Apology

What effect my accusers have had upon you, men of Athens, I do not know. For my own part, I was almost made to forget who I was by them, so persuasively did they speak. And yet, to put it plainly, scarcely a word they have said is true. But of all the many falsehoods they told, the one that astonished me most was their warning that you must take care not to be deceived by me,

since I am a formidable speaker. Their utter lack of shame in knowing that I would at once refute them by the facts, when I proved myself not in the least a formidable speaker—this seemed to me the most shameless thing about them, unless, perhaps, by a formidable speaker they mean one who speaks the truth. For if that is what they mean, I would admit that I am an orator, though not after their fashion. They, then, as I say, have spoken little or no truth; but from me you shall hear the whole truth—not, by Zeus, men of Athens, speeches adorned with elegant phrases, like theirs,

or embellished with carefully chosen words and expressions. No, you shall hear things spoken simply, in whatever words occur to me—for I trust that what I say is just—and let none of you expect anything else. For surely, gentlemen, it would not become a man of my age to come before you like a youngster fashioning elaborate speeches. And there is one thing, men of Athens, that I earnestly ask and beg of you: if you hear me making my defense in the same language I have been accustomed to use in the marketplace, at the bankers’ tables, where many of you have heard me, and elsewhere, do not

be surprised or raise an uproar on that account. The fact is this: I have now come before a court of law for the first time, though I am seventy years old; so I am quite simply a stranger to the manner of speaking used here. If, then, I were in fact a foreigner, you would surely pardon me if I spoke in the accent and manner

in which I had been brought up. And so now I ask of you what I believe to be just: disregard my manner of speaking—it may be worse, or it may be better—and consider this alone, fixing your attention upon it: whether what I say is just or not. For that is the virtue of a judge, while the virtue of an orator is to speak the truth.First, then, men of Athens, I am entitled to defend myself against the earliest false accusations brought against me and my earliest accusers, and afterward against the later accusations and the later

accusers. For many have been accusing me before you for a long time now, for many years, without saying anything true; and I fear them more than Anytus and his associates, formidable though these men are. But those others are more formidable, gentlemen: they took hold of most of you from childhood and persuaded you, accusing me with no more truth than this—that there is a certain Socrates, a wise man, a thinker about things in the heavens, one who has investigated everything beneath the earth, and one who makes the weaker argument the stronger.

These men, men of Athens, who spread this report abroad, are my formidable accusers; for those who hear them suppose that men who investigate such matters do not even believe in the gods. Furthermore, these accusers are numerous, and they have been making their accusations for a long time; and they spoke to you at an age when you were most ready to believe them, when some of you were children and youths, prosecuting their case quite literally in the absence of the accused, with no one making a defense. And what is most unreasonable of all is that it is not even possible to know and state their

names, unless one of them happens to be a comic poet. But all those who, moved by envy and slander, persuaded you—and some who, having themselves been persuaded, went on to persuade others—all these are the most difficult to deal with. For it is impossible to summon any of them here or cross-examine anyone; instead, in making my defense, I must quite literally fight with shadows and cross-examine with no one there to answer. You must therefore recognize, as I say, that I have had two sets of accusers: one consisting of those who have accused me just now, and another consisting of those long ago

of whom I speak; and you must agree that I ought first to defend myself against the latter. For you heard them making their accusations before these men, and far more often than you have heard these later accusers.Very well, then. I must make my defense, men of Athens, and attempt

in so short a time to remove from your minds the slander that you have held there for so long. I would wish this to come about, if it is in any way better for both you and me, and I would wish to accomplish something by my defense. But I think it is difficult, and I am well aware of the nature of the task. Nevertheless, let the matter proceed as the god may favor; I must obey the law and make my defense.Let us therefore take up the matter from the beginning: what is the accusation from which

the slander against me arose, and in reliance upon which Meletus brought this indictment against me? Very well. What, then, did my slanderers say in slandering me? I must read out their sworn charge, as though they were formal accusers: “Socrates commits an injustice and meddles in things beyond his concern by investigating what is beneath the earth and in the heavens, and by making the weaker argument the stronger,

and by teaching these same things to others.” Something of that kind is their charge. For you yourselves saw such things in Aristophanes’ comedy: a certain Socrates carried about on the stage, claiming that he walks in the air and babbling a great deal of other nonsense about matters of which I understand nothing whatsoever, great or small. I do not say this to disparage knowledge of that sort, if anyone is wise in such matters—may I never have to defend myself against so many charges from Meletus—but the fact is, men of Athens, that I have no part in any of these things.

And I offer most of you yourselves as witnesses. I ask all of you who have ever heard me conversing—and there are many of you who have—to instruct and inform one another. Tell one another whether any of you has ever heard me discussing such matters, either at length or briefly; and from this you will recognize that the other things the multitude says about me are of the same sort.But the truth is that none of these claims is true. Nor, if you have heard from anyone that I undertake to educate people and charge money

for it, is that true either. Though this, too, seems to me an admirable thing, if someone is capable of educating people, as Gorgias of Leontini, Prodicus of Ceos, and Hippias of Elis are. For each of these men, gentlemen, is capable of going into any city and persuading the young men—who are free to associate without payment with whichever of their fellow citizens they choose—to leave those associations and associate with them instead, paying them money and feeling grateful besides.

