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The Funeral Oration And The Price of Objectivity
We shall conclude with, by most standards, the least “realistic” document in Thucydides, the self-consciously idealizing Funeral Oration, because this speech captures one of the great tensions within the History. The Funeral Oration presents us with an Athens that not only balances the interests of city and man but also addresses a more historically contingent problem. It establishes a delicate synthesis that combines the values of the traditional Greek elite with those of a democratic society. Of course, the description of the plague, which follows almost immediately, betrays the fragility of Athenian society and undermines much of what Perikles says (although it is important to remember that Perikles delivers his heroic final speech after the section on the plague and Perikles, not the plague, has the final word). In at least one regard, however, Perikles anticipates the problems that will occur, for, in the final analysis, it is Athenian power that commands the respect and love of its citizens, and Perikles thus bases much of his argument on a motivation that virtually all realist thinkers have stressed:[34] the love of power, which emerges as a fundamental human trait in the Archaeology and continues to shape events through all eight books. The Thucydidean Perikles thus builds his idealizing vision[35] on a sound realist base and defends it against that scorn that would bring down the “ancient simplicity.”
At the same time, however, the emphasis on power is itself inconsistent with Perikles’ larger project, for the values of the traditional Greek elite, as a particular historical system, depended for their survival upon the at least partial mystification of power and especially upon embedding power within affections and social bonds. Thus even in the Funeral Oration itself, the problems of Thucydides’ outlook appear, for the realism that Thucydides takes for granted renders the Periklean synthesis unstable. Even if the History had broken off after the Funeral Oration, and there had been no description of the plague, no Mytilenean debate, no slaughter of the Plataians, no Melos, even so the Funeral Oration would have given up fundamental principles upon which that ancient simplicity had depended.
First, in the Funeral Oration the Thucydidean Perikles articulates a vision of democracy that synthesizes qualities that elsewhere clash, for the greatness of the Athenian polls makes aristocrats of all its citizens:[36] in normal language, the “good and the beautiful” (kalos kagathos) designated the persons and values of the upper class. Elsewhere, the Thucydidean Kleon also attempts to unify society when he daringly appropriates for “the more common sort” (Thuc. 3.3 7.3: hoi phauloteroi) that moderation, sôphrosunê, by which the elite defined themselves. In the Funeral Oration, on the other hand, the aristocratic Perikles pushes in the opposite direction, assimilating the common people upward into the elite: all Athenians, rich and poor, are champions of “greatheartedness,” which can lavish favors on friends without expecting anything in return (2.40.4). In the Funeral Oration, every Athenian—and especially those who lay down their lives for the community, whatever their private faults (2.42.3)—can share in the aretê of the city. In the Funeral Oration, all Athenians, because they are not afraid to die, fashion their own freedom (2.43.4).
The democratization of aristocratic values is a major theme of the Funeral Oration. A single passage will suffice to illustrate this. In this passage, Perikles notes that great families could erect imposing burial monuments to their dead, but all those who give their lives for Athens receive a far greater honor:
For this offering of their lives made in common by them all they each of them individually received that renown that never grows old, and for a tomb, not so much that in which their bones have been deposited, but that noblest of shrines wherein their reputation (doxa) is laid up to be eternally remembered upon every occasion on which deed or story shall fall for its commemoration. [3] For famous men have the whole earth for their tomb. Not only do inscriptions on stone columns (stêlôn epigraphê) serve as their memorial (sêmainei), but even in lands beyond our control there resides in every breast a memory unwritten (agraphos mnêmê) more of their resolve (gnômê) than even of their accomplishment (ergon).
This extraordinarily dense passage builds upon and extends the ideologically charged imagery of aristocratic burial. On the one hand, the Athenian state conventionally erected as funeral monuments stone slabs (stêlai) that listed the names of those Athenians and even their allies who had fallen in battle.[37] At the same time, wealthy Greek families had, in the archaic period, erected imposing funeral monuments to their dead. Not only were some of these still visible,[38] but, starting in about 430—roughly the dramatic date of Perikles’ Funeral Oration—there was a change in fashion at Athens, and Athenians began once again to lavish large amounts of wealth on impressive burial monuments.[39] Such private burial monuments defined stares and highlighted social stratification—that was, in fact, their purpose, for the rich chose to convert their wealth into visible symbols of their position.
