In this blog post, we will examine in detail the theme of the intellectual’s role and courage, focusing on the significance of the “poisoned cup” and “one chicken” revealed 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. Make sure to pay it back.
Crito: I will. Is there anything else you wish to say?
(Socrates: No answer. He seems to spend his final minute—or more—in peaceful sleep. Then, trembling violently, he gasps for breath and clutches at the air. The cloth covering his face slips away. Socrates’s 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—the wisest and finest man in the world, as far as I know—he is dead.
Ctesiphon: Socrates is dead? In a sense… 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’ death could not understand?
There are three interpretations of Socrates’ remark 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? Needless to say, it would have been a toast for humanity’s recovery.
In Athens, there was a custom whereby those who 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 implies: “I drank the poisoned cup while trying to cure the illness that dwells within the human heart.” But human ailments must be cured at some point; on the day when all of humanity returns to a good and true heart, please offer a chicken to Asclepius on my behalf as a token of gratitude.” In this sense, might the poisoned cup he drank not become 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 in “The Meaning of One Chicken.” In conclusion, the duty of an intellectual is “to offer a 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. We must also understand from this perspective why Socrates distinguished himself from the Sophists and called himself a “philosophos,” or lover of wisdom. He was not a “merchant of knowledge” who used knowledge as a means of profit, 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:
“Men of Athens! It is because I possess a certain kind of wisdom that I have gained this reputation. If you ask what kind of wisdom that is, I will answer that it is the wisdom that a human being can acquire. For I believe myself to be wise only insofar as I possess the wisdom that a human being 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 to ask 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 the god mean by this?” (···) (···) After pondering for a long time, I devised a way to solve this problem. If I could only find someone wiser than myself, I would have a counterexample to present to the god. (···) I went to observe a man who was reputed to be a sage. (···) 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 he does not know, whereas I admit when I do not know something.
Having thus reached this “awareness of ignorance,” Socrates did not reign as a leader of his time, forcing his views upon others. Rather, he called himself a “midwife of the soul”—a term derived from his mother’s profession—and helped people everywhere to attain true wisdom. He did not put forward his own claims and stubbornly insist that they could not be wrong. He knew that he was not a divine or absolute leader, but merely a humble assistant. Wisdom is not bestowed by any single person but is born within the hearts of all human beings. He understood 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 people 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, nor to peddle esoteric knowledge for profit, but rather to draw true wisdom from the hearts of the people overflowing in the streets. The fact that he conversed without hesitation even with slaves demonstrates just how sincere his efforts were to discover the wisdom common to all humanity.
What is an intellectual? He is not a haughty person. Nor is he someone who possesses specialized knowledge, technical skills, or abundant information and sells 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 the spiritual health of humanity by eliminating 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 inquire or reflect in this manner. (···) You will be put to death,” and release me on that condition, 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 never cease.”
The god Socrates vowed to follow was likely his own conscience. He claimed that from his youth he had heeded the prohibitions of his daimon and obeyed its voice; this voice of the 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 humanity’s most precious spirit has remained unchanged throughout the ages.
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 citizen. It is often said that while there is a disconnect between philosophy or ideology and society today, the Greek era was a time when life and thought were one. 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 was the Athenian citizen and Athens itself. Rather than resorting to temporary technical fixes that merely stave off crises for a moment, he sought the path to eternally revive Athens—a path that would allow Athens to recover without straying from humanity’s eternal ideal. He sought 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 humans 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 and society to which he belonged. However, this fact does not diminish Socrates’ greatness in the slightest. On the contrary, it makes his greatness shine even brighter. This is because he was not a hollow theorist but a thorough practitioner. The practice he personally demonstrated is revered as humanity’s immortal wisdom because he showed how one can live most meaningfully within the era and society to which one belongs. Athens has perished and lies dormant within the pages of history, yet the wisdom of Socrates—who was poisoned by the Athenians—remains vividly alive because he was not an empty sophist but a concrete man of action.
Socrates says:
Citizens of Athens, (···) I am not here to defend myself. Rather, I am defending you, so that by punishing me—a gift sent to you by the gods—you may not sin against the gods. If you put me to death, you will not easily find another like me. To speak of me in jest, I am a kind of gadfly sent by the gods to this city. This city is like a huge and noble warhorse, slow to move and therefore in need of stimulation.”
In this passage, we can glimpse Socrates’ earnest feelings toward Athens. It is a kind of sense of calling. We can see his profound 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, he was “a lone lamp” seeking to kindle a fresh breeze of awakening in Athens—a city exhibiting signs of corruption and decline, much like a massive warhorse growing increasingly sluggish.