Indeed, there is another wise man here from Paros whose presence in the city I happened to learn of. For I chanced to meet a man who has paid more money to sophists than all other men put together—Callias, the son of Hipponicus. Since he has two sons, I asked him, “Callias,” I said, “if your two sons had been born colts or calves, we would know how to find and hire a trainer for them, one who

would make them fine and good in the excellence proper to them; and he would be some expert in horses or in farming. But now, since they are human beings, whom do you have in mind to take charge of them? Who has knowledge of the excellence proper to a human being and a citizen? I assume you have considered the matter, since you have sons. Is there such a person,” I asked, “or not?” “Certainly,” he said. “Who is he,” I asked, “where does he come from, and how much does he charge for his teaching?” “Evenus,” he replied, “Socrates—Evenus of Paros, for five minas.” And I counted Evenus blessed, if he truly

possesses this art and teaches it for so moderate a fee. I myself would certainly take pride and glory in it if I possessed such knowledge; but I do not possess it, men of Athens.Perhaps, then, one of you might reply: “But Socrates, what is your occupation? Where have these slanders against you come from? Surely, if you had not been doing something more unusual than other men, so great a reputation and so much talk would never have arisen, unless you were doing something different from most people. Tell us, then, what

it is, so that we may not form hasty judgments about you.” Whoever speaks in this way seems to me to speak justly, and I will try to show you what it is that has given rise both to my reputation and to the slander against me. Listen, then. Perhaps some of you will think I am joking; but be well assured that I shall tell you the whole truth. For I, men of Athens, have acquired this reputation for no other reason than a certain kind of wisdom. What kind of wisdom is that? Perhaps it is merely human wisdom; for it seems that I really am wise in this respect. But those men of whom I was just

speaking may perhaps be wise in some wisdom greater than human; otherwise, I do not know what to say. For I certainly do not possess it, and whoever says that I do is lying and speaks only to slander me. And now, men of Athens, do not raise an uproar, even if I seem to you to be saying something boastful. For the account I shall give is not my own; rather, I shall refer you to a speaker whose authority you will trust. As a witness to my wisdom—whether I possess any, and what sort it is—I shall present to you the god at Delphi. You surely know Chaerephon. He

was my companion from his youth, and a companion of your democratic party as well; he shared your recent exile and returned with you. And you know what sort of man Chaerephon was, how impetuous he was in whatever he undertook. Once, when he went to Delphi, he even dared to ask the oracle this question—and, gentlemen, as I said, do not raise an uproar—he asked whether anyone was wiser than I. The Pythian priestess replied that no one was wiser. His brother here will testify to these things before you, since Chaerephon himself is dead.

Consider, then, why I am telling you this; for I am about to explain to you where the slander against me arose. When I heard these things, I reflected in this way: “What in the world does the god mean, and what is his riddle? For I am conscious of possessing no wisdom, great or small. What, then, can he mean by declaring that I am the wisest? Surely he cannot be lying; that would not be lawful for him.” For a long time I was at a loss as to what he meant. Then, with great reluctance, I turned to an inquiry into the matter, in some such manner as this. I went to one of those reputed to be wise, thinking that there, if anywhere, I should

refute the oracle and declare to the prophecy, “This man is wiser than I am, though you said that I was.” So I examined this man—I have no need to mention his name; he was one of our politicians, and it was while examining him and conversing with him that I had the following experience, men of Athens. It seemed to me that this man was thought wise by many other people, and most of all by himself, but that he was not. I then tried to show him that he thought himself wise, but was not.

As a result, I became hateful both to him and to many of those present. But as I went away, I reasoned with myself: “I am wiser than this man. For it may well be that neither of us knows anything noble and good; but he thinks he knows something when he does not, whereas I, just as I do not know, do not think that I know. At any rate, I appear to be wiser than he in this one small respect: that what I do not know, I do not think I know.” From there I went to another of those reputed to be wiser than the first, and

I formed the very same judgment; and there too I became hateful both to him and to many others.

After that I proceeded from one man to another. I perceived, with distress and alarm, that I was making myself hated; nevertheless, it seemed necessary to regard the god’s command as of the highest importance. So, in seeking to discover what the oracle meant, I had to go to everyone who seemed to know anything.

And by the Dog, men of Athens—for I must tell you the truth—I truly had an experience of this sort: as I investigated in accordance with the god, those held in the highest esteem seemed to me to be, with few exceptions, the most deficient, while others, reputed to be inferior, seemed to be more sensible men. I must describe to you my wandering, as though I were performing certain labors, so that the oracle might prove irrefutable to me. After the politicians, I went to the poets—the writers of tragedies and dithyrambs and the

other poets—expecting that there I should catch myself in the very act of being more ignorant than they. So I would take up those of their poems that seemed to me to have been most carefully composed, and ask them what they meant, so that at the same time I might learn something from them. I am ashamed, gentlemen, to tell you the truth; nevertheless, it must be told. Almost everyone present, so to speak, could have discussed the poems better than the men who had composed them. Thus I soon discovered this about the poets as well: they did not compose what they composed through wisdom,

but through a certain natural gift and under divine inspiration, like prophets and those who deliver oracles; for these too say many fine things, but understand nothing of what they say. The poets, I saw, had undergone something of the same sort. At the same time, I perceived that because of their poetry they thought themselves the wisest of men in other matters as well, though they were not. So I left them too, believing that I had the same advantage over them as I had over the politicians.

Finally, then, I went to the craftsmen; for I was conscious that I myself knew practically nothing, but I knew that I should find them possessed of much fine knowledge.

And in this I was not mistaken: they knew things I did not know, and in that respect they were wiser than I. But, men of Athens, the good craftsmen seemed to me to have the same failing as the poets. Because each of them practiced his craft well, each claimed to be exceedingly wise in the greatest matters as well; and this error of theirs obscured the wisdom they did possess.

So, on behalf of the oracle, I asked myself whether I would prefer to remain as I am, possessing neither their wisdom nor their ignorance, or to possess both as they do. I answered myself and the oracle that it was better for me to remain as I am.

From this examination, then, men of Athens,

many hatreds have arisen against me, and of the most bitter and burdensome kind, so that many slanders have sprung from them, and I have acquired this reputation of being wise. For on each occasion those present suppose that I myself am wise in the matters in which I expose another man’s ignorance. But the truth is likely this, gentlemen: it is the god who is wise, and in this oracle he means that human wisdom is worth little or nothing. And he appears to mention this man Socrates, but merely to have made use

of my name, making me an example, as if he were to say: “That one among you, human beings, is wisest who, like Socrates, has recognized that in truth he is worth nothing where wisdom is concerned.” And so even now I continue to go about searching and examining, in obedience to the god, any citizen or foreigner whom I think wise; and whenever he does not seem so to me, I come to the god’s aid by showing that the man is not wise. Because of this occupation, I have had no leisure to accomplish anything worth mentioning either in public affairs or in my own private business, but I live in

utter poverty because of my service to the god.

