In this blog post, we will take a detailed look at the theme of the role and courage of the intellectual, focusing on the significance of the “poisoned cup” and “one chicken” as depicted in the scene of Socrates’ death.

What is the meaning of the “poisoned cup”?

Greek scholar Alexander Elliott concludes his play ‘The Trial’—which dramatizes the process from Socrates’ trial to his execution—as follows:
Socrates (jumping to his feet and removing the cloth covering his face): Crito! We owe Asclepius a chicken. Be sure to pay it back.
Crito: I will certainly pay it back. Is there anything else you wish to say?
(Socrates gives no reply. He seems to spend his final minute—or perhaps longer—in peaceful slumber. Then, trembling violently, he gasps for breath and clutches at the air. The cloth covering his face slips away. Socrates’ gaze is fixed and unmoving. He is dead.)
Crito: You… you are no longer in this world, my old friend… You… you raised a toast for us.
Antisthenes: The wisest and finest man in Athens—and, as far as I know, the wisest and finest man in the world—he is dead.
Ctesiphon: Socrates is dead? So to speak… he raised a toast for humanity.
Eucritus: Crito, what did he mean when he said he owed Asclepius a chicken?
Crito: Well… what could it have meant?
Crito-bulos: Father, let’s go now. Perhaps when we pay that debt, we’ll understand the meaning of those words.
What was the meaning of “a chicken”—a phrase that those who witnessed Socrates’ final moments failed to understand?
There are three interpretations of Socrates’ statement that he owed a chicken. The first is the theory that he was told to offer a chicken to Asclepius, the god of medicine; the second is the theory that Asclepius was a real person; and the third is the theory that Socrates’ final words were purely a joke.
I suspect that the meaning those who witnessed Socrates’ final moments sought to find in “a chicken” aligns with the first interpretation. They said that Socrates raised a toast “for us” or “for humanity.” They view the poisoned cup Socrates drank as a toast for humanity. A toast for what, exactly? Needless to say, it would have been a toast for humanity’s recovery.
In Athens, there was a custom whereby those who had recovered from illness would offer a chicken to Asclepius, the god of medicine. However, since Socrates was on his deathbed, he was not in a position to offer a chicken as a token of gratitude for his recovery. Therefore, the fact that he specifically left a final wish to offer a chicken to the god of medicine at his last moment suggests that “ “I drank this poisoned cup while attempting to cure the illness that dwells within the human heart. Yet human ailments must always be cured; on the day when all of humanity returns to a good and true heart, please offer a chicken to Asclepius in my stead as a token of gratitude.” In this sense, might the poisoned cup he drank not be a toast for humanity?
If we interpret the meaning of Socrates’ “one chicken” in this way, we can glimpse his philosophy regarding the fundamental attitude or role of an intellectual through “the significance of one chicken.” In conclusion, the duty of an intellectual is to “offer one chicken to Asclepius, the god of healing, as a token of gratitude.” In other words, contributing to the spiritual healing of humanity is the fundamental role of an intellectual.
It can be said that demonstrating that serving as “the light of human conscience” is the true attitude of an intellectual was the primary reason Socrates was elevated to the ranks of the sages. The fact that Socrates distinguished himself from the Sophists and called himself a “philosophos”—that is, a lover of wisdom—should also be understood from this perspective. He was not a “merchant of knowledge” who used knowledge as a means of making a living, but rather sought practical wisdom that awakens and enlightens true wisdom, guiding humanity toward happiness based on a clear human conscience. In Plato’s dialogue ‘The Apology’, Socrates says the following:
“Citizens of Athens! The reputation I have earned stems from the fact that I possess a certain kind of wisdom. If you ask me what kind of wisdom this is, I will answer that it is the wisdom that human beings can acquire. For I believe myself to be wise only insofar as I possess the wisdom that human beings can acquire.” (···) I wish to convey to you the words of a trustworthy witness: the god of Delphi. (···) You are likely familiar with Chaerephon. (···) He went to Delphi and (···) sought an oracle asking whether there was anyone wiser than me. The Pythia replied that there was no one wiser. (···) After hearing this oracle, I asked myself, “What does this word of the god mean?” (···) (···) After much deliberation, I devised a way to solve this problem. If I could only find someone wiser than myself, I could go to the god with a counterexample. (···) I sought out a man who was reputed to be a sage and observed him. (···) As soon as I began a conversation with him (···) I could not help but conclude that he was not wise. (···) This is because he thinks he knows things when he knows nothing, whereas I admit when I do not know something.
