The Problem With Socrates

In all ages the wisest have always agreed in their judgment of life: it is no good. At all times and places the same words have been on their lips,—words full of doubt, full of melancholy, full of weariness of life, full of hostility to life. Even Socrates’ dying words were:—“To live—means to be ill a long while: I owe a cock to the god Æsculapius.” Even Socrates had had enough of it. What does that prove? What does it point to? Formerly people would have said (—oh, it has been said, and loudly enough too; by our Pessimists loudest of all!): “In any case there must be some truth in this! The consensus sapientium is a proof of truth.”—Shall we say the same to-day? May we do so? “In any case there must be some sickness here,” we make reply. These great sages of all periods should first be examined more closely! Is it possible that they were, everyone of them, a little shaky on their legs, effete, rocky, decadent? Does wisdom perhaps appear on earth after the manner of a crow attracted by a slight smell of carrion?

In every age, the wisest people have agreed in their judgment of life: it is no good. Everywhere and at all times, they have spoken the same words. Their words are full of doubt, sadness, weariness of life, and hostility toward life. Even Socrates’ dying words were: “To live means to be ill for a long time: I owe a rooster to the god Æsculapius.” Even Socrates had had enough of life. What does that prove? What does it point to? In the past, people would have said: “In any case there must be some truth in this! The consensus sapientium is proof of truth.” Oh, people have said it, loudly enough. Our Pessimists have said it loudest of all! Should we say the same today? May we do so? We reply: “In any case there must be some sickness here.” We should first take a closer look at these great sages of every age! Is it possible that every one of them was a little unsteady, worn out, shaky, decadent? Does wisdom perhaps appear on earth like a crow drawn by a faint smell of carrion?

This irreverent belief that the great sages were decadent types, first occurred to me precisely in regard to that case concerning which both learned and vulgar prejudice was most opposed to my view. I recognised Socrates and Plato as symptoms of decline, as instruments in the disintegration of Hellas, as pseudo-Greek, as anti-Greek (“The Birth of Tragedy,” 1872). That consensus sapientium, as I perceived ever more and more clearly, did not in the least prove that they were right in the matter on which they agreed. It proved rather that these sages themselves must have been alike in some physiological particular, in order to assume the same negative attitude towards life—in order to be bound to assume that attitude. After all, judgments and valuations of life, whether for or against, cannot be true: their only value lies in the fact that they are symptoms; they can be considered only as symptoms,—per se such judgments are nonsense. You must therefore endeavour by all means to reach out and try to grasp this astonishingly subtle axiom, that the value of life cannot be estimated. A living man cannot do so, because he is a contending party, or rather the very object in the dispute, and not a judge; nor can a dead man estimate it—for other reasons. For a philosopher to see a problem in the value of life, is almost an objection against him, a note of interrogation set against his wisdom—a lack of wisdom. What? Is it possible that all these great sages were not only decadents, but that they were not even wise? Let me however return to the problem of Socrates.

This irreverent belief that the great sages were decadent types first occurred to me in a particular case. Both learned and popular prejudice were most strongly opposed to my view of it. I saw Socrates and Plato as symptoms of decline and agents in the disintegration of Hellas. They were pseudo-Greek, anti-Greek (“The Birth of Tragedy,” 1872). As I saw ever more clearly, that consensus sapientium, or agreement among the wise, did not prove them right. Rather, it proved that the sages must have shared some physiological trait. This trait led them, indeed forced them, to take the same negative view of life. After all, judgments and valuations of life, whether for or against it, cannot be true. Their only value is as symptoms, and they can be understood only as symptoms. Per se, such judgments are nonsense. So you must make every effort to grasp this astonishingly subtle axiom: the value of life cannot be estimated. A living person cannot estimate it because he is a party to the dispute. He is, rather, the very object of the dispute, not a judge. Nor can a dead person estimate it, for other reasons. For a philosopher to see a problem in the value of life is almost an objection to him. It casts doubt on his wisdom. It is a lack of wisdom. What? Is it possible that all these great sages were not only decadents, but not even wise? But let me return to the problem of Socrates.

