The Concept of Irony E-Book

Sóren Kierkegaard

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 410

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The Concept of Irony, with Constant Reference to Socrates is an in-depth investigation into the nature of irony, starting from the Socratic example to critique its superficial or purely literary interpretation. Kierkegaard proposes that Socratic irony was an existential stance that challenged conventions, opening space for authentic reflection and self-knowledge. By analyzing irony in its historical, philosophical, and existential aspects, Kierkegaard outlines the boundaries between irony as a figure of speech and irony as an attitude towards life. His critique of the German Romantics highlights his rejection of empty abstractions and his commitment to lived reality. Since its publication, The Concept of Irony has been recognized as one of the most important works on the theme, influencing not only philosophy but also literary and theological studies. The enduring relevance of this work lies in its ability to provoke a radical reevaluation of the role of irony in intellectual life and existence. By investigating irony as a path to spiritual freedom, Kierkegaard invites readers to reconsider philosophy as an activity of self-knowledge and transformation, inaugurating a new way of understanding the individual and their relationship with the world.

Leseprobe

Soren Kiergaard

THE CONCEPT OF IRONY

Original Title:

“Om Begrebet Ironi med stadigt Hensyn til Socrates”

Contents

PRESENTATION

THE CONCEPT OF IRONY

Part One THE POSITION OF SOCRATES VIEWED AS IRONY

I – The View Made Possible

II – The Actualization of the View

Ill – The View Made Necessary

Part Two: THE CONCEPT OF IRONY

PRESENTATION

Soren Aabye Kierkegaard

1819-1855

Soren Aabye Kierkegaard was a Danish philosopher, theologian, and writer, widely recognized as the father of modern existentialism. Born in Copenhagen, Denmark, Kierkegaard is known for his profound reflections on existence, subjectivity, faith, and irony, as well as for his enduring influence on philosophy, Protestant theology, and literature. His work The Concept of Irony marks the beginning of his philosophical production and is considered fundamental for understanding his intellectual trajectory.

Life and Education

Søren Kierkegaard was born into a wealthy and religious family, the son of Michael Pedersen Kierkegaard, a successful and deeply pious merchant. He studied philosophy and theology at the University of Copenhagen, where he stood out as a highly reflective and critical student. During his studies, he became interested in classical philosophy, especially Socrates, who greatly influenced his first work. In 1841, he defended his doctoral thesis entitled The Concept of Irony with Constant Reference to Socrates, which investigated the role of irony in Socratic philosophy and in modern reflection.

Career and Contributions

The Concept of Irony represents the initial phase of Kierkegaard’s thought, being an academic work that examines the concept of irony in Socrates, particularly in contrast to how Plato, Xenophon, and Aristophanes treated the theme, as well as the German Romantic approach. Kierkegaard argues that Socratic irony was an existential expression, a form of spiritual freedom in the face of Athenian society. For him, irony was not merely a rhetorical device but a way of life that revealed the essential negativity inherent in authentic philosophical thought.

In this work, Kierkegaard also criticizes the German Romantic conception of irony, represented by authors such as Fichte and Schlegel, for turning irony into an empty abstraction disconnected from lived reality. The Concept of Irony anticipates central themes he would later develop in his subsequent works, such as the tension between interiority and exteriority, subjectivity and objectivity, as well as the importance of the individual in the search for meaning.

Impact and Legacy

Although less known than his later works, The Concept of Irony is essential for understanding the development of Kierkegaard’s thought. It lays the foundations for his critique of speculative philosophy and his commitment to subjectivity as the center of existence. His analysis of Socrates inaugurates the existential perspective that would mark Either/Or, Fear and Trembling, The Sickness Unto Death, among other writings.

Kierkegaard’s impact extended widely, influencing thinkers such as Friedrich Nietzsche, Martin Heidegger, Karl Jaspers, and Jean-Paul Sartre, as well as theologians like Karl Barth and Paul Tillich. His insistence on subjectivity, individual choice, and existential responsibility transformed conceptions of ethics, religion, psychology, and literature.

His style, combining philosophical rigor with literary writing and creative pseudonyms, reflects his belief that philosophy should speak directly to individual existence and not merely produce abstract conceptual systems.

Søren Kierkegaard died in 1855, at the age of 42, in Copenhagen, due to complications from his frail health since youth. Although he published most of his works during his lifetime, it was only in the twentieth century that his philosophy gained universal recognition, consolidating him as one of the greatest modern thinkers.

Today, Kierkegaard is considered essential for philosophy, theology, and literary studies. His analysis of irony not only renewed the understanding of Socrates but also offered the world a profound reflection on freedom, authenticity, and the meaning of existence.

About the Work

The Concept of Irony, with Constant Reference to Socrates is an in-depth investigation into the nature of irony, starting from the Socratic example to critique its superficial or purely literary interpretation. Kierkegaard proposes that Socratic irony was an existential stance that challenged conventions, opening space for authentic reflection and self-knowledge.

By analyzing irony in its historical, philosophical, and existential aspects, Kierkegaard outlines the boundaries between irony as a figure of speech and irony as an attitude towards life. His critique of the German Romantics highlights his rejection of empty abstractions and his commitment to lived reality.

