In October of 406 B.C.E., by the blind luck of the lottery, a seventy-year-old stonecutter's son found himself seated on the presiding committee of the Athenian Council — the Prytanes, fifty citizens who for that brief rotation held the procedural machinery of democratic governance in their hands. The occasion was a capital trial, and it was illegal. Six generals had returned from the naval battle of Arginusae, a Pyrrhic victory so costly that Athens would never fully recover, and the Assembly wanted them dead — tried as a group, in a single day, in direct violation of the law of Cannonus requiring separate trials for each defendant in a capital case. When the crowd's fury turned on those members of the Prytanes who dared object, threatening to subject them to the same vote, one by one the dissenters capitulated. All of them folded. Except one. Socrates alone refused to put the question.
His refusal had no practical effect. A parliamentary maneuver invalidated a preliminary vote for separate trials; the Assembly condemned all six generals; Athens executed its remaining military leaders and would soon enough regret it. But the scene — a single man standing against a democratic mob in the name of the law that democracy itself had written — contains the paradox that defined his life and that, twenty-four centuries later, still resists resolution. Here was someone who professed to know nothing, who insisted he was not a teacher, who refused payment, who wrote not a single word, and who spent his days wandering the agora asking questions that made powerful men look foolish. He was ugly by every standard his city honored, poor by choice, and so strange in his habits that Aristophanes could put him on stage as a figure of ridicule and the audience would roar with recognition. He was convicted and executed on charges of irreverence toward the gods and corrupting the youth. And yet: with the possible exception of
Jesus of Nazareth, no human being who left behind no writings has exerted a greater influence on how the species thinks about thinking itself.
By the Numbers
The Socratic Record
469–399 B.C.E.Lifespan — seventy years in Athens
0Words written in his lifetime
3Military campaigns fought (Potidaea, Delium, Amphipolis)
30 minaeFine offered at trial — six times his net worth
~31 daysBetween conviction and execution, while sacred ship sailed to Delos
15+Authors inspired to write 'Socratic discourses' after his death
2,400+Years his method has remained in continuous pedagogical use
The Satyr in the Marketplace
Standards of beauty are different in different eras, and in Socrates's time beauty could be measured by the gods themselves — those stately, proportionate sculptures that had been adorning the Athenian acropolis since the philosopher reached the age of thirty. Good looks and proper bearing were important to a man's political prospects; beauty and goodness were linked in the popular imagination. The extant sources agree that Socrates was profoundly ugly. He had wide-set, bulging eyes that darted sideways — crab-like, enabling him to see not only what was straight ahead but what was beside him as well. A flat, upturned nose with flaring nostrils. Large fleshy lips like an ass. He let his hair grow long in the Spartan style, an extraordinary provocation during the decades when Athens and Sparta were locked in existential war, and went about barefoot and unwashed, carrying a stick and looking arrogant. He didn't change his clothes but efficiently wore in the daytime what he covered himself with at night. Something was peculiar about his gait — sometimes described as a swagger so intimidating that enemy soldiers kept their distance.
He was impervious to the effects of alcohol and cold, which made him an object of suspicion to his fellow soldiers on campaign. At the drinking party depicted in Plato's Symposium, set in February of 416, Socrates drains cup after cup while the rest of Athens's intellectual elite pass out around him, and he walks away at dawn still conversing. He could stand perfectly still in a trance of thought for hours — once, reportedly, from morning to morning, motionless on a military encampment while the soldiers set up their bedrolls around him and watched. He claimed to be guided by a daimonion, an internal voice that prohibited him from doing certain things, some trivial, some important, none consistently related to questions of right and wrong. The implication that he was guided by something divine or semi-divine was, in democratic Athens, another reason for suspicion.
Against the iconic tradition of a pot-belly, Socrates and his companions are described as going hungry. Constantin Brancusi's oak sculpture, standing 51.25 inches including its base, captures something of the strangeness: it looks different from every angle, including a second "eye" that cannot be seen if the first is in view. Lord Byron gave the ghost of Socrates a walk-on part in The Deformed Transformed, where two characters disagree over what is significant about him. One describes "that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round-eyed satyr, / With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect." The other replies: "And yet he was / The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, / And personification of all virtue."
That tension — between the grotesque exterior and the interior that contemporaries found irresistible — is not incidental. It is, in a sense, the whole argument.