Besides this, the young men who follow me of their own accord—those who have the most leisure, the sons of the wealthiest families—take pleasure in hearing people examined. They themselves often imitate me and then attempt to examine others; and afterward, I suppose, they find a great abundance of people who think they know something but know little or nothing. Consequently, those whom they examine become angry with me rather than with themselves,

and say that there is a certain Socrates, a most abominable man, who corrupts the young. And whenever someone asks them what he does or what he teaches to corrupt them, they have nothing to say, because they do not know. But so that they may not appear at a loss, they repeat the accusations readily available against all who pursue philosophy: that he studies things in the heavens and beneath the earth, does not acknowledge the gods, and makes the weaker argument the stronger. For I imagine they would be unwilling to tell the truth: that they are plainly exposed as pretending to know when they know nothing. And so, being, I suppose, ambitious,

vehement, and numerous, and speaking about me with determination and persuasiveness, they have filled your ears for a long time now with their fierce slanders. From among them Meletus, Anytus, and Lycon have attacked me: Meletus aggrieved on behalf of the poets, Anytus on behalf of the craftsmen and

politicians, and Lycon on behalf of the orators. And so, as I said at the beginning, I should be amazed if I were able in so short a time to remove from your minds a slander that has grown so great. This, men of Athens, is the truth for you. I speak without concealing or holding back anything, great or small. And yet I know perfectly well that this very frankness makes me hated—which is also proof that I speak the truth, that this is indeed the slander against me, and that these are its causes.

Whether you investigate the matter now or later, this is what you will find.

Let this, then, be a sufficient defense before you against the charges brought by my first accusers. Next I shall try to defend myself against the good and patriotic Meletus, as he calls himself, and against the later accusers. Once again, then, as though these were a different set of accusers, let us take up their sworn indictment in turn. It runs approximately as follows: Socrates is guilty of corrupting the young and of not acknowledging the gods whom the city

acknowledges, but other, new divinities instead. Such is the charge. Let us examine each part of this charge separately.

He says, then, that I am guilty of corrupting the young. But I, men of Athens, say that Meletus is guilty of treating serious matters as a joke, lightly bringing men to trial and pretending to be earnest and concerned about matters for which he has never cared in the least. That this is so, I shall try to show you as well. Come here, Meletus, and tell me: do you not consider it

of the highest importance that the younger men should be as good as possible?

I do.

Come then, tell these gentlemen who makes them better. Clearly you know, since you care about it. For you claim to have discovered the man who corrupts them—me—and you bring me before these men and accuse me. Come now, identify the man who makes them better, and reveal to them who he is. Do you see, Meletus, that you are silent and have nothing to say? And does this not seem shameful to you, and sufficient proof of precisely what I say: that you have never cared at all? But tell us, my good man, who makes them better?

The laws.

But that is not what I am asking, my excellent fellow. I am asking what person—someone who, first of all, knows this very thing, the laws.

These men, Socrates—the jurors.

What are you saying, Meletus? Are these men capable of educating the young and making them better?

Certainly.

All of them, or some of them but not others?

All of them.

Well said, by Hera! You have found a great abundance of benefactors. And what of the audience here? Do they make the young better

or not?

They do too.

And what of the members of the Council?

The members of the Council as well.

But then, Meletus, surely those in the Assembly—the Assemblymen—do not corrupt the young? Or do they too, all of them, make them better?

They do too.

Then all Athenians, it seems, make them fine and good except me, while I alone corrupt them. Is that what you mean?

That is exactly what I mean.

You have condemned me to great misfortune indeed. Now answer me: does the same seem to you to hold true in the case of horses—that some

with all mankind making them better and only one person corrupting them? Or is the very opposite true: that one person, or a very few—the horse trainers—are able to improve them, while most people, if they associate with horses and make use of them, corrupt them? Is that not how matters stand, Meletus, with horses and with every other kind of animal? Surely it is, whether you and Anytus deny it or admit it. For the young would indeed enjoy extraordinary good fortune if only one person corrupted them, while all the others

benefited them. But in fact, Meletus, you have shown well enough that you have never given any thought at all to the young, and you plainly reveal your own indifference: you have cared nothing about the matters for which you are bringing me to trial.

And tell us this as well, Meletus, in Zeus’s name: is it better to live among good citizens or bad ones? Come, my good man, answer; I am asking you nothing difficult. Do not bad people always do some harm to those who are nearest to them, while good people do them some good?

Certainly.

Is there anyone, then, who wishes to be harmed rather than benefited by those with whom he associates? Answer, my good man; the law requires you to answer. Is there anyone who wishes to be harmed?

Certainly not.

Come, then: are you bringing me here on the charge that I corrupt the young and make them worse deliberately, or unintentionally?

Deliberately, I say.

What then, Meletus? Are you, at your age, so much wiser than I am at mine that you have recognized that bad people always do some harm to those nearest

to them, while good people do them good, whereas I have reached such a depth of ignorance that I do not even know this: that if I make one of my associates wicked, I shall run the risk of suffering some harm at his hands? And so, according to you, I deliberately commit this very great evil? I do not believe you, Meletus, and I think no other human being does either. No: either I do not corrupt them, or, if I do,

I do so unintentionally; and thus you are lying in either case. But if I corrupt them unintentionally, the law does not require that a man be brought here for such errors; it requires that one take him aside privately, teach him, and admonish him. For it is clear that once I have learned better, I shall cease doing what I do unintentionally. But you avoided associating with me and teaching me, and refused to do so; instead you bring me here, where the law requires men to be brought who need punishment, not instruction.

But indeed, men of Athens, what I was saying is already clear:

Meletus has never cared about these matters in the least. Nevertheless, tell us, Meletus: how do you say that I corrupt the young? Is it not plainly, according to the indictment you filed, by teaching them not to believe in the gods in whom the city believes, but in other, new spiritual things? Is this not what you say I teach, and thereby corrupt them?

Yes, most emphatically, that is exactly what I say.

Then, Meletus, by those very gods who are now the subject of our argument, explain yourself still more clearly, both to me and to these gentlemen

here. For I cannot determine whether you mean that I teach people to believe that certain gods exist—in which case I myself do believe that gods exist, am not altogether an atheist, and do no wrong in that respect—though they are not the same gods as those recognized by the city, but others, and this difference is what you charge against me; or whether you say that I myself believe in no gods at all and teach others the same.

