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tion of politics while, paradoxically, hinting at it. The reading of irony presented here differs from Strauss’ and also from Arendt’s theory of appearances, in that it does not assign—in agreement with Arendt—a hidden agenda to Socrates and that, at the same time, it holds that, inherent to his ironic gesture, there is a definite concealment of superiority on the part of Socrates which belongs to the political, while not to the public sphere. Arendt’s concept of irony must be nuances in order to be able to incorporate the irony under discussion. Yes, the political is the sphere in which men appear and participate one in front of the other; and indeed, Socrates did not err in his gesture toward Agathon—he appeared exactly as he wanted to show himself. But, then, we must qualify: this “authentic appearance” of Socrates was directed toward (may we say, ‘calibrated with reference to’?) no one except his host, sole beneficiary of the philosopher’s insult. This appearance, though pronounced in the bright day of publicity (to whatever extent we can rightly call public an aristocratic drinking party), was directed exclusively at—and was not susceptible of being perceived by anyone but—Agathon and, perhaps, those who had the acuteness to notice it. This oblique and esoteric appearance, then, is not public but is political, because it constitutes an invitation to think beyond the limits of public order; it invites a secret transgression of this order under the diaphanous veil of irony; it is a call to complicity. We thus see how Socrates’ insult to Agathon is in truth a compliment in the most profound sense, but only because Agathon took it as an insult (precisely as Socrates intended him to take it); had he taken it as a compliment, he would have proven his inferiority. Again, the double edge of irony appears, determined as it is by the listener as much as the speaker.
VII These considerations lead to a conception of irony as a disposition, or a mode, that characterizes Socrates’ speech at all times. It operates at a threshold between two levels of dialogue, the philosophical and that of the citizens. The meaning of Socrates’ words is concealed from the public among which he speaks; yet he constantly hints at this concealed meaning: he is always probing, questioning, teasing, as it were, other men, without ever explicitly stating in plain words what he means—this is his irony. So, when Strauss says that irony must be unnoticed in order to be effective, he thereby implies that the effect of irony is that of keeping the meaning of Socrates’ speech hidden from most men. However, the meaning of Socrates’ speech is already hidden from most men. To keep it hidden it would suffice to remain silent. Irony is precisely the invitation—and yes, it is a bit of an insolent invitation—to enter into a dialogue about things that cannot be said in open light. And as I mentioned before, it is an invitation that not everyone can receive, even though Socrates sends it to everyone, all of the time. The effects of irony are complex; they do indeed depend on whether the irony is perceived or not, but this condition merely distinguishes two sorts of