Explanation Of Socrates Quotes

I am you, but I don’t have your name. I hold you, though you think you hold me. I wander, yet I’m always home. I’m only one, but not alone. Who am I?

I touch them all, But stay in none. I’m forever here, Yet forever gone. Who am I?

I grow when I’m shrinking, My light’s most bright when I’m sinking. I’m nourished by my emptiness, In a hollow space, I find my bliss. Who am I?

Philosophy isn’t just about learning—it’s equally about unlearning. It is rekindling the raw, playful curiosity from before the world trained us to see things one way.

I defy darkness, and I define it. I lead you to the infinite. I guide you out of what you think you are, Cut through the veils, I take you to the stars. Who am I?

The greatest thinkers knew that understanding often arises through contradiction, paradox, and questions that refuse to be pinned down. Philosophy doesn’t offer answers so much as it makes us dance with questions.

Fear is my mother, reason my guide, In danger I grow, with strength by my side. I rise not by shouting, but through steady will, Facing the storm, I stand firm and still. Who am I?

I am the dance where halves dissolve, The stillness where things evolve. I am a drop, and the ocean too, A song unsung, yet heard in you. I am the hunter and the prey, The night that swallows the birth of day. Who am I?

SOCRATES: No, I am not sure of anything. I never have been. But the god explained to me why that must be so, starting with the fallibility of the human mind and the unreliability of sensory experience.

I’m nothing, yet I’m everything. A space where all begin to sing, I have no form, yet shape all forms, My beauty is to be unborn. Who am I?

I conquer you without a fight, I steal your strength, but grant you light. I make you fall, yet help you rise, I wound your heart to open your eyes. I take your ground, I make you switch I ask for all, yet leave you rich, I am the loss that feels like gain, The quiet joy inside your pain. Who am I?

SOCRATES: You have? Oh – you said that you honour Athenians for our openness to persuasion. And for our defiance of bullies. But

Humans demand explanations, and so when we invent stories we make sure that every detail has an explanation. But life isn't like that. Sometimes there just isn't an explanation.

...I have had a remarkable experience. In the past the prophetic voice to which I have become accustomed has always been my constant companion, opposing me even in quite trivial things if I was going to take the wrong course. Now something has happened to me, as you can see, which might be thought and is commonly considered to be a supreme calamity; yet neither when I left home this morning, nor when I was taking my place here in court, nor at any point in any part of my speech did the divine sign oppose me. In other discussions it has often checked me in the middle of a sentence; but this time it has never opposed me in any part of this business in anything that I have said or done. What do I suppose to be the explanation? I will tell you. I suspect that this thing that has happened to me is a blessing, and we are quite mistaken in supposing death to be an evil. I have good grounds for thinking this, because my accustomed sign could not have failed to oppose me if what I was doing had not been sure to bring some good result.

There is the explanation that is put in the language of the mysteries, that we men are in a kind of prison, and that one must not free oneself or run away. That seems to me an impressive doctrine and one not easy to understand fully. However, Cebes, this seems to me well expressed, that the gods are our guardians and that men are one of their possessions. Or do you not think so?

Parmenides was offering a rational deduction. He starts from a basic principle—that you can have “is,” but you can’t have “is not”—and then proceeds to explore the consequences, whatever they might be. Whatever we make of his argument, this is a real quantum leap in the history of philosophy. Parmenides is not just offering explanations of what he can see around him, though he goes on to do that in the way of opinion. Rather, he puts all his trust in reason itself, and trusts the power of argument more than he trusts the evidence of his own eyes and ears. This is not to say that Parmenides is the first Pre-Socratic to offer arguments. Already with Thales, I suggested that he may have had implicit arguments for his views on water and the claim that everything is full of gods. Nonetheless Parmenides does represent something new. He tries to settle an abstract philosophical issue—the nature of being itself—with an explicit and complex deductive argument.