I say that you do not believe in gods at all.

Extraordinary Meletus, why do you say this? Then I do not even believe, as other men do, that the sun and moon are gods?

No, by Zeus, gentlemen of the jury; for he says that the sun is stone and the moon earth.

Do you think you are prosecuting Anaxagoras, my dear Meletus? Do you have so little regard for these gentlemen, and do you suppose them so ignorant of books that they do not know that the writings of Anaxagoras of Clazomenae are full of these doctrines? And are the young really learning these things from me, when they can sometimes buy them in the orchestra for a drachma at most

and then laugh at Socrates if he claims they are his own—especially when the doctrines themselves are so outlandish? But in Zeus’s name, is that truly what you think of me? Do I believe that no god exists?

No, by Zeus, you do not—not in the least.

You are not to be believed, Meletus—not even, it seems to me, by yourself. For this man, men of Athens, appears to me thoroughly insolent and undisciplined, and to have filed this indictment simply out of a kind of insolence, lack of restraint, and youthful rashness.

For he seems to have composed a riddle in order to test me: “Will the wise Socrates discover that I am joking and contradicting myself, or shall I deceive him and everyone else who hears me?” For he seems to me to contradict himself in the indictment, as though he had said: “Socrates does wrong by not believing in gods, but by believing in gods.” Yet that is the work of a man at play.

Consider with me, gentlemen, how he seems to me to be saying this; and you, Meletus, answer us. And you gentlemen, remember what I asked of you at the beginning: do not make an uproar if I conduct my argument in my accustomed manner.

Is there any human being, Meletus, who believes that human affairs exist but does not believe that human beings exist? Let him answer, gentlemen, and do not keep raising one disturbance after another. Is there anyone who does not believe in horses but does believe in equestrian matters? Or who does not believe that flute players exist but does believe in matters of flute playing? There is no such person, excellent sir. Since you are unwilling to answer, I shall tell you, and these gentlemen too. But at least answer the next question:

Is there anyone who believes that spiritual things exist but does not believe in spirits?

There is not.

How helpful of you to answer at last, though only under compulsion from these gentlemen. So you say that I both believe in and teach spiritual things, whether new or old; at any rate, according to your statement, I believe in spiritual things, and you have sworn to this in your formal accusation. But if I believe in spiritual things, then surely it is absolutely necessary that I also believe in spirits. Is that not so? It is so; for since you do not answer, I take you to concede it. And do we not consider

spirits to be either gods or children of gods? Do you agree, or not?

Certainly.

Then if I believe in spirits, as you say I do, and if spirits are a kind of god, this would be precisely what I say you were hinting at in your riddle and joking about: you say that I do not believe in gods and then, once again, that I do believe in gods, since I believe in spirits. But if, on the other hand, spirits are illegitimate children of gods, born of nymphs or of certain others who are said to be their mothers, what human being could believe that children of gods exist, but not gods? For that would be just as

absurd as believing in the offspring of horses or donkeys—the mules—but not believing that horses and donkeys exist. No, Meletus, there is no possible explanation except that you filed this indictment either to test us or because you were at a loss to find any genuine wrongdoing with which to charge me. But there is no conceivable way you could persuade any human being with even a little sense that it is not for the same person to believe both in spiritual and divine things, and, conversely, for the same person to believe in neither

spirits, nor gods, nor heroes.

But indeed, men of Athens, that I am not guilty under Meletus’s indictment seems to me to require no lengthy defense; what has been said is sufficient. Yet what I said earlier—that I have incurred great hostility, and from many people—you may be certain is true. And this is what will convict me, if I am convicted: not Meletus or Anytus, but the slander and envy of the many. These have already convicted many other good

men, and I think they will continue to do so. There is no danger that they will stop with me.

Perhaps someone might say: “Are you not ashamed, Socrates, to have pursued a way of life that now puts you in danger of death?” But I should answer him justly: “You do not speak well, sir, if you think that a man worth even a little should calculate the danger of living or dying, instead of considering one thing alone whenever he acts: whether what he is doing is just or unjust, and the work of a good man or a bad one.” For by your account, all those demigods who died at Troy would have been worthless,

the others as well as the son of Thetis, who so despised danger in comparison with enduring any disgrace that, when he was eager to kill Hector, his mother, being a goddess, said to him, as I believe, something like this: “My son, if you avenge the murder of your comrade Patroclus and kill Hector, you yourself will die—for straightway after Hector,” she says, “your death awaits you.” But when he heard this, he made light of death and danger, fearing far more

to live as a coward and fail to avenge his friends. “Let me die at once,” he says, “after exacting justice from the wrongdoer, so that I may not remain here, a laughingstock beside the curved ships, a burden upon the earth.” Do you imagine that he gave any thought to death and danger?

For this is how matters truly stand, men of Athens: wherever a man stations himself because he considers it best, or wherever he is stationed by his commander, there, in my judgment, he must remain and face the danger, taking no account of death or anything else before dishonor. I should therefore have acted terribly, men

of Athens, if, when the commanders whom you elected to command me assigned me my post at Potidaea, Amphipolis, and Delium, I remained where they stationed me, as any other man would, and ran the risk of death, but when the god assigned me my post—as I believed and understood that he had—requiring me to live philosophizing and examining myself and others, I then abandoned my station through fear of death

or of anything else whatsoever. That would indeed be terrible, and then someone might truly and justly bring me to trial on the charge that I do not believe in gods, since I would be disobeying the oracle, fearing death, and thinking myself wise when I am not. For to fear death, gentlemen, is nothing other than to seem wise without being so; it is to seem to know what one does not know. No one knows death, or even whether it may in fact be the greatest of all blessings for a human being, yet people fear it as though they knew perfectly well.