To judge from his origin, Socrates belonged to the lowest of the low: Socrates was mob. You know, and you can still see it for yourself, how ugly he was. But ugliness, which in itself is an objection, was almost a refutation among the Greeks. Was Socrates really a Greek? Ugliness is not infrequently the expression of thwarted development, or of development arrested by crossing. In other cases it appears as a decadent development. The anthropologists among the criminal specialists declare that I the typical criminal is ugly: monstrum in fronte, monstrum in animo. But the criminal is a decadent?¹ Was Socrates a typical criminal?—At all events this would not clash with that famous physiognomist’s judgment which was so repugnant to Socrates’ friends. While on his way through Athens a certain foreigner who was no fool at judging by looks, told Socrates to his face that he was a monster, that his body harboured all the worst vices and passions. And Socrates replied simply: “You know me, sir!”—

Judging by his origins, Socrates belonged to the lowest of the low. Socrates was mob. You know how ugly he was, and you can still see it for yourself. But ugliness, which is an objection in itself, was almost a refutation among the Greeks. Was Socrates really a Greek? Ugliness is often a sign of stunted development, or of development arrested by crossbreeding. In other cases, it appears as a sign of decadence. Anthropologists who specialize in criminals say that the typical criminal is ugly: monstrum in fronte, monstrum in animo. But is the criminal a decadent?¹ Was Socrates a typical criminal? In any case, that would not contradict the judgment of the famous physiognomist, which so offended Socrates’ friends. A certain foreigner was passing through Athens. He was no fool when it came to judging people by their looks. He told Socrates to his face that he was a monster, and that his body harbored all the worst vices and passions. Socrates simply replied: “You know me, sir!”

Not only are the acknowledged wildness and anarchy of Socrates’ instincts indicative of decadence, but also that preponderance of the logical faculties and that malignity of the misshapen which was his special characteristic. Neither should we forget those aural delusions which were religiously interpreted as “the demon of Socrates.” Everything in him is exaggerated, buffo, caricature, his nature is also full of concealment, of ulterior motives, and of underground currents. I try to understand the idiosyncrasy from which the Socratic equation:—Reason = Virtue = Happiness, could have arisen: the weirdest equation ever seen, and one which was essentially opposed to all the instincts of the older Hellenes.

The acknowledged wildness and anarchy of Socrates’ instincts are signs of decadence. So are the dominance of his logical faculties and the malice of the physically misshapen that was his special trait. We should not forget his auditory hallucinations, either. These were interpreted in religious terms as “the demon of Socrates.” Everything about him is exaggerated, buffo, a caricature. His nature is also full of concealment, ulterior motives, and hidden undercurrents. I try to understand the peculiarity that could have given rise to the Socratic equation: Reason = Virtue = Happiness. It is the weirdest equation ever seen, and it was fundamentally opposed to all the instincts of the older Hellenes.

With Socrates Greek taste veers round in favour of dialectics: what actually occurs? In the first place a noble taste is vanquished: with dialectics the mob comes to the top. Before Socrates’ time, dialectical manners were avoided in good society: they were regarded as bad manners, they were compromising. Young men were cautioned against them. All such proffering of one’s reasons was looked upon with suspicion. Honest things like honest men do not carry their reasons on their sleeve in such fashion. It is not good form to make a show of everything. That which needs to be proved cannot be worth much. Wherever authority still belongs to good usage, wherever men do not prove but command, the dialectician is regarded as a sort of clown. People laugh at him, they do not take him seriously. Socrates was a clown who succeeded in making men take him seriously: what then was the matter?

With Socrates, Greek taste turns in favor of dialectics. What actually happens? First, a noble taste is defeated: with dialectics, the mob comes out on top. Before Socrates, good society avoided dialectical behavior. It was seen as bad manners, an embarrassment. Young men were warned against it. Any such offering of reasons was viewed with suspicion. Honest things, like honest men, do not wear their reasons on their sleeves. It is bad manners to put everything on display. Anything that needs to be proved cannot be worth much. Wherever good customs still hold authority, wherever men command rather than prove, the dialectician is seen as a kind of clown. People laugh at him. They do not take him seriously. Socrates was a clown who succeeded in making men take him seriously. What, then, was the matter?

