Apology

What effect my accusers have had on you, men of Athens, I do not know. For my part, even I was almost made to forget who I was by them, so persuasively did they speak. And yet, to put it plainly, they have said virtually nothing true. Of the many lies they told, one in particular amazed me: when they said that you had to be careful not to be deceived by me,

because I am a formidable speaker. Their not being ashamed that they would immediately be exposed by me in practice, as soon as I proved to be not the least bit formidable at speaking, seemed to me the most shameless thing about them—unless, perhaps, they call anyone who tells the truth a formidable speaker. For if that is what they mean, I would agree that I am an orator, though not in their sense. They, then, as I say, have said little or nothing true, but from me you will hear the whole truth—not, by Zeus, men of Athens, in speeches adorned with elegant language like theirs,

or embellished with carefully chosen phrases and words. Instead, you will hear things said plainly, in whatever words occur to me—for I trust that what I say is just—and let none of you expect anything else. Surely it would not be fitting, gentlemen, for someone of my age to come before you like a young man composing elaborate speeches. And so, men of Athens, I earnestly ask and beg this of you: if you hear me making my defense in the same kind of language I normally use in the marketplace by the bankers’ tables, where many of you have heard me, and elsewhere, do not

be surprised or create an uproar on that account. The situation is this: I am now appearing before a court for the first time, at the age of seventy, and so I am completely unfamiliar with the manner of speaking used here. Now, if I really were a foreigner, you would surely excuse me if I spoke in the language and manner

in which I had been raised. So now as well, I ask of you what I think is a fair request: disregard my manner of speaking—whether it happens to be worse or better—and consider and pay attention only to this: whether what I say is just or not. For the excellence of a judge is to judge justly, and that of a speaker is to tell the truth.First, then, men of Athens, it is right for me to defend myself against the first false accusations brought against me and my first accusers, and then against the later accusations and the

later accusers. For many people have accused me before you for many years now, without saying anything true, and I fear them more than Anytus and his associates, formidable though these men also are. But the earlier accusers are more formidable, gentlemen. They took hold of most of you when you were children and tried to persuade you, accusing me with no more truth than this: “There is a certain Socrates, a wise man, a thinker about things in the heavens, one who has investigated everything beneath the earth, and who makes the weaker argument the stronger.”

These, men of Athens, the people who spread this report, are my formidable accusers. For those who hear it assume that people who investigate such matters do not even believe in the gods. Moreover, these accusers are numerous and have been accusing me for a long time. What is more, they spoke to you at the age when you were most likely to believe them—when some of you were children and adolescents—bringing their case entirely by default, with no one offering a defense. Most unreasonable of all is that it is not even possible to know and state their

names, except when one of them happens to be a comic playwright. All those who used envy and slander to persuade you—and those who, once persuaded themselves, went on to persuade others—are the hardest of all to deal with. For it is impossible to bring any of them up here or cross-examine them; instead, in making my defense I must quite literally fight with shadows and conduct a cross-examination when no one answers. You should therefore recognize, as I say, that I have had two sets of accusers: one consisting of those who have just accused me, and the other of

those who accused me long ago, whom I have been discussing. And you should understand that I must defend myself first against the earlier ones, since you heard them making their accusations first, and far more often than you heard these later accusers.Very well, then. I must make my defense, men of Athens, and try

in so short a time to remove from your minds the slander that you have absorbed over so long a time. I would certainly like this to happen, if it is in any way better for both you and me, and I would like to accomplish something by making my defense. But I think it is difficult, and I am fully aware of the nature of the task. Nevertheless, let this turn out as the god sees fit; I must obey the law and make my defense.Let us take up from the beginning, then, the accusation from which

the slander against me arose, and on which Meletus relied when he brought this formal charge against me. Very well. What did my slanderers say when they slandered me? We must read their statement as though it were an accusers’ sworn affidavit: “Socrates commits an injustice and busies himself investigating things beneath the earth and in the heavens, making the weaker argument the stronger,

and teaching others to do these same things.” The accusation is something like that. You have seen it yourselves in Aristophanes’ comedy, where a certain Socrates is carried around, claiming that he walks on air and spouting a great deal of other nonsense about matters of which I understand absolutely nothing, great or small. I do not say this to disparage such knowledge, if anyone is wise about such things—may Meletus never prosecute me on so many charges—but the fact is, men of Athens, that I have no part in any of them.

Again, I call most of you as witnesses, and I ask those of you who have ever heard me in conversation—and many of you have—to inform and tell one another. Tell one another whether any of you has ever heard me discussing such matters to any extent, great or small. From this you will recognize that the other things most people say about me are of the same kind.But none of these claims is true. Nor, if you have heard from anyone that I undertake to educate people and charge

money, is that true either. Still, I think it is an admirable thing if someone is capable of educating people, as Gorgias of Leontini, Prodicus of Ceos, and Hippias of Elis are. Each of these men, gentlemen, can go into any city and persuade the young men—who are free to associate without charge with whichever of their own fellow citizens they wish—to leave those men’s company, associate with them instead, pay them money, and be grateful besides.