that it is the greatest of evils. And yet how is this not that most disgraceful ignorance—the belief that one knows what one does not know? In this respect, gentlemen, I may perhaps differ from most people; and if I were to claim that I am wiser than anyone in any respect, it would be in this: that since I do not know enough about the things in Hades, I also do not suppose that I know. But I do know that to commit injustice and to disobey one’s superior, whether god or man, is evil and shameful. Therefore, before evils that I know to be evils, I shall never fear or flee from things that I do not know to be evils and that may, for all I know, actually be good. And so, not even if

you were now to acquit me, refusing to believe Anytus, who said that either I should never have been brought into court in the first place, or, once I had been brought here, it was impossible not to put me to death—telling you that if I escaped, your sons would at once practice what Socrates teaches and would all be utterly corrupted—if, in answer to this, you were to say to me, “Socrates, this time we shall not listen to Anytus, but shall acquit you, on this condition, however: that you no longer spend your time in this inquiry or practice philosophy; and if

you are caught doing this again, you shall die”—if, then, as I said, you were to acquit me on these terms, I would tell you: “Gentlemen of Athens, I respect and love you, but I shall obey the god rather than you; and so long as I draw breath and am able, I shall never cease practicing philosophy, exhorting you, and showing the truth to any one of you whom I happen to meet, saying, as I am accustomed to say: ‘My good sir, you are an Athenian, a citizen of the greatest city, the one most renowned for wisdom and power; are you not ashamed to care for money, that you may possess as much as possible,

and for reputation and honor, while you neither care nor give thought to wisdom and truth and to making your soul as good as it can be?’” And if any one of you disputes this and claims that he does care, I shall not let him go at once, nor shall I leave him; rather, I shall question him, examine him, and put him to the test. And if he does not seem to me to possess virtue,

though he claims that he does, I shall reproach him for attaching the least value to the things of greatest worth and greater value to inferior things. I shall do this to anyone I meet, young or old, foreigner or fellow citizen, but especially to my fellow citizens, since you are nearer to me by birth. For this, you may be sure, is what the god commands; and I believe that no greater good has ever come to you in this city than my service to the god. For I go about doing nothing else but persuading you, young and old alike, not to care for your bodies

or your money before, or so intensely as, you care for your soul, that it may become as good as possible, telling you that virtue does not come from money, but from virtue come money and all the other good things enjoyed by human beings, both privately and publicly. If, then, by saying these things I corrupt the young, these things must be harmful; but if anyone says that I teach anything other than these things, he is talking nonsense. In view of this, I would say, gentlemen of Athens, whether you listen to Anytus or not, and whether you acquit me or not, understand that I shall not

act otherwise, even if I must die many times over.

Do not make an uproar, gentlemen of Athens, but abide by the request I made of you: do not shout at what I say, but listen. For I believe that listening will benefit you. I am now going to tell you certain other things at which you may perhaps cry out; but by no means do so. Be well assured that if you put me to death, being the sort of man I say I am, you will do greater harm not to me but to yourselves. For neither Meletus nor Anytus can harm me at all—nor could they—for I do not believe it is permitted

for a better man to be harmed by a worse one. He might perhaps kill me, or banish me, or deprive me of civic rights. He and perhaps someone else may regard these things as great evils, but I do not. I regard it as a far greater evil to do what this man is now doing: to attempt to put a man to death unjustly. And so, gentlemen of Athens, I am now far from making my defense for my own sake, as someone might suppose; I am making it for yours, so that you may not commit an offense against the god’s

gift to you by condemning me. For if you put me to death, you will not easily find another man like me, one who—though it may sound rather ridiculous—is quite literally fastened by the god to the city as though to a great and noble horse that has grown sluggish because of its size and needs to be roused by a gadfly. It is as such a man, I believe, that the god has fastened me to the city: I never cease, the whole day long, to rouse, persuade, and reproach each one of you,

settling beside you everywhere. Another man like this will not easily arise among you, gentlemen; but if you listen to me, you will spare me. Yet perhaps, annoyed like drowsy people awakened from sleep, you may strike at me and, persuaded by Anytus, easily put me to death; then you might spend the rest of your lives asleep, unless the god, in his care for you, should send someone else upon you. That I am in fact the sort of man given to the city by the god, you may understand from this:

it does not seem human that I should have neglected all my own affairs and endured the neglect of my household for so many years, while always attending to yours, approaching each of you privately like a father or an elder brother and persuading you to care for virtue. If I profited in any way from doing this, and offered these exhortations in return for pay, there would be some explanation for my conduct. But as you yourselves can plainly see, my accusers, though they have accused me of everything else with such shamelessness, have not been able to carry their shamelessness so far

as to produce a witness claiming that I ever demanded or asked anyone for a fee. For I believe that I can produce a sufficient witness that I speak the truth: my poverty.

Perhaps, then, it may seem strange that I go about offering this advice privately and interfering in other people’s affairs, yet do not venture to come before your Assembly and advise the city publicly. The reason is something you have often heard me say in many places: that something divine and

spiritual comes to me, the very thing that Meletus made sport of in his indictment. This has been with me since childhood: a kind of voice that comes to me and, whenever it comes, always turns me away from what I am about to do, but never urges me forward. This is what opposes my taking part in politics, and it seems to me entirely right that it should oppose me. For you may be sure, gentlemen of Athens, that if I had long ago attempted to take part in political affairs, I would long ago have perished and would have benefited neither you

nor myself in any way. And do not be angry with me for speaking the truth: no human being will survive if he genuinely opposes either you or any other multitude and prevents the many unjust and unlawful things that occur in the city. Rather,

anyone who truly fights for justice must, if he is to survive even a short time, act as a private citizen and not hold public office.