The Stonecutter's Son and the Oracle's Riddle
Socrates was born in 469 B.C.E. into a city that had just decisively repulsed a Persian invasion at Plataea and was busy building the Delian League that would become an empire. His father, Sophroniscus, was a stoneworker from the deme of Alopece, southeast of the city wall, in the tribe of Antiochis. His mother, Phaenarete, was a midwife — a fact Socrates would later exploit as metaphor, comparing his own philosophical practice to the delivery of ideas already present in the minds of his interlocutors, ideas that were often stillborn. Assuming his father kept to convention, Sophroniscus carried the infant around the hearth five days after his birth, formally admitting him into the family, named him on the tenth day, and presented him to his phratry, the hereditary association that was the basic unit of Athenian social identity.
Literacy had become widespread among males since about 520, and elementary schools teaching reading, writing, gymnastics, and music were common by the 480s. Plato describes the young Socrates eagerly acquiring the philosopher Anaxagoras's books — scrolls, to be more precise. In Socrates's eighteenth year, around 451, Sophroniscus presented him to the deme for the dokimasia, the examination that entered him onto the citizens' roll and marked his formal allegiance to the laws of Athens. Two years of compulsory military training followed. Sophroniscus died soon after Socrates came of age, making the young man his mother's legal guardian. Phaenarete later remarried and had a second son, Patrocles.
What happened next is something of a mystery. The years between eighteen and thirty — the period before eligibility for jury service, generalship, and the Council — were typically spent learning a trade or acquiring rhetorical skills for political life. Socrates apparently practiced stonecutting. Tradition holds he was an exceptional artist, and his statue of the Graces on the road to the Acropolis was supposedly admired into the second century C.E. But at some point, the trade was abandoned. What replaced it was a vocation that had no name, no precedent, no revenue stream, and no obvious utility.
The pivot came, by Socrates's own account at his trial, from an oracle. His childhood friend Chaerephon — impetuous, politically active, eventually exiled during the oligarchic terror — traveled to Delphi and asked the Pythian prophetess whether anyone was wiser than Socrates. The answer was no. Socrates was baffled. "I know that I have no wisdom, small or great," he told the jury. "What can the god mean? And what is the interpretation of this riddle? For I know that I have no wisdom, small or great. What can he mean when he says that I am the wisest of men?"
Rather than accept the oracle at face value, Socrates set out to refute it. He went to the politicians, who thought themselves wise and were not. He went to the poets, who composed beautiful things but could not explain them. He went to the artisans, who knew many useful things but imagined this practical knowledge extended to matters about which they knew nothing. Everywhere the same pattern: genuine expertise was contaminated by the delusion that it conferred wisdom about everything. Only Socrates, who knew nothing and knew that he knew nothing, could lay claim to the meager advantage of not pretending otherwise.
I am wiser than this man; it is likely that neither of us knows anything worthwhile, but he thinks he knows something when he does not, whereas when I do not know, neither do I think I know; so I am likely to be wiser than he to this small extent, that I do not think I know what I do not know.
This was not modesty. This was a program. "The unexamined life is not worth living for a human being," he would tell the jury in what turned out to be his final public act, and by then he had spent four decades proving that he meant it.
The Hoplite Who Would Not Retreat
Before Socrates was a philosopher — before the word philosopher meant what it came to mean — he was a soldier. He fought at Potidaea in 432, where he saved the life and armor of the wounded Alcibiades during a chaotic retreat. The siege at Potidaea lasted nearly three years, reducing the population to cannibalism before it surrendered. He fought at Delium in 424, another defeat, where a Boeotian cavalry surprise routed the Athenian army. His heroic behavior in that retreat was praised by the general Laches and, much later, by Alcibiades himself, who testified that Socrates's swagger under fire was so intimidating that the enemy kept their distance. He fought at Amphipolis in 422, yet another Athenian disaster.
Three campaigns, three defeats, and yet what the ancient sources remember is not the outcomes but the man's conduct under catastrophe — the eerie composure, the physical toughness that struck observers as bordering on superhuman, the absolute refusal to break. These qualities were not merely biographical footnotes. They were the embodied proof of a philosophical proposition. If Socrates believed that virtue was a form of knowledge, that the person who truly understands what is right cannot fail to act rightly, that fear of death is merely "the pretence of wisdom, and not real wisdom, being the appearance of knowing the unknown," then the battlefield was the laboratory. The man who argued that courage was indistinguishable from understanding had to demonstrate that understanding on the line.
The military career ended around 421, after the Peace of Nicias. Socrates, so far as we know, did not return to war again. What he returned to — what he had perhaps never left — was the agora.
