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Fiction, © Copyright 2002, Jim Loy
I have a choice, it would seem, to either drink this cup of hemlock and die, or to not drink this cup of hemlock and live. If I choose to live, I have been offered exile from Athens. It may not be so tragic to be exiled from Athens, as I have been convicted of corrupting the youth of Athens by encouraging them to question authority and disrespect their elders, apparently a capital offense. I would not want criminals such as myself living in Athens.
My trial went very well, I thought. I pled guilty, you know, not by saying that I was guilty, but by questioning authority and by disrespecting my elders. One or two of my judges were somewhat older than I. I gave them no choice but to find me guilty. And they gave me this choice, death or exile.
My friends want me to choose exile. They tell me that there is no dishonor in preferring life over death. They tell me that Egypt is very tolerant of crimes such as mine. And I hear that Egypt is a land of wonders. Life in Egypt or death in Athens; it is difficult to decide.
My enemies also want me to choose exile, for then I can be exiled from their thoughts. And maybe they hope that I will corrupt the youth of some other city. Perhaps I should move to Sparta. I should be able to bring that city to its knees. But I suppose Sparta has even more painful ways of dealing with corrupters of youth.
What has death to recommend it? At first thought, nothing, nothing but momentary pain and then nonexistence. But is it really nonexistence? Surely we go on to live with the gods, maybe not in their actual houses, but perhaps a short distance away, down the slopes of Olympus. Death is not fearsome in any way. My friends concede that, but recommend that I postpone death and its benefits, nonetheless.
But what of my purpose in life? I really did corrupt youth, you know, for I think there is no greater calling than questioning authority, and a well-meaning disrespect for one's elders. If I choose exile, youth may forget to question authority and show disrespect. I may live longer than my ideals. And I would consider that a great tragedy.
And there is the matter of immortality. I know it is vain to want to live on in the hearts and minds of men and women. But it is a noble vanity, isn't it? And there is no easier way to achieve that immortality than martyrdom. A martyr is remembered better any king and most mighty heroes. Martyrdom is a greater immortality than living a ways down the slope of Olympus, which I will do eventually anyway. If you die for your ideals, those ideals will live forever, or at least for a very long time, or at least for a while.
And so I choose the hemlock. Hm, rather bitter. Better drink it all down. It doesn't seem to be causing my body any, ouch, distress. Hm, I feel something happening, a cramping in my stomach. Or do I merely imagine it? I don't think I feel very well. I must lie down. I don't think I can feel my legs. I was wrong; I can feel my legs easily. Am I hallucinating? Or do I just imagine that I am hallucinating? Ow, there is that stomach pain again. My choice was not a very difficult one, by the way. Did I already tell you that? My friends are here, you know. Plato is looking very unhappy; he thinks he is losing his best friend. One of my friends, I forget his name, is crying. I was about to say something important, but I cannot remember what it was. Oh well, I will think of it later.