The Apology

Someone in the jury, Socrates imagines, will ask him a fair question: if there is nothing to these accusations, why do they keep following you? What have you done to deserve this reputation? He treats it as a fair challenge and sets out to answer it honestly — though he warns the jury not to interrupt, because what he is about to say may sound extravagant. The source of his reputation, he explains, is a certain kind of wisdom. Not the superhuman wisdom attributed to him by his accusers — he disclaims that entirely — but a more modest sort, the kind that may perhaps be attained by man. And the witness he calls to confirm even that modest claim is the god at Delphi. Chaerephon — an old friend of Socrates, known to many in the courtroom, who shared the people's exile and returned with them — once went to Delphi and boldly asked the oracle whether any man was wiser than Socrates. The Pythian prophetess answered: no one. Chaerephon is dead, but his brother, who is present, can confirm this. When Socrates heard the answer, his first response was not pride but bafflement. The god cannot lie — that is against his nature — yet Socrates knew himself to possess no wisdom worth naming. His solution was to go and find someone wiser. If he could produce one, he could return to Apollo with a refutation in hand: "Here is a man wiser than I am; but you said I was the wisest." So he began his investigation. He went first to a politician with a high reputation for wisdom — high in the eyes of others, and even higher in his own. Through conversation, Socrates found the man knew nothing of any real beauty or goodness, yet was entirely convinced he did. Socrates tried to explain this to him. The result was hatred — from the politician and from the witnesses to their exchange. Walking away, Socrates told himself: neither of us knows anything truly fine; but he thinks he knows and does not, while I neither know nor think that I know. In this one respect, he seemed to have a slight advantage. He went to others and found the same result. He swears to the jury — by the dog, his characteristic oath — that the men held in highest repute turned out to be nearly the most foolish, while those of lesser standing were often wiser. He calls these wanderings his Herculean labours, not without irony. From politicians he turned to poets. He took their most elaborate passages and asked them to explain the meaning. The result, he admits almost with embarrassment, was that almost anyone in the room could have discussed the poems better than their authors. Poets, he concluded, write not by wisdom but by inspiration — like oracles or soothsayers who say true things without understanding them. And like the politicians, they mistook their gift in one domain for authority in all others.