in celestial matters at the present time, we take note of no one else but you— and Prodicus—because he’s sharp and wise, while you go swaggering along the street, in bare feet, shifting both eyes back and forth. You keep moving on through many troubles, looking proud of your relationship with us.

By the Earth, what voices these Clouds have—

so holy, reverent, and marvelous!

Well, they’re the only deities we have— the rest are just so much hocus-pocus.

Hang on—by the Earth, isn’t Zeus a god, the one up there on Mount Olympus?

What sort of god is Zeus? Why spout such rubbish? There’s no such being as Zeus.

What do you mean? Then who brings on the rain? First answer that.

Why, these women do. I’ll prove that to you with persuasive evidence. Just tell me—

where have you ever seen the rain come down without the Clouds being there? If Zeus brings rain, then he should do so when the sky is clear, when there are no Clouds in view.

By Apollo, you’ve made a good point there— it helps your argument. I used to think rain was really Zeus pissing through a sieve. Tell me who causes thunder? That scares me.

These Clouds do, as they roll around.

But how? Explain that, you who dares to know it all.

When they are filled with water to the brim and then, suspended there with all that rain, are forced to move, they bump into each other. They’re so big, they burst with a great boom.

But what’s forcing them to move at all? Doesn’t Zeus do that?

No—that’s the aerial Vortex.

Vortex? Well, that’s something I didn’t know.

So Zeus is now no more, and Vortex rules instead of him. But you still have not explained a thing about those claps of thunder.

Weren’t you listening to me? I tell you, when the Clouds are full of water and collide, they’re so thickly packed they make a noise.

Come on now—who’d ever believe that stuff?

I’ll explain, using you as a test case. Have you ever gorged yourself on stew at the Panathenaea and later had an upset stomach—then suddenly some violent movement made it rumble?

Yes, by Apollo! It does weird things—

I feel unsettled. That small bit of stew rumbles around and makes strange noises, just like thunder. At first it’s quite quiet—

So Zeus is now no more, and Vortex rules instead of him. But you still have not explained a thing about those claps of thunder.

Weren’t you listening to me? I tell you, when the Clouds are full of water and collide, they’re so thickly packed they make a noise.

Come on now—who’d ever believe that stuff?

I’ll explain, using you as a test case. Have you ever gorged yourself on stew at the Panathenaea and later had an upset stomach—then suddenly some violent movement made it rumble?

Yes, by Apollo! It does weird things—

I feel unsettled. That small bit of stew rumbles around and makes strange noises, just like thunder. At first it’s quite quiet—

”pappax pappax”—then it starts getting louder— ”papapappax”—and when I take a shit, it really thunders “papapappax”— just like these Clouds.

So think about it— if your small gut can make a fart like that, why can’t the air, which goes on for ever, produce tremendous thunder. Then there’s this—

consider how alike these phrases sound, ”thunder clap” and “fart and crap.”

All right, but then explain this to me— Where does lightning come from, that fiery blaze, which, when it hits, sometimes burns us up, sometimes just singes us and lets us live? Clearly Zeus is hurling that at perjurers.

You stupid driveling idiot, you stink of olden times, the age of Cronos! If Zeus is really striking at the perjurers,

how come he’s not burned Simon down to ash, or else Cleonymos or Theorus? They perjure themselves more than anyone.

No. Instead he strikes at his own temple at Sunium, our Athenian headland, and at his massive oak trees there. Why? What’s his plan? Oak trees can’t be perjured.

I don’t know. But that argument of yours seems good. All right, then, what’s a lightning bolt?

When a dry wind blows up into the Clouds

and gets caught in there, it makes them inflate, like the inside of a bladder. And then it has to burst them all apart and vent, rushing out with violence brought on by dense compression—its force and friction cause it to consume itself in fire.

By god, I went through that very thing myself— at the feast for Zeus. I was cooking food, a pig’s belly, for my family. I forgot to slit it open. It began to swell—

then suddenly blew up, splattering blood in both my eyes and burning my whole face.

O you who seeks from us great wisdom, how happy you will be among Athenians, among the Greeks, if you have memory, if you can think, if in that soul of yours you’ve got the power to persevere, and don't get tired standing still or walking, nor suffer too much from the freezing cold, with no desire for breakfast, if you abstain

from wine, from exercise, and other foolishness, if you believe, as all clever people should, the highest good is victory in action, in deliberation and in verbal wars.

Well, as for a stubborn soul and a mind

thinking in a restless bed, while my stomach, lean and mean, feeds on bitter herbs, don’t worry. I’m confident about all that—I’m ready to be hammered on your anvil into shape.

So now you won’t acknowledge any gods

except the ones we do—Chaos, the Clouds, the Tongue—just these three?

Absolutely— I’d refuse to talk to any other gods, if I ran into them—and I decline to sacrifice or pour libations to them. I’ll not provide them any incense.

Tell us then what we can do for you. Be brave—for if you treat us with respect, if you admire us, and if you’re keen to be a clever man, you won’t go wrong.

O you sovereign queens, from you I ask one really tiny favour— to be the finest speaker in all Greece,

within a hundred miles.

You’ll get that from us. From now on, in time to come, no one will win more votes among the populace than you.

No speaking on important votes for me! That’s not what I’m after. No, no. I want to twist all legal verdicts in my favour, to evade my creditors.

You’ll get that,

just what you desire. For what you want is nothing special. So be confident— give yourself over to our agents here.

I’ll do that—I’ll place my trust in you. Necessity is weighing me down—the horses, those thoroughbreds, my marriage—all that has worn me out. So now, this body of mine

I’ll give to them, with no strings attached, to do with as they like—to suffer blows, go without food and drink, live like a pig,

to freeze or have my skin flayed for a pouch— if I can just get out of all my debt and make men think of me as bold and glib, as fearless, impudent, detestable, one who cobbles lies together, makes up words, a practised legal rogue, a statute book, a chattering fox, sly and needle sharp, a slippery fraud, a sticky rascal, foul whipping boy or twisted villain,

troublemaker, or idly prattling fool.

If they can make those who run into me call me these names, they can do what they want— no questions asked. If, by Demeter, they’re keen, they can convert me into sausages and serve me up to men who think deep thoughts.

Here’s a man whose mind’s now smart, no holding back—prepared to start. When you have learned all this from me

you know your glory will arise among all men to heaven’s skies.

What must I undergo?

For all time, you’ll live with me a life most people truly envy.

You mean I’ll really see that one day?

Hordes will sit outside your door wanting your advice and more—

to talk, to place their trust in you for their affairs and lawsuits, too, things which merit your great mind. They’ll leave you lots of cash behind.

So get started with this old man’s lessons, what you intend to teach him first of all— rouse his mind, test his intellectual powers.

Come on then, tell me the sort of man you are— once I know that, I can bring to bear on you my latest batteries with full effect.