Socrates: Oh! For crying out loud!

Archimedes: What is it, Socrates?

S: Look what I just stepped in! It’s all over my sandal!

A: And it looks like it was fresh, too.

S: It’s disgusting.

A: It’s the price of progress, Socrates.

S: Hmm?

A: It’s progress. It’s a natural byproduct of the rhythm of the city, the throb of industry, the hustle and bustle of a swelling GDP.

S: It sounds sexy, but what does it have to do with all the excrement in the streets?

A: I’m talking about something that I like to call “work,” Socrates. I’m talking about inputs and outputs and energy flows. You can’t accomplish anything without adding energy, right?

S: You’ve lost me.

A: All right, look at it this way. Say you want to walk from your house to the Agora. That’s taking your body, which has mass, and moving it across a certain amount of space over a certain amount of time, right? Well, that’s what I call “work.”

S: Go on.

A: But suppose you haven’t eaten anything for a week. Will you be able to move your body across this distance? Will you be able to perform “work”?

S: Have I been drinking wine all that time? Because this one semester in college—

A: No, no drinking, either. No inputs.

S: Then I suppose I would be dead.

A: And…?

S: And...uh...remembered fondly for all eternity for my patented “me method” of questioning, my love of syllogisms, and my fabulous 30-minute leave-‘em-wanting-Moor heavenly hummus recipe?

A: Perhaps. But go on.

S: And, well, I guess, being dead, I would be unable to perform the work you are suggesting.

A: Bingo!

S: I really hate to talk about my death, though. It sort of freaks me out. Like, a lot.

A: And do you know what happens in the large intestine of a man who has just died?

S: Whoa!

A: Not to worry. We can talk about something else. How about this: you need energy flowing in before you can perform work in all situations, right? Especially when you are alive. So, what happens about twelve to twenty-four hours after you have taken in the energy flow, say, in the form of that hummus?

S: I see your point, my friend, although the pleasantness of engaging in dialogue with you has not mitigated the stink of all this output. Surely the gods have, in their wisdom, granted to men some kind of energy flow that does not result in streets clogged with feces. Haven’t they?

A: I’m not aware of any. In fact, I have a simple theorem which describes the phenomenon. Consider it this way. You still want to get from your house to the Agora, right?

S: I’m not so sure it’s worth it anymore.

A: Come on, Socrates. Play along. Now, you want to get from your house to the Agora, right?

S: Sure, why not?

A: Well, it takes you a certain amount of time to get there walking, correct?

S: So far, so good.

A: And your bowel movements are of a certain size, are they not?

S: And here we go again. Look. Where, exactly, are we going with this? We aren’t planning to measure them, are we?

A: Not at all. Rather, imagine now that you wanted to get to the Agora faster. We now need to move the same body the same distance, but at a greater speed. By my theorem, this means that we need to perform more work. How shall we do it?

S: I could transport myself there in my imagination.

A: Or, how about a horse? You could ride a horse to the Agora, which is the fashion these days, even though the Agora is only two blocks away. Now, the horse performs more work than you did—what with its four legs and its great rapidity—and what do you notice about the horse’s bowel movements?

S: By the gods, Archimedes! You are a genius! For, just as you say, the horse’s bowel movement is significantly larger than my own. But…

A: But what, Socrates?

S: I don’t know. Isn’t there another possibility? Suppose, for instance, instead of having streets we had streams of running water. Then, if I wanted to get to the Agora from my house, I could just float out my front door and down the street in a dinghy. Wouldn’t that be accomplishing work without all the feces?

A: It’s a nice thought, Socrates. I’m annoyed that I didn’t think of it myself.

S: Oh, but it’s not perfect, I realize. For how would I get back to my house from the Agora? The water would need to flow uphill, and the gods seem to have decreed that water should not do such a thing.

A: True, but we could work this out. Suppose we employ slaves to drag you back up your street, against the current, to your house every evening?

S: A splendid idea! Although—trust me on this—slaves are also prone to defecating.

A: Not if we don’t feed them. I’m just talking off the top of my head here, but we could fatten the slaves up outside the city, import them to haul whoever or whatever needs to be towed against the current until they run out of energy, then dump them offshore. Voila! No excrement!

S: Well, there will still be excrement.

A: But not any we have to think about because we won’t see it! Oh, I’m coming up with a philosophy right here and now: “no see, no pee; no lookee, no dookie!”

S: That second one’s barely even a rhyme.