A Method Without a Manual
Socrates was usually to be found in the marketplace and other public areas, conversing with virtually anyone he could persuade to join him in his question-and-answer mode of probing serious matters — young and old, male and female, slave and free, rich and poor. This was his lifework. He pursued it single-mindedly, questioning people about what matters most: courage, love, reverence, moderation, and the state of their souls generally. He did this regardless of whether his respondents wanted to be questioned or resisted him.
The method — what would later be called the elenchus, from the Greek for cross-examination — followed a deceptively simple pattern. Socrates would identify someone who claimed or was reputed to possess expertise in some area of human excellence. He would ask a definitional question: What is courage? What is piety? What is justice? The interlocutor would offer an answer. Socrates would then, through a series of supplementary questions, lead the respondent to see that his answer contradicted other beliefs he also held. The interlocutor's several answers did not fit together as a group. The pretense of knowledge was exposed. A new answer could be proposed; the process would begin again. Typically, no satisfactory definition was reached. The dialogue ended in aporia — literally, without resources.
This looks, from a certain angle, like a recipe for making enemies. It was. Socrates acknowledged as much at his trial: "This investigation has led to my having many enemies of the worst and most dangerous kind, and has given occasion also to many calumnies." The young men of Athens — particularly the wealthy and well-born, who had leisure for intellectual pursuits — delighted in watching Socrates dismantle their elders. They imitated his technique, much to the annoyance of their parents. Aristophanes, the great comic playwright whose Clouds was produced in 423, even coined a verb — to socratize — conveying a range of unsavory behaviors.
But the method was not merely destructive. The experience of recognizing one's own ignorance, however unpleasant, was sometimes superseded by genuine intellectual curiosity. Socrates described himself not as a teacher — teachers were viewed as pitchers pouring their contents into the empty cups that were students — but as someone who helped others recognize on their own what is real, true, and good. He was a midwife of ideas, not their father. He refused payment, embraced poverty, and insisted to the end that he had no wisdom to transmit. The strangeness of this position in a city where sophists from abroad grew wealthy teaching the young men of Athens to use words to their advantage cannot be overstated.
What was Socrates actually doing? The simplest answer — that he was trying to find definitions of the virtues — is probably insufficient. Agnes Callard, the University of Chicago philosopher and author of
Open Socrates, has argued that Socratic inquiry is not merely a search for knowledge but a collaborative process in which the two rules of intellectual life — believing truths and avoiding falsehoods — cannot be followed simultaneously by a single person. The prosecution prosecutes, the defense defends, and truth emerges from the dialectic. Socrates was, in Callard's framing, designing the basic architecture of collaborative rationality.
The Most Dangerous Friends
The paradox at the center of Socrates's life — that a man who professed political indifference maintained friendships with some of the most politically consequential and dangerous figures in Athens — was not lost on his contemporaries. It was, in fact, one of the things that killed him.
Alcibiades, the brilliant, reckless general who saved Athens and then betrayed it, who defected to Sparta and then returned, who persuaded the Assembly to launch the catastrophic Sicilian expedition and then helped the enemy defeat it — Alcibiades was Socrates's beloved. The Symposium ends with Alcibiades, drunk and garlanded, crashing the philosophical dinner party and delivering a speech about Socrates that is simultaneously a declaration of unrequited love and an accusation of emotional cruelty. Socrates had saved his life at Potidaea. Socrates had refused his physical advances. Socrates spent "his whole life engaged in eirōneia and playing with people," Alcibiades charged, comparing him to a carved figurine whose outer shell conceals its inner contents.
Critias and Charmides, two of Plato's own relatives, were among the Thirty Tyrants who seized power in Athens in 404 after the Spartan victory in the Peloponnesian War. During their brief and bloody reign, they executed hundreds of Athenian citizens and foreign residents, seizing their property and consolidating power with Spartan military support. Both Critias and Charmides appear as interlocutors in Plato's dialogues — the young Charmides in a conversation about moderation, the older Critias in discussions of intellectual pretension. That Socrates had once conversed with these men about virtue, and that they had gone on to commit atrocities, was a fact the Athenian democracy would not forget.
Socrates himself had a complicated relationship with the Thirty. Critias and Charicles, two of their leaders, tried to intimidate him by forbidding him to speak to men under thirty — unsuccessfully. When the government widened its campaign of executions and attempted to implicate Socrates by ordering him to join others in fetching the democratic general Leon of Salamis for execution, Socrates simply went home. He refused the order. This act — which has been controversially called one of the earliest instances of civil disobedience — nearly cost him his life, but the Thirty were overthrown before they could take revenge.
