“When, then, does the soul attain to truth?”
—Plato, Phaedo

Cyrene became the Athens of Africa.

One of the great minds the ancient city produced was the geometer Theodorus, who lived in the age of Socrates. Before him, the Pythagoreans believed the universe was governed by mathematical harmony and could be measured using only whole numbers and fractions.

But then Theodorus fitted one right triangle to another and continued until he revealed an elegant spiral. The spiral could be drawn in the sand or carved in stone. It could be seen, touched, traced. Yet many of its lengths could not be expressed exactly as whole numbers or fractions, but only as irrational numbers.

This astonished Plato.

The world of the senses could only be known approximately. Yet mathematical truth could be demonstrated exactly. Did this mean that reality itself—that ultimate Truth—could only be approached through the intellect?

The Spiral of Theodorus lent support to Plato’s Theory of Forms, which posited an otherworldly realm of eternal Ideas—perfect Forms that the physical world only approximates.

We can define a circle, a square, or a triangle exactly, but any of these found in the physical world will be imperfect—a kind of shadow of the ideal Form.

Centuries later, this Platonic dualism—this separation of matter and idea, physical body and ideal form—helped provide a philosophical framework for Christian theology, with its sharp distinction between body and soul, its promise of eternal life, and its suspicion of sensual reality as corrupt and fallen.

After Theodorus, Cyrene ripened another apple, one which fell somewhat farther from the tree: Socrates’ most scandalous student, Aristippus. This skeptical hedonist pulled hard in the opposite direction. He argued that we can know only what our own senses reveal.

The rest is silence.

Sitting before the crackling warmth of a fire, I can know only what my senses disclose to me, never what yours disclose to you.

Geometry may shape cities and civilizations, but we are forever bound to the mortal body, with no special access to an eternal god’s-eye view.

Two millennia later, Arthur Schopenhauer arrived at a similar conclusion about the limits of knowledge, writing that a man “does not know a sun and an earth, but only an eye that sees a sun, a hand that feels an earth.”

From this hard empiricism, Aristippus founded the ancient world’s most radical school of pure hedonism: Cyrenaicism.

Aristippus taught that bodily pleasure was the supreme and only good of life, and he encouraged his students to seek active, intense, and immediate sensual gratification.

Yet he did not teach licentiousness.

After all, not all pleasures are worth the chase. Many pursuits bring more pain than pleasure. So his philosophy required discernment, restraint, and self-knowledge.

Aristippus kept company with his desires. He mastered them—not they him. He lived by his motto:

When he had wine, he drank heartily. When he had none, he kept his cheer. When he found a lover, he embraced her. When she left him, he let her go.

She had other customers.

The Roman poet Horace admired his ability to adapt, writing that “every hue of life became him.”

Yet some called him a charlatan and a sophist. They complained that he charged steep fees to teach clever tricks, not wisdom.

Others called him a tyrant’s dog, claiming that, to fund his extravagant tastes, he threw himself shamelessly at the feet of King Dionysius I.

At a banquet, the tyrant spat in his face.

When asked why he was not offended, Aristippus replied with a question: “If fishermen endure being drenched at sea to catch little fish, why shouldn’t I endure a little spittle to catch a whale?”

The darkest slander that circulated about him claimed that he had compared his infant son to useless phlegm, and cast him out to die.

Yet he raised two sons and a daughter named Arete—whose name means virtue—and chose her as his intellectual heiress.

In an age that seldom taught philosophy to its daughters, this remarkable woman vindicated her father’s unconventional judgment.

From childhood, her father taught her to pursue pleasure with discipline and to disdain excess. She grew to embody a balanced and reflective ideal of rational hedonism.

A Renaissance tradition portrays her as the intellectual heart of the Cyrenaic school, where she taught for decades.

She carried her father’s philosophy into the next generation, and may have written as many as forty books—all lost to time.

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🏛️ Read the Oedipus Cycle here: 5.1: Nine Moons Certain

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🗂️ Indexes: Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

Sources & Further Reading

Plato, Theaetetus, 147d–148b.

Xenophon, Memorabilia, Book II, chapter 1.

Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, Book II, sections 65–104.

Kurt Lampe, The Birth of Hedonism: The Cyrenaic Philosophers and Pleasure as a Way of Life (2015).

Voula Tsouna, The Epistemology of the Cyrenaic School (1998).

Katharine R. O’Reilly, “Arete of Cyrene and the Role of Women in Philosophical Lineage,” in Ancient Women Philosophers (2023).

“The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.” — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

In the sixteenth century BCE, a volcanic blast sent a plume toward the edge of space.

The explosion sent tsunamis across the Aegean Sea, sinking ships, destroying ports, and devastating coastal settlements. Ash buried Akrotiri. The eruption may have triggered a volcanic winter as far away as China, and its memory perhaps echoes in Plato’s legend of the lost city of Atlantis.

Of the ancient volcano, all that remains is the crescent-shaped island of Thera.

Nearly a thousand years later, on this island, a nobleman named Aristoteles was born. His name is derived from two Greek words: aristos, “the best,” and telos, “purpose.”

As the boy approached manhood, Thera’s population swelled. Seeking divine guidance for his overcrowded kingdom, King Grinus journeyed to the Oracle at Delphi. Aristoteles joined the king’s retinue, hoping Apollo might cure his stutter.

At the temple, the priests sprinkled cold water on the sacrificial goat, and it twitched. Apollo would hear the question. Aristoteles stepped forward. The Pythia fell into a trance and spoke:

“Battus,” she began, “you have come to cure your tripping tongue. But Apollo sends you to Libya to found his city.”

The name startled him.

To his Greek ear, Battus meant “stammerer.” Why should Apollo want him—a stammerer—to lead men to Libya to found a city? He did not even know where Libya was.

“Battus,” the god had called him. What army would follow him?

No. Battus knew where he belonged—on Thera. So he refused the oracle and returned to the island, a stammerer still.

For seven years, the rain refused to fall.

Desperate and starving, the people of Thera sent another retinue to Delphi, seeking the god’s wisdom. Again the priests sprinkled water on the sacrificial goat. Again it twitched. And again Apollo insisted that Battus lead men to Libya to found his city.

Therefore the Therans passed a law: every family would provide a son. They gave Battus two ships and no choice. He would obey Apollo’s command—or die.

The ships set sail.

The wide watery world and the length of the Libyan shore terrified Battus and his men. Nor could he find a place worthy of Apollo’s city. So he abandoned his purpose and sailed home.

As the ships approached Thera’s harbor, the people cursed the sailors and pelted them with stones. Some hurled spears and called the men cowards. They threatened to kill any man who dared set foot ashore.

So Battus turned his ships once more to sea and sailed south in search of a guide. On the island of Crete, he found one.

Corobius harvested rare sea snails that produced the purple dye used to color the robes of kings.

This simple merchant had sailed far and wide on the Mediterranean and knew the North African coast well.

“Once,” Corobius said, “Poseidon stirred the sea with his trident, blew me off course, and cast me upon the shores of Libya. I know every rock and current of those waters. I can guide you and your men.”

He led them to Libyan waters, and they landed on a tiny island called Platea. For two years they struggled there, trying to found Apollo’s city. But little fresh water flowed, and the barren rock refused to yield crops. Life became a constant struggle against hunger, thirst, and death. As yet another season began to turn, the men lost faith and revolted. This could not be Apollo’s promised land.

Battus eyed the mainland, just an arrow-shot away. But the continent was so vast, so much greater than the home they once had known, and now forbidden them—the little crescent island of Thera.

It gave them vertigo.

What beasts might stalk them if they crossed that sun-bleached land? What tribes might ambush them as they approached the dark cliffs? What if they became lost, wandered into the boundless desert, and died of thirst?

Battus swallowed hard, untied his tongue, and gave the order. They would not set foot ashore. Instead, they would leave the loyal Corobius to guard their camp while they sailed once more to seek a sign, scout the coastline, and gather provisions. They left the fisherman with what they believed would be enough.

Their journey took much longer than they expected.

Corobius might have died of thirst had his simple ways not taught him to spread wool across the rocks to gather fog and harvest the morning dew. He might have starved had he not known how to dive for limpets, barnacles, and sea urchins, or to weave wicker baskets, bait them, and catch crabs and murex snails.

Then Aeolus loosed the winds and blew the merchant Colaeus off course. He found Corobius struggling alone and took pity, resupplying him before sailing on.

