. <\/a><\/p>\n

But that, my good sir, is not my meaning. I want to know who the <\/a>person is, who, in the first place, knows the laws. <\/a><\/p>\n

The judges, Socrates, who are present in court. <\/a><\/p>\n

What do you mean to say, Meletus, that they are able to instruct <\/a>and improve youth? <\/a><\/p>\n

Certainly they are. <\/a><\/p>\n

What, all of them, or some only and not others? <\/a><\/p>\n

All of them. <\/a><\/p>\n

By the goddess Here, that is good news! There are plenty of improvers, <\/a>then. And what do you say of the audience, – do they improve <\/a>them? <\/a><\/p>\n

Yes, they do. <\/a><\/p>\n

And the senators? <\/a><\/p>\n

Yes, the senators improve them. <\/a><\/p>\n

But perhaps the members of the citizen assembly corrupt them? – <\/a>or do they too improve them? <\/a><\/p>\n

They improve them. <\/a><\/p>\n

Then every Athenian improves and elevates them; all with the exception <\/a>of myself; and I alone am their corrupter? Is that what you <\/a>affirm? <\/a><\/p>\n

That is what I stoutly affirm. <\/a><\/p>\n

I am very unfortunate if that is true. But suppose I ask you a <\/a>question: Would you say that this also holds true in the case of horses? <\/a>Does one man do them harm and all the world good? Is not the exact opposite <\/a>of this true? One man is able to do them good, or at least not many; – <\/a>the trainer of horses, that is to say, does them good, and others who have <\/a>to do with them rather injure them? Is not that true, Meletus, of horses, <\/a>or any other animals? Yes, certainly. Whether you and Anytus say yes or <\/a>no, that is no matter. Happy indeed would be the condition of youth if <\/a>they had one corrupter only, and all the rest of the world were their improvers. <\/a>And you, Meletus, have sufficiently shown that you never had a thought <\/a>about the young: your carelessness is seen in your not caring about matters <\/a>spoken of in this very indictment. <\/a><\/p>\n

And now, Meletus, I must ask you another question: Which is better, <\/a>to live among bad citizens, or among good ones? Answer, friend, I say; <\/a>for that is a question which may be easily answered. Do not the good do <\/a>their neighbors good, and the bad do them evil? <\/a><\/p>\n

Certainly. <\/a><\/p>\n

And is there anyone who would rather be injured than benefited <\/a>by those who live with him? Answer, my good friend; the law requires you <\/a>to answer – does anyone like to be injured? <\/a><\/p>\n

Certainly not. <\/a><\/p>\n

And when you accuse me of corrupting and deteriorating the youth, <\/a>do you allege that I corrupt them intentionally or unintentionally? <\/a><\/p>\n

Intentionally, I say. <\/a><\/p>\n

But you have just admitted that the good do their neighbors good, <\/a>and the evil do them evil. Now is that a truth which your superior wisdom <\/a>has recognized thus early in life, and am I, at my age, in such darkness <\/a>and ignorance as not to know that if a man with whom I have to live is <\/a>corrupted by me, I am very likely to be harmed by him, and yet I corrupt <\/a>him, and intentionally, too; – that is what you are saying, and of that <\/a>you will never persuade me or any other human being. But either I do not <\/a>corrupt them, or I corrupt them unintentionally, so that on either view <\/a>of the case you lie. If my offence is unintentional, the law has no cognizance <\/a>of unintentional offences: you ought to have taken me privately, and warned <\/a>and admonished me; for if I had been better advised, I should have left <\/a>off doing what I only did unintentionally – no doubt I should; whereas <\/a>you hated to converse with me or teach me, but you indicted me in this <\/a>court, which is a place not of instruction, but of punishment. <\/a><\/p>\n

I have shown, Athenians, as I was saying, that Meletus has no care <\/a>at all, great or small, about the matter. But still I should like to know, <\/a>Meletus, in what I am affirmed to corrupt the young. I suppose you mean, <\/a>as I infer from your indictment, that I teach them not to acknowledge the <\/a>gods which the state acknowledges, but some other new divinities or spiritual <\/a>agencies in their stead. These are the lessons which corrupt the youth, <\/a>as you say. <\/a><\/p>\n

Yes, that I say emphatically. <\/a><\/p>\n

Then, by the gods, Meletus, of whom we are speaking, tell me and <\/a>the court, in somewhat plainer terms, what you mean! for I do not as yet <\/a>understand whether you affirm that I teach others to acknowledge some gods, <\/a>and therefore do believe in gods and am not an entire atheist – this you <\/a>do not lay to my charge; but only that they are not the same gods which <\/a>the city recognizes – the charge is that they are different gods. Or, do <\/a>you mean to say that I am an atheist simply, and a teacher of <\/a>atheism? <\/a><\/p>\n

I mean the latter – that you are a complete <\/a>atheist. <\/a><\/p>\n

That is an extraordinary statement, Meletus. Why do you say that? <\/a>Do you mean that I do not believe in the godhead of the sun or moon, which <\/a>is the common creed of all men? <\/a><\/p>\n