His dogged failure to align himself politically with oligarchs or democrats was, in the eyes of both factions, not neutrality but something more threatening: a refusal to participate in the binary that organized Athenian political life. He had friends and enemies among both. He supported and opposed actions of both. He was, in the language of a later age, ungovernable.
The Comedian's Revenge
Twenty-four years before the trial, in the spring of 423, Aristophanes produced Clouds. In the play, a character called Socrates heads a "Think-o-Rama" in which young men study the natural world, practice slick argumentative techniques, learn dishonest methods for avoiding repayment of debt, and are encouraged to beat their parents into submission. The actor wearing the mask of Socrates makes fun of the traditional gods. The play placed third in the comedy competition — behind another play in which Socrates was mentioned as barefoot.
Aristophanes was not writing biography. Comedy amalgamated in one character features known to be unique to other fifth-century intellectuals; perhaps Aristophanes chose Socrates to represent garden-variety intellectuals because his physiognomy was strange enough by itself to get a laugh. But the damage was real and lasting. By the time of the trial, most of the jurors had grown up with the Clouds as their primary frame of reference for what Socrates was. Socrates himself told the jury that Aristophanes was more dangerous than the three men who had formally accused him, because the comedian had poisoned their minds while they were young.
Aristophanes did not stop. In 414, Birds attacked Socrates again. In 405, Frogs declared it was no longer fashionable to associate with him and his "hairsplitting twaddle." The relationship between the philosopher and the comedian — who appear together as guests at the same dinner party in Plato's Symposium, a fact that scholars have never quite known what to do with — illuminates something essential about Socrates's position in Athenian culture. He was famous enough to be a useful target, strange enough to be funny, and dangerous enough that the laughter carried a warning.
It's no longer fashionable to associate with Socrates and his hairsplitting twaddle, neglecting the craft of the tragedians.
The Women, the Voice, and Other Heresies
It did not help matters that Socrates seemed to have a higher opinion of women than most of his companions. He spoke of "men and women," "priests and priestesses," likened his work to midwifery, and named foreign women as his teachers — claiming to have learned rhetoric from Aspasia of Miletus, the de facto spouse of Pericles, and erotics from the priestess Diotima of Mantinea. In a society where citizen females were poorly educated and kept sequestered until puberty, when they were given in marriage by their fathers, this was not merely unconventional. It was destabilizing.
He married Xanthippe, a younger woman, who bore him three sons — Lamprocles, Sophroniscus, and Menexenus. The tradition that she was a shrew probably tells us more about ancient misogyny and the difficulty of being married to someone who had voluntarily embraced poverty and spent his days interrogating strangers than about her actual character. On his last day, she was with him in the prison cell at dawn, holding their youngest child, and had to be led home performing the ritual lamentation expected of women.
The daimonion — that inner voice — was perhaps the strangest of his heresies. It did not tell him what to do, only what not to do. It operated on matters both trivial and significant. It was not a conscience in any modern sense, not a superego, not reason itself. When Socrates spoke of it, the implication that he was guided by something divine or semi-divine gave his fellow citizens yet another reason for unease. Athens was a city of public religion, regulated by a calendar of festivals, where the city used revenues to maintain temples and shrines. A man who heard private voices was either a prophet or a lunatic, and the line between the two was thinner than the Athenians were comfortable admitting.
The Year Everything Broke
The spring and summer of 399. Athens was five years past the Spartan victory, four years past the bloody interregnum of the Thirty, still rebuilding its democracy, its legal code freshly rewritten, its citizens traumatized and suspicious. A new legal era had been proclaimed in 403/2. A general amnesty had been declared. But the courts, where conflict had shifted after the restoration, were busy settling old scores under new pretexts.
A young poet named Meletus composed a document charging Socrates with the capital crime of irreverence — asebeia — failure to show due piety toward the gods of Athens. He delivered it to Socrates in the presence of witnesses, instructing him to present himself before the king archon within four days. The charge had two prongs: Socrates did not believe in the gods of the Athenians, and he introduced new divinities. The irreverence, Meletus claimed, had resulted in the corruption of the city's young men. Two other citizens, Anytus and Lycon, joined the prosecution. Anytus — a returned democratic exile, hostile to Socrates, himself a man who had suffered under the Thirty — was probably the driving force.