Having thus reached this “awareness of ignorance,” Socrates reigned as a leader of his time without imposing his views on others. Rather, he called himself a “midwife of the soul”—a term derived from his mother’s profession—and helped people everywhere attain true wisdom. He did not put forward his own claims nor insist that they could not be wrong. He knew that he was not a divine or absolute leader, but merely a humble assistant. He understood that wisdom is not bestowed by any single individual but is born within the hearts of all human beings; and that when Athens—or any other nation—achieves happiness and progress, it is not due to a single person or a group of leaders or pseudo-sages, but is possible only through the collective wisdom of the entire citizenry or the masses.
Seeking human wisdom within humanity itself, he believed that his role—as Athens’ greatest sage—was not to curry favor with those in power for personal gain or to amass wealth by peddling esoteric knowledge, but rather to draw true wisdom from the hearts of the people, which overflowed in the streets. The fact that he did not hesitate to converse even with slaves demonstrates just how sincere his efforts were to seek the wisdom common to all humanity.
What is an intellectual? Not someone aloof. Nor is it someone who possesses specialized knowledge, technical skills, or a wealth of information and simply peddles them unconditionally. It is one who helps people become aware of their own inherent goodness; one who, with sufficient respect and reverence for humanity, discerns the right course of history and serves as a guide to awaken the wisdom of the masses; and one who strives to restore humanity’s mental well-being by eradicating all the evils inherent in human nature—this is the role of an intellectual as Socrates conceived it. That is why he states so resolutely:
If you were to say to me, “Socrates, (···) you must never again investigate or reflect in this manner. (···) You will be put to death,” I can only reply as follows: “(···) I will obey the gods rather than you, and as long as I have life and strength, I will seek wisdom and teach wisdom (···) and will never cease.” ”
The god Socrates said he would follow was likely his own conscience. He stated that from his youth he had heeded the prohibitions of his daimon and obeyed them, and that the voice of this daimon constantly reminded him of what he must not do—could this not be seen as the very essence of human conscience? Viewed in this light, Socrates’ conscience was the source of his ceaseless self-denial. The spirit of negation—seeking to establish a new self through harsh self-denial—was the source of Socrates’ reason, the wellspring of his courage, and the foundation of his justice and virtue. And the fact that this spirit of negation is the most precious of all human spirits has remained unchanged throughout history.
Socrates was a good citizen of Athens. He was neither more nor less than an “Athens citizen.” What he sought to do was to restore the conscience of the Athenian citizens. When people speak of the disconnect between philosophy or ideology and society, they often point to the Greek era as a time when life and thought were one and the same. We see the epitome of this in Socrates. He never thought of anything beyond Athens. In other words, he was the intellectual most faithful to the era and society in which he lived. What he sought to save were the citizens of Athens and Athens itself. Rather than resorting to temporary, technical fixes that merely put a brief halt to a crisis, he sought the path to eternally revitalize Athens—a path that would allow Athens to revive without straying from humanity’s eternal ideal—and he found that path in the purification of the human soul, that is, in the pure and free exercise of reason.
Is it not the role of intellectuals, thinkers, and indeed all human beings to unearth truth, rather than to possess it? If humans could possess a single, unchanging, absolute truth, they would have no need to hope for further progress, nor could progress even exist. Therefore, truth is always newly unearthed, and the vein from which truth is mined is precisely the era and society in which the thinker was born. Vivid truth cannot be born apart from the circumstances of that era or the society of that time.
In this sense, one might say that Socrates was neither more nor less than an Athenian citizen. He was a thinker of his time who strove to unearth truth within the era in which he lived and the society to which he belonged. Yet this fact in no way diminishes Socrates’ greatness in the slightest. On the contrary, it is precisely because of this fact that his greatness shines even brighter. For he was not a hollow theorist but a thorough practitioner. The example he personally set is revered as the immortal wisdom of humanity because he demonstrated how one can live most meaningfully within the era and society to which one belongs. Although Athens has fallen and lies dormant within the pages of history books, the wisdom of Socrates—who was poisoned by the Athenians—remains vividly alive precisely because he was not an empty sophist but a concrete man of action.
Socrates says:
Citizens of Athens, (···) I am not trying to defend myself. Rather, I am trying to defend you, so that by punishing me—a gift the gods have sent you—you do not sin against the gods. “If you sentence me to death, you will not easily find another like me. To put it humorously, I am a kind of go-bug that the gods have sent to this country. This country is like a massive and noble warhorse, slow to move and therefore in need of stimulation.”
In this passage, we can glimpse Socrates’s earnest feelings toward Athens. It is a kind of sense of mission. We can see his keen and unyielding sense of mission toward the era and society in which he lived. However, he was not a slave to his time or society, nor was he a dull-witted conformist. Rather, just as a massive warhorse grows increasingly sluggish, he was “a lone donkey” seeking to stir up a fresh breeze of awakening in Athens, which was showing signs of decay and decline.
Where did Socrates’ sense of mission come from? It sprang from his spirit of negation, and is not this spirit of thorough negation the very essence of a consciousness of freedom?