I assure you, judges, that he does not believe in them; for he <\/a>says that the sun is stone, and the moon earth. <\/a><\/p>\n

Friend Meletus, you think that you are accusing Anaxagoras; and <\/a>you have but a bad opinion of the judges, if you fancy them ignorant to <\/a>such a degree as not to know that those doctrines are found in the books <\/a>of Anaxagoras the Clazomenian, who is full of them. And these are the doctrines <\/a>which the youth are said to learn of Socrates, when there are not unfrequently <\/a>exhibitions of them at the theatre (price of admission one drachma at the <\/a>most); and they might cheaply purchase them, and laugh at Socrates if he <\/a>pretends to father such eccentricities. And so, Meletus, you really think <\/a>that I do not believe in any god? <\/a><\/p>\n

I swear by Zeus that you believe absolutely in none at <\/a>all. <\/a><\/p>\n

You are a liar, Meletus, not believed even by yourself. For I cannot <\/a>help thinking, O men of Athens, that Meletus is reckless and impudent, <\/a>and that he has written this indictment in a spirit of mere wantonness <\/a>and youthful bravado. Has he not compounded a riddle, thinking to try me? <\/a>He said to himself: – I shall see whether this wise Socrates will discover <\/a>my ingenious contradiction, or whether I shall be able to deceive him and <\/a>the rest of them. For he certainly does appear to me to contradict himself <\/a>in the indictment as much as if he said that Socrates is guilty of not <\/a>believing in the gods, and yet of believing in them – but this surely is <\/a>a piece of fun. <\/a><\/p>\n

I should like you, O men of Athens, to join me in examining what <\/a>I conceive to be his inconsistency; and do you, Meletus, answer. And I <\/a>must remind you that you are not to interrupt me if I speak in my accustomed <\/a>manner. <\/a><\/p>\n

Did ever man, Meletus, believe in the existence of human things, <\/a>and not of human beings? … I wish, men of Athens, that he would answer, <\/a>and not be always trying to get up an interruption. Did ever any man believe <\/a>in horsemanship, and not in horses? or in flute-playing, and not in flute-players? <\/a>No, my friend; I will answer to you and to the court, as you refuse to <\/a>answer for yourself. There is no man who ever did. But now please to answer <\/a>the next question: Can a man believe in spiritual and divine agencies, <\/a>and not in spirits or demigods? <\/a><\/p>\n

He cannot. <\/a><\/p>\n

I am glad that I have extracted that answer, by the assistance <\/a>of the court; nevertheless you swear in the indictment that I teach and <\/a>believe in divine or spiritual agencies (new or old, no matter for that); <\/a>at any rate, I believe in spiritual agencies, as you say and swear in the <\/a>affidavit; but if I believe in divine beings, I must believe in spirits <\/a>or demigods; – is not that true? Yes, that is true, for I may assume that <\/a>your silence gives assent to that. Now what are spirits or demigods? are <\/a>they not either gods or the sons of gods? Is that true? <\/a><\/p>\n

Yes, that is true. <\/a><\/p>\n

But this is just the ingenious riddle of which I was speaking: <\/a>the demigods or spirits are gods, and you say first that I don’t believe <\/a>in gods, and then again that I do believe in gods; that is, if I believe <\/a>in demigods. For if the demigods are the illegitimate sons of gods, whether <\/a>by the Nymphs or by any other mothers, as is thought, that, as all men <\/a>will allow, necessarily implies the existence of their parents. You might <\/a>as well affirm the existence of mules, and deny that of horses and asses. <\/a>Such nonsense, Meletus, could only have been intended by you as a trial <\/a>of me. You have put this into the indictment because you had nothing real <\/a>of which to accuse me. But no one who has a particle of understanding will <\/a>ever be convinced by you that the same man can believe in divine and superhuman <\/a>things, and yet not believe that there are gods and demigods and <\/a>heroes. <\/a><\/p>\n

I have said enough in answer to the charge of Meletus: any elaborate <\/a>defence is unnecessary; but as I was saying before, I certainly have many <\/a>enemies, and this is what will be my destruction if I am destroyed; of <\/a>that I am certain; – not Meletus, nor yet Anytus, but the envy and detraction <\/a>of the world, which has been the death of many good men, and will probably <\/a>be the death of many more; there is no danger of my being the last of <\/a>them. <\/a><\/p>\n

