#release thyself

The Alphaeus — Chapter 9

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TEL. Please, Socrates, continue, and I am very much with you now.

(As Socrates is preparing to speak, a woman appears as if from nowhere. She is tall but bent, and at the dawn of old age; she wears her ragged dress with dignity, her feet are bare, and she is carrying a basket on her back containing many bundles of twigs and herbs. When she smiles in greeting, her blue eyes sparkle and her face appears old and yet young.)

WOMAN Good morning, gentlemen, and I apologise for interrupting your conversation, but I need to rest for a few moments beneath this fine tree, and to share your shade if you will allow. I shall be gone from you very shortly.

TEL. Please, lady, join us and let me help you with the burden that you bear.

WOMAN It is no burden, young man, merely some necessities of life; but thank you, and I shall sit for just a little time.

TEL. You are welcome.

WOMAN This is a beautiful place to rest and to contemplate the power of that temple. Is that where you have been this day?

TEL. No, lady, it is not. My friend here and I met by accident, as I was walking to the court of Alampis.

WOMAN (laughing) I do not think that anyone meets your friend by accident, and it is sure that he must have come to this place for some good reason or other.

TEL. You speak as if one who knows him.

WOMAN I do not know him personally, yet I do know his name, as do many who walk invisible through this city.

TEL. What can you mean by that, to walk invisible through this city?

WOMAN Good Socrates, if I may address you so, have you ever seen me before this day?

SOC. Welcome, lady, but I do not think that I have.

WOMAN And yet I have seen you many times as you walk the streets of Athena’s city, and I have heard you, and have even stood close by to you on not a few occasions. This is what it is to be invisible.

SOC. And would you say, good woman, that you have seen me and heard me talk, and even stood close to me however many times, by accident or was it by design?

WOMAN I must admit that it was and is by my design.

SOC. What, then, is your purpose behind such a design?

WOMAN To listen to you, and to hear you, as well as those with whom you converse.

SOC. Then you will be aware of some of my conversations, and how well or otherwise they have been received.

WOMAN I am aware, Socrates.

SOC. So what think you of them, lady?

WOMAN I think they are the conversations of a good man, however well or ill they are received.

SOC. I pray that is the truth; but do you wish to know what it was that my friend Telamon here and I, and one other who lately departed, were discussing?

WOMAN I do, as I saw that other as I approached, and there was hardly a pebble across his path that did not receive from him a most vehement kick.

TEL. He is a passionate man.

WOMAN Aye, he is and he looked deeply troubled.

SOC. And it is a passionate subject to many, for we were enquiring as to whether it is possible to be truly happy in this life.

WOMAN Your departing friend seemed not to be so.

TEL. Please, be not quick with your judgment, for he was angry and short of time.

WOMAN I do not judge him, sir, I only report what I saw, and those pebbles had done him no harm.

TEL. (laughing) Yes, he did not seem too happy with our talk.

SOC. Good lady, what would be your answer to that same simple question; do you think that it is possible to be truly happy in this life?

WOMAN I can only answer that, Socrates, from the experience of my life, and it will much depend upon how such happiness is defined.

TEL. It is certain, Socrates, that this lady has heard you often, as now she now questions just like you. But come, good woman, would you say that you are happy?

WOMAN I am.

TEL. And has your happiness been achieved from the fulfillment of your desires?

WOMAN What know you of my desires, young man?

TEL. Please, I shall express my question another way. Would you say that your desires for wealth, health, power, reputation and good family have been fulfilled?

WOMAN (laughing) No, good fellow, they have not.

TEL. And yet you say that you are happy?

WOMAN I do.

TEL. Yet, according to my friend, the fulfillment of those desires is what happiness truly is, and therefore, by that mark, you cannot then be happy.

WOMAN It will not be your friend Socrates here who has said these things, so it must have been that other angry one; and he has made two towering assumptions, which are always a cause of error.

TEL. What assumptions are they, good lady?

WOMAN The first is that I even possess those named desires for such objects.

TEL. But do you not?

WOMAN I do not, and hence they will not be fulfilled.

TEL. And what was the second assumption that has caused or has lead to some error?

WOMAN It is that happiness may be measured and defined by such fulfillment of those same desires.

TEL. But, do you say that these desires are not common to all men and women?

WOMAN The desires may well be common but their objects, I think, are not.

TEL. Please, lady, explain your meaning to us.

WOMAN Have you not observed the attraction young children suffer for bright and sparkling things?

TEL. I have.

WOMAN And at times that attraction is so potent as to cause a crawling tot to lift itself up, or a walking tot to climb, as being focused solely upon the object of its desire, no risk or difficulty preventing. Have you observed this too, young man?

TEL. This, too, I have seen.

WOMAN And when that sparkling object is finally grasped, and held close to and examined, is the child then happy and fulfilled?

TEL. For a time it so appears.

WOMAN But what, then, if a brighter and more glittering object attracts the attention of that little person, is not the first put aside and the desire for it replaced?

TEL. It is.

WOMAN What say you of this form of happiness, good man, is it true?

TEL. I can only think that it is true for so long as it lasts.

WOMAN But when the happiness has departed what then happens to its truth?

TEL. It must surely depart along with it.

WOMAN Then the sparkling object itself was not sufficient to a permanent happiness.

TEL. It was not.

WOMAN Why so, young man; is that not now the question you should answer?

TEL. (Quietly, after a long silent pause) Because it was itself impermanent, and whether cast aside, lost, or when perished through time, it would depart and cease to be an object of desire.

WOMAN (Standing up) For that very reason I am not happy from such fulfillment of the desires your friend announced, as it is as temporary as it is true, and, likewise, the form of happiness it promotes. But my time here is now over and there is another I must attend to, so farewell, good Telamon, and you dear Socrates; until another time when we may meet. And use such time well, both of you, as this life may be so very short.

TEL. Thank you, fair lady.

SOC. Woman, you are a blessing.

(The woman departs, and is soon hidden among the ripening olive groves.)

TEL. What kind of a woman was that, Socrates, and do you know who she is?

