9. What Alexander Gave Diogenes
a short story
Now, at the time that Alexander the Great ascended to the throne, there was an unusual man named Diogenes of Sinope living in the city of Corinth. This Diogenes had developed some notoriety throughout Greece for his amusing witticisms and his memorably outlandish behavior as a cynic — a controversial class of philosopher who chose to live like a street dog and lob criticisms at all social conventions, and especially the pursuit of power and wealth.
Alexander and his army were traveling towards the Peloponnese, with the goal of asserting his authority over every part of his newly-acquired kingdom, when they stopped in the city to address the League of Corinth and make preparations for his coming war against Persia. It was here where Alexander and Diogenes met for the first and only time.
—
Striding one afternoon through the marketplace with a small company of guards and servants, Alexander notices Diogenes, sitting naked in the sun, his eyes closed, his legs stretched out before him, and his back against the large barrel that he calls his home. Nudging one of his companions, Alexander asks who this strange fellow might be, and is told that he is the famous Diogenes.
Intrigued, Alexander walks up to Diogenes and addresses him. “Before you stands Alexander III, King of Macedon, Hegemon of the League of Corinth. Rise and address me.”
Opening one eye, Diogenes glances briefly at Alexander and the men behind him. He promptly shuts the eye again.
Alexander clears his throat and begins again. “Before you stands Alexander III, King of Macedon—”
Diogenes interrupts loudly, eyes still shut. “Before you sits Diogenes the dog, occupant of this barrel, once at peace, now devoid of all hope.”
“Devoid of all hope?”
“Hope that if I ignored you for long enough, you might choose some other man to be addressed by. Or that you might at least choose to sit down, for you are blocking my sunlight.” Diogenes opens his eyes. “Alas.”
“Will you refuse to rise and address me?” Alexander asks, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“What reason is there for me to rise and address you now, when we are already in conversation?”
Alexander pauses in disbelief, his hand still resting on his sword. “It is simply the custom of the land, and your role in it. To stand and bow when spoken to is a gift paid by all men to their superiors.”
Diogenes frowns and glances at the sword. “How can it be a gift if it is not freely given? If I bow to you now, by threat of sword, then I do not fulfill my role, but that of a slave, for you wrest the bow from me against my will. I may be a dog, but I am no man’s slave. I should like to give you my bow as a gift, but I cannot give it to you unless I give it freely.”
Alexander hears this with amusement, as he remembers that he is talking to the infamous cynic. He takes his hand off of his sword. “All right, I am engaged. What could compel you to bow to me freely?”
“To compel me to give freely — an oxymoron for sure, but I suppose nothing is precise. And since you seem unlikely to leave otherwise . . .” He strokes his dirty beard for a moment, appearing pensive. “I can find motive within myself to give you the free gift of my bow, if you first give to me something equal to it in measure.”
“But that is ridiculous,” Alexander argues. “If I must first give you a gift to earn your gift, then your gift is not a free gift at all — we have merely engaged in a transaction.”
“A transaction?” Diogenes scoffs. “You come to me with men and swords, making clear that you can take all you want from me. What manner of trade is it if any attempt to bargain or barter with you could be the death of me? No, your gift to me is proof, not payment — by the gift you show me honor, and improve my opinion of you. This is the only way you can create in me the will to give freely in return. Where there is no good will, all is simply taken. It is true that we may never eliminate all coercion, but freedom is one of the fundamental measures of giving; unless you give me room for some amount of freedom, I cannot give to you at all.”
“I can see that you are just like the Sophists,” Alexander replies. “You use complexity and twists of logic with the aim to confuse, so that you can ultimately fleece me. But you are lucky, and have found me in good spirits today. You will see that I own so much that I can give generously without it being of any matter to me. Now here,” he says, beckoning a servant forward with a finger, his eyes remaining fixed on Diogenes. “What does the great Diogenes want me to give to him? Two dozen oxen?”
“What is it with you kings and your love of your own voice?” Diogenes sighs, closing his eyes again. “You cannot see that you have offered me nothing but your words. It is your man here who will run to execute your order — he gives me his energy. No doubt, other servants will find the oxen, untie them, and lead them to me — they give me their time. Those who fed and trained the oxen from their birth give me the fruit of their skilled labor. Even the oxen as they walk to me give me more than you have, who simply whisper a command and believe yourself to have done the work that makes it so. This is the second fundamental measure of giving — its activity. That is, how much of your own self you offer —the effort of your body and the attention of your spirit. I asked you for a gift equal in measure to my bow, and you have offered me only the gift of others’ attention and effort; you only mistake it for your own because of your power and wealth. You wonder why I live like a dog, but I swear by your father’s bones that a dog is more of a man than any king I have met. The more riches your lot swing around, the less intelligent you always seem to become.”