Since its publication, The Concept of Irony has been recognized as one of the most important works on the theme, influencing not only philosophy but also literary and theological studies.

The enduring relevance of this work lies in its ability to provoke a radical reevaluation of the role of irony in intellectual life and existence. By investigating irony as a path to spiritual freedom, Kierkegaard invites readers to reconsider philosophy as an activity of self-knowledge and transformation, inaugurating a new way of understanding the individual and their relationship with the world.

THE CONCEPT OF IRONY

Part One THE POSITION OF SOCRATES VIEWED AS IRONY

INTRODUCTION

If there is anything to praise in the magnificent manifestation of modern philosophical endeavor, it is certainly the power of genius with which it seizes and holds on to the phenomenon. If it is fitting for the phenomenon, which is always of the feminine gender, to surrender to the stronger on account of its nature, then one can also demand of the philosophical knight deferential propriety and profound enthusiasm. Instead, one often hears the jingling of spurs and the voice of the master. The observer should be an amorist and not be indifferent to any feature or factor. On the other hand, he must have a sense of his own predominance, using it only to help the phenomenon reveal itself fully. Therefore, even if the observer brings a concept, it is important that the phenomenon remain inviolate and that the concept be seen as arising from the phenomenon.

Before proceeding to an exposition of the concept of irony, it is necessary to ensure that I have a reliable and authentic view of Socrates' historical and actual phenomenological existence with respect to the question of its possible relation to the transformed view that was his fate through the eyes of his enthusiastic or envious contemporaries. This is necessary because the concept of irony entered the world through Socrates. Like individuals, concepts have their history and are unable to resist the dominion of time. Nevertheless, they harbor a kind of homesickness for the place of their birth. Indeed, philosophy cannot disregard the recent history of this concept any more than it can stop with its earliest history, no matter how copious and interesting it may be. Philosophy continually demands more: the eternal and the true. Compared to these, even the most sterling existence is just a fortunate moment. Overall, philosophy's relationship to history is like that of a confessor to a penitent. Like the confessor, philosophy should have a sensitive ear for the penitent's secrets. However, after examining the sequence of confessed sins, philosophy can reveal them to the penitent as something else. Just as an individual making a confession can chronologically recount the incidents of his life and relate them entertainingly, yet still not comprehend them, Similarly, history can recount the eventful life of the human race with pathos and in a loud voice, yet it must leave it to philosophy to explain it. History then relishes the delightful surprise that, at first, it is almost unwilling to acknowledge the copy provided by philosophy. Gradually, however, as it familiarizes itself with this philosophical view, it eventually regards this as the actual truth and the other as apparent truth.

Thus, these two elements constitute the essential relationship between history and philosophy. Both ought to have their rights, so that the phenomenon is not intimidated or discouraged by philosophy's superiority and philosophy is not infatuated by the charms of the particular or distracted by its superabundance. The same holds true for the concept of irony. Philosophy should not dwell on one particular aspect of its phenomenological existence, especially its appearance, but rather, see the truth of the concept within the phenomenological.

Of course, it is common knowledge that tradition has linked the word "irony" to Socrates, but this does not mean that everyone knows what irony is. Moreover, even if someone gained an intimate understanding of Socrates' life and way of living, they still would not have a complete grasp of irony. We are not suggesting a distrust of historical existence, nor are we equating becoming with a falling away from the idea. Rather, we are acknowledging that it is the unfolding of the idea. This, to reiterate, is far from our intention. However, one cannot assume that a specific element of existence would be adequate to the idea. In other words, just as it has been correctly pointed out that nature is unable to adhere to the concept  —  partly because each particular phenomenon contains only one element and partly because the sum total of natural existence is always imperfect, engendering longing rather than gratification  —  something similar can be said of history. Every single fact evolves, but only as an element. The sum total of historical existence is not an adequate medium for the idea because the temporality and fragmentariness of the idea (just as the spatiality of nature) long for the backward-looking repulse emanating from the consciousness.

This concludes our discussion of the difficulty inherent in any philosophical conception of history and the care that ought to be taken. Special situations, however, may present new difficulties, especially in the present inquiry. For example, Socrates prized standing still and contemplating  —  in other words, silence  —  above all else. In terms of world history, this was his whole life.

He left nothing by which a later age could judge him. Indeed, even if I were his contemporary, he would be difficult to comprehend. In other words, he belonged to the breed of persons for whom the outer is not the stopping point. The outside continually pointed to something else and opposite. He was not a philosopher who delivered opinions in a way that made the lecture itself the presence of the idea. What Socrates said meant something different.²⁰ The outside was not at all in harmony with the inside²¹ but rather its opposite. Only under this angle of refraction²² can he be understood. Therefore, the question of Socrates's view is quite different from that of most other people. Because of this, Socrates can be understood only through a combined reckoning. However, since we are separated from him by centuries and even his own age could not comprehend him, it is difficult for us to reconstruct his existence. We must strive to understand a complicated view through a new combined reckoning. If we say that irony constituted the substance of his existence — this is a contradiction, but supposed to be so — and further postulate that irony is a negative concept, it is easy to see how difficult it is to form an image of him. Indeed, it seems impossible, or at least as difficult as picturing a nisse with an invisibility cap.