(To be continued)

Tuco Amalfi, Threshold of Freedom (1991)

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Release Thyself

“May you rise above the Stream And find release from all material shackles That bind thee yet to Earth. Leave behind this sphere of pain This realm of night and false obscurity And carry out the Great Renunciation. Freed from thy bond of slavery Thou shalt stand purified from all corruption Yea! Faithful and true before the Portals of Light. Advance in Peace May the Gates be opened unto you Child of Splendour, Child of Light, for thou art Immortal. Reclaim thy own Domain And clothed in the starry Raiment of thy Kin Feast on the fruits of thy mighty labours. Awake, arise o ancient Wanderer Step onwards through eternity And tremble with delight and Awe.”

The Alphaeus — Chapter 8

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SOC. Imagine, then, a man or a woman, who has all possible wealth and power and health, and the fulfillment of the desires you pronounced; and then imagine another one, who has but a necessary portion of the same, in order to maintain existence. Which of these do you consider will be the happiest?

ALP. I have heard that this is a question that you love to banter around, Socrates; but I will not give you the answer I know you have stored up, and which you know that I know. My answer is simple, and it is the man or woman who has fulfilled those desires that will be the happiest – and tell me not that it is whichever of them is the wisest. For a wise man would never be poor.

SOC. Then are all poor people unwise and ignorant?

ALP. They are.

SOC. And likewise wanting in power, and health and good family and reputation?

ALP. Undoubtedly so.

SOC. Must they all then be likewise unhappy?

ALP. They must.

SOC. Does it follow that all wealthy people are then wise?

ALP. It does, Socrates, it does; as their wealth is the fruit of a wise use of life.

SOC. And, therefore, they are happy?

ALP. They are.

SOC. And does it then follow that all poor people are most unhappy?

ALP. It does, as I have already said.

SOC. So, this unhappiness that the poor suffer, is this the product then of unfulfilled desires, such as those you have espoused?

ALP. It is, and very much so.

SOC. But I see before us a puzzling equation, which has been trying to voice itself throughout our investigation.

ALP. I am not surprised, Socrates; but go on then, give it some air if you so wish.

SOC. Thank you, my friend, and I will, as I suspect that it is veiled behind your own assertions, given with such alacrity.

ALP. Proceed.

SOC. Does it, then, equate that those who have fulfilled the most of their desires therefore, being happy, acquire a greater portion of good to themselves? And that those who have fulfilled only a necessary portion of the desires you hold, thereby acquire or continue to enjoy only a necessary portion of good? Is this an equation you would assent to as being accurate?

ALP. I would, Socrates, as far as it goes.

SOC. Then the wealthy, the healthy, the renowned, the well-born and the powerful are all of them good?

ALP. They are, and also they are happy.

SOC. And the poor, the infirm, the unknown, the lowly born and the singular are all of them not good?

ALP. They may be good to a certain degree, but it is an impotent good.

SOC. And do you say further that this same ratio can be applied to wisdom? So that the poor and those others are also unwise, and that the wealthy and their fellows are wise?

ALP. I do so say, and repeat.

SOC. But what of beauty; is it the same process with this?

ALP. It is.

SOC. So that the poor and the others are not beautiful, but the wealthy and the desire-fulfilled are?

ALP. That is the case I support and have observed.

SOC. In summing up, my friend, your argument, it is that all poor people and those others are not only unhappy, but likewise they are evil, ignorant, ugly and impotent. And that all wealthy people, and the others, are happy, good, wise and beautiful.

ALP. That is, Socrates, my argument.

SOC. What then, Alphaeus, if a man or a woman, poor from birth, on a sudden acquires very substantial wealth; does this same person, on a sudden, also acquire substantial happiness?

ALP. They do.

SOC. And this together with goodness and wisdom and beauty?

ALP. You are trying to entrap me, Socrates.

SOC. But no, Alphaeus, as you have already entrapped yourself. Yet answer the question, whether the sudden acquisition of abundant wealth, or power, or health, or fame, likewise bestows the equally sudden abundance of goodness, happiness, beauty and wisdom, and other such excellences.

ALP. Enough of this, Socrates; I have patronized your argument from respect to Telamon, when I would have left some time ago if alone. You talk of extremes and exceptions and miss the normal and the common, to which I look in assessing any person.

SOC. Yet, good man, if you do not answer this question, both Telamon here and I, and in truth all who ask such questions, will know not where to turn, or who to ask, if those such as you refuse the opportunity to answer upon subjects about which you are certain.

ALP. Then I will answer, in recognition of my good friend here, that such a sudden acquisition and fulfillment of desires would at the least provide the opportunity for the acquisition of such goodness, wisdom and beauty as you propose.

SOC. Thank you, and I believe that there is one last question which should seal the circle, so to speak, and reveal to us the heart of the matter.

ALP. Then ask it, Socrates, and do not delay, as my time here is now getting short.

SOC. It is simple, and it is this; would the sudden removal of wealth and health and those other fulfilled desires you champion, cause the sudden removal also of happiness, and goodness, wisdom and beauty? Consider this, Alphaeus, and whether you believe it to be true.

ALP. (standing up in silence for long moments) Talk not to me of belief, man, for knowledge is my calling, not belief!

SOC. There are many of the present time, and there will be many more in the future, who profess to know certain things, having been schooled in the ways of detailed convincement and thesis; yet at the same time do not believe what they speak of, or write about, or claim to know. So, in deference to you, Alphaeus, I will alter the question this way: do you then know this to be true?

ALP. By the dog, how you infuriate me! I will co-operate no more with your semantic gymnastics, Socrates, as you are plainly involved only with your own self-justification and defence for a way of life that you are trapped in, by your own lack of practical wisdom. You are an idiot and full with mania, and see not that those theoretic virtues you embrace so much are of no worth at all to those who have not fulfilled the desires I have strenuously and exhaustingly explained. I condemn you as a hack, as you will soon be condemned as a conjuror. Come, Telamon, we are leaving this place!