Perikles, however, daringly converts this divisive practice into a unifying image-the boldness of this paradoxical maneuver is comparable to that of Diodotos, when he accepts the terms of debate imposed by Kleon. All of those who give their lives for Athens receive an imposing tomb—indeed, a tomb that is far more imposing than any material monument ever could hope to be. The richest aristocrats must content themselves with physical monuments that are, however splendid, fixed in place. The Athenian dead, by contrast, not only have their state monument but have achieved a reputation that travels far beyond Athens and its possessions.[40] This is a well-known convention: the poet Pindar, for example, boasts that his work is no statue, rooted to the ground, but can travel freely in every ship that floats (Nem. 5.1–3). But for Athens this idea has an added force: however far Athenian power may have extended the city’s possessions, the memory of these individuals will travel even farther. Loved or hated, they will be remembered far beyond the spatial and temporal limits of Athenian domination. Where the realist Thucydides resolutely champions the importance of erga, real accomplishments, his Perikles strikes an aggressively idealistic pose: these individuals will be remembered not so much for what they have done but for gnômê their moral resolve.[41]
Perikles, in good Thucydidean style, forcefully grounds the idealism of this speech on realist foundations. Perikles’ remark at the opening of Thucydides 2.41—where he calls Athens “the school of Hellas” [42]—has become famous, not least because Athens actually did, after the fall of the Athenian empire and especially during the Roman Empire, develop into the cultural center of Greece. The proof that Perikles adduces for this has, however, attracted less attention. Athens has not become the school of Hellas because Perikles filled the city with spectacular architecture (most Greeks would have preferred Delphi or Olympia) or because Athenian literature was preeminent (Athenian drama was still primarily a local literary form written by and for Athenians) or because Athenians were the greatest philosophers (Plato had not yet been born, and Sokrates was still just a local eccentric) or because the Athenians excelled at history (Herodotus, sympathetic as he may have been to Athens, was not Athenian, and Thucydides had scarcely begun work in 430). Athens is the school of Hellas because it has more power than any other state.
Nor is this Athenian power subtle or understated: the Spartan military power partakes, I have argued, largely of bluff; for the Spartans, with their fixed numbers, could not even annex Tegea, and although they (when reinforced by their allies) may be irresistible in a single battle, they cannot project their force over a long period of time. Spartan power has much in common with Foucault’s invisible, pervasive discipline, for Spartan leadership depends upon moral leadership and symbolic capital that, as I pointed out in chapter 8, places serious constraints on their action. On the other hand, Foucault’s “spectacle of the scaffold,” the public, dramatized display of power—the ability to inflict tangible violence upon the physical bodies of their opponents—constitutes the Athenian power that Perikles celebrates. If Athens is the school of Greece, then the Athenians can be grim schoolmasters. Melos and Skione, of course, lay in the future, as did that Athenian mercy that restricted executions on Mytilene to 1,000 men and gently reduced the remaining population to serfdom (Thuc. 3.50).[43] But many of those who listened to Perikles would have served under him when he had brought Athenian power to bear and crushed the revolt of Samas a decade before. Thucydides’ text, at least as it stands now, had already included a summary of the Samian revolt (1.115.2–117).[44]
The Athenian citizens are, we hear, uniquely accomplished. A symbiotic relationship links the excellence of individual Athenians to the power of their city as a whole: in this, the Thucydidean Perikles is surely appropriating for Athens a claim usually made for the Spartan way of life in the fifth century.[45] He goes on to develop his vision of Athenian power:
And that this is no mere boast thrown out for the occasion, but truth of deeds (ergôn alêtheia), the power (dunamis) of the state acquired by these habits proves. [3] For Athens alone of its contemporaries is found when tested to be stronger (kreissôn) than its reputation and alone gives no occasion to its assailants to blush at the antagonist by whom they have been worsted, or to its subjects to question its title by merit to rule.
