#XANTHIPPE
One of the great injustices of history is the reputation of being a shrew assigned to Socrates’ long-suffering wife Xanthippe. There’s even an animal named after her that lives in Africa. Xanthippe’s shrew. The name says it all! Mind you, if you see one, it’s a delightful little creature.
We know very little about Xanthippe. They say she was much younger than Socrates and bore him three sons. They also say she was a nag, but since her husband seems to have spent most of his time hanging out with young men and pontificating, she probably had good cause.
My favourite story is that one day, in complete frustration, she poured a chamber pot of piss over his head. (If I’ve mentioned this before, please forgive me, it’s one of my favourite tales and I do have senior moments!)
When I finally read the man himself, my sympathy for Xanthippe solidified, but it was reading Robert M. Pirsig that first opened my eyes to the real legacy of the ‘great philosopher’. This is my tribute:
On reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
So, Socrates, you were the one,
you little windbag, were you,
Who split us from ourselves,
putting our minds on pedestals
And confining all the rest of us
to mechanist oblivion?
Because of you the noble savage
to a savage noble turned
And light dimmed from our planet
as the holy women burned.
The rape, the torture of our mother earth,
you sanctioned that,
You and your golden boys,
your precious toys who hung about
Your intellectual crotch,
exchanging adulation for the lecher’s touch.
How does it feel now,
after all these years?
Do you lie snug/smug
in some Olympian males-only club?
Or are you still turning in an earthly grave,
wondering why worms
Have shown such scant respect
to someone of your towering intellect?