(Telamon then raises himself to one knee, and looks into the eyes of Socrates, who bows his head slowly.)

TEL. I think not, Alphaeus, for I cannot leave with these conflicting thoughts racing in me unresolved. 

ALP. But they are resolved, Telamon, they are! The doubts have been sown by Socrates here, and they are his doubts, not yours, and certainly they are not mine.

TEL. But I own them to be mine now, my friend.

ALP. Then I must leave you both with them like some ill-disciplined nursery, as I am due in the court of Alampis in but a little time. Farewell, until later, Telamon; and good-bye, Socrates.

TEL. Farewell.

(Alphaeus departs. Socrates is silent, his head still bowed low and deep in thought.)

TEL. Socrates, my friend, why do you sit so? Are you troubled by what we have just heard?

SOC. (after a long pause) No, good Telamon, I am not; and I sit here so because of a voice I seem to hear and that prompts me to be quiet, to be still and to see.

TEL. Is, then, our conversation over, and would you rather that I retired now with Alphaeus?

SOC. This, our conversation, concerns a subject of greatest moment, and not the one that appears now as obvious.

TEL. What subject do you mean, and how is it not obvious?

SOC. It has been standing in front of us, like some doe blending in with its surroundings, and is only obvious and visible to a hunter.

TEL. Is it the nature of happiness that you see, and which is blended with the confusions we have heard?

SOC. It is, and barely behind it I survey its sire. Do you wish to pursue this, with all the stealth and guile that we can muster?

TEL. I do so very much, and follow you.

SOC. By the huntress then, Telamon my friend, let us hunt, and together with her close upon our prey.

TEL. Only lead and show me the tracks.

SOC. What think you of the happiness promoted just now?

TEL. I almost think the opposite to that which I have held for years.

SOC. And what is this opposite that you now hold close?

TEL. That true happiness cannot be generated from the fulfillment of those desires which we lately considered; and that far from being satiable and dignified they appear to be boundless and base on their own, leading only to a form of happiness both temporary and contingent.

SOC. What then, do you perceive other desires not lately mentioned, that admit of some bound and more worth?

TEL. No, I do not perceive them, but suspect that they must exist, for those so recently described now appear to be insufficient for the purpose of attaining true happiness.

SOC. Yet, Telamon, those desires so well pronounced just now, may not be as boundless or base as they presently appear to you; but that they are just the trees that obscure our prey, and if we look well to them, and to that, they will reveal even more than they obscure, and we will see the difference clearly.

TEL. Say on, Socrates.

SOC. Do you not remember the rumour from those celebrations, of which I know you were an auditor in your young manhood – that from the bosom of the mother of life are two great fountains formed, being the one of soul and the other of virtue?

TEL. I hear, and now remember, as if waking from a nocturnal dream.

SOC. And that from those ample fountains all souls and all virtues are nourished.

TEL. I hear it again, yet anew.

SOC. So that each is nourished from both, as to be nurtured together, being for the one the life and for the other the excellence.

TEL. It is indeed so said and is a mystery.

SOC. It is. Then let us continue to hunt, my good friend, with the truth of her mystery before us.

(To be continued)

The Alphaeus — Chapter 7

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ALP. Come, Socrates, and cease your pedantry, as I began by saying that the desires I enumerated were those of all men and women, whether ignorant, intelligent or otherwise.

SOC. But you affirm that there are some who desire that which appears to be beneficial to them, but that when acquired then appears to be detrimental?

ALP. I do, as I qualified a similar answer earlier.

SOC. I remember your qualification, and it follows that an intelligent man or woman will know which objects of desire are beneficial and which are not. Is this then a position you will affirm?

ALP. I will and I do.

SOC. And do you say that there are some things, though desired, that are beneficial to one man yet detrimental to another?

ALP. I believe that there are such things, the results of the acquisition of which are affected by the condition of the acquirer.

SOC. But are there also some things that affect the condition of the acquirer himself, and not that of the acquired?

ALP. Again you repeat and state the obvious, Socrates, as the desire for most, if not all things, is not merely for acquisition’s sake, but for the change in condition that these acquisitions will then enable.

SOC. And does it follow then, Alphaeus, that an intelligent man will not only know what things, as objects of desire, are beneficial, but also what beneficial changes in condition these same acquired objects will donate?

ALP. He will.

SOC. But the ignorant man will neither know what objects of desire are beneficial, nor what beneficial changes their acquisition will promote; or would you say otherwise?

ALP. I would not, as the case is fairly stated.

SOC. And is it likewise fairly stated that an intelligent man will also know how to retain and preserve his acquisitions, and the beneficial changes they have facilitated, but that an ignorant man will not?

ALP. Likewise.

SOC. And do you hold, Alphaeus, that this knowledge of what it is beneficial to desire, and the benefits its fulfillment will bestow, is essential for any man or woman who wishes to be truly happy?

ALP. Yes, Socrates, I do.

SOC. Then we are close to the heart of this matter, and I would propose to you this further question.

ALP. And what is that question?

SOC. Whether you say that the desirable is the same with the good?

ALP. It is, to the intelligent man or woman.

SOC. But not, would you say, to the ignorant man or woman?

ALP. I would not.

SOC. Then, is it the case that to an ignorant man or woman, wealth, power, reputation and those others, may not be beneficial and good in their acquisition?

ALP. They may be, but they may also prove to be so many curses.

SOC. But, Alphaeus, those you teach, are they intelligent or ignorant men and women?

ALP. For the most part they are intelligent.

SOC. And thus, is it that they know what it is that is good to desire, and what is good in the desirable, and what the good will be resulting from such acquisitions? Or is this what you teach them?

ALP. They have a basic knowledge of these things, but it is my calling to develop that knowledge, and to teach how these very things can be known with certainty.

SOC. If, that is, they have already acquired sufficient wealth to supply your modest fees.

ALP. That is so.

SOC. Then the most important element of your teaching is that which concerns the nature of goodness, and the good, and how it is to be known with certainty, or would you say otherwise?

ALP. This is, essentially, what I teach.

