THIS account of the Cynic philosopher Demonax is one of Lucian’s extended discussions of a contemporary sophist or philosopher (cf. Nigrinus, Peregrinus), and it is our main source for details of his life. The background of the piece is Athens, just as the Nigrinus was set in Rome, and the first part records Demonax’s birth, education, and early days in Athens. After this we are given a long list of his sayings to illustrate his reputation for clever repartee, and the piece ends with an account of his closing years, death, and burial. The long series of anecdotes which feature Demonax’s witty and cutting retorts exemplify a familiar element of ancient rhetorical training, the chreia or clever saying which was the punch-line of a moral anecdote. Such anecdotes were one of the preliminary exercises (progymnasmata) forming part of the early training in schools of rhetoric, and there are several extant collections of them. It seemed clear too that lists of their chreiai neatly illustrated the character and wit of philosophers, and thus they feature in some philosophers’ biographies, as we see in the lives recorded by Diogenes Laertius.
The Demonax is a late work of Lucian: references to Herodes Atticus suggest a date in the mid- to late 170s.
I suppose our generation was bound not to be totally lacking in noteworthy and memorable men, but to produce someone of extraordinary physical powers, and one with a superbly philosophical mind. I refer to the Boeotian Sostratus,* whom the Greeks called and believed to be Heracles, and particularly to the philosopher Demonax. Both of these I saw and marvelled at, and with one of them, Demonax, I was for a long time a student. I have written about Sostratus elsewhere, describing his bulk and enormous strength; how he lived in the open air on Parnassus, slept rough, ate what the mountain provided, and performed deeds which matched his name—killing robbers, and making roads through unbroken country and bridges over impassable places. Now it is fitting to speak of Demonax for two reasons: so I can do what I can to keep him in the memory of the best men, and so that the most high-minded of our youth, who have an urge to philosophy, won’t have to train themselves on ancient models only, but can set themselves a standard from our own time too and emulate the man who is the best philosopher known to me.
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He came of a Cypriot family, which was not undistinguished in property and public rank. However, he rose above all this, and thinking himself worthy of the best he aspired to philosophy. This was not indeed from any encouragement by Agathoboulos or his predecessor Demetrius or Epictetus, though he attended all these as a student, as well as Timocrates of Heraclea,* a wise man gifted with particular elegance of speech and thought. But, as I said, it was not the encouragement of these men, but his own individual urge to noble things and his innate love for philosophy from early childhood, which moved him to despise all that men call good and to devote himself totally to liberty and freedom of speech. He lived a life which was throughout upright, wholesome, and blameless, and his judgment and philosophical honesty were an example to all who saw and heard him. Certainly he did not rush into this with unwashed feet,* as they say. He was familiar with the poets and knew most of them by heart; he was a practised speaker; and his knowledge of the schools of philosophy was profound, not just as the proverb says, a finger-tip contact. He had exercised his body and trained it in endurance, and generally speaking he had made it his aim not to have any further wants. The result was that when he found he was no longer self-sufficient, he departed this life voluntarily, leaving behind a high reputation among the best of the Greeks.
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He did not limit himself to one philosophic creed, but combined many without giving any indication which of them he favoured. Perhaps he was most akin to Socrates, though in his dress and his undemanding life-style he seemed to be emulating the man of Sinope.* He did not falsify the character of his life in order to attract the wonder and admiration of those he met; his life was like everyone else’s, and he was simple and completely unaffected in private society and in public life. He did not adopt the irony of Socrates, but his conversation was full of Attic charm, so that his guests went away neither despising him for being boorish nor repelled by any ill-natured criticism, but were taken out of themselves from joy and were much more well-ordered in their lives and cheerful and hopeful of the future. He was never known to raise his voice or get over-excited or angry, even if he had to rebuke somebody; but while he attacked sins he forgave sinners, thinking that we should follow the example of doctors, who heal sickness but do not get angry with the sick. For he considered that while it is human to go wrong, it is for god or a godlike man to help up the fallen.