There is also another wise man here, from Paros, whose visit I happened to learn about. I had gone to see a man who has paid more money to sophists than all the others combined, Callias 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 be able to find and hire a supervisor for them who

would make them both fine and good in the excellence appropriate to them; this person would be an expert in horses or in farming. But since they are human beings, whom do you have in mind to supervise them? Who possesses knowledge of the appropriate excellence, human and civic excellence? I assume you have considered the question because you have sons. Is there such a person,” I asked, “or not?” “Certainly,” he said. “Who is he,” I asked, “where is he from, and how much does he charge for teaching?” “Evenus, Socrates,” he replied, “from Paros, five minas.” And I counted Evenus fortunate if he truly possessed this art

and taught it at so reasonable a price. I myself would certainly be proud and carry myself grandly if I knew such things—but I do not know them, men of Athens.Perhaps one of you might respond: “But Socrates, what is this activity of yours? Where have these slanders against you come from? Surely this great reputation and all this talk did not arise while you were doing nothing more unusual than other people, unless you were doing something different from most people. So tell us what

it is, so that we do not improvise our own judgment about you.” Whoever says this seems to me to speak fairly, and I will try to show you just what it is that has given me both this reputation and this slanderous image. Listen, then. Some of you may perhaps think I am joking, but be assured that I will tell you the whole truth. The fact is, men of Athens, that I have acquired this reputation for no other reason than a certain kind of wisdom. What kind of wisdom? Perhaps merely human wisdom. For it seems that I really am wise in this kind of wisdom. But those whom I mentioned just now

may perhaps be wise in some wisdom greater than human wisdom, or else I do not know what to say. I certainly do not understand it, and whoever says I do is lying and speaks in order to slander me. And, men of Athens, do not create an uproar, even if I seem to you to be making an extravagant claim. For the statement I am about to make is not my own; rather, I will refer you to a speaker you will consider trustworthy. As a witness to my wisdom—whether it is wisdom at all, and what kind—I will present to you the god at Delphi. You surely knew Chaerephon. He

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

Now consider why I say this, for I am going to explain to you where the slander against me came from. When I heard these things, I reflected as follows: “What can the god mean, and what is he hinting at? For I am conscious that I am not wise in anything, great or small. So what can he mean by saying that I am the wisest? Surely he cannot be lying, for that is not permitted to him.” For a long time I was at a loss as to what he meant. Then, very reluctantly, I turned to an investigation of the matter along these lines. I went to one of those reputed to be wise, thinking that there, if anywhere,

I would refute the oracle and show its pronouncement, “This man is wiser than I am, but you said that I was.” So I examined this man—I do not need to mention his name, but 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 appeared wise to many other people, and especially to himself, but that he was not. I then tried to show him that he thought he was wise but was not.

As a result, I became hated both by him and by many of those who were present. But as I went away, I reasoned to myself: “I am wiser than this man. It is likely that neither of us knows anything admirable or worthwhile, but he thinks he knows something when he does not, whereas I, just as I do not know, do not think that I do. It seems, then, that I am wiser than he is by this one small thing: 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 man, and

I came to the same conclusion. There too I became hated by that man and by many others.After this, then, I went from one person to another in turn. I realized with distress and fear that I was becoming hated, but nevertheless it seemed necessary to regard the god’s command as the most important thing. So, in investigating what the oracle meant, I had to go to everyone who had any reputation for knowing anything.

And by the dog, men of Athens—for I must tell you the truth—I certainly had an experience something like this: those with the highest reputations seemed to me, as I investigated in accordance with the god, to be almost the most deficient, while others who were thought to be inferior seemed to be more sensible men. I must show you my wandering course, as though I were performing certain labors, so that the oracle might prove irrefutable to me. After the politicians, I went to the poets, those who wrote tragedies and dithyrambs and the others,

thinking that there I would catch myself red-handed as being more ignorant than they were. So I took up those of their poems that seemed to me to have been composed with the greatest care and asked 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, but it must be said. Almost everyone present, so to speak, could have explained the poets’ own compositions better than the poets themselves could. So I soon recognized this about the poets as well: they did not compose what they composed through wisdom,

but through a certain natural gift and while inspired, like prophets and those who deliver oracles. For these people too say many fine things, but they understand nothing of what they say. It seemed to me that the poets had undergone something of this sort. At the same time, I realized that because of their poetry they thought they were the wisest of men in other matters too, though they were not. So I left them as well, thinking 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 would find that they knew many fine things. And in this I was not mistaken: they knew things I did not know, and in that respect they were wiser than I was. But, men of Athens, it seemed to me that the good craftsmen had the same fault as the poets. Because each of them practiced his craft well, he claimed to be extremely wise in the most important 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 things they possess. I answered myself and the oracle that it was better for me to remain as I am.As a result of this investigation, men of Athens,

I have incurred many hatreds, of the harshest and most burdensome kind, and many slanders have arisen from them, including this reputation of being wise. For on each occasion those present suppose that I myself am wise in the matters in which I refute someone else. But the truth is likely to be, gentlemen, that the god is wise, and that in this oracle he is saying that human wisdom is worth little or nothing. He appears to be speaking of 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 with respect to wisdom.” So even now I continue to go around searching and investigating in accordance with the god, whenever I think that some citizen or foreigner is wise. And whenever he does not seem so to me, I assist the god by showing that he is not wise. Because of this occupation, I have had no leisure to accomplish anything worth mentioning either in public affairs or in my private affairs, but I live in