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 only to reason, fearless of criticism or attack like a “walking conscience,” and who freely and boldly spoke and acted on his convictions while distinguishing right from wrong to the very end; a person who tested others with relentless questioning and inquiry, exposing their pseudo-knowledge and 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 because they always possess the aspect of a “rebel against their time,” then the intellectual must endure the misfortune of being treated with hostility by the blind majority. Socrates, who believed his divine calling was to awaken the citizens of Athens to human reason, cultivate virtue, and help them attain true happiness, and who never ceased his criticism and reflection, was no exception; he could not escape the fierce attacks of his enemies who feared him.
Socrates attracted public attention and became the object of suspicion largely because his ardent followers were mostly the sons of prominent families and were, in particular, prodigies. Consequently, in an era when Athenian democracy had transformed into demagogic politics—where power was sought by inciting the masses—Socrates became the target of envy from politicians and sophists, and, 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 form of education. They traveled throughout the major cities of Greece, giving lectures or teaching fascinating knowledge about nature and humanity, but what they valued most was “rhetoric.” In Athens at that time, where demagoguery was the surest path to power, eloquence was the politician’s most powerful weapon. There was no weapon more effective than eloquence for swaying a populace lacking firm convictions or insight. The ultimate goal of this rhetoric, or the art of persuasion, 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.” Here, “man” refers to the individual. Consequently, this leads to extreme subjectivism and relativism, which reject universal standards in both thought and action. Thus, the Sophists, lacking belief in absolute truth or values, taught a lack of ideals and and taught that the goal of rhetoric—“turning a weak argument into a strong one”—involved disregarding whether it was true or false, focusing instead on teaching the cunning skill of subduing one’s opponent through clever rhetoric. 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 where even these Sophists were eventually banished because they had become 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, amidst ceaseless agitation, “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.
The tragedy of Socrates lies in the fact that he could not choose either of the easy paths available to intellectuals. He neither flattered those in power nor turned a blind eye to reality. Rather, 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 he became a citizen of the world today precisely because he was solely an Athenian citizen—and an honest one at that.
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. Then why was Socrates indicted only in his later years, even though he never once changed his stance throughout his life? 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 Athens’ 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. With its ambition to rule all of Greece thwarted, and subsequently, after suffering under the tyranny of the Thirty Tyrants and returning to democracy, it entered a reactionary era that dreamed only of restoration and ignored any new initiative. During this time, many pseudo-patriots, especially conservative ones, sought the cause of this misfortune and decline in new ideas, particularly in their lack of faith. They needed someone to shift the blame onto.
Since the people believed that the welfare of the state and the people depended on the grace and protection of the gods, the claim that their misfortunes were caused by 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 prosecuted on charges of atheism and were forced to flee Athens. Conservative patriots, while not ignoring the aspect of pandering to the masses, set out to eradicate “dangerous ideas.” Amidst the ignorance and agitation where silence was the best defense, Socrates did not exercise the virtue of silence but instead 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, he disregarded the prevailing social norms of Athens, shunned political life, and devoted himself solely to teaching the youth; consequently, 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 misunderstanding 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 rather an honor 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 light sentence. This is evident from the fact that his guilt was decided by a narrow margin in the first vote. However, violating his conscience to save his life was unthinkable. Socrates expressed his beliefs in court with complete 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 urged him to flee, 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 is so clearly evident that it moves one to deep reflection. Furthermore, his belief in the immortality of the soul, as expressed in “Phaedo,” and his solemn final moments compel us to contemplate once again what it means to be human.
Socrates, who lived for his beliefs, 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; thus, 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 ideas would not have resonated with us today. One could say he was a “fortunate intellectual” who possessed 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, and for him, humanity was defined by the polis. In this respect, he shares common ground with other Greek philosophers, including the Sophists. However, he possesses a unique perspective in that he treated the problems of the polis-oriented human as individual concerns to be addressed subjectively and proposed a method for conceptually elucidating these issues.
The greatest problem for the polis-oriented human was happiness.
Socrates argued that in order for humans to be happy, they must cultivate reason well. As the progenitor of the view of humanity as “wise men,” he sought the essence of the polis-oriented human in reason. Reason is, in fact, the characteristic that makes humans most human. Therefore, he speaks of “knowledge” as the fundamental condition of virtue. “Virtue is knowledge itself.” To perform good deeds and cultivate virtue, one must first know what is good and what is evil. An act performed without knowledge, even if it is a good deed, cannot be considered virtue; virtue arises only when one clearly understands what is good and then internalizes it. 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 realize human agency through the practice of 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 way of imparting pre-existing knowledge. Rather, it is a method that induces a kind of self-criticism by criticizing and pointing out the other person’s prejudices and errors, thereby allowing them to freely realize on their own that what they previously believed to be true was, in fact, false. Socrates’ method of dialogue is a way to open one’s eyes to true reason and come to know oneself—that is, a method of awakening the deep slumber of the blind soul to realize one’s true self and true freedom. This method 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 made important decisions by following the “voice of the daimon” alone shows how highly he valued the inner voice of humanity—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 carries the meaning of 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 cup of poison becomes a toast to the immortality of 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. Which is better, only the gods know.