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Leading such a life he needed nothing for himself, but he gave appropriate help to his friends. He reminded those who seemed to be smiled on by fortune that they were priding themselves on blessings which were illusory and brief. To others who were lamenting their poverty, complaining about exile, or finding fault with old age or disease, he offered humorous consolation, pointing out how they failed to see that their troubles would soon be over, and that in a little while all of them would find lasting freedom and forgetfulness of all things good and bad. He was also concerned to reconcile disputing brothers and to establish peace between wives and husbands. He even on occasion gave well-timed addresses to disorderly popular assemblies, and persuaded most of them to give due service to their country.
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Such was the nature of his philosophy—gentle, mild, and cheerful. Only the illness or death of a friend distressed him, as he thought friendship the greatest of human blessings. For that reason he was a friend to everyone and there was no human being he did not consider akin to him, though he enjoyed the company of some more than others. He only avoided those whose failings seemed to him beyond hope of a cure. And in all these relationships his actions and his words seemed to be blessed by the Graces and by Aphrodite herself, so that always, to quote the comic poet, ‘Persuasion sat on his lips’.*
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So it was that all the Athenians, from the populace to the magistrates, admired him tremendously and never ceased regarding him as a superior being. Yet at the beginning he caused offence to many of them and incurred no less hatred from the common people than Socrates did for his freedom of speech and his independence. There were men like Anytus and Meletus* who connived against him, repeating the same charges that Socrates once faced, that he had never been seen to make a sacrifice, and he was quite alone in never having been initiated in the Eleusinian Mysteries.* His response was with great courage to put on a garland and a clean cloak and go to the Assembly, where he defended himself elegantly, but also more truculently than accorded with the principles he lived by. To the charge of never having sacrificed to Athena he replied, ‘Men of Athens, do not be surprised that I have not previously sacrificed to her, for I did not suppose that she needed any sacrifices from me.’ To the other charge, about the mysteries, he replied that the reason he had never joined them in the rite was that if the mysteries were disreputable he would not remain silent to the uninitiate, but discourage them from the rites; and if they were good he would tell the world about them out of general benevolence. The result was that the Athenians, who already had stones in their hands to throw at him, at once became mollified and well-disposed to him, and from that time showed him honour, respect, and eventually admiration. And yet he had started his speech to them with a fairly bitter preamble: ‘Men of Athens, you see me ready garlanded: sacrifice me too, for your former victim* brought you no good omens.’
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I want to quote some of his witty and well-aimed quips, and I might as well start with Favorinus* and what he said to him. When someone told Favorinus that Demonax was poking fun at his lectures and particularly at their violently broken rhythms, saying that they were vulgar, effeminate, and quite inappropriate to philosophy, he went to Demonax and asked him, ‘Who are you to jeer at my lectures?’ Demonax replied, ‘A man with ears that are not easily fooled.’ The sophist persisted and asked him, ‘What equipment did your boyhood education give you to take up philosophy?’ ‘Balls’, replied Demonax.
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On another occasion the same man went and asked Demonax which philosophical creed he most supported. He replied, ‘Why, who told you I’m a philosopher?’, and walked away laughing heartily. Favorinus then asked him what he was laughing at, to which he replied, ‘I do find it funny that you think men are philosophers if they have beards, when you don’t have one yourself.’
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When the sophist from Sidon,* who was popular in Athens, was boasting that he was familiar with the whole range of philosophy—but it’s better to quote his actual words: ‘If Aristotle summons me to the Lyceum, I shall attend him; if Plato asks me to the Academy, I shall go; if Zeno calls, I shall spend time in the Stoa; if Pythagoras summons, I shall keep silence.’* So Demonax stood up in the middle of the audience and said, ‘I say’, (addressing him by name), ‘Pythagoras summons you.’
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When a certain Python, a pretty young fellow, who came from one of the grand families in Macedonia, was quizzing him by putting forward a trick question and asking for a logical solution, he replied, ‘I know one thing, my boy, the conclusion requires penetration—like you.’ The lad was furious at the double-edged jibe, and said threateningly, ‘I’ll soon show you what a man is.’ Demonax laughed and asked him, ‘Oh, you have a man, have you?’