extreme poverty because of my service to the god.In addition, the young men who follow me of their own accord—those who have the most leisure, the sons of the wealthiest families—enjoy hearing people being examined. They themselves often imitate me and then try to examine others. And then, I think, 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 utterly vile Socrates 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 will not appear at a loss, they repeat the accusations readily available against all philosophers: “things in the sky and beneath the earth,” “not believing in the gods,” and “making the weaker argument stronger.” For I think they would not want to tell the truth: that they are plainly exposed as pretending to know when they know nothing. So, since they are, I think, ambitious,

vehement, and numerous, and speak about me persistently and persuasively, 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 because he is offended on behalf of the poets, Anytus on behalf of the craftsmen and

the politicians, and Lycon on behalf of the orators. And so, as I said when I began, I would be astonished if I were able, in so short a time, to remove from your minds this slander that has grown so great. These are the facts, men of Athens. I speak without concealing anything from you, great or small, and without holding anything back. And yet I know quite well that these very statements make me hated. That too is evidence that I am telling the truth, that this is the slander against me, and that these are its causes.

Whether you investigate these matters now or later, you will find them to be so.Let this, then, be a sufficient defense before you against the accusations made by my first accusers. Next I will try to defend myself against the good and patriotic Meletus, as he calls himself, and against the later accusers. So once again, since these are a different set of accusers, let us take up their sworn charge in turn. It goes something like this: “Socrates commits an injustice by corrupting the young and by not believing in the gods in whom the city

believes, but in other new spiritual beings.” Such is the charge. Let us examine each part of this charge one by one.He says, then, that I commit an injustice by corrupting the young. But I, men of Athens, say that Meletus commits an injustice because he treats serious matters frivolously, lightly bringing people to trial and pretending to be seriously concerned about matters for which he has never cared at all. I will try to show you that this is so. Come here, Meletus, and tell me: Is it not true that

you consider it supremely important that the younger men should be as good as possible?I certainly do.Come, then, tell these men who makes them better. Clearly you know, since you care about it. For you claim to have discovered the person who corrupts them—me—and you bring me before these men and accuse me. Now come, tell them who makes the young better, and reveal who it is. You see, Meletus, that you are silent and have nothing to say? And does this not seem shameful to you and sufficient evidence of what I am saying, that you have never cared about it at all? But tell us, my good man, who makes them better?The laws.

But that is not what I am asking, excellent man. I am asking what person, who in the first place knows this very thing, the laws?These men, Socrates, the jurors.What do you mean, 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! That is a great abundance of people who benefit them. What about the members of the audience? Do they make them better

or not?They do too.And what about the members of the Council?The Council members too.But then, Meletus, surely the people in the Assembly, the Assembly members, do not corrupt the young? Or do all of them make the young better too?They do too.Then all Athenians, it seems, make them fine and good except me, while I alone corrupt them. Is that what you are saying?That is exactly what I am saying.You have certainly condemned me to great misfortune. Now answer me: does the same seem to you to be true of horses as well? That the ones

Does everyone make them better, while only one person corrupts them? Or is the exact opposite true: only one person, or a very few—the horse trainers—are capable of improving horses, while most people, if they associate with horses and make use of them, corrupt them? Isn’t that how it is, Meletus, both with horses and with every other animal? Of course it is, whether you and Anytus deny it or admit it. Young people would certainly be extraordinarily fortunate if only one person corrupted them while everyone else benefited them.

But in fact, Meletus, you have sufficiently demonstrated that you have never given any thought at all to the young, and you clearly reveal your own negligence: you have no concern whatever for the matters about which you are prosecuting me.

And now, for heaven’s sake, Meletus, tell us this too: is it better to live among good citizens or bad ones? My good man, answer me; I’m not asking you anything difficult. Don’t bad people always do some harm to those nearest them, while good people do them some good?

Certainly.

Then is there anyone who would rather be harmed than benefited by the people around him? Answer, my good man; the law requires you to answer. Is there anyone who wants to be harmed?

Certainly not.

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

Intentionally, I say.

What then, Meletus? At your age are you so much wiser than I am at mine that you understand that bad people always do some harm to those closest to them,

while good people do them good, but I have reached such a depth of ignorance that I do not even know this: that if I make one of the people around me wicked, I will run the risk of suffering some harm from him? And so I intentionally do this great evil, as you claim? I do not believe you, Meletus, and I don’t think any other human being does either. Either I do not corrupt the young, or, if I do corrupt them,

I do so unintentionally; so in either case you are lying. But if I corrupt them unintentionally, the law does not require that a person be brought to court for such unintentional offenses. Instead, you should have taken me aside privately, instructed me, and corrected me. For clearly, if I learned better, I would stop doing what I was doing unintentionally. But you avoided associating with me and teaching me, and you were unwilling to do so. Instead, you bring me here, where the law requires people to be brought who need punishment, not instruction.

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

Meletus has never cared in the slightest about any of these matters. Nevertheless, tell us, Meletus: how do you say that I corrupt the young? Is it obviously, as stated in the indictment you filed, by teaching them not to believe in the gods the city believes in, but instead in other, new divine beings? Isn’t this what you mean when you say that I corrupt them by my teaching?

Yes, that is exactly and emphatically what I mean.

Then, Meletus, by those very gods we are now discussing, explain yourself still more clearly, both to me and to these gentlemen.

For I cannot understand 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 an atheist at all, and am not guilty in that respect—though not the same gods as the city believes in, but others, and that this is your charge against me, that they are different; or whether you mean that I do not believe in gods at all myself and teach other people the same thing.

