Of Apes and Athenians: How a Mug of Olive Wine Sent Socrates on a Quest to Educate Humanity (Again)

It was a particularly absurd afternoon in Athens. I had just stepped out of the marketplace after an illuminating debate with Aristophanes—illuminating mostly in the sense that he finally conceded that not all of my thoughts could be considered lunacy. Feeling triumphant, I decided to reward myself with a hearty mug of olive wine. And so, there I was, reclining beneath an olive tree, pondering nothing more profound than the number of clouds in the sky, when a messenger arrived with news that would forever alter my understanding of humanity—and not, as you might think, in a way that inspired awe.

“A philosopher, sir,” he said, barely catching his breath, “has arrived from the city of Alexandria, bearing words of… uh, strange origin.” He leaned in and whispered as though confiding a grave secret. “He claims that humans may have, at some point, been monkeys.”

I nearly choked on my olive wine. Monkeys? The very thought tickled me, and I immediately beckoned him to sit, laughing. Surely, this must be some grand joke from the pranksters in Alexandria! But the messenger looked so gravely earnest that I knew he wasn’t jesting.

"Bring him to me,” I instructed, hoping to meet this eccentric Alexandrian and dismantle his outlandish theory with the precision of a well-honed dialectic. And, by Apollo, did he arrive—a gangly man with eyes that glittered with something akin to mischief and a slightly overgrown beard that made me think he might be half-goat.

He wasted no time. “Socrates,” he began, “have you ever looked into the eyes of a baboon?”

“Certainly not,” I replied, taken aback. “I have a reputation to maintain, you see.”

The Alexandrian scoffed, waving off my hesitation. “These baboons, sir, are our ancestors! Once upon a time, we walked on all fours and swung from branches. In truth, we are apes dressed in philosophy and politics.”

I burst into laughter, clutching my sides. “And are you suggesting that my esteemed fellow Athenians are simply baboons with a sense of grandeur?”

“I am,” he replied coolly. “And I bring with me evidence—drawings, stones, tools, and bones—collected from the deserts of Egypt. They tell a story that dates back farther than Homer’s memory.”

Now, a small part of me—the same part that wondered about the heavens, the soul, and the nature of love—was indeed intrigued. But the idea of humankind sharing a common ancestor with apes? Preposterous! Yet, a strange curiosity took hold, like an itch you cannot scratch. I couldn’t resist questioning him further.

“Then tell me,” I began, “if we were truly once apes, what prompted us to climb down from the trees, abandon our carefree swinging, and commit ourselves to a life of politics, taxes, and philosophy?”

He looked at me, smiling as though savoring some great revelation. “The same thing that drives us now, my dear Socrates—hunger, mischief, and the endless curiosity to reach for something just out of our grasp.”

The more he spoke, the more I found myself pondering the peculiarity of his ideas. What if, in our evolution from apes, we gained not merely the ability to ponder but also the unfortunate penchant for meddling in matters that barely concern us? Imagine—our most profound debates, our wars, our philosophies—all born from the primal need to tinker, to poke, to prod!

And so, in a rare moment of unchecked impulsiveness, I decided to embark on a quest (not in the literal sense—let's not get dramatic here) to uncover the truth of this theory. I would gather opinions, observe the behavior of my fellow Athenians, and perhaps even conduct a study of my own. After all, if I could ponder the essence of justice and the form of the Good, why not trace the footprints of human ancestry?

Over the next weeks, I quietly observed the citizens of Athens. The politicians squabbling over power? The merchants haggling in the marketplace? The actors on stage, losing themselves in exaggerated gestures and costumes? By Zeus, they behaved more like apes than I had ever noticed before! Here we were, draped in robes, speaking of lofty ideals, yet not far removed from baboons competing for the ripest fig.

One afternoon, after witnessing an especially ludicrous exchange between two young philosophers arguing about the purpose of eyebrows, I came to a reluctant conclusion: maybe, just maybe, the Alexandrian was onto something. I began to consider—what if our so-called “progress” was not progress at all, but simply another form of instinct, another way to survive?

Yet, as all philosophers know, the search for truth must reach the masses, not be confined to a solitary man beneath an olive tree. And therein lay my challenge. How could I, a man without so much as a papyrus scroll, convey this cosmic jest of human origins to the public in a way that didn’t invite them to stone me on sight?

It was then that I learned of a new, peculiar medium—a strange method of “moving pictures” that could reach people without the need for scrolls or assembly halls. I was informed that this medium, known as a “video,” could show ideas in images, in sound, and in speech, all at once—a marvel that no mere dialectic could match. Furthermore, I was assured that it was the very thing the youth of the day enjoyed.

And so, with the assistance of some bright-eyed youths who knew their way around the mysterious instruments of “cameras” and “microphones,” I embarked on this curious adventure. We created a video—one that would, ideally, provoke and enlighten. Through it, I would share not just the theory of human evolution, but also the implications for those who walk about thinking themselves distinct from the natural world.

I could not help but wonder if the knowledge that we were apes once would humble us, remind us that no matter how much we debate, dissect, and philosophize, we are united by the same absurd origin. And perhaps, if one is of a less philosophical disposition, it would at least be good for a laugh.

Through the haze of laughter and deep contemplation, I envisioned a world in which people saw themselves not as “above” the creatures they claimed dominion over, but as part of a grand (yes, I dared to use the word) continuum of life, rooted in the same dirt, driven by the same instincts, and guided by the same mysteries.

In the end, the message was simple—though we may wear robes and argue of matters unseen, we are, at heart, nothing but curious animals reaching for something beyond our grasp. And thus, with a final gulp of olive wine, I agreed to let the video be published. Perhaps my legacy would not be of syllogisms and dialectics alone, but also a reminder of humanity’s humble origins, one video at a time.

As the camera stopped rolling, I allowed myself a chuckle. “Who knows?” I said aloud to no one in particular. “Perhaps the next time a philosopher asks, ‘What is man?’ the answer will not be found in an abstraction, but in the simple truth that we are, and always have been, rather clever apes.”

And with that, I awaited the reactions of the public, hoping that my work might spark just the faintest glimmer of curiosity—or, failing that, at least a riotously entertaining outrage.