Dialogues of the Dead (6.4-7.1)

This is Solon, the son of Execestides, and that is Thales, and past them is Pittacus, and the others; they are seven in all, as you see.

These are the only happy and cheerful ones, Aeacus. But who is this covered with cinders, like a loaf baked in the ashes, and with such a crop of blisters on his skin?

Empedocles; he came half-boiled from Etna.

O brazen-foot [*] most excellent, what came over you that you jumped into the crater?

A fit of mad depression, Menippus.

No, but a fit of vanity and pride and a dose of drivelling folly; that was what burnt you to ashes, boots and all—and well you deserved it! But the trick didn’t do you any good; they found out that you were dead. But wherever, Aeacus, is Socrates?

Usually he’s talking nonsense with Nestor and Palamedes.

However, I should like to see him, if he’s around.

Do you see the bald one?

They’re all bald; that distinguishing feature would apply to them all.

I mean the one with the snub nose.

This too they have in common; they’re all snub-nosed.

Looking for me, Menippus?

Yes, I am, Socrates.

What’s the news in Athens?

Many of the young men call themselves Philosophers, and, to judge at least from their garb and gait, are tiptop Philosophers.

I’ve seen lots of them.

But you’ve seen, I imagine, what Aristippus was like when he came to join you, or Plato himself—the one reeking of scent, the other accomplished in flattering Sicilian tyrants.

And what do they think of me?

In these respects at least, you’re a lucky fellow, Socrates. At any rate they all think you were a wonderful man, and knew everything, though—I think I’m right in saying so—you knew nothing.

That’s what I myself kept telling them, but they thought it was all pretence on my part.

But who are these round you?

Charmides, my good fellow, and Phaedrus and Clinias’ son. [*]

Bravo, Socrates! Still following your own special line here! Still with an eye for beauty!

What could I find to do more agreeable? But won’t you lie down by us, please?

Oh, no; I’m going off to Croesus and Sardanapalus, to stay near them. I expect to have plenty of fun hearing their lamentations.

I’m off now, too, to see that none of the dead gives us the slip and escapes. You’ll see things in full another time, Menippus.

Off with you, Aeacus. What I’ve seen is enough.

Why are you crying, Tantalus? Why do you stand beside [*] the lake lamenting your lot?

Because, Menippus, I’m dying of thirst.

Are you too lazy to bend your head down and drink, or even, bless us, to scoop the water up with your palm?

It’s no good bending down; the water runs away as soon as it feels me coming near, and, if ever I do scoop up any, and bring it to my mouth, I can’t wet the tip of my lips before it runs through my fingers somehow and leaves my hand dry as before.

You’re the victim of a miracle, Tantalus. But tell me, just why do you need to drink? You have

It’s just that that’s my punishment—that my ghost should be thirsty as if it were a body.