In 399 BCE, Socrates was accused of not believing in the gods and corrupting the youth, and was sentenced to death. A person like Socrates—who remained faithful solely to reason, who, like a “walking conscience,” feared neither criticism nor attack, and who freely and boldly articulated and practiced his convictions while distinguishing right from wrong to the very end; a person who, through relentless questioning and inquiry, tested others and exposed their pseudo-knowledge, thereby wounding their pride or vanity— in short, a thorough critic—is bound to be regarded as a nuisance, despised, and to make many enemies. If it is said that an intellectual is a noble being precisely because they always possess the aspect of a “rebel against their time,” then they must endure the misfortune of being treated with hostility by the blind majority. Socrates, who believed his divine calling was to open the eyes of the Athenian citizens to human reason, cultivate virtue, and help them attain true happiness—and who never ceased to critique and reflect—was no exception; he could not escape the fierce attacks of his enemies, who feared him.
Socrates attracted public attention and became the subject of suspicion largely because his ardent followers were mostly the sons of prominent families and, in particular, were exceptionally gifted. Consequently, during an era when Athenian democracy had been transformed into demagogic politics—where power was sought by inciting the masses—Socrates became the target of envy among politicians and Sophists; furthermore, as mentioned earlier, he made even more enemies during his travels to verify the oracles.
The Sophists were professional teachers who emerged in response to the demands of young people seeking a new kind of education. They traveled throughout Greece’s major cities, giving lectures and teaching fascinating knowledge about nature and humanity; what they valued most, however, was “rhetoric.” In Athenian society at the time, where inciting the masses was the surest path to power, rhetoric was a politician’s most powerful weapon. There was no weapon more effective than eloquence for swaying a public lacking firm convictions or insight. The ultimate goal of this rhetoric, or rhetoric itself, was “to turn a weak argument into a strong one” (in the words of Protagoras). Protagoras summarizes the Sophists’ philosophy in a single phrase: “Man is the measure of all things.” The “man” referred to here is the individual. Consequently, this leads to extreme subjectivism and relativism, which reject any universal standard in thought or action. Thus, the Sophists, lacking any belief in absolute truth or values, taught a philosophy devoid of ideals and indecisive, and thus the goal of rhetoric—“to turn a weak argument into a strong one”—was taught not as a matter of truth or falsehood, but solely as a trick to subdue one’s opponent through clever eloquence. Thrasymachus’s audacious definition of justice—namely, the claim that “justice is the interest of the stronger”—was also made possible against this backdrop. In short, the Sophists possessed neither a belief in truth nor the courage to seek it out. In Athens—the very cradle of mob rule, where such Sophists were welcomed and yet even these very Sophists were eventually banished as a nuisance—Socrates could not help but be a “thorn in the side.”
Unless a society is sound and deeply rooted, sound reasoning is bound to be lonely and met with hostility. Especially in a society where, amid ceaseless demagoguery, “bad theories are literally turned into good ones,” there is not even a crack for sound reasoning to squeeze through. Consequently, in such a society, intellectuals and most people alike either flatter those in power or choose the complacent path of escapism. In such a society, intellect does not merely fall asleep—it goes into hiding, without any alibi.
Socrates’ tragedy lies in the fact that he could not choose either of the complacent paths available to intellectuals. He neither flattered those in power nor turned a blind eye to reality. Instead, he boldly threw himself into the fray and fought head-on against the ills of his time and society. However, he did not fight by seizing power with weapons or deceiving others with sweet talk; he fought with truth and justice. He undertook an extreme adventure to awaken the dormant consciences of the Athenian citizens—in other words, to revive the Athenians’ sense of freedom.
Socrates knew that as long as an intellectual does not abandon his inherent spirit of dissent and the sense of freedom that springs from it, he requires a concrete reality to challenge, and cannot refuse the path of becoming a witness to truth in that very arena. Socrates left behind the paradox that it was precisely because he was solely an Athenian citizen—and an honest one at that—that he became a citizen of the world today.
The reason Socrates had to drink the hemlock lay in the ignorance of the people of his time or their turning away from the truth. If Socrates never once changed his stance throughout his life, why was he indicted only in his twilight years? The reason can be found in the political decline of Athens. Having achieved a great victory in the Persian Wars, Athens reached the height of its prosperity, and the age of Pericles became its golden age; however, after suffering a crushing defeat in the Peloponnesian War, its power was shattered overnight, and it fell under the domination of Sparta. When Athens’ ambition to rule all of Greece was thwarted, and the city suffered under the reign of terror imposed by the Thirty Tyrants before returning to democracy—entering an era of reaction that dreamed only of restoration and ignored any new initiative—many pseudo-patriots, especially conservative ones, attributed the cause of this misfortune and decline to new ideas, particularly atheism. They needed someone to shift the blame onto.