Someone will say: And are you not ashamed, Socrates, of a course <\/a>of life which is likely to bring you to an untimely end? To him I may fairly <\/a>answer: There you are mistaken: a man who is good for anything ought not <\/a>to calculate the chance of living or dying; he ought only to consider whether <\/a>in doing anything he is doing right or wrong – acting the part of a good <\/a>man or of a bad. Whereas, according to your view, the heroes who fell at <\/a>Troy were not good for much, and the son of Thetis above all, who altogether <\/a>despised danger in comparison with disgrace; and when his goddess mother <\/a>said to him, in his eagerness to slay Hector, that if he avenged his companion <\/a>Patroclus, and slew Hector, he would die himself – “Fate,” as she said, <\/a>“waits upon you next after Hector”; he, hearing this, utterly despised <\/a>danger and death, and instead of fearing them, feared rather to live in <\/a>dishonor, and not to avenge his friend. “Let me die next,” he replies, <\/a>“and be avenged of my enemy, rather than abide here by the beaked ships, <\/a>a scorn and a burden of the earth.” Had Achilles any thought of death and <\/a>danger? For wherever a man’s place is, whether the place which he has chosen <\/a>or that in which he has been placed by a commander, there he ought to remain <\/a>in the hour of danger; he should not think of death or of anything, but <\/a>of disgrace. And this, O men of Athens, is a true saying. <\/a><\/p>\n

Strange, indeed, would be my conduct, O men of Athens, if I who, <\/a>when I was ordered by the generals whom you chose to command me at Potidaea <\/a>and Amphipolis and Delium, remained where they placed me, like any other <\/a>man, facing death; if, I say, now, when, as I conceive and imagine, God <\/a>orders me to fulfil the philosopher’s mission of searching into myself <\/a>and other men, I were to desert my post through fear of death, or any other <\/a>fear; that would indeed be strange, and I might justly be arraigned in <\/a>court for denying the existence of the gods, if I disobeyed the oracle <\/a>because I was afraid of death: then I should be fancying that I was wise <\/a>when I was not wise. For this fear of death is indeed the pretence of wisdom, <\/a>and not real wisdom, being the appearance of knowing the unknown; since <\/a>no one knows whether death, which they in their fear apprehend to be the <\/a>greatest evil, may not be the greatest good. Is there not here conceit <\/a>of knowledge, which is a disgraceful sort of ignorance? And this is the <\/a>point in which, as I think, I am superior to men in general, and in which <\/a>I might perhaps fancy myself wiser than other men, – that whereas I know <\/a>but little of the world below, I do not suppose that I know: but I do know <\/a>that injustice and disobedience to a better, whether God or man, is evil <\/a>and dishonorable, and I will never fear or avoid a possible good rather <\/a>than a certain evil. And therefore if you let me go now, and reject the <\/a>counsels of Anytus, who said that if I were not put to death I ought not <\/a>to have been prosecuted, and that if I escape now, your sons will all be <\/a>utterly ruined by listening to my words – if you say to me, Socrates, this <\/a>time we will not mind Anytus, and will let you off, but upon one condition, <\/a>that are to inquire and speculate in this way any more, and that if you <\/a>are caught doing this again you shall die; – if this was the condition <\/a>on which you let me go, I should reply: Men of Athens, I honor and love <\/a>you; but I shall obey God rather than you, and while I have life and strength <\/a>I shall never cease from the practice and teaching of philosophy, exhorting <\/a>anyone whom I meet after my manner, and convincing him, saying: O my friend, <\/a>why do you who are a citizen of the great and mighty and wise city of Athens, <\/a>care so much about laying up the greatest amount of money and honor and <\/a>reputation, and so little about wisdom and truth and the greatest improvement <\/a>of the soul, which you never regard or heed at all? Are you not ashamed <\/a>of this? And if the person with whom I am arguing says: Yes, but I do care; <\/a>I do not depart or let him go at once; I interrogate and examine and cross-examine <\/a>him, and if I think that he has no virtue, but only says that he has, I <\/a>reproach him with undervaluing the greater, and overvaluing the less. And <\/a>this I should say to everyone whom I meet, young and old, citizen and alien, <\/a>but especially to the citizens, inasmuch as they are my brethren. For this <\/a>is the command of God, as I would have you know; and I believe that to <\/a>this day no greater good has ever happened in the state than my service <\/a>to the God. For I do nothing but go about persuading you all, old and young <\/a>alike, not to take thought for your persons and your properties, but first <\/a>and chiefly to care about the greatest improvement of the soul. I tell <\/a>you that virtue is not given by money, but that from virtue come money <\/a>and every other good of man, public as well as private. This is my teaching, <\/a>and if this is the doctrine which corrupts the youth, my influence is ruinous <\/a>indeed. But if anyone says that this is not my teaching, he is speaking <\/a>an untruth. Wherefore, O men of Athens, I say to you, do as Anytus bids <\/a>or not as Anytus bids, and either acquit me or not; but whatever you do, <\/a>know that I shall never alter my ways, not even if I have to die many <\/a>times. <\/a><\/p>\n