That is what I mean: you do not believe in gods at all.

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

By Zeus, gentlemen of the jury, he does not, since he says the sun is stone and the moon is earth.

Do you think you are prosecuting Anaxagoras, my dear Meletus? Do you have so little respect for these men, and do you think them so unfamiliar with books, that they do not know the writings of Anaxagoras of Clazomenae are full of such claims? 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 pretends the ideas are his own—especially since they are so strange? But for heaven’s sake, is this really what you think of me? Do I believe that no god exists?

No, by Zeus, you do not believe in them in any way whatever.

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

He seems to be testing me by composing a riddle, as if to say: “Will the wise Socrates notice that I am joking and contradicting myself, or will I deceive him and everyone else listening?” For he seems to me to contradict himself in the indictment, as though he were saying: “Socrates is guilty of not believing in gods, but of believing in gods.” Yet that is the behavior of someone playing games.

Examine with me, gentlemen, how he seems to me to be saying this. And you, Meletus, answer us. As for you, remember what I asked of you at the beginning:

do not make an uproar if I conduct my argument in my customary manner.

Is there any human being, Meletus, who believes that human activities exist but does not believe that human beings exist? Gentlemen, make him answer, and don’t let him keep making one uproar after another. Is there anyone who does not believe in horses but does believe in equestrian activities? Or who does not believe that flute players exist but does believe in flute-playing activities? There is not, best of men. If you do not want to answer, I will tell you and these others. But at least answer the next question:

Is there anyone who believes that activities involving divine beings exist but does not believe in divine beings?

No.

How helpful of you to answer at last, though you were forced to by these gentlemen. So you say that I both believe in and teach things involving divine beings, whether new or old; in any case, according to your statement, I do believe in things involving divine beings, and you also swore to this in your written indictment. But if I believe in things involving divine beings, then surely it is absolutely necessary that I also believe in divine beings. Isn’t that so? It is; I take your silence as agreement, since you will not answer. And don’t we consider

divine beings to be either gods or children of gods? Do you agree or not?

Certainly.

Then if I believe in divine beings, as you claim, and if divine beings are some kind of gods, this would be exactly what I say you are hinting at in your riddle and joking about: claiming that I do not believe in gods and then again that I do believe in gods, since I believe in divine beings. But if, on the other hand, divine beings are illegitimate children of gods, born either from nymphs or from some of the others who are said to be their mothers, what human being could believe that children of gods exist but not gods? That would be just as

absurd as believing that the offspring of horses and donkeys—mules—exist, but not believing that horses and donkeys exist. No, Meletus, there is no possible way you could have filed this indictment except either to test us or because you were at a loss to find a genuine offense to charge me with. But there is no way you could persuade any human being with even a little intelligence that one and the same person can believe in things involving divine beings and gods, and at the same time believe in neither

divine beings, nor gods, nor heroes.

But, men of Athens, I do not think it takes much of a defense to show that I am not guilty under Meletus’s indictment; what has been said is enough. But you should know very well that what I said earlier is true: I have incurred a great deal of hostility from many people. 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 convicted many other good

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

Someone might perhaps say, “Aren’t you ashamed, Socrates, to have followed a way of life that now puts you in danger of death?” But I would be right to answer him: “You are not speaking well, sir, if you think that a man who is of even the slightest worth should take into account the risk of living or dying, rather than consider only this whenever he acts: whether what he is doing is just or unjust, and whether his actions are those of a good man or a bad one.” For by your argument, worthless

would be all the demigods who died at Troy, including the son of Thetis. He so despised danger in comparison with enduring any disgrace that, when he was eager to kill Hector, his mother, who was a goddess, said to him something like this, as I recall: “My child, if you avenge the killing of your comrade Patroclus and kill Hector, you yourself will die—for immediately after Hector, she says, your own death is waiting.” When he heard this, he made light of death and danger, and was much more

afraid of living as a coward and failing to avenge his friends. “Let me die at once,” he says, “after inflicting punishment on the wrongdoer, so that I do not remain here as a laughingstock beside the curved ships, a burden on the earth.” Do you think he gave any thought to death and danger?

For the truth is this, men of Athens: wherever a man stations himself because he believes it best, or wherever he is stationed by his commander, there, in my opinion, he must remain and face the danger, taking no account of death or anything else before disgrace. So I would have done something terrible, men

of Athens, if, when the commanders whom you elected to command me stationed me at Potidaea, Amphipolis, and Delium, I remained where they stationed me, like anyone else, and risked death, but when the god stationed me—as I believed and understood—requiring me to live as a philosopher, examining myself and others, I then abandoned my post because I feared death

or anything else whatever. That would be terrible, and then someone really could justly bring me to court on the charge that I do not believe the gods exist, since I would be disobeying the oracle, fearing death, and thinking I was wise when I was not. For fearing death, gentlemen, is nothing other than thinking oneself wise when one is not; it is thinking one knows what one does not know. No one knows whether death may not in fact be the greatest of all goods for a human being, yet people fear it as though they knew very well

that it is the greatest of evils. And yet how is this not the most disgraceful ignorance—the belief that one knows what one does not know? But, gentlemen, in this respect and on this point I may differ from most people; and if I were to claim that I am wiser than anyone in any way, it would be in this: since I do not know enough about what happens in Hades, I also recognize that I do not know. But I do know that doing wrong and disobeying one’s superior, whether god or human being, is evil and shameful. So I will never fear or avoid things that I do not know may actually be good rather than evils that I know are evil. Therefore, not even if