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When an athlete he had made fun of for being seen in flowery clothes, though he was an Olympic champion, struck him on the head with a stone and drew blood, each of the bystanders was as angry as if he himself had been hit, and they cried out, ‘Go to the proconsul!’ But Demonax said, ‘No gentlemen, not to the proconsul—a doctor instead.’
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One day when he was going for a walk he found a gold ring on the road. He put up a notice in the agora, asking the owner who had lost it to come and reclaim it by describing its weight and the stone and the engraving on it. Well, a pretty young boy came and claimed he had lost it; but nothing he said fitted its description, so Demonax said, ‘Off with you, laddie, and take care of your own ring: this one isn’t yours!’
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A Roman senator at Athens introduced his son to him. He was very good-looking, but effeminate and weakly, and when his father said, ‘My son here greets you,’ Demonax replied, ‘A fine lad: he is worthy of you and takes after his mother.’
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The Cynic who studied philosophy wearing a bearskin he didn’t call by his name Honoratus, but Arcesilaus.*
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When someone asked him for his definition of happiness he replied that only the free man is happy; and when the other rejoined that many people were free, he said, ‘But I am thinking of the man who has neither hopes nor fears.’ ‘But how’, said the other, ‘can you manage this? Generally speaking, we are all slaves to these.’ ‘Well, if you think about human affairs, you’ll find that they don’t justify either hope or fear, since in any case pains and pleasures will come to an end.’
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When Peregrinus Proteus* criticized him for laughing a lot and making fun of people, saying, ‘Demonax, you’re not doglike’,* he replied, ‘Peregrinus, you’re not manlike.’
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And there was the scientist who was talking about the Antipodes: he made him get up, and taking him to a well showed him their reflection in the water and asked him, ‘Are these the sort of Antipodes you mean?’
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There was also a man who claimed to be a magician with such powerful spells that they could induce everyone to give him whatever he wanted. ‘Nothing to marvel at there,’ said Demonax. ‘I’m in the same trade as you: come with me, if you like, to the baker’s and you’ll see me persuade her to give me a loaf with one spell and a little charm’—hinting that a coin is as effective as a spell.
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When the great Herodes* was mourning Polydeuces, who died prematurely, and required a chariot to be made ready for him and horses harnessed to it as if the lad were going for a drive, and a meal to be prepared for him, Demonax went to him and said, ‘I bring you a message from Polydeuces.’ This pleased Herodes, who thought that Demonax, along with everybody else, was sharing his own emotions, and he asked, ‘Well, Demonax, what does Polydeuces want?’ ‘He is finding fault with you,’ was the reply, ‘for not joining him immediately.’
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He also visited a man who was grieving for his dead son and had shut himself up in a dark place, and told him he was a magician who could raise the boy’s ghost for him, if he could just name three people who had never grieved for anyone. When the man hesitated and was at a loss for a long time (for I guess he couldn’t name any such), Demonax said, ‘So, you silly fellow, do you think that you alone are suffering unbearably, even though you can’t see anyone who hasn’t his share of sorrow?’
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Demonax also made a point of mocking those who use strange and very archaic words in conversation. For example, when a man had been questioned by him and replied in exaggerated Attic, he said to him, ‘My friend, I asked you a question now, but you reply as though we lived in Agamemnon’s time.’
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When one of his companions said, ‘Demonax, let’s go to the Asclepieion* and pray for my son,’ he answered, ‘You must imagine that Asclepius is very deaf if he can’t hear us praying from here.’
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He once saw two philosophers debating a topic quite ignorantly, one asking absurd questions and the other giving irrelevant answers. ‘Don’t you think, my friends,’ he said, ‘that one of these fellows is milking a he-goat and the other is holding a sieve for him?’*
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When Agathocles the Peripatetic* was priding himself on being the first among logicians and quite unique, Demonax said, ‘Come, Agathocles, if you are first you can’t be unique, and if unique you can’t be first.’
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When Cethegus* the consular was travelling through Greece to Asia to serve under his father, he said and did many ridiculous things. One of Demonax’s friends noting this remarked that he was a great load of rubbish, to which Demonax replied, ‘Goodness me, no—not even a great one.’
