Epictetus, The Handbook 40: Right Company

. . . Refuse the entertainments of strangers and the vulgar.

But if occasion arise to accept them, then strain every nerve to avoid lapsing into the state of the vulgar.

For know that, if your comrade has a stain on him, he that associates with him must needs share the stain, even though he be clean in himself. . . .

—Epictetus, The Handbook, Chapter 33 (tr Matheson)

I would be filled with rage when my elders told me I should always keep good company. I knew better, of course, because I was certain that I was may own man, and I would never let my companions influence the way I thought or lived. If I had known anything about Stoic thought back then, I would surely have appealed to Epictetus. I rule myself, I would have said, and others do not rule me.

Why was it, then, that when I spent time with a rowdy crowd in middle school, I was quite rowdy myself? Why did I start smoking in high school as soon as I hung around on a park bench with all the other smokers? Why did I become more heartless and calculating when I fell in love with a heartless and calculating girl? Why did I drink like a fish whenever I was around all the lounge lizards?

I can parade all the proud theory I like, but the practice of daily living and the grounding of common sense will always remind me that birds of a feather flock together. This isn’t because I’m not free, or do not rule my own choices and actions, but is rather about the very causes and effects of my own decisions.

No one ever forced me to spend time with the seedy set, or made me fall in love with the wrong girl. There was already something about me that wanted to be shifty instead of honest, dismissive instead of kind. That I chose my company poorly reflected less on them, and more on what was already brewing in my own heart.

And once I was in that world, no one ever forced me to start thinking and living in a certain way. I chose to do so entirely of my own accord, precisely because I freely allowed others to influence me. No one broke down the door. I unlocked and opened it entirely by myself.

I have indeed always ruled myself, as does any man, but my rule is also something I can freely surrender, and few things will encourage us to choose vice than being surrounded by it. We defer to the default.

Even if I had the incredible strength to remain pure in thought and deed, association is itself a choice, and with any choice comes a responsibility.

If I stand by idly while one man robs another, though I have done no robbing, I am hardly blameless. If I spend my time with friends who deceive, betray, and abuse, though I may not actually be doing these things myself, I am also hardly blameless. We carry each other.

It took some hard knocks to realize that my elders, and Epictetus, were always quite right. I need only look at my own friends, virtuous or vulgar, and I can immediately learn quite a bit about myself.

 Written in 6/2009

Image: Thomas Couture, The Romans of the Decadence (1847)