Three Men in a Bar
Three creative and thoughtful people, a philosopher, a playwright and a composer walk into a bar. What would Shakespeare, Socrates and Shostakovich say to each other? Would they be busy, with only a little time for conversation and a quick drink before getting back to work? Or would they be relaxed, three enthusiastic gossips enjoying a couple of hours of drinking? Or might they recognise they shared a common interest, one they wanted to explore further?
We can begin with Socrates, the earliest of the three. Unfortunately, we don’t know as much about him as we might like. The person we know is the version of Socrates in Plato’s dialogues, and there is every reason to suspect the real Socrates might have been somewhat reshaped to fit with Plato’s own thinking. However, the material on Socrates last days, especially the Apology, Crito and Phaedo, probably offer some useful insights into the man. What a man! On trial accused of blasphemy, attacking the state and corrupting youth, his response was, yet again, to engage in some of his subtle question games to reveal the truth, (or was it merely sophistry?).
You know the style. “Would you not agree …?” “Is it not evident, then …?” “Can there be any other conclusion?” Whether he is questioning Glaucon, Cebes, or some other agreeable friend, Socrates comes across as a rather smart, even smug, guide, a trickster, showing us the issues that he sees as important, carefully unpicking and then reassembling the logic of his argument, all the while leading the discussion on, a gentle but firm instructor. Push, push, until all we can see is what Socrates had determined, as he magically draws it out from a hapless friend or reader, as if all the answers were there from the start. He never stops. In the Apology, he avoids his accusers by seeking to show the basis of their charges are wrong. In the Crito, he reveals why the law must be obeyed, even if it seems wrong in its application and consequences. As you read Plato’s accounts, it is hard to avoid frustration: why doesn’t he just address the acusations directly and prove his innocence; or, if he’d prefer not, leave on his friend’s ship for another, safer city?
The Phaedo starts off in Socrates’ usual fashion. On this occasion he wants to persuade his listeners of the immortality of the soul, and the happy prospect of being with the gods. That hinges around a key proposition, that it is reason that matters, while the body is some kind of annoying and inconvenient distraction. Here he’s talking to Simmias, having received agreement that the greatest understanding comes from using mental faculties, unimpeded by the senses: [i]
” so long as we are encumbered with the body, and our soul is contaminated with such an evil, we can never fully attain to what we desire; and this, we say, is truth. For the body subjects us to innumerable hinderances on account of its necessary support; and, moreover, if any diseases befall us, they impede us in our search after that which is; and it fills us with longings, desires, fears, all kinds of fancies, and a multitude of absurdities, so that, as it is said in real truth, by reason of the body it is never possible for us to make any advances in wisdom. For nothing else than the body and its desires occasion wars, seditions, and contests; for all wars among us arise on account of our desire to acquire wealth: and we are compelled to acquire wealth on account of the body, being enslaved to its service; and consequently on all these accounts we are hindered in the pursuit of philosophy … if we are ever to know any thing purely, we must be separated from the body, and contemplate the things themselves by the mere soul; and then, as it seems, we shall obtain that which we desire … when we are dead, as reason shows, but not while we are alive.”
That Socrates, or Plato’s version of Socrates, certainly can talk and take us to unexpected places. In his desire to be able to reason without distractions, Socrates envisioned the soul escaping to a realm where only reason existed, which happens to be the realm of the dead!
Despite this, he’s not one to miss an opportunity among the living. In the bar, a glass of wine in his hand, I imagine he’s already asking questions of a rather distracted Shakespeare. I can’t think of a more powerful contrast than between these two. In Shakespeare’s great tragedies, Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, and Macbeth, we are gripped by emotional drama, relegating any time for logic and rational thinking over to the sidelines. We know his characters are merely actors, and yet the power of their feelings is such that what we hear is real. Socrates can go calmly to his death; at the end section of the Phaedo and we are scarcely touched. With Shakespeare, it is people pushed to the edge, roiled by regret and misunderstanding, who hold and engage us: you’re unlikely forget what it was like to watch a performance of King Lear.
This fearsome and frightening play ends at a British camp, near Dover. Warring dukes and earls are trying to make sense of Lear and his actions, while he is slowly coming to realise the horrific consequences of his treatment of his daughters. As it has to be in a tragedy, Lear has the best – or worst – lines. I find it hard to sit and watch this play without being drawn into the emotional turmoil. Save him, save her, but Shakespeare is relentless: [ii]
[Enter Lear with Cordelia dead in his arms; Lear is speaking]
“Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stone.
Had I your tongues and eyes, I’d use them so
That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone for ever!
I know when one is dead, and when one lives;
She’s dead as earth. Lend me a looking glass;
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,
Why, then she lives.”
…
“A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!
I might have sav’d her; now she’s gone for ever!
Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha!
What is’t thou say’st? Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill’d the slave that was a-hanging thee.”
…
[And, later] “And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no life!
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never!
Pray you undo this button. Thank you, sir.
Do you see this? Look on her: look, her lips,
Look there, look there!” [Lear dies]
Socrates and Shakespeare. Socrates gives reason, and reason alone, as the only issue that matters. His injunction is to free yourself from the body and its misleading symptoms and concerns. Shakespeare turns the account entirely the other way around. It is our feelings, our emotions, our senses that are central. If Socrates prefers to be the logical computer, Shakespeare wants to get on with what he sees as the real stuff of life, crafting emotional wild rides, and in so doing reminding us we are creatures of passion, fear and love. In a sense, both want us to reflect, but for very different reasons. Socrates suggests we should welcome escaping from our bodily prison to enjoy a life of pure reason with the gods, to meditate through reflective dialogues. Shakespeare asks us to confront our non-rational selves, using soliloquies, that necessary and ingenious way into a person’s inner life, to give us insight into troubled lives, slowly drawing us into a dread fascination with the violent emotions, the pain, misery and death of his characters.
