The House of Agathon

Your informant, Glaucon must have been very indistinct if you imagine that the occasion was recent; or that I was part of it.

For many years, Agathon has not resided at Athens. Not three have elapsed since I became acquainted with Socrates, and have made it my daily business to know all that he says and does.

There was a time when I was running about the world, fancying myself to be well employed, but I was really a most wretched being, no better than you are now. I thought that I ought to do anything rather than be a philosopher.

No, but the same person who told Phoenix;—he was a little fellow, who never wore any shoes, Aristodemus, of the deme of Cydathenaeum.

He had been at Agathon’s feast; and I think that in those days there was no one who was a more devoted admirer of Socrates.

Moreover, I have asked Socrates about the truth of some parts of his narrative, and he confirmed them.

Then, said Glaucon, let us have the tale over again; is not the road to Athens just made for conversation?

And so we walked, and talked of the discourses on love; and therefore, as I said at first, I am not ill-prepared to comply with your request, and will have another rehearsal of them if you like.

For to speak or to hear others speak of philosophy always gives me the greatest pleasure, to say nothing of the profit. But when I hear another strain, especially that of you rich men and traders, such conversation displeases me; and I pity you who are my companions, because you think that you are doing something when in reality you are doing nothing.

You pity me in return, whom you regard as an unhappy creature, and very probably you are right. But I certainly know of you what you only think of me—there is the difference.

Yes. I am said to be mad and out of my wits just because I have these notions of myself and you; no other evidence is required.

Well, the tale of love was on this wise:—But perhaps I had better begin at the beginning, and endeavour to give you the exact words of Aristodemus:

To a banquet at Agathon’s. I refused his invitation to his sacrifice of victory yesterday, fearing a crowd. I promised that I would come today instead. Follow me and let us demolish the proverb: ‘To the feasts of inferior men the good unbidden go;’

Instead of which our proverb will be: ‘To the feasts of the good the good unbidden go;’

This change may be supported by the authority of Homer himself, who not only demolishes but literally outrages the proverb. For, after picturing Agamemnon as the most valiant of men, he makes Menelaus, who is but a fainthearted warrior, come unbidden (Iliad) to the banquet of Agamemnon, who is feasting and offering sacrifices, not the better to the worse, but the worse to the better.