On no occasion call yourself a philosopher, nor talk at large of your principles among the multitude, but act on your principles.
For instance, at a banquet do not say how one ought to eat, but eat as you ought. Remember that Socrates had so completely got rid of the thought of display that when men came and wanted an introduction to philosophers he took them to be introduced; so patient of neglect was he.
And if a discussion arises among the multitude on some principle, keep silent for the most part; for you are in great danger of blurting out some undigested thought.
And when some one says to you, 'You know nothing', and you do not let it provoke you, then know that you are really on the right road.
For sheep do not bring grass to their shepherds and show them how much they have eaten, but they digest their fodder and then produce it in the form of wool and milk. Do the same yourself; instead of displaying your principles to the multitude, show them the results of the principles you have digested.
—Epictetus, The Handbook, Chapter 46 (tr Matheson)
I am sometimes worried that I am a half-Stoic, a pseudo-Stoic if you will, because I understand and embrace every single word that Epictetus writes here, but I still need to wake up every single day, and fail a dozen times in their application for every one time I get it right.
Such a concern is, of course, a part of the symptoms, and a not part of the cure. I fret that I’ve messed it up yet again, forgetting completely that there is no secret formula to doing it right. I am the only obstacle. The only thing that gets in my way is when I am still clutching at an obsession with all the circumstances. All I need to do is to change my thinking and my action, right here and now, and care nothing for the rest. I only fail to be Stoic in my living when I choose to care about all the things a Stoic need not care for.
I am the only one allowing myself to be prodded, poked, and provoked by my apparent place in the world. As soon as I worry about being thought a fool, it is my decision right there that has actually made me a fool.
When I was a child, I was regularly subject to bullying. When I was getting older, I was distraught that people I loved so dearly didn’t love me in return. These things do indeed hurt mightily. For myself, a great moral goal I now know to aim for is not to define myself by what others have said and done. I consider this the growing up part of the deal.
One of the things that made Socrates a great philosopher was that he never wanted to be perceived as one. He told us that the what made him wise was how he knew that he knew nothing, yet he also described himself as the greatest gift given to Athens.
For a Stoic, there is no contradiction here at all. It is only genuine humility, not the false sort of the wolf in sheep’s clothing, that can make us great. Socrates knew who he was, and he knew what he had to offer to his friends. Whether they chose to listen, or chose to praise him, was not what defined him. One might say that he was unpopular precisely because he did not care to be popular.
It’s those moments when I do not feel hurt by an insult, or I do not feel rejected by a slight, or I do not feel destroyed by a betrayal, that help to me to know I’m on exactly the right track.
At the moments when I am about to break down, I sometimes think about an odd phrase, “Epictetus and the sheep.” Sheep may seem so lowly, but they are also so glorious. One of the greatest moments of my youth was simply spending time with some Herdwick sheep in the Lake District. What wonderful creatures they were, very much like ourselves, easily frightened by some things, yet also so willing to follow and to serve for all the right things.
Sheep never brag about how much grass they have eaten, but they give of their fine wool. Now if only we could all do the same, and not brag about what we have consumed, but rather humbly offer what we can.
Your fancy posturing will never impress me, but your right actions most certainly will. How wonderful that those who care the least about being loved are exactly the ones who deserve our love.
Written in 6/1993
Image: Jacques-Philip-Joseph de Saint-Quentin, The Death of Socrates (1762)
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