The Socrates Express

“Wonder” is a wonderful word. It’s impossible to say it aloud without smiling. It comes from the Old English wundor, meaning “marvelous thing, miracle, object of astonishment.” On one level, to wonder is to seek information, in Siri fashion. I wonder where I can find some dark chocolate? On another level, to wonder is to suspend inquiry, at least momentarily, and simply behold. I wonder what it is about good Belgian chocolate, spiked with sea salt and almonds, that makes my brain dance and my heart sing?

When we question, we are constrained by the topic at hand. Any queries that extend beyond that topic are deemed superfluous and therefore discouraged. Think of a lawyer chided by the judge for veering into “immaterial” lines of questioning, or a high school student reprimanded by her teacher for straying “off topic.”

Wondering is open-ended, expansive. Wondering is what makes us human. That’s been true ever since the first caveman wondered what would happen if he rubbed two sticks together, or dropped a large rock on his head. You never know until you try and you never try until you wonder.

We often conflate wonder with curiosity. Yes, both provide helpful antidotes to apathy, but in different ways. Wonder is personal in a way curiosity is not. You can be curious dispassionately. You can question dispassionately. You cannot wonder dispassionately. Curiosity is restive, always threatening to chase the next shiny object that pops into view. Not wonder. Wonder lingers. Wonder is curiosity reclined, feet up, drink in hand. Wonder never chased a shiny object. Wonder never killed a cat.

Wonder takes time. Like a good meal or good sex, it can’t be rushed. That’s why Socrates never hurried his conversations. He persevered even when his conversers grew weary and exasperated.

Socrates was the original therapist. He tended to answer a question with another question. Unlike a therapist, Socrates did not bill by the hour (he never charged a single drachma for his sessions) and never uttered the words “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have.” He always had more time.

Even when alone, Socrates liked to linger, a friend reports in the Symposium. “He sometimes stops and stands wherever he happens to be.” Another friend recounts an even more unusual episode that occurred when both men served together during the battle of Potidaea.

One time at dawn he [Socrates] began to think something over and stood in the same spot considering it, and when he found no solution, he didn’t leave but stood there inquiring. It got to be midday, and people became aware of it, wondering at it among themselves, saying Socrates had stood there since dawn thinking about something. Finally some of the Ionians, when evening came, carried their bedding out to sleep in the cool air and to watch to see if he’d also stand there all night. He stood until dawn came and the sun rose; then he offered a prayer to the sun, and left.

Good philosophy is slow philosophy. Ludwig Wittgenstein called his profession the “slow cure” and suggested all philosophers greet one another with “Take your time!” I think that’s a fine idea, not only for philosophers but all of us. Rather than “Have a good day” or similarly empty expressions, let’s greet each other with “Take your time” or “Slow down.” Utter these imperatives often enough, and we might actually decelerate.

On some level, I think, we already recognize the cognitive benefits of slowing down. When something makes us stop and think, we say it “gives us pause.” A pause is not a mistake or a glitch. A pause is not a stutter or an interruption. It is not emptiness but a kind of latent matter. The seed of thought. Every pause is ripe with the possibility of cognition, and of wonder.