Perikles is not content to make pious statements. He insists that Athens’s position is real, it is the “truth,” alêtheia, of “actual deeds,” erga. Athens is so powerful that no one exaggerates its accomplishments. It is so great that those whom it crushes in the field depart without loss of dignity. The reality of Athenian power is its anchor, now and in the future:
Rather, the admiration of the present and succeeding ages will be ours, since we have not left our power (dunamis) without witness but have shown it by mighty proofs; and far from needing a Homer for our panegyrist, or other of his craft whose verses might charm for the moment only for the impression that they gave to melt at the touch of fact, we have forced (katanankasantes) every sea and land to be the highway of our daring and everywhere, whether for evil or for good, have left imperishable monuments (mnêmeia) behind us. [5] Such is the Athens for which these individuals, in the assertion of their resolve not to lose it, nobly fought and died; and well may every one of their survivors be ready to suffer in its cause.
Perikles leaves no doubt as to the nature of Athenian power, and thus of the source of Athens’s position. The Athenians have brought the world to its knees—they have pushed themselves onto every sea and land. Nothing can stand in their way, and they have covered the world with “imperishable monuments” of their accomplishments. The boasts of the statesmen merge with those of the historian (cf. Thuc. 1.21): the Athenians have no need for the seductive fantasies of the poets, because their power is real and, being not “without witness,” can be confirmed despite hostile scrutiny. At the center of Athenian identity stands the power to compel and, if necessary, to destroy. It was not for some vague ideal or empty platitude but for this power that these individuals fought and died.
A few sentences later, Perikles returns to this theme, arguing that it is power that renders Athens an object deserving of adoration and worthy of every sacrifice. This is one of the few places where a speaker—especially an Athenian speaker—moves away from immediate self-interest and urges subordination of the self to some other goal. The dead deserve praise because they appreciated the city for what it was:
So died these men as became Athenians. You, their survivors, must determine to have as unfaltering a resolution in the field, though you may pray that it may have a happier issue. And do not consider with words (logos) alone the advantage (ôphelia) that is bound up with the defense of your country, though this would furnish a valuable text to a speaker even before an audience so alive to them as the present. Rather, you must yourselves day by day gaze upon the power (dunamis)—power in real fact (ergon)—of Athens and become its lovers (erastai). And then when the city seems to you to be great (megalê), you must reflect that it was by daring (tolmôntes), recognizing those things that had to be done, and a keen sense of shame (aischunomenoi) in action that mortals won all this. Whenever in any attempt they met with failure, they nevertheless resolved not to deprive the city at least of their own aretê but laid it at the city’s feet as the most noble (kalliston) contribution that they could offer.
The language is typically Thucydidean. There is the familiar, obsessive contrast between language (logoi) and material advantage (ôphelia). In the translation above I have also tried to bring out the force of dunamis as it is modified by ergon. Furthermore, these dead Athenians clearly resemble the Athenians of the Corinthian speech at Thucydides 1.68–71: they exhibit boldness (tolmê), forge ahead to do what they must, and let nothing stop them.
The most striking element of this passage, however, is the term erastai, “lovers” (pl. of erastês, “lover”). The Athenians who are still alive are supposed to gaze upon Athens and fall in love with their city. The language is quite strong, since an erastês is one possessed by erôs—erotic love. The Athenians are not supposed to feel a kind of sublimated, chaste love for a high ideal. Perikles frankly eroticizes the polis, making it an object that commands sexual desire.
Sexual passion for the city would not have struck Athenians at the time as a strange metaphor, for it seems to have been a topos in the later fifth century.[46] Thus, when Cloudcuckooland in Aristophanes’ Birds becomes a smashing success, the Herald declares: “You do not know how much honor this city earns among mortals / or how many erastai, ‘lovers,’ of this land you have” (Av. 1278–1279). A few lines later (1316), the Chorus glories that “passionate desires (erastes) for my polls prevail!” In the Acharnians, the Thracian Sitalkes is described as philathenian. He was, one character tells the Athenians, “your erastês ”(Ach. 143) and scribbled “Athens is beautiful” graffiti on walls, as a man would do for some sexual favorite. The Knights makes great play out of this image. Kleon appeals for help from Demos, “The People,” “because I love you, O Demos, and I am your erastês ”(Eq. 732). The claim is funny—not because it is absurd to claim to be a lover of the Athenian demos, but because the age and appearance of Demos in this particular play render the profession of love absurd. Men were expected to become erastai of beautiful young boys, not of old men.[47] Nor is this metaphor restricted in the fifth century to comedy: in Euripides’ Phoinician Women, Polyneikes, who in this play is a relatively sympathetic character, tells the Chorus that “all men must feel erôs for their fatherland” (Phoen. 358–359). At Plato Gorgias 481d, we hear of men who declared themselves the erastai of the Athenian demos in order to win their favor. Elsewhere (Alc. 1.132a), Sokrates warns Alkibiades not to become a dêmerastês, “an erastês of the dêmos.”
