SOCRATES' CHILD

     "I am the son of Socrates," the boy said. "Socrates' child."

    

     He was a serious-faced, beautiful young man. His spoke with conviction, but his voice also registered   the wary insecurity of wise youth. He was seventeen, maybe, or a bit older: eighteen, or nineteen.

     "I am his child. Not in the ordinary way--and not because of some god, either. The children born of gods are most often like the gods. The wisdom of the gods is not sympathetic. Human wisdom understands, but the wisdom of the gods is knowledge. And knowledge is a dangerous wisdom, if it is wisdom at all."

   

     He paused, and looked at me carefully. Then he continued.

    "Athena and Apollo are great and powerful gods; but they are like their father, and not to be trusted by mortals. Since they do not die, they cannot understand our life.

     "I do not think it blasphemy to say this. The gods know I speak the truth about them—and they do not care. They do not live lives. They exist—and nothing they do or know has meaning.

     "But I am Socrates' child: a human child. And like my father, I glory in my humanity, which I learned from him.

     

     "If the gods were truly wise—and not just gods—they would envy Socrates, and they would envy me."

     He stopped—proudly, it seemed, as though to give the gods their chance to respond. But nothing happened.

    

     He put his hand upon my arm, and smiled at me.

     "I was born to Socrates just as Athena was born to her father: out of his mind. His mind. And even Apollo knew what Socrates' mind was. Apollo said that Socrates was wise—that he was the wisest of all men.

     "A later god had a son—out of his mind—and that son was wise. He taught love: human love, and human understanding.

   

     "But though that man was a god's son, he was not a god. He was human, like my father."

     He stopped again. He took my hand, and put it to his breast. Then he put our hands to my breast.

     "I am not a god's son. I was conceived out of the small voice that spoke to my father, from his heart. She was my mother. I was nourished at my father's old and fallen paps, given life by the wine-rich breath of his mouth. His words raised me, taught me up: human.

     "I had never kissed a man—did not know what kissing was. But just before he died, Socrates motioned to me where I stood frozen, watching. He reached up, and drew my head down to him. He placed his lips to mine, and breathed his last breath into my mouth."

     The boy’s eyes brightened. This was his story. It was heretical, of course, like the gospel of Thomas.

     "Plato says otherwise. I know. He tells a different story. That is because he rejected my father's words. He was not a true disciple. He was not my father's son. Plato was never satisfied with being human. He longed--like Judas--for a god who could make gods of us all.

     "Socrates understood the difference between gods and humans. He respected the gods, and gave them what they required. He respected their divinity. But he did not want to be a god.

     "My father accepted death because he was human, and humans die. He accepted his death because he wanted to teach us how to live, as humans, and how humans should die.

     "Plato could not accept that. He thought perfection was divine, and immortal. He would have been happier being Apollo than Plato--though of course Apollo, being a god, is neither happy nor unhappy. Plato could not forgive Socrates for wanting to be Socrates: to be perfectly Socrates.

     "If you would study human perfection, study Socrates--not Plato. If you would live a life—a human life, a life of human meaning—become Socrates' son. He will breathe life—the fullness of human life—into your soul, if you will kiss him.

     "Poor rich Alcibiades wanted to kiss Socrates, wanted to make Socrates desire his young body. Socrates refused, though he loved Alcibiades. Socrates loved the possibility of human life. And that possibility is a kind of immortality, a selfless immortality, which neither the wisdom of the gods nor the desire of Alciabides nor the unhappiness of Plato can ever understand."

     He paused again, and released me.

     "I do not understand—do not understand fully, of course. But I am my father's son, and I will not betray the life he gave me."

     He stopped now. Stopped speaking. He smiled at me, and then dropped his eyes.

     The boy did not leave. Rather, he disappeared.

     I don't know where he went.

     I don't know. But though I have never heard inside myself the voice that Socrates heard, I hear that boy's voice—Socrates' son's voice—inside me all the time.