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He saw Apollonius* the philosopher departing with a crowd of his disciples, obeying a summons to be tutor to the emperor, and remarked, ‘Apollonius is setting forth with his Argonauts.’
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When someone asked him if he thought the soul was immortal, he replied, ‘Yes—in the sense that everything else is.’
32
Regarding Herodes he remarked that Plato was right in saying that we have more than one soul; for a man with a single soul would not lay dining places for Regilla* and Polydeuces as if they were still living, and also compose the sort of declamations he did.
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On one occasion when he had heard the proclamation announcing the Mysteries, he was bold enough to ask the Athenians publicly why they excluded foreigners, especially as the founder of their rites, Eumolpus,* was a foreigner and a Thracian.
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On another occasion he was about to make a sea voyage in winter, and one of his friends asked him, ‘Aren’t you afraid that the boat may capsize and you’ll be food for the fishes?’ His reply was, ‘I would be ungrateful if I grudged the fishes eating me, when I’ve eaten so many of them.’
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He advised an orator who had delivered an appalling declamation to practise and exercise; and when he replied, ‘I am always reciting to myself’, Demonax told him, ‘Then it’s no wonder your speech is like that, if you have a fool for a listener.’
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Again, he once saw a soothsayer giving prophecies in public for money, and said to him, ‘I don’t see on what ground you ask for money. If you believe you can alter destiny at all, whatever you charge is too little; but if everything is decreed by god, what is the point of your soothsaying?’
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When an elderly but powerfully built Roman gave him an exhibition of armed combat against a post, and asked him, ‘What do you think of my fighting skills, Demonax?’, he replied, ‘Excellent—provided you have an opponent made of wood.’
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And see what shrewd replies he had ready in answer to trick questions. When someone asked him mockingly, ‘If I burnt a thousand pounds of wood, Demonax, how many pounds of smoke would that come to?’, he replied, ‘Weigh the ashes, and all the rest will be smoke.’
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There was a certain Polybius,* completely uneducated and ill-spoken, who said, ‘The emperor has honoured me with Roman citizenship.’ To which Demonax responded, ‘If only he’d made you a Greek rather than a Roman.’
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When he saw a grandee priding himself on the width of his purple band, he took hold of the garment, and pointing it out to him whispered in his ear, ‘Don’t forget, a sheep wore this before you—and stayed a sheep.’
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He was taking a bath and hesitating to step into the steaming water, 42 when somebody accused him of cowardice. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘was I expected to endure this for my country’s sake?’
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When someone asked him, ‘What do you think things are like in Hades?’, he answered, ‘Hang on a bit, and I’ll send you a report from there.’
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A ghastly poet, Admetus,* told him he had written a one-line epitaph and had left instructions in his will for it to be inscribed on his tombstone—I might as well quote it:
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‘Receive, O Earth, Admetus’ shell: to the gods himself has gone.’ Demonax roared with laughter and said, ‘It’s such a good epitaph, Admetus, I wish it was already inscribed.’
Somebody noticed marks on his legs of the sort that older people usually get, and asked, ‘What’s this, Demonax?’ He grinned and replied, ‘Charon* bit me.’
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Then there was the Spartan he saw beating his slave. ‘Stop treating him as your social equal’,* he told him.
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When a woman called Danae was having a dispute with her brother, he said to her, ‘Have the law on him! You are Danae, but not the daughter of Acrisius.’*
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He particularly attacked those who indulge in philosophy not to find the truth but simply to show off. For instance, he saw a Cynic with his cloak and pouch, but carrying a cudgel (hyperon) instead of a staff, and bawling out that he was a follower of Antisthenes and Crates and Diogenes. ‘Don’t lie,’ said Demonax, ‘you’re really a disciple of Hyperides.’*
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When he saw a lot of athletes fighting foul, and against the rules of the games biting instead of boxing and wrestling, he said, ‘It’s not surprising that nowadays their supporters call athletes lions.’