I shall offer you compelling evidence of this—not words, but what you value: deeds. Listen, then, to what has happened to me, so that you may know that I would never yield to anyone against what is just out of fear of death, and that by refusing to yield I would be willing even to perish. What I shall tell you is commonplace courtroom talk, but it is true. Gentlemen of Athens, I have never held any other public office

in the city, but I did serve on the Council. It happened that my tribe, Antiochis, held the presidency when you decided to try collectively the ten generals who had failed to recover the men lost in the naval battle—an illegal procedure, as all of you came to recognize afterward. At that time I alone among the presiding officers opposed your doing anything contrary to the laws, and I voted against it. Though the orators were ready to denounce and arrest me, and though you were shouting and ordering them to do so, I thought that I must take my stand with

the law and justice and face the danger, rather than join you when you were resolving to act unjustly, out of fear of imprisonment or death. This happened while the city was still under democracy. But when the oligarchy came to power, the Thirty in turn summoned me and four others to the Tholos and ordered us to bring Leon of Salamis from Salamis so that he might be put to death. They gave many such orders to many others, wishing to implicate as many people as possible in their crimes. On that occasion, however, I

showed again, not in word but in deed, that death is something I care not the slightest about—if it is not too blunt to say so—but that my entire concern is not to do anything unjust or impious. For that government, powerful as it was, did not terrify me into doing an unjust deed. When we came out of the Tholos, the other four went off to Salamis and brought Leon back, while I went home. And I might perhaps have been put to death for this, if the government had not soon afterward been overthrown. And

you will have many witnesses to these events.

Do you suppose, then, that I would have survived all these years if I had taken part in public affairs and, acting as a good man should, had come to the aid of justice and regarded that, as one ought, as the matter of highest importance? Far from it, gentlemen of Athens; nor would any other

human being. But throughout my whole life, if I have ever performed any public action, I shall be found to have been such a man; and in private life I have been the very same, never conceding anything contrary to justice to anyone at all—neither to anyone else nor to any of those whom my slanderers call my pupils. I have never been anyone’s teacher. But if anyone, young or old, desires to listen while I speak and go about my own affairs, I have never denied him the opportunity; nor do I converse only when I receive money

I take no payment; rather, I make myself equally available to rich and poor alike for questioning, and anyone who wishes may answer me and listen to whatever I have to say. And whether any of these people becomes a good man or not, I could not justly be held responsible, since I have never promised anyone any instruction, nor have I taught any. If anyone claims that he has ever learned or heard anything from me in private that all the others did not hear as well, you may be sure that he is not telling the truth.But why, then, do some people take pleasure in spending so much

time with me? You have heard the reason, men of Athens; I have told you the whole truth: they enjoy hearing those who suppose themselves wise, but are not, being examined. For it is not an unpleasant thing to hear. But as I maintain, I have been commanded by the god to do this, through oracles, through dreams, and in every way in which any other divine dispensation has ever commanded a man to do anything at all. These things, men of Athens, are both true and easily tested. For if I am indeed corrupting some of the young

and have already corrupted others, then surely, if any of them, on growing older, had realized that I had ever given them bad advice when they were young, they themselves ought now to come forward, accuse me, and seek vengeance. Or if they were unwilling to do so themselves, then some of their relatives—fathers, brothers, or others close to them—ought now to remember it and seek vengeance, if their own kin have suffered any harm at my hands. At all events, many of them are here present, and I can see them: first, Crito here, my contemporary and fellow demesman, the father of Critobulus here; then Lysanias of Sphettus, the father of Aeschines here; and also Antiphon of Cephisus here, the father of Epigenes. Here, furthermore, are others whose brothers have joined me in this occupation: Nicostratus, son of Theozotides, the brother of Theodotus—and Theodotus is dead, so he at least could not have begged his brother to refrain—and Paralus here, the son of Demodocus, whose brother was Theages; and here is

Adeimantus, son of Ariston, whose brother is Plato here, and Aeantodorus, whose brother is Apollodorus here. I could name many others to you, some one of whom Meletus ought above all to have produced as a witness in his own speech. If he forgot to do so then, let him produce one now—I yield the floor—and let him say whether he has any such evidence. But you will find quite the opposite of this, gentlemen: all of them are ready to come to my aid—the aid of the man who corrupts and works evil upon their own relatives, as Meletus and

Anytus assert. Those who have themselves been corrupted might perhaps have some reason for coming to my aid; but those who have not been corrupted, men already advanced in years, the relatives of these young men—what other reason can they have for aiding me except the right and just one: that they know Meletus is lying and that I am telling the truth?Very well, gentlemen. This, more or less, is what I can offer in my defense, together perhaps with other arguments of the same kind. But perhaps someone among

you may feel indignant when he recalls his own conduct—how, when standing trial in a contest less grave than this one, he begged and implored the jurors with many tears, bringing his little children into court so that he might arouse as much pity as possible, along with many other relatives and friends—whereas I, it seems, shall do none of these things, though I am facing what might be thought the utmost danger. Someone, then, reflecting on this, might take a harsher view of me and, angered by these very things, cast his

vote in wrath. If any of you is so disposed—and I do not think that any of you is, but if one is—I believe I should be speaking reasonably to him if I said: My good sir, I too have relatives, I suppose. For in the very words of Homer, I too am not sprung from an oak or a stone, but from human beings; and so I have relatives, and sons as well, men of Athens—three of them, one already a youth, and two still children. Yet I shall not bring any of them up here and beg you to vote for my acquittal. Why, then, shall I do none of these things? Not from stubbornness, men

of Athens, nor from any contempt for you. Whether or not I face death with courage is another question; but with regard to the reputation of myself, of you, and of the whole city, it does not seem honorable to me to do any of these things, at my age and with the name I bear—whether that name is deserved or not. At any rate, it is generally believed

that Socrates is in some way superior to the multitude of men. If, then, those among you who are thought to excel in wisdom, courage, or any other virtue whatsoever are to behave in such a fashion, it would be shameful. I have often seen men of some reputation behave astonishingly when they were on trial, as though they believed they would suffer something dreadful if they died, and as though they would be immortal if only you did not put them to death. Such men, in my judgment, bring disgrace upon the city, so that even a foreigner

might suppose that those Athenians who excel in virtue, whom the citizens themselves select from among their own number for offices and other honors, are no better than women. Such displays, men of Athens, should not be made by those of you who are thought to be men of any distinction at all; nor, if we make them, should you permit us to do so. On the contrary, you should make it plain that you will condemn far more readily the man who stages these pitiful dramas and makes the city ridiculous than the man who keeps his composure.Apart from the question of reputation, gentlemen, it does not seem to me just

to beg favors of a juror and escape conviction by entreaty, rather than to instruct and persuade him. For a juror does not sit here to bestow justice as a favor, but to judge what is just; and he has sworn not to grant favors to whomever he pleases, but to render judgment according to the laws. We ought not, then, to accustom you to perjury, nor should you allow yourselves to become accustomed to it; for neither we nor you would be acting piously. Do not therefore expect me, men of Athens, to behave toward you in ways that I consider neither honorable nor

just nor pious—especially, by Zeus, when I am being prosecuted for impiety by this very Meletus. For clearly, if I were to persuade you by entreaty and compel you to violate your oaths, I should be teaching you to believe that there are no gods; and in the very act of defending myself, I should be accusing myself of not believing in them. But that is very far from the truth. I believe in the gods, men of Athens, as none of my accusers does; and I entrust it to you and to the god to judge my case in whatever way will be best for both me and you.

