Amber and Clay by Laura Schlitz (phonics books txt) 📕

I took money for it — this would make sense for me. But here is my witness: my poverty.

Why is it that some people enjoy spending time with me? They enjoy listening when people who think they’re wise are proved to be no such thing. It has its amusing moments. But I’ve been commanded to ask these questions by the god, who has come to me in oracles and dreams.

Well, then, gentlemen, that’s all I have to say. At this point, most men bring in their family to shed tears and produce as much pity as they can. I won’t do this, even though I am in danger of being put to death. I was not born from oak or stone, as Homer says; I have sons: two young children, and a youth. But I won’t have them come here to plead for me, and I won’t beg you to change your votes.

Why not? Justice seems to me to demand not that I beg, but that I tell the truth. I leave it to you and to the god to judge my case.

Five hundred men with ballots in hands arise from the benches.

Stretching and muttering, aching from sitting and listening so long.

Forming a line, they pass between two massive urns:

one wooden, one bronze,

dropping their ballots and casting their votes

sealing his fate.

“How long will it take?”

“Before they decide? Only the gods know.

No trial lasts longer than a day, I know that.

Simon the cobbler went to watch the trial;

he’s friends with Sokrates.

I asked him to come by afterward and let us know.”

He picked up a lump of clay

and stepped sideways, facing me,

each of us at opposite sides of the table.

He bent forward, starting a ram’s head.

We worked together in the same rhythm,

folding and kneading and rocking the clay.

It was slave’s work, and beneath him,

but he kept at it,

finishing each cylinder,

tapping the ram’s nose against the table,

setting the cylinders in rows.

I knew why he stayed, and I was grateful.

Two hundred and eighty to two hundred twenty —

he’s guilty.

Now once again the philosopher speaks:

it is his right.

And also his risk: to suggest his own punishment;

What shall it be?

Too harsh and he’ll suffer, too light

and he’s likely to madden the crowd —

Catcalls and boos. He raises his hands. Hoarsely he speaks:

I am not angered, gentlemen of Athens, by what has happened: you have found me guilty. Actually, I’m amazed that the vote was so close. If just thirty votes had gone the other way, I would have been set free.

So what penalty do I deserve? Something good, gentlemen of Athens; a punishment that would fit the crime.

As you know, gentlemen, there is a banquet hall in the heart of the city, and famous Athenians — Olympic athletes and so on — are privileged to dine there for free. Most of these men are rich men, and don’t need free meals, but I do. Why shouldn’t I have my meals free, and sit in a place of honor? That would be justice: that’s the punishment I propose for myself. I know I have done no injustice to any man. So I’m not going to treat myself unjustly and say I deserve some harmful penalty.

No doubt someone will say, Sokrates, can’t you please just shut up and mind your own business? This is the hardest thing to make you understand. I can’t shut up. It would be disobedient to the god to mind my own business. The greatest good for a human being is to talk about ἀρετή, to ask questions and examine. A life without examination is not worth living.

As far as fines go, I could perhaps afford a hundred drachmas. My friends here — Plato and Krito, Kritobolus and Apollodorus — are willing to spend thirty times as much to set me free. So I propose three thousand drachmas as a fine; they have promised to pay for my freedom.

Shameless!

a hiss from the crowd,

a ripple of indignation:

This time the old man’s gone too far.

he’ll pay for his crimes.

Arrogant! what kind of thinker can equal the worth of an athlete?

Growing and swelling, the wrath of the mob:

Sokrates must die.

So I am to die. You haven’t gained much, gentlemen. I am seventy years old; I would soon have died without your help. On top of that, you will be found guilty of killing Sokrates, a wise man.

My daimon, who often stops me from doing what I mean to do, said nothing when I came here this morning. It didn’t stop me from saying the things I’ve said. So I think that probably what has happened is a good thing, and death may be something good. Either death is like not existing at all, or it is a change, a migration of the soul.

Now if death is like sleep without dreaming, death will be an unspeakable gain. For eternity will be like a single night.

But if to die is to go somewhere else, and all the dead exist in that place, what greater good could there be than to join them? It would be amazing to meet with the heroes of old and talk to them. What would I give to question Agamemnon, who led his vast army into Troy? or Odysseus? or countless other men and women of fame? It would be almost too much happiness to meet them.

At any rate, in the House of Hades, they don’t kill people for asking questions.

You, too, gentlemen, must look forward to death. Be of good hope. Fix your mind on this one belief: Nothing can harm a good man, whether living or dead. Nor are his affairs neglected by the god.

I bear no grudge against those who have condemned me. Only grant me one favor. When my sons are grown, if they put money or anything else before goodness, question them! Rebuke them and remind them of their souls!

But now it is time to depart, I to