SOC. And do you also teach what the nature of man consists of?

ALP. I am not an arrogant man, Socrates. Hence, I know my boundaries, and do not attempt to teach such a subject, leaving it to the intelligence of my pupils to decide upon.

SOC. But surely, Alphaeus, ignorance regarding either or both of these subjects will totally eclipse the intelligence of anything else?

ALP. What is this that you say now, Socrates?

SOC. Only this, that if a man does not know his own nature and what in reality he is, how can he know what is good for him in any and every sphere of his life? And further, if a man does not know what the good is, how can he know whether that which he desires is, or will be, beneficial? And how then can a man who is ignorant of both of these, know what is beneficial or good to others, whether or not they desire those things you described, or want them, or profess they must and should have them? For the danger is akin to feeding a bird with sand, or a hungry lion with bricks.

ALP. You speak now of things that all men know, save for those who are insane or not yet of age.

SOC. Though all men may know these things, good Alphaeus, there are few, if any, that can remember them.

ALP. Your arrogance announces itself like a Spartan horn, Socrates, designed by the few to strike fear in the hearts of the many. Unless you perceive the state of all men’s minds, your words are just bluster and a loud but hollow judgment.

SOC. The horn you mention is a herald of dire times, whether blown by one or a multitude. But your position, as you describe it, is clear, and is this – that it is your part to develop the basic knowledge that men and women possess regarding the good and the desirable, and this to the point of certainty; and also, that you leave the knowledge of what the self of man is for your pupils to decide upon, according to their own intelligence. Are you content with this summation, Alphaeus?

ALP. It will do.

SOC. That is well; but you said further, that to an intelligent man or woman the good and the desirable are one and the same thing; is this again your judgment?

ALP. It is, and your repetition is becoming tedious.

SOC. Then we shall avoid it in our further discussion, if only you will answer me this.

ALP. And what would that be?

SOC. Whether you would say that all things desirable are then good?

ALP. Again you repeat yourself, as I have already said that to an intelligent man they are.

SOC. Not quite, Alphaeus, but it matters little. So inasmuch as this is true, do you say that no man would desire that which he knows would be harmful to acquire?

ALP. I do.

SOC. But it is possible to desire something, through ignorance, which will indeed prove harmful when obtained?

ALP. That is indeed my considered opinion, Socrates.

SOC. And it is your part, as you have stated it, to teach what it is good to desire, and what is good in the desirable, but not to advance a knowledge of the desiring nature, leaving that to individual or common judgment.

ALP. Unlike yourself, I assume that all intelligent men and women know in what their nature consists.

SOC. I, too, predict that this will be the condition with all such truly intelligent souls.

ALP. Why must you continue so, Socrates, with this incessant slight of mouth, where you add words to mine as if they were insufficient? Thus your addition of truly to intelligent is ungracious and pedantic, and changes not the essence of what I said.

SOC. Then I withdraw that truly, Alphaeus, and leave your assumption as it was. Yet, from my own experience, there are many who desire to know in what their nature consists, and what it is to be a man or woman or soul. And there are many more who assume that they know what this self is, and seek happiness according to that assumption. But few men there are who know their essential nature, and they are to be found with great difficulty, being all but invisible to the many. In which do you camp yourself, Alphaeus, as one who desires this knowledge, or one who assumes he already has this knowledge, or one who possesses this knowledge in truth?

ALP. The third is mine, as the saying goes.

SOC. It is but a saying from a play, good man. But come now, let us then armed with your certain knowledge, and my desire for learning, approach to the truth of the question.

ALP. Let us do that, please.

(To be continued)

The Alphaeus — Chapter 8

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SOC. Imagine, then, a man or a woman, who has all possible wealth and power and health, and the fulfillment of the desires you pronounced; and then imagine another one, who has but a necessary portion of the same, in order to maintain existence. Which of these do you consider will be the happiest?

ALP. I have heard that this is a question that you love to banter around, Socrates; but I will not give you the answer I know you have stored up, and which you know that I know. My answer is simple, and it is the man or woman who has fulfilled those desires that will be the happiest – and tell me not that it is whichever of them is the wisest. For a wise man would never be poor.

SOC. Then are all poor people unwise and ignorant?

ALP. They are.

SOC. And likewise wanting in power, and health and good family and reputation?

ALP. Undoubtedly so.

SOC. Must they all then be likewise unhappy?

ALP. They must.

SOC. Does it follow that all wealthy people are then wise?

ALP. It does, Socrates, it does; as their wealth is the fruit of a wise use of life.

SOC. And, therefore, they are happy?

ALP. They are.

SOC. And does it then follow that all poor people are most unhappy?

ALP. It does, as I have already said.

SOC. So, this unhappiness that the poor suffer, is this the product then of unfulfilled desires, such as those you have espoused?

ALP. It is, and very much so.

SOC. But I see before us a puzzling equation, which has been trying to voice itself throughout our investigation.

ALP. I am not surprised, Socrates; but go on then, give it some air if you so wish.

SOC. Thank you, my friend, and I will, as I suspect that it is veiled behind your own assertions, given with such alacrity.

ALP. Proceed.

SOC. Does it, then, equate that those who have fulfilled the most of their desires therefore, being happy, acquire a greater portion of good to themselves? And that those who have fulfilled only a necessary portion of the desires you hold, thereby acquire or continue to enjoy only a necessary portion of good? Is this an equation you would assent to as being accurate?

ALP. I would, Socrates, as far as it goes.

SOC. Then the wealthy, the healthy, the renowned, the well-born and the powerful are all of them good?

ALP. They are, and also they are happy.

SOC. And the poor, the infirm, the unknown, the lowly born and the singular are all of them not good?

ALP. They may be good to a certain degree, but it is an impotent good.

SOC. And do you say further that this same ratio can be applied to wisdom? So that the poor and those others are also unwise, and that the wealthy and their fellows are wise?

ALP. I do so say, and repeat.

SOC. But what of beauty; is it the same process with this?

ALP. It is.