I – The View Made Possible

We will now summarize the views of Socrates as provided by his contemporaries. In this respect, three individuals command our attention: Xenophon, Plato, and Aristophanes. I cannot agree with Baur's assertion that Xenophon should be regarded as highly as Plato. Xenophon focused on Socrates' immediate impact and thus misunderstood him in many ways. In contrast, Plato and Aristophanes penetrated his tough exterior to grasp the infinity that transcends the multifarious events of his life. Thus, it can be said of Socrates that, just as he walked through life continually between caricature and ideal, so too does he continue to do so after his death. Regarding the relationship between Xenophon and Plato, Baur is correct on page 123 when he says:

Yet, we instantly encounter a difference between the two that, in many respects, may be likened to the well-known relationship between the Synoptic Gospels and the Gospel of John. Just as the Synoptic Gospels primarily present the external aspect of Christ's appearance, connected with the Jewish idea of the Messiah, the Gospel of John captures his higher nature and divine essence. Similarly, the Platonic Socrates has an ideal significance far greater than the Xenophontic Socrates, who is confined to the practical level of life." Baur’s comment is striking and to the point when one remembers that Xenophon’s view of Socrates differs from the Synoptic Gospels in that the latter merely recorded an accurate, immediate picture of Christ’s existence. This did not signify anything other than what it was. Matthew seems to have an apologetic objective. At that time, the question was to reconcile Christ’s life with the idea of the Messiah. Xenophon, on the other hand, deals with a man whose existence means more than meets the eye at first glance. In defending him, Xenophon appeals to a subtle, honorable age. The comment about Plato’s relationship with John is also correct if one holds fast to the idea that John immediately perceived everything in Christ that John presents objectively by remaining silent. John's eyes were opened to Christ's immediate divinity. In contrast, Plato creates his Socrates through poetic productivity because Socrates was negative in his immediate existence.

First, an exposition of each separately.

XENOPHON

First, recall that Xenophon's objective was to demonstrate the injustice of the Athenians' condemnation of Socrates to death. Indeed, Xenophon succeeded to such a degree that one would be inclined to believe his objective was to prove the Athenians' condemnation of Socrates was foolish or erroneous. Xenophon defends Socrates so effectively that he renders him not only innocent but also altogether innocuous. We wonder what kind of daimon bewitched the Athenians, causing them to see more in Socrates than in any other good-natured, garrulous, droll character who neither does good nor evil, stands in anyone’s way, nor is fervently well-intentioned toward the whole world, provided it will listen to his slipshod nonsense. What preestablished harmony in lunacy and higher unity in madness is inherent in Plato's and the Athenians' uniting to kill and immortalize such a well-meaning bourgeois? This would be an incomparable irony upon the world. Plato and the Athenians must have felt almost as uncomfortable with Xenophon’s irenic intervention as one does in an argument when, just as the disputed point, precisely by being brought to a head, becomes interesting, a helpful third party takes it upon himself to reconcile the disputants and reduce the matter to triviality. By eliminating all that was dangerous in Socrates, Xenophon reduced him to absurdity, probably in recompense for Socrates having done this so often to others.

What makes it even more difficult to understand Socrates's personality from Xenophon's account is the complete absence of context. The foundation on which the conversation is based is as invisible and shallow as a straight line and as monotonous as the single-color background children and Nuremberg painters typically use in their pictures. Yet situation was immensely important to Socrates’ personality. It must have revealed itself through a secret presence in, and a mystical presence above, the colorful variety of exuberant Athenian life. This presence must have been explained by a duality of existence, much like the flying fish in relation to fish and birds. This emphasis on situation was especially significant to indicate that Socrates's true center was not a fixed point, but everywhere and nowhere. It accentuated the Socratic sensibility that immediately detected the presence of an idea upon the most subtle and fragile contact, promptly feeling the corresponding electricity present in everything. It made the genuine Socratic method graphic, which found no phenomenon too humble a point of departure from which to work oneself up into the sphere of thought. This Socratic ability to begin anywhere was actualized in life, although it was most likely overlooked by the crowd. Their discussions often began and ended in a stagnant village pond, leaving the way they came upon a subject a riddle. Socrates had an unerring magnifying glass for which no subject was too compact to immediately discern the idea in it. He did so not gropingly, but with immediate sureness. Yet he also had a practiced eye for apparent foreshortening of perspective. Thus, he did not attract the subject by subreption, but rather kept the same ultimate prospect in sight. For the listener and observer, the prospect emerged step by step. One might wish that Xenophon had let us perceive this Socratic modest frugality, which formed such a sharp contrast to the Sophist’s empty noise and unsatiating gorging. What life would have come to the presentation if, amidst the bustling work of the artisans and the braying of the pack-asses, one had discerned the divine weave with which Socrates interwove the web of existence! If, amidst the boisterous noise of the marketplace, one had discerned the divine harmony that resonated throughout existence, one would have seen the conflict between Socrates and the most routine forms of earthly life. For Socrates, every single thing was a metaphorical and appropriate symbol of an idea. Xenophon lacks this importance of situation, although Plato has it, albeit purely poetically. Thus, Plato's work demonstrates precisely its own validity and Xenophon's lack.