Men of Athens, do not interrupt, but hear me; there was an agreement <\/a>between us that you should hear me out. And I think that what I am going <\/a>to say will do you good: for I have something more to say, at which you <\/a>may be inclined to cry out; but I beg that you will not do this. I would <\/a>have you know that, if you kill such a one as I am, you will injure yourselves <\/a>more than you will injure me. Meletus and Anytus will not injure me: they <\/a>cannot; for it is not in the nature of things that a bad man should injure <\/a>a better than himself. I do not deny that he may, perhaps, kill him, or <\/a>drive him into exile, or deprive him of civil rights; and he may imagine, <\/a>and others may imagine, that he is doing him a great injury: but in that <\/a>I do not agree with him; for the evil of doing as Anytus is doing – of <\/a>unjustly taking away another man’s life – is greater far. And now, Athenians, <\/a>I am not going to argue for my own sake, as you may think, but for yours, <\/a>that you may not sin against the God, or lightly reject his boon by condemning <\/a>me. For if you kill me you will not easily find another like me, who, if <\/a>I may use such a ludicrous figure of speech, am a sort of gadfly, given <\/a>to the state by the God; and the state is like a great and noble steed <\/a>who is tardy in his motions owing to his very size, and requires to be <\/a>stirred into life. I am that gadfly which God has given the state and all <\/a>day long and in all places am always fastening upon you, arousing and persuading <\/a>and reproaching you. And as you will not easily find another like me, I <\/a>would advise you to spare me. I dare say that you may feel irritated at <\/a>being suddenly awakened when you are caught napping; and you may think <\/a>that if you were to strike me dead, as Anytus advises, which you easily <\/a>might, then you would sleep on for the remainder of your lives, unless <\/a>God in his care of you gives you another gadfly. And that I am given to <\/a>you by God is proved by this: – that if I had been like other men, I should <\/a>not have neglected all my own concerns, or patiently seen the neglect of <\/a>them during all these years, and have been doing yours, coming to you individually, <\/a>like a father or elder brother, exhorting you to regard virtue; this I <\/a>say, would not be like human nature. And had I gained anything, or if my <\/a>exhortations had been paid, there would have been some sense in that: but <\/a>now, as you will perceive, not even the impudence of my accusers dares <\/a>to say that I have ever exacted or sought pay of anyone; they have no witness <\/a>of that. And I have a witness of the truth of what I say; my poverty is <\/a>a sufficient witness. <\/a><\/p>\n

Someone may wonder why I go about in private, giving advice and <\/a>busying myself with the concerns of others, but do not venture to come <\/a>forward in public and advise the state. I will tell you the reason of this. <\/a>You have often heard me speak of an oracle or sign which comes to me, and <\/a>is the divinity which Meletus ridicules in the indictment. This sign I <\/a>have had ever since I was a child. The sign is a voice which comes to me <\/a>and always forbids me to do something which I am going to do, but never <\/a>commands me to do anything, and this is what stands in the way of my being <\/a>a politician. And rightly, as I think. For I am certain, O men of Athens, <\/a>that if I had engaged in politics, I should have perished long ago and <\/a>done no good either to you or to myself. And don’t be offended at my telling <\/a>you the truth: for the truth is that no man who goes to war with you or <\/a>any other multitude, honestly struggling against the commission of unrighteousness <\/a>and wrong in the state, will save his life; he who will really fight for <\/a>the right, if he would live even for a little while, must have a private <\/a>station and not a public one. <\/a><\/p>\n

I can give you as proofs of this, not words only, but deeds, which <\/a>you value more than words. Let me tell you a passage of my own life, which <\/a>will prove to you that I should never have yielded to injustice from any <\/a>fear of death, and that if I had not yielded I should have died at once. <\/a>I will tell you a story – tasteless, perhaps, and commonplace, but nevertheless <\/a>true. The only office of state which I ever held, O men of Athens, was <\/a>that of senator; the tribe Antiochis, which is my tribe, had the presidency <\/a>at the trial of the generals who had not taken up the bodies of the slain <\/a>after the battle of Arginusae; and you proposed to try them all together, <\/a>which was illegal, as you all thought afterwards; but at the time I was <\/a>the only one of the Prytanes who was opposed to the illegality, and I gave <\/a>my vote against you; and when the orators threatened to impeach and arrest <\/a>me, and have me taken away, and you called and shouted, I made up my mind <\/a>that I would run the risk, having law and justice with me, rather than <\/a>take part in your injustice because I feared imprisonment and death. This <\/a>happened in the days of the democracy. But when the oligarchy of the Thirty <\/a>was in power, they sent for me and four others into the rotunda, and bade <\/a>us bring Leon the Salaminian from Salamis, as they wanted to execute him. <\/a>This was a specimen of the sort of commands which they were always giving <\/a>with the view of implicating as many as possible in their crimes; and then <\/a>I showed, not in words only, but in deed, that, if I may be allowed to <\/a>use such an expression, I cared not a straw for death, and that my only <\/a>fear was the fear of doing an unrighteous or unholy thing. For the strong <\/a>arm of that oppressive power did not frighten me into doing wrong; and <\/a>when we came out of the rotunda the other four went to Salamis and fetched <\/a>Leon, but I went quietly home. For which I might have lost my life, had <\/a>not the power of the Thirty shortly afterwards come to an end. And to this <\/a>many will witness. <\/a><\/p>\n