Perikles’ picture of the erastês transfixed with desire and awe for the erômenos, the object of desire, belongs to a larger tradition of depicting erotic possession. About 600 B.C., roughly the same period when Solon instituted his reforms at Athens, Sappho composed a poem describing the intense feelings of the lover’s gaze (frag. 31). At the sight of the beloved sitting with a man, and the sound of “her sweet voice and lovely laughter,” the poetic narrator loses her voice. A flame runs beneath her flesh. She sees nothing, and her ears hum.
Perikles does not here call upon the Athenians to love Athens for its physical charms or for its generosity or even for the advantages that it confers upon them and the security it provides their families. He explicitly tells his listeners to “fasten their gaze” (theômenous, from theaomai, another strong word) upon the power (dunamis) of the city, and this power is supposed to fill the Athenians with erotic love. Thucydides imagines his listeners contemplating the city in their mind’s eye not because it is good or even because it is, in some personified form, beautiful but because it is great (megalê).
The open worship of power had serious consequences for Greek culture. Consider, for example, the following passage from Euripides’ Phoinissai. In this play, Eteokles is the villainous brother who has cheated Polyneikes out of his position and refuses to deal reasonably with him. Confronted by his mother, Jokasta, Eteokles offers the following explanation:
I will tell you this, Mother, without any concealment: I would go to the rising of the stars and the sun, [505] or beneath the earth, if I were able so to do, to win Tyranny, the greatest of the gods. Therefore, Mother, I will not yield this blessing to another rather than keep it for myself; for it is cowardly to lose the greater [510] and to win the less.[48]
The love of power leads here to the glorification of tyranny, absolute domination at home. Four times Athens itself is characterized as a turannos over other cities,[49] and it is to Athens’s dominant position that Perikles here directs the gaze of his audience. But if the Athenians surrender themselves to their infatuation with Athenian power, then what is to prevent them from seeking their own private power at the expense of others and the state as a whole? This is, in fact, precisely what Thucydides reports to have happened (Thuc. 2.65) and what we can see happening as events splinter into small actions and feuds in book 8. Perikles gave eloquent expression to the importance of the state, especially in his heroic final speech, but his ideas lost force after death removed his personal authority from the scene.
The glorification of power is not simply problematic because it helps produce an Alkibiades. The Thucydidean Perikles anticipates Plato in the Symposium and especially the Phaedrus, where true love reacts not to the physical person but to the abstract qualities that the erômenos embodies. In the Phaedrus, Sokrates explains true love as a force that draws the incorporeal “soul,” psuchê, to it. True love inflames mortals with a kind of madness, mania, but this madness is a good thing (Phdr. 249d). This occurs when the soul of the lover sees to kallos, “physical beauty” (but also, in other contexts, “nobility”), on earth and, through this vision, recalls the “true” kallos (to alêthês). For Plato, justice (dikaiosunê) and self-control (sôphrosunê) constitute true beauty and inspire desire (250b–d). The true lover does not exploit the object of his desires for the sake of pleasure and pursue mere sexuality (250e).
True passion touches body and spirit equally:
When he sees a godlike (theoeides) face or form that is a good image of beauty (kallos), he shudders at first, and something of the old awe comes over him. Then, as he gazes, he reveres (sebetai) the beautiful one as a god, and if he did not fear to be thought stark mad, he would offer sacrifice to his beloved as to a cult statue (agalma) or a god. And as he looks upon him, a reaction from his shuddering comes over him, with sweat and unwonted heat; for as the effluence of beauty (to kallos) enters him through the eyes, he is warmed.
The physical symptoms are similar to those in Sappho, but Plato has subordinated the physical to another—in his scheme, higher—sphere. Love, in this view, is a personal submission to some transcendent, ultimately impersonal quality, but the experience remains deeply physical: trembling, sweat, and heat transfix the very corporeal sensations of the lover even as he senses through his equally fleshly beloved the grand, transcendent qualities that give this love its true meaning. The flesh remains as a barrier, but as a barrier that, with all its limitations, constitutes a kind of lens that gives shape to the very emotions that look beyond this world.