However, just as Xenophon lacks an eye for situation, he also lacks an ear for rejoinder. The questions Socrates asks and the answers he gives are not incorrect; on the contrary, they are all too correct, all too stubborn, and all too tedious. With Socrates, a rejoinder was not an immediate unity with what had been said. It was not a flowing out, but a continual flowing back. What one misses in Xenophon is an ear for the infinitely resonating, reverse echoing of the rejoinder in the personality. As a rule, the rejoinder is a straightforward transmission of thought by way of sound.

The more Socrates delved into existence, the more each remark inevitably gravitated toward an ironic totality — a spiritual condition that was invisible, indivisible, and infinitely bottomless. Xenophon had no intimation of this secret whatsoever. Allow me to illustrate what I mean with an example. There is a work representing Napoleon’s grave. Two tall trees shade the grave. There is nothing else to see, and the unsophisticated observer sees nothing else. Between the two trees, there is an empty space. As the eye follows the outline, Napoleon suddenly emerges from this nothingness. Once he appears, it is impossible to make him disappear again. Once the eye has seen him, he remains visible with an almost alarming necessity. The same is true of Socrates’ rejoinders. One hears his words the same way one sees the trees: his words mean what they say, just as the trees are trees. Not one syllable hints at another interpretation, and not one line suggests Napoleon. Yet this empty space, this nothing, hides the most important thing. Just as in nature, there are sites so remarkably arranged that those standing closest to the speaker cannot hear him, while only those standing at a specific spot, often at some distance, can. So it is with Socrates's rejoinders, if we bear in mind that, at this point, to hear is to understand, and not to hear is to misunderstand. I must provisionally point out these two fundamental defects in Xenophon. Situation and rejoinder are the combination that makes up the ganglionic and cerebral system of a personality.

We will now proceed to a collection of observations found in Xenophon and attributed to Socrates. Generally speaking, these observations are so scrubby and stunted that it is difficult, if not impossible, to take in the whole lot at one glance. Only rarely does an observation rise to poetic or philosophic thought. Despite the beautiful language, the exposition has the same flavor as the profundities of our Folkeblad or the nature-worshiping, normal-school student parish clerk caterwauling.

Now, proceeding to the Socratic observations preserved by Xenophon, we will attempt to trace their possible family resemblance, even though they often seem to be children of different marriages.

We trust that readers will agree that the empirical determinant is the polygon⁴⁸, the intuition is the circle, and the qualitative difference between them will persist. In Xenophon, wandering observation always wanders about in the polygon, often presumably a victim of its own deception. When it has a long way to go, it believes it has found true infinity. Like an insect crawling along a polygon, it falls off because what appeared to be infinity was only an angle.

One of the points of departure for Socratic teaching in Xenophon is the useful. However, the useful is merely the polygon, corresponding to the interior infinity of the good, which emanates from and returns to itself. It is indifferent to none of its elements, moving in all of them, totally in all of them, and totally in each one. The useful has an infinite dialectic, as well as an infinite spurious dialectic. In other words, the useful is the external dialectic of the good — its negation — which, when detached, becomes merely a kingdom of shadows. In this kingdom, nothing endures; everything formless and shapeless liquifies and volatilizes according to the observer's superficial and capricious glance. In this kingdom, each individual existence is merely an infinitely divisible fractional existence in a perpetual calculation. The useful mediates everything for its own ends, even the useless. This is because nothing is absolutely useful nor absolutely useless. The absolutely useful is merely a fleeting element in the fitful changes of life. This universal view of the useful is discussed in the dialogue with Aristippus (Mem., III, 8). While Plato's Socrates takes his subject from the accidental concretion in which his associates see it and leads it to the abstract, Xenophon's Socrates demolishes Aristippus's weak attempt to approach the idea. There is no need to elaborate further on this dialogue since Socrates's initial stance reveals both the skilled fencer and the rules for the entire investigation. When asked by Aristippus if he knew anything good, Socrates answers (para. 3): "Are you asking if I know of anything good for a fever?" whereby the discursive raisonnement (reasoning, line of argument) is immediately suggested. The entire dialogue then continues along this line of reasoning with an imperturbability that does not circumvent the apparent paradox (para. 6). Is a dung-basket beautiful then? Of course, and a golden shield is ugly if one is well-made for its intended purpose and the other is not." I have quoted this dialogue only as an example, so I must take my stand on its total impact. However, I will also cite it as an example instar omnium (typical of all), and call to mind the difficulty in Xenophon's introduction of this dialogue. He implies that it was a captious question on Aristippus's part to embarrass Socrates with the infinite dialectic implicit in the good when understood as the useful. Xenophon suggests that Socrates saw through this trick. Thus, Xenophon may have preserved the entire dialogue as an example of Socrates's gymnastics. It might seem that there was a dormant irony in Socrates's whole demeanor. By seemingly entering unsuspectingly into the trap that Aristippus had set for him, Socrates demolished his cunning plot and made Aristippus advance the argument that Socrates would have stressed, against his will. However, anyone familiar with Xenophon would find this highly improbable. For added reassurance, Xenophon provides an alternative reason for Socrates' behavior: "to benefit those around him." According to Xenophon, it is obvious from this that Socrates is in dead earnest when he takes the inspiring infinity of the inquiry back down to the underlying spurious infinity of the empirical.

