Seven Sages of Greece

Based on Wikipedia: Seven Sages of Greece

Nobody could agree on who they were.

That's the first thing you need to know about the Seven Sages of Greece—this supposedly canonical list of the wisest men who ever lived. The ancient Greeks, who invented democracy and philosophy and a good chunk of Western civilization, couldn't even settle on which seven people deserved to be called "wise." Different sources give different names. Some lists have ten candidates. Others suggest twelve. One ancient author proposed seventeen possible sages, inviting readers to pick their favorite seven like some kind of philosophical fantasy league.

And yet, despite this confusion—or perhaps because of it—the Seven Sages became one of the most enduring ideas in ancient thought. These were the men whose pithy sayings were carved into the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, the spiritual center of the Greek world. "Know thyself." "Nothing in excess." Phrases so famous they've become clichés, which is what happens when good advice survives for two and a half thousand years.

Who Made the Cut

The most famous list comes from Plato, who wrote about the Seven Sages in his dialogue called the Protagoras around 380 BCE. According to Plato, the canonical seven were:

Thales of Miletus, who lived from roughly 624 to 546 BCE. Thales is often called the first philosopher in the Western tradition—the first person we know of who tried to explain natural phenomena through reason rather than mythology. He predicted a solar eclipse, measured the height of pyramids using shadows, and allegedly fell into a well while stargazing because he was too busy looking up at the stars to watch where he was walking. The ancient biographer Diogenes Laertius credits Thales with the aphorism "Know thyself," though other sources disagree.

Pittacus of Mytilene, who governed the city of Mytilene on the island of Lesbos from around 640 to 568 BCE. Pittacus was that rare thing: a popular tyrant. He came to power with the support of ordinary citizens and worked to reduce the influence of the nobility. The word "tyrant" in ancient Greek didn't necessarily mean a cruel despot—it simply meant someone who seized power outside the normal rules of succession. Pittacus used his power wisely enough to earn a place among the sages.

Bias of Priene, a politician and lawmaker from the sixth century BCE. We know less about Bias than some of the others, but he was renowned enough in his time to make nearly everyone's list.

Solon of Athens, who lived from approximately 638 to 558 BCE. Solon was the great lawgiver of Athens, the man who laid the foundations for what would become Athenian democracy. He reformed the legal system, cancelled debts that had reduced many citizens to slavery, and created a code of laws that applied equally to rich and poor. His reforms were so significant that "solon" became a generic term for a wise lawmaker, a word still occasionally used in English today.

Cleobulus of Lindos, who ruled the city of Lindos on the island of Rhodes around 600 BCE. Some sources claim he was either the grandfather or father-in-law of Thales, which would make the Seven Sages something of a family affair.

Myson of Chenae, a sixth-century figure about whom we know almost nothing except that Plato included him on the list.

And finally, Chilon of Sparta, who flourished around 555 BCE. Chilon was a Spartan politician credited with transforming Sparta into the militaristic society it became famous for—the society that trained warriors from childhood and valued discipline above all else.

The Disputed Seats

Here's where it gets interesting. Myson of Chenae was the least famous person on Plato's list, and many ancient sources swapped him out for someone more prominent.

The most common substitution was Periander of Corinth, who ruled the wealthy city-state of Corinth around 627 to 585 BCE. Periander was undeniably powerful and accomplished—he built a stone trackway across the Isthmus of Corinth that allowed ships to be hauled overland, a technological marvel of its age. But Periander was also known for cruelty. Stories circulated about murders and worse. Some Greeks felt that wisdom required moral virtue, and a ruthless tyrant couldn't qualify no matter how clever he was.

Others substituted Anacharsis the Scythian, which is particularly fascinating because Anacharsis wasn't Greek at all. He came from Scythia, the vast grassland steppe north of the Black Sea, a region the Greeks considered barbaric. Anacharsis traveled to Greece to learn, became friends with Solon, and impressed the Athenians with his fresh perspective on their customs. He saw Greek civilization with the eyes of an outsider and asked questions that natives never thought to ask. His inclusion on some lists suggests that at least some Greeks recognized wisdom could come from unexpected places.

