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Thales, one of the Seven Sages of Greece and the teacher of Pythagoras, held that there was no difference between life and death. Once, somebody who was dismissive of philosophy asked him, "Why don't you kill yourself, then?"

Thales replied, "Because it wouldn't make a difference."

I can't help but love this act of the Athenians: once, in a public assembly, Demades introduced a motion that Alexander the Great should be recognized by the state as the thirteenth Olympian. However, the people, unable to bear his ludicrous impiety, fined him a hundred talents for attempting to count a mortal among the Celestials.

(Ælian, Varia Historia V xii)

Demades was a well-known agent of Macedon among the Athenians—while his antics caused a lot of grief, he did manage to prevent Alexander from razing Athens to the ground as he did with Thebes. A hundred talents was 2.6 metric tons of pure silver, worth around two million dollars today. I figure Demades got off easy—consider the price Niobe paid!

My grandfather[, the "father of water-colour painting" John Varley,] was living at the time in Conduit Street, Regent Street. He had purchased or taken a lease of an hotel, which he used partly as a dwelling-house for his large family, and partly as a studio and gallery for his pictures.

He was, so I have been told, in the habit of consulting his own horoscope each morning, and bringing up directions, etc., to date. On one particular morning (I am sorry that I never took notes of these conversations, and I forget the dates, if indeed they were mentioned) my father related, he was evidently ill at ease and disturbed in mind, and though he had an appointment he did not go out, and about eleven in the forenoon he gave his watch to my father telling him to take it to a watchmaker in Regent Street and have it set to Greenwich time. When he returned with the watch my grandfather was still walking up and down the studio, a proceeding that impressed my father as most unusual, for my grandfather grudged actually every minute that he was away from his easel. At last he remarked, "What is it to be?" and explained that there were some evil aspects in his horoscope which would come into operation a few minutes to twelve on that day. He was so certain as to the evil effects, that he would not go out, fearing some street accident. He said, "I might be run over, or a slate might fall on my head;" that he was uncertain whether his life or his property was menaced, but he saw in the figure that it would be sudden. The difficulty arose from the fact that the effects of the planet Uranus were not yet understood by astrologers, and his agitation increased as the time approached. He asked if my father was sure that his watch was put to Greenwich time, and complained that he could not go on with his work. Sitting down he said two or three times, "I feel quite well—there is nothing the matter with me. I am not going to have a fit or anything of the sort." Then rising from his seat he came towards my father saying: "What is it to be? The time is past. Could I have made some mistake in my calculations?" He took some paper and a pencil to go through the figures again—just then there was a cry of fire from the street. He rapidly made a note in his astrological book as to the effects of Uranus. The house was burned down, all his property was destroyed, and unfortunately he was uninsured. It is a curious fact that on three occasions his property was destroyed by fire, and three times in his life he was tossed by bulls, and whatever warning he may have had from the stars, he was unable to prevent their effects.

(John Varley, Some Astrological Predictions of the Late John Varley, in the Occult Review XXIV i)

One of the things I think we moderns get really wrong is "what is art." If I asked any of my friends what is great art, they will say that it is something that does a good job of making them feel a certain way. I would disagree very strongly: that's not art; it's kitsch, or propaganda, or something—art doesn't make you feel, it asks what you feel. Great art must be collaboration between the artist and the viewer.

Let's look at an example. One of my favorite paintings is "Diogenes Sitting in His Tub," by Jean-Léon Gérôme (1860):

(What can I say? I really like Diogenes!)

The reason I think this is great art is that you can keep looking at it and discovering more and more about it (and yourself). The painting doesn't have answers, it has questions, and you must find the answers within. For example, the painting has dogs sitting in a circle around Diogenes, as if learning from him. Why? Perhaps it's merely a nod to "Cynic" meaning "doglike," but that's too easy: look deeper.

Since Diogenes is preparing the lamp which he famously used to "search for a true man," perhaps the painter is implying that dogs are more true than men are.