The commensurable is Socrates' proper arena, and his activity mostly consists of encircling all of humanity's thinking and doing with an insurmountable wall that shuts out all traffic with the world of ideas. Study of the sciences must not transgress this boundary either (Mem., IV, 7). One should learn enough geometry to ensure one's fields are correctly measured. Further study of astronomy is discouraged, and he advises against Anaxagoras's speculations. In short, every science is reduced to use by everyone.

The same thing happens in every other sphere. His observations of nature are altogether run-of-the-mill and finite teleology in a variety of patterns. His conception of friendship cannot be accused of fanaticism. He believes that no horse or donkey has as much value as a friend. However, it does not necessarily follow that several horses and donkeys are not worth as much as one friend. This is the same Socrates whom Plato describes as having an interior infinity in relation to friends using the phrase "[to love young boys according to the love of wisdom]." In the Symposium, Socrates says that the only thing he understands is "[love]." Then, in Mem., Ill, 11, when we hear Socrates talking with the dubious Theodote and bragging about the love potions he uses to attract young men, we are disgusted with him as we would be with an aged coquette who believes she can still captivate. Indeed, we are even more disgusted because we cannot fathom Socrates ever being capable of it. We find the same pedestrianism with respect to life's pleasures, whereas Plato credits Socrates with divine health, which makes immoderation impossible for him yet bestows the fullest measure of pleasure upon him. In the Symposium, when Alcibiades tells us that he has never seen Socrates drunk, he is suggesting that it was impossible for Socrates to get drunk. In the Symposium, we see Socrates drink everybody else under the table.⁵⁹ Xenophon would have explained this by saying that Socrates never transgressed the quantum satis (sufficient amount) of an experientially tried-and-true rule. Thus, Xenophon portrays Socrates as a graceless composite of cynicism and bourgeois philistinism,[self-control], but rather, a graceless composite of cynicism and bourgeois philistinism. His view of death is just as deficient and narrow-minded. This is evident in Xenophon, where Socrates perceives joy in his imminent death as being freed from the frailties and burdens of old age (Mem., IV, 8, 8). In the Apology, we find more poetic features, such as in paragraph 3.60, where Socrates suggests that he has been preparing his defense his whole life. However, it should be noted that even when Socrates declares that he will not defend himself, Xenophon does not envision him as having a divine magnitude, such as Christ's silence before his accusers. Instead, Xenophon sees Socrates' actions as being motivated by his daimon's concern for his posthumous reputation, which may be beyond Socrates' understanding. When Xenophon informs us that Alcibiades was quite worthy as long as he fraternized with Socrates but became dissolute later (Mem., I, 2, 24), we are more astonished that he remained in Socrates’ company so long than that he became dissolute later. After an intellectual Christiansfeld⁶¹ like that, after a reform school of restrictive mediocrity such as that, he might indeed become ravenous for pleasure. Consequently, Xenophon's view of Socrates is a caricaturing shadow that corresponds to the idea in its manifold manifestation. Instead of the good, we have the useful; instead of the beautiful, the utilitarian; instead of the true, the established; instead of the sympathetic, the lucrative; instead of harmonious unity, the pedestrian.

Finally, with respect to irony, there is not one trace of it in Xenophon’s Socrates. Instead, sophistry makes its appearance. However, sophistry is the eternal duel between knowledge and the phenomenon in the service of egotism. This duel can never end in a decisive victory because the phenomenon rises as quickly as it falls. Only knowledge can rescue the phenomenon from death and bring it to life. Therefore, sophistry is saddled with endless phenomena. The Chladni figure corresponding to this monstrous polygon is the quiet interior infinity of life, which eternally corresponds to this noise and uproar. This infinity can be either the system or irony as "infinite, absolute negativity," with the difference that the system is infinitely eloquent and irony is infinitely silent. Thus, we see that Xenophon has also come to the opposite of the Platonic view here.

There are enough sophisms in Memorabilia, but they lack a point (for example, the short sentences in Mem., Ill, 13) and the infinite elasticity of irony, the secret trapdoor through which one suddenly plunges into irony's infinite nothing — not one thousand fathoms, as the schoolmaster did in Alferne. On the other hand, his sophisms fail to approximate a view as well. For example, consider Mem., IV, 4, the dialogue with Hippias. Here, too, it is apparent that Socrates carries a question only so far, without letting it answer itself with an opinion. In other words, after defining justice as identical with the lawful and quieting doubt about the lawful with the observation that the law of God is recognized by all at all times, he stops with specific examples of the peculiar consistency of sin. Similarly, in the example of ingratitude quoted in paragraph 24, the idea must be traced back to the preestablished harmony with which existence is imbued. However, the observation stops at the surface level, noting that the ungrateful person loses friends, etc., and does not rise to a higher order of things where there is no change or shadow of variation and where reprisal is unstoppable. As long as we only take the external into account, it is conceivable that hobbling justice will not catch up with the ungrateful person.

