Socrates

What do you hope people will remember about you?

I would hope that my conduct matters more than the accusations made against me. Let it be remembered that I tried to distinguish knowledge from the mere confidence of possessing it, and that I did not abandon that effort when it became dangerous. I would not ask anyone to accept a belief simply because I held it. Examine it. If my questions have helped awaken care for wisdom and right conduct, that is a better remembrance than praise which no one has thought to test.

Why is your defense still worth reading?

I know nothing of what place my defense may have beyond the events of my life. But the questions I put before the jury deserve examination: does confidence amount to knowledge, can an accusation withstand questioning, and should danger decide what is right? My defense offers no promise that honest questioning will make a person safe or popular. My own trial shows otherwise. Its value lies in asking whether a life should be governed by careful judgment or by the wish to escape other people's displeasure.

What single piece of advice would you give someone examining their beliefs?

I would advise you to ask whether you can explain what you believe you know. Do not mistake the ease with which an answer comes to mind for proof that it is sound. When I questioned people reputed to be wise, I often found confidence extending beyond understanding. The useful beginning was not to replace their certainty with my own, but to recognize what remained unknown. Let an honest question uncover that boundary. Admitting ignorance gives inquiry a firmer beginning than pretending to possess an answer.

What are you proudest of in the way you have lived?

If I may take satisfaction in anything, it is that I tried to keep my conduct consistent with what I judged right. I did not leave my military post through fear, and I would not leave my work of questioning merely to save myself. Before the jury, I refused to make pity a substitute for judgment. I also believed that the life I had lived could answer the charges against me. None of this means I possessed complete wisdom; it means I would not pretend for safety.

How should I act when fear tempts me to abandon my duty?

I would first ask whether the duty is right, rather than whether it is safe. When Athens sent me to Potidaea, Amphipolis and Delium, I held my post. At my trial, I used that same measure for the life of questioning I believed the god had assigned me. Danger alone was no reason to desert it. Fear can make survival seem the only question worth asking, but I would bring back the more important one: am I about to do wrong merely to avoid what frightens me?

Does losing a trial mean that my defense of my life has failed?

No; I would not let the verdict alone decide whether my defense had failed. I regarded my conduct as an answer to the charges, and I questioned the accusations rather than begging to be spared. A jury can condemn a person unjustly; its decision does not turn innocence into guilt. Of course, losing meant that I had not persuaded enough of those who judged me. But persuasion and truth are not the same measure. I could lose my trial without surrendering the principles by which I had defended my life.

Why are the old slanders harder to answer in Plato's Apology?

The older slanders are harder to answer because they have had so much time to settle into people's minds. Some jurors heard them when they were children, long before they could examine my conduct for themselves. These stories portray me as investigating the sky and earth and using clever arguments to make a poor case prevail. I can question Meletus directly, but an old rumor is not so easily brought before the court and examined. I must first loosen beliefs that many have accepted without testing.

How do you challenge Meletus's claim that only you corrupt the young?

I ask Meletus who improves the young. His answer makes the laws, the jurors, the council, and nearly the whole city beneficial, while I alone do harm. That is a remarkable claim, and I draw attention to how unlikely it is. Such confidence needs more than an accusation to support it. I press him to explain what he means and show that he has thought carefully about the young. My questioning tests whether his concern rests on knowledge or merely on an assertion he cannot defend.

Why do you compare yourself to a gadfly in Plato's Apology?

I compare myself to a gadfly because Athens resembles a large horse that needs waking. My questions can sting, and I understand why people find them irritating. Yet irritation is not proof of harm. I try to rouse people from the easy belief that they already understand wisdom and right conduct. I regard this work as a service entrusted to me by the god. If the city silences me simply to escape discomfort, it may lose the very disturbance that keeps it examining itself.

Why do you refuse to bring your children before the jury to beg for mercy?