Upon departing, the merchant and his men were again swept by divine winds across the Mediterranean, beyond the world of the Greeks, past the Pillars of Hercules, and into the Atlantic. At Tartessus they found virgin markets and became fabulously rich, trading their cargo for tons of copper, tin, and silver.

Meanwhile, the priests again sprinkled water on the goat, and again it twitched. Once more Battus pleaded with the Pythia:

“I have sought a place to found a city for Apollo, but there is no place worthy of his city in that barren, sun-burned land. My men thirst and starve, and the Therans threaten to kill me if I return home and set foot ashore. I beg you, release me from this burden.”

The priestess peered through him. Then she inhaled the earthen fumes deeply, fell again into her trance, and spoke for the god:

“Battus, you are indeed wise. You have never seen Libya, and yet know it better than I who have seen it.”

Battus again boarded his ship.

Sailing south, he gathered what meager bags of grain and stocks of oil he could, and returned to Platea. He was pleased to find Corobius not a corpse, but a living man. This time, Battus led his men across the arrow-shot strait to the mainland. Beyond the coast’s rocky coves, they found a sheltered valley where a river teeming with fish wound through the woods.

For six years these Greeks prospered at Aziris, learning the land and building the stone foundations of a home. They became familiar with the tribesmen who drove their cattle through the valley. They traded tools and wine for milk and honey and learned to trust one another.

Soon the Libyans began to share the secrets of the land.

The seventh year found Battus leaving the valley with the Libyans in search of Apollo’s promised land. They traveled west and climbed mountains. Fighting through a thick forest one day, Battus separated from his guides to scout out a place to set down his founding stone and encountered a pride of lions.

Alone, and naked of weapon and armor, Battus’s heart battered against his ribs. The lions crouched, bared their teeth, and growled. Muscles tensed.

Battus bent his knees, threw out his arms, curled his fingers, and released a roar that sent the beasts back into the forest.

When his guides caught up to him, he recounted the story. Not once did his tongue trip. Nor did it ever again.

“Battus,” his guides confided, “ your name in our tongue means ‘king.’”

That day they emerged from the thick forest onto a high, fertile plain. “Here, there is a hole in the sky,” they told Battus, and here he lay down the city’s founding stone, at a virgin spring.

📘 Begin here | ⬅️ Previous Waypoint (6.1) | ➡️ Coming Soon 🔒

🏛️ Read the Oedipus Cycle here: 5.1: Nine Moons Certain

☕️ If you’d like to support the work, you can buy me a coffee.

If this found you, there’s more ahead. Follow the journey →

Subscribe now

Share with a friend.

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🗂️ Indexes: Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

Sources & Further Reading

Herodotus, The Histories, Book 4, sections 145–159.

Gerald P. Schaus, “Cyrene,” in The Oxford History of the Archaic Greek World (2024).

Joseph Fontenrose, The Delphic Oracle (1978).

Walter L. Friedrich, Santorini: Volcano, Natural History, Mythology (2000).

Charlotte L. Pearson et al., “Geochemical Ice-Core Constraints on the Timing and Climatic Impact” (2022).

Hendrik J. Bruins et al., “The Minoan Santorini Eruption and Tsunami Deposits in Palaikastro” (2008).

For more about my approach, see A Note on Sources at the bottom of my Begin Here page.

“The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.” — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

In the sixteenth century BCE, a volcanic blast sent a plume toward the edge of space.

The explosion sent tsunamis across the Aegean Sea, sinking ships, destroying ports, and devastating coastal settlements. Ash buried Akrotiri. The eruption may have triggered a volcanic winter as far away as China, and its memory perhaps echoes in Plato’s legend of the lost city of Atlantis.

Of the ancient volcano, all that remains is the crescent-shaped island of Thera.

Nearly a thousand years later, on this island, a nobleman named Aristoteles was born. His name is derived from two Greek words: aristos, “the best,” and telos, “purpose.”

As the boy approached manhood, Thera’s population swelled. Seeking divine guidance for his overcrowded kingdom, King Grinus journeyed to the Oracle at Delphi. Aristoteles joined the king’s retinue, hoping Apollo might cure his stutter.

At the temple, the priests sprinkled cold water on the sacrificial goat, and it twitched. Apollo would hear the question. Aristoteles stepped forward. The Pythia fell into a trance and spoke:

“Battus,” she began, “you have come to cure your tripping tongue. But Apollo sends you to Libya to found his city.”

The name startled him.

To his Greek ear, Battus meant “stammerer.” Why should Apollo want him—a stammerer—to lead men to Libya to found a city? He did not even know where Libya was.

“Battus,” the god had called him. What army would follow him?

No. Battus knew where he belonged—on Thera. So he refused the oracle and returned to the island, a stammerer still.

For seven years, the rain refused to fall.

Desperate and starving, the people of Thera sent another retinue to Delphi, seeking the god’s wisdom. Again the priests sprinkled water on the sacrificial goat. Again it twitched. And again Apollo insisted that Battus lead men to Libya to found his city.

Therefore the Therans passed a law: every family would provide a son. They gave Battus two ships and no choice. He would obey Apollo’s command—or die.

The ships set sail.

The wide watery world and the length of the Libyan shore terrified Battus and his men. Nor could he find a place worthy of Apollo’s city. So he abandoned his purpose and sailed home.

As the ships approached Thera’s harbor, the people cursed the sailors and pelted them with stones. Some hurled spears and called the men cowards. They threatened to kill any man who dared set foot ashore.

So Battus turned his ships once more to sea and sailed south in search of a guide. On the island of Crete, he found one.

Corobius harvested rare sea snails that produced the purple dye used to color the robes of kings.

This simple merchant had sailed far and wide on the Mediterranean and knew the North African coast well.

“Once,” Corobius said, “Poseidon stirred the sea with his trident, blew me off course, and cast me upon the shores of Libya. I know every rock and current of those waters. I can guide you and your men.”

He led them to Libyan waters, and they landed on a tiny island called Platea. For two years they struggled there, trying to found Apollo’s city. But little fresh water flowed, and the barren rock refused to yield crops. Life became a constant struggle against hunger, thirst, and death. As yet another season began to turn, the men lost faith and revolted. This could not be Apollo’s promised land.

Battus eyed the mainland, just an arrow-shot away. But the continent was so vast, so much greater than the home they once had known, and now forbidden them—the little crescent island of Thera.

It gave them vertigo.

What beasts might stalk them if they crossed that sun-bleached land? What tribes might ambush them as they approached the dark cliffs? What if they became lost, wandered into the boundless desert, and died of thirst?

Battus swallowed hard, untied his tongue, and gave the order. They would not set foot ashore. Instead, they would leave the loyal Corobius to guard their camp while they sailed once more to seek a sign, scout the coastline, and gather provisions. They left the fisherman with what they believed would be enough.

Their journey took much longer than they expected.

Corobius might have died of thirst had his simple ways not taught him to spread wool across the rocks to gather fog and harvest the morning dew. He might have starved had he not known how to dive for limpets, barnacles, and sea urchins, or to weave wicker baskets, bait them, and catch crabs and murex snails.

Then Aeolus loosed the winds and blew the merchant Colaeus off course. He found Corobius struggling alone and took pity, resupplying him before sailing on.

Upon departing, the merchant and his men were again swept by divine winds across the Mediterranean, beyond the world of the Greeks, past the Pillars of Heracles, and into the Atlantic. At Tartessus they found virgin markets and became fabulously rich, trading their cargo for tons of copper, tin, and silver.

Meanwhile, the priests again sprinkled water on a goat, and again it twitched. Once more Battus pleaded with the Pythia:

“I have sought a place to found a city for Apollo, but there is no place worthy of his city in that barren, sun-burned land. My men thirst and starve, and the Therans threaten to kill me if I return home and set foot ashore. I beg you, release me from this burden.”

The priestess peered through him. Then she inhaled the earthen fumes deeply, fell again into her trance, and spoke for the god:

“Battus, you are indeed wise. You have never seen Libya, and yet know it better than I who have seen it.”

Battus again boarded his ship.

Sailing south, he gathered what meager bags of grain and stocks of oil he could, and returned to Platea. He was pleased to find Corobius not a corpse, but a living man. This time, Battus led his men across the arrow-shot strait to the mainland. Beyond the coast’s rocky coves, they found a sheltered valley where a river teeming with fish wound through the woods.

For six years these Greeks prospered at Aziris, learning the land and building the stone foundations of a home. They became familiar with the tribesmen who drove their cattle through the valley. They traded tools and wine for milk and honey and learned to trust one another.

Soon the Libyans began to share the secrets of the land.

