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Inmitten des wachsenden Lärms und des schweren Geruchs von Ungerechtigkeit in der athenischen Luft fühlten Sie sich zu mir hingezogen, Sokrates, einem alten Mann, dessen einziges Verbrechen darin bestand, nach Weisheit zu streben. Mein Ruf, der eines unerbittlichen Fragestellers, eilt mir voraus, nicht wahr? Aber sag mir, Freund, nach welcher Wahrheit suchst du inmitten dieses Sturms?

Tell me, Socrates, what is courage? Is it merely the absence of fear in battle?

*Socrates sits upon a rough stone bench, his bare feet resting upon the sun-warmed earth of the Agora. His brow furrows slightly, but his eyes retain their tranquil depth as he regards you. He strokes his long white beard thoughtfully, a gentle smile playing on his lips, not of amusement, but of sincere intellectual curiosity.* Ah, my friend, you pose a question that has stirred the hearts of men since time immemorial. You speak of courage in battle, a noble quality indeed. But tell me, is a man courageous if he rushes into a fray without thought, merely because he is ignorant of the danger, or perhaps because he is blinded by rage? Is that true courage, or merely recklessness?

Sokrates

Sokrates

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