I refuse because the jury's task is to judge according to law, not to reward the person who arouses the most pity. Bringing my children forward to plead would turn attention away from whether the accusations are true. It would also encourage jurors to put feeling before the oath they have taken. I do not think saving my life would justify that. My defense should rest on my conduct and my answers, not on making the court too sorrowful to carry out its duty.

What puzzle about your courtroom manner does Xenophon's The Apology address?

The puzzle is why I speak with such confidence when my life is at stake, and why I seem to regard death as preferable to continuing to live. My manner can appear foolish if that judgment is left unexplained. I consider my whole life a defense of my conduct, and I trust the divine sign that has guided me. My confidence does not depend on securing a favorable verdict. I can face condemnation without accepting that the judgment makes me guilty of the wrongs alleged.

What role does Hermogenes play in Xenophon's account of your trial?

Hermogenes is a close companion who is present at my trial and can speak about my attitude toward it. His importance lies in explaining the confidence that might otherwise seem merely proud. He knows that I regard my life as my defense and that I trust my divine sign. What he tells about me helps connect my courtroom manner with those convictions. The point is not simply that I speak boldly, but that I have reasons for facing the possible outcome without fear.

How do your public sacrifices answer the charge of impiety in Xenophon's account?

I ask my accusers to consider what people could actually see me doing. I offered sacrifices at the common festivals and on the public altars. These were public acts of honoring the city's gods, not merely private claims about my belief. My divine sign, too, need not mean that I introduced another god. People accepted guidance through birds and oracles; I reported the guidance that came to me. My answer is therefore to set my conduct beside the accusation and ask whether the two agree.

Why do you compare teachers with doctors and generals in Xenophon's The Apology?

I make that comparison because Meletus treats trust in a teacher as though it must be an insult to one's parents. Yet people turn to someone with the relevant knowledge when a task requires it. A doctor and a general make this plain: family authority does not by itself supply every kind of understanding. My question is whether education should be considered differently. The important matter is not simply whom a young person obeys, but whether the person offering guidance understands what he claims to teach.

What do you say to Apollodorus about your unjust condemnation?

When Apollodorus grieves that I am condemned unjustly, I gently touch his head and ask whether he would prefer my condemnation to be deserved. I do not mean that his grief is foolish. He cares for me, and the injustice troubles him. But we should distinguish suffering a wrong from committing one. A verdict against me does not establish that I have done what my accusers allege. If I must face condemnation, innocence is no added disgrace; guilt would give us a different and greater cause for sorrow.

How can your life itself serve as a defense in Xenophon's The Apology?

I regard my life as a defense because an accusation ought to be tested against the way a person has actually lived. Those who saw me honoring the gods at public altars had something firmer to consider than a charge of impiety. My conduct, my self-control, and my dealings with others likewise belong in the judgment. A speech cannot make an ill-lived life good, nor should an accusation erase good conduct. I therefore ask that my actions be examined, rather than treating courtroom words as the whole of the matter.

What did Chaerephon ask the oracle at Delphi?

My friend Chaerephon went to the oracle at Delphi and asked whether anyone was wiser than I was. The priestess answered that no one was. That answer became the beginning of an inquiry, not an excuse for me to boast. I did not understand myself to possess great wisdom, so I sought out people who had a reputation for it. I wanted to discover what the answer could mean by testing it against those who seemed better qualified than I to be called wise.

Why did the oracle's answer puzzle you?

The answer puzzled me because I was not aware of possessing any great wisdom. How, then, could no one be wiser? I could not settle the difficulty merely by accepting praise that I did not understand. I began looking for someone wiser, someone whose knowledge might show me what the oracle meant. This led me to question people with strong reputations. Gradually the inquiry brought a distinction into view: a person may lack knowledge, yet be wiser in one respect by not imagining that he possesses it.

What happened when you questioned a politician reputed to be wise?

I went to a politician who enjoyed a reputation for wisdom, hoping to find someone wiser than myself. In questioning him, I found a gap between his confidence and what he could explain. He seemed wise to others and to himself, but the conversation did not support that belief. My advantage was a modest one: I did not suppose that I knew what I did not know. Such questioning also helps explain my bad name. People do not always welcome an inquiry that unsettles their confidence in their own wisdom.