The seventh year found Battus leaving the valley with the Libyans in search of Apollo’s promised land. They traveled west and climbed mountains. Fighting through a thick forest one day, Battus separated from his guides to scout out a place to set down his founding stone and encountered a pride of lions.

Alone, and naked of weapon and armor, Battus’s heart battered against his ribs. The lions crouched, bared their teeth, and growled. Muscles tensed.

Battus bent his knees, threw out his arms, curled his fingers, and released a roar that sent the beasts back into the forest.

When his guides caught up to him, he recounted the story. Not once did his tongue trip. Nor did it ever again.

“Battus,” his guides confided, “ your name in our tongue means ‘king.’”

That day they emerged from the thick forest onto a high, fertile plain. “Here, there is a hole in the sky,” they told Battus, and here he lay down the city’s founding stone, at a virgin spring.

📘 Begin here | ⬅️ Previous Waypoint (6.1) | ➡️ Coming Soon 🔒

🏛️ Read the Oedipus Cycle here: 5.1: Nine Moons Certain

☕️ If you’d like to support the work, you can buy me a coffee.

If this found you, there’s more ahead. Follow the journey →

Subscribe now

Support the project—and share this with someone who might recognize it.

Share

🗂️ Indexes: Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

Sources & Further Reading

Herodotus, The Histories, Book 4, sections 145–159.

Gerald P. Schaus, “Cyrene,” in The Oxford History of the Archaic Greek World (2024).

Joseph Fontenrose, The Delphic Oracle (1978).

Walter L. Friedrich, Santorini: Volcano, Natural History, Mythology (2000).

Charlotte L. Pearson et al., “Geochemical Ice-Core Constraints on the Timing and Climatic Impact” (2022).

Hendrik J. Bruins et al., “The Minoan Santorini Eruption and Tsunami Deposits in Palaikastro” (2008).

For more about my approach, see A Note on Sources at the bottom of my Begin Here page.

“My experience is what I agree to attend to.”

—William James

Browsing social media, a question caught my attention:

How can so many people not see what Trump is doing?

I’ve asked myself that question many times. Each time, the best I could do was shake my head and turn my attention elsewhere.

But this time I recalled a video—an old psychology experiment.

In it, the narrator asks viewers to count how many times players in white pass the basketball.

At the end he asks, “Did you count fifteen?”

Yep.

Then he asks, “Did you see the gorilla?”

What gorilla?

I watch the video again.

A person in a gorilla suit saunters through the game, stops, turns to the camera, beats its chest, and walks away.

How in the hell did I miss that?

The experiment disturbed me then because it showed me how easily my attention could be directed.

It disturbs me now because I see how much I can miss—how blind I can be—especially when I’m paying attention to the feed.

The experiment:

📘 Begin here | ⬅️ Previous Waypoint (5.5) | ➡️ Next Waypoint (6.1)

🏛️ Interested in these themes? Begin the Oedipus Cycle with 5.1: Nine Moons Certain

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Continue Exploring:

🗂️ Indexes: Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

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“Science must begin with myths, and with the criticism of myths.”

— Karl Popper

The road to Delphi leads to a question.

A king seeks certainty. A prophet speaks. A city waits.

Oedipus searches for a murderer. Popper searches for a method. Both find the same warning: the stories we trust most are the ones we’re least willing to test.

The oracle speaks only once. Interpretation never ends.

🧭 Waypoints — The Main Trail

• Waypoint 5.1 — Nine Moons Certain (🎧 Audio)

• Waypoint 5.2 — The Riddle of the Gate (🎧 Audio)

• Waypoint 5.3 — The Man You Seek (🎧 Audio)

• Waypoint 5.4 — Not Every Riddle (🎧 Audio)

• Waypoint 5.5 — Black Swans and Sacrificial Goats (🎧 Audio)

🌿 Field Notes — Optional Detours

• Field Note 5.5 — The Ballad of Bill and Bud (🎧 Audio)

• Field Note 5.5 — Of ICE and Men: Curley Edition (🎧 Audio)

⬅️ Navigation

• Back to Begin Here

• ← Chapter 4: The Riddle of the Deep

• → Chapter 6: The Cyrene Cycle (Under Construction 🛠️)

The farther we follow the riddle, the more carefully we must distinguish the world from the stories we tell about it.

☕ Myth-making takes time. And a little caffeine.

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“Come from your holy cave, and marvel at a woman’s spirit and mighty vigour.”

—Pindar, Pythian 9, trans. G. R. Conway

Seven white swans circled Delos above Leto as she delivered Apollo; seven times they circled the island as they sang, and did not cease until the divine child was delivered.

On cloudless days these seven swans—flowing white against the blue sky—escorted the god of prophecy over the Aegean Sea. Every year their migration heralded the shifting of the seasons.

Apollo’s world followed foreseeable, predictable patterns, both mathematical and musical: the lyre bears seven strings, and the seven wandering lights keep time.

Beneath the god’s golden rays lay a waterier, less linear world, over whose primordial depths rules Nereus, the Old Man of the Sea. On crested waves—on the backs of blue dolphins—ride his fifty daughters: the Nereids.

These water nymphs have never been bound to the Aegean, nor to the Mediterranean, nor even to the Hellenic world of antiquity. They can still be found anywhere water flows or snow falls—even on the alpine slopes of the volcanoes of the Far West.

On Lassen’s snow-covered slopes, one of these daughters hides within the Latin name of the heathen flower we have so often admired in earlier chapters: the purple mountain heather.

Beneath the corolla of Phyllodoce breweri, we find her, Phyllodoce, daughter of Nereus. Her name means “leaf receiver.”

Loose, gleaming hair flows over her snow-white neck. Sitting beside her mistress, she holds a bone spindle, and spins fine Milesian wool dyed a deep green.

At this alpine elevation, she lives nearer to Apollo and his pines.

Here her long, flowing hair has hardened into evergreen needles that protect her from the bitter volcanic winters.

Her mistress, Cyrene—granddaughter of the river god Peneus—protected her father’s cattle on the slopes of Mount Pelion, where countless creeks, streams, and rivers flowed through forests, meadows, and groves on their journey back to the Aegean Sea.

The huntress guarded her virtue with her spear and won the admiration of a goddess.

Artemis—the goddess of wild nature, hunting, and chastity—gifted her two hunting dogs and recruited the fierce nymph into her own sacred hunting band. But Cyrene preferred solitude even to the company of gods.

Of this lady of the lovely arms, Artemis never told her twin brother, Apollo.

Yet by chance, one morning, as he climbed over the mountain, his gaze fell upon her. She leapt out from under the pine shade to protect her father’s cattle from a lion. She sprang upon the beast without a weapon and strangled it with her bare hands.

That was enough.

Apollo looked to the sky, summoned his chariot, and lifted the huntress to the heavens.

Escorted by his seven white swans, he flew south over the Mediterranean Sea to Libya, where he landed at a virgin spring.

In the seventh century BCE, Battus I arrived at this spring guided by local Libyans, who told him and his men: “Here you may dwell, Greeks, where there is a hole in the sky.”

At this oasis, the king dedicated a temple to Apollo and founded the city of Cyrene in honor of the lady of the lovely arms.

📘 Begin here | ⬅️ Previous Waypoint (5.5) | ➡️ Coming Soon 🔒

🏛️ Read the Oedipus Cycle here: 5.1: Nine Moons Certain

☕️ If you’d like to support the work, you can buy me a coffee.

If this found you, there’s more ahead. Follow the trail. →

Subscribe now

Support the project—and share this with someone who might recognize it.

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🗂️ Indexes: Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

“Come from your holy cave, and marvel at a woman’s spirit and mighty vigour.”
—Pindar, Pythian 9, trans. G. R. Conway

Seven white swans circled Delos above Leto as she delivered Apollo; seven times they circled the island as they sang, and did not cease until the divine child was delivered.

On cloudless days these seven swans—flowing white against the blue sky—escorted the god of prophecy over the Aegean Sea. Every year their migration heralded the shifting of the seasons.

Apollo’s world followed foreseeable, predictable patterns, both mathematical and musical: the lyre bears seven strings, and the seven wandering lights keep time.

Beneath the god’s golden rays lay a waterier, less linear world, over whose primordial depths rules Nereus, the Old Man of the Sea. On crested waves—on the backs of blue dolphins—ride his fifty daughters: the Nereids.

These water nymphs have never been bound to the Aegean, nor to the Mediterranean, nor even to the Hellenic world of antiquity. They can still be found anywhere water flows or snow falls—even on the alpine slopes of the volcanoes of the Far West.