SOC. So that the poor and the others are not beautiful, but the wealthy and the desire-fulfilled are?

ALP. That is the case I support and have observed.

SOC. In summing up, my friend, your argument, it is that all poor people and those others are not only unhappy, but likewise they are evil, ignorant, ugly and impotent. And that all wealthy people, and the others, are happy, good, wise and beautiful.

ALP. That is, Socrates, my argument.

SOC. What then, Alphaeus, if a man or a woman, poor from birth, on a sudden acquires very substantial wealth; does this same person, on a sudden, also acquire substantial happiness?

ALP. They do.

SOC. And this together with goodness and wisdom and beauty?

ALP. You are trying to entrap me, Socrates.

SOC. But no, Alphaeus, as you have already entrapped yourself. Yet answer the question, whether the sudden acquisition of abundant wealth, or power, or health, or fame, likewise bestows the equally sudden abundance of goodness, happiness, beauty and wisdom, and other such excellences.

ALP. Enough of this, Socrates; I have patronized your argument from respect to Telamon, when I would have left some time ago if alone. You talk of extremes and exceptions and miss the normal and the common, to which I look in assessing any person.

SOC. Yet, good man, if you do not answer this question, both Telamon here and I, and in truth all who ask such questions, will know not where to turn, or who to ask, if those such as you refuse the opportunity to answer upon subjects about which you are certain.

ALP. Then I will answer, in recognition of my good friend here, that such a sudden acquisition and fulfillment of desires would at the least provide the opportunity for the acquisition of such goodness, wisdom and beauty as you propose.

SOC. Thank you, and I believe that there is one last question which should seal the circle, so to speak, and reveal to us the heart of the matter.

ALP. Then ask it, Socrates, and do not delay, as my time here is now getting short.

SOC. It is simple, and it is this; would the sudden removal of wealth and health and those other fulfilled desires you champion, cause the sudden removal also of happiness, and goodness, wisdom and beauty? Consider this, Alphaeus, and whether you believe it to be true.

ALP. (standing up in silence for long moments) Talk not to me of belief, man, for knowledge is my calling, not belief!

SOC. There are many of the present time, and there will be many more in the future, who profess to know certain things, having been schooled in the ways of detailed convincement and thesis; yet at the same time do not believe what they speak of, or write about, or claim to know. So, in deference to you, Alphaeus, I will alter the question this way: do you then know this to be true?

ALP. By the dog, how you infuriate me! I will co-operate no more with your semantic gymnastics, Socrates, as you are plainly involved only with your own self-justification and defence for a way of life that you are trapped in, by your own lack of practical wisdom. You are an idiot and full with mania, and see not that those theoretic virtues you embrace so much are of no worth at all to those who have not fulfilled the desires I have strenuously and exhaustingly explained. I condemn you as a hack, as you will soon be condemned as a conjuror. Come, Telamon, we are leaving this place! 

(Telamon then raises himself to one knee, and looks into the eyes of Socrates, who bows his head slowly.)

TEL. I think not, Alphaeus, for I cannot leave with these conflicting thoughts racing in me unresolved.

ALP. But they are resolved, Telamon, they are! The doubts have been sown by Socrates here, and they are his doubts, not yours, and certainly they are not mine.

TEL. But I own them to be mine now, my friend.

ALP. Then I must leave you both with them like some ill-disciplined nursery, as I am due in the court of Alampis in but a little time. Farewell, until later, Telamon; and good-bye, Socrates.

TEL. Farewell.

(Alphaeus departs. Socrates is silent, his head still bowed low and deep in thought.)

TEL. Socrates, my friend, why do you sit so? Are you troubled by what we have just heard?

SOC. (after a long pause) No, good Telamon, I am not; and I sit here so because of a voice I seem to hear and that prompts me to be quiet, to be still and to see.

TEL. Is, then, our conversation over, and would you rather that I retired now with Alphaeus?

SOC. This, our conversation, concerns a subject of greatest moment, and not the one that appears now as obvious.

TEL. What subject do you mean, and how is it not obvious?

SOC. It has been standing in front of us, like some doe blending in with its surroundings, and is only obvious and visible to a hunter.

TEL. Is it the nature of happiness that you see, and which is blended with the confusions we have heard?

SOC. It is, and barely behind it I survey its sire. Do you wish to pursue this, with all the stealth and guile that we can muster?

TEL. I do so very much, and follow you.

SOC. By the huntress then, Telamon my friend, let us hunt, and together with her close upon our prey.

TEL. Only lead and show me the tracks.

SOC. What think you of the happiness promoted just now?

TEL. I almost think the opposite to that which I have held for years.

SOC. And what is this opposite that you now hold close?

TEL. That true happiness cannot be generated from the fulfillment of those desires which we lately considered; and that far from being satiable and dignified they appear to be boundless and base on their own, leading only to a form of happiness both temporary and contingent.

SOC. What then, do you perceive other desires not lately mentioned, that admit of some bound and more worth?

TEL. No, I do not perceive them, but suspect that they must exist, for those so recently described now appear to be insufficient for the purpose of attaining true happiness.

SOC. Yet, Telamon, those desires so well pronounced just now, may not be as boundless or base as they presently appear to you; but that they are just the trees that obscure our prey, and if we look well to them, and to that, they will reveal even more than they obscure, and we will see the difference clearly.

TEL. Say on, Socrates.

SOC. Do you not remember the rumour from those celebrations, of which I know you were an auditor in your young manhood – that from the bosom of the mother of life are two great fountains formed, being the one of soul and the other of virtue?

TEL. I hear, and now remember, as if waking from a nocturnal dream.

SOC. And that from those ample fountains all souls and all virtues are nourished.

TEL. I hear it again, yet anew.

SOC. So that each is nourished from both, as to be nurtured together, being for the one the life and for the other the excellence.

TEL. It is indeed so said and is a mystery.

SOC. It is. Then let us continue to hunt, my good friend, with the truth of her mystery before us.

