You have been with me all my life. I can hear your mocking voice say, "Well, Plato, who are you praising now?" As though you do not know you are the only one I could praise. When I brought Gorgias, Protagoras, and the other sages into my dialogues, it was only to show how much greater you were. Thousands of big-headed, snubnosed Socrateses look into the world from my scrolls. And never, never did I forget your last words in the dungeon: "Offer a cock to Asclepius. See to it, and don't forget." People say this when they return to life after a deadly illness. 

But what is the country where you could start a new life, a country worthy of your intellect and good heart? 

I began looking for it. 
Athens? When you were young, you fought for it. Then you saw the city was badly sick. You pulled and tugged at the Atheneans hoping they would see the danger and find the way to salvation. No, you did not put your wisdom up for sale. You imposed it on no one. You gave it away and asked nothing in return. And how did Athens reward you? What gift did it give you? A cup of hemlock. Yet now the Athe- neans want to be known as your countrymen and drink honey from your lips! 

I turned to more distant lands then. My eyes fell on Sicily. Many are the towns there — some Greek, others barbarian. And the biggest one is Syracuse. "Why not Syracuse?" I thought. The mob has no power there. The place is ruled by the best of rulers — Dionysius the Elder. 1 He will receive you, Socrates, as a friend, will heed your advice and be all the wiser for it. 

I spent three years with Dionysius. I had everything anyone could wish, except, perhaps, enough freedom. Dionysius showered his kindness upon me. But fear hung over me like the sword of Damocles. How would you, Socrates, live where the stale has taken the place of the people, and where the palace has taken the place of the Agora?Where would you find people to speak to? Among the dense mercenaries or sly courtiers or downtrodden slaves. Would you flatter, dissemble, and connive? Certainly not. 

I thought of Egypt. There science is older and the arts richer. There the tem- ples are more magnificent and the priests more wise. Should I give you, Socrates, Egypt? After sailing the Nile from Sais to Elephantine I realised that here, too, Socrates would be a stranger. Could you genuflect to a crocodile? Could you weep over a dead cat? Could you offer your back to be flogged?

 In the temple of the goddess whom the Egyptians call Neyit and the Greeks call Athena, I heard of an ancient land of fair-minded kings. But the priest could not tell me where it was. I placed it west of the Pillars of Hercules, and called it Atlantis. To my mind, its capital was erected as a perfect circle according to the rules of Pythagoras. In its centre I put a column of divine metal to be inscribed with a code of laws. All that remained was to find the laws that made men better. I was supplied the scrolls and tablets of the Egyptians, Greeks, Judeans, Persians, and even the remote Indians who are called wise. But I could find no law good enough for the land of Socrates. Then I visited a flood upon Atlantis and sank it to the bottom of the sea. That is what Demiurge does to his unsuccessful artifices in order to give life to better ones, while fools who do not understand his intentions strain to go down to the bottom of the sea in search of chimeras. 

If there is no land worthy of Socrates, and if there has never been one, could it possibly be created? I have drafted the plan of a land of justice. I put Socrates at its head. But Socrates is mortal. Who would succeed him? His sons? But they may turn out as ill-tempered and lowly as his wife Xanthippe. Would Socrates admit it? He is their father, after all. 

I left Xanthippe with Socrates and granted them children, but took the infants out of their parental home. I put them among the children of soldiers, artisans, and tillers, and gave them the same education. No father could recognise his child. Here, Socrates would pick the best as his successor. 

I was sure this was fair. But my disciples turned on me. The best one, Aristotle, said: "Nature makes some masters, others slaves. Do not mix the dense and lowly with the clever and the noble. Where have sages ever ruled? Who would then engage in science and education? Kings must rule, sages must advise them. You're a dreamer, Plato." 

Yes, I am a dreamer. I have nothing left but to dream. Everybody knows I looked for a land for Socrates and found no just king, no kind tyrant, and no noble people— not now, not in the past, and you, Aristotle, have said I should not look for them in the future. 

What is my mistake? Why cannot I find a land for Socrates? It is because he is perfect, because he is better than all men, for most men are motivated by gain, hunger, and love. There is a particle of Socrates in all of us. We betray it by following the lusts of the body. 

I have decided to separate souls from bodies, leave the bodies on the Earth, and send the souls to unattainable pinnacles, free of the hateful burden of everyday being. Thus, I have created an imaginary land of pure, beautiful, inexhaustible images. It has the sweetest honey and the saltiest salt, the most precise scales and the straightest lines. It is a perfect land. It is the only land fit for Socrates, for the most perfect of all intellects.
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But when I had created that land and described it a thousand times, Socrates came to me in my sleep. He was as pale as when he parted from us forever. There was anger in his voice: "What did I teach you, Plato? Have you forgotten that truth is born in dispute? Who would I argue with in your dreariest of worlds? Have you forgotten I am human, and that I am sure to err, and seek, and fail to find?" 

Forgive me, Socrates. I am the most foolish of your disciples. I did not understand the meaning of what you said. You said to offer a cock to Asciepius - not Osiris, not Dagon, not Jehovah. You are an Athenean, Socrates. There is no Socrates without Athens any more than Athens without Socrates. So return to your city whose people gave you hemlock to drink.

Alexander Nemirovsky, "Tales Of The Ancient World"

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