by Antonio Napoli

I was in prison again. I was in trouble again. If the greatest misery is to recall, in times of misfortune, the happiest moments, then I owed my sorrow and my ill fate to the book of memory. But the gods know that, in that moment, I would not have parted from it for anything.

The book had remained in the house of that old informant, and I had no scheme to get either myself or Speusippus out of prison. It was then that I realized the papyrus, beyond its knowledge, also granted access to extraordinary powers.

I cast a sorrowful glance at my friend, who had slept for quite a while. He awoke and, seeing my distress, answered with a smile. Then, sighing, he remarked:

“Life is unpredictable. Let us simply delight in being alive.”

We spent the rest of the morning in silence, until the prison door opened, admitting a new inmate. The already cramped cell grew even more crowded.

The new prisoner was a stout man, with a flat nose and full lips, his gaze calm to the point of impassivity. His fingers were tangled in his thick beard, as if searching for something. Speusippus regarded him with the kind benevolence one reserves for a fellow countryman in foreign lands. He, too, was Greek.

He sat on the bench and introduced himself.
“My name is Timaeus.”

Then, with a sigh, he added:
“This arrest came at the worst time… It interrupted a philosophical discussion I would like to resume with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Gladly,” answered Speusippus. “But first, tell us about this city, how you arrived here, and what trouble befell you.”

“This city,” he began, raising his eyes toward the small window that smiled at us with the midday light, “this city seems planted by a hundred concubines, besieged outside the walls by thieves and swarming within with forgers. It is defended to the north by a stretch of desert infested with deadly serpents—anyone who flees in that direction is doomed. From all other sides, it is easily accessible, yet those who arrive here find themselves ensnared by a justice that sees danger everywhere. I came from the east, drawn by the legend of a magical book… By day, I earn my living teaching the art of self-governance. I do not hide my fondness for drink, and I always pay my tab, yet they do not expel me from taverns for drunkenness, but rather because, intoxicated by my own discourse, I enthrall young men with the force of my words. Instead of enlisting in the army, they indulge in pleasure… or, if already armed, they desert.”

Then he turned to us and asked,
“And you? What misfortunes brought you here?”

Speusippus smiled and shook his head.
“Slanders against us… They took us for thieves. But tell us, if you will, about the conversation that was interrupted, so that we may take up its thread again.”

I had a heavy head, but I listened without speaking. If I now record their dialogue before my still-clear memories fade, I do so to prove that no prison can confine the free flight of two minds.

“I was debating with a young man the idea that happiness consists in fulfilling one’s desires. Do you agree?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Speusippus. “It is a sound argument.”

“And tell me: if a man were to desire his own unhappiness, what would happen, according to your reasoning, if he attained what he sought?” Timaeus asked.

Speusippus hesitated.
“I cannot conceive of anyone desiring unhappiness.”

“And yet, Speusippus, is it not possible that, overcome by ignorance, despair, or guilt, a man might seek his own ruin, believing he will find solace in it? Do you not see, then, that not all desires are worthy of pursuit?”

Speusippus was deeply struck by these words. He seemed to forget the prison around him, as if he had suddenly found himself in a philosophical school overlooking the Mediterranean.

“I would then say,” he clarified, “that only the desires of those who have not lost their reason—of those, in other words, who are guided by a balanced mind—lead to happiness.”

“That is a well-formed answer!” exclaimed Timaeus. “But tell me: what man, sane or mad, would not be tormented by boredom if he could never lose his happiness?”

Speusippus grew agitated.
“What are you saying? Do we not desire happiness precisely so that we may possess it forever?”

Timaeus clicked his tongue, let his still-white teeth glimmer, rolled his eyes, and raised a finger.

“Perhaps you are missing an essential point: it is precisely the fleeting nature of happiness that makes it so precious. Is it not true that happiness arises from the end of pain, of unrest, of its opposite state? Do you not believe this?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Speusippus.

“Then we can say that happiness does not belong to the one who possesses it forever, but to the one who keeps alive the desire to seek it or recover it. It is restlessness that drives us toward the good, which is never given all at once. Do you agree?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Thus, we return to our starting point: it is not the fulfillment of every desire that leads us to happiness, but rather the ability to discern which desires are truly worth pursuing.”

“And how can one discern among our desires to understand which brings us the joy of living?”

“That is a crucial question, but you see—”

The door opened again. A guard entered and took Timaeus away, abruptly ending the discussion. He seemed annoyed by the interruption, and I believe he would have been, even if freedom had awaited him on the other side of that door.

“Where are they taking him?” asked Speusippus with concern.

“You’ll see that your fellow countryman will manage,” I replied to reassure him. “He has a quick tongue, and with his twisted reasoning, he leads men to act without being too sure of what they are doing. But let us think of ourselves: here, thieves and murderers suffer the same fate—the death sentence.”

“My father always told me, ‘You never know what the day holds until it comes to an end,'” recalled Speusippus.

And I would have wished to find in my memories, more than mere proverbs, a glimmer of a solution to our plight.

Not long after the philosopher’s departure, the head of the guards summoned us.

Did he truly want to hear our defense? Was this unexpected hearing perhaps a favor granted thanks to that sharp-tongued philosopher, always ready to find a way out, some of which he had used to help us? Or were we about to be executed in this city whose name would not outlive its inhabitants?

Speusippus, who still had the power to read the silent discourse of my eyes, whispered in my ear:
“You’ll see, a child will save us. I dreamt it.”

“Dreams, dreams!” I exclaimed. “We forget more dreams than we remember. Should we give them such importance?”

“In my land, they say that we are driven to seek because everything fills us with wonder… And I always marvel at the content of my dreams.”

I would come to learn that he was right.