That I am not indignant, men of Athens, at what has happened—

at your having voted to convict me—has many causes;

and what has happened was not unexpected by me. Rather, I am far more surprised at the number of votes on either side. I certainly did not think the margin would be so narrow; I thought it would be wide. But now, as it appears, if only thirty votes had changed sides, I should have been acquitted. As far as Meletus is concerned, then, I believe that even now I have been acquitted; and not only acquitted, but it is plain to everyone that if Anytus and Lycon had not come forward to accuse me, Meletus would even have been fined

a thousand drachmas for failing to receive one-fifth of the votes.The man therefore proposes death as my penalty. Very well. What counterpenalty, then, shall I propose to you, men of Athens? Clearly, what I deserve. And what is that? What do I deserve to suffer or pay because I did not choose to lead a quiet life, but neglected the things most men care for—making money, managing a household, military commands, public speeches, the other offices, political alliances, and factions that arise in the city—because I thought myself

in truth too decent a man to enter into these affairs and survive? I did not go where I could have been of no benefit either to you or to myself. Instead, I went where I could confer upon each of you privately what I maintain to be the greatest benefit. I went about trying to persuade each one of you not to care for any of his possessions before caring for himself—how he might become as good and wise as possible—nor to care for the city’s possessions before caring for the city itself, and to care for all other things in the same

way. What, then, do I deserve to suffer for being such a man? Something good, men of Athens, if the penalty is truly to be assessed according to what I deserve—and moreover, some good suited to me. What, then, is fitting for a poor man who is your benefactor and who needs leisure to exhort you? Nothing is more fitting, men of Athens, than that such a man should be maintained at public expense in the Prytaneum—far more fitting than for any one of you who has won a victory at Olympia with a single horse, a two-horse chariot, or a four-horse team. For such a man makes you seem to be happy, whereas I make you

happy in reality; and he has no need of maintenance, whereas I do. If, then, I must assess my penalty justly according to what I deserve, this is what

I propose: maintenance in the Prytaneum.Perhaps in saying this I seem to you to be speaking in much the same spirit as when I spoke about pity and supplication—as though I were being stubborn. But that is not so, men of Athens. The truth is rather this: I am convinced that I have never willingly wronged any human being, but I cannot persuade you of it, for we have had only a short time to converse with one another. If, as I believe, you had a law, as other peoples do, that trials involving death should not last merely one day—

not merely to judge, but many, you would have been persuaded; but as it is, it is not easy in so short a time to free oneself from great slanders. Since I am convinced that I wrong no one, I am far from willing to wrong myself, to declare against myself that I deserve some evil, and to propose some such penalty for myself. What am I afraid of? That I may suffer the penalty Meletus proposes for me—a thing of which I say that I do not know whether it is good or evil? Instead of that, am I to choose something I know perfectly well to be evil and propose it as my penalty? Imprisonment, perhaps?

And why should I live in prison, enslaved to the authority appointed from time to time, the Eleven? Or shall I propose a fine, with imprisonment until I pay it? But that comes to the same thing I was just saying, for I have no money with which to pay. Shall I then propose exile? Perhaps you would accept that penalty for me. I would indeed be possessed by a great love of life, men of Athens, if I were so unreasoning as not to be able to reckon that you, though you are my fellow citizens, have been unable to endure my discussions

and arguments, but have found them so burdensome and offensive that you are now seeking to be rid of them; and yet others will endure them easily? Far from it, men of Athens. A fine life it would be for a man of my age to leave here and live by moving from city to city, forever being driven out. For I know very well that wherever I go, the young men will listen to me when I speak, just as they do here. If I drive them away, they themselves will have me driven out by persuading their elders;

and if I do not drive them away, their fathers and relatives will drive me out on account of these very young men.Perhaps someone may say, “But Socrates, if you leave us, will you not be able to live in silence and keep quiet?” This is the hardest thing of all to make some of you understand. For if I say that to do so would be to disobey the god, and that for this reason it is impossible for me

to keep quiet, you will not believe me, thinking that I am being ironical. And if I say, in turn, that this happens to be the greatest good for a human being—to discuss virtue every day, and the other matters about which you hear me conversing and examining both myself and others, and that the unexamined life is not worth living for a human being—you will believe me still less when I say this. Yet the matter stands as I say it does, gentlemen, though it is not easy to persuade you. At the same time, I am not accustomed to considering myself deserving of any evil.

If I had money, I would have proposed a fine of as much as I could expect to pay, for that would have done me no harm. But as it is, I have none—unless you are willing to set my fine at whatever amount I could pay. Perhaps I could pay you one mina of silver. I therefore propose that amount.But Plato here, men of Athens, and Crito and Critobulus and Apollodorus urge me to propose thirty minas, and they themselves offer to stand surety. I therefore propose that amount, and these men will be sufficient guarantors to you for the money.

