Epictetus, The Handbook 21: The Root of Outrage

Remember that foul words or blows in themselves are no outrage, but your judgment that they are so. So when anyone makes you angry, know that it is your own thought that has angered you.

Wherefore make it your first endeavor not to let your impressions carry you away. For if once you gain time and delay, you will find it easier to control yourself.

—Epictetus, The Handbook, Chapter 20 (tr Matheson)

I’ve been on this Earth long enough to see a slow but steady increase in our modern sensitivity. We are more and more easily shocked, offended, outraged, and insulted. We speak of all the things that are unacceptable and inappropriate. We become increasingly impermissive in all of our permissiveness, increasingly intolerant in all of our tolerance.

I knew this had hit critical mass in my early years of teaching, when a young man came to my office full of anger. We had just been reading Nietzsche’s The Anti-Christ in class, and he explained that he had been “elected” by a group of students to come and protest what we had discussed.

His concern? Nietzsche’s attitude toward women, and, if I understood him rightly, that the text seemed to ignore the needs of gay men.

I explained that I was no friend of Nietzsche myself, but that we were reading a wide range of modern philosophers to hopefully understand a wide variety of different arguments and conclusions. He would have none of it.

“I was offended, other students were offended, and we demand a public apology in class for you presenting an inappropriate text.”

It took all of my self-control to not tell him where he could stick his indignation, to not find offense at his being offended. I made it clear I would not apologize for encouraging him to think in ways unfamiliar to him, and he could complain all he wanted, but I would never compromise a commitment to an open mind or to academic freedom.

“Not everyone agrees in this world, you know,” I said. “I suggest the trick is learning to understand, not to condemn and censure.”

“No. We all need to fight intolerance,” was his reply.

I could hardly keep from breaking into hysterical laughter, once again barely managing my own frustration. Here was the pot calling the kettle black, though I’m sure if I had used that phrase, he would have accused me of being a racist, as well as being a sexist and a homophobe. The fellow was criticizing Nietzsche, yet being a little Nietzsche himself, the Will to Power in the form of upper class American entitlement.

Whenever I am offended or outraged, I have taught myself to stop time for but a moment. What is it all about? It usually has nothing to do with another person, or what that person said, but it does have everything to do with me. People, things, ideas, or words are not in themselves offensive. My estimation of them is the root of offense. 

I recall the politician who was fired a few years back for using the word “niggardly” in a press conference. No matter that he used the word in an entirely accurate way; it was all about the offense in public perception, an offense born of ignorance.

No one ever offends or outrages me. I choose to be offended or outraged. Another man may be a bully, a boor, or a moral cesspool, but my own estimation is what drives my response. Will I choose to angry, or will I choose to heal?

If someone for whom I have great respect speaks ill of me, I am hurt. If someone who is on a totally different moral compass speaks ill of me, I might even take it as a compliment. The same thing may have been said, but it is only my own judgment that makes the difference. I have been called a hateful fascist by liberals, and I have been called a bleeding-heart socialist by conservatives. The context of my understanding can allow me to navigate that storm.

There is only one way to avoid being constantly offended and outraged. Take a deep breath, and consider what all of it is about. There is no greater harm here than responding on instinct and feeling alone. I invariably find that my own thinking is the root of the blame.

Quite a few people I know now seem to think I am becoming senile, because I will now pause for a long period before answering a question. I may indeed be heading toward senility, but my silence comes from the fact that I will take my sweet time to think about what needs to be said.

And I’m sorry if what I think needs to be said outrages you. What I said is on me, but what you think about it is on you.

Written in 12/2009

Image: The Rage of Achilles, Giovanni Battista (1757)