At this, an audible chuckle escapes from the servant next to Alexander. The king’s jaw tightens, but he chooses not to reveal his anger — he will not lose this battle of wits. “Fine,” he says. “But you underestimate my intelligence. I trained under Aristotle, and I can see that while you excel in rhetoric, you lack in virtue. You ask me for such an active gift, but what you give in return is barely anything at all — surely to stand and bow requires little more effort than a whisper.”
“Oh — You don’t have my back or my legs,” Diogenes whimpers. “Anyway, you are right. My gift is not much either, no, but it is more than what you offer, and that is my point. Small or large, if you respected me, you would be willing to give in at least the same measure that you ask.”
“Ah, now I finally see the game,” says Alexander, smiling again. “You want me to bow to you. You would find perverse amusement in seeing a king, in his fine raiment, bowing low to a naked dog.”
Diogenes snorts in surprise, then leans to the side and spits on the ground next to himself. “I assure you, I do not find you to be an amusing person at all, and a slight shift in your posture will do nothing to change that. I have no desire to see you bow, and so a bow will not satisfy me. Look here, this is the third and final fundamental measure of giving — giving is no gift if what is given is not valued. Perhaps a bow from a king would bring delight to some other man, but what gift is your bow to me, if I am not that man? A gift that is not valued is an effort wasted doubly — first, it does not give me what I want, and second, it does nothing to improve our relation: my opinion of you is left, at best, unchanged and, at worst, somewhat soured. Do not bow to me, for if you do, we will both be worse off: you will be humiliated, and I will be bored. You want my bow — and I will give it — but I do not want yours, so you will have to give me something else.”
“Then what do you want from me?” Alexander snaps, nearly growling with anger at this point. “Speak plainly now; I am growing impatient.”
Diogenes squints up at him. “I want you to stop blocking my sunlight.”
For a few moments, Alexander stands silently, as his anger withers into confusion, until he turns his head and squints up at the sun behind him. He turns back to Diogenes, who is lying in his shadow, and begins to shake his head. “Naked in a barrel, and that is all you want from a king?” He lets out a sharp laugh as he takes a few steps to the side. “Verily,” he announces to his men, “if I were not Alexander, I should wish to be Diogenes.”
Satisfied, Diogenes bends his knees and gingerly rises to his feet, replying with a smirk, “If I were not Diogenes, I should also wish to be Diogenes.” He bows to the king.
Alexander smiles at first, but his smile gradually lowers into a frown. “Hold on,” he says slowly, thinking. “I gave you a gift that met yours, by all three measures. By standing aside from your sunlight, I gave you a gift that was, in good measure, free, active, and valued. And in return, your bow to me was free, active, and valued, in the same measure. And yet, I feel that something is missing. Having received your bow, I now see that what is useful in a bow is its display of respect, and I can tell that you do not respect me at all.
“My gift effected a useful change — you received both my gift, and the sunlight. But in lacking respect, your gift effected no useful change — I received your gift, and nothing more. While the gifts were equal by your measures, it appears that there is one more measure which you have missed — a gift is better if it is effective, and worse if it is not. A gift is no gift if it doesn’t work. Thus, I, Alexander, have given to the dog more than the dog could give to me.”
At this, Diogenes looks Alexander for the first time directly in the eyes. He claps his hands together and begins to laugh gaily. “Ah! You are right — a fourth measure! You have taught an old dog something new, and to believe that I have wanted for it for so long!” he cries. “Have what is yours, in full measure!” He bows again and again, fully seven times before stopping to rest. Breathing heavily, he then retreats into his barrel and begins to scratch what he has learned into an old strip of leather with a fingernail, seeming to have completely forgotten the presence of Alexander and his men.
Alexander marvels at all of this and turns toward his servant, saying, “I can feel that something inward of me has shifted today, and perhaps all the world with it. I have paid and been paid gifts of great monetary value, but none like these gifts I have just exchanged with Diogenes the dog. Indeed, I have conquered lands and I shall soon conquer more, and men will remember me for these accomplishments and many others. But I believe that, on the day that I die, I shall remember what Diogenes gave to me, and what I gave Diogenes.”
—
It is widely reported that Diogenes the Cynic and Alexander the Great died on the same day in 323 BCE, thirteen years after their meeting in Corinth. Alexander, having conquered many lands, died after drinking gifted wine poisoned with water from the river Styx, and Diogenes died of holding his own breath.