you were to acquit me now, 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 all be utterly corrupted by practicing what Socrates teaches—if, in response to this, you were to say to me, “Socrates, this time we will not listen to Anytus but will acquit you, on this condition, however: that you no longer spend your time on this investigation or practice philosophy; and if

you are caught doing this again, you will die”—if, as I said, you were to acquit me on these terms, I would say to you: “Gentlemen of Athens, I respect and love you, but I will obey the god rather than you; and as long as I breathe and am able, I will never stop practicing philosophy, urging you, and showing the truth to any one of you I happen to meet, saying what I am accustomed to say: ‘My excellent friend, you are an Athenian, a citizen of the greatest city and the one most renowned for wisdom and power. Are you not ashamed that you take care to possess as much money as possible,

and to gain reputation and honor, but do not take care or give thought to wisdom and truth and to making your soul as good as possible?’” And if any of you disputes this and says that he does take care of these things, I will not immediately let him go or walk away. Instead, I will question him, examine him, and test him; and if he seems to me not to possess virtue,

though he says that he does, I will reproach him for placing the least value on the things worth the most and greater value on things of less worth. I will do this to anyone I meet, young or old, foreigner or fellow citizen—but especially to my fellow citizens, because you are closer to me by birth. For this is what the god commands, you may be sure, and I believe that no greater good has ever come to you in this city than my service to the god. For I go around doing nothing other than trying to persuade all of you, young and old alike, not to care for your bodies

or your money before, or as intensely as, you care for your soul and how it may become as good as possible, telling you that virtue does not come from money, but from virtue come money and every other good for human beings, both privately and publicly. If by saying these things I corrupt the young, then these things must be harmful; but if anyone says that I say anything other than this, he is saying nothing. In light of this, gentlemen of Athens, I would say: whether you listen to Anytus or not, and whether you acquit me or not, understand that I will not

act any differently, not even if I am to die many times over.

Do not make an uproar, gentlemen of Athens, but keep the promise I asked of you: not to make an uproar at what I say, but to listen. For I think you will benefit by listening. I am about to say some other things to you at which you may perhaps shout out; but do not do that under any circumstances. Be assured that if you put me to death for being the kind of man I say I am, you will harm yourselves more than me. For neither Meletus nor Anytus could harm me at all—they would not be able to—because I do not believe it is permitted

for a worse man to harm a better one. He might perhaps kill me, exile me, or deprive me of my civic rights. He and perhaps someone else may consider these great evils, but I do not. I consider it a far greater evil to do what this man is doing now: to attempt to put a man to death unjustly. So now, gentlemen of Athens, I am far from defending myself for my own sake, as someone might suppose; I am defending you, so that you do not make a mistake concerning the god’s

gift to you by finding me guilty. For if you put me to death, you will not easily find another man like me, quite literally—though it may sound rather ridiculous—attached to the city by the god as to a large and noble horse that, because of its size, is somewhat sluggish and needs to be roused by a gadfly. It seems to me that the god has attached me to the city as just such a person, one who never stops rousing, persuading, and reproaching each one of you

all day long, everywhere, constantly settling down beside you. Another man like this will not easily come to you, gentlemen, but if you listen to me, you will spare me. Yet perhaps, annoyed like drowsy people being awakened, you might strike out at me and, listening to Anytus, easily put me to death. Then you might spend the rest of your lives asleep, unless the god, in his concern for you, sends someone else to you. That I am in fact the sort of person given to the city by the god, you might recognize from this:

It does not seem human for me to have neglected all my own affairs and to have endured the neglect of my household for so many years now, while always attending to your affairs, approaching each of you privately like a father or an older brother and trying to persuade you to care for virtue. If I gained anything from doing this, and if I gave this advice while receiving payment, there would be some explanation for my behavior. But now you yourselves can see that my accusers, though they have accused me so shamelessly of everything else, have not been able to become shameless enough in this matter

to produce a witness claiming that I ever charged or asked anyone for payment. For I think I can produce sufficient evidence that I am telling the truth: my poverty.

Now, it might seem strange that I go around giving this advice and involving myself in other people’s affairs in private, yet do not dare to come forward before your assembly and advise the city in public. The reason for this is what you have often heard me say in many places: that something divine and

spiritual comes to me, the very thing that Meletus mockingly referred to in his indictment. This began for me in childhood: a kind of voice comes to me, and whenever it comes, it 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 does so. For you may be certain, gentlemen of Athens, that if I had tried long ago to take part in political affairs, I would have died long ago and would have benefited neither you

nor myself at all. And do not be angry with me for telling the truth: no human being will survive if he genuinely opposes you or any other popular majority and prevents many unjust and unlawful things from happening in the city. Instead,

anyone who truly fights for justice must lead a private rather than a public life, if he is to survive even for a short time.