(To be continued)

The Alphaeus — Chapter 6

*

SOC. Zeus forgave them both, or so the story tells, and elevated them to the stars that move between Earth and the Olympic heights; and even now they can ever be seen on a clear night in the west, the beautiful Ate with the dragon at her feet.

ALP. Well told, Socrates, and the meaning of your myth is clear. But I release no dragon with what I do, and even though I do not teach how desires may be limited, I know full well that they limit themselves according to the ambition of each individual.

TEL. You are not being generous, Alphaeus; and I thank you, Socrates, for that tale, which appears to conceal much in its fine imagery; and even now it seems to me that ambition itself is a desire of no little power.

SOC. The tale says much, Telamon, but it would take some long time to discover all its truth. But come, Alphaeus, let us continue our discussion, as you found my slight digression so unappetizing.

ALP. But what is there left to discuss, Socrates? For you have heard all that I have to offer.

SOC. Yet you have not, as it appears to me, convinced us that a man may be truly happy in this life, only that for so long as those desires are fulfilled and he retains the acquisitions of them, a man or woman may be said to be happy. But unhappiness follows when these are unfulfilled, or when the acquisitions are removed. What say you, Telamon, are you convinced upon this matter?

TEL. I must confess, Socrates, that I am not at this moment; and I believe that Alphaeus has much left to say on this subject, and which I have heard him announce on many occasions.

SOC. Shall we then return to the point, Alphaeus, and will you answer to me some more of my questions? As it seems to me that there are few subjects upon which a man will require certainty, and that are more important than that which is before us.

ALP. I am happy to continue and convince you, remembering that my time is spoken for and is nearly at an end here.

SOC. Then I shall hasten like Phaeton on his morning ride.

ALP. That would be helpful, Socrates.

SOC. It would, indeed. Let us return, then, to the few desires you enumerated, and remember what they were. Will you repeat them for our benefit, Alphaeus.

ALP. I will, and they are the foundation of all happiness. In no order they are wealth, power, health, a good family and a fine reputation, in sufficient quantity to satisfy the ambition of each person.

SOC. And do you perceive any thing common to these five?

ALP. I do, in so far as they are all of them desires, and are capable of producing happiness by their fulfillment.

SOC. Is it, then, that the desire for wealth is the primary desire, or the desire for the happiness that such wealth may provide?

ALP. It makes no difference, Socrates, for it is known to all that wealth leads to happiness, and is the flower of its acquisition.

SOC. And is the case the same with the other desires you recalled?

ALP. It is, and definitely so.

SOC. What then do you say to the man or woman who approaches to death, and then realizes that all these things are to be left behind together with the shroud?

ALP. It is nearly the same case with us all, no matter how little one has to leave behind. He, then, will be happy who approaches death, knowing that what he has acquired will be passed on to others; and that their happiness is a gift of his. No man can hope for more than a happy life and a content death, and in this is true happiness, my friend.

SOC. This is a comfortable life you describe, Alphaeus, and is it one that is attained with ease?

ALP. It varies according to the individual, and is easily attained by some but with no little effort by others.

SOC. And do you still maintain that what is common in these various desires, is that they are all desires, and are productive of happiness?

ALP. I do, if they are fulfilled.

SOC. And further, that happiness is the common object of these same desires?

ALP. It is.

SOC. Then, does it not appear to you that these desires, which produce happiness, desire that which they do not as yet possess, that is, happiness? Like an acorn germinating into a horse, or a man producing coins from an empty purse.

ALP. It is not unknown, Socrates, that two different things coming together, and uniting into a mixed compound, may produce a third thing, which is neither of the two taken separately.

SOC. Though not unknown, yet it may be said that of such compounds if one or the other of the elements is removed, the compound fails and will not be that third thing. And if we apply this to your happiness, if desire is removed then happiness fails; or if the object of desire is removed or not attained, then again it fails, as neither of these things contains happiness in itself, which is alone the result of their union. But, maybe it is that happiness can be achieved without desiring it, and may not be appreciated when it is present, yet is sorely missed when it is absent.

ALP. What a complicated web you weave, Socrates, in which to ensnare yourself. For, as I have already said, the desires are for the objects enumerated, and not for happiness as such; for what sane man desires happiness alone and not as the result of wealth and power and the others I have repeatedly described? You, Socrates, are not sure if you are happy, nor whether you can ever be truly happy in this life, and because of this you try to trap others in this same web; and your lack of desire for these things, or your inability to attain to them and fulfill whatever desires you may possess, distorts your judgment of happiness either when present to yourself, or so obviously enjoyed by others. Your envy goes before you like a watchman’s lamp at night.

SOC. I cannot deny that I admire your certainty upon a matter of such great note; and in asking you to share this with me, and Telamon here, I had no intention or design to unsettle you or to provoke in you any dis-ease. What then, Alphaeus, would you say that is in wealth, which is truly the object of desire?

ALP. What is this nonsense now? Wealth itself, simply and wholly, is the object of the desire for wealth.

SOC. And will this be the same respecting power?

ALP. Without any doubt it will.

SOC. And also with a fine reputation, and the other objects of desire you proposed?

ALP. Yes, these also, Socrates.

SOC. Then would you say that it is possible for a man or a woman to be truly happy who only possesses a necessary portion of wealth and power, and the others?

ALP. You tell me, Socrates, for your answer will be born from experience.

SOC. That is not a fair answer, nor even any answer, Alphaeus.

ALP. Then my answer is this, that such a man or woman will be happy in proportion to their actual possession of those things; and that a necessary portion for his continued existence will bestow a similar portion of happiness, sufficient, at least, to prevent death or suicide.

SOC. You speak of mathematical ratios, Alphaeus, as if happiness may be calculated from a formula, such as h = d³ x f, or something of the like. Is this what you propose to us, and to those that subscribe to your instructions?

ALP. I perceive your facetious undertone, Socrates, but it does not conceal the truth of what you say, inasmuch as the formula you have contrived is very near to being the case. For happiness is not, as you seem to experience, either an accident or the result of chance.

SOC. Then we should now examine this formula, or others of a similar nature, and reveal whether it is in truth infrangible.