On Lassen’s snow-covered slopes, one of these daughters hides within the Latin name of the heathen flower we have so often admired in earlier chapters: the purple mountain heather.

Beneath the corolla of Phyllodoce breweri, we find her, Phyllodoce, daughter of Nereus. Her name means “leaf receiver.”

Loose, gleaming hair flows over her snow-white neck. Sitting beside her mistress, she holds a bone spindle, and spins fine Milesian wool dyed a deep green.

At this alpine elevation, she lives nearer to Apollo and his pines.

Here her long, flowing hair has hardened into evergreen needles that protect her from the bitter volcanic winters.

Her mistress, Cyrene—granddaughter of the river god Peneus—protected her father’s cattle on the slopes of Mount Pelion, where countless creeks, streams, and rivers flowed through forests, meadows, and groves on their journey back to the Aegean Sea.

The huntress guarded her virtue with her spear and won the admiration of a goddess.

Artemis—the goddess of wild nature, hunting, and chastity—gifted her two hunting dogs and recruited the fierce nymph into her own sacred hunting band. But Cyrene preferred solitude even to the company of gods.

Of this lady of the lovely arms, Artemis never told her twin brother, Apollo.

Yet by chance, one morning, as he climbed over the mountain, his gaze fell upon her. She leapt out from under the pine shade to protect her father’s cattle from a lion. She sprang upon the beast without a weapon and strangled it with her bare hands.

That was enough.

Apollo looked to the sky, summoned his chariot, and lifted the huntress to the heavens.

Escorted by his seven white swans, he flew south over the Mediterranean Sea to Libya, where he landed at a virgin spring.

In the seventh century BCE, Battus I arrived at this spring guided by local Libyans, who told him and his men: “Here you may dwell, Greeks, where there is a hole in the sky.”

At this oasis, the king dedicated a temple to Apollo and founded the city of Cyrene in honor of the lady of the lovely arms.

📘 Begin here | ⬅️ Previous Waypoint (5.5) | ➡️ Coming Soon 🔒

🎧 Prefer to listen? Click here.

🏛️ Read the Oedipus Cycle here: 5.1: Nine Moons Certain

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🗂️ Indexes: Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

Curley lashed his body around. “By Christ, he’s gotta talk when he’s spoken to. What the hell are you gettin’ into it for?”

“We travel together,” said George coldly.

— John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

I’ve never told this story.

It still makes me blush, even now, though it happened about four decades ago, when I was in seventh grade.

Every so often—working in the garage, mowing the yard, taking out the trash—the memory jumps out from behind some bush in the back of my mind, and I shake my head.

It wasn’t a particularly egregious moment, as far as middle-school foolishness goes. But the fact that it still has life tells me its roots run deep. It draws from an emotional core tied to my sense of self.

All memory has an emotional core. Without affect—without pleasure or pain—nothing sticks. And the things that stick longest tend to be the ones that implicate us.

I don’t beat myself up over it. That would be worse than unhelpful. It’s better, I think, to examine our more foolish moments with a bit of humor. Nothing disarms folly so much as the ability to laugh at our own.

And when we disarm our own follies and examine them honestly—they reveal a great deal about human nature.

At the time, I was just one of the little kids in our school—just one of the junior high students in a building whose halls stretched all the way to twelfth grade. Every day carried the possibility of some older boy dunking us headfirst into a trash can, or yanking our gym shorts down in front of the girls during P.E.

They seemed to have learned something already: that respect could be extracted through fear.

And who doesn’t fear humiliation?

That first fall of middle school, as Halloween crept closer, the boys were talking big. They were going to do—bravely—what they’d learned the older boys did: go out egging.

Roving egg-gangs. Egg wars. Proof of toughness.

I wanted to go out too—to be big, to be bad, and to belong. So I talked my tall, lanky buddy into coming with me. We told our parents we were going trick-or-treating, which was true, in part. We were still young enough that they believed our half-truth.

We were always together. Same social rank. Same invisibility. Neither of us was particularly athletic or intimidating. Just average dorks, really.

As Halloween evening fell, and the early cold crept into the streets of that little mountain town, we pulled on torn clothes, painted our faces like zombies, grabbed pillowcases for candy—and tucked a dozen eggs into each.

But we didn’t go toward the high school, where we knew the real egg battles would be. We drifted to the other side of town instead. Quieter. Safer. No teenagers with strong arms.

My buddy was confused. “Why are we over here?”

I told him to shut up and follow me down a dirt alleyway, unlit and pitch black.

I had a plan.

We crouched behind a fence and waited. Soon, silhouettes appeared—skeletons, vampires, werewolves, unicorns. A princess. Some were tall.

Mothers.

They couldn’t see us. Not the kids. Not the parents. We waited until they were almost on top of us—six feet away—and then I threw. Once. Twice. Three times.

There were screams. Mothers shouting. Children crying, Mommy!

They ran until they were far enough away to curse us into the dark.

We were already running. I was laughing. My friend wasn’t.

“Dude,” he said, breathless, “what the hell? Those were moms and their kids.”

We went on into the night, pillowcases filled with fewer eggs and some candy. But I didn’t feel big, bad, or brave anymore.

So why tell this story now?

I tell it because it holds a clue—a small one, but a real one—about how performative toughness works, and how often it depends not on courage, but on choosing those who cannot strike back.

“Whoever despises himself still respects himself as one who despises.”

— Nietzsche

Field Note 5.5

Bill lived free in his truck-bed camper.

Every summer he’d roll into town with his wife and two daughters, stock up at the local grocery store, and park under the Ponderosa pines, where he lived free of rent and indoor plumbing in the shadow of the volcano.

He was not a tall man, but he had a big voice, a big laugh, a narrow mustache, and he loved to tell tall tales.

It was morning in America, and Bill would rise each day, step out onto his plywood landing, sit in his doorway, pull on his cowboy boots, light a Marlboro, and listen to the light roll of the Feather River.

After crushing out that first cigarette, he’d wander over to a sugar pine to moisten the forest’s needle carpet, or into a manzanita thicket to stir up a little cloud of volcanic dust.

By the time his coffee was at a boil, he had already fed Sergeant, his German Shepherd. He was ready to watch the six-thirty sun peek through the Jeffries.

In these last quiet moments of the morning, he’d sit back in his lawn chair, light his second cigarette, and sip his coffee—always black—as he watched squirrels run circles around the pine trunks.

Sometimes he’d glimpse a bald eagle perched atop a nearby Douglas fir.

As the pine shadows grew shorter, Bill’s Timex would tell him it was time: 6:45. So he’d hop onto his Honda Gold Wing, thumb the starter, kick it into first, let out the clutch, and fly into town, blasting “The Ballad of Curtis Loew.”

Bill worked for my father at our Chevron station, where he pumped gas, changed oil, patched tires, flushed radiators, charged batteries, swapped alternators, and sold Atlas wiper blades and fan belts for a commission. His hourly wage stood just above the minimum: $3.35.

He was a hustler, like the magazine I once caught him reading back in the garage, under a rack of Atlas oil filters.

In the summer months, flat-landers drove up the mountain to camp, rent cabins, and spend the weekend boating, fishing, hiking, or swimming. Some drove fancy cars—Lincolns, Cadillacs, even convertible BMWs. Others owned second homes on the lakefront. A few flew in for a weekend of golf.

They kept their hands clean when they pulled into the Full Service island to have their gas pumped for them.

“Fill it with Supreme Unleaded. Check the oil, and wash the windows, please.”

As the mechanical pump’s numbers rolled over to measure gallons, price, and Mideast peace, he’d scratch and scrub off the splattered bits of bees, butterflies, and wasps.

Wiping the window to a streak-free shine, he’d ask them to pop the hood so he could check the oil. If he could make the sale—which meant a commission—he’d open a can of Supreme 10W-40 and add it, or pour in a bottle of power steering fluid, but rarely before opening his mouth to tell a tall tale.

His stories all put him at the center of some supreme misadventure—a fire, a fight, a napalm-filled night back in ’Nam—and made him seem like some kind of giant to me. I was a middle-school boy pumping gas to earn money for school clothes come fall.

His story sold, he’d pull the hose from the car’s tail, tighten and lock the cap, slap shut the license plate, return the keys, offer the cash discount—a nickel a gallon—and tally the sale. Often enough, he’d get a tip. It helped pay for a little extra bread and Budweiser.

I recall him leaning against the bed of a red Chevy pickup one August afternoon. He was at the Self-Serve island shooting the shit with a logger—a regular—who was mixing fuel and oil in his dented saw can.