I will give you powerful 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 because I feared death, and that by refusing to yield I might actually die. What I am going to tell you is commonplace courtroom talk, but it is true. Gentlemen of Athens, I have never held any other 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 from the naval battle, contrary to law, as all of you later came to recognize. At that time I alone among the presiding officials opposed your doing anything contrary to the laws, and I voted against it. Although the public speakers were ready to denounce and arrest me, and although you were calling for it and shouting, I thought that I should take my stand

with the law and justice and face the danger, rather than join you in making an unjust decision because I feared imprisonment or death. This happened while the city was still under democracy. Later, 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 could be put to death. They issued many such orders to many other people as well, because they wanted to implicate as many people as possible in their crimes. But at that time I

again demonstrated, not by words but by deeds, that death was not the slightest concern to me, if it is not too blunt to put it that way, but that my entire concern was not to do anything unjust or impious. That government, powerful as it was, did not frighten me into doing anything unjust. When we left the Tholos, the other four went to Salamis and brought back Leon, but I left and went home. I might have been put to death for this if that government had not soon been overthrown. And

you will have many witnesses to these events.

Do you think, then, that I would have survived for so many years if I had taken part in public affairs and, acting as a good man should, had come to the defense of justice and, as one ought, treated that as the most important thing? Far from it, gentlemen of Athens; nor would any other

human being. But throughout my whole life, whenever I have done anything in public, I will be shown to have been this kind of man, and the same in private: I have never conceded anything contrary to justice to anyone, neither to anyone else nor to any of those whom my slanderers call my students. I have never been anyone’s teacher. But if anyone, whether younger or older, wants to listen while I am speaking and going about my own affairs, I have never denied him the opportunity. Nor do I converse only when I receive money

But I do not charge a fee; I make myself equally available to rich and poor for questioning, and anyone who wishes may answer my questions and listen to what I say. Whether any of these people becomes a good person or not, I could not justly be held responsible, since I have never promised anyone any instruction or taught anyone. And if anyone claims that he has ever learned or heard anything from me in private that all the others did not also hear, you may be sure that he is not telling the truth.But why, then, do some people enjoy 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 think they are wise, but are not, being examined. For it is not unpleasant. But as I maintain, I have been commanded by the god to do this, through oracles and dreams and in every way in which any other divine dispensation has ever commanded a human being to do anything at all. These things, men of Athens, are both true and easy to verify. For if I am indeed corrupting some of the young men

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 to accuse me and seek my punishment. Or if they themselves were unwilling, then some of their relatives—fathers, brothers, and other family members—ought now to remember it and seek my punishment, if their own relatives have in fact suffered any harm at my hands. In any case, many of them are present here, and I can see them: first, here is Crito, my contemporary and fellow member of my deme, the father of Critobulus here; next, Lysanias of Sphettus, the father of Aeschines here; and here too is Antiphon of Cephisus, the father of Epigenes; then here are others whose brothers have spent their time in my company: Nicostratus, son of Theozotides and brother of Theodotus—and Theodotus is dead, so he at least could not have begged Nicostratus not to testify—and here is Paralus, 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 for you, some one of whom Meletus certainly ought to have produced as a witness in his own speech. But 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, though I am supposedly the one who corrupts and harms their relatives, as Meletus and

Anytus claim. The corrupted men themselves might perhaps have some reason for coming to my aid; but the uncorrupted ones, now older men, who are their relatives—what other reason could they have for helping me except the right and just one: that they know Meletus is lying and I am telling the truth?Well then, gentlemen, this is more or less what I can offer in my defense, along with perhaps other arguments of the same kind. But perhaps one of

you may become indignant when he remembers his own conduct: how, when facing a trial less serious 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, as well as many other relatives and friends—whereas I apparently will do none of these things, even though I face what might be thought the greatest danger of all. Someone considering this might perhaps take a more hostile attitude toward me and, angered by these very things, cast his vote in

anger. If any of you feels this way—I do not suppose that anyone does, but if someone does—I think I would be speaking reasonably to him if I said: My good sir, I too presumably have relatives. For, as Homer says, I was not born “from an oak or a rock,” but from human beings; and so I have relatives and indeed sons, men of Athens—three of them, one already a young man and two still children. Nevertheless, I will not bring any of them into court and beg you to acquit me. Why, then, will I do none of these things? Not out of arrogance, men

of Athens, nor because I dishonor you. Whether or not I face death courageously is another matter. 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 reputation I have acquired, whether that reputation is true or false. At any rate, it is generally believed

that Socrates is in some way different from most people. If, then, those among you who are thought to stand out in wisdom, courage, or any other virtue whatsoever are going to behave like that, it would be shameful. I have often seen men of some reputation behave astonishingly when they are on trial, because they think they will suffer something terrible if they die—as though they would be immortal if you did not put them to death. Such men, it seems to me, bring disgrace upon the city, so that even a foreigner might

suppose that those Athenians who stand out in virtue, whom the Athenians themselves select from among their own people for public offices and other honors, are no better than women. Men of Athens, neither should those of you who are thought to be of any distinction whatsoever do such things, nor, if we do them, should you permit it. Instead, you should make it clear that you will be much more likely to convict the man who stages these pitiful dramas and makes the city ridiculous than the man who remains calm.Apart from the question of reputation, gentlemen, it does not seem just to me

to beg a juror for acquittal or to escape conviction by begging, but rather to instruct and persuade him. For a juror does not sit here to give justice away as a favor, but to decide what is just. He has sworn not to favor whomever he pleases, but to judge according to the laws. Therefore, we should not get you into the habit of violating your oath, nor should you allow yourselves to acquire that habit, for neither of us would then be acting piously. So do not 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 man Meletus. For clearly, if I persuaded you and, by my begging, pressured you despite your oaths, I would be teaching you not to believe that gods exist; and in the very act of making my defense, I would simply be accusing myself of not believing in the gods. But that is very far from the truth. I do believe in them, men of Athens, as none of my accusers does, and I leave it to you and to the god to judge me in whatever way will be best both for me and for you.