Since the people believed that the welfare of the state and its citizens depended on the grace and protection of the gods, the claim that their misfortunes stemmed from a lack of faith in the gods—and were an expression of divine wrath—became the most plausible explanation. Even Anaxagoras and Protagoras, a leading Sophist, were charged with the crime of atheism and were forced to flee Athens. Conservative patriots, while not ignoring their own tendency to pander to the masses, set out to eradicate “dangerous ideas.” Amid the ignorance and demagoguery where silence was seen as a means of self-preservation, Socrates did not exercise the virtue of silence; rather, he sharpened the blade of his criticism even further. As a result, he was accused of being an atheist and a corrupter of the youth.
Socrates was originally a man who believed in oracles and never neglected to offer sacrifices to the gods. However, his faith was not superstitious but rather deeply philosophical in nature. While he acknowledged traditional beliefs, he sharply criticized their immoral aspects. Furthermore, since he claimed to receive revelations from his daimon, conservatives who failed to understand the true meaning of this accused him of introducing a new god. This was the reason he was accused of being an atheist. Furthermore, because he disregarded the prevailing social norms of Athens, shunned political life, and devoted himself solely to teaching the youth, he was accused of neglecting his civic duties and corrupting capable young men. Not only that, but he unhesitatingly pointed out the weaknesses of democracy, which was prone to devolving into mob rule or even dictatorship.
The misunderstandings and hatred toward Socrates had accumulated over a long period and finally erupted as a sign of his political downfall. In short, Socrates’ death was an inevitable event in Athens at that time. It was the inevitable consequence brought about by his own conscience. In other words, even though he knew that death was the only reward, he did not abandon the conscience of a true intellectual or his belief in the ultimate victory of justice. He knew that if he could not live as a free man, it was far more glorious to die as one.
Although Socrates’ crime was serious, had he refrained from speaking disrespectfully in court and pleaded for his life, he might have been acquitted or received a lighter sentence. This is evident from the fact that his conviction was decided by a narrow margin in the first vote. However, the idea of betraying his conscience to save his life was unthinkable. Socrates expressed his beliefs in court with integrity, without giving the slightest thought to the possible outcome. Here, we witness Socrates’ noble character as a free man and are deeply moved. For him, who chose to remain a free man to the very end, the death penalty was an inevitable consequence.
Even after receiving his sentence, due to unforeseen circumstances, Socrates spent 30 days in prison. During that time, through the efforts of his friends, including Crito, he was presented with an opportunity to escape. However, he rebuked Crito, who was urging him to escape, emphasizing that it was his duty to demonstrate an honorable death by obeying the laws of the state—even if they were unjust—rather than breaking his promises to the citizens of Athens and the gods and living a life of shame. In the dialogue ‘Crito’, he expressed these convictions, and his saintly character shines through so clearly that it moves one to respect. Furthermore, his belief in the immortality of the soul, as expressed in ‘Phaedo’, and his solemn final moments compel us to reflect once again on what it means to be human.
Socrates, who lived for his convictions, died for them. Even if obscured by darkness and unable to shine, the belief that “truth is truth, no matter what” was not merely a theoretical issue for him but the foundation of his spirit and life; therefore, he did not hesitate to accept death in order to bear witness to the truth.
His death was the most brilliant moment of his life and the pinnacle of his philosophy. Had he avoided death, his philosophy would not have resonated with us today. One could say he was a “fortunate intellectual” who had the best opportunity to demonstrate the greatness of the spirit and the absoluteness of freedom.
His death testifies that the greatest glory of a free, courageous, and sincere human being is to die for the truth. It also clearly demonstrates that those who lack this courage in the face of death cannot become true human beings who bear witness to the truth for history and humanity.
Socrates occupies a unique place in the history of philosophy as the first philosopher to shift the focus of philosophy from natural philosophy to the study of humanity; for him, the human being was a citizen of the polis. In this respect, he shares common ground with other Greek philosophers, including the Sophists. However, he stands out for his originality in that he addressed the issues of the citizen of the polis as individual concerns to be tackled autonomously and proposed a method for conceptually elucidating these issues.
The greatest concern for the citizen of the polis was happiness.
Socrates argued that in order for humans to be happy, they must cultivate reason well. As the founder of the view of humanity as “wise beings,” he sought the essence of the polis-oriented human in reason. Reason is, in fact, the characteristic that makes humans most human. Therefore, he identifies “knowledge” as the fundamental condition of virtue. “Virtue is knowledge,” he asserted. To do good and cultivate virtue, one must first know what is good and what is evil. An action performed without knowledge—even if it is a good deed—cannot constitute virtue; virtue arises only when one clearly understands what is good and then internalizes it through practice. At the foundation of his philosophy of the unity of knowledge and virtue—or the unity of knowledge and action—lies his central tenet: “Know thyself.”