Now do you really imagine that I could have survived all these <\/a>years, if I had led a public life, supposing that like a good man I had <\/a>always supported the right and had made justice, as I ought, the first <\/a>thing? No, indeed, men of Athens, neither I nor any other. But I have been <\/a>always the same in all my actions, public as well as private, and never <\/a>have I yielded any base compliance to those who are slanderously termed <\/a>my disciples or to any other. For the truth is that I have no regular <\/a>disciples: but if anyone likes to come and hear me while I am pursuing <\/a>my mission, whether he be young or old, he may freely come. Nor do I converse <\/a>with those who pay only, and not with those who do not pay; but anyone, <\/a>whether he be rich or poor, may ask and answer me and listen to my words; <\/a>and whether he turns out to be a bad man or a good one, that cannot be <\/a>justly laid to my charge, as I never taught him anything. And if anyone <\/a>says that he has ever learned or heard anything from me in private which <\/a>all the world has not heard, I should like you to know that he is speaking <\/a>an untruth. <\/a><\/p>\n

But I shall be asked, Why do people delight in continually conversing <\/a>with you? I have told you already, Athenians, the whole truth about this: <\/a>they like to hear the cross-examination of the pretenders to wisdom; there <\/a>is amusement in this. And this is a duty which the God has imposed upon <\/a>me, as I am assured by oracles, visions, and in every sort of way in which <\/a>the will of divine power was ever signified to anyone. This is true, O <\/a>Athenians; or, if not true, would be soon refuted. For if I am really corrupting <\/a>the youth, and have corrupted some of them already, those of them who have <\/a>grown up and have become sensible that I gave them bad advice in the days <\/a>of their youth should come forward as accusers and take their revenge; <\/a>and if they do not like to come themselves, some of their relatives, fathers, <\/a>brothers, or other kinsmen, should say what evil their families suffered <\/a>at my hands. Now is their time. Many of them I see in the court. There <\/a>is Crito, who is of the same age and of the same deme with myself; and <\/a>there is Critobulus his son, whom I also see. Then again there is Lysanias <\/a>of Sphettus, who is the father of Aeschines – he is present; and also there <\/a>is Antiphon of Cephisus, who is the father of Epignes; and there are the <\/a>brothers of several who have associated with me. There is Nicostratus the <\/a>son of Theosdotides, and the brother of Theodotus (now Theodotus himself <\/a>is dead, and therefore he, at any rate, will not seek to stop him); and <\/a>there is Paralus the son of Demodocus, who had a brother Theages; and Adeimantus <\/a>the son of Ariston, whose brother Plato is present; and Aeantodorus, who <\/a>is the brother of Apollodorus, whom I also see. I might mention a great <\/a>many others, any of whom Meletus should have produced as witnesses in the <\/a>course of his speech; and let him still produce them, if he has forgotten <\/a>– I will make way for him. And let him say, if he has any testimony of <\/a>the sort which he can produce. Nay, Athenians, the very opposite is the <\/a>truth. For all these are ready to witness on behalf of the corrupter, of <\/a>the destroyer of their kindred, as Meletus and Anytus call me; not the <\/a>corrupted youth only – there might have been a motive for that – but their <\/a>uncorrupted elder relatives. Why should they too support me with their <\/a>testimony? Why, indeed, except for the sake of truth and justice, and because <\/a>they know that I am speaking the truth, and that Meletus is <\/a>lying. <\/a><\/p>\n

Well, Athenians, this and the like of this is nearly all the defence <\/a>which I have to offer. Yet a word more. Perhaps there may be someone who <\/a>is offended at me, when he calls to mind how he himself, on a similar or <\/a>even a less serious occasion, had recourse to prayers and supplications <\/a>with many tears, and how he produced his children in court, which was a <\/a>moving spectacle, together with a posse of his relations and friends; whereas <\/a>I, who am probably in danger of my life, will do none of these things. <\/a>Perhaps this may come into his mind, and he may be set against me, and <\/a>vote in anger because he is displeased at this. Now if there be such a <\/a>person among you, which I am far from affirming, I may fairly reply to <\/a>him: My friend, I am a man, and like other men, a creature of flesh and <\/a>blood, and not of wood or stone, as Homer says; and I have a family, yes, <\/a>and sons. O Athenians, three in number, one of whom is growing up, and <\/a>the two others are still young; and yet I will not bring any of them hither <\/a>in order to petition you for an acquittal. And why not? Not from any self-will <\/a>or disregard of you. Whether I am or am not afraid of death is another <\/a>question, of which I will not now speak. But my reason simply is that I <\/a>feel such conduct to be discreditable to myself, and you, and the whole <\/a>state. One who has reached my years, and who has a name for wisdom, whether <\/a>deserved or not, ought not to debase himself. At any rate, the world has <\/a>decided that Socrates is in some way superior to other men. And if those <\/a>among you who are said to be superior in wisdom and courage, and any other <\/a>virtue, demean themselves in this way, how shameful is their conduct! I <\/a>have seen men of reputation, when they have been condemned, behaving in <\/a>the strangest manner: they seemed to fancy that they were going to suffer <\/a>something dreadful if they died, and that they could be immortal if you <\/a>only allowed them to live; and I think that they were a dishonor to the <\/a>state, and that any stranger coming in would say of them that the most <\/a>eminent men of Athens, to whom the Athenians themselves give honor and <\/a>command, are no better than women. And I say that these things ought not <\/a>to be done by those of us who are of reputation; and if they are done, <\/a>you ought not to permit them; you ought rather to show that you are more <\/a>inclined to condemn, not the man who is quiet, but the man who gets up <\/a>a doleful scene, and makes the city ridiculous. <\/a><\/p>\n

