Epictetus, Discourses 1.4.6

But if all his efforts are turned to the study of books, if on this he spends his labor, and for this has gone abroad, then I bid him go straight home and not neglect what he finds there. 

 

For this that he has gone abroad for is nothing; his true work is to study to remove from his life mourning and lamentation, the “ah me” and “alas for my misery”, the talk of “bad fortune” and “misfortune”; and to learn, what is death, what is exile, what is imprisonment, what is the cup of hemlock; that he may be able to say in prison, “My dear Crito, if it pleases the gods, so be it” (Plato, Crito 43d), and not such words as “miserable old man that I am, is it for this I kept my grey hairs?” 

 

Whose words are they? Do you think I shall name to you a mean man of no reputation? Are they not the words of Priam and of Oedipus? Are they not the words of all kings that are? For what else are tragedies but a portrayal in such metrical form of the sufferings of men who have set their admiration on outward things? 

 

If delusion after all were the only means for a man to learn this lesson—the lesson that not one of the things beyond the compass of our will concerns us, then I for my part would choose a delusion such as this, if it should procure me a life of undisturbed tranquility; I leave it to you to see what you choose.

 

As wonderful as a book can be, hiding my nose in its pages is no substitute for learning about myself. As wonderful as travel can be, running away to a distant land is no substitute for facing myself. I have attempted both diversions, and hard experience has taught me that they offer no lasting solutions. I have no excuse for neglecting what is closest to home. 

 

The act of casting blame on the world is most noticeable in the agony of self-pity, but it is equally the cause of rage and aggression toward others. Once I reduce my problems to how I have been wronged, I have also failed to recognize that my own thinking is what can make things right. It was I who did myself the harm, not Fate. 

 

Whether it is poverty, or sickness, or loneliness, or even death itself, I am a fool to believe that I can somehow make myself a master over such forces. Whatever I may, or may not, have done, the external consequences that follow from the act are not mine to determine. My judgment and will are within my certain power, and nothing more. 

 

I think of all those who are proud to say they made themselves rich or popular, and yet they cry to the high heavens at the terrible injustice when Fortune takes these circumstances away. They were never ours to claim, and so there is no “right” to object when they, quite predictably, follow their own path. 

 

Socrates may not have preferred to die, but he accepted the time of his departure with good cheer, content that he had done what Nature had asked of him. How different that is from the wailing of the tragic victim, shaking his tiny fists, cursing the gods, or gouging out his own eyes in despair. 

 

No, someone like an Oedipus is not a “bad guy” here at all, because all he went through, and how he chose to respond to what he went through, offered a priceless lesson about the true meaning and dignity of any human life. With the many different accounts of the legend, I don’t know if he genuinely learned that lesson, but all of us, regardless of the dramatics scale, are given that very same chance. 

 

Is it necessary to suffer in this way, to rise in pride before falling into humility, in order to bring oneself to peace? I only know that, in my own small way, it was crucial for my own growth. Had Nature not put me in my place with a sound thrashing, I would probably still be parading about, thinking myself the king of the world. 

 

Many myths speak of people who have one thing snatched away, only to gain something better, who lose their sight and then suddenly see with new eyes. Such myths are true, since every obstacle is an opportunity to focus on what can be given over what is received. 

Written in 9/2000