© the other press Features November 5, 2003 HE Pace 20 « http://www.otherpress.ca 411 B.C.—Socrates is walking with Glaucon, when Polemarchus appears and invites them to join him and other non- sophists at his home. They accept, and enjoy debate and drink all night. We meet Socrates sitting near the fire, repeating the question that Thrasymachus has asked about writing, _ “What is my inspiration? I would con- _ tend that inspiration is an act that occurs with a spontaneous start and a controlled end, whereby fresh ideas are sparked, prompting the writer to begin or resume composition. Perhaps we should visit this indi "That would be best, Socrates,” _Thrasymachus says. “So what, then, is your inspiration?” “By virtue of form, the question requires our answer to be a noun. We are asking what our inspiration is, and will therefore define inspiration as a place, thing, quality, action, or abstract concept. Our inspiration must take one of these forms, for if it does not, then it is not a noun. Is it reasonable to start by calling our inspiration a noun?” “That is a reasonable place to start,” says Glaucon. _ “Very well. Having decided what our inspiration is in form, we must now define what our inspiration is in action; we must give meaning to its shape. Is it possible for inspiration to be constant, such as morality or gender?” Thrasymachus steps forward, saying: “Certainly not. One who wakes up moral does not necessarily wake up inspired.” “Quite true. If something occurs, then, does it not require a response? When we awaken our inspiration, does it not alter the reality it enters, prompting a change? The change, or reaction, will be considered the initiation of writing. That is, when inspiration occurs, there is a response with- in us, which inspires us to write. There is a cause and effect. Will this suffice as a work- ing definition for what our inspiration looks like, and what it does?” “Yes, I think this will do for our purpos- a. “We now need to look at our inspiration through the lens of time; our inspiration must have a start, and therefore, an end.” Turning toward Glaucon, Socrates asks: “Would a demonstration be of assistance?” “T think it would.” “A fire, like ours here, has an ebb and flow: when properly fueled it blazes, when left unartended, it fizzles. Inspiration is like my fanning of the flames, As I blow on the fire's embers, do you see the exponential gains?” “Indeed! You have barely blown, yet I can see for myself how quickly the heat intensi- fies, and how proud the fire burns.” “Well put. You have grasped the first point well. But what if I were to continue blowing into the fire, fanning the flames endlessly? What then becomes of our fire?” (Coughing) “You have thickened the air with smoke, and sent embers into the night shadows, possibly torching our possessions or igniting kindling we were saving for another fire.” “Again, well done! Just as our fire grows quickly at first, but then uncontrolled, so too does our writing. When our creativity fizzles, our inspiration rekindles the writ- ing. But if unchecked, inspiration may cause us to blur our message behind veils of — smoke, burning time and energy in unin- tended shadows of thought. Just as our inspiration has a welcome starting point, it must also have a conclusion to be effective. Our inspiration, then, has become both abstract concept and action, working for short periods of time, prompting the writer to respond with words.” “This all seems logical. But what of the original question? What is your inspira- tion?” asks Glaucon. “Me?” Socrates pauses, fingering his beard before responding: “Well, I’ve always liked sunsets.”