But, setting aside the question of dishonor, there seems to be <\/a>something wrong in petitioning a judge, and thus procuring an acquittal <\/a>instead of informing and convincing him. For his duty is, not to make a <\/a>present of justice, but to give judgment; and he has sworn that he will <\/a>judge according to the laws, and not according to his own good pleasure; <\/a>and neither he nor we should get into the habit of perjuring ourselves <\/a>– there can be no piety in that. Do not then require me to do what I consider <\/a>dishonorable and impious and wrong, especially now, when I am being tried <\/a>for impiety on the indictment of Meletus. For if, O men of Athens, by force <\/a>of persuasion and entreaty, I could overpower your oaths, then I should <\/a>be teaching you to believe that there are no gods, and convict myself, <\/a>in my own defence, of not believing in them. But that is not the case; <\/a>for I do believe that there are gods, and in a far higher sense than that <\/a>in which any of my accusers believe in them. And to you and to God I commit <\/a>my cause, to be determined by you as is best for you and <\/a>me. <\/a><\/p>\n

The jury finds Socrates guilty.<\/em> <\/a><\/p>\n

Socrates’ Proposal for his Sentence<\/strong> <\/a><\/p>\n

There are many reasons why I am not grieved, O men of Athens, at <\/a>the vote of condemnation. I expected it, and am only surprised that the <\/a>votes are so nearly equal; for I had thought that the majority against <\/a>me would have been far larger; but now, had thirty votes gone over to the <\/a>other side, I should have been acquitted. And I may say that I have escaped <\/a>Meletus. And I may say more; for without the assistance of Anytus and Lycon, <\/a>he would not have had a fifth part of the votes, as the law requires, in <\/a>which case he would have incurred a fine of a thousand drachmae, as is <\/a>evident. <\/a><\/p>\n

And so he proposes death as the penalty. And what shall I propose <\/a>on my part, O men of Athens? Clearly that which is my due. And what is <\/a>that which I ought to pay or to receive? What shall be done to the man <\/a>who has never had the wit to be idle during his whole life; but has been <\/a>careless of what the many care about – wealth, and family interests, and <\/a>military offices, and speaking in the assembly, and magistracies, and plots, <\/a>and parties. Reflecting that I was really too honest a man to follow in <\/a>this way and live, I did not go where I could do no good to you or to myself; <\/a>but where I could do the greatest good privately to everyone of you, thither <\/a>I went, and sought to persuade every man among you that he must look to <\/a>himself, and seek virtue and wisdom before he looks to his private interests, <\/a>and look to the state before he looks to the interests of the state; and <\/a>that this should be the order which he observes in all his actions. What <\/a>shall be done to such a one? Doubtless some good thing, O men of Athens, <\/a>if he has his reward; and the good should be of a kind suitable to him. <\/a>What would be a reward suitable to a poor man who is your benefactor, who <\/a>desires leisure that he may instruct you? There can be no more fitting <\/a>reward than maintenance in the Prytaneum, O men of Athens, a reward which <\/a>he deserves far more than the citizen who has won the prize at Olympia <\/a>in the horse or chariot race, whether the chariots were drawn by two horses <\/a>or by many. For I am in want, and he has enough; and he only gives you <\/a>the appearance of happiness, and I give you the reality. And if I am to <\/a>estimate the penalty justly, I say that maintenance in the Prytaneum is <\/a>the just return. <\/a><\/p>\n