The philosopher Plutarch mentioned yet another candidate: Epimenides of Phaistos, a semi-legendary figure from Crete who supposedly fell asleep in a cave for fifty-seven years and woke up with prophetic powers. Epimenides was called to Athens to purify the city after a plague, and some counted him among the sages "by those who would not admit Periander into the number."

There was even a movement to include Aesop, the legendary teller of fables. A sixth-century poem by Agathias describes a statue of the Seven Sages with Aesop standing before them—not quite among them, but close enough to suggest he belonged in the conversation.

What Made Them Wise

The Seven Sages weren't philosophers in the way we usually think of the word. They didn't write systematic treatises or found schools of thought. Instead, they were known for what the Greeks called "laconic brevity"—the ability to compress profound wisdom into a few memorable words.

The term "laconic" itself comes from Laconia, the region of Greece where Sparta was located. Spartans were famous for their terse speech. When Philip II of Macedon threatened them with "If I invade Laconia, I shall turn you out," the Spartans replied with a single word: "If." That's laconic brevity.

In Plato's Protagoras, Socrates makes a remarkable claim about the Seven Sages. He says they were all admirers and students of Spartan education, and that their famous maxims reflected this Spartan style of wisdom. "The ability to utter such brief and terse remarks," Socrates says, "belongs to a perfectly educated man."

There's an irony here, and Plato certainly intended it. The passage appears in a section that scholars describe as "elaborately ironical." Socrates, after all, was famous for long, winding dialogues that could go on for hours. The idea that true wisdom consists of one-liners might be Plato's gentle joke at the expense of the sage tradition.

But there's also truth in it. The maxims attributed to the Seven Sages have survived precisely because they're short enough to remember and deep enough to contemplate for a lifetime. "Know thyself" can be unpacked endlessly. What does it mean to know yourself? How do you distinguish between who you are and who you think you are? The brevity of the phrase creates space for interpretation.

The Delphic Maxims

The Temple of Apollo at Delphi was the most sacred site in ancient Greece. This was where the Pythia, the oracle, delivered prophecies in a trance. Greeks came from across the Mediterranean to consult her on matters of war, colonization, and personal fate. The temple was covered in inscriptions, and among the most prominent were the maxims associated with the Seven Sages.

A collection of 147 such maxims was preserved by a fifth-century scholar named Stobaeus. They range from the famous—"Know thyself," "Nothing in excess," "Observe the Golden Mean"—to the obscure and puzzling. One maxim reads "A pledge is a curse at one's elbow," which the ancient philosopher Pyrrho interpreted as skeptical wisdom: anyone who makes promises with complete confidence is inviting disaster.

Modern scholars are skeptical that the sages actually coined these sayings. More likely, the maxims were traditional proverbs, folk wisdom that had circulated for generations, which later became attributed to famous names. It's a pattern that repeats throughout history—witty quotations attached to Churchill or Twain or Einstein that those men never actually said. Ancient Greece was no different.

What matters isn't who said them first. What matters is that the Greeks thought these ideas important enough to carve into the walls of their holiest temple.

Practical Men

One thing that distinguished the Seven Sages from later philosophers was their emphasis on practical achievement. These weren't ivory-tower thinkers contemplating abstract questions. They were lawmakers, rulers, engineers, merchants.

In Plato's Republic, Socrates mentions that "it befits a wise man" to have "many inventions and useful devices in the crafts or sciences" attributed to him. He cites Thales and Anacharsis as examples. Thales, in particular, was credited with numerous practical innovations. He supposedly predicted a bumper crop of olives one year and cornered the market on olive presses, becoming wealthy—not because he cared about money, but to prove that philosophers could succeed at business if they wanted to.