“You know,” I heard him say, “Bud, he’s alright people.”

Bud was another giant of my middle school world. He was a bodybuilder, a black man, and as far as I knew the only black man on the mountain. Though not particularly tall himself, he had biceps the size of bowling balls and a back as wide as Bill’s camper.

“Yeah, I’ve seen him around,” the logger said, tapping out the last drops of leaded into his saw can, then swirling it to mix in the two-stroke oil. “Heard he’s a helluva worker.”

“Damn straight, he is,” Bill said, beaming. “Yeah, that’s for sure. That Bud, he’s alright. He’s white people.”

The logger nodded, tightened the cap, and racked the nozzle.

It took me several more years—decades, really—to recognize how Bill preserved his pride.

He painted his black swans white.

📘 Begin here | ⬅️ Previous Waypoint (5.5) | ➡️ Next Waypoint (6.1)

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🗂️ Indexes: Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

“Whoever despises himself still respects himself as one who despises.”

— Nietzsche

Field Note 5.5

Bill lived free in his truck-bed camper.

Every summer he’d roll into town with his wife and two daughters, stock up at the local grocery store, and park under the Ponderosa pines, where he lived free of rent and indoor plumbing in the shadow of the volcano.

He was not a tall man, but he had a big voice, a big laugh, a narrow mustache, and he loved to tell tall tales.

It was morning in America, and Bill would rise each day, step out onto his plywood landing, sit in his doorway, pull on his cowboy boots, light a Marlboro, and listen to the light roll of the Feather River.

After crushing out that first cigarette, he’d wander over to a sugar pine to moisten the forest’s needle carpet, or into a manzanita thicket to stir up a little cloud of volcanic dust.

By the time his coffee was at a boil, he had already fed Sergeant, his German Shepherd. He was ready to watch the six-thirty sun peek through the Jeffries.

In these last quiet moments of the morning, he’d sit back in his lawn chair, light his second cigarette, and sip his coffee—always black—as he watched squirrels run circles around the pine trunks.

Sometimes he’d glimpse a bald eagle perched atop a nearby Douglas fir.

As the pine shadows grew shorter, Bill’s Timex would tell him it was time: 6:45. So he’d hop onto his Honda Gold Wing, thumb the starter, kick it into first, let out the clutch, and fly into town, blasting “The Ballad of Curtis Loew.”

Bill worked for my father at our Chevron station, where he pumped gas, changed oil, patched tires, flushed radiators, charged batteries, swapped alternators, and sold Atlas wiper blades and fan belts for a commission. His hourly wage stood just above the minimum: $3.35.

He was a hustler, like the magazine I once caught him reading back in the garage, under a rack of Atlas oil filters.

In the summer months, flat-landers drove up the mountain to camp, rent cabins, and spend the weekend boating, fishing, hiking, or swimming. Some drove fancy cars—Lincolns, Cadillacs, even convertible BMWs. Others owned second homes on the lakefront. A few flew in for a weekend of golf.

They kept their hands clean when they pulled into the Full Service island to have their gas pumped for them.

“Fill it with Supreme Unleaded. Check the oil, and wash the windows, please.”

As the mechanical pump’s numbers rolled over to measure gallons, price, and Mideast peace, he’d scratch and scrub off the splattered bits of bees, butterflies, and wasps.

Wiping the window to a streak-free shine, he’d ask them to pop the hood so he could check the oil. If he could make the sale—which meant a commission—he’d open a can of Supreme 10W-40 and add it, or pour in a bottle of power steering fluid, but rarely before opening his mouth to tell a tall tale.

His stories all put him at the center of some supreme misadventure—a fire, a fight, a napalm-filled night back in ’Nam—and made him seem like some kind of giant to me. I was a middle-school boy pumping gas to earn money for school clothes come fall.

His story sold, he’d pull the hose from the car’s tail, tighten and lock the cap, slap shut the license plate, return the keys, offer the cash discount—a nickel a gallon—and tally the sale. Often enough, he’d get a tip. It helped pay for a little extra bread and Budweiser.

I recall him leaning against the bed of a red Chevy pickup one August afternoon. He was at the Self-Serve island shooting the shit with a logger—a regular—who was mixing fuel and oil in his dented saw can.

“You know,” I heard him say, “Bud, he’s alright people.”

Bud was another giant of my middle school world. He was a bodybuilder, a black man, and as far as I knew the only black man on the mountain. Though not particularly tall himself, he had biceps the size of bowling balls and a back as wide as Bill’s camper.

“Yeah, I’ve seen him around,” the logger said, tapping out the last drops of leaded into his saw can, then swirling it to mix in the two-stroke oil. “Heard he’s a helluva worker.”

“Damn straight, he is,” Bill said, beaming. “Yeah, that’s for sure. That Bud, he’s alright. He’s white people.”

The logger nodded, tightened the cap, and racked the nozzle.

It took me several more years—decades, really—to recognize how Bill preserved his pride.

He painted his black swans white.

📘 Begin here | ⬅️ Previous Waypoint (5.5) | ➡️ Next Waypoint (6.1)

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🏛️ Begin the Oedipus Cycle here: 5.1: Nine Moons Certain

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🗂️ Indexes: Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

“A wise man proportions his belief to the evidence.” — Hume

Consider the classical proposition: All swans are white.

There is nothing oracular about it. No priest may place a tripod over it. No vapors slip through cracks in its floor for the Pythia to inhale.

The statement is plain, simple, unambiguous. It is falsifiable, and it happens to be false: Some swans are black.

Still the logician loves it.

The statement’s beauty is not found in its truth value, but in its form.

Courage entails risk. Knowledge entails risk. Truth risks being wrong.

The statement puts its neck out for us:

All swans are white.

Because it can be wrong, we can learn from it. It opens the gate to knowledge, and the way to freedom.

Falsifiable propositions do not inspire us to flee—Oedipus-like—out of anxiety or the fear of finding them true.

They do not oppress. They invite our questions and tell us how to test them. They submit to criticism, allowing us to discover and correct errors.

They do not provide a path to absolute certainty. They set up the search.

All we have to find is a single non-white swan, and we know for certain that not all swans are white.

But notice that we can only know with certainty what is not true. We cannot know with certainty what is true. No matter how many white swans we find, we can never prove that all swans are white.

Omniscience is ruled out.

Tomorrow may surprise us yet, and wake us from our dogmatic slumber.

Croesus, the last king of Lydia, made his offering to the oracle, and took comfort in the Pythia’s pronouncement that if he led his country to war, a great empire would fall.

The statement was unfalsifiable. If he won, a great empire would fall. If he lost, a great empire would fall. If he did nothing, he would be left to wonder.

He went to war, and lost. Lydia fell.

The fulfillment of the prophecy did not prove the oracle wise.

It revealed a fool.

Oedipus fled Corinth to prevent the oracle from proving true. Then he stained his hands with his father’s blood, married his mother, and fathered children who were also his siblings.

At no moment could he have proven the oracle false. It tyrannized him. He could not meaningfully question it. He could only wait and watch for its apparent fulfillment, whether by choice or by accident.

Yet he acted on it, blindly.

It was not knowledge he acted on, but suspicion.

📘 Begin here | ⬅️ Previous Waypoint (5.4) | ➡️ The Ballad of Bill and Bud (FN 5.5)

🏛️ Begin the Oedipus Cycle here: 5.1: Nine Moons Certain

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“Science must begin with myths, and with the criticism of myths.”

— Karl Popper

This journey begins with a rhizome and winds its way into the halls of power.

What follows is a sequence of essays, myths, and reflections that trace a path from the deep past to the present moment: from the first plants that transformed the earth, to the rise of trees, kingdoms, gods, and oracles, to the tragedy of Oedipus, and finally to Karl Popper’s defense of the Open Society.

Along the way, we will encounter butterflies, dolphins, volcanoes, kings, tyrants, philosophers, and black swans.

At its heart, however, the cycle asks a single question:

What do we do when reality threatens the stories we hold sacred?

Suggested Entry Points

For readers interested in science and evolution

4.1 — Of Roots, Rhizomes, and Web-Footed Fish

A meditation on mountain heather, rhizomes, evolution, and the hidden networks that challenge humanity’s habit of placing itself at the center.

For readers interested in politics and propaganda

4.6 — The Dolphin’s Always Right

What happens when an authority can never be wrong? A reflection on oracles, certainty, and the stories societies tell themselves.

For readers interested in mythology and tragedy

5.1 — Nine Moons Certain through 5.4 — Not Every Riddle

A retelling of the Oedipus myth through the lens of Karl Popper’s philosophy.

