I guess I should snuggle down and snore away.

I can’t sleep. I’m just too miserable, what with being eaten up by all this debt— thanks to this son of mine, his expenses, his racing stables. He keeps his hair long and rides his horses—he’s obsessed with it— his chariot and pair. He dreams of horses. And I’m dead when I see the month go by— with the moon’s cycle now at twenty days, as interest payments keep on piling up.

Hey, boy! Light the lamp. Bring me my accounts.

Let me take these and check my creditors. How many are there? And then the interest—

I’ll have to work that out. Let me see now . . . What do I owe? “Twelve minai to Pasias?” Twelve minai to Pasias! What’s that for? O yes, I know—that’s when I bought that horse, the pedigree nag. What a fool I am! I’d sooner have a stone knock out my eye.

Philon, that’s unfair! Drive your chariot straight.

That there’s my problem—that’s what’s killing me. Even fast asleep he dreams of horses!

In this war-chariot race how many times do we drive round the track?

You’re driving me, your father, too far round the bend. Let’s see, after Pasias, what’s the next debt I owe?

“Three minai to Amynias.” For what? A small chariot board and pair of wheels?

Let the horse have a roll. Then take him home.

You, my lad, have been rolling in my cash.

Now I’ve lost in court, and other creditors are going to take out liens on all my stuff to get their interest.

What’s the matter, dad? You’ve been grumbling and tossing around there all night long.

I keep getting bitten— some bum bailiff in the bedding.

Ease off, dad. Let me get some sleep.

All right, keep sleeping. Just bear in mind that one fine day these debts

will all be your concern.

Damn it, anyway. I wish that matchmaker had died in pain—

the one who hooked me and your mother up. I’d had a lovely time up to that point, a crude, uncomplicated, country life, lying around just as I pleased, with honey bees, and sheep and olives, too. Then I married— the niece of Megacles—who was the son of Megacles. I was a country man, and she came from the town—a real snob, so extravagant, just like Coesyra. When I married her and we both went to bed,

I stunk of fresh wine, drying figs, sheep’s wool—

an abundance of good things. As for her, she smelled of perfume, saffron, long kisses, greed, extravagance, lots and lots of sex. Now, I’m not saying she was a lazy bones. She used to weave, but used up too much wool. To make a point I’d show this cloak to her and say, “Woman, your weaving’s far too thick.”

We’ve got no oil left in the lamp.

Damn it! Why’d you light such a thirsty lamp? Come here.

I need to thump you.

Why should you hit me?

Because you stuck too thick a wick inside.

After that, when this son was born to us—

I’m talking about me and my good wife— we argued over what his name should be. She was keen to add -hippos to his name, like Xanthippos, Callipedes, or Chaerippos. Me, I wanted the name Pheidonides, his grandpa's name. Well, we fought about it, and then, after a while, at last agreed.

And so we called the boy Pheidippides. She used to cradle the young lad and say, ”When you’re grown up, you’ll drive your chariot to the Acropolis, like Megacles, in a full-length robe . . .” I’d say, “No—

you’ll drive your goat herd back from Phelleus, like your father, dressed in leather hides . . .” He never listened to a thing I said. And now he’s making my finances sick— a racing fever. But I’ve spent all night

thinking of a way to deal with this whole mess, and I’ve found one route, something really good— it could work wonders. If I could succeed, if I could convince him, I’d be all right. Well, first I’d better wake him up. But how? What would be the gentlest way to do it?

Pheidippides . . . my little Pheidippides . . .

What is it, father?

Give me a kiss— then give me your right hand.

All right. There. What’s going on?

Tell me this—do you love me?

Yes, I do, by Poseidon, lord of horses.

Don’t give me that lord of horses stuff— he’s the god who’s causing all my troubles. But now, my son, if you really love me, with your whole heart, then follow what I say.

What do you want to tell me I should do?

Change your life style as quickly as you can, then go and learn the stuff I recommend.

So tell me—what are you asking me?

You’ll do just what I say?

Yes, I’ll do it—

Give me a kiss— then give me your right hand.

All right. There. What’s going on?

Tell me this—do you love me?

Yes, I do, by Poseidon, lord of horses.

Don’t give me that lord of horses stuff— he’s the god who’s causing all my troubles. But now, my son, if you really love me, with your whole heart, then follow what I say.

What do you want to tell me I should do?

Change your life style as quickly as you can, then go and learn the stuff I recommend.

So tell me—what are you asking me?

You’ll do just what I say?

Yes, I’ll do it—

I swear by Dionysus.

All right then. Look over there—you see that little door, there on that little house?

Yes, I see it. What are you really on about, father?

That’s the Thinkery—for clever minds. In there live men who argue and persuade. They say that heaven’s an oven damper— it’s all around us—we’re the charcoal. If someone gives them cash, they’ll teach him how to win an argument on any cause,

just or unjust.

Who are these men?

I’m not sure

I swear by Dionysus.

All right then. Look over there—you see that little door, there on that little house?

Yes, I see it. What are you really on about, father?