The purely philosophical influences on Plato were also such as to pre-dispose him in favour of Sparta. These influences, speaking broadly, were: Pythagoras, Parmenides, Heraclitus, and Socrates. From Pythagoras (whether by way of Socrates or not) Plato derived the Orphic elements in his philosophy: the religious trend, the belief in immortality, the other-worldliness, the priestly tone, and all that is involved in the simile of the cave; also his respect for mathematics, and his intimate intermingling of intellect and mysticism. From Parmenides he derived the belief that reality is eternal and timeless, and that, on logical grounds, all change must be illusory. From Heraclitus he derived the negative doctrine that there is nothing permanent in the sensible world. This, combined with the doctrine of Parmenides, led to the conclusion that knowledge is not to be derived from the senses, but is only to be achieved by the intellect. This, in turn, fitted in well with Pythagoreanism. From Socrates he probably learnt his preoccupation with ethical problems, and his tendency to seek teleological rather than mechanical explanations of the world. 'The Good' dominated his thought more than that of the pre-Socratics, and it is difficult not to attribute this fact to the influence of Socrates.

Over the two centuries before Jesus, the celebration had taken on quite a bit of Greek Socratic (Hellenistic) influence, which suited Jewish social tradition quite nicely, so what had begun as the recitation of a story had morphed into almost a question and response ritual. On the morning of Preparation Day for the celebration, the head of the household took a lamb to The Temple for slaughter. Then, he would bring the meat home so that it, together with the other prescribed ritual foodstuffs, could be properly prepared. Eventually, when it was time for the meal, those gathered would be called to table for a joyous repast. But the feast included an important ritual. Someone at table would query those gathered, following an informal script that revolved around four questions that not only told the great Story of Exodus, but also applied it to the participants’ present lives. So we might imagine: “This is the story of our slavery, and today we are enslaved…” “We wandered for forty years in the arid desert, and today we find that we are wandering, unable to make a decision…” “But at last we arrived in the Promised Land, and we’re planning … this year, God-willing.” Followed by, “Since then we have been committed to making ourselves and our people thrive in God’s promise of this Land—and look around this table and see the kernel of the community that needs our love, every day.” From this deep annual ritual and the understandings flowing from it, we can well imagine how this core metaphor became a spiritual springboard for every Hebrew’s journey with God—a journey of freedom and liberation, one with four sequential paths that continually repeated in the lives of every individual, and in the life of the community. So there is the key—and it is a far-reaching link, indeed. The explanation for early Christians’ natural comfort with being Followers of The Way was specifically and profoundly rooted in their Jewish traditions and almost certainly, the principal of fourness, in ancient rituals from prehistory. The sequence was well-known to them, and the road well-marked. Yet, as Christians did in so many other ways, they expanded the journey from that of their predecessors, pushing beyond the liberation of a single tribe and outer freedom from an oppressive Pharaoh. Christians took the framework of freedom and crafted an identifiable, cyclical inner journey of transformation available to everyone, incorporating the living reality of Jesus the Christ. And soon, The Way came to be understood by early Christians as the ongoing gradual process of transformation into the image of the eternal Christ in whom they believed they were already made.

Optimism and reason are incompatible with the conceit that our knowledge is ‘nearly there’ in any sense, or that its foundations are. Yet comprehensive optimism has always been rare, and the lure of the prophetic fallacy strong. But there have always been exceptions. Socrates famously claimed to be deeply ignorant. And Popper wrote: I believe that it would be worth trying to learn something about the world even if in trying to do so we should merely learn that we do not know much…It might be well for all of us to remember that, while differing widely in the various little bits we know, in our infinite ignorance we are all equal. Conjectures and Refutations (1963) Infinite ignorance is a necessary condition for there to be infinite potential for knowledge.

Philosophers are prone to overreach. Eager for profundity, they run the risk of intellectual hallucination; sometimes the shimmering light is not an oasis but your mind’s eye playing tricks on you, and sometimes the simplest explanation is the best. This is why Socrates believed philosophy is best practiced in pairs. The buddy system. You need someone else, another mind, to keep you on track.