Perhaps you may think that I am braving you in saying this, as <\/a>in what I said before about the tears and prayers. But that is not the <\/a>case. I speak rather because I am convinced that I never intentionally <\/a>wronged anyone, although I cannot convince you of that – for we have had <\/a>a short conversation only; but if there were a law at Athens, such as there <\/a>is in other cities, that a capital cause should not be decided in one day, <\/a>then I believe that I should have convinced you; but now the time is too <\/a>short. I cannot in a moment refute great slanders; and, as I am convinced <\/a>that I never wronged another, I will assuredly not wrong myself. I will <\/a>not say of myself that I deserve any evil, or propose any penalty. Why <\/a>should I? Because I am afraid of the penalty of death which Meletus proposes? <\/a>When I do not know whether death is a good or an evil, why should I propose <\/a>a penalty which would certainly be an evil? Shall I say imprisonment? And <\/a>why should I live in prison, and be the slave of the magistrates of the <\/a>year – of the Eleven? Or shall the penalty be a fine, and imprisonment <\/a>until the fine is paid? There is the same objection. I should have to lie <\/a>in prison, for money I have none, and I cannot pay. And if I say exile <\/a>(and this may possibly be the penalty which you will affix), I must indeed <\/a>be blinded by the love of life if I were to consider that when you, who <\/a>are my own citizens, cannot endure my discourses and words, and have found <\/a>them so grievous and odious that you would fain have done with them, others <\/a>are likely to endure me. No, indeed, men of Athens, that is not very likely. <\/a>And what a life should I lead, at my age, wandering from city to city, <\/a>living in ever-changing exile, and always being driven out! For I am quite <\/a>sure that into whatever place I go, as here so also there, the young men <\/a>will come to me; and if I drive them away, their elders will drive me out <\/a>at their desire: and if I let them come, their fathers and friends will <\/a>drive me out for their sakes. <\/a><\/p>\n

Someone will say: Yes, Socrates, but cannot you hold your tongue, <\/a>and then you may go into a foreign city, and no one will interfere with <\/a>you? Now I have great difficulty in making you understand my answer to <\/a>this. For if I tell you that this would be a disobedience to a divine command, <\/a>and therefore that I cannot hold my tongue, you will not believe that I <\/a>am serious; and if I say again that the greatest good of man is daily to <\/a>converse about virtue, and all that concerning which you hear me examining <\/a>myself and others, and that the life which is unexamined is not worth living <\/a>– that you are still less likely to believe. And yet what I say is true, <\/a>although a thing of which it is hard for me to persuade you. Moreover, <\/a>I am not accustomed to think that I deserve any punishment. Had I money <\/a>I might have proposed to give you what I had, and have been none the worse. <\/a>But you see that I have none, and can only ask you to proportion the fine <\/a>to my means. However, I think that I could afford a minae, and therefore <\/a>I propose that penalty; Plato, Crito, Critobulus, and Apollodorus, my friends <\/a>here, bid me say thirty minae, and they will be the sureties. Well then, <\/a>say thirty minae, let that be the penalty; for that they will be ample <\/a>security to you. <\/a><\/p>\n

The jury condemns Socrates to death.<\/em> <\/a><\/p>\n

Socrates’ Comments on his Sentence<\/strong> <\/a><\/p>\n

Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return for the evil <\/a>name which you will get from the detractors of the city, who will say that <\/a>you killed Socrates, a wise man; for they will call me wise even although <\/a>I am not wise when they want to reproach you. If you had waited a little <\/a>while, your desire would have been fulfilled in the course of nature. For <\/a>I am far advanced in years, as you may perceive, and not far from death. <\/a>I am speaking now only to those of you who have condemned me to death. <\/a>And I have another thing to say to them: You think that I was convicted <\/a>through deficiency of words – I mean, that if I had thought fit to leave <\/a>nothing undone, nothing unsaid, I might have gained an acquittal. Not so; <\/a>the deficiency which led to my conviction was not of words – certainly <\/a>not. But I had not the boldness or impudence or inclination to address <\/a>you as you would have liked me to address you, weeping and wailing and <\/a>lamenting, and saying and doing many things which you have been accustomed <\/a>to hear from others, and which, as I say, are unworthy of me. But I thought <\/a>that I ought not to do anything common or mean in the hour of danger: nor <\/a>do I now repent of the manner of my defence, and I would rather die having <\/a>spoken after my manner, than speak in your manner and live. For neither <\/a>in war nor yet at law ought any man to use every way of escaping death. <\/a>For often in battle there is no doubt that if a man will throw away his <\/a>arms, and fall on his knees before his pursuers, he may escape death; and <\/a>in other dangers there are other ways of escaping death, if a man is willing <\/a>to say and do anything. The difficulty, my friends, is not in avoiding <\/a>death, but in avoiding unrighteousness; for that runs faster than death. <\/a>I am old and move slowly, and the slower runner has overtaken me, and my <\/a>accusers are keen and quick, and the faster runner, who is unrighteousness, <\/a>has overtaken them. And now I depart hence condemned by you to suffer the <\/a>penalty of death, and they, too, go their ways condemned by the truth to <\/a>suffer the penalty of villainy and wrong; and I must abide by my award <\/a>– let them abide by theirs. I suppose that these things may be regarded <\/a>as fated, – and I think that they are well. <\/a><\/p>\n

