On Thucydides

History of the Peloponnesian War. Trans. Rex Warner. London: Penguin, 1967.


Calculated and cold, the History of the Peloponessian War by Thucydides appears to possess the qualities of detachment, objectivity and precision, while in many ways it is a textured labyrinth that is difficult to interpret, even in light of critical literature. It lacks romance, a lack which may not be a strength, and the author hides his sources, casting a shadow of suspicion upon his intentions. Nevertheless, the work is a titan of ancient reportage on the great conflict between Sparta and Athens (431-404 BC) and their many satellites, whether imagined or real. It is a prose tragedy that follows the downfall of the Athenian empire. Thucydides himself fought in the war, and suffered exile after losing Amphipolis. Like Herodotus, Thucydides includes many speeches, which may or may not be his inventions, but the fact remains that even if they are, they reflect what took place in at least one mind from that era, and this has enormous value for the historian and philosopher. More than anything, Thucydides portrays the monotony of drawn-out warfare, repetitious engagements involving the reduction of cities, the massacres, the fortifications, enslavements, revolutions, diplomatic missions, intrigues, the constant destruction. Rarely is the monotony broken by a glimmer of hope; perhaps no other work in the history of ancient literature, besides the Iliad, has portrayed the utter futility of war with such clarity. On the other hand, through the speeches and movements of the ambassadors, generals and citizens, the reader becomes involved in the conflict or conversation of ideas that revolve around Sparta and Athens, a rewarding thought exercise with frightening implications. It is easy to forget that a book like this cost hundreds of thousands of lives; there is something very dark in reading it with aesthetic pleasure, but its clarity, terseness and panorama make such pleasure unavoidable.

Struggle is naturally the central theme of the entire work. Struggle as a concept is viewed from every possible angle. In the Second Congress of Sparta, the Corinthians portray struggle as civilization itself; without war, men lose all of the benefits of civilization at the hands of aggressors: “Therefore they should not shrink from the prospect of choosing war instead of peace. Wise men certainly choose a quiet life, so long as they are not being attacked, but brave men, when an attack is made on them, will reject peace and go to war, though they will be perfectly ready to come to terms in the course of the war. In fact they will neither become over-confident because of their successes in war, nor, because of the charms and blessings of peace, will they put up with acts of aggression. He who thinks of his own pleasures and shrinks from fighting is very likely, because of his irresolution, to lose those very delights which caused his hesitation; while he who goes too far because of a success in war fails to realize that the confidence in which he goes forward is a hollow thing. From every point of view, therefore, you have good reason to go to war, and this course is what we recommend as being in the interests of all of us, remembering that identity of interest both among cities and among individuals is the surest of all guarantees…Let there be no delay either in claiming liberty for all the rest. It is out of the question to wait any longer, with some of us already suffering from aggression, and the rest of us certain to suffer before long in the same way…No, fellow allies, you must recognize instead that the crucial moment has come, that the advice we give you is the best possible advice, and you must vote for war. Do not be afraid of the terrors of the moment, but set your minds instead on the enduring peace that will follow war. War gives peace its security, but one is still not safe from danger if, for the sake of quiet, one refuses to fight” (78-81). Such rhetoric, though sinister for its climactic obfuscation of war and peace, characterizes much of the work, as if Thucydides were constantly circling in a whirlpool around the same abyss of ideas. Later on, Pericles makes a statement similar to that of the Corinthians in the Second Congress: “Remember, too, that freedom, if we preserve our freedom by our own efforts, will easily restore us to our old position; but to submit to the will of others means to lose even what we still have. You must not fall below the standard of your fathers, who not only won an empire by their own toil and sweat, without receiving it from others, but went on to keep it safe so that they could hand it down to you…For those who are politically apathetic can only survive if they are supported by people who are capable of taking action. They are quite valueless in a city, which controls an empire, though they would be safe slaves in a city that was controlled by others” (132). Again, the twists and turns of language can be frightening. In one breath Pericles can speak of empire and it being gained “without receiving it from others”—which is virtually an oxymoron; he introduces the ideas of valueless citizens and political apathy in a city that already has restricted citizenship despite its democracy, a city which mistreats women and deals in slaves, he equates empire with freedom. Nevertheless, like all of the main characters depicted by Thucydides, he raises questions that are worth exploring in any honest consideration of democracy, freedom and conflict. This is perhaps Thucydides’ greatest strength: through the veil of twisting discourse, he still manages to raise some of the most significant questions ever raised on government and culture. For the struggle between Sparta and Athens was not merely commercial and military; it was also cultural, and perhaps even philosophical. To reduce any conflict to one particular economic or territorial reason is to strip reality of its true shape.