What a dignified stance and what unwavering conviction! Only someone who is absolutely certain of the ultimate victory of reason, conscience, and freedom would dare to utter words that others would be too afraid even to whisper. 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’ maxim—that it is not knowing that is important, but acting upon what one knows; that it is not merely living that is important, but living well—can only be realized through a temperament of Socratic freedom.
At the very beginning, I thought about “the meaning of a single chicken”—the “meaning of a single chicken” that was to be offered to Asclepius, the god of medicine, on the day a human’s illness was cured. The responsibility to repay this single chicken does not rest solely on Crito. It is a debt that all of humanity owes to Socrates, and a debt that all of humanity owes to every person. However, there is one condition for repaying this debt: human ailments must be cured, and the eternal ideal of humanity—where 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 can repay this debt?” If we are delaying the day of repayment, it is a sign that the illness of humanity is worsening. And it is proof that there is no great physician.
Who is the physician who can identify the cause of the illness afflicting reason, conscience, and freedom, and open the path to recovery? And why, in the modern age—which produces more outstanding intellectuals than Socrates’ time—is there no righteous physician? This is a matter that demands reflection. We all know the reason there is no great physician. Namely, we have forgotten “the debt of a single chicken.” We have lost the courage and conviction to step forward and repay it. Socrates’ prescription for overcoming the robotization of humanity—which is content with being computer-like 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.
Intelligence is courage. Is this not the very meaning of the poisoned cup Socrates drank?

What is courage?

Courage is the mental and moral strength to face danger and fear resolutely. Therefore, when a crisis arises—whether great or small—courage is what is urgently required, and overcoming a crisis is impossible without it. Of course, courage alone cannot ensure victory over every crisis, but without it, one cannot face a crisis with dignity or stand up to it.
Aristotle said 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 of action. While such decisions are, of course, greatly influenced by various objective conditions, such as social circumstances, the fundamental element is the autonomous choice made by my own will. This is because decision-making involves choosing the truest and finest version of oneself and, through that self, choosing the truest and finest future. Therefore, courage rooted in such decision-making 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 person who demonstrated great courage. He was the back of Athens sent by the gods and the “ 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 spurs to awaken it—and that spurs 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 the 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 supported 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 blaspheming the city-state’s gods.
His courage is epitomized by the way he calmly drank the hemlock after his trial. In the act of drinking the hemlock, we discover two aspects of Socrates’ courage. The reason he was forced to drink the hemlock lay in his rejection of reality. For Socrates, who longed for the ethical reconstruction of Athens, criticizing and rejecting the corrupt reality before him 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 asserted that his trial and verdict were unjust. Yet, by being found guilty and sentenced to death, Socrates was effectively thwarted by the very reality he sought to deny; it was precisely because he was aware of this fact that he was able to demonstrate his conviction and courage throughout the trial. Viewed in this light, one could argue that his escape would have possessed a certain justification, given that he had been subjected to an unjust trial by unjust laws and judges. In fact, given his spirit of thorough negation, his escape could even be seen as a natural conclusion. Yet, by refusing to escape, isn’t he accepting the reality he had been denying? His decision to submit to a reality that forces death through an unjust verdict represents a shift from the negation of reality to its affirmation. He did not die under the coercion of an irresistible, unjust power; rather, he chose death of his own volition.
Does his shift from the negation of reality to its affirmation—that is, from one extreme to the other—not 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—conformed to that reality by calmly drinking the hemlock 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 calmly accepting death and affirming 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 the truly courageous, it is essential to first affirm the concrete reality in which they find themselves, in the sense that they cannot escape reality. This is because, insofar as courage is an expression of critical consciousness or a sense 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 reality or passive acceptance. In Socrates’ case, his primary choice was “fundamental affirmation of reality.” 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 played the role of a scapegoat within Athens. This gives rise to the paradox that he rebelled against Athens precisely because he loved it.
Thus, 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 equates escapism with the negation of reality. However, Socrates’ courage demonstrated that the negation of reality is by no means escapism.
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 decision but a renunciation of decision-making. Escapism is not the exercise of strength to resolutely confront danger or fear and overcome it; 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 no object to confront. It is an attitude that admits defeat without a struggle.
Escapism requires no courage. This is because there is no object 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 repulsive, there remains no repulsive reality with which to engage in concrete confrontation. 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 itself in concrete action. Conceptual denial of reality often remains merely a form of self-justification for 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 negation of reality necessarily requires action in some form, and thus requires a concrete object of action. And in the process of such action, courage—as a spiritual and moral force—is concretized.