Some critics acidly observed that people throughout the ages have always believed they were living in particularly crucial times. There is some truth to this criticism, because human history is indeed continuously decisive, for in humanity’s march through time every step determines the future of our species. But only the cynic would sneer at the idea that some steps, some historical periods, are more decisive than others—not only in the shaping of a particular race or nation, but for humanity as a whole. Possibly one such decisive historical threshold was what the German philosopher and psychiatrist Karl Jaspers styled the “axial age”—the period between 800–500 B.C.E. when “thought turned back upon thought”: the epoch of Confucius, Lao Tzu, Buddha, Zoroaster, Heraclitus, Plato, and Socrates.1 In the West, this development gradually led to what can only be described as the enthronement and autarchy of cold reason and the consequent suppression of nonrational modes of consciousness. As many contemporary thinkers have shown, this inflation of ratio lies at the root of today’s moral and spiritual bankruptcy, and its disastrous effects can be witnessed all around us (and in us, if we care to look). What is perhaps most disheartening is that this lopsided orientation to life is now being thrust upon the “underdeveloped” world, which merely magnifies the existing threat to our planet’s ecology and to the survival of countless life forms, not least our own human species. When we take stock of the folly of humankind we begin to realize the extent of the global problems induced, in the last analysis, by hypertrophied (egocentric) reason. We may also be impressed with the traditional Hindu explanation of the particular spirit of our era. For, according to the computations of the Hindu pundits, we are well into the “dawn phase” of the kali-yuga, or “dark age.” Like so many premodern mythologies, Hinduism views the evolution of humanity as a cyclical process of progressive moral degeneration from an original state of purity and spiritual wholeness. The

The idea that different societies had different rules and morals was known to the ancient world too, and it is interesting to compare its response to this realization with the modern response (relativism, nihilism and ideology). When the ancient Greeks sailed to India and elsewhere, they too discovered that rules, morals and customs differed from place to place, and saw that the explanation for what was right and wrong was often rooted in some ancestral authority. The Greek response was not despair, but a new invention: philosophy. Socrates, reacting to the uncertainty bred by awareness of these conflicting moral codes, decided that instead of becoming a nihilist, a relativist or an ideologue, he would devote his life to the search for wisdom that could reason about these differences, i.e., he helped invent philosophy. He spent his life asking perplexing, foundational questions, such as “What is virtue?” and “How can one live the good life?” and “What is justice?” and he looked at different approaches, asking which seemed most coherent and most in accord with human nature. These are the kinds of questions that I believe animate this book. For the ancients, the discovery that different people have different ideas about how, practically, to live, did not paralyze them; it deepened their understanding of humanity and led to some of the most satisfying conversations human beings have ever had, about how life might be lived.

Going back to the pre-Socratics (and still much alive in the dialogues of Plato), there has been an ongoing debate among the lovers of wisdom as to whether wisdom is best transmitted in the form of mythos, stories and poems, or in the form of logos, explanations and reason.

So were we and all our teachings wrong about everything, all those years? Was no part of our knowledge right?” “On the contrary; we consider them the first attempts of humankind to approach the Light and therefore we greatly appreciate and honour them! But all this surfaced only because of the Nibelvirch; it all originated from the nostalgia and the thirst for the Samith, as were the greatest works of art and all great human accomplishments. This thirst of spirit and soul for a godlike destination and proof of our superhuman origins is what makes us idealise and beautify thousands of aspects of our everyday life in this poor earthly environment: virtue, forgiveness, friendship, humanism, youth, beauty, justice, happiness, freedom, affection. The lack of the Samith is the deepest source of all great works of intellect.” And the truth is that man’s destiny in our time was to be born, to love, to hurt and to die. Seemingly, at least. But because man's consciousness intuitively knew that something bigger was concealed behind appearances; it couldn’t tolerate this explanation and rebelled. “We could not explain it,” I said, “and we secretly wished to have been born robots without the ability or the need to conceive of all these things since they are so alien and inapproachable anyway, so incompatible with real life.” “They’re only incompatible in the poor and temporally finite environment of this world and life. But if nothing bigger existed, none of our thoughts and concepts like eternity, infinity or God would exist either. The innate mental propensity for perfection would not exist and neither would the Platonic world, Buddhism, or even Christianity—to speak in your own language. Acts of self-sacrifice such as Socrates’ refusal to flee, the 300 of Leonidas or even the crucifixion of Jesus, never would have happened in human history.