genius

Socrates is just standing there staring at his feet (at least that’s what I imagine) and he realizes that, for a moment, he isn’t thinking about anything at all. He’s thinking about nothing. He’s momentarily existential, doing Zen, and he doesn’t even know it. How can he? There’s no context for it. He’s Greek. It’s 399 B.C.E.

So, without further examination, he shakes it off and goes back to thinking about how the strap on his sandal is worn through and could break at any moment. And then he thinks, There is a sandal, perfect and eternal, which has a strap that could break at any moment, and, There is also a sandal, perfect and eternal, which has a strap that will never break.

He has no regrets. He’s got money enough. His life is its own example. He’s feeling more virtuous than usual, standing in the midst of the jury. Voices are buzzing around his head like hornets. Where is the reason in this? he asks himself. He calmly takes a breath, gathers his thoughts, looks up and, according to Plato, says something along the lines of, How you have felt, O men of Athens, at hearing the speeches of my accusers, I cannot tell; but I know that their persuasive words almost made me forget who I was . . .