In the far future of London in the Age of Witspell, an orator by the name of Plato gives speeches about the ancient Age of Mouldwarp, our present age. Plato’s understanding of Moldwarp is cobbled together from scant extant fragments, leading to (from our perspective) humorous misunderstandings and spurious etymologies. All a playful satire of our own understanding of the past.
While the first half of the novel playfully sets the scene of the world, the second half increasingly invites the reader to draw comparisons to Socrates. This future Plato calls himself “the witless” and our ancient Socrates insists he only knows that he does not know things. Future Plato converses with his own soul, and Socrates is guided by his internal daimon. Both are charged with corrupting the youth.
In response to this charge they differ. Socrates held he was innocent and accepted his punishment, refusing exile or to run from it as the polis had given him everything. This fictionalized future Plato on the other hand, is acquitted by reason of insanity and allowed to stay, but exiles himself.
Maybe all of this is meant to be a charming meditation on truth and perspective in the vein of Calvino or Borges, but Ackroyd brings a particularly English cheekyness that I just cringe at. Conceptually, it ticked off so many boxes for me. I should like it more. It is very brief though, so still worth the read.