For the sake of no great span of time, men of Athens, you will acquire a name and bear the blame among those who wish to revile the city: they will say that you put Socrates to death, a wise man—for those who wish to reproach you will indeed say that I was wise, even if I am not. If you had waited only a little while, this would have happened for you of its own accord; for you see that my age is already far advanced in life and close to death. I say this not

to all of you, but to those who voted to condemn me to death. And I have this also to say to those same men. Perhaps you think, men of Athens, that I have been convicted for want of arguments of the sort by which I might have persuaded you, if I had believed that I must do and say anything whatever to escape conviction. Far from it. I have been convicted for want, certainly—but not for want of arguments. It was for want of audacity and shamelessness, and because I was unwilling to say to you the things you would have found most pleasant to hear: to weep and lament, and to do and

say many other things unworthy of me, as I maintain—things of the sort you are accustomed to hearing from others. But neither then did I think that because I was in danger I ought to do anything unworthy of a free man, nor do I now regret having defended myself as I did. I would much rather die after making this defense than live after making one of that kind. For neither in court nor in war should I, or anyone else,

contrive to escape death by doing anything whatever. In battles it often becomes clear that a man might escape death by throwing down his weapons and turning to supplicate his pursuers. And in every kind of danger there are many other devices for escaping death, if a man has the audacity to do and say anything whatever. But perhaps the difficult thing, gentlemen, is not to escape death; it is far more difficult to escape wickedness,

for it runs faster than death. And now I, being slow and old, have been caught by the slower pursuer, while my accusers, being formidable and swift, have been caught by the faster one—wickedness. And now I depart, condemned by you to pay the penalty of death, while they depart condemned by truth to pay the penalty of depravity and injustice. I abide by my sentence, and they by theirs. Perhaps these things had to turn out this way, and I think the outcome is fitting.

But now I desire to prophesy to you who voted to condemn me; for I am already at that point when human beings are most given to prophecy—when they are about to die. I tell you, men who have put me to death, that immediately after my death a punishment will come upon you far harsher, by Zeus, than the punishment by which you have killed me. For you have done this thinking that you would be released from having to give an account of your lives; but the result will be exactly the opposite, as I maintain. More numerous will be those who examine you,

whom until now I was holding back, though you did not perceive it. And they will be harsher because they are younger, and you will be more indignant. For if you think that by killing people you will prevent anyone from reproaching you for not living rightly, you do not reason well. That mode of escape is neither truly possible nor honorable. The noblest and easiest escape is not to cut others down, but to prepare oneself to become as good as possible. With this prophecy for those of you who condemned me, I take my leave.

But with those who voted to acquit me, I would gladly discuss what has now happened, while the magistrates are occupied and before I go to the place where I must die. Stay with me, then, gentlemen, for this short while. Nothing prevents us from talking together while it is permitted. To you,

as my friends, I wish to explain what this thing that has now happened to me can mean. For something remarkable has happened to me, gentlemen of the jury—and in calling you jurors, I would be calling you by your proper name. The prophetic sign of the divine thing, which is familiar to me, was at all earlier times constantly very frequent, opposing me even in the smallest matters if I was about to act wrongly. But now there have befallen me the things you yourselves see—things one might suppose, and which are commonly held, to be the very worst of evils. Yet for me,

the god’s sign did not oppose me when I left my house at dawn, nor when I came up here to the court, nor at any point in my speech when I was about to say something. And yet in other speeches it has often stopped me in the very midst of speaking. But now, nowhere in this affair, in no deed and in no word, has it opposed me. What, then, do I take to be the reason? I will tell you. What has happened to me may well be a good thing, and there is no possibility that those of us are right who suppose

that being dead is an evil. I have received powerful evidence of this: my accustomed sign could not possibly have failed to oppose me unless I was about to meet with something good.Let us also consider in this way how great a hope there is that death is a good thing. For being dead is one of two things: either the dead person is nothing, and has no perception of anything at all, or, as the stories say, it is some sort of change and a migration of the soul from this place here to another place. And if there is no perception, but death is

like a sleep in which the sleeper sees not even a dream, then death would be a marvelous gain. For I think that if someone were required to choose the night in which he slept so soundly that he saw not even a dream, and then, setting all the other nights and days of his life beside that night, were required to consider and say how many days and nights in his own life he had lived better and more pleasantly than that night, I think that not merely a private citizen, but even the Great King himself, would find them easy to number

in comparison with all the other days and nights. If death is like that, then I call it a gain; for in that case the whole of time appears to be no more than a single night. But if death is instead like a journey from here to another place, and the stories are true that all the dead are there, what greater good could there be than this, gentlemen of the jury? For if a man,

on arriving in Hades and being released from these men here who claim to be judges, will find the true judges—the very ones who are said to render judgment there: Minos, Rhadamanthus, Aeacus, Triptolemus, and all the other demigods who were just in their own lives—would that journey be a paltry thing? Or again, how much would any of you give to associate with Orpheus and Musaeus, and with Hesiod and Homer? For my part, I am willing to die many times over if these things are true. For

For me, too, the life spent there would be marvelous, whenever I met Palamedes and Ajax son of Telamon, and any other man of old who died because of an unjust judgment, and compared my own sufferings with theirs—which, I imagine, would be no unpleasant thing. And most important of all, I could spend my time examining and questioning the people there, just as I do those here, to discover which of them is wise and which thinks he is but is not. What would a man not give, gentlemen of the jury, for the chance to examine the man who led the great army against Troy,

or Odysseus, or Sisyphus, or countless other men and women one might name? To converse and associate with them there and examine them would be happiness beyond measure. At any rate, they surely do not put a man to death there for doing that. For in every other respect those who dwell there are happier than those here, and henceforth they are immortal for all time, if indeed the tales we are told are true.

But you too, gentlemen of the jury, must be hopeful in the face of death and keep this one truth in mind:

nothing evil can befall a good man, either in life or after death, nor are his affairs neglected by the gods. What has happened to me now has not come about by mere chance; rather, it is clear to me that it was better for me to die now and be released from troubles. That is why the divine sign never once turned me back, and for my part I bear no great anger toward those who voted to condemn me or toward my accusers. And yet it was not with this intention that they condemned and accused me, but because they thought they were doing me harm;

for that they deserve reproach. This much, however, I ask of them: when my sons come of age, punish them, gentlemen, by troubling them in the very same way that I troubled you, if they seem to you to care for money or anything else before virtue; and if they imagine themselves to be something when they are nothing, reproach them as I reproached you, because they do not care for what they ought and think themselves important when they are worth nothing. And if

you do this, both I and my sons will have received just treatment at your hands. But now the hour has come to depart: for me, to die; for you, to live. Which of us goes to the better fate is unknown to everyone but the god.