A man resorts to dialectics only when he has no other means to hand. People know that they excite suspicion with it and that it is not very convincing. Nothing is more easily dispelled than a dialectical effect: this is proved by the experience of every gathering in which discussions are held. It can be only the last defence of those who have no other weapons. One must require to extort one’s right, otherwise one makes no use of it. That is why the Jews were dialecticians. Reynard the Fox was a dialectician: what?—and was Socrates one as well?

A man turns to dialectics only when he has no other means available. People know that dialectics makes them look suspicious and is not very convincing. Nothing is easier to dispel than the effect of dialectics. Anyone who has attended a gathering where people argue knows this from experience. Dialectics can only be the last defense of those who have no other weapons. One uses it only when one has to force others to grant one’s rights. That is why the Jews were dialecticians. Reynard the Fox was a dialectician. What? Was Socrates one too?

Is the Socratic irony an expression of revolt, of mob resentment? Does Socrates, as a creature suffering under oppression, enjoy his innate ferocity in the knife-thrusts of the syllogism? Does he wreak his revenge on the noblemen he fascinates?—As a dialectician a man has a merciless instrument to wield; he can play the tyrant with it: he compromises when he conquers with it. The dialectician leaves it to his opponent to prove that he is no idiot: he infuriates, he likewise paralyses. The dialectician cripples the intellect of his opponent. Can it be that dialectics was only a form of revenge in Socrates?

Is Socratic irony an expression of revolt, of resentment among the masses? Does Socrates, suffering under oppression, enjoy his natural ferocity when he strikes with the knife of logic? Does he take revenge on the noblemen he fascinates? A dialectician has a merciless weapon and can use it like a tyrant. By defeating an opponent with it, he discredits him. The dialectician leaves his opponent to prove that he is not an idiot. He enrages and paralyzes his opponent. He cripples his opponent’s intellect. Could dialectics have been nothing more than a form of revenge for Socrates?

I have given you to understand in what way Socrates was able to repel: now it is all the more necessary to explain how he fascinated.—One reason is that he discovered a new kind of Agon, and that he was the first fencing-master in the best circles in Athens. He fascinated by appealing to the combative instinct of the Greeks,—he introduced a variation into the contests between men and youths. Socrates was also a great erotic.

I have shown you how Socrates could repel people. Now it is all the more necessary to explain how he fascinated them. One reason is that he discovered a new kind of Agon. He was the first fencing master in Athens’s best circles. He fascinated people by appealing to the Greeks’ fighting instinct. He introduced a new variation into the contests between men and youths. Socrates was also a man of great erotic passion.

But Socrates divined still more. He saw right through his noble Athenians; he perceived that his case, his peculiar case, was no exception even in his time. The same kind of degeneracy was silently preparing itself everywhere: ancient Athens was dying out. And Socrates understood that the whole world needed him,—his means, his remedy, his special artifice for self-preservation. Everywhere the instincts were in a state of anarchy; everywhere people were within an ace of excess: the monstrum in animo was the general danger. “The instincts would play the tyrant; we must discover a counter-tyrant who is stronger than they.” On the occasion when that physiognomist had unmasked Socrates, and had told him what he was, a crater full of evil desires, the great Master of Irony let fall one or two words more, which provide the key to his nature. “This is true,” he said, “but I overcame them all.” How did Socrates succeed in mastering himself? His case was at bottom only the extreme and most apparent example of a state of distress which was beginning to be general: that state in which no one was able to master himself and in which the instincts turned one against the other. As the extreme example of this state, he fascinated—his terrifying ugliness made him conspicuous to every eye: it is quite obvious that he fascinated still more as a reply, as a solution, as an apparent cure of this case.

But Socrates sensed even more. He saw through his noble Athenians. He realized that his peculiar case was no exception, even in his own time. The same kind of degeneracy was quietly developing everywhere. Ancient Athens was dying out. And Socrates understood that the whole world needed him: his methods, his remedy, his special device for self-preservation. Everywhere, the instincts were in a state of anarchy. Everywhere, people were on the brink of excess. The monstrum in animo was the danger everyone faced. “The instincts would become tyrants. We must find a counter-tyrant stronger than they are.” Once, a physiognomist unmasked Socrates and told him what he was: a crater full of evil desires. The great Master of Irony then let slip a few more words that provide the key to his nature. “This is true,” he said, “but I overcame them all.” How did Socrates manage to master himself? His case was really only the most extreme and obvious example of a distress that was beginning to spread. No one could master himself, and the instincts were turning against one another. As the most extreme example of this condition, he fascinated people. His terrifying ugliness made him stand out to everyone. Clearly, he fascinated people even more as an answer, a solution, an apparent cure for this condition.