In Thucydides, by contrast, the object of erotic desire has no physical being. Athenian power has many proofs, but these are signs that point to a quality that is seductive but impersonal. This adoration of power constitutes, like the aggressive candor of Thucydides’ Athenians, a thoroughly modern simplicity, for it openly declares itself and does not hide behind hypocritical fictions. Perikles is in fact attempting to resolve a problem of Athenian nature. I have argued that the Athenians refuse from the Corcyraean debate onward to embed their dealings with others in affective ties, and in so doing they have set themselves apart from the Corinthians, Corcyraeans, Plataians, and other more traditional Greeks. Perikles attempts to re-embed the crucial relationship between the city and man. The realist’s love of power drives the idealist’s selfess patriotism.
Contrast this vision of the Athenian polls with that of Hannah Arendt. Confronted with the twin barbarisms of Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia, Arendt turned to the Greek polls as a space for “human plurality.” Totalitarian regimes had attempted to destroy individuality and render each person—even Hitler and Stalin themselves—the anonymous representatives of transcendent historical forces.[50] The fundamental equality and tangible distinctness of human beings combined to render each human life special, make possible interaction between people, and allow each of us to “insert ourselves into the human world”—to “act,” as Arendt interprets the term.[51] We are, in Arendt’s view, human only insofar as we “act,” setting into motion by our words and deeds—even by our birth—further trains of consequences that no one could predict. But we can act in this way only in the presence of other, distinct human beings: the people who witness our actions and feel their consequences provide these actions with their meaning. More than once Arendt quotes the Thucydidean Perikles to help explain this humanistic vision.[52]
But if the Funeral Oration—with its grand vision of a democratic society where all citizens share rights and responsibilities—provides Arendt with a starting point for her work, Thucydides and his Perikles reveal a habit of thought that would develop into the totalitarianism that haunted Arendt. When Perikles calls upon the citizens of Athens to lose themselves in their adoration of the polis, he undermines the distinctness of its citizens. Athens becomes an embodiment of power, and this power seduces each subject into the same position of submission and adoration. The power that makes of each Athenian an erastês foreshadows the ideological schemes and historical necessities that would make the supporters of Hitler and Stalin sacrifice their lives as well as their individuality to a truth that supposedly transcended human values.
But if the Thucydidean Perikles at his best reveals a potential for totalitarianism, his aristocratic vision paved the way for atomizing the citizens and for transforming them into what Arendt would call a mob.[53] While Perikles lived, he could, by the force of his will, twist the love of power to the city’s advantage, but the lover’s adoration, which inspires the individual to give up everything for the city, faded after his death. After Perikles was gone, “personal ambitions and personal profits” (Thuc. 2.65.7: idiai philotimiai kai idia kerdê) drove subsequent leaders to undertake projects that were not in the interests of the state. The grand exemplar of this attitude is, of course, Perikles’ own kinsman, Alkibiades, who is, more than anyone, the dominant personality in the last three books of the History. Where Kleon had been a would-be Perikles, the more able (at least in Thucydides) Alkibiades approached this level and fashioned himself as a kind of anti-Perikles.[54]
Alkibiades’ speech at Sparta (Thuc. 6.89–92) occurs more than two books before the History breaks off, but in several ways it marks an end. This, the final political speech in the History, balances the first Athenian speech, which also was delivered at Sparta. More important, Alkibiades articulates both the collapse of the Periklean ideal (and thus the decline that Thucydides cites at 2.65 and 8.89.3) and the resurgence of a traditional elite disdain for the state (of which Thucydides, as I argued in the previous section, has less to say and which he distorts according to his own prejudices). Consider Alkibiades’ famous enunciation of patriotism near the conclusion of the speech:
I hope that none of you will think any the worse of me if after having hitherto passed as a lover of my country, I now actively join its worst enemies in attacking it, or will suspect what I say as the fruit of an outlaw’s enthusiasm. [3] I am an outlaw from the iniquity of those who drove me forth, not, if you will be guided by me, from your service: my worst enemies are not you who only harmed your foes, but they who forced their friends to become enemies; [4] and love of country is what I do not feel when I am wronged, but what I felt when secure in my rights as a citizen. Indeed I do not consider that I am now attacking a country that is still mine; I am rather trying to recover one that is mine no longer; and the true lover of his country is not he who consents to lose it unjustly rather than attack it, but he who longs for it so much that he will go all lengths to recover it.
