Thucydides earned a place at my “internal council” table. A spot has been saved for him near the doorway, between the seats given to Xunzi and Ibn Khaldun. One day he might sit opposite to Tocqueville; the next he will debate with Madison. In all cases I will be glad to hear his voice. But Thucydides is a wily one, and I am not quite ready to let him in yet. I have too many questions that must first be answered. So I invite him instead (or, at least, so I imagine) to a cozy side room, warmed by a great fire place and graced with two old armchairs. I ask him to sit down and bear kindly the interrogation that is to follow.
“How should I read your book?”
“Should it be understood as a work of what we call history, or literature, or social science?”
“How can I distinguish between your narrative of events and the events themselves?”
“Could your explanations be wrong? How would I know?”
“And why, for heaven’s sake, did you not tell us when and how the Athenians passed the sanctions on Megara?”
Thucydides smiles, pulls out his manuscript, and begins his reply. I listen carefully, questioning here, prodding there, occasionally crying out, “You rascal, you almost fooled me!” and then arguing furiously against what I hear. I know these questions will not all be resolved in one sitting. It will go on for weeks, I think, and even then some queries will remain unanswered. But by then the old Hellene will be ready to take his seat place at my table. I, in turn, will have learned a great deal about the world and its workings that I’d never considered before.
- 177,709 hits
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.
Blogs I Follow