When a man finds it necessary, as Socrates did, to create a tyrant out of reason, there is no small danger that something else wishes to play the tyrant. Reason was then discovered as a saviour; neither Socrates nor his “patients” were at liberty to be rational or not, as they pleased; at that time it was de rigueur, it had become a last shift. The fanaticism with which the whole of Greek thought plunges into reason, betrays a critical condition of things: men were in danger; there were only two alternatives: either perish or else be absurdly rational. The moral bias of Greek philosophy from Plato onward, is the outcome of a pathological condition, as is also its appreciation of dialectics. Reason = Virtue = Happiness, simply means: we must imitate Socrates, and confront the dark passions permanently with the light of day—the light of reason. We must at all costs be clever, precise, clear: all yielding to the instincts, to the unconscious, leads downwards.

When a man finds it necessary to make reason a tyrant, as Socrates did, something else is probably trying to become the tyrant. Reason was then discovered as a savior. Neither Socrates nor his “patients” were free to choose whether to be rational. At the time, reason was mandatory. It had become a last resort. The fanaticism with which all Greek thought plunged into reason reveals a critical situation. People were in danger. There were only two alternatives: perish or be absurdly rational. The moral bias of Greek philosophy from Plato onward is the result of an unhealthy condition. So is its high regard for dialectics. Reason = Virtue = Happiness simply means that we must imitate Socrates. We must constantly confront the dark passions with the light of day, the light of reason. We must be clever, precise, and clear at all costs. Any yielding to the instincts or the unconscious leads downward.

I have now explained how Socrates fascinated: he seemed to be a doctor, a Saviour. Is it necessary to expose the errors which lay in his faith in “reason at any price”?—It is a piece of self-deception on the part of philosophers and moralists to suppose that they can extricate themselves from degeneration by merely waging war upon it. They cannot thus extricate themselves; that which they choose as a means, as the road to salvation, is in itself again only an expression of degeneration—they only modify its mode of manifesting itself: they do not abolish it. Socrates was a misunderstanding. The whole of the morality of amelioration—that of Christianity as well—was a misunderstanding. The most blinding light of day: reason at any price; life made clear, cold, cautious, conscious, without instincts, opposed to the instincts, was in itself only a disease, another kind of disease—and by no means a return to “virtue,” to “health,” and to happiness. To be obliged to fight the instincts—this is the formula of degeneration: as long as life is in the ascending line, happiness is the same as instinct.

I have now explained how Socrates fascinated people: he seemed to be a doctor, a Saviour. Must I expose the errors behind his faith in “reason at any price”? Philosophers and moralists deceive themselves when they think they can escape degeneration simply by waging war on it. They cannot escape it this way. The means they choose, the path to salvation, is itself just another expression of degeneration. They only change how degeneration appears. They do not eliminate it. Socrates was a misunderstanding. The whole morality of improvement, including that of Christianity, was a misunderstanding. The most blinding daylight: reason at any price. Life made clear, cold, cautious, conscious, without instincts and opposed to them, was itself only a disease, another kind of disease. It was by no means a return to “virtue,” to “health,” and to happiness. Being forced to fight the instincts: this is the formula of degeneration. As long as life is rising, happiness is the same as instinct.

—Did he understand this himself, this most intelligent of self-deceivers? Did he confess this to himself in the end, in the wisdom of his courage before death. Socrates wished to die. Not Athens, but his own hand gave him the draught of hemlock; he drove Athens to the poisoned cup. “Socrates is not a doctor,” he whispered to himself, “death alone can be a doctor here.... Socrates himself has only been ill a long while.”

Did he understand this himself, the most intelligent of self-deceivers? In the end, did he admit it to himself, in the wisdom of his courage before death? Socrates wanted to die. It was not Athens but his own hand that gave him the cup of hemlock. He drove Athens to offer him the poisoned cup. “Socrates is not a doctor,” he whispered to himself. “Only death can be a doctor here.... Socrates himself has only been ill for a long time.”