Socrates had the right to countersue. He had the right to forgo the hearing and let the suit proceed uncontested. He had the right to exile himself voluntarily. He exercised none of these rights. Instead, he set out to enter a plea and stopped at a gymnasium to talk to some youngsters about mathematics and knowledge.
The trial occurred in the month of Thargelion, May or June of 399. Spectators gathered with the jury for proceedings that probably lasted most of the day, each side timed by the water clock. The jury — elderly, disabled, and impoverished volunteers who needed the meager three-obol pay — may have numbered in the hundreds. Plato's Apology preserves what purports to be Socrates's defense speech. It is not a defense in any conventional legal sense. It is an attack.
Socrates told the jury that the oracle at Delphi had declared him the wisest man in Athens. He told them that his lifelong mission of questioning had been assigned by the god. He told them that the unexamined life was not worth living. He told them that if they killed him, they would injure themselves more than they would injure him. He told them he would never stop philosophizing, not even if they let him go on the condition that he cease — "Men of Athens, I honor and love you; but I shall obey God rather than you."
The jury found him guilty. In the penalty phase, he offered — as a "last-minute capitulation to his friends" — to allow them to pay a fine of thirty minae, six times his net worth. The jury rejected the proposal and sentenced him to death. Perhaps they were too incensed by his words. More likely, the superstitious among them feared that the gods would be angry if they failed to execute a man already found guilty of irreverence. Socrates reflected that death might be a blessing: either a dreamless sleep, or an opportunity to converse in the underworld.
Thirty Days
While the sacred ship was on its annual journey to Delos — commemorating Theseus's legendary victory over the Minotaur — no executions were allowed in the city. Xenophon says the voyage took thirty-one days in 399. Socrates lived thirty days beyond his trial, into the month of Skirophorion.
A day or two before the end, his childhood friend Crito tried to persuade him to escape. The plans were in place. The guards could be bribed. Sympathizers in Thessaly would receive him. Socrates refused. He replied that he "listens to nothing but the argument that on reflection seems best" and that "neither to do wrong or to return a wrong is ever right, not even to injure in return for an injury received" — not even under threat of death, not even for one's family. He could not point to a harm that would outweigh the harm he would inflict on the city if he now exiled himself unlawfully when he could earlier have done so lawfully. Such lawbreaking would confirm the jury's judgment that he was a corrupter of the young and bring shame on his family and friends.
The events of his last day were related by Phaedo — a former slave, one of those present — to the Pythagorean community at Phlius some weeks or months after the execution. The Eleven, the prison officials chosen by lot, met with Socrates at dawn to tell him what to expect. Xanthippe and their youngest child were still with him when his friends arrived. She was led home after performing the lamentation. Socrates spent the day in philosophical conversation, defending the immortality of the soul and warning his companions not to restrain themselves in argument: "If you take my advice, you will give but little thought to Socrates but much more to the truth. If you think that what I say is true, agree with me; if not, oppose it with every argument."
He bathed at the prison's cistern so the women of his household would be spared from washing his corpse. He met with his family again in late afternoon, then rejoined his companions. The servant of the Eleven, a public slave, bade him farewell by calling him "the noblest, the gentlest, and the best" of men. The poisoner described the physical effects of the Conium maculatum variety of hemlock used for citizen executions — a progressive paralysis ascending from the feet.
Of all those we have known, he was the best, and also the wisest and the most upright.
Socrates cheerfully took the cup and drank.
The Problem of the Phantom
He wrote nothing. Every word attributed to him is second-hand. The three primary sources — Aristophanes, Xenophon, and Plato — disagree on matters both crucial and trivial. So thorny is the difficulty of distinguishing the historical Socrates from the Socrateses of the authors who wrote about him that the whole contested issue is known as "the Socratic problem." Each age, each intellectual turn, produces a Socrates of its own. As Cornelia de Vogel put it in 1955: "The 'real' Socrates we have not: what we have is a set of interpretations each of which represents a 'theoretically possible' Socrates."
Aristophanes knew the younger Socrates and lampooned him. Xenophon — a soldier-historian, a practical man whose ability to recognize philosophical issues is almost imperceptible — wrote Memorabilia, presenting Socrates as a helpful advisor on estate management and moneymaking. His portrait is so pedestrian that it is difficult to imagine it inspiring fifteen or more people to write Socratic discourses after the death. Xenophon lived fifteen kilometers from Athens, across the Hymettus mountains, left on an expedition to Persia in 401, and never returned. His memoirs are pastiches, several of which could not have occurred as presented.