Ultimately, Socrates placed emphasis on “self-awareness.” He sought to reach “true knowledge” from “awareness of ignorance” and aimed to revitalize human agency by practicing the virtue acquired through true knowledge.
The method he used to awaken people was the “Socratic method,” often referred to as the “midwifery of the soul.” The Socratic method is not a means of imparting pre-established knowledge. Rather, it is a method that induces a form of self-criticism by critiquing and pointing out the other person’s prejudices and errors, thereby leading them to freely realize on their own that what they previously believed to be true was, in fact, false. Socrates’ method of dialogue—which awakens one to true reason and self-knowledge, that is, rouses the blind soul from its deep slumber to realize one’s true self and true freedom—is vividly depicted in Plato’s “Dialogues.”
He sought to realize human freedom and the autonomy of reason through self-awareness. He had deep trust in human inner nature and believed that the root of this inner nature lay in conscience. The fact that he decided important matters by following the “voice of the daimon” alone shows how highly he valued the inner voice—that is, the voice of conscience.
He demonstrated the morality and philosophy of reason and conscience through his own life. The era that rewarded such a man as Socrates with a cup of poison can ultimately be described as an era devoid of reason and conscience—an era that feared freedom and self-awareness. Therefore, the poisoned cup Socrates drank symbolizes the murder of reason, the murder of conscience, and the annihilation of freedom. But if reason, conscience, and freedom are stripped away from human life—both personal and social—what will remain? Prejudice, injustice, arbitrariness, and licentiousness would inevitably run rampant.
Yet Socrates was, as the Oracle of Delphi declared, the wisest man in Athens. Through his death, he testifies that no persecution, no power can ever kill human conscience, reason, and freedom. Therefore, his poisoned cup becomes a toast to immortal reason, conscience, and freedom. Socrates concludes his defense as follows:
The time has come for me to depart. Let us each go our separate ways—I to die, and you to live. Only the gods know which is better.
What a dignified stance and what unwavering conviction! These are words that no one who does not firmly believe in the ultimate victory of reason, conscience, and freedom would dare utter, let alone speak aloud. His words cry out that human reason, conscience, and freedom are immortal and will never be eradicated from the earth.
Yet as long as reason, conscience, and freedom endure, human intellect will exist, and so will people of intellect. Therefore, a Socrates can exist in any era and any society. Yet why is there no Socrates even in a society where intellectuals exist? The reason is clear: it is the lack of independent conviction and courage. Socrates once said that it is not knowledge that matters, but putting that knowledge into practice; and that it is not merely living that matters, but living well. The revival of Socrates will be possible only through a temperament rooted in Socratic freedom.
At the very beginning, I thought about “the significance of a single chicken”—the one offered to Asclepius, the god of medicine, on the day a person’s illness was cured. The responsibility to repay this single chicken does not rest solely with Crito. It is a debt that all of humanity owes to Socrates, and a debt that all of humanity owes to every individual. However, there is one condition for repaying this debt: human ailments must be cured, and the eternal ideal of humanity—in which human reason and conscience are freely and purely exercised—must be realized.
We must ask ourselves: “Are we not living in an era and under circumstances that are further delaying the day when we will repay this debt?” If we are delaying the day of repayment, it is a sign that humanity’s illness is worsening. And it is proof that there is no great physician.
Who is the physician who can identify the causes that have afflicted reason, conscience, and freedom, and pave the way to recovery? And why, in the modern age—which produces more outstanding intellectuals than even Socrates’ time—is there no righteous physician? This is a matter that calls for reflection. We all know the reason there is no great physician. Namely, we have forgotten “the debt of a single chicken.” We are losing the courage and conviction to step forward and repay it. Socrates’ prescription for overcoming the robotization of humanity—which is content with being “computerized humans” and satisfied only with electronic precision—as well as the commodification of freedom and the instrumentalization of conscience, seems to boil down to a single phrase.
Intellect is courage. Isn’t this precisely the meaning behind the poisoned cup Socrates drank?

What is courage?

Courage is the mental and moral strength to resolutely confront danger and fear. Therefore, whenever a crisis arises—whether great or small—courage is urgently required, and overcoming a crisis is impossible without it. Of course, courage alone cannot ensure the resolution of every crisis, but without it, one cannot face and confront a crisis with dignity.
Aristotle stated that courage is the golden mean between cowardice and recklessness, and that understanding this mean requires the intellectual virtue of prudence; true courage, above all, demands rationality. A rational assessment of the situation forms the basis for autonomous decision-making, and courage is required for both that decision and its execution.
Autonomous decision-making is the source of courage. Here, “decision” refers to the final choice made from among the many possibilities for action. While such decisions are, of course, greatly influenced by various objective conditions—including social factors—their fundamental basis lies in the autonomous choice made by one’s own will. This is because decision-making involves choosing one’s truest and finest self and, through that self, choosing the truest and finest future. Therefore, courage that springs from such a decision cannot be the physical force of life itself, nor is it merely the force of rebellion.