As for my not being indignant, men of Athens, at what

has happened—that you have found me guilty—many considerations contribute to that, and what has happened was not unexpected by me. I am much more surprised by the number of votes on each side. I certainly did not think the margin would be so narrow, but much wider. As it is, apparently, if only thirty votes had changed sides, I would have been acquitted. As far as Meletus is concerned, then, I believe that even now I have been acquitted; and not only acquitted, but this much is obvious to everyone: 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 proposes the penalty of death for me. Very well. What counterpenalty, then, shall I propose to you, men of Athens? Clearly, one that I deserve. What, then? What do I deserve to suffer or pay because I did not choose to live quietly, but neglected the things most people care about—making money, managing a household, holding military commands, speaking before the Assembly, and taking part in the other public offices, political clubs, and factional conflicts that arise in the city—because I considered myself

too decent a man in truth to enter into those activities and survive? I did not go where I would be of no benefit either to you or to myself. Instead, I went to each person privately to confer what I maintain is the greatest benefit. I tried to persuade each 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 for being such a man? Something good, men of Athens, if I am truly to be assessed according to what I deserve—and indeed, a kind of good appropriate to me. What, then, is appropriate for a poor man who is your benefactor and who needs leisure to keep urging you on? Nothing is more appropriate, men of Athens, than for such a man to receive his meals in the Prytaneum—far more appropriate than for one of you who has won a victory at Olympia with a single horse, a two-horse chariot, or a four-horse chariot. For such a man makes you appear to be happy, while I make you

actually happy; and he has no need of support, while I do. So if I must propose what I justly deserve, I propose

free meals in the Prytaneum.Perhaps, in saying this, I seem to you to be speaking in the same arrogant spirit as when I spoke about pity and supplication. But that is not the case, men of Athens. Rather, the situation is this: I am convinced that I have never intentionally wronged any human being, but I cannot persuade you of this, because we have had only a short time to discuss the matter with one another. For I believe that if you had a law, as other peoples do, requiring trials involving death to last not one day

to judge not for just one day but many, you would have been persuaded. But as it is, it is not easy in a short time to clear oneself of serious slanders. Since I am convinced that I have wronged no one, I am far from intending to wrong myself, to say against myself that I deserve some harm, and to propose some such penalty for myself. What would I be afraid of? That I might suffer what Meletus proposes as my penalty—something that I say I do not know to be either good or bad? Instead of that, am I to choose one of the things I know perfectly well to be bad and propose it as my penalty? Imprisonment, perhaps?

And why should I live in prison, enslaved to the authority that is appointed from time to time, the Eleven? Or should I propose a fine and imprisonment until I pay it? But that comes to the same thing I was saying just now, since I have no money with which to pay it. Should I then propose exile as my penalty? Perhaps you would accept that proposal. I would have to be very attached to life, men of Athens, if I were so irrational as to be unable to reason that you, my fellow citizens, have not been able to endure my conversations

and arguments, but they have become too burdensome and offensive to you, so that you are now seeking to be rid of them; and yet other people 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 one city to another, always 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. And if I drive them away, they themselves will have me driven out by persuading their elders;

but if I do not drive them away, their fathers and relatives will drive me out because of those very young men.

Perhaps someone might say, “But Socrates, if you leave us, won’t you be able to live quietly and keep silent?” This is the hardest thing of all to make some of you understand. For if I say that doing so would be disobeying the god, and that for this reason it is impossible for me

to live quietly, you will not believe me, thinking that I am being ironic. And if I say in turn that this is actually the greatest good for a human being—to discuss virtue every day, as well as the other subjects 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 even less when I say that. Yet things are as I say, gentlemen, though it is not easy to persuade you. At the same time, I am not accustomed to considering myself deserving of any harm.

If I had money, I would have proposed a fine in an amount I could pay, since that would not have harmed me. But as it is, I do not have any—unless you are willing to set my penalty at whatever amount I could pay. Perhaps I could pay you one mina of silver. So that is the penalty I propose.

But Plato here, men of Athens, along with Crito, Critobulus, and Apollodorus, urges me to propose a fine of thirty minas, with them acting as guarantors. So that is the penalty I propose, and these men will be reliable guarantors to you for the money.

For no great length of time, men of Athens, you will have the reputation and bear the blame among those who wish to denounce the city for having killed Socrates, a wise man—for those who wish to reproach you will say that I was wise, even if I am not. If you had only waited a little while, this would have happened for you naturally. For you can 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 also say the following to those same people. Perhaps you think, men of Athens, that I have been convicted because I lacked the sort of arguments with which I could have persuaded you, if I had believed I should do and say anything to escape conviction. Far from it. I have been convicted because of a lack, certainly, but not a lack of arguments; rather, a lack of boldness and shamelessness, and because I was unwilling to say to you the things you would have found most pleasant to hear—with me wailing and lamenting and doing and

saying many other things unworthy of me, as I maintain, the sort of things you are accustomed to hearing from others. But neither then did I think I should do anything degrading because I was in danger, nor do I now regret having defended myself as I did. I would much rather die after defending myself in this way than live by behaving in that way. For neither in court nor in war should I or anyone else

contrive to escape death by doing absolutely anything. Indeed, in battles it often becomes clear that a person might avoid death by throwing down his weapons and turning to beg mercy from his pursuers. And in every kind of danger there are many other ways of escaping death, if someone is willing to do and say anything. But perhaps the difficult thing, gentlemen, is not to escape death; it is much more difficult to escape wickedness,

for it runs faster than death. And now I, being slow and old, have been caught by the slower of the two, while my accusers, being clever and swift, have been caught by the faster one, corruption. And now I depart, condemned by you to the penalty of death, while they depart, condemned by the truth to wickedness 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.