ALP. And how do you propose that we should proceed in this examination, in a manner that will not exhaust our remaining time?

SOC. In this way, Alphaeus, I suggest. Do you consider that a man may desire something, the acquisition of which will not be to his benefit, and may even prove to be a cause of detriment?

ALP. No man or woman, if their sanity is intact, would desire that which they know to be detrimental.

SOC. Then do you say that a sane man or woman desires only that which they know to be beneficial?

ALP. I do say that, certainly, Socrates.

SOC. And is this the case not only with sane men, but with powerful men also, and rulers and kings?

ALP. Even more so with these kinds of men.

SOC. But do you not recall that son of Gordius and the goddess, who, when his wish was granted, by his touch turned every thing to gold, and all but extinguished his own royal life?

ALP. I do so recall.

SOC. Do you also recall that Narcissus and his languorous death, and many others whose deep desires were fulfilled, or who perished for the lack of such fulfillment?

ALP. I do, Socrates, as I have been told these same tales and many others besides; but these, and the others, were blind desires in common, and not those of intelligent men.

SOC. But are not all desires blind, Alphaeus?

ALP. They are as blind as the man who possesses them.

SOC. Yet, as you said earlier, it is not knowledge that we are discussing but happiness; unless you say that the latter is dependent upon the former. Is this what you are now proposing?

ALP. The obvious needs no such proposition, as the knowledge of what is desirable is a common ground of man; but the intelligent man knows clearly what he desires and why.

SOC. Then are the desires of the ignorant the same as those of the intelligent, or do you say that they are different?

(To be continued)

The Alphaeus — Chapter 5

*

Unknown to Ate, all these events had been observed by three old and haggard women, who, by stealth and subtlety, had followed her every move, and had worked tirelessly to mitigate the evils which Ate had unleashed. But these aged ladies were there from a divine allotment, and reported to Zeus all that had transpired, and all that they had done for those who were threatened by such a general destruction. And he, in divine response, empowered these sisters to sow the seeds of revival below and above the ground.

One of these seeds was to make their presence known to the despairing, yet still beautiful, Ate. On a moonlit evening, when the ocean was calm and the stars appeared at their very brightest in their celestial round, Ate emerged from the sea, and made her sad way to the dragon’s cave, there to dry and clothe herself, and cry from the torment of her guilt. Looking through her tears, she saw the three ancient sisters sitting in the entrance to the cave, silhouetted by the rising full moon. Ate did not know what to say, except, “Who are you? And why are you here?”

“We are messengers.” One of the sisters replied.

“Which one of you said that, please?” Ate questioned in return, as the three females were surrounded by night, save for their silver outline.

“I did.” Said another one.

“Why are you here?” Ate asked again.

“Because we are messengers.” A third voice replied.

“Do you bring a message for me, or do you take a message from me?”

“We do.” Was the reply of all of them.

“What message do you have for me?”

“The message that we are messengers.”

“Who sent you here, good ladies?”

“One whom you have forgotten.”

“Who have I forgotten?”

“The one who sent us here.”

“But what is his name, or her name, please?”

“It is the name you have forgotten of the one you have forgotten.”

“I remember everyone, apart from who my father is, of whom I was never certain to begin with.”

“Do you have a message?”

“How do I know what to say to one whom I do not know?”

“Do you have a message?”

“Then I do; please, please help me to destroy the dragon that is consuming all this land. Plead with him for me, I beg you ladies, please.”

Without saying anything further, the aged sisters arose and departed as noiselessly as the mist upon the presence of the morning sun. For her part, Ate decided that she would try her best to talk to the dragon, and persuade it to cease its avaricious and mindless rampage.

For many weeks the dragon would only ignore her and fly from her every word, but eventually it sat down with her and listened to Ate’s arguments, which were skillful and long and too many to repeat here. But for each of her arguments it had a better one, and though she tried her very best with all the reason she could muster, Ate could not convince the dragon on one or any point regarding its destructive behaviour, as it justified everything it did in a manner she could not overcome. Driven to despair, she returned to her little cave, while the dragon destroyed the last living things on the island, and then began to destroy the island itself.

One fine dawn, Ate awoke from a deep sleep, and saw at the entrance to the cave the three aged sisters silhouetted by the rising sun.

“Have you a message for me, please?” she asked.

“I have.”

“Who is it from?”

“It is from one who heard your message.”

“Is it from my father?”

“It is not.”

“Who, then, is it from?”

“From one who knows your dilemma.”

“What does he say?”

“She says to take this, and to use it well.”

As the lady finished, she tossed a small disc-like object towards Ate, which glittered as it span through the rays of the risen sun. Catching the disc she examined it, discovering it was a two sided mirror in the figure of a perfect circle. She was about to ask the purpose of the mirror, but saw that the three venerable ladies had already departed, their message delivered and their reason fulfilled.

Five more days passed, and the dragon had reduced the island to a small parcel, hardly bigger than itself and the cave where Ate had made her home. She waited until the dragon was asleep, and, shedding the ruins of her last clothes, she emerged from the cave and walked into the sea for her morning refreshment, the round mirror held carefully in her right hand. Never had she seen the ocean so calm, and flat and void of any movement save for the radiating ripples of her gentle swimming. Above her, the massive azure vault of sky was cloudless, the sun the only body in its vast expanse; around her, the massive glass-like sea, the minute island the only visible object in its answering expanse. Rising slowly from the water, deep in concerned thought, Ate once again examined the mirror, and silently prayed that she might discover its purpose and its power.

But she did not notice the dragon as it woke, and silently raised its gigantic frame to dwarf the beautiful maiden. It was, as ever, hungry to consume, and stared at Ate with a vile and unfeeling look in its eyes. She stood there alone, naked, and prepared for the onslaught to come, her tiny patch of island offering nowhere to turn; like the cry of Ajax to his faltering men, she heard his words resound again and again:

“This spot is all you have, to lose or keep; There stand the Trojans, and here rolls the deep. ‘Tis hostile ground you tread, your native lands Far, far from hence; your fate is in your hands.”