True courage is established in the act of freeing oneself from existential attachments and, consequently, being prepared to face death for the sake of a free decision. In this sense, courage entails infinite responsibility.
There can be no doubt that Socrates is the prime example of one who demonstrated great courage. He was the “spur” sent by the gods to Athens and the “walking conscience of Athens.” As he stated in his “Apology,” Athens was like a massive and noble warhorse, but because of its size, its movements were sluggish, so it needed a spur to rouse it—and that spur was none other than himself. This attitude of his was a kind of sense of vocation.
His choice was to rebuild Athens—which was on a path of corruption and decline—into the “center of the world.” Therefore, Socrates was critical of the prevailing trends in Athens at the time. His sense of mission to save Athens stemmed from his criticism and rejection of falsehood and was underpinned by true courage in the struggle for truth.
He was a scathing critic. He did not hesitate to mercilessly criticize and reject the corrupt reality of Athens. The price he paid was execution on charges of corrupting the youth and impiety toward the city-state’s gods.
His courage is epitomized by the way he calmly drank the poison after his trial. In the act of drinking the poison, we discover two aspects of Socrates’ courage. The reason he was forced to drink the poison lay in his rejection of reality. For Socrates, who longed for the ethical reconstruction of Athens, criticizing and rejecting the corrupt reality before his eyes was inevitable. Only through such rejection could he open the eyes of the Athenian citizens to reason and truth. Therefore, the courage he displayed in this process can be described as “the courage to reject reality.” However, when Crito urged him to escape from prison, Socrates rejected the suggestion, arguing that obeying the law—even an unjust one—was the way to keep his promise. Here, we see the dilemma Socrates faced.
Through his defense in court, he clearly argued that his trial and verdict were unjust. However, by being found guilty and sentenced to death, Socrates was effectively thwarted by the very reality he had sought to deny, and it was precisely because he was aware of this fact that he was able to demonstrate conviction and courage throughout the trial. Viewed in this light, one could argue that his escape would have had a certain justification, given that he had been subjected to an unjust trial by unjust laws and judges. Indeed, considering his spirit of thorough negation, his escape might even be seen as a natural conclusion. Yet, by refusing to escape, wasn’t he accepting the very reality he had been rejecting? His decision to submit to a reality that forced him to die through an unjust verdict represents a shift from the rejection of reality to its acceptance. He did not die as a result of coercion by an irresistible and unjust authority; rather, he chose death of his own accord.
Doesn’t his attitude—shifting from the rejection of reality to its acceptance, that is, from one extreme to the other—reveal a contradiction? However, what we must note is that the affirmation of reality was by no means a path to salvation for him; rather, it was a path to death. The fact that Socrates—who had even criticized the trial itself, and who possessed such a thorough spirit of negation—calmly drank the hemlock and thereby conformed to that reality demonstrates another aspect of courage: the courage to affirm reality.
It is difficult to view the belief in eternal life in the afterlife—which he stated so boldly in the ‘Phaedo’—as the sole reason for his calm acceptance of death and his affirmation of the reality he had so harshly denied. Rather, we must seek the source of his affirmation of reality elsewhere.
The issue here concerns the two aspects of courage. That is, courage both affirms and denies reality. In other words, courage cannot arise from a complete denial of reality. For a truly courageous person—in the sense that they cannot escape reality—it is essential to first affirm the concrete reality in which they find themselves. This is because, insofar as courage is an expression of critical consciousness—a consciousness of freedom—that seeks to negate a certain reality, it requires a concrete reality to negate and must bear witness to the truth within that context. Of course, in this case, affirmation of reality does not imply conformity to or passive acceptance of reality. In Socrates’ case, his primary choice was an “fundamental affirmation of reality”—namely, Athens. He did not seek to destroy Athens or flee from it; rather, he loved Athens and harbored a deep desire to rebuild it. Therefore, he took on the role of a scapegoat within Athens. This gives rise to the paradox that he rebelled against Athens precisely because he loved it.
Consequently, Socrates’ drinking of the hemlock can be seen as an act of courage to remain true to his “fundamental affirmation.” There is a misconception that escape from reality and denial of reality are one and the same. However, it was Socrates’ courage that demonstrated that denial of reality is by no means an escape from reality.
As I mentioned earlier, true courage is rational, autonomous, and entails infinite responsibility; yet one cannot find a rational or autonomous attitude in escapism. This is because escapism is not a matter of making a decision but of abandoning decision-making. Escapism is not the exercise of strength to resolutely confront and overcome danger or fear; on the contrary, it is the product of a sense of danger or fear. Escapism is a kind of emotional reaction that seeks, as much as possible—even if only emotionally—to pretend reality does not exist; it is the product of cowardice, not courage. Because it is an attitude that seeks to render reality nonexistent, there is nothing to confront. It is an attitude that admits defeat without a struggle.