And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain prophesy to <\/a>you; for I am about to die, and that is the hour in which men are gifted <\/a>with prophetic power. And I prophesy to you who are my murderers, that <\/a>immediately after my death punishment far heavier than you have inflicted <\/a>on me will surely await you. Me you have killed because you wanted to escape <\/a>the accuser, and not to give an account of your lives. But that will not <\/a>be as you suppose: far otherwise. For I say that there will be more accusers <\/a>of you than there are now; accusers whom hitherto I have restrained: and <\/a>as they are younger they will be more severe with you, and you will be <\/a>more offended at them. For if you think that by killing men you can avoid <\/a>the accuser censuring your lives, you are mistaken; that is not a way of <\/a>escape which is either possible or honorable; the easiest and noblest way <\/a>is not to be crushing others, but to be improving yourselves. This is the <\/a>prophecy which I utter before my departure, to the judges who have condemned <\/a>me. <\/a><\/p>\n

Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk <\/a>with you about this thing which has happened, while the magistrates are <\/a>busy, and before I go to the place at which I must die. Stay then awhile, <\/a>for we may as well talk with one another while there is time. You are my <\/a>friends, and I should like to show you the meaning of this event which <\/a>has happened to me. O my judges – for you I may truly call judges – I should <\/a>like to tell you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the familiar oracle <\/a>within me has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about trifles, <\/a>if I was going to make a slip or error about anything; and now as you see <\/a>there has come upon me that which may be thought, and is generally believed <\/a>to be, the last and worst evil. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, <\/a>either as I was leaving my house and going out in the morning, or when <\/a>I was going up into this court, or while I was speaking, at anything which <\/a>I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of <\/a>a speech; but now in nothing I either said or did touching this matter <\/a>has the oracle opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation of this? <\/a>I will tell you. I regard this as a proof that what has happened to me <\/a>is a good, and that those of us who think that death is an evil are in <\/a>error. This is a great proof to me of what I am saying, for the customary <\/a>sign would surely have opposed me had I been going to evil and not to <\/a>good. <\/a><\/p>\n

Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great <\/a>reason to hope that death is a good, for one of two things: – either death <\/a>is a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as men say, there <\/a>is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another. Now if <\/a>you suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the sleep <\/a>of him who is undisturbed even by the sight of dreams, death will be an <\/a>unspeakable gain. For if a person were to select the night in which his <\/a>sleep was undisturbed even by dreams, and were to compare with this the <\/a>other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell us how many days <\/a>and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more pleasantly <\/a>than this one, I think that any man, I will not say a private man, but <\/a>even the great king, will not find many such days or nights, when compared <\/a>with the others. Now if death is like this, I say that to die is gain; <\/a>for eternity is then only a single night. But if death is the journey to <\/a>another place, and there, as men say, all the dead are, what good, O my <\/a>friends and judges, can be greater than this? If indeed when the pilgrim <\/a>arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors of justice <\/a>in this world, and finds the true judges who are said to give judgment <\/a>there, Minos and Rhadamanthus and Aeacus and Triptolemus, and other sons <\/a>of God who were righteous in their own life, that pilgrimage will be worth <\/a>making. What would not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus and <\/a>Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, if this be true, let me die again and <\/a>again. I, too, shall have a wonderful interest in a place where I can converse <\/a>with Palamedes, and Ajax the son of Telamon, and other heroes of old, who <\/a>have suffered death through an unjust judgment; and there will be no small <\/a>pleasure, as I think, in comparing my own sufferings with theirs. Above <\/a>all, I shall be able to continue my search into true and false knowledge; <\/a>as in this world, so also in that; I shall find out who is wise, and who <\/a>pretends to be wise, and is not. What would not a man give, O judges, to <\/a>be able to examine the leader of the great Trojan expedition; or Odysseus <\/a>or Sisyphus, or numberless others, men and women too! What infinite delight <\/a>would there be in conversing with them and asking them questions! For in <\/a>that world they do not put a man to death for this; certainly not. For <\/a>besides being happier in that world than in this, they will be immortal, <\/a>if what is said is true. <\/a><\/p>\n

Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know this <\/a>of a truth – that no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after <\/a>death. He and his are not neglected by the gods; nor has my own approaching <\/a>end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that to die and be released <\/a>was better for me; and therefore the oracle gave no sign. For which reason <\/a>also, I am not angry with my accusers, or my condemners; they have done <\/a>me no harm, although neither of them meant to do me any good; and for this <\/a>I may gently blame them. <\/a><\/p>\n

Still I have a favor to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, <\/a>I would ask you, O my friends, to punish them; and I would have you trouble <\/a>them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches, or anything, <\/a>more than about virtue; or if they pretend to be something when they are <\/a>really nothing, – then reprove them, as I have reproved you, for not caring <\/a>about that for which they ought to care, and thinking that they are something <\/a>when they are really nothing. And if you do this, I and my sons will have <\/a>received justice at your hands. <\/a><\/p>\n

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways – I to die, <\/a>and you to live. Which is better God only knows. <\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

How you have felt, O men of Athens, at hearing the speeches of my accusers, I cannot tell; but I know that their persuasive words almost made me forget who I was – such was the effect of them; and yet they have hardly spoken a word of truth. 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