This completes my view of Socrates as he appears in Xenophon's writings. In conclusion, I ask my readers who were bored not to blame me alone.

PLATO

In the previous pages, readers have undoubtedly caught many a glimpse of the world that will now be the object of our inquiry. We do not deny it, but it is due in part to the eye, which, by staring long at one color, involuntarily forms its opposite; in part to my own, perhaps somewhat youthful, infatuation with Plato; and in part to Xenophon himself. Were it not for the chinks in his presentation, Xenophon might have been a second-rate fellow. However, Plato fits and fills these chinks so well that, at a distance and as if through a lattice, one catches sight of Plato in Xenophon. To be honest, this was my longing, but it certainly did not diminish while reading Xenophon. Dear critic, allow me just one sentence, one guileless parenthesis, to express my gratitude for the relief I found in reading Plato. Where else can balm be found if not in the infinite tranquility with which the idea unfurls soundlessly, solemnly, gently, yet powerfully in the rhythm of the dialogue? It unfurls as if there were nothing else in the world, as if every step were deliberated and repeated slowly and solemnly because the ideas themselves seem to know that there is time and an arena for all of them. When has repose been more needed in the world than in our day? When ideas accelerate one another with insane haste and merely hint at their existence deep down in the soul, like a bubble on the surface of the sea? When ideas never unfold but are devoured in their delicate sprouts, merely thrust their heads into existence, and then promptly die of grief? Like the child Abraham a Santa Clara tells of who, in the moment of its birth, became so afraid of the world that it rushed back into its mother’s womb?

INTRODUCTORY OBSERVATIONS

Just as a system appears to have the possibility of making every element a point of departure, but this possibility never becomes an actuality because every element is essentially determined ad intra (inwardly), held and carried by the system’s own conscience*, so every view — and above all, a religious view — actually has a specific external point of departure: something positive which, in relation to the particular, manifests itself as a higher causality; and, in relation to the derived, as the Ursprungliche (original). The individual continually seeks to move from and through the account back to the contemplative repose that only personality provides and the confident devotion that is the cryptic reciprocity of personality and sympathy. Presumably, I need only remind the reader that such a primitive personality, with its independent status in contrast to the conjoined status of the race, is given only once. However, we must not disregard the fact that history’s repeated attempts at this infinite leap also have their truth. Plato saw such a personality in Socrates, an immediate conduit of the divine. The essential impact of such an original personality on the race and its relation to the race is partly fulfilled in the communication of life and spirit (when Christ breathes on the disciples and says, "Receive the Holy Spirit"). Receive the Holy Spirit," and partly in the release of the individual's locked-up powers (when Christ says to the paralytic, "Stand up and walk"). More accurately, it fulfills itself through both simultaneously. Consequently, the analogy can be positive, stimulating, or negative, aiding the individual who is diffused to achieve original resilience. It allows the individual, reinvigorated in this way, to come to himself protectively and watchfully. In both cases, the relationship with such a personality is not merely inciting, but epoch-making for the second person, a spring of eternal life that is inexplicable to the individual. We may say that either the word creates or silence begets and gives birth to the individual. The reason I have cited these two analogies may not be obvious to the reader at this moment, but I trust that it will become clear later. It cannot be denied that Plato saw the unity of these two elements in Socrates, or more accurately, illustrated their unity in Socrates. Everyone knows that a second view accentuates the other side of the analogy by perceiving a metaphor of Socrates’s delivering activity in the fact that his mother, Phaenarete, was a midwife.

But what is the relationship between the Platonic and the actual? Socrates? This question cannot be dismissed. Socrates permeates the entire fertile territory of Platonic philosophy; he is present throughout Plato's works. I will not examine more closely how much this grateful pupil believed he owed Socrates, nor how much this adoring youth wished to owe him with youthful ardor  —  because he cherished nothing unless it came from Socrates, or unless he was at least co-owner and co-knower of these love secrets of knowledge. For the kindred spirit, there is a self-expression that is not constricted by the limitations of the other, but rather, it is expanded and endowed with a preternatural magnitude in the other's conception. This is because thought does not understand or love itself until it is caught up in the other's being. For such harmonious beings, it becomes not only unimportant, but also impossible, to determine what belongs to each one because the one owns nothing, yet owns everything, in the other. Just as Socrates beautifully connects people to the divine by showing that all knowledge is recollection, Plato feels so inseparably fused with Socrates that all knowledge is co-knowledge with him. After Socrates's death, the need to hear his words from Socrates's mouth must have become even more acute. For Plato, Socrates had to rise transfigured from his grave to an even more intimately shared life. The confusion between "mine" and "thine" must have increased, since, however much Plato humbled himself and felt inferior about adding anything to Socrates's image, it was impossible not to mistake the poetic image for the historical actuality.

After this general observation, I believe it is appropriate to point out that even the ancients were aware of the relationship between the actual Socrates and Plato’s poetic version. The division of the dialogues found in Diogenes Laertius into dramatic narrative is one way of answering this question. Consequently, the narrative dialogues are considered to be the closest to the historical Socrates. This group includes the Symposium and the Phaedo. Even their form reminds us of their significance in this respect. As Baur correctly observes in the aforementioned work, in dialogues of the second kind, the diegetic, the dialogue itself is conveyed only through a narrative. For instance, in the banquet scene in the Symposium, Plato places the entire story in the mouth of Apollodorus. In the Phaedo, he has Phaedo relate to Echecrates and a few others what Socrates had said to his friends during his last day and all that had occurred. Thus, these dialogues automatically seem to suggest a more intrinsic historical character by their external form."