Next, I want to prophesy to you who voted to convict me. For I am now at the point when people are most likely to prophesy: when they are about to die. I declare, you men who have killed me, that immediately after my death a punishment will come upon you far harsher, by Zeus, than the punishment of death you have imposed on me. For you have done this now because you thought you would be freed from having to give an account of your lives, but the result will be exactly the opposite, as I maintain. There will be more people

to examine and reproach you, people whom I have held back until now without your realizing it. And they will be harsher because they are younger, and you will be even more indignant. For if you think that by killing people you will prevent anyone from reproaching you for not living rightly, you are not thinking well. That way of escape is neither truly possible nor honorable. The best and easiest way is not to silence others, but to prepare yourselves to be as good as possible. With this prophecy for those of you who voted to convict me, I now take my leave.

But I would gladly discuss what has happened here with those who voted to acquit me, while the officials are occupied and before I go to the place where I must die. So stay with me for this short time, gentlemen. Nothing prevents us from talking together as long as we are permitted. To you,

as my friends, I want to explain what the event that has just happened to me may mean. For something remarkable has happened to me, gentlemen of the jury—and I would be right to call you judges. My customary prophetic sign, the divine sign, was always very frequent throughout all my earlier life and opposed me even in very small matters whenever I was about to do something wrong. But now what you yourselves see has happened to me—something that a person might think, and that is commonly believed, to be the worst of evils. Yet for me,

the god’s sign did not oppose me when I left home early this morning, or when I came up here to the court, or anywhere in my speech when I was about to say something. And yet in other speeches it has often stopped me in the middle of speaking. But now, throughout this entire affair, it has not opposed me in any action or statement. What do I take to be the reason? I will tell you. What has happened to me is likely to be a good thing, and there is no way that those of us who suppose

death to be an evil are thinking correctly. I have received powerful evidence of this: my customary sign would certainly have opposed me if I had not been about to accomplish something good.

Let us also consider in the following way how much reason there is to hope that death is a good thing. Death is one of two things. Either the dead person is nothing and has no perception of anything at all, or, as people say, death is some kind of change and a relocation of the soul from this place to another. And if there is no perception, but death is

like a sleep in which a sleeper does not even see a dream, then death would be a marvelous gain. For I think that if someone had to choose the night on which he slept so soundly that he did not even dream, set all the other nights and days of his life beside that night, and after considering them say how many days and nights in his life he had lived better and more pleasantly than that night, I think that not merely an ordinary person, but even the Great King himself, would find those days and nights easy to count

in comparison with all the others. So if death is like that, I call it a gain, because all of time appears in this way to be no more than a single night. But if death is like traveling from here to another place, and the things people say are true—that all the dead are there—what greater good could there be than that, gentlemen of the jury? For if someone

arrives in Hades, freed from these people here who claim to be judges, and finds the true judges who are said to judge there—Minos, Rhadamanthus, Aeacus, Triptolemus, and all the other demigods who were just during their own lives—would that be an insignificant journey? Or again, how much would any of you give to meet Orpheus, Musaeus, Hesiod, and Homer? For my part, I am willing to die many times over if these things are true. For then

For me personally, spending my time there would be wonderful whenever I met Palamedes, Ajax son of Telamon, or anyone else among the men of old who died because of an unjust judgment, and compared my own sufferings with theirs—which, I think, would not be unpleasant. 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 only thinks he is but is not. How much would anyone give, gentlemen of the jury, to examine the man who led

the great army against Troy, or Odysseus, or Sisyphus, or countless other men and women one could name? To talk and associate with them there and examine them would be an unimaginable happiness. In any case, they surely do not put anyone to death there for doing that. In every other respect those there are happier than those here, and for all the rest of time they are immortal, if what we are told is true.But you too, gentlemen of the jury, must be hopeful in the face of death and keep this one truth in mind:

nothing bad can happen to a good man, either in life or after death, and the gods do not neglect his affairs. What has happened to me now has not come about by chance either; it is clear to me that it was better for me to die now and be freed from troubles. That is why the sign never turned me away, and I am not very angry with those who voted to convict me or with my accusers. And yet they did not vote against me and accuse me with this intention, but because they thought they were harming me;

for that they deserve blame. Still, I ask this much of them: when my sons come of age, gentlemen, punish them by troubling them in the very same ways I troubled you, if you think they care about money or anything else more than virtue; and if they think they are something when they are nothing, reproach them as I reproached you, because they do not care about what they should and think they are something when they are worth nothing. And if

you do this, both I and my sons will have received just treatment from you. But now it is time to leave: for me to die, and for you to live. Which of us is going to the better fate is unknown to everyone except the god.