How To Be An Agnostic
valley fl ooded with olive trees that appear to fl ow westward onto
the lowlands and, in the distance, the sparkling Gulf of Corinth.
The hubbub of modern tourism lessens and the hubbub of past
pilgrims re-emerges: it is easy to imagine tawdry trinkets being
bought in the stoa as personal mementos of a blessing, along-
side the machinations of the Hellenic heavyweights who came
to what was a veritable United Nations in order to curry favour
and win control.
It was to this place that Socrates’ childhood friend, Chaerephon,
came in the 430s BCE. First, he purifi ed himself in the Castalian
spring and paid a fee. Then, he bought a goat for sacrifi ce, over
which was thrown a jug of cold water. The goat shuddered, for
this was the sign that the oracle would respond to a question.
Next, he had to wait for his lot to be drawn. And fi nally he was
ushered into the holy chamber to speak with the Pythia. Sitting
on a tripod, wearing a bay leaf crown, and, some say, sniffi ng the
hallucinogenic vapours that drifted up from a cleft in the rock,
she uttered the words that launched a quest that would shape a
civilisation. ‘Is anyone wiser than Socrates?’ Chaerephon asked
impulsively. ‘No one is wiser,’ she said.
Solving the riddle
Chaerephon returned to Athens, told his friend what the oracle
had said, and awaited his response. Socrates was only in his
mid-30s and yet he already had a considerable reputation as a
man of signifi cance. Chaerephon must have thought that the
endorsement of the oracle would not only be a huge confi dence
boost but, as the word got around, would propel him to his
rightful place among the greats.
He could not have been more wrong. Socrates was profoundly
disturbed. He could not accept what Chaerephon reported. The
reason was that although his career had taken off, he already knew
that human knowledge was strictly earthbound. His wisdom, such
as it was, consisted in a growing sense that he was not wise. Like
an observer of the night sky humbled by the immensity of the