Struggle itself, then, and not just the greater picture of warfare, is so integral to the way of life portrayed in this history that Cnemus, Brasidas and other commanders, sensing the lack of self-confidence suffered by their troops prior to an engagement off of Rhium, stress the importance of courage and the will to struggle as more important than martial expertise, experience or anything else: “It was not, therefore, because of any cowardice on our part that we were defeated, nor, merely because this accident has happened, ought we to lose the keen edge of our resolution which, we know, has not been subdued by force and which still has plenty to say for itself. Instead we should remember that accidents may happen to all men, but real courage never alters, and those who have it never use inexperience as an excuse for being anything else but courageous. So far as you are concerned, you may lack the enemy’s experience, but that is more than made up for by your superior daring. This skill of theirs, which is the thing which you fear most, has to be combined with courage. Then, in the hour of danger, they will remember how to do what they have learnt to do. But if a stout heart is lacking, all the skill in the world will not avail in the face of peril. Fear drives out all memory of previous instruction, and without the will to resist, skill is useless” (150-151). The last two sentences are especially attractive, even if they are typical of the exhortations commanders will give to their soldiers. Pericles spoke of political apathy; the Peloponnesian commanders speak of the will to resist or struggle. Behind these words there appears to hang the shadow of a great fear—a fear of a dead spirit, a fear of eviscerated humanity, a fear of fear. While one can certainly question the application of such ideas and words, the words themselves point to a very noble idea. A human being who cannot struggle hardly seems to exist as a human being, especially given that he is placed in a hostile world. Over and over, similar statements are made. One might just dismiss all of this as the rhetoric of warfare, the tools for propelling men to destroy and be destroyed—an idea not entirely out of place in this work, and yet this is one area where Thucydides is most complex. Despite his depiction of the futility of the war, perhaps of war in general, there is on ongoing obsession with the thought that without struggle, freedom and civilization are temporary shadows.

In other words, struggle is the most essential philosophy of life, and a man who cannot struggle cannot learn and live. Then again, the consequences of struggle are far too often that which struggle was meant to prevent. It is difficult to read of the massacre of the Plateans (202), the massacres in Corcyra (208) or of how the Thracians annihilate the city of Mycalessus: “The Thracians burst into Mycalessus, sacked the houses and temples, and butchered the inhabitants, sparing neither the young nor the old, but methodically killing everyone they met, women and children alike, and even the farm animals and every living thing they saw” (449). Though Brasidas is noble for his protection of women and children slated for democide by democratic Athens, the atrocities of the history call into question his concept of “straightforward aggression”: “Straightforward aggression has a certain justification in the strength that is given us by fortune, but the other form of attack comes simply from the treacherous devices of an evil mind. To us these principles are of the utmost importance and we are extremely careful to abide by them; and, in addition to the oaths which we have sworn, you could have no more reliable guarantee than is to be found in comparing our words with the actual facts, and so coming to the necessary conclusion that it is our intent to act as we say we shall…We Spartans are only justified in liberating people against their own will, because we are acting for the good of one and all alike” (279-280). Words ring especially hollow when, after ten years of conflict, the Athenians and Spartans find themselves back at the status quo when they started (320).

