Questions I Would Ask Socrates, Part One

Did it hurt, Socrates?

The hemlock being the first part, your death being the second. I never bought all of your stoicism. Not for one second. You put on a brave face, as all are wont to do when they stare death in the eyes and Death stares back, looking like all of those men you've passed on the street and questioned and broken down--all those men who never quite understood what was happening to them when they felt the crumbling and lashed out, ran off, destroyed whatever uncertainty they felt within the cracks. You held your head high, you kept asking and probing and getting every little drop of truth out of their deep and bloody hearts. You went down the basement of their souls further than they've ever been before they had to run up those steps, scared of the darkness.

And yet--was there no doubt? Don't tell me that. No one could stand it. You must have questioned it. Yes, you'd say--I have lived a good life. But it would have meant nothing if it hadn't survived. What if Crito, Phaedo, Plato and all of the rest moved on? You're an old man. You could have been just an amusement; they couldn't have cared less. Worse, they could have cared more and gotten killed for it. All that work ruined.

And then, of course, the worst thought: I could have been wrong. No forms, no Good, no order in the universe--just singularity and chaos no matter where anything goes. None of your so-desired logic. Horrible, wouldn't that have been?


You seemed so glad of eternal sleep, but I know you better than that, Socrates. You act. You question. To slumber unaware for eternity would be worse than any other idea of death for you. The true philosopher never sleeps. It counters his nature, it makes him one of them--one of those horses you tried so valiantly to wake with your little gadfly sting.

You must have felt so weak, then--taking the hemlock and staring at them all, hoping that they'd understood. Hoping that they would continue to understand.

So honestly, Socrates--I admire your courage. I admire your strength, your unwavering loyalty towards things enormous and glorious and so, so much bigger than we can ever be, even in death. You were the strongest of us all.

But you must have been terrified.