Escapism requires no courage, for there is nothing to deny or overcome. To claim that escaping reality constitutes the ultimate denial of reality is nothing more than sophistry designed to deceive oneself. For someone who seeks to nullify their homeland simply because its reality is repugnant, there remains no repugnant reality to confront concretely. Therefore, those who have escaped reality have no reason, no place, and no object for action.
Denial of reality is clearly distinct from escape from reality. Here, it is necessary to distinguish between conceptual denial of reality and active denial of reality. This is because denial of reality must ultimately manifest as an act of defiance. Conceptual denial of reality often amounts to nothing more than self-justification on the part of the escapist. It is not courage; at best, it is nothing more than intellectual play. Courage manifests itself in action, and resolve is realized through action. Therefore, the denial of reality necessarily requires action in some form, and thus requires a concrete object of that action. And it is in the course of such action that courage, as a spiritual and moral force, takes concrete form.
So what, then, is the concrete object of this action? What is the object one seeks to deny? It is, without a doubt, reality itself. If escapism is an attitude that refuses to fully affirm reality, then the denial of reality must, at the very least, begin with an affirmation of reality. Since the negation of reality is the courage to transcend reality, a fundamental affirmation is necessary at its starting point.
Socrates negated the moral decay of Athens, not Athens itself. Athens—which embodies the reality of moral decay—was also the object of Socrates’ deepest love. Therefore, even though it was rife with corruption, injustice, and moral decay, Socrates could not deny or nullify Athens itself. His fundamental choice was Athens, and his affirmation of Athens was the source of his courage.
One might raise the following objection: Isn’t there a difference between affirming “Athens itself” and affirming “the reality of Athens”? This is akin to attempting to distinguish between essence and phenomenon. It is the view that there is a separate essence called “Athens,” and that the reality of Athens—as a temporary phenomenon—is distinct from this. Distinguishing between the essence of Athens and the phenomenon of Athens is impossible, at least in terms of action. This is because Athens, as the concrete object of a concrete action, cannot be anything other than that very reality. There cannot be a separate “homeland” and a separate “reality of the homeland.” The homeland is reality itself, moving within history. Therefore, claiming that the reality we seek to affirm is different from the reality we seek to negate is nothing more than a speculative attitude. Here, the paradox of “affirming while negating” holds true, and the dialectical principle that “affirmation is negation, and negation is affirmation” applies. However, we must ponder the above statement while presupposing the following point. The reality we seek to negate is reality as a historical outcome. Within it, everything accumulated from the past is present, but it is nothing more than that.
However, the reality we seek to affirm holds a meaning that transcends the merely present. That is, it is not limited to the present in terms of time but encompasses the future. It is a reality that has already anticipated the future through the potentialities latent within it. In other words, what we seek to negate is present reality, and what we seek to affirm is future reality. What Socrates negated was “present-day Athens,” and what he affirmed was “the Athens of the future within the present”—where even moral awareness, which in reality is merely a potentiality, has been realized. If we were to stop at merely affirming present reality—that is, the reality unfolding before our eyes, unfolding before our eyes, that would amount to mere conformity to or following of reality. True affirmation of reality is the affirmation of the future reality—that is, a reality in which the future, though not yet realized, is imbued as a possibility through one’s own subjective decision. This affirmation of reality is what has been referred to thus far as “fundamental affirmation of reality.”
As mentioned earlier, decision is the cradle of courage. Decision is the concrete substance of courage, and its object is reality. Therefore, courage is not abstract but concrete. This is why we are more deeply moved by Socrates’ concrete courage than by countless theories about courage. Decision is a subjective choice, and through such choices, we anticipate the future. Our choices are not always rooted in the present but are future-oriented.
Decision itself is an adventure. This involves difficult questions: How accurate and rational is our analysis of reality? What possibilities does reality hold? (The future is not realized through fantasy but is possible only on the basis of reality.) And what are the methods for realizing those possibilities? If, as Sartre said, our choices are ultimately the world’s choices, then we are truly embarking on an immense adventure. We act according to our choices and have no choice but to bear full responsibility for the consequences forever. When we consider how profound the consequences of a national leader’s choices are for that nation, we can imagine the terror of such a decision.
Such a decision is impossible without true courage. The coward will avoid making a decision, while the reckless will act before deciding. The confidence that one has devoted all one’s sincerity as a human being, the conviction that one would even risk death to realize one’s choice, and the certainty that this is what is most valuable for humanity—these are essential. Those lacking courage will despair before reaching such a decision; rather, they will turn a blind eye to the reality that demands such a decision and opt for the complacent strategy of escapism.