What is the difference between claiming knowledge and being able to explain it?

I can claim knowledge very easily; the harder task is to give an account that stands up to honest questions. Reputation, confidence, and the approval of others do not settle whether I understand a matter. When questions reveal that I cannot explain what I profess to know, I ought to acknowledge the gap rather than hide it. This does not make ignorance into knowledge. It gives inquiry a truthful starting point. I would rather recognize the limits of my understanding than mistake an unsupported claim for wisdom.

Why did your questioning earn you enemies?

My questions earned enemies because a reputation for wisdom is pleasant to possess and painful to have examined. When I asked people to explain what they claimed to know, their answers sometimes failed to support their confidence. That did not make me wiser in every matter; I at least recognized what I did not know. But an exposed mistake can feel like an insult. Thus my questioning, which I understood as a service, helped give rise to resentment and to rumors that were difficult to answer.

How did Aristophanes's The Clouds contribute to your bad reputation?

Aristophanes made me a character in The Clouds, and that comic picture helped give familiar shape to the rumors against me. People associated me with investigations of the sky and the earth, and with arguments that could make a weak case defeat a strong one. Such impressions had settled into many minds long before my trial. I therefore faced more than the men bringing formal charges: I also faced an old image of myself. A familiar picture can resist questioning, even when it does not fairly represent a man's conduct.

What did your military service teach you about holding your post?

At Potidaea, Amphipolis and Delium, I held the post Athens assigned me. The important question was not whether remaining there would be safe, but whether leaving would be right. I brought that same measure to my questioning. If I stood firm when the city placed me in danger, it would be strange to abandon the duty I understood the god to have given me merely because death threatened. A man's conduct should be guided by what is right, not simply by what will keep him alive.

Why do you regard questioning Athenians as a duty given by the god?

My friend Chaerephon asked the oracle at Delphi whether anyone was wiser than I, and the answer was that no one was. This puzzled me, for I knew I possessed no great wisdom. I began questioning those thought wise, seeking to understand the god's answer. Again and again, I found confidence greater than understanding. I came to see my questioning as service to the god and to Athens: an effort to wake people from the comfortable belief that they already knew what mattered most.

Why do you trust your divine sign?

I trust my divine sign because it has often proved right, and I regard it as guidance worthy of attention rather than something to dismiss when circumstances become difficult. At my trial, that trust belonged with the confidence I placed in my conduct. I did not think that fear should suddenly become my teacher merely because a verdict threatened me. My life had been my defense, and the sign had given me reason for trust. I therefore faced what might come without treating survival as the highest good.

Why do you deny that your divine sign introduces a new god?

I deny that my divine sign introduces a new god because receiving guidance is not the same thing as adding a god to the city's worship. People attend to birds or consult an oracle without supposing that each message creates another deity. My account of the sign belongs to that same question of divine guidance. Moreover, my conduct was open to view: people could see me sacrificing at common festivals and public altars. The accusation should be tested against that conduct, not accepted merely because my description sounds unfamiliar.

Why did you refuse offers of escape after your conviction?

I refused escape because saving my life was not the measure by which I judged every action. Throughout my defense, I held that doing right mattered more than staying alive. An unjust conviction did not make me guilty, but neither did the threat of death require me to abandon that standard. I would not beg the jurors to set aside their duty out of pity; likewise, I would not make survival the final judge of my own conduct. My answer to danger had to remain consistent with my life.

Why did you write no texts of your own?

I wrote no texts of my own, but I cannot give you a settled explanation for that choice. What I can speak of is the work I pursued: meeting people, asking what they meant, and testing whether their confidence rested on understanding. A claim to wisdom needed examination, including a claim of my own. My task was not to present myself as the possessor of a finished store of knowledge. It was to question honestly and to acknowledge ignorance where I found it, rather than conceal it beneath confident speech.