God forbid: but he does not differ in these matters.
“In what then does he differ?”
Search and you will find that he differs in something else. Look whether it be not that he differs in understanding what he does, in his faculty for society, in his good faith, his self-respect, his security of aim, his prudence.
“Where then is man's good and man's evil, in the true sense, to be found?”
In that faculty which makes men different from all else. If a man preserves this and keeps it safely fortified; if his sense of honor, his good faith, and his prudence are not destroyed, then he too is preserved; but if any of these perish or be taken by storm, then he too perishes with them.
And it is on this that great events depend. Was Alexander's great failure when the Hellenes came against the Trojans and sacked Troy and when his brothers perished? By no means: for no one fails by the act of another; yet then there was destruction of storks' nests.
Nay, his failure was when he lost the man of honor, the man of good faith, the man who respected manners and the laws of hospitality.
When did Achilles fail? Was it when Patroclus died? God forbid: it was when he was angry, when he cried for a trumpery maiden, when he forgot that he was there not to win lady-loves, but to make war.
These are man's failures—this is his siege, this is his razed city, when his right judgements are broken to the ground, and when they are destroyed.
—from Epictetus, Discourses 1.28
It is the trend of the day to stress the commonality between humans and animals, and in one sense this is quite correct, for there is only benefit in learning about what we share with other creatures. Like the animal, I am aware through a variety of senses, and I possess a broad range of feelings, and I react by means of immediate instincts.
Whatever the range of complexity, the stork is drawn to assembling his nest, just as I am drawn to the comforts of my home. My cat and I have little patience for those who claim that an animal has no emotions, or that he is incapable of learning to form an attachment.
In another sense, however, human nature adds something further to an animal nature, and we neglect this crucial aspect at our peril. No, it isn’t just that we are more adept with tools, or use more intricate language, or process our impression with larger and more refined brains.
We are also creatures of reason and will, endowed with abstract reflection, and thereby with deliberate choice. For all the force of instincts, judgment has the power to rise beyond any inclination. For all the strength of appetites, the mind may seek out their deeper meaning and purpose, repurposing them as it best sees fit.
The stork does his business, and yet he never feels the need to question his existence. My cat treats me as a companion, and yet he never considers the essence of friendship. He stares at me blankly when I ask him about mathematics, or if I write him a poem.
This is not a weakness in the animal at all, but rather an expression of the wonderful variety in the order of Nature. The rock, the tree, the cat, and the man all act according to their specific identities, all playing their own distinct parts within the whole. What one must do is not a requirement for the other—and thank God for having made the world with such a balanced diversity!
So while we humans build our massive cities, split the tiny atom, and engage in vast wars, these are merely secondary consequences of something far more significant. The foundation of it all is the capacity to know, to love, to act with good will, to develop a sense of moral self-worth, to find peace in wisdom.
And with freedom comes the option of twisting such blessings into curses, to fail so miserably at the task; it’s a piece of the complete package.
To protect my identity, therefore, is not simply to survive, or to acquire, or to consume. How can I best be mindful of what I was made for? Go back to the judgments, to the management of the impressions, to the first principles I rely on to show me the way. The rest may crumble around me, but I stand or fall on the merits of my conscience.
Paris didn’t fail because Troy was destroyed—he failed because he first abandoned his understanding of right from wrong.
Achilles didn’t fail because he was a victim of Agamemnon or Hector—he failed because he permitted his passions to overcome his reason.
Catastrophes are not about plagues, famines, or wars. Take a few steps further back, to the point when people fatally chose to be defined by circumstances instead of by character.
—Reflection written in 4/2001
IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, The Anger of Achilles (1819)
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