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Section 84

"You speak most truly, Socrates," said Cebes. "It is for these reasons, Cebes, that the true lovers of learning are moderate and brave, not for the reasons the multitude thinks. Or do you think otherwise?" "I certainly do not." "No, the soul of a philosopher would reason as we have described. It would not think it right for philosophy to release it, only to hand itself back over to pleasures and pains, to be bound up again, performing the endless labor of Penelope unraveling her web. Rather, procuring a calm from these emotions, following reason and always dwelling in it, contemplating the true, divine, and un-opinable, and being nourished by it—it believes it must live this way as long as it lives, and when it dies, it will pass to what is akin and of the same nature, freed from human evils. Nurtured in this way, Simmias and Cebes, there is no fear at all that upon being separated from the body, it will be torn apart, scattered by the winds, flying away, and be nowhere anymore." A long silence followed these words from Socrates. Socrates himself was absorbed in the previous argument, as he appeared, and so were most of us. Cebes and Simmias were talking softly to each other. Socrates noticed them and asked, "What is it? Do you think something was left unsaid? For there are still many doubts and objections, if one is to examine the matter adequately. If you are examining something else, I have nothing to say. But if you are in doubt about these matters, do not hesitate to speak and explain if you think it could be stated better, and take me along with you if you think you will have more success with my help." Simmias replied, "I will tell you the truth, Socrates. For some time now, each of us has been in doubt, pushing and urging the other to ask, because we desire to hear, but we hesitate to cause you trouble, for fear it might be unpleasant for you in your present misfortune." When he heard this, Socrates laughed softly and said, "Oh, Simmias! It would be hard for me to persuade other men that I do not consider my present circumstance a misfortune, when I cannot even persuade you! You fear that I am more ill-tempered now than in my past life. It seems you think I am inferior in prophecy to the swans, who, when they perceive they must die, sing more and more beautifully than ever, rejoicing that they are about to depart to the god whose servants they are. But men, because of their own fear of death, speak falsely of the swans. They say the swans sing a dirge of sorrow for their death, not reflecting that no bird sings when it is hungry, cold, or suffering any other pain—not even the nightingale, swallow, or hoopoe, whose songs they claim are laments of grief. It seems to me they do not sing out of grief, nor do the swans. As they belong to Apollo, I believe they have prophetic power, and foreseeing the good things in Hades, they sing and rejoice on that day more than ever before. I consider myself a fellow servant with the swans, sacred to the same god, possessing prophecy from my master no worse than theirs, and departing life no more dispirited than they. Therefore, as far as this is concerned, you should speak and ask whatever you wish, as long as the Eleven of Athens permit."