Therefore, the courage primarily required of us is, at its core, the courage to affirm reality. We see the embodiment of this courage in Socrates.

Socrates and Plato

As Stern once remarked in discussing the philosophy of history, no matter how great one’s ideas or how outstanding one’s wisdom, they cannot become history unless they are preserved as objective records; had it not been for Plato, Socrates would not have become a historical figure. It is no exaggeration to say that the “Dialogues,” which he compiled out of a desire to honor his teacher, are the sole record that provides insight into Socrates.
Since Plato’s life is well-documented, I will not go into detail here but will simply outline his relationship with Socrates. It is said that Plato met Socrates when he was 20 years old. At that time, like any other young man in Athens, he was a young man aspiring to a career in politics. However, after meeting Socrates, he was influenced by him to devote himself to the study of philosophy and remained by Socrates’ side until the latter was executed. Yet, after experiencing the tragedy of his teacher’s execution, he abandoned his aspirations to enter politics. This shows just how shocking his teacher’s death was. He was 28 years old when he faced his teacher’s death. In 387 BCE, he founded the Academy in the Academy district west of Athens, where he devoted the rest of his life to research and writing.
Twenty-eight of Plato’s works have survived (although there are quite a few others attributed to Plato, Plato scholars recognize only these 28). With the exception of the ‘Apology’ and his letters, all of them are written in the form of dialogues. Furthermore, Socrates appears as the central figure in most of these dialogues. This alone reveals the depth of Plato’s respect for Socrates.
Plato was a faithful heir to Socrates’s philosophy. At the same time, he was an original thinker who developed and systematized his teacher’s ideas. Therefore, even though Socrates is the protagonist of the “dialogues,” there are several issues regarding whether they truly represent Socrates’ ideas in their entirety. It is possible that Plato’s own ideas are being articulated through Socrates. At the very least, they should be viewed as Plato’s ideas, which built upon those of Socrates.
Today, scholars of Plato view his early “Dialogues” as faithful portrayals of Socrates, but believe that as time progressed into his middle and late periods, Plato’s unique ideas began to be expressed. The Socrates who appears in the “Dialogues” from the middle period onward is, in other words, a “Platonized” Socrates. However, unless one is a professional scholar, there is no need to attach great importance to this issue. This is because, regardless of whose ideas they represent, our goal is simply to find the essence of the mind within them.
Among the “Dialogues” worth noting here—“Apology,” “Crito,” “Phaedo,” and “Symposium”—“Apology,” “Crito,” and “Symposium” belong to his early period (up to age 40), while “Phaedo” belongs to his middle period (up to age 60). Therefore, I believe it is safe to say that Socrates is faithfully portrayed in these four dialogues. The three dialogues—’Apology’, ‘Crito’, and ‘Phaedo’—deal with the events that unfolded between Socrates’ trial and his execution. Through these three dialogues, we can understand the process leading from the trial to his execution and gain insight into Socrates’ philosophy.
It is said that Socrates was executed in the spring of 399 BCE. Since it is reported that he was 70 years old at the time, we can infer that he was born around 470 BCE, ten years after Athens’ victory in the war against Persia. He was born in Athens to a father who worked as a stonemason and a mother who was a midwife. It is said that Socrates also worked as a stonemason in his youth.
Little is known about the early part of Socrates’ life. While it seems certain that he was a Sophist in his early years, the details of his subsequent intellectual development and activities remain unclear. Therefore, the “Apology,” “Crito,” and “Phaedo”—which chronicle the events from his trial to his execution—are invaluable texts for understanding Socrates’ life. Through these three “dialogues,” we can clearly sense Socrates’ humanity. After reading them, one will understand why Socrates is called a sage and the truest philosopher. What moves us here is not so much the greatness of Socrates’ philosophy or the beauty of Plato’s prose, but rather Socrates’ humanity, which is vividly brought to life through these three “dialogues.” We are strongly reminded that no philosophy can become great or moving without the human element.
” ‘The Symposium’ is a celebration of Eros (the god of love), but it concludes as a celebration of Socrates. As one of the best “dialogues” for understanding Socrates’ character, it will be of great help in comprehending him, along with ‘The Apology’, ‘Crito’, and ‘Phaedo’. However, when reading ‘The Symposium’, one will notice numerous references to homosexuality, and in fact, even within this celebration of love, homosexuality becomes the primary focus. Therefore, it should be read while considering the cultural context of the time, when homosexuality was accepted. If one reads it with the understanding that the ultimate theme of this dialogue is not love between humans on earth but love for the Forms and love for wisdom, I believe the impression that it is immoral (when viewed through the lens of current morality) will disappear.
In every corner of the reality we face today, people cry out about the “decay of humanity” and the “absence of humanity.” I believe that, in such times, coming into contact with Socrates’ humanity and being deeply moved by it holds great significance for the “restoration of humanity.”