A: Actually, there’s no rhyme at all in the Greek.

S: Something deeper seems strange to me, though, Archimedes. Let’s forget the slaves a moment and get back to the water moving me all by itself when it is flowing downhill. Now, water is bearing me a certain distance in a certain amount of time in this scenario, yet the water does not appear to defecate in accordance with your theorem. Gotcha!

A: Oh, I’m sure it does. We probably just can’t see it, because it’s transparent in water.

S: Then I’ll stick to drinking wine. But consider this also, my friend. Suppose I plant a sunflower seed, and the seed then sprouts and grows up into the air. It has moved from one point to another over time, has it not?

A: Of course.

S: So this is some kind of work that it’s performing?

A: Naturally.

S: And where is the excrement, then?

A: Socrates, you more than most people should know that just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist.

S: Wait a minute! Weren’t you the one just saying that whole “no see, no pee” thing?

A: That was in another part of my argument. Now we’ve moved on.

S: ...

A: Can you see Justice? Can you see Truth? Of course not, yet these things exist, according to your own teaching. Therefore you must admit the possibility of invisible yet still existent Poo.

S: Perfect Poo?

A: Formal Poo.

S: Well argued, my friend. You’ve certainly trapped me with your debating skills. Indeed, one might even say that when it comes to philosophizing about Poo, you give old Socrates the runs for his money. Ha! No? You wouldn’t say that? Oh. Well. I just—

A: Athens is a city of great progress, it is true. And work is at the heart of it. Work, I think, will make us free.

S: I like the sound of that. But now let me ask you this. Which would you prefer on the street? Visible or invisible poo?

A: Well, certainly I would prefer the poo to be invisible, but what are you suggesting, Socrates? Animals participate in the Form of the Poo in very visible ways, as we have seen. What would you have us base our economy on, some sort of plant-based work? Are you planning to transport yourself from your house to the Agora on a vine? It will take months! This town can’t run on vines, Socrates. It’s got to move. It’s got to go fast. It needs an energy source that exudes huge steaming piles of excrement. Our excrement is our badge of honor.

S: How great for us.

A: Take Carterroneos. Country bumpkin’ thinks that he can make fuel from corn and get the city-state to run on its energy! Why doesn’t he just suggest putting on a woolen sweater when it gets cool in the evening rather than burn another lantern of oil?! I mean, come on! He just doesn’t understand work. As Athenians, we have a natural-born right not to use plant-based energy. That’s why the gods gave us a never-ending supply of Mastodons to use for their oil.

S: Indeed. And olives.

A: What’s that?

S: Don’t we use the oil from olives to help us do work? Say I want to keep philosophizing at night but it’s dark, so I light a lantern with olive oil. Or perhaps I’m having relations with my wife or a slave or a student, and the gods aren’t making it easy that day. Or better yet, imagine we take the skins from several rams, stitch them together to form an extremely long and narrow carpet, soak the carpet in olive oil, and then lay it out between my door and the Agora. With just a small run leaving home, I could slip and slide my way downtown without much effort—and exactly the same back home at night. The olive oil is doing at least some of the work, is it not?

A: Well…

S: Oh! And what about the air blowing the sails of ships? Don’t we use Poseidon’s breath to move our goods? Couldn’t we rely on energy from the gods?

A: Aethernol? It’s a myth, my friend.

S: You mean like the Chimaera or the female orgasm? Perhaps. Or perhaps we’re just not trying to make it work because we are so used to relying on our oxen and mules and slaves.

A: You think there is collusion in the husbandry business?

S: Don’t be silly. But consider this: what if we could harness the power of the Forms themselves, such as the Form of Energy, which is One and Perfect and Self-Identical. If there were some way that we could split it in two, perhaps it would release a huge amount of perfect energy, whose poo would, consequently, be perfect as well. And self-identical, of course.

A: Socrates, I have to admit that you have bested me in your thinking on this subject. But your sandals still stink.

S: You know, old friend, you are an excellent philosopher as well.

A: It’s nice of you to say, Socrates, but you’re definitely number one. I’m at best number two.

S: With you, Archimedes, it’s always about number two.
*****

H. Peter Steeves is Professor of Philosophy at DePaul University and can be reached at psteeves@depaul.edu. Steven J. Ingeman is an independent scholar and Circulation Supervisor at Mary Riley Styles Library in Falls Church, VA and can be reached at ingeman@falls-church.lib.va.us.