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Then there was that witty and cutting remark he made to a proconsul, who followed the practice of those who use pitch-plasters to depilate their legs and their whole bodies. A certain Cynic had stood up on a platform and accused him insultingly of effeminacy, at which he angrily ordered him to be pulled down, and was about to put him in the stocks or even punish him with exile, when Demonax, who happened to be present, urged him to pardon the man, as he was just indulging in the bold outspokenness characteristic of the Cynics. The proconsul said, ‘Well, I’ll let him off this time for you, but if he dares to do such a thing again what punishment will he deserve?’ ‘Order him to be depilated,’ replied Demonax.
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He was asked by a man to whom the emperor had entrusted the command of legions and a most important province, how he should best exercise authority. ‘Without losing your temper,’ said Demonax, ‘and with little talking but a lot of listening.’
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When he was asked if he ate honey-cakes, he replied, ‘Do you really think that bees produce their honey for fools?’
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He saw a statue near the Painted Stoa* with a hand cut off, and remarked that the Athenians had taken a long time to honour Cynegirus with a bronze statue.
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Note too his remark about Rufinus the Cypriot*—I mean the lame disciple of Aristotle—when he saw him spending much time in the covered walks of the school: ‘There’s nothing more impudent than a lame Peripatetic.’
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When Epictetus reproached him and advised him to marry and have children, saying that it was right for a philosopher to leave behind a natural substitute for himself, Demonax demolished him utterly with the reply, ‘All right, Epictetus, give me one of your daughters.’
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Again, his response to Herminus* the Aristotelian is worth recording. Knowing that he was a complete scoundrel, whose crimes were legion, and yet he was always talking of Aristotle and his ten categories, Demonax said, ‘Herminus, you really deserve ten categories of punishment.’
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When the Athenians, through rivalry with the Corinthians, were considering holding a gladiatorial show, he went to them and said, ‘Don’t vote for this, Athenians, without first pulling down the Altar of Pity.’*
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When he went to Olympia and the Eleans voted him a bronze statue, he said, ‘Don’t do this, men of Elea, lest you seem to be reproaching your ancestors for not putting up statues to Socrates or Diogenes.’
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I once heard him saying to a certain jurist that laws run the risk of being useless, whether they are established for bad men or for good men. For the latter don’t need laws, and the former are not made better by them.
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His favourite line to quote from Homer was:
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The idler and the toiler both come to death alike.*
He even praised Thersites,* calling him a Cynic demagogue.
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When asked which philosopher he approved of he replied, ‘They are all admirable, but personally I honour Socrates, I admire Diogenes, and I love Aristippus.’*
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He lived to be nearly a hundred, without illness or pain, troubling nobody and asking no favours, helping his friends, and never making a single enemy. Not only the Athenians but the whole of Greece had such an affection for him, that when he was passing by the magistrates rose up in his honour and everyone fell silent. At the end, when very old he would eat and sleep uninvited in any house he happened to pass, and the occupants would think this some sort of divine visitation, and that a good spirit had entered their house. As he walked past bread-sellers, they would pull him towards them, each wanting him to take her bread, and the one who managed to give him some thought this was her own good fortune. And children too brought him fruit and called him father.
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Once when there was some political strife in Athens, he entered the Assembly and just by appearing there he produced total silence. Then seeing that they were now ashamed of themselves he left without saying a word.
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When he became aware that he could no longer look after himself, he quoted to his companions the verses spoken by the heralds when closing the games:
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Now ends the contest that gives out the fairest of prizes:
The time calls you all to delay not your going.*
Then he abstained from food altogether and departed from life as cheerfully as he had always appeared to anyone he met. Shortly before the end someone asked him, ‘What are your instructions about your funeral?’ ‘Don’t go to any trouble,’ he said, ‘the stench will cause me to be buried.’ The man went on to say, ‘But surely it would be unseemly to expose to the birds and dogs the body of such a distinguished man?’ Demonax replied, ‘It’s not in the least disgusting if even when I’m dead I can be of use to living creatures.’ However, the Athenians gave him a splendid public funeral and mourned him for a long time; and as a mark of honour to him they would bow down before and put garlands on the stone seat where he used to rest when he was tired, thinking that even the stone on which he sat was sacred. Absolutely everyone attended the funeral, especially the philosophers. Indeed it was they who carried him on their shoulders to the grave.
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These are just a few of the many things I could have mentioned, but they can give my readers a clear idea of the sort of man he was.