Perhaps the dog on the left—lying down as if observing but not attentively—is Diogenes' teacher, Antisthenes; then there is Diogenes is in the middle; and the three of rapt attention on the right are the most famous of Diogenes' students: perhaps Crates, Hipparchia, and Monimus. So the dogs could represent the line of succession in the Cynic school. (Maybe the itsy-bitsy dog in the background wandering away is Zeno the Stoic!)

Perhaps what's important is the gap—it is as if there are dogs simply sitting in an even circle around Diogenes, learning from him, but there's a missing dog where the viewer is, implying that the viewer of the painting is the missing dog. This would be an implied exhortation to also learn from Diogenes' example.

Either way, what's important is not the painting itself, but what the painting provokes: it isn't about what the artist intended, it's about what you can learn from it. In many ways, studying great art is much like the process of contemplation: apply the same tools from the graphical to the allegorical, and one can study myths in the same way.

"Isn't it strange that so many destroy their bodies when alive, but preserve their bodies when dead?"

"As an overfull house attracts mice, so an overfull body attracts disease."

"What philosophy teaches by reason, poverty teaches by necessity."

When begging, Diogenes once received a fresh loaf of bread. He dumped the wheat kernels he had previously received out of his begging bowl, saying to them, "Stranger, make way for the king!"

Diogenes made a point of living with as little as possible, and had, after much experimentation, finally whittled his possessions down to a cloak, a staff, and a bowl. One day as he was going to a fountain to get some water, he saw a boy drinking from it with his hands. Diogenes lamented, "All this effort, to be beaten by a child!" and smashed the bowl.

Plato's interests were diverse, but perhaps the one he is best remembered for is his longstanding political utopianism: his longest and most-read dialogues concern the state and how carefully-crafted laws might improve its citizenry. Plato's great rival, Diogenes the Cynic, instead taught the opposite: that one should withdraw from not only politics but all cultural norms, adhering to no laws but Nature's.

Plato never involved himself in Athens' politics—perhaps unsurprisingly, Plato's wish for a "philosopher king" didn't fly in a democracy—but later in life he became involved in the politics of Syracuse. Syracuse was one of the jewels of the Hellenic world, rivaling Athens in size, wealth, and beauty—but, notably, was ruled by a tyrant, Dionysius I.

Dionysius had heard of the great fame of Plato and invited him to Sicily: Plato, noble-born and always happy to feast with kings, agreed. It seems the two did not hit it off, however: Plato kinda sorta insinuated that, without virtue, Dionysius would never become a true king; and, of course, the king kinda sorta answered that, without a head, Plato would never become an old dotard. As it happened, though, the king's brother-in-law, Dion, had taken a liking to Plato and managed to stay the execution. Plato was instead sold into slavery, but a friend happened to be at the auction and bought Plato for a small fortune and sent him back to Athens.

Not long after this, Diogenes, sniffing about, came upon a pensive-looking Plato in an upscale restaurant. "Oh, Plato," he barked, "you don't seem to be enjoying yourself. After dining in Sicily, are Athenian olives not good enough for you?" (By "Athenian olives," Diogenes was apparently referring to Athens' home-grown democracy.) Plato didn't catch Diogenes' meaning, so he motioned to the plate and said, "You're welcome to have some." To drive his point home, Diogenes stuffed the whole plateful in his mouth. Plato exclaimed, "I said some, Diogenes, not all!" but the rascally dog merely winked and wandered off.

This wasn't the end of Plato's political involvement in Syracuse, however. Dionysius died and his son, Dionysius II, took the throne, but he was as much a tyrant as his father, and moreover dissolute and incompetant. Dion remained an advisor, and, as I said, had taken a liking to Plato; he invited him back to Syracuse in order to teach his nephew and hopefully moderate his behavior. Plato did so, but his proposals to rewrite the city's laws made Dionysius suspicious of his uncle's motives: he imprisoned Plato and sent Dion into exile. In retaliation, Dion formed an army and conquered Sicily. He freed Plato and sent him home, but proved to be no better of a ruler than Dionysius was—in fact, he was soon assassinated and the throne was usurped by Callippus, another of Plato's disciples.