So what, then, is the concrete object of action here? What is the object one seeks to negate? It is, without a doubt, reality itself. If escapism is an attitude that refuses to fully affirm reality, then the negation 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 denied the moral decay of Athens, not Athens itself. Athens, which embodies the reality of moral decay, was also the object of Socrates’ deepest affection. Therefore, even though it was filled with corruption, injustice, and decadence, 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 this objection: Isn’t affirming “Athens itself” different from affirming “the reality of Athens”? This is akin to the method of distinguishing between essence and phenomenon. It assumes that there is a separate “substance” called Athens, and that the reality—as a temporary phenomenon of Athens—is distinct from this. Distinguishing the substance of Athens from its phenomena is, at least in terms of action, impossible. This is because Athens, as the concrete object of 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, to claim that the reality we seek to affirm and the reality we seek to negate are different 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, one must reflect on 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 beyond what is merely present. That is, it is not limited to the present in terms of time but includes the future. It is a reality that has already anticipated the future through the potentialities latent within reality. 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 consciousness, which in reality is merely a possibility, has been realized. If one were to stop at affirming present reality—that is, the reality currently unfolding and being realized before one’s eyes—it would amount to mere conformity or subservience to reality. True affirmation of reality is the affirmation of future reality: a reality in which the future—though not yet realized—is imbued with the potential of a future that has been anticipated through one’s own subjective decision. This affirmation of reality is what has been referred to thus far as “fundamental affirmation of reality.”
Earlier, I stated that 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 raises difficult questions: How accurate and rational is the analysis of reality? What possibilities does reality hold? (The future is not realized through fantasy but is possible only on the basis of reality.) What is the method 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 are forever bound to bear full responsibility for the consequences. One can imagine the terror of such a decision when considering the immense consequences that a leader’s choice leaves for a nation.
Such a decision is impossible without true courage. The coward will avoid making a decision, while the reckless will act before deciding. The conviction that one has devoted all one’s sincerity as a human being, the belief that one would even risk death to realize one’s choice, and the certainty that this is what is most valuable for humanity. Those without courage will despair before reaching such a decision; rather, they will turn away from the reality that demands such a decision and choose the easy path 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 excellent one’s wisdom, it cannot become history unless it is preserved as an objective record; had it not been for Plato, Socrates would not have become a historical figure. This is because it is no exaggeration to say that the “Dialogues,” in which Plato, Socrates’ faithful disciple, recorded his teacher’s deeds out of a desire to honor him, are the only records that tell us about Socrates.
Since Plato’s life is well-documented, I will not introduce it 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 every young man in Athens, he was a young man aspiring to a career in politics. However, after meeting Socrates, he was influenced by him and devoted himself to the study of philosophy, remaining by Socrates’ side until the latter was executed. Yet, after experiencing the tragedy of his teacher’s execution, he abandoned his ambition to enter politics. One can imagine how shocking his teacher’s death must have been. He was 28 years old when he faced his teacher’s death. In 387 BCE, he built an academy in the Academy district west of Athens and devoted the rest of his life to research and writing there.
Twenty-eight of Plato’s works have survived (though there are many others attributed to him, Plato scholars recognize only these 28). With the exception of the “Apologies” and the letters, all are written in the form of dialogues. Furthermore, Socrates appears as the central figure in most of these “dialogues.” This alone reveals Plato’s deep 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 fully represent Socrates’s ideas. It is possible that Plato’s own ideas are being articulated through Socrates’s voice. At the very least, they should be viewed as Plato’s ideas, which built upon those of Socrates.
Today, Plato scholars generally agree that while his early “Dialogues” can be viewed as faithful representations of Socrates, his unique philosophy becomes increasingly evident as he moves into his middle and late periods. The Socrates who appears in the “Dialogues” from the middle period onward is, in essence, a “Platonized” Socrates. However, unless one is a professional scholar, there is no need to attach great importance to this distinction. This is because, regardless of whose ideas they are, we need only 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 the early period (up to age 40), while “Phaedo” belongs to the middle period (up to age 60). Therefore, I believe it is safe to say that Socrates is faithfully portrayed in these four works. The three works—“Apology,” “Crito,” and “Phaedo”—deal with the events that unfold from Socrates’ trial to his execution. Through these three works, 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, about 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, his subsequent intellectual development and activities are not well documented. Therefore, the “Apology,” “Crito,” and “Phaedo”—which recount 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’ ideas 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 idea can become great or moving without the human being as its medium.
“The Symposium” is a celebration of Eros (the god of love), yet 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, alongside “The Apology,” “Crito,” and “Phaedo.” However, when reading “The Symposium,” one encounters frequent references to homosexuality, and in fact, even in the celebration of love, its primary object is homosexuality. Therefore, it should be read while considering the cultural context of the time when homosexuality was permitted. 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 feeling that it is immoral (in light of current morality) will disappear.
In the reality we face today, cries of “the decay of humanity” and “the absence of humanity” are heard everywhere. 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.”