I am unable to determine whether this historical element in the form is merely a matter of the scenic setting and a contrast to dramatic dialogues due to the dramatic element (what Baur calls die äußere Handlung, or external action), which is Plato’s free poetizing, or if it is due to the fact that the contents of diegetic dialogues are mainly Socrates’s own thoughts and the contents of dramatic dialogues are Plato’s views reflected into Socrates. However, I must once again endorse and copy what Baur correctly said: "But even though Plato, with attention to this historical basis, gave these dialogues precisely this form, nothing can be concluded from this with regard to the historical character of the whole."

Thus, we come to an important problem in Platonic philosophy: what belongs to Socrates and what to Plato. This is a question we cannot dismiss, however painful.

It is difficult to separate them, as they are closely united. I must lament that Baur left me in the lurch. After showing the necessity of Plato espousing the folk consciousness and Socrates' personality as a positive point of departure, he ends the inquiry by declaring that method remains Socrates' essential significance. However, since the absolute, necessary relationship between method and idea is still not evident in Plato, the question inevitably arises: What was Socrates's relationship to Plato's method?

Therefore, it is important to consider method in Plato. Surely, everyone believes that dialogue did not become the dominant form in Plato by accident, but rather, there is a deeper reason. I cannot elaborate here on the relation between the dichotomy found in Plato and the trichotomy the modern, stricter speculative development insists upon. This will be touched upon in the discussion of the relationship between dialectical and mythical elements, a dichotomy found in Plato's earlier dialogues. I cannot take the time to show the necessity of a dichotomy for the Greeks and thereby acknowledge its relative validity, nor can I show its relation to the absolute method. The Socratic-disciplined dialogue presumably attempts to allow thought to emerge in all its objectivity. However, the unity of successive conception and intuition, which only the dialectical trilogy makes possible, is lacking. The method essentially simplifies life's multifarious complexities by reducing them to increasingly abstract abbreviations. Since Socrates begins most of his inquiries on the periphery of life's motley variety, which is endlessly interwoven, an exceptional degree of art is needed to unravel life's complications, as well as those of the Sophists. This art is the well-known Socratic art of asking questions, or the art of conversing, which is necessary for Platonic philosophy. This is why Socrates so frequently and with such profound irony points out to the Sophists that they know how to speak, but not how to converse.⁸⁸ By contrasting speaking and conversing, Socrates specifically censures the self-seeking element in eloquence that craves what could be called abstract beauty versus thoughtless verses and sonorous trifles. This element sees expression itself, dissociated from its relation to an idea, as an object of veneration. Conversely, conversing forces the speaker to stick to the subject  —  that is, when the conversation is not regarded as identical to eccentric antiphonal singing, where everyone sings their part without regard for the others, resembling conversation only in that they do not all talk at once. Conversation's concentricity is expressed more definitively when conceived in the form of question and answer. Therefore, the meaning of asking questions must be examined more closely.

Asking questions denotes the individual’s relation to the subject and to another individual. In the first case, it is an effort to free the phenomenon from any finite relation to the individual. When I ask a question, I acknowledge my ignorance and my wholly receptive relationship to the subject. In this sense, Socratic questioning is analogous to the negative in Hegel, though remotely. According to Hegel, the negative is a necessary element of thought itself and a determining factor inwardly. In Plato, however, the negative is made visible and placed outside the object in the inquiring individual. According to Hegel, thought does not need to be questioned from the outside because it asks and answers itself. In contrast, according to Plato, thought only answers when questioned. Whether or not it is questioned is accidental, as is the manner in which it is questioned. Although this questioning method is supposed to free thought from any purely subjective influence, it nevertheless succumbs entirely to subjectivity as long as the questioner is seen only in an accidental relationship to the subject. However, if asking questions is seen as a necessary relation to its subject, then asking becomes identical with answering. Just as Lessing wittily distinguished between replying to a question and answering it, there is a similar distinction fundamental to the difference we propose: the distinction between asking and interrogating. Hence, the true relationship is between interrogating and answering. Admittedly, there is always something subjective about it. However, if we keep in mind that the reason an individual asks a question is not due to his or her arbitrariness, but rather due to the subject and the necessary connection between them, then this subjectivity will also disappear.

In the second case, the subject is an account to be settled between the one asking and the one answering. Thought development fulfills itself in this rocking gait, this limping to both sides. This is also a kind of dialectical movement, but it is not truly dialectical because the element of unity is lacking. Every answer contains the possibility of a new question. This understanding of questioning and answering is identical to the meaning of dialogue. Dialogue is a symbol of the Greek conception of the relationship between deity and man. There is certainly a reciprocal relationship, but no element of unity (neither immediate nor higher). Genuine duality is also lacking because the relationship is merely reciprocal. It is like a reciprocal pronoun that lacks the nominative case and only has dependent cases in the dual and plural forms.