That’s the Thinkery—for clever minds. In there live men who argue and persuade. They say that heaven’s an oven damper— it’s all around us—we’re the charcoal. If someone gives them cash, they’ll teach him how to win an argument on any cause,

just or unjust.

Who are these men?

I’m not sure

I swear by Dionysus.

All right then. Look over there—you see that little door, there on that little house?

Yes, I see it. What are you really on about, father?

That’s the Thinkery—for clever minds. In there live men who argue and persuade. They say that heaven’s an oven damper— it’s all around us—we’re the charcoal. If someone gives them cash, they’ll teach him how to win an argument on any cause,

just or unjust.

Who are these men?

I’m not sure

just what they call themselves, but they’re good men, fine, deep-thinking intellectual types.

Nonsense! They’re a worthless bunch. I know them— you’re talking about pale-faced charlatans, who haven’t any shoes, like those rascals Socrates and Chaerephon.

Shush, be quiet. Don’t prattle on such childish rubbish. If you care about your father’s daily food, give up racing horses and, for my sake,

join their company.

By Dionysus, no! Not even if you give me as a gift pheasants raised by Leogoras.

Come on, son—

just what they call themselves, but they’re good men, fine, deep-thinking intellectual types.

Nonsense! They’re a worthless bunch. I know them— you’re talking about pale-faced charlatans, who haven’t any shoes, like those rascals Socrates and Chaerephon.

Shush, be quiet. Don’t prattle on such childish rubbish. If you care about your father’s daily food, give up racing horses and, for my sake,

join their company.

By Dionysus, no! Not even if you give me as a gift pheasants raised by Leogoras.

Come on, son—

you’re the dearest person in the world to me. I’m begging you. Go there and learn something.

What is it you want me to learn?

They say that those men have two kinds of arguments— the Better, whatever that may mean, and the Worse. Now, of these two arguments, the Worse can make an unjust case and win.

So if, for me, you’ll learn to speak like this, to make an unjust argument, well then, all those debts I now owe because of you I wouldn’t have to pay—no need to give an obol’s worth to anyone.

No way. I can’t do that. With no colour in my cheeks I wouldn’t dare to face those rich young Knights.

Then, by Demeter, you won’t be eating any of my food—not you, not your yoke horse, nor your branded thoroughbred. To hell with you—

I’ll toss you right out of this house.

All right— but Uncle Megacles won’t let me live without my horses. I’m going in the house. I don’t really care what you're going to do.

Well, I’ll not take this set back lying down. I’ll pray to the gods and then go there myself— I’ll get myself taught in that Thinkery. Still, I’m old and slow—my memory’s shot. How can I learn hair-splitting arguments,

all that fancy stuff? But I have to go.

Why do I keep hanging back like this? I should be knocking on the door.

Hey, boy . . . little boy.

Go to Hell!

Who’s been knocking on the door?

I’m Strepsiades, the son of Pheidon, from Cicynna.

By god, what a stupid man, to kick the door so hard. You just don’t think. You made a newly found idea miscarry!

I’m sorry. But I live in the country, far away from here. Tell me what’s happened. What’s miscarried?

It’s not right to mention it,

except to students.

You needn’t be concerned— you can tell me. I’ve come here as a student, to study at the Thinkery.

I’ll tell you, then. But you have to think of these as secrets, our holy mysteries. A while ago, a flea bit Chaerephon right on the eye brow, and then jumped onto Socrates’s head. So Socrates then questioned Chaerephon about how many lengths of its own feet a flea could jump.

How’d he measure that?

Most ingeniously. He melted down some wax, then took the flea and dipped two feet in it.

Once that cooled, the flea had Persian slippers. He took those off and measured out the space.

By Lord Zeus, what intellectual brilliance!

Would you like to hear more of Socrates, another one of his ideas? What do you say?

Which one? Tell me . . .

I’m begging you!

All right. Chaerephon of Sphettus once asked Socrates whether, in his opinion, a gnat buzzed

through its mouth or through its anal sphincter.

What did Socrates say about the gnat?

He said that the gnat’s intestinal tract

was narrow—therefore air passing through it, because of the constriction, was pushed with force towards the rear. So then that orifice, being a hollow space beside a narrow tube, transmits the noise caused by the force of air.

So a gnat’s arse hole is a giant trumpet! O triply blessed man who could do this,

anatomize the anus of a gnat! A man who knows a gnat’s guts inside out would have no trouble winning law suits.

Just recently he lost a great idea— a lizard stole it!

How’d that happen? Tell me.

He was studying movements of the moon— its trajectory and revolutions. One night, as he was gazing up, open mouthed, staring skyward, a lizard on the roof relieved itself on him.

A lizard crapped on Socrates!

That’s good!

Then, last night we had no dinner.

Well, well. What did Socrates come up with, to get you all some food to eat?

He spread some ashes thinly on the table, then seized a spit, went to the wrestling school, picked up a queer, and robbed him of his cloak, then sold the cloak to purchase dinner.

And we still admire Thales after that?

He was studying movements of the moon— its trajectory and revolutions. One night, as he was gazing up, open mouthed, staring skyward, a lizard on the roof relieved itself on him.

A lizard crapped on Socrates!

That’s good!

Then, last night we had no dinner.