Plato was about twenty-five when Socrates was tried and executed and had probably known the old man most of his life. His representation of individual Athenians has proved to correspond remarkably well with archaeological and literary evidence. But Plato was himself one of the most original philosophers in human history, and the character "Socrates" who dominates most of his dialogues is — at least in the middle and later works — clearly a vehicle for Plato's own ideas. The consensus among scholars is that the shorter dialogues that end in aporia — Laches, Euthyphro, Charmides — come closest to the historical Socrates, while the grand metaphysical constructions of the Republic and Phaedo are Plato's own, using the name and authority of his teacher to advance positions Socrates himself never held.
The result is that nearly everything we think we know about Socrates is contested. As Alexander Nehamas observed, "with the exception of the Epicureans, every philosophical school in antiquity, whatever its orientation, saw in him either its actual founder or the type of person to whom its adherents were to aspire." The diversity of the schools that claimed his legacy — from the austere self-denial of Antisthenes's Cynics to the hedonism of Aristippus's Cyrenaics — is itself the most eloquent testimony to the range of what he may have been.
The Afterlife of a Gadfly
Socrates is an inescapable figure in intellectual history worldwide.
Benjamin Franklin listed among his personal virtues: "Humility: Imitate Jesus and Socrates." Martin Luther King Jr., in his 1963 "Letter from Birmingham Jail," wrote that "academic freedom is a reality today because Socrates practiced civil disobedience." James Madison, in
Federalist No. 55, offered the definitive backhanded compliment: "Had every Athenian citizen been a Socrates, every Athenian assembly would still have been a mob."
Thomas Jefferson dismissed as "the whimsies of Plato's own foggy brain" whatever in the dialogues struck him as sophistical, thereby "acquitting Socrates of puerilities so unlike his character." Percy Bysshe Shelley called him "the Jesus Christ of Greece." John Keats wrote, "I can remember but two disinterested hearts — Socrates and Jesus."
Nelson Mandela, eleven of whose twenty-seven prison years were spent at hard labor in rock quarries, described how his fellow prisoners educated themselves by forming study groups. "The style of teaching was Socratic in nature," he wrote in Long Walk to Freedom, with questions posed by leaders to their study groups. The Al Qaeda Training Manual, in its introduction, defined itself by opposition: "The confrontation that we are calling for with the apostate regimes does not know Socratic debates, Platonic ideals, nor Aristotelian diplomacy. But it knows the dialogue of bullets."
Steve Jobs reportedly said he would trade all of his technology for an afternoon with Socrates. The remark, if authentic, captures something about what Socrates represents in the popular imagination: not a body of knowledge but a quality of attention, a willingness to sit with questions rather than rush to answers, a conviction that the process of inquiry is itself the highest form of human activity. In U.S. law schools, the Socratic method — a stylized descendant of the original, in which professors call on students without warning and lead them through chains of questioning — remains the dominant pedagogical technique. The University of Chicago Law School describes it as "a tool used to engage a large group of students in a discussion, while using probing questions to get at the heart of the subject matter."
Yet something has been lost in translation. As the Stanford Encyclopedia notes, in contemporary American education "Socratic questioning implies no effort on the part of a leading figure to elicit from the participants any severe discomfort with current opinions — that is, to sting like a gadfly or to expose a disquieting truth." The name "Socrates" is used to invest with gravitas collaborative learning that addresses moral questions and relies on interactive techniques. The unsettling, dangerous, annoying Socrates — the one who was executed for his trouble — tends to be edited out.
Jacques-Louis David's 1787 painting, "The Death of Socrates," now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, has become the defining image. The philosopher reaches for the cup of hemlock with one hand while pointing upward with the other — his courageous decision to die for his principles, the grief his fate stirred in others. It is a beautiful painting and a flattering lie. David rendered the old philosopher classically handsome, ignoring every source's description of the man's strangeness. The most famous portrait of history's most relentless truth-teller is itself a concealment.
On his last day, in the prison cell, Socrates told a friend about a recurring dream that had instructed him to "compose music and work at it." He had always interpreted this to mean: keep doing philosophy, because "philosophy was the greatest kind of music." But in prison, awaiting execution, he tried something new. He experimented with turning some of Aesop's fables into verse. Whether the verses were any good, we will never know. He did not write them down.