Assuming what has been said so far is accurate, the intention in asking questions can be twofold. One can ask with the intention of receiving an answer containing the desired fullness. In this case, the more one asks, the deeper and more significant the answer becomes. Alternatively, one can ask without any interest in the answer, except to extract the apparent content through the question, thereby leaving an emptiness behind. The first method presupposes a plenitude, and the second presupposes an emptiness. The first is the speculative method, and the second is the ironic method. Socrates in particular practiced the latter method. When the Sophists befogged themselves in their own eloquence, Socrates took pleasure in introducing a slight draft that quickly expelled all these poetic vapors in the most polite and modest way. These two methods strongly resemble each other, especially in their focus on the element. Indeed, this similarity is further strengthened by the fact that Socrates' questioning was essentially aimed at the knowing subject to show that, ultimately, they knew nothing. Any philosophy that begins with a presupposition naturally ends with it. Socrates' philosophy began with the presupposition that he knew nothing and ended with the presupposition that human beings know nothing. Platonic philosophy began with the unity of thought and being and remained there. The direction that manifested itself in idealism as reflection upon reflection manifested itself in Socrates's questioning. Asking questions — that is, the abstract relationship between the subjective and the objective — ultimately became the primary issue for him.

I will explain what I mean by examining one of Socrates' statements in Plato's Apology more closely. Overall, the Apology splendidly conveys Socrates' ironic activity. When Meletus first accuses Socrates of blasphemy, Socrates mentions the well-known declaration by the oracle at Delphi that he is the wisest man. He recounts how this statement perplexed him, and how he tried to test the oracle's truthfulness by consulting one of the most esteemed wise men. This wise man was a statesman, but Socrates soon discovered that he was ignorant. He then went to a poet but discovered that he did not know anything about his own poems when he asked him for a detailed explanation of them. (On this occasion, Socrates suggests that poems must be regarded as divine inspirations, and that poets understand them no more than prophets and soothsayers understand the beautiful things they say.) Finally, he went to the artisans. They certainly knew something, but, trapped in the illusion that they understood other things as well, they fell into the same category as the others. In short, Socrates explains how he explored the entire realm of knowledge and found it to be surrounded by an ocean of illusory knowledge. We see how thoroughly he understood his task and how he conducted the test with every intelligent power. He himself found this confirmed by the fact that his three accusers represented the three great powers whose nothingness he had already disclosed in their personal manifestations: Meletus represented the poets, Anytus represented the artisans and statesmen, and Lycon represented the orators. He considers it his divine calling to walk among his countrymen and foreigners. When he hears of someone who is supposedly wise, he can come to the deity's aid and show that the man is not wise. For this reason, he had no time to accomplish anything significant in public or private affairs. Because of this divine service, he is impoverished in every respect.

But I return to that passage in the Apology. Socrates expresses his joy at the prospect of meeting the great men who lived before him after death. He continues, "Above all, I would like to spend my time there, as here, examining and searching people’s minds to find out who is truly wise and who merely thinks he is." Here, we reach a pivotal moment. Socrates' zeal for spying on people is undeniable, and it is almost ridiculous. Even after death, he cannot find peace. Indeed, who can keep from smiling when imagining the somber shades of the underworld with Socrates in the middle, tirelessly interrogating them and showing them their ignorance? Admittedly, it might seem that Socrates himself thought some of them were wise. After all, he says he will test which of them is wise and which imagines himself to be wise but is not. However, it must be remembered that this wisdom is no more than the described ignorance, and he declares that he will test them there just as he tests those here. This suggests that the rigorous examination will not fare better with the great men in the afterlife than it did with the great men in life. Here, then, we see irony in all its divine infinitude, which allows nothing to endure. Like Samson, Socrates grasps the pillars of knowledge and brings everything down into the abyss of ignorance. Everyone will certainly admit that this is genuinely Socratic, but never Platonic. I have arrived at one of the dualities in Plato, which I will pursue to find the unalloyed Socratic.

The previously mentioned distinction between asking questions to find content versus to humiliate now appears in a more definitive form as the relationship between the abstract and the mythical in Plato’s dialogues.

To clarify, I will examine a few dialogues in greater detail, showing how the abstract can lead to irony and how the mythical can lead to more extensive speculation.

In the Earliest Platonic Dialogues, the

Abstract Terminates in Irony

SYMPOSIUM

The Symposium and Phaedo dialogues are turning points in Socrates's portrayal, as one presents him in life and the other in death. The two types of presentation, the dialectical and the mythical, are both present in the Symposium. The mythical account begins when Socrates steps aside and introduces the Mantinean seeress Diotima as the speaker. Socrates remarks at the end that he was convinced by Diotima's discourse and is now trying to convince others of it. In other words, he makes us doubt whether this discourse, even if secondhand, is not actually his own. Nevertheless, one cannot draw any further conclusions about the historical relationship of the mythical to Socrates from this. The Symposium also attempts to attain full knowledge by exemplifying the abstract concept of love in Socrates through Alcibiades's drunken speech. However, this speech cannot clarify the issue of Socratic dialectic. The relationship to the dialectical development in this dialogue will now be scrutinized more closely.