Besides the theme of struggle, ideas of democracy and governance occupy much of the subject matter of the speeches. Pericles, when speaking of it, gives his critique of Peloponnesian politics, accusing the enemy of apathy: “Only after long intervals do they meet together at all, and then they devote only a fraction of their time to their general interests, spending most of it on arranging their own separate affairs. It never occurs to any of them that the apathy of one will damage the interests of all. Instead each state thinks that the responsibility for its future belongs to someone else, and so, while everyone has the same idea privately, no one notices that from a general point of view things are going downhill” (93). Since most sources on Sparta from antiquity are Athenian, it is difficult to know what Sparta was really like, to what extent they differed from other city states, whether their helots were the equivalent of kolkhoz workers or merely farmers exempt from military and state service. It is hard to know whether the various Peloponnesian states were truly apathetic and self-interested, or if the infrequency of meetings suggests a Sparta that is not as heavy-handed as Athens was with her allies. The ends towards which freedom will work in the mind of Pericles also seem more than likely to engender the very kind of apathy he criticizes: “Our constitution is called a democracy because power is in the hands not of a minority but of the whole people. When it is a question of settling private disputes, every one is equal before the law; when it is a question of putting one person before another in positions of public responsibility, what counts is not membership of a particular class, but the actual ability, which the man possesses. No one, so long as he has it in him to be of service to the state, is kept in political obscurity because of poverty. And, just as our political life is free and open, so is our day-to-day life in our relations with each other…We are free and tolerant in our private lives, but in public affairs we keep to the law. This is because it commands our deep respect…We give our obedience to those whom we put in positions of authority, and we obey the laws themselves, especially those which are for the protection of the oppressed, and those unwritten laws which it is an acknowledged shame to break” (117). Though Pericles idealizes Athens, if not outright misrepresents its nature from what can be gleaned from even an impoverished reading of history and analysis, for so little of the classical world remains, his words form a rough blueprint of what a democracy should aim to be, and demonstrate the practical sensibility that freedom includes obedience to law in order that freedom be maintained. Unfortunately, the balance of law and freedom seldom exists in history, the trend being for the scales to fall heavily on one side or the other. Most of the idle want unconditional freedom, freedom without sacrifice, while those who fear demand law for security, which is perhaps another kind of idleness.

There is always a difference between words and actions, between theory and praxis. Cleon, despite his violent character, aptly throws suspicion on rhetoric, the backbone of western democracy: “You have become regular speech-goers, and as for action, you merely listen to accounts of it; if something is to be done in the future you estimate the possibilities by hearing a good speech on the subject, and as for the past you rely not so much on the facts which you have seen with your own eyes as on what you have heard about them in some clever piece of verbal criticism. Any novelty in an argument deceives you at once, but when the argument is tried and proved you become unwilling to follow it; you look with suspicion on what is normal and are the slaves of every paradox that comes your way. The chief wish of each one of you is to be able to make a speech himself, and, if you cannot do that, the next best thing is to compete with those who can make this sort of speech by not looking as though you were at all out of your depth while you listen to the views put forward by applauding a good point even before it is made, and by being as quick at seeing how an argument is going to be developed as you are slow at understanding what in the end it will lead to. What you are looking for all the time is something that is, I should say, outside the range of ordinary experience, and yet you cannot even think straight about the facts of life that are before you. You are simply victims of your own pleasure in listening” (182). These words deserve considerable attention from the modern citizen addicted to news items, myriad analyses and expert reports in the media, critics steeped in theory rather than research. Cleon’s negative views of the citizenry are seconded by Diodotus, though their overall opinions differ greatly: “Cities and individuals alike, all are by nature disposed to do wrong, and there is no law that will prevent it, as is shown by the fact that men have tried every kind of punishment, constantly adding to the list, in the attempt to find greater security from criminals” (187). To start with a negative view of humanity is perhaps the origin of many a reign of terror, but the idea is an essential counterweight to the insipid and counterproductive theories that incessantly speak of the goodness of humanity despite the veritable wreck the world has always been in, with all of its enslavements, rapes, thefts, genocides, and revolutions. The whole notion of law, its very existence, owes something to the fact that human beings have a great potential for evil. Law brings this to light, if nothing else.

One of the most significant lessons of the History of the Peloponnesian War is the importance of recognizing the instability and transience of the world, and the necessity of humility for surviving the calamities of history, as the Spartans remind the Athenians in Book IV: “It is not reasonable, therefore, for you to think that because of your present strength and your recent acquisitions, fortune also will always be on your side. True wisdom is shown by those who make careful use of their advantages in the knowledge that things will change (and so they will show more intelligence than others when things are going wrong for them); as for war, they will know that its course is governed by the total chances in operation and can never be restricted to the conditions that one or other of the two sides would like to see permanently fixed. Such people, by avoiding the over-confidence which may spring from a success in war, are less likely than anyone to make mistakes and are most anxious, if they can, to come to terms during the period of their good fortune” (239-240).

To struggle physically is not enough in this life, and spiritual struggle can achieve longer lasting victories where warfare only incurs losses that destroy and demoralize. The man who perceives the value of both is probably more likely to complete great endeavors than the man who does not. Thucydides was not a terribly successful general, and suffered banishment because of it. One reading of Thucydides which allows one to build rather than to collapse, is to read that in his recording of the tragedy of Athens, whose downfall has all of the marks of a play, despite its myriad details, he converted a futile physical struggle into an enduring cultural and philosophical struggle against inhumanity, ignorance, apathy, hubris, and corruption.