And without knowing why, Ate held up the mirror between herself and the great dragon’s head. The first thing it saw was its own reflection, which just for a moment terrified it, as it had never before seen its own aspect, and especially this one, overcome with monstrous greed and the longing to consume. But as Ate shifted the mirror a sharp dazzling bright shaft of reflected sunlight burnt into one, and then the other of the dragon’s massy eyes. It turned to shield itself from the brilliant beams, but too late, the damage was done, and the dragon was blind in both its eyes. Once its fury had abated, it turned its blind head to Ate and pleaded with her to look after it, and help and care for it, and to direct it so that it would not die. Ate agreed, and as the days passed, the dragon shrank back to the size it was when it first emerged from its green egg; and it listened to Ate, and obeyed her, and served her every need.

TEL. And what then happened to them, Socrates?

(To be continued)

The Alphaeus — Chapter 4

*

SOC. Very well; but as the tale is long I shall pare it down for brevity’s sake, and for the sake of your patience, Alphaeus. A wise and beautiful good woman once told me all of this, and thus she began the story:

There are four islands near to the edge of our ocean where the children of the sea were born. Here, also, the ambiguous Eris gave birth to a lovely daughter, and she named her Ate. Some report that the father of Ate was Zeus, some that it was Poseidon, and yet others say that she was fathered by Pan.

Suffice to say, that this immortal child was admired by all who saw her, because of her exceeding beauty and grace, her all-affecting charm and happy demeanour. Yet, even from an early age, wherever she went disagreement and discord appeared to follow in her trail, and arguing and dissension fell upon those who were previously friendly to each other, disrupting their amicable union. No reason could be assigned for this, as the child said and did nothing contentious, nor ever seemed to be the cause of anything but pleasant and warm emotions when present; but still in her wake unwelcome division followed, and neither she, nor any who mixed with her, ever considered that she may be the cause of it.

In her early youth she gained the favour of wave-calming Zeus, who, even though he would not recognize any relationship to the immortal girl, was prone, because of her charming demeanour, to listen to her supplications. These, as you will know, lead to a lifelong trial for one great hero, and to her banishment from the divine courts, to be cast down back to the island of her birth and there to live out time, forgetful of the whole of her celestial family. Yet she was ever a happy girl, and as she matured into her fine young womanhood, she delighted equally in her solitude as she did in her contacts with her native islanders.

On one cloudless and azure-skied morning, she was walking along her favourite strand absorbed by the heat of the day, when she saw, not far out to sea, five dolphins swimming and playing. Removing her light attire, she walked through the warm gentle waves, and was soon among the dolphins, who reveled in her company, so well could she swim and dive and play. After an hour had passed in this sport, Ate looked toward the shore, and saw there a small cave entrance that she had never noticed before. Ever curious, she swam to the shore and walked up to the cave, having to get on her hands and knees in order to enter it. Inside the cave its walls and arched ceiling were as smooth as polished marble, and many tiny multi-coloured flowers grew in invisible cracks throughout its depth. After walking ten paces she came to a shining wall, and up above her there seemed to be a narrow shelf bedecked by even more brilliantly coloured flowers. Standing high on her toes, and slowly stretching to her fullest, Ate felt on top of the shelf, and her fingers closed on a large round object, which she lifted down to see what it might be. It was an egg; though not one like she had ever seen before, as it was perfectly round, perfectly smooth, and perfectly green. Removing from the cave, holding the egg out before her, she walked back to retrieve her clothing, and made her way to her solitary home beside the sparkling River Kygnos.

Every day and every night Ate observed the egg, but no changes could be perceived in its perfect form. A whole month passed, and, as the bright full moon coursed her way throughout the night, Ate was woken by a single ‘crack’. Rising from her resting place she knelt down by the fireside, and saw to her astonishment that the egg had split in two, as if it had been cut by a surgeon’s knife around its full diameter. But what astonished her even more was the sight of a small but intricately formed dragon, warming its opening wings by the embers of the fire. And not only was this dragon so utterly charming in its appearance, but it sang, in some unknown language, the most enchanting song imaginable; and it moved the young woman to tears of pleasure and of joy. When at last the sun was up, Ate took the little dragon down to the nearby shore, and placed it on the warm sand within a ring of stones she used often for lighting fires and cooking simple food. As the dragon walked around the ring it happened upon a small pile of twigs that Ate had saved for kindling, and, after looking at it for a few moments, it blew a jet of fire out of its tiny nostrils, and the pile was consumed and reduced to ashes within just a few seconds. This delighted Ate, and she clapped her hands and laughed out aloud. The dragon, too, seemed very pleased with its display; but a moment later it began to utter a plaintive moan as it stared up at her, a pleading look in its jewel-like eyes, its breathing laboured as if it was worn and exhausted. Taking from her basket a small piece of bread, Ate offered it to the forlorn dragon, and it immediately snatched it from her outstretched hand, swallowed it whole, and then began to flap its wings and jump around in a circular dance. This also delighted Ate, and she laughed again at such a pleasant experience. Within moments the little dragon found a small unused branch, and, as before, after contemplating it for a short time, it blew out another plume of flame and consumed it to ashes in seconds.

One whole year passed by, and the dragon was now fully grown, and immensely powerful, and its appetite for consumption was beyond control. Ate was terrified of it, having long passed the point where she was delighted or amused or enchanted by its habits. Most of the trees, the plants, the crops and fruits, and animals and people of that island had fallen prey to the dragon’s voraciousness, and those few islanders that were left either fled their homes in the dark by boat, and went for refuge to one of the other three neighbouring islands, or they hid in caves and hollows by day, and grovelled about in their search for food at night. Ate could no longer provide for its needs, and the dragon, though it did not try to consume her, ignored her, and would frighten her away by the mere look from its hungry eyes. Hence, she sought refuge in the little cave where she had found the dragon’s egg, and regretted constantly that she had ever made that fatal discovery. And in the evening hours she would swim with the dolphins, and share with them their diet from the sea.

(To be continued)