CONFUCIUS AND SOCRATES: THE DAWN OF A NEW WORLD

Thousands of leagues to the West, by the dazzling sea and the sun-scorched hills, a child was born—one whom no one would then have suspected of a destiny. Socrates was not noble. He was not handsome. He was neither the son of heroes nor of oracles. His father, a stonecutter, carved the statues that adorned the temples of Athens; his mother, a midwife, helped women give birth amid cries and prayers. From his father, he learned the patience of the chisel upon the rock. From his mother, he inherited the subtler art of helping souls give birth to themselves.

As a child, he was stocky, rough-hewn, often mocked by his peers. But beneath his broad forehead and restless gaze, a strange flame burned: a thirst, an endless curiosity. He was not content to know that the sun rose and set; he wanted to understand why. He would not simply accept the existence of a god; he would question the very nature of divinity. In his youth, he followed several masters, though he never clung to any of them. Each time a truth was presented to him, he turned it over and over, like a suspicious merchant inspecting a gold coin. He sought what lay behind the polished words, behind the comforting dogmas. Very quickly, he understood: no one truly knew what they claimed to know. The sophists, with their well-turned phrases, sold glory as one might sell watered-down wine. The priests whispered prayers they no longer understood themselves. The soldiers, the merchants, the citizens— all lived upon fragile foundations, never daring to look beneath their feet.

Socrates then chose his path: he would not be a man of answers, but a man of questions.

He began to roam the streets of Athens, day after day, tirelessly. He approached passersby in the markets, under the colonnades, at the exits of the gymnasiums. — "What is courage?" he would ask a general. — "What is justice?" he would throw at a judge. — "What is beauty?" he would murmur to the artists. And to every quick answer, he opposed another question, and yet another, until certainty, like a rotted wall, crumbled softly. He did not humiliate; he revealed. He stripped souls bare, not to destroy them, but so they might finally see themselves naked, authentic, and truly begin to seek.

To him, recognized ignorance was the first step toward wisdom. He did not teach. He midwifed the truths that each person unknowingly carried within themselves. Just as his mother helped women to birth life without creating it herself, he helped minds to birth their own truths.

And yet, this path came at a cost. He made enemies. The powerful did not appreciate seeing their foundations undermined by a stocky, laughing little man. The young, fascinated, followed him everywhere, giggling behind him, repeating his questions to trap their elders. Socrates was not afraid. He had long accepted the idea that truth was more precious than life itself.

When rumors of a strange place beyond seas and ages, where the world's greatest sages would gather, reached him, he did not laugh like so many others. He simply rose. He washed his face in cold water, tied his worn tunic, and without farewell or ceremony, he departed. He did not know who he would find there. But he knew one thing: Every sincere quest is a journey toward oneself. And perhaps—yes, perhaps—somewhere at the end of that road, he would meet a mind as vast as the sea, as solid as the mountain.

When, at last, his worn sandals stepped onto the great paved square, when his squinting eyes caught sight of the other figure, draped in calm, he knew. He recognized in Confucius not an adversary, nor even an ally, but a mirrored reflection: order where he was doubt, peace where he was storm. A smile, light and almost childlike, stretched across his lips. The dance could begin.

Previous chapter <=

Next chapter =>