The Anatomy of Melancholy

In his treatise The Cure of Greek Maladies, Theodoret plainly demonstrates as much about Socrates. Apollo’s oracle declared him the wisest man alive and saved him from the plague; two thousand years have admired him, and some would as readily speak ill of Christ as of him. Yet “in truth” he was an uneducated idiot, as Aristophanes calls him; “a mocker and an ambitious man,” as his master Aristotle calls him; “an Attic buffoon,” according to Zeno; an enemy of all arts and sciences, according to Athenaeus, and of philosophers and travellers; an opinionated ass, a quibbler, a sort of pedant. As for his conduct, Theodoret of Cyrrhus describes him as a sodomite and an atheist—convicted as such by Anytus—“angry, drunken, sharp-tongued,” and so on; a drinking companion, a mighty drinker by Plato’s own admission; the most foolish of all, thoroughly mad in his actions and opinions.

Pythagoras was part philosopher, part magician—or part witch. If you want to hear more about Apollonius, a great sage whom Julian the Apostate once compared with Christ, I refer you to Eusebius’s learned treatise against Hierocles; and for all of them, to Lucian’s The Fisherman, Icaromenippus, and Necyomancy. Their actions and the opinions they put forward and defended were generally so monstrous, absurd, and ridiculous; their books and elaborate treatises were full of delusion. Cicero observed this long ago in his letters to Atticus: “Writers generally rave in their books.” Their lives contradicted their words: they recommended poverty to others while being supremely greedy themselves, praised love and peace, yet persecuted one another with bitter hatred and malice.

They could give rules for verse and prose, but not one of them—as Seneca tells them bluntly—could control his feelings. Their music taught us “plaintive melodies,” and how to rise and fall, yet they could not restrain themselves from striking a lamentable note in adversity. They measure land by geometry, mark boundaries, divide and subdivide, yet cannot determine “how much is enough for a person,” or keep within the bounds of reason and judgement. They can square circles, but do not understand the condition of their own souls; draw straight and crooked lines, but do not know what is right in life: “they do not know what is right in life.” So, as the poet said, I wonder whether reason would allot them all Anticyra. I think all the Anticyras will not bring them to their senses;

if these men, who possessed Xenodotus’s heart, Crates’s liver, and Epictetus’s lamp, were so foolish, with no more brains than so many beetles, what should we think of ordinary people? What of everyone else?

Yes, but you will object: that is true of pagans when compared with Christians. First Corinthians 3:19: “The wisdom of this world is foolishness with God”—“earthly and devilish,” as James calls it, 3:15. “Their thinking became futile, and their foolish hearts were filled with darkness,” Romans 1:21–22. “Professing themselves wise, they became fools.” Their ingenious works are admired here on earth while their souls are tormented in hellfire.