Is there an alternative? How would these two respond if a Buddhist monk, Dadul Namgyal perhaps, had wandered in to join them, to comment on the meaning of death?
“We can reflect on and contemplate the inevitability of death, and learn to accept it as a part of the gift of life. If we learn to celebrate life for its ephemeral beauty, its coming and going, appearance and disappearance, we can come to terms with and make peace with it. We will then appreciate its message of being in a constant process of renewal and regeneration without holding back, like everything and with everything, including the mountains, stars, and even the universe itself undergoing continual change and renewal. This points to the possibility of being at ease with and accepting the fact of constant change, while at the same time making the most sensible and selfless use of the present moment.” [iii]
Calm and insightful, this monk would make a good character in a dialogue or a play!
But what about Shostakovich? He’s been rather quiet, listening. Music without words or images is a different category of experience. Some composers get caught up with opera. Not Dmitri, although he did write one chilling and violent opera, Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District. [iv] He also wrote quite a lot of film music. However, it is his other music which speaks most clearly and directly: it isn’t so much logical or analytical, but communicates in other, often subtle ways to the listener’s emotions. As is the case for so many composers, his works have been analysed and interpreted, searched for the meaning hidden behind the notes. It is likely the complexity of his scores may in some ways reflect the dedications he gave. As a frequent listener to his string quartets, two of my favourites, 7 and 8, are dedicated to his first wife and to ‘the victims of fascism and the [second world] war’. Living in a time of never-ending disaster and death, you can feel the pain and the hope. Yet that’s not all. Unlike Socrates logic or Shakespeare’s emotions, the music speaks to us with a different, very complex kind of reflection and insight.
I am still thinking about the three of them in a bar. Socrates might try to push Shakespeare into a question and answer exercise in the pursuit of truth, but Shakespeare would be far too volatile to be wasting time like this, starting to bang his beer glass on the counter, his attention distracted by the men and women around him. He can see there are stories to be discovered here, and Socrates is, well, kind of boring. That couple sitting quietly over in the corner, if he could slip away for a few minutes, he would love to talk with them. Eventually, I imagine Socrates would give up on the inattentive Shakespeare. Shaking his head, he’d turn to the man beside him, starting to ask him some questions instead.
Shostakovich just drinks quietly. He’s seen these scenes before. Some with dictators and demagogues talking loudly about doing what they claim needs to be done; others with people pretending to be enjoying time together while hiding their suffering, whether from the physical or psychological wounds of war, or from a bad relationship; and yet others, alone, quietly managing their private pain, a mental or physical disease eating them up. He listens to the flow of sounds of the room, the discussions, quiet conversations, glasses and bottles on trays, and the water running in the sink. He gets out a notebook, and writes down some phrases. He conjures his responses through music rather than with words.
I liked the conceit of having these three meeting over a drink, but I think my imagination was awry: these three might not have much to say to each other after all. After politely listening, it’s possible they would turn aside. Each communicates in his own and different way, each a performer, developing his art in order to engage and draw us along their kind of journey. They might find it hard to settle on common ground.
No, I’ve been too hasty. If we could be a little more patient, we’ll see them decide to sit at a table. Now, as they are concentrating on each other, the noise around them recedes. The topic that engages them is death. Shakespeare and Shostakovich understand Socrates passion for pure reason, if passion is the best word to use. They concede that only with the freedom given to the soul in death, away from daily aches, pains and emotional misunderstandings, only then pure reason might grow and develop. On the other hand, Socrates admits his admiration for Shakespeare’s ability to construct emotional dramas, bringing out the fraught nature of love, hate and friendship. Trading compliments, Shakespeare is equally willing to accept that the soul, after death, can see the world more clearly. However, why would anyone want to abandon the pleasures of life, drinking in a pub, going home to a loving partner? Those pleasures might be interrupted by other, painful episodes, but those only make occasional pleasures even more enjoyable in contrast.
Shostakovich joins in. In his lifetime unexpected and unwarranted deaths were frequent: deaths in wartime, deaths in Stalin’s pogroms. He offers a quote from the Buddhist monk, “If we learn to celebrate life for its ephemeral beauty, its coming and going, appearance and disappearance, we can come to terms with and make peace with it. We will then appreciate its message of being in a constant process of renewal and regeneration without holding back, like everything and with everything … [t]his points to the possibility of being at ease with and accepting the fact of constant change, while at the same time making the most sensible and selfless use of the present moment.” [v] Socrates and Shakespeare nod in agreement, a little surprised as he’d been so quiet before. Dadul Namgyal had provided a necessary and meaningful framework for their debate.
There is little else to add. The table has gone quiet as each contemplates life in the face of death, each striving to find a deeper truth to offer. Three men, the authors of three quite different ways to reflect on our place in the world. Three men in a bar.
[i] The quotes are from Clauses 29 and 30 of Phaedo. I am using the Henry Cary translation, via Gutenberg.
[ii] Extracts from Act V, Scene II of King Lear; this is from the Project Gutenberg edition
[iii] How Does a Buddhist Monk Face Death? George Yancy, Opinion, New York Times, 26 February 2020
[iv] I saw the film version, Lady Macbeth von Mzensk, 1992. It’s at Amazon: beware, there’s rape and nudity
[v] Yancey, Op Cit
