Socrates’ famous method of elenchus — often translated as the “method of questioning” or “refutation” — together with his open admission of ignorance, formed one of the most distinctive features of his philosophy. Unlike the so-called wise men of his time, who dazzled others with clever rhetoric, twisted logic to blur right and wrong, or proudly paraded their supposed knowledge, Socrates began from a radically different place: He believed he knew nothing.
Because he regarded himself as ignorant, he did not lecture others with ready-made answers. Instead, he asked questions — earnestly, persistently, and sometimes relentlessly. He never assumed he already possessed the correct answer and then argued toward it. Rather, as others responded, he continued to probe, challenge, and question, gently but firmly, until contradictions emerged. In this way, people gradually came to recognize the absurdity and limits of their own understanding — and through that recognition, they drew closer to truth.
Guiding people to the truth
Socrates understood something profoundly human: guiding people to think is far more effective than simply imparting information. That is why he often described himself as a midwife of thought. He did not generate ideas for others; he helped them generate their own ideas.
This approach was radical for its time — and remains radical today. In a world where knowledge is often treated as a commodity to be transmitted, Socrates reminds us that wisdom begins with humility, curiosity, and dialogue. He trusted that if people were gently guided to examine their own beliefs, they would arrive at understanding not because it was handed to them, but because they had discovered it themselves. In that sense, Socratic questioning is less about proving a point and more about nurturing insight, self-awareness, and intellectual courage.
He frequently engaged people in discussions about the true meaning of courage, piety, humility, justice, goodness, and integrity. These are words we casually use every day, yet defining them precisely is far from easy. This was not only a problem in ancient Athens; even today, many people still do not fully understand concepts such as virtue and justice. It may sound absurd — but it is undeniably real.
Take beauty, for example. What is beauty, really? Is it merely physical attractiveness? Bright colors? Symmetry of form? Or something deeper, something with intangible factors? And what about goodness? Is it merely acting kindly toward those we like or who benefit us? Should we extend goodness to an enemy? And if we do, is that still true goodness — or something else entirely? But then — who counts as an enemy? Is it only someone who opposes us, or could it be anyone we instinctively distrust?
A conversation with Socrates was never a casual chat — it was an ongoing journey toward truth. Under Socrates’ questioning, people often discovered that they did not actually understand the meaning of the very words they used so confidently. And if one does not truly know what goodness, courage, integrity, or virtue are, how could one possibly know how to act in a way that is truly just, brave, or kind?
The intention to help others
It is important to understand that Socrates did not question others to humiliate them. His purpose was to help people recognize their own ignorance, so that they might reflect carefully on what is truly good and evil, true and false, right and wrong — and thus learn how to live as genuinely virtuous human beings.
One well-known example is his dialogue with Meno, a nobleman who believed that to be virtuous, one must be wealthy. In Meno’s view, poverty left no room for virtue. He firmly asserted that a virtuous person must be powerful and influential. Socrates responded with a simple yet penetrating question: Should we not add the words “just” and “rightful” to the act of acquiring wealth and power? If power and riches are obtained through unjust means, can they still be called virtue?
This question struck at the heart of Meno’s belief and revealed its flaw. Socrates then drew a clear conclusion: justice, moderation, piety, and other virtues must take precedence over acquisition. If, in certain circumstances, a person can obtain wealth only through unjust means, then choosing poverty over injustice is itself a form of virtue. Faced with this reasoning, Meno was fully convinced and finally understood that virtue has no direct connection to material wealth, power, or social status.
This truth is timeless. Yet even today, many people measure success solely by the amount of money one possesses. Some even ask cynically, “How much is morality worth per pound?” In doing so, they fall into the same intellectual trap that Meno once did.
Facing hostility for the sake of wisdom
Socrates’ style of dialogue inevitably offended many Athenians — especially those considered “authorities” in their respective fields. Convincing such people of their own ignorance was far more difficult than questioning ordinary citizens. More often than not, losing an argument — and with it, one’s dignity — bred resentment, jealousy, and hostility. As a result, while Socrates gained admiration and followers, he also attracted slander, ridicule, and even occasional physical abuse.
At the time, Aristophanes’ comedy The Clouds was widely performed in Athens. It reflected the deep animosity some Athenians felt toward Socrates. In the play, he is mockingly portrayed as a sophist, a natural philosopher obsessed with abstract theories, and even an atheist.
In reality, the Socrates depicted in the play more closely resembled the Sophists of the era — masters of clever argumentation who believed there was no absolute right or wrong, only different ways of arguing a case. They denied the existence of universal goodness and virtue, a stance completely contrary to Socrates’ lifelong pursuit of moral truth and wisdom. Moreover, the Sophists charged high fees for instruction, a practice Socrates never engaged in. Aristophanes’ satire may well have been fueled by personal resentment after being questioned by Socrates himself. And it was precisely the popularity of this play that quietly laid the groundwork for Socrates’ eventual fate.
Yet despite all this, Socrates continued to follow his path. Day after day, he walked the streets of Athens, examining himself and others, fully aware that his actions would provoke increasing hostility. Even his wife often lost her temper over his behavior — but none of it ever shook his resolve.
So what compelled Socrates to persist so stubbornly in questioning others, despite the growing danger? The answer, in fact, lies in a divine oracle.
See Part 1 here
Translated by Katy Liu and edited by Tatiana Denning
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