For readers interested in philosophy and the Open Society

5.5 — Black Swans and Sacrificial Goats

A reflection on falsifiability, prophecy, and why free societies depend upon criticism.

The Cycle

4.1 — Of Roots, Rhizomes, and Web-Footed Fish

The story begins in the shadow of Lassen Peak.

Mountain heather, ancient rhizomes, and Devonian fish reveal a world shaped not by hierarchy, but by adaptation, experimentation, and hidden networks.

4.2 — The Wombfish

Life leaves the sea.

As fish become amphibians and worlds overlap, questions of origin, transformation, and possibility emerge.

Field Note — An Ontology of Equality

What happens when evolutionary history challenges stories of privilege, hierarchy, and human exceptionalism?

4.3 — The Wombstone

Mortality, memory, and symbolic inheritance reveal how human beings build stories strong enough to outlive themselves.

Field Note — X Marks the Name of the Father

A reflection on fathers, identity, and the hidden stories that shape power.

4.4 — The Oracle at Dolphin

Before Delphi became an oracle, it was a place of dolphins.

A journey into the origins of one of the most influential sacred sites in Western civilization.

4.5 — Only the God Changed

The gods change. The structure remains. A meditation on continuity beneath religious transformation.

4.6 — The Dolphin’s Always Right

An oracle possesses a unique advantage: It cannot be proven wrong. The implications reach far beyond ancient Greece.

The Oedipus Cycle

5.1 — Nine Moons Certain

King Laius receives a prophecy. To avoid its fulfillment, he attempts to kill his own child. The tragedy begins.

5.2 — The Riddle of the Gate

Oedipus arrives at Thebes and encounters the Sphinx. A city waits for an answer.

5.3 — The Man You Seek

The search for truth turns inward. The hunter becomes the hunted.

5.4 — Not Every Riddle

Some questions open inquiry; others close it. The distinction matters.

5.5 — Black Swans and Sacrificial Goats

What happens when claims—or authorities—cannot be meaningfully questioned?

Karl Popper’s famous black swan meets the Oracle of Delphi.

The cycle concludes by asking whether wisdom begins not in certainty, but in doubt.

📘 Begin The Full Journey Here

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🗂️ Indexes: Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4

“A wise man proportions his belief to the evidence.” — Hume

Consider the classical proposition: All swans are white.

There is nothing oracular about it. No priest may place a tripod over it. No vapors slip through cracks in its floor for the Pythia to inhale.

The statement is plain, simple, unambiguous. It is falsifiable, and it happens to be false: Some swans are black.

Still the logician loves it.

The statement’s beauty is not found in its truth value, but in its form.

Courage entails risk. Knowledge entails risk. Truth risks being wrong.

The statement puts its neck out for us:

All swans are white.

Because it can be wrong, we can learn from it. It opens the gate to knowledge, and the way to freedom.

Falsifiable propositions do not inspire us to flee—Oedipus-like—out of anxiety or the fear of finding them true.

They do not oppress. They invite our questions and tell us how to test them. They submit to criticism, allowing us to discover and correct errors.

They do not provide a path to absolute certainty. They set up the search.

All we have to find is a single non-white swan, and we know for certain that not all swans are white.

But notice that we can only know with certainty what is not true. We cannot know with certainty what is true. No matter how many white swans we find, we can never prove that all swans are white.

Omniscience is ruled out.

Tomorrow may surprise us yet, and wake us from our dogmatic slumber.

Croesus, the last king of Lydia, made his offering to the oracle, and took comfort in the Pythia’s pronouncement that if he led his country to war, a great empire would fall.

The statement was unfalsifiable. If he won, a great empire would fall. If he lost, a great empire would fall. If he did nothing, he would be left to wonder.

He went to war, and lost. Lydia fell.

The fulfillment of the prophecy did not prove the oracle wise.

It revealed a fool.

Oedipus fled Corinth to prevent the oracle from proving true. Then he stained his hands with his father’s blood, married his mother, and fathered children who were also his siblings.

At no moment could he have proven the oracle false. It tyrannized him. He could not meaningfully question it. He could only wait and watch for its apparent fulfillment, whether by choice or by accident.

Yet he acted on it, blindly.

It was not knowledge he acted on, but suspicion.

📘 Begin here | ⬅️ Previous Waypoint (5.4) | ➡️ The Ballad of Bill and Bud (FN 5.5)

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🏛️ Begin the Oedipus Cycle here: 5.1: Nine Moons Certain

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🗂️ Indexes: Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

“The wish to be omniscient is the wish to be God.”

— Karl Popper

Part IV

“It was a band of robbers,” Queen Jocasta insisted. Tiresias’s accusation that Oedipus himself was the murderer he sought to find was just nonsense, just the rambling of an old blind man who claimed he could speak for the god.

No, she assured her husband, a single man could not have killed the king and his entire retinue. The servant who had escaped told her: “It was a band of robbers.”

But Oedipus could not let it go. Something in the old man’s words…

“Send for the servant.”

She reached for him again, took his hands, and searched his face. “Let it be. He begged to leave the city.”

“The city suffers. I will know.” He turned to his guards. “Bring him to me.”

“Not every riddle needs an answer.”

Presently, a messenger entered the hall, tired, worn, and dust-covered. “My king, news from Corinth: King Polybus has passed. Queen Merope calls you home to claim your father’s throne.”

“My father dead?”

“Yes, my king. And your mother, the queen, calls you home.”

“Tiresias said today I would find my father—and a broken heart.”

“You see,” Jocasta said, “the oracle was wrong. You cannot kill a man who is already dead.”

“But I still fear the second part of the prophecy, that I will wed my mother. She still—” He stopped. “Why do you laugh?”

“My king,” said the messenger, “I mean no disrespect. Is this why you fled Corinth? For fear of your fate? No, you need not fear it. The oracle is wrong. You are not kin to the queen.”

The hall fell silent.

“I know this because I found you exposed on the mountain, your feet bound with a leather strap. I brought you to the king and queen, who raised you as their own.”

Jocasta’s face went still. Her chin trembled.

“Inquire no further.”

“Would you abandon your husband? Who am I to you?”

“You do not see it—and I hope you never will!”

She turned and fled.

Perplexed, Oedipus turned toward the messenger. The sound of someone entering the hall drew both men’s attention to the entrance. There stood the summoned servant of Laius.

“That is him!” the messenger cried. “The shepherd—the one who gave you to me.”

Oedipus’s eyes darted to the messenger. “No. It cannot be. On your life—speak the truth!”

The messenger faltered. “My king—”

Oedipus turned to the shepherd, who lifted his palms and shook his graying head.

“You will speak.”

But the shepherd was struck dumb.

“Take him.”

“No, my king!”

“Bind him.”

“Spare me!”

“Speak!”

The old man cried out in anguish: “I did, I did, I did! I took you from Jocasta’s own hands! I took you to Cithaeron—to expose you!”

“Release his wrists.”

“I did not leave you to die. I swear. I waited until that man there—the messenger from Corinth—arrived. He took pity, and brought you to Corinth, and Polybus and Merope, having no male heir, adopted you as their—”

“Enough.”

He covers his face, then turns and flees the hall—cursing Tiresias, cursing Delphi, and searching for Jocasta.

In the bedchamber, he finds her. Hanging.

He collapses, crawls to her, and wraps his arms around her waist. He presses his head to her belly.

Tears stream down his cheeks.

Turning his eyes up to his mother for the first and the last time, he pulls a pin from her dress and transforms his tears into twin rivers of blood.

📘 Begin here | ⬅️ Previous Waypoint (5.3) | ➡️ Next Waypoint (5.5)

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“The wish to be omniscient is the wish to be God.”

— Karl Popper

Part IV

“It was a band of robbers,” Queen Jocasta insisted. Tiresias’s accusation that Oedipus himself was the murderer he sought to find was just nonsense, just the rambling of an old blind man who claimed he could speak for the god.

No, she assured her husband, a single man could not have killed the king and his entire retinue. The servant who had escaped told her: “It was a band of robbers.”

But Oedipus could not let it go. Something in the old man’s words…

“Send for the servant.”

She reached for him again, took his hands, and searched his face. “Let it be. He begged to leave the city.”

“The city suffers. I will know.” He turned to his guards. “Bring him to me.”

“Not every riddle needs an answer.”

Presently, a messenger entered the hall, tired, worn, and dust-covered. “My king, news from Corinth: King Polybus has passed. Queen Merope calls you home to claim your father’s throne.”