This practical orientation set the Seven Sages apart from later Greek philosophy. Plato himself was suspicious of practical concerns; he thought the highest wisdom involved contemplating eternal truths, not getting rich from olive oil. The Cynics deliberately embraced poverty. The Stoics taught indifference to worldly success. But the Seven Sages came from an earlier tradition that saw wisdom and practical achievement as naturally connected.

The Golden Tripod

One of the most charming stories about the Seven Sages involves a golden tripod—or in some versions, a bowl or cup—that was to be given to the wisest man alive.

The story goes like this: fishermen pulled a golden tripod from the sea and decided it should go to the wisest person. They sent it to Thales, who was widely considered the wisest man in Greece. But Thales, displaying the modesty expected of true wisdom, said he didn't deserve it and passed it to one of the other sages. That sage, equally modest, passed it to another. The tripod made its way around all seven sages, each one declining the honor.

In some versions, it eventually returned to Thales, who dedicated it to Apollo at Delphi, declaring that the god was wiser than any mortal. In other versions, Solon made the dedication. Either way, the story illustrates a key Greek idea: that true wisdom includes knowing the limits of your own wisdom. The smartest thing the wisest men in Greece could do was admit they weren't as smart as they seemed.

Were They Actually Philosophers?

There's a surprising amount of ancient skepticism about whether the Seven Sages deserved to be called wise at all.

Diogenes Laertius, who wrote biographies of Greek philosophers in the third century, reports that an earlier scholar named Dicaearchus claimed the seven "were neither wise men nor philosophers, but merely shrewd men, who had studied legislation." In other words, they were clever politicians, not genuine seekers of truth.

This criticism has some merit. With the possible exception of Thales, none of the Seven Sages contributed to philosophy in the way that Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle later would. They didn't develop theories about the nature of reality or the foundations of ethics. They offered rules of thumb, practical advice for living a good life, not systematic analysis.

But maybe that's the wrong standard. The Seven Sages represent a different conception of wisdom—one rooted in experience rather than theory, in judgment rather than argument, in knowing how to act rather than knowing how to think. Modern psychology has rediscovered something similar under the name "practical wisdom" or "phronesis," the ability to figure out the right thing to do in complex, ambiguous situations.

The Seven Sages were practical wise men for a practical age. They governed cities, wrote laws, navigated conflicts, and earned the respect of their communities. Whether or not that counts as philosophy depends on what you think philosophy is for.

The Enduring Appeal

Why do we still talk about the Seven Sages? After all, most of them are little more than names to us now. We know almost nothing about what Myson of Chenae actually did or thought. Even Thales, the most famous of the group, left no writings that survived.

Part of the appeal is the idea itself: that a society should honor wisdom, that there should be a recognized category of people worth listening to because of their judgment rather than their power or wealth. In an age of influencers and celebrities, the notion of a "sage"—someone whose advice carries weight because they've earned it through thought and experience—feels almost radical.

Part of it is the maxims. "Know thyself" and "Nothing in excess" have survived because they're genuinely useful advice, the kind of thing you can return to at different stages of life and find new meaning in. They're conversation starters, not conversation enders. A teenager interpreting "Know thyself" will reach different conclusions than a sixty-year-old, but both will benefit from the reflection.

And part of it is the uncertainty. The fact that the Greeks couldn't agree on who the Seven Sages were suggests that wisdom can't be reduced to a formula. It's not a list you can look up. Every generation, every community, has to decide for itself who deserves to be called wise—and that process of deciding is itself a kind of wisdom.

The Seven Sages remind us that wisdom is a communal project, not just an individual achievement. The sages were wise not in isolation but in relationship: to each other, to their cities, to the tradition of maxims they inherited and added to. They were participants in a conversation about how to live well, a conversation that's still going on twenty-five centuries later.

We're still trying to figure out who belongs on the list.