> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.opendemocracy.net/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Five minutes with Socrates - URL: https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/article-1780jsp/ - Published: 2004-03-11T00:03:00.000Z - Updated: 2019-02-14T22:49:00.000Z - Author: Dominic Hilton - Tags: #en, #Migrated, #Import 2026-04-09 19:08 Socrates was wrong. There, I said it. Three little words to undermine the greatest intellectual mankind has ever known. My power amazes even me. I long for five minutes with the old sage. Here’s what I’d ask: Me: So, Soc, are you happy with your lot? Socrates (a cup of hemlock clasped in his hand): Are you kidding? You think this is the way I planned to retire? This city has got to do something about its pension schemes. Me: Whatever. Records show you’ve lived a long, rich life. The length of your beard is testament to your age, your wisdom, and your fundamental failure as a human being. Socrates: I beg your pardon? Me: I’m sure you do. But you’re not going to get it. I say you’ve wasted your life. I say you’re nothing but a misguided [*klutz*](http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=klutz&ref=opendemocracy.net)! Socrates: Do my ears deceive me? Can this no-good handsome young upstart be so bold? Who in Arcadia’s name are you anyways? Me: Never mind the details. Let’s just say I’ve come to set you straight on a few things. First, what’s this [malarkey](http://www.hyperdictionary.com/search.aspx?define=malarkey&ref=opendemocracy.net) about how the unexamined life is not worth living? Socrates: Malarkey? That’s the cornerstone of my entire value system. You want to step outside? I’ll break your nose. Me: Ah, so there is some fire in your belly after all? You’re not just an over-intellectualised pansy? Socrates (fuming): I’ll have you. Me: Stop dreaming. What are you going to do exactly, bore me to death with discourse? Socrates: It’s never failed me yet. Me: Well you’re dealing with a different kettle of fish now, mister. Socrates: I wondered what that smell was. Me: Oh, sure, mock me with your clever little one-liners. Typical of you. Socrates (grinning): The tongue is mightier than the bicep. Me: Yeah. Well in your case that happens to be technically accurate. What’s the matter, don’t they feed sages in Greece? Socrates: Thought is all the sustenance I need. Me: Yeah? Well I’m starving. Any kebab joints do delivery round here? Socrates: Your five minutes is almost over. Me: So stop distracting me. What I’ve come to say is this: contrary to your arrogant assumption, the unexamined life *is* worth living. In fact, it’s the examined life that sucks. Socrates: Interesting. You got a card? Me: A man who is all brain and no heart never truly lives. Logic has its place. But love ... Love is where it’s at. Socrates: Can you say that in Ancient Greek? You’re losing me here. Me: I thought you were supposed to be clever. Try to keep up, would you? I’m saying there are limits to intellectual inquiry. Socrates: In your case, I don’t doubt it. Me: Dialogue is all well and good, but what about feelings? Socrates: What about them? Me: Well, I’m not sure exactly. Quit intimidating me. Socrates: Never. Me: Great. You know what you are? You’re a bane on man’s collective conscience. Socrates (looking immensely pleased with himself): We all gotta live. Me: Which is exactly my point. Socrates: Oh, so you have one? Me: Emphatically. If you had your way we’d spend our whole lives considering, deliberating, debating. I’m saying that’s no life at all. I’m saying logic is the enemy of love, that the two are at war, and love has all the big weapons. Socrates (raising an eyebrow): I’ve heard about men like you. Ever been to a toga party? Me (embarrassed): No, you’ve got me all wrong. You mind if I read from some notes I brought? They’re just some little jottings... Socrates (smirking): Feel free. Me (ironically): I’m trying. OK, so look: love, for want of a less loaded term, is the internal combustion engine of mankind. Socrates: The what? Me: The wars, the conflicts, the violence, the destruction – these are just the toxic emissions. Lift up the human bonnet, and you’ll see what keep us motoring: love, in all its weird and even weirder forms. Socrates: Are you OK? Want some hemlock? Me: You know, for a man so obsessed with dialogue, you’re an awful listener. Socrates: What’s the point? No one’s got anything to teach me. I’m Socrates! Me: Oh, so I am in the right place, then. I was starting to wonder. Is what I’m saying so difficult to comprehend? Socrates: Yes. Me: OK, then let me put it another way. There’s definitely, definitely, definitely no logic to human behaviour. Socrates: You can say that again. Me: I will. There’s definitely, definitely, definitely no logic to human behaviour. Socrates: Catchy. Me: Yeah, thanks. Socrates: So there’s no logic. So what? There should be. Me: Ah, but should there? Socrates: Yes. Me: Oh. Well I say otherwise. I say logic stops us being human. I say no logic, no philosophy, ideology or smart-arsed intellectual theory can detract from the reality of an aching, breaking or throbbing heart – not to mention one doing all three at once. I say love is all you need. Love and money, anyway. Socrates: Then you’re an idiot. Me: Maybe so. But at least I’m unhappy. Socrates: Eh? Me: Remember Aphrodite? Socrates (bobbing his eyebrows up and down): Very well! Me: Right. The Greek Goddess of Love. Conceived when Uranus was castrated by his son Cronus and the kid lobbed the old man’s genitals into the ocean. I tell you pal, it’s been downhill ever since. Socrates: Oh good Apollo! You’re not an idiot, you’re a nut! Me (wringing my hands): Don’t you see? That’s what it’s all about. Romeo and Juliet, Anthony and Cleopatra, Tristan and Isolde – that’s real living! In comparison, you’re nothing but a tiresome old windbag. You’re no better than other non-believers: communists, rationalists, perverts, feminists, cynics, all the women I ever meet. History is littered with people who think love is an illusion, nothing but a Hollywood-inspired fantasy designed to keep the gawping masses ignorant of their true consciousness. But you perfectionists don’t fool me. I’m the last incurable romantic. Forget politics, forget dialogue, find yourself a good woman, or whatever you’re into, and take off for Persia. Socrates (whipping off his toga): You’re right. Let’s go! Me: What? Socrates: You’ve sold me. Give me your hand. We’ll skip through meadows, smell the flowers, recite poetry, gaze into each other’s eyes, then die a tragic death, side by side. Me: Er, look. I think we need to talk.