“My father dead?”

“Yes, my king. And your mother, the queen, calls you home.”

“Tiresias said today I would find my father—and a broken heart.”

“You see,” Jocasta said, “the oracle was wrong. You cannot kill a man who is already dead.”

“But I still fear the second part of the prophecy, that I will wed my mother. She still—” He stopped. “Why do you laugh?”

“My king,” said the messenger, “I mean no disrespect. Is this why you fled Corinth? For fear of your fate? No, you need not fear it. The oracle is wrong. You are not kin to the queen.”

The hall fell silent.

“I know this because I found you exposed on the mountain, your feet bound with a leather strap. I brought you to the king and queen, who raised you as their own.”

Jocasta’s face went still. Her chin trembled.

“Inquire no further.”

“Would you abandon your husband? Who am I to you?”

“You do not see it—and I hope you never will!”

She turned and fled.

Perplexed, Oedipus turned toward the messenger. The sound of someone entering the hall drew both men’s attention to the entrance. There stood the summoned servant of Laius.

“That is him!” the messenger cried. “The shepherd—the one who gave you to me.”

Oedipus’s eyes darted to the messenger. “No. It cannot be. On your life—speak the truth!”

The messenger faltered. “My king—”

Oedipus turned to the shepherd, who lifted his palms and shook his graying head.

“You will speak.”

But the shepherd was struck dumb.

“Take him.”

“No, my king!”

“Bind him.”

“Spare me!”

“Speak!”

The old man cried out in anguish: “I did, I did, I did! I took you from Jocasta’s own hands! I took you to Cithaeron—to expose you!”

“Release his wrists.”

“I did not leave you to die. I swear. I waited until that man there—the messenger from Corinth—arrived. He took pity, and brought you to Corinth, and Polybus and Merope, having no male heir, adopted you as their—”

“Enough.”

He covers his face, then turns and flees the hall—cursing Tiresias, cursing Delphi, and searching for Jocasta.

In the bedchamber, he finds her. Hanging.

He collapses, crawls to her, and wraps his arms around her waist. He presses his head to her belly.

Tears stream down his cheeks.

Turning his eyes up to his mother for the first and the last time, he pulls a pin from her dress and transforms his tears into twin rivers of blood.

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After entering Thebes, Oedipus learned that the people mourned the loss of their king, and feared who would fill his throne: Laius had left no heir.

Then the Sphinx arrived with her riddle, demanding an answer. She killed those who could not provide one, piling at her feet the bones of the bold.

Her weight smothered life. Trade and travel fell to a crawl. The city grew still, silent, and the people longed for an answer.

Any answer.

Queen Jocasta’s brother, Creon, approached the stranger, thankful he had answered the riddle, and offered him the Queen’s hand.

Without question, he accepted.

Under this new king, trade and travel took again to their feet. Crops grew abundant once more. As the years passed, the still-beautiful Jocasta bore Oedipus four children—two sons and two daughters.

Yet slowly, the city grew sick. Trade and travel slowed. Crops blackened. Cattle wasted in their stalls. Mothers wept for children born blue and still. The aged wandered the streets, unsteady, backs bent over walking sticks, begging.

King Oedipus summoned Creon to his court and sent him to Delphi to learn what must be done to end the plague.

Creon inquired, and the oracle answered:

Ritual pollution brings this plague. The defilement remains: King Laius’s murderer roams within the city, unpunished.

Oedipus vowed to find the foul murderer, purge him from Thebes, and never rest until it was done.

He summoned the blind seer, Tiresias, and asked him: “Who roams within the city’s walls, defiling us? Who, though he has slain our king, walks among us unpunished?”

The old man stood mute.

Oedipus pressed: “Can you use omens or divination to learn his identity?”

Silence.

“You see what others cannot. Come now—tell me the truth. Tell me the man.”

Uneasy, the old man shook his head.

“Why do you turn pale?”

“No, my king, I dare not tell. No good can come from it. The truth will undo you.”

“You would betray the city? By God, tell me! I beg—”

Tiresias struck his staff against the stone. “You do not understand. I will not tell. Leave me to bear what I know alone.”

“You know—yet refuse to tell?”

The seer turned to leave.

“Insolence!” Oedipus erupted.

“You conspire against me, old man! It is you. You are the guilty man! You planned it. You had it done. I know it! Laius’s blood all but drips from your hands!”

“You force me to speak. You are the man you seek.”

Then he turned again to leave.

“And you turn your back on me, after such shamelessness?”

“You gave me no choice. I spoke the truth, and you refuse to hear it.”

“Say it again, then. Clearly. And mind yourself.”

“You are the murderer.”

“For this, charlatan, you will pay dearly.”

“Would you force me to say what more I know?”

“Say what you will, peddler of omens. Your blind visions mean nothing.”

“So be it: You live in shame with those most dear to you, and refuse to see it.”

“You dare speak further? Have you lost your wit? Gone mad?”

“You are the madman. Soon all will curse you as you now curse me.”

“Who put this poison in your mouth? Creon? Did he set you on me? Did he answer the riddle of the Sphinx? Did you? No, he did not. I did! I answered it alone. What do you know, for all your sacred arts? Nothing. Were you not blind, you would already have paid for this insolence.”

“I serve not Creon, but Apollo. You mock my blindness, yet refuse to see. I have spoken the truth. Ask yourself: whose house do you live in? Who is your father? Who is your mother?”

“Out of my sight!”

“You called me.”

“I did not know you would make a mockery of yourself.”

“Your parents thought me no fool.”

“My parents?”

“Your parents. Today you will find your father—and a broken heart.”

“Damn your riddles!”

Hearing the quarrel, Jocasta entered. Tiresias turned again to go. He paused as he passed her and spoke once more: “You once were a man to solve a riddle.”

Oedipus found no words. The echo of the seer’s walking stick faded down the hall.

Jocasta approached Oedipus and set a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Why so angry, my king? What troubles you now?”

“The old man—the blind seer, Tiresias. My enemies have leased his tongue. He dared accuse me of the crime I have vowed to punish.”

“Why do you bother with such nonsense? Pay him no mind. He’s but a blind old man who thinks he can speak for Apollo.”

“He spoke with confidence.”

“Men too often mistake confidence for truth.”

The queen paused, lowered her eyes, and spoke again:

“Long ago, Laius asked the oracle his fate, and was told he would have a son who would rise against him and take his life.”

Her eyes grew moist.

“He ordered that my newborn be taken—that our son be exposed on the mountainside.”

She steadied herself. “Laius was reckless in his caution.”

“You never told me: what happened to him?”

“He was slain—by robbers. Murdered where the three roads meet.”

She gave a short, cynical laugh. “So much for oracles!”

“Where the three roads meet?” He hesitated. Something in him stirred. “How long ago?”

“Long ago—before you came to Thebes.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was still a handsome man, though turning gray—nearly as tall as you. As confident as he was stubborn. And proud.”

“Reckless in his—” Oedipus shifted his weight.

“I heard a prophecy too—that I would kill my father and marry my mother.”

“And here we are! You see? Just silliness.”

“I fled the oracle to protect my parents.”

“And now you are a protective father yourself—and a king.”

“On the road to Thebes—where the three roads met—I encountered an old man in a chariot. His herald ordered me out of the way, and I refused. The old man cursed my insolence and struck me. I killed him—and all his servants but one, who escaped.”

The queen’s eyes widened. “No—no. It was a band of robbers. One man could not have killed them all. That’s what his servant said.”

“His servant told you this? He witnessed it? Where is he now?”

“He fled. He begged to be sent from the city the day you were crowned.”

He studied her. “Why is your face pale?”

“It was a band of robbers. The servant said so.”

“Send for the servant.”

She reached for him again, took his hands, and searched his face. “Let it be. He begged to leave the city.”

“The city suffers. I will know.” He turned to his guards. “Bring him to me.”

“Not every riddle needs an answer.”

Part IV forthcoming

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🗂️ Indexes: Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4

“The question is not who should rule, but how we can so organize political institutions that bad rulers can be prevented from doing too much harm.”

— Karl Popper

Part III

After entering Thebes, Oedipus learned that the people mourned the loss of their king, and feared who would fill his throne: Laius had left no heir.

Then the Sphinx arrived with her riddle, demanding an answer. She killed those who could not provide one, piling at her feet the bones of the bold.

Her weight smothered life. Trade and travel fell to a crawl. The city grew still, silent, and the people longed for an answer.

Any answer.