Back in Athens, Diogenes had scavenged some wild vegetables to make a coarse supper of, and was washing them in a public fountain, when Plato came by and said to him, "You know, Diogenes, if you made friends of the rich, instead of enemies, you wouldn't need to wash vegetables." Diogenes answered him, "Yes, Plato, but if you had been washing vegetables, you wouldn't have languished in prison."

Eventually, Dionysius regained his throne. Plato sailed a third time to Syracuse, hoping to make some amends and moderate the tyrant's renewed cruelty, but he returned home disappointed. And for all his hopes and idealism, what had he accomplished? Twenty years of chaos for the poor men and women of Sicily.

In the weeks that followed, as Plato pondered all of this, a letter arrived for him from Corinth. Plato glanced at the address, which read, "Diogenes to Plato the Sage." Plato sighed; thought, "I didn't know dogs could write;" and opened the letter.

It read, simply, "I told you so."

Diogenes to Crates.

Don't forget that I gave you your life-long poverty. Try not to lose it, and neither let anyone else steal it from you, since it's likely that the Thebans—deeming you unhappy—will accost you. But consider your ragged cloak a lion's skin, your staff a club, and your wallet the land and sea which feed you: for thus would the spirit of Heracles, mightier than every turn of fortune, stir in you.

...but if you happen to have any lupines or dried figs left, please send them to me.

(Cynic Epistles, Diogenes XXVI, as adapted by yours truly.)

Critobulus once asked Socrates, "Socrates, you are wise; do you know any magic spells for attracting love?"

Socrates answered, "Well, Themistocles made Athens fall in love with him by adorning her with amulets..."

(Adapted from Xenophon, Memorabilia II 6.)

...

(Okay, okay, I'll explain the joke. Themistocles was an Athenian general and politician who, after Athens and Sparta managed to (barely) repel Persia at the Battle of Marathon, managed to drain the treasury to build Athens a massive navy and fortifications (the "amulets" Socrates is jokingly referring to). When Persia returned for revenge a decade later, this navy was instrumental in defeating the Persians at Salamis, thus ensuring Athenian dominance of Greece until the Peloponnesian War.)

We beautiful people have a right to be proud of this fact, that whereas the strong man must get the good things of his desire by toil, and the brave man by adventure, and the wise man by his eloquence, the beautiful person can attain all his ends without doing anything at all.

(Critobulus; as quoted by Xenophon, Symposium IV; and as translated by Otis Johnson Todd)

Crates of Thebes was a wealthy man, but upon seeing the futility of the rat race, he sold his estate, gave the proceeds to the poor, and became Diogenes' most outstanding pupil. He was nicknamed the Opener of Doors since, like a stray dog, he had a habit of wandering into people's houses—both to beg food of them, and to instruct them in philosophy (whether they liked it or not). Usually they became his friends.

On one occasion, he came into a house and lectured so excellently that one of the daughters of the house, Hipparchia, fell utterly under the spell of both man and his teachings. Indeed, she threatened her parents, saying that she would commit suicide if they did not permit her to run off after Crates. The parents begged Crates to dissuade the girl, and so he took off his coarse clothing—revealing a deformed leg and hunchback—and placed his staff and begging bowl on top of them—for these were all the possessions that remained to him in the world—and said, "Consider carefully my beauty and my fortune, for I won't have you complain of it later." Hipparchia answered, "Nowhere will I find a fairer or richer husband—take me where you will!"

He took her to his usual sleeping place on the street where—like dogs, of course—they shamelessly fucked in public view. From that day, the two were inseparable and seen everywhere together. To add to the scandal, Hipparchia wore the same men's clothing her husband wore and took up his philosophical profession, lecturing no less eloquently than he. The two had several children, lived joyously and long, and taught many in both word and deed that wisdom and the good life are within reach of everyone, rich or poor, male or female.

No record of Crates' epitaph remains, but Hipparchia's is said to have read, "I have abandoned a lady's life for that of a dog, and finery for sleeping on the bare ground: but let my name be to Atalanta's as wisdom is to sprinting."