Well, well. What did Socrates come up with, to get you all some food to eat?

He spread some ashes thinly on the table, then seized a spit, went to the wrestling school, picked up a queer, and robbed him of his cloak, then sold the cloak to purchase dinner.

And we still admire Thales after that?

Come on, now, open up the Thinkery— let me see Socrates without delay.

I’m dying to learn. So open up the door.

By Hercules, who are all these creatures! What country are they from?

You look surprised. What do they look like to you?

Like prisoners— those Spartan ones from Pylos. But tell me— Why do these ones keep staring at the earth?

They’re searching out what lies beneath the ground.

Ah, they’re looking for some bulbs. Well now, you don’t need to worry any longer, not about that. I know where bulbs are found,

lovely big ones, too. What about them? What are they doing like that, all doubled up?

They’re sounding out the depths of Tartarus.

Why are their arse holes gazing up to heaven?

Directed studies in astronomy.

Go inside. We don’t want Socrates to find you all in here.

Not yet, not yet. Let them stay like this, so I can tell them what my little problem is.

It’s not allowed. They can’t spend too much time outside,

not in the open air.

My goodness, what is this thing? Explain it to me.

That there’s astronomy.

And what’s this?

That’s geometry.

What use is that?

It’s used to measure land.

You mean those lands handed out by lottery.

Not just that— it’s for land in general.

A fine idea— useful . . . democratic, too.

Look over here— here’s a map of the entire world. See? Right there, that’s Athens.

What do you mean?

I don’t believe you. There are no jury men— I don’t see them sitting on their benches.

No, no—this space is really Attica.

Where are the citizens of Cicynna,

the people in my deme?

They’re right here. This is Euboea, as you can see, beside us, really stretched a long way out.

I know—we pulled it apart, with Pericles. Whereabouts is Sparta?

Where is it? Here.

It’s close to us. You must rethink the place—

shift it—put it far away from us.

Can’t do that.

Do it, by god, or I’ll make you cry!

Hey, who’s the man in the basket—up there?

The man himself.

Who’s that?

Socrates.

Socrates! Hey, call out to him for me—

make it loud.

You’ll have to call to him yourself. I’m too busy now.

O Socrates . . . my dear little Socrates . . . hello . . .

Why call on me, you creature of a day?

Well, first of all, tell me what you’re doing

I tread the air, as I contemplate the sun.

You’re looking down upon the gods up there, in that basket? Why not do it from the ground, if that’s what you’re doing?

Impossible! I’d never come up with a single thing about celestial phenomena, if I did not suspend my mind up high, to mix my subtle thoughts with what’s like them—

make it loud.

You’ll have to call to him yourself. I’m too busy now.

O Socrates . . . my dear little Socrates . . . hello . . .

Why call on me, you creature of a day?

Well, first of all, tell me what you’re doing

I tread the air, as I contemplate the sun.

You’re looking down upon the gods up there, in that basket? Why not do it from the ground, if that’s what you’re doing?

Impossible! I’d never come up with a single thing about celestial phenomena, if I did not suspend my mind up high, to mix my subtle thoughts with what’s like them—

the air. If I turned my mind to lofty things, but stayed there on the ground, I’d never make

the least discovery. For the earth, you see, draws moist thoughts down by force into itself— the same process takes place with water cress.

What are you talking about? Does the mind draw moisture into water cress? Come down, my dear little Socrates, down here to me, so you can teach me what I’ve come to learn.

Why have you come?

I want to learn to argue. I’m being pillaged—ruined by interest

and by creditors I can’t pay off

they’re slapping liens on all my property.

How come you got in such a pile of debt without your knowledge?

I’ve been ravaged by disease—I’m horse sick. It’s draining me in the most dreadful way. But please teach me one of your two styles of arguing, the one which never has to discharge any debt. Whatever payment you want me to make, I promise you I’ll pay—by all the gods.

What gods do you intend to swear by?

To start with, the gods hold no currency with us.

Then, what currency do you use to swear? Is it iron coin, like in Byzantium?

Do you want to know the truth of things divine,

the way they really are?

Yes, by god, I do, if that’s possible.

And to commune and talk with our own deities the Clouds?

Yes, I do.

Then sit down on the sacred couch.

All right. I’m sitting down.

Take this wreath.

Why a wreath? Oh dear, Socrates, don’t offer me up in sacrifice, like Athamas.

No, no. We go through all this for everyone— it’s their initiation.

What do I get?

You’ll learn to be a clever talker,

to rattle off a speech, to strain your words like flour. Just keep still.

By god, that’s no lie! I’ll turn into flour if you keep sprinkling me.

Old man, be quiet. Listen to the prayer.

O Sovereign Lord, O Boundless Air, who keeps the earth suspended here in space,

O Bright Sky, O Sacred Goddesses— the Thunder-bearing Clouds—arise, you holy ladies, issue forth on high, before the man who holds you in his mind.

Not yet, not yet. Not till I wrap this cloak like this so I don’t get soaked. What bad luck, to leave my home without a cap on.

Come now, you highly honoured Clouds, come— manifest yourselves to this man here— whether you now sit atop Olympus,