Queen Jocasta’s brother, Creon, approached the stranger, thankful he had answered the riddle, and offered him the Queen’s hand.

Without question, he accepted.

Under this new king, trade and travel took again to their feet. Crops grew abundant once more. As the years passed, the still-beautiful Jocasta bore Oedipus four children—two sons and two daughters.

Yet slowly, the city grew sick. Trade and travel slowed. Crops blackened. Cattle wasted in their stalls. Mothers wept for children born blue and still. The aged wandered the streets, unsteady, backs bent over walking sticks, begging.

King Oedipus summoned Creon to his court and sent him to Delphi to learn what must be done to end the plague.

Creon inquired, and the oracle answered:

Ritual pollution brings this plague. The defilement remains: King Laius’s murderer roams within the city, unpunished.

Oedipus vowed to find the foul murderer, purge him from Thebes, and never rest until it was done.

He summoned the blind seer, Tiresias, and asked him: “Who roams within the city’s walls, defiling us? Who, though he has slain our king, walks among us unpunished?”

The old man stood mute.

Oedipus pressed: “Can you use omens or divination to learn his identity?”

Silence.

“You see what others cannot. Come now—tell me the truth. Tell me the man.”

Uneasy, the old man shook his head.

“Why do you turn pale?”

“No, my king, I dare not tell. No good can come from it. The truth will undo you.”

“You would betray the city? By God, tell me! I beg—”

Tiresias struck his staff against the stone. “You do not understand. I will not tell. Leave me to bear what I know alone.”

“You know—yet refuse to tell?”

The seer turned to leave.

“Insolence!” Oedipus erupted.

“You conspire against me, old man! It is you. You are the guilty man! You planned it. You had it done. I know it! Laius’s blood all but drips from your hands!”

“You force me to speak. You are the man you seek.”

Then he turned again to leave.

“And you turn your back on me, after such shamelessness?”

“You gave me no choice. I spoke the truth, and you refuse to hear it.”

“Say it again, then. Clearly. And mind yourself.”

“You are the murderer.”

“For this, charlatan, you will pay dearly.”

“Would you force me to say what more I know?”

“Say what you will, peddler of omens. Your blind visions mean nothing.”

“So be it: You live in shame with those most dear to you, and refuse to see it.”

“You dare speak further? Have you lost your wit? Gone mad?”

“You are the madman. Soon all will curse you as you now curse me.”

“Who put this poison in your mouth? Creon? Did he set you on me? Did he answer the riddle of the Sphinx? No, he did not. Did you? No, I did! I answered it alone. What do you know, for all your sacred arts? Nothing. Were you not blind, you would already have paid for this insolence.”

“I serve not Creon, but Apollo. You mock my blindness, yet refuse to see. I have spoken the truth. Ask yourself: whose house do you live in? Who is your father? Who is your mother?”

“Out of my sight!”

“You called me.”

“I did not know you would make a mockery of yourself.”

“Your parents thought me no fool.”

“My parents?”

“Your parents. Today you will find your father—and a broken heart.”

“Damn your riddles!”

Hearing the quarrel, Jocasta entered. Tiresias turned again to go. He paused as he passed her and spoke once more: “You once were a man to solve a riddle.”

Oedipus found no words. The echo of the seer’s walking stick faded down the hall.

Jocasta approached Oedipus and set a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Why so angry, my king? What troubles you now?”

“The old man—the blind seer, Tiresias. My enemies have leased his tongue. He dared accuse me of the crime I have vowed to punish.”

“Why do you bother with such nonsense? Pay him no mind. He’s but a blind old man who thinks he can speak for Apollo.”

“He spoke with confidence.”

“Men too often mistake confidence for truth.”

The queen paused, lowered her eyes, and spoke again:

“Long ago, Laius asked the oracle his fate, and was told he would have a son who would rise against him and take his life.”

Her eyes grew moist.

“He ordered that my newborn be taken—that our son be exposed on the mountainside.”

She steadied herself. “Laius was reckless in his caution.”

“You never told me: what happened to him?”

“He was slain—by robbers. Murdered where the three roads meet.”

She gave a short, cynical laugh. “So much for oracles!”

“Where the three roads meet?” He hesitated. Something in him stirred. “How long ago?”

“Long ago—before you came to Thebes.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was still a handsome man, though turning gray—nearly as tall as you. As confident as he was stubborn. And proud.”

“Reckless in his—” Oedipus shifted his weight.

“I heard a prophecy too—that I would kill my father and marry my mother.”

“And here we are! You see? Just silliness.”

“I fled the oracle to protect my parents.”

“And now you are a protective father yourself—and a king.”

“On the road to Thebes—where the three roads meet—I encountered an old man in a chariot. His herald ordered me out of the way, and I refused. The old man cursed my insolence and struck me. I killed him—and all his servants but one, who escaped.”

The queen’s eyes widened. “No—no. It was a band of robbers. One man could not have killed them all. That’s what his servant said.”

“His servant told you this? He witnessed it? Where is he now?”

“He fled. He begged to be sent from the city the day you were crowned.”

He studied her. “Why is your face pale?”

“It was a band of robbers. The servant said so.”

“Send for the servant.”

She reached for him again, took his hands, and searched his face. “Let it be. He begged to leave the city.”

“The city suffers. I will know.” He turned to his guards. “Bring him to me.”

“Not every riddle needs an answer.”

📘 Begin here | ⬅️ Previous Waypoint (5.2) | ➡️ Next Waypoint (5.4)

🎧 Prefer to Listen?

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☕️ If you’d like to support the work, you can buy me a coffee.

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I sprinkled cold water on the sacrificial goat, waiting for the sign.

It didn’t twitch.

Thank you for reading, and for your patience.

Part III arrives next Tuesday.

K.L. Homme

“We may become the makers of our fate when we have ceased to pose as its prophets.”

—Karl Popper, The Open Society and Its Enemies

Part II

Descending from Mount Parnassus along the Pythian way, Oedipus traveled east toward the sunrise. By midday he had reached the triple meeting of roads.

Behind him rose Delphi.

Before him two roads diverged. One bent toward Daulia’s quieter fields. The other led to the great city of Thebes.

He looks down one, then the other, as a chariot from Thebes rolls into the narrow pass. Within it rides an old man. The herald orders Oedipus to stand aside.

He does not yield.

The herald tries to push him off the road, but he pushes back. The driver strikes him, and he strikes back.

Cursing the insolence, the old man brings his goad down upon him.

Oedipus erupts.

When silence returns, save one who fled into the hills, all lie dead along the roadside—the old man at his feet.

He turned his eyes toward Thebes.

Under the hot afternoon sun, the road lay silent; he met neither traveler nor trader. Fields stood unattended, burning, browning in the heat.

At the great city’s gate, no guard hailed him. No one entered, no one exited.

Then he saw her. There, perched upon a rocky outcrop, the Sphinx watched.

Beneath her lay bones.

“You will answer,” she said. “What creature walks on four legs in the morning, on two at noon, and on three in the evening?”

“Man.”

She cast herself upon the rocks.

From behind the walls, a cry rises. The city gates swing open.

The people pour out and draw the stranger in.

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Support the project—and share this with someone who might appreciate it.

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“We may become the makers of our fate when we have ceased to pose as its prophets.”

—Karl Popper, The Open Society and Its Enemies

Part II

Descending from Mount Parnassus along the Pythian way, Oedipus traveled east toward the sunrise. By midday he had reached the triple meeting of roads.

Behind him rose Delphi.

Before him two roads diverged. One bent toward Daulia’s quieter fields. The other led to the great city of Thebes.

He looks down one, then the other, as a chariot from Thebes rolls into the narrow pass. Within it rides an old man. The herald orders Oedipus to stand aside.

He does not yield.

The herald tries to push him off the road, but he pushes back. The driver strikes him, and he strikes back.

Cursing the insolence, the old man brings his goad down upon him.

Oedipus erupts.

When silence returns, save one who fled into the hills, all lie dead along the roadside—the old man at his feet.

He turned his eyes toward Thebes.

Under the hot afternoon sun, the road lay silent; he met neither traveler nor trader. Fields stood unattended, burning, browning in the heat.

At the great city’s gate, no guard hailed him. No one entered, no one exited.

Then he saw her. There, perched upon a rocky outcrop, the Sphinx watched.

Beneath her lay bones.

“You will answer,” she said. “What creature walks on four legs in the morning, on two at noon, and on three in the evening?”

“Man.”

She cast herself upon the rocks.

From behind the walls, a cry rises. The city gates swing open.

The people pour out and draw the stranger in.