The fifth and fourth century bc were truly the pinnacle of Greek history and culture. In those golden days, one could deliberate on political matters with Themistocles and Pericles; discuss our human condition with Socrates and Plato and the past with Herodotus and Thucydides; watch the superb plays of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides; visit the brand-new Acropolis at Athens or consult Apollo at Delphi; drop in at Polyclitus’ workshop or marvel at a skilfully decorated black-figure Panathenaic amphora. It was, however, also a period in which Greeks were still Greeks, whereas the rest were conveniently despised as barbarians. Greeks confidently bashed barbarian brains in (at Marathon, for instance, or Plataea) and were even proud of it. After all, they did it in a culturally justified way. With fellow Greeks, matters were somewhat different. Their brains were likewise crushed, to be sure, and even in such cases, the slaughter was usually not devoid of a certain feeling of ideological superiority, yet to refined Greek ears, the cracking of Greek skulls must have sounded differently from the smashing of the skull of an ordinary effeminate barbarian. Athenians, Spartans, and Thebans could often drink each other's blood (in a skilfully decorated cup), no doubt, but in the end, they all remained fellow Greeks.

Plutarch saw himself primarily as a philosopher, standing in the long Academic tradition that could be followed back to the ‘divine’ Plato (De cap. ex inim. 90C; Per. 8.2). But when he took his first steps as a philosopher, Plato's works had been (re)read and interpreted for several centuries. As a result, Plutarch had to acquaint himself with a rich exegetical tradition that would shape the lens through which he read Plato and would turn his attention to specific dialogues. For some Platonic dialogues had during this time received a privileged position. In particular, the Timaeus was intensively studied, which led to heated discussions about the correct interpretation of specific passages. A detailed exegesis of this dialogue, complemented with material carefully selected from a few other dialogues, yielded a few Platonic ‘core doctrines’. Many Platonists, for instance, endorsed three fundamental principles, viz. God, matter, and the Forms (the so-called Dreiprinzipienlehre). These Forms were often regarded as the thoughts of God, and the final end of life (the τέλος) was nearly always defined as an assimilation to God (ὁμοίωσις θεῷ) – as far as possible (κατὰ τὸ δυνατόν) – on the basis of a celebrated passage from the Theaetetus (176b1). Such doctrines found their way into school handbooks (like Alcinous’ Didaskalikos or Apuleius’ De Platone), which provided the reader with a systematized Plato. Inconsistencies in Plato's works were explained away, obscure passages were clarified, and later insights (including Peripatetic and Stoic doctrines) were used to reconstruct a coherent Platonic philosophy.

The open-minded and penetrating search for the truth is the driving force of Plutarch's philosophy. Yet this search does not start from scratch: Plutarch knew very well that he was heir to an age-old tradition and it was never his ambition to re-invent the wheel. On the contrary, whether he was looking for the explanation of physical phenomena, discussing metaphysical questions, offering moral guidance, or dealing with history, he always tried to fall back on earlier insights. This, of course, does not imply that Plutarch was opposed to innovative answers (cf. Quaest. conv. 656D, where ‘Plutarch’ announces that he will ‘stir up something of his own’, ἴδιόν τι κινεῖν) but, for him, innovation should always be informed by a learned dialogue with the rich tradition. Sound philosophical zetesis, then, presupposes considerable erudition.

Moralists are boring. Plutarch is a moralist. Thus Plutarch is boring. The following chapter will only be successful when it has shown that this syllogism, though logically valid, is wrong. Plutarch has much to say about virtue and wickedness, about moral progress and human shortcomings, but he always avoids dull moralizing and oversimplified general rules. In short, there are no wagging fingers in Plutarch's works! Moreover, in the previous chapters, we have seen that Plutarch was an open-minded thinker, carefully looking for the truth but refraining from apodictic truth claims and always open to different alternatives. We may wonder then how he was able to maintain this attitude in the domain of ethics, where norms often have an absolute character. How could he avoid replacing the vital dynamics of his zetetic thinking by a much more rigid discourse consisting of strict universal rules? How did he conceive moral virtue – the beating heart of his thinking – and what did it mean for him to make moral progress?

Reading Plutarch's Parallel Lives is a fascinating encounter with the history of the ancient world. It includes witnessing the foundation of Athens (Thes. 24.1–3) and Rome (Rom. 11.1–12.1); participating in the battles of Salamis (Arist. 9.1–4; Them. 13.1–15.4), Pharsalus (Pomp. 69.1–72.6; Caes. 42.1–45.8), Philippi (Brut. 49.1–10), and Actium (Ant. 65.1–66.8); marvelling at Alexander sitting on Darius’ throne (Alex. 37.7); being dazzled by the wonderful buildings on the Acropolis (Per. 12.1–13.14); watching in dismay as Caesar is killed with twenty-three dagger blows (Caes. 66.1–14); sharing Pyrrhus’ desperation with one more victory (Pyrrh. 21.14); and standing aghast at the rape of the Sabines (Rom. 14.1–15.7), the tragic fate of Spartacus (Crass. 8.1–11.10), and Hannibal's triumph at Cannae (Fab. 16.1–9). It is a rendezvous with so many distinguished figures of Greek and Roman history: the protagonists and antagonists of the Lives, of course, but also the many less-known figures behind the scene, like Mnesiphilus, the teacher of Themistocles (Them. 2.6–7) or Damon, the brains behind the young Pericles (Per. 4.1–4). The decisive moments of history, such as Caesar's famous alea iacta est before his crossing of the Rubicon (Caes. 32.8; Pomp. 60.4), or his veni vidi vici at Zela (Caes. 50.3), are juxtaposed with ‘petite histoire’ with all its juicy anecdotes: Demetrius’ liaison with Lamia (Demetr. 27.1–14), Pericles’ relationship with Aspasia (Per. 24.2–12), Pompey's fondness for Flora (Pomp. 2.5–8), and, of course, Antony's notorious affair with Cleopatra (Ant. 36.1–7; 53.5–12; 71.4–86.9).

At the outset of Plato's Timaeus, Socrates briefly recalls the discussion of the ideal state which he had the day before with his companions (Tim. 17c1–19b2). Looking back at it, he experiences what people often experience when they see beautiful creatures in repose: he wants to see them in motion (19b3–c2). This is precisely the goal of the present chapter. The previous one has provided a general overview of several essential themes and characteristics of the Parallel Lives. Now, it is time to see them ‘in motion’.