And I would ask you to be thinking of the truth and not of Socrates: agree with me, if I seem to you to be speaking the truth; or if not, withstand me might and main that I may not deceive you as well as myself in my enthusiasm, and, like the bee, leave my sting in you before I die. 
 
Socrates-Plato’s Phaedo
 
Around this time some years back, I was sitting in Earwax Cafe. Back then it was across the street. If you visit Chicago, it’s where Myopic Books is now. The original Earwax wasn’t as big. Like the new Earwax, it had three booths. The rest of the tables were two-tops. So when it got busy they held the booths for larger groups. I sat in the back, by the circus bars, reading my book of aphorisms. I like aphorisms. I like them because when I read one that speaks to me, it hits me with the force of truth. I feel it. Even if I don’t know why, some part deep down in me agrees and I feel it. It’s why I call them “depth charges.” There’s a delight when I hear one and I get it, when my mind gets what my heart avers. It’s the eureka. Eureka means “I’ve found it.” In any case, I was sitting at my table when I read the one above. I liked it, I really liked it! And yet, I wasn’t sure why. I never studied the Classics. I never had the benefit of context or a teacher to guide me. No problem. Context, though key, can confine. And the risk of a teacher is they don’t let you learn, don’t allow a eureka. They tell you. And being told and knowing are not the same, not by a Roman mile. It’s why Socrates was such an awesome teacher. All he did was ask questions. He’d guide you to your own answers. He assisted you, but he never told you. 
 
The cafe was filling fast. Presently, one of the staff approached a booth and spoke with the occupant, a keen-eyed man. I’d seen him earlier, selling the StreetWise newspaper by the corner of Milwaukee and Damen. He was homeless. Like me, he was nursing a cup of coffee. He was asked to get up–they needed the booth for a large group. He agreed. But there was a problem, as all the other tables were taken. That’s when I spoke up; I offered him a seat. He agreed. He sat down and we introduced ourselves. His name was Cordell. Cordell noticed my book and immediately took an interest. He nodded his chin and with a smile said, “What’s that you got there?”

“Oh, it’s my book of aphorisms. I’m reading this cool one by Socrates.” I showed it to him and he read the quote.

He twinkled and his smile grew big. “So what do you make of it?”

“I like it!”

“Why?”

“There’s something about it... It’s beautiful and it’s deep. I love how he says, ‘withstand me might and main,’ that’s so perfect! The whole thing feels perfect but I don’t fully know why. I did figure out a few parts… Like that part about the bee. Bees don’t sting out of spite; they sting to defend their hive. In a sense, their hive is their ‘truth.’ And when a bee stings, it dies. It rips its abdomen. It’s a martyr, a martyr for its hive, its truth. It leaves its sting and then it dies. And that’s what happened to Socrates. He forced the Athenians to convict him and make him drink the hemlock when he could have fled. He refused to recant his beliefs, his truth, and he drank the poison. Right there, he’s ‘stinging’ them and saying he’s truthful, he’s sincere!”
 
Cordell listened intently.

I continued. “And then there’s the ‘deceive you as well as myself in my enthusiasm’ part. Enthusiam is quality of sincerity, of innocence. Of children. Children aren’t deceiving, not when they are enthusiastic. And enthusiastic people aren’t deceiving! Deceiving is calculated but enthusiasm is spontaneous.”

Cordell asked, “But what of this ‘deception?’… What of this ‘deceive you as well as myself?’… What does it mean to deceive?”

“It means you are lying.”

Again he asked, “But why this, ‘deceive you as well as myself?’… Can one deceive oneself if one does not already know?”

I smiled. “No. It means some part of you does know.” And I marveled at Socrates’ exquisite stinging of his audience with his words, the bee, the ‘deceive you as well as myself in my enthusiasm,’ all to say there was no possible way he was lying. Amazing.

The lesson wasn’t done. Cordell asked, “But what about this, ‘if I seem to you to be speaking the truth’... Why did Socrates say it like that? Why did he say ‘if I seem to you’?” 
 
I got excited. “That’s what I wondered! There’s something there, I know it! But I can’t figure it out!” 
 
Cordell grinned, leaned forward... “What does it mean if I seem to you to be happy, if I seem to you to be sad?” 
 
My eyes were wide, I was sweating... “It means I can tell.” 
 
His eyes were wide, I was really sweating... “Only you? Why did he say ‘if I seem TO YOU?’... Why ‘I SEEM TO YOU’?” 
 
EUREKA! I got it! We grinned together. We seemed to have a bond. I’m not sure what was said thereafter, but no matter. It was the best cup of coffee I ever had. Thanks Cordell. You’re an Elder.