The Lizard Oracle of Paestum: Philosophy Among Ancient Pillars
Truth be told, I initially planned to bypass the ancient site of Paestum in the Campanian province of Salerno and zoom straight ahead to Agropoli. But the road, quite literally, leads right past history. As the mighty Greek temples loomed before me in the glaring sunlight under a brilliant blue sky, my spontaneous thirst for adventure won out. I pulled my van into the parking lot and dutifully joined the crowd of tourists.
The complex is huge—alongside three gigantic temples, an entire ancient city stretches out here. Luckily, the streams of visitors quickly dispersed. And so the impossible happened: I found myself strolling completely alone through the shadowy halls of one of these massive structures.
Enveloped by the awe-inspiring backdrop, I jokingly thought I might test whether the ancient gods still had reception. I broadcasted my inner voice: “God who lives here! Can you hear me? Tell me something about this place!”
The reply wasn’t long in coming—though hardly in the way I expected. “Who’s squawking so rudely around here?! Scaring off all my fat flies! Quiet, please!” croaked an annoyed voice in my mind’s ear.
I paused. Normally, the only thing responding to my inner monologues is a growling stomach. I scanned the pillars and looked up at the sky: “Who are you?” “Down here, wise guy! Where are you looking? You searching for the moon?!”
I looked down at the stone floor. Clinging directly to a column was a remarkably handsome lizard. Its scaly coat shimmered with green and white speckles, accented by astonishing deep-blue spots along its sides.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty one,” I replied charmingly. The lizard remained unimpressed: “What do you want here, and why are you shouting so loud?” “I just wanted to tour the temple and learn a bit about the builders and their god.”
The reptile practically rolled its eyes. “Just look around! The people here simply worked hard, ran a decent economy, and built a city. And, as always when something thrives, the priests came around the corner. They told them fairy tales about a god and how to worship him—and that they had better pay up for the temple and the priests.”
“And where did they all go?” I asked, intrigued. “The climate shifted. Suddenly, mosquitoes and diseases arrived. So the people fled to the mountains.” “And the mosquitoes?” “We ate ’em!” the lizard grinned maliciously. “Everything here was forgotten, overgrown by forest. Only much later did people return to dig it all up again. As if they were searching for something they didn’t already know!”
“Well, maybe they’re learning something about the past,” I tried to appease it. “Nonsense!” the scaled creature dismissed. “People haven’t changed one bit since then. They do the exact same things, think the exact same way, and behave the exact same way. They dress themselves up differently today, but that’s just a facade. Believe me, zero change!”
“You’re quite the genius, aren’t you? What makes you so sure?” The lizard drew itself up: “Look at the past, and you’ll see the future! Nobody knows the people from back then anymore, their gods are dead, their houses are dust, their wars forgotten. Now look around today: you give yourselves important titles, worship new gods, build houses way too big for you, and wage new wars. Look at these ruins—that is precisely what will be left of you!”
A stunned silence on my end. The philosophical slap hit home.
The lizard broke the silence with a click of its tongue: “Right, no more time for this silly banter. I’m off to catch flies. By the way, that’s the one thing I’ve never understood about you humans: why don’t you eat any of these delicious, fat flies?”
It tapped its forehead with its little finger and scurried off in a flash—leaving me behind, deep in thought among the silent witnesses of history.