K.J. Dover, in his commentary on this passage, labeled the above reasoning “a sophistry that is obscure and lame.” Of course, it is sophistict—almost everyone in Thucydides speaks in sophistic terms, and Alkibiades was himself a product of the later fifth-century intelligentsia—but I do not think that the reasoning would have seemed either “obscure” or “lame.” Nathan Marsh Pusey was closer to the mark when he stressed that patriotism was, at least among the Greek elite with their many international connections, hardly universal.[55] Alkibiades is simply restating the deeply traditional Greek commonplace that one should harm enemies and help friends. The Athenians, who should have been his friends, have harmed Alkibiades, and Alkibiades thus has a right—even a duty—to retaliate in kind. The strong ahistorical streak in the History that was the focus of the beginning of this chapter has correspondingly deflected attention from the traditional aspects of Alkibiades’ position. No doubt, Peisistratos, during his long years of exile from Athens more than a century before, presented his case in a similar fashion as he prepared his return to power. Plato’s prestige has made famous the attitude of his Sokrates, who in the Krito allows his homeland, however unjustly, to take his life, but the Platonic dialogue itself is hardly the norm. Rather, it constitutes itself an attack upon the far less selfless norms of his time (doubtless obliquely defending Sokrates against his association with Alkibiades himself).
At the same time, the emphasis of Alkibiades’ speech has a decidedly modern—“Athenian” would perhaps be a better word—slant. All of his relationships seem contingent upon his immediate condition. Athens has harmed him, and he is thus now its enemy. He will aid the Spartans because they, although also his enemies, have wronged him less than the Athenians. He makes no attempt to establish a new, ongoing relationship with the Spartans: Alkibiades—in reality, the master of aristocratic alliances inside and beyond Athens—has, in Thucydides, no use for the rhetoric of gift exchange and of symbolic capital that permeates the Corcyraean debate in book 1, the Mytilenean speech and the Platalan defence in book 3, and the Spartan offer of peace in book 4. Like the Athenians after the Corcyraean debate and the Spartans at Plataia, Alkibiades lives in an eternal present, always ready to serve his immediate interests, loyal only to those who can help him in the future, mindful at best of advantages conferred in the immediate past. Alkibiades—energetic, insatiably acquisitive—may be the anti-Perikles, but he perfectly embodies the Athenian character that the Corinthians sketched at Thucydides 1.68–71, almost two decades before. Alkibiades has, if anything, refined the vision of the selfless lover that Perikles sketched at 2.41, for, pushing the city aside and concentrating on his own self, he remains true to the quest for power and advantage that Perikles situated at the core of his Athens.
If Thucydides set out, as I believe that he did, to reconstitute the ancient simplicity—the ideology of the elite into which he had been born and of which he was a product—and to reconcile what we might now call the real with the ideal, he failed. The irresistible desire for power promised but ultimately failed to deliver a calculus of advantage with which to measure each human action. If modern realists have at times been more optimistic in their faith that scientific knowledge can change the world, is this because they have proven more insightful or more knowledgeable than Thucydides, or that the twentieth century provides more room for hope than did democratic Athens? No one in the Greek world—with the possible exception of Aristotle and his school—would achieve this goal or fail with such brilliance. Plato could answer individual such as Kleon with the Republic and Alkibiades with the Krito, but he had to leave the realist program behind, disdaining mere advantage and seeking to ground his reasoning in the good. The Greek mathematicians, such as Euclid and Archimedes, would push human understanding as far toward “true knowledge” as any single body of thinkers ever has, but they too had to leave the human world behind and entered an ideal geometrical world of their own fashioning. Thucydides refused to make such compromises. He remained with the savageries and horrors of his time. A failed general, he nevertheless kept his gaze fixed upon events in which he no longer had a part. Whatever the strengths and weaknesses of his work—and they are both great—the struggle to “save the phenomena,” to synthesize the tangible with the ideal, continues now, as it will doubtless always continue. Thucydides contributed to this practice at an early stage of European culture, as ideas and writing began to evolve together. “With all his rationalism, Thucydides is equally on the side of the active life, no matter what its disappointments, and in the active life the prize is not truth, though there may be truth, but immortality.” [56]