Chapter 6: On what is meant by “indifferent” things.
Take a given hypothetical proposition. In itself it is indifferent, but your judgement upon it is not indifferent, but is either knowledge, or mere opinion, or delusion.
In the same way, though life is indifferent, the way you deal with it is not indifferent. Therefore, when you are told “These things also are indifferent”, do not be careless, and when you are urged to be careful, do not show a mean spirit and be overawed by material things.
It is a good thing to know what you can do and what you are prepared for, that in matters where you are not prepared, you may keep quiet and not be vexed if others have the advantage of you there.
For when it is a question of syllogisms, you in your turn will expect to have the advantage, and if they are vexed with this you will console them with the words, “I learnt them, but you did not.”
So when acquired dexterity is needed it is for you in your turn not to seek what only practice can give: leave that to those who have acquired the knack, and be content yourself to show constancy.
“Go and salute such a one.”
I have saluted him.
“How?”
In no mean spirit.
“But his house was shut upon you.”
Yes, for I have not learned to enter by the window: when I find the door shut, I must either retire or go in by the window.
'But again one says, "Talk to him."'
I do talk to him.
“How?”
In no mean spirit.
Take a given hypothetical proposition. In itself it is indifferent, but your judgement upon it is not indifferent, but is either knowledge, or mere opinion, or delusion.
In the same way, though life is indifferent, the way you deal with it is not indifferent. Therefore, when you are told “These things also are indifferent”, do not be careless, and when you are urged to be careful, do not show a mean spirit and be overawed by material things.
It is a good thing to know what you can do and what you are prepared for, that in matters where you are not prepared, you may keep quiet and not be vexed if others have the advantage of you there.
For when it is a question of syllogisms, you in your turn will expect to have the advantage, and if they are vexed with this you will console them with the words, “I learnt them, but you did not.”
So when acquired dexterity is needed it is for you in your turn not to seek what only practice can give: leave that to those who have acquired the knack, and be content yourself to show constancy.
“Go and salute such a one.”
I have saluted him.
“How?”
In no mean spirit.
“But his house was shut upon you.”
Yes, for I have not learned to enter by the window: when I find the door shut, I must either retire or go in by the window.
'But again one says, "Talk to him."'
I do talk to him.
“How?”
In no mean spirit.
—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.6
The very term “Stoic” is now sadly associated with someone who is cold and emotionless, even if the original school taught rather a commitment to possessing a mastery over our passions. Someone recently told me that this was a distinction without a difference, though I will respectfully insist on a real contrast between minding one’s feelings and being enslaved to one’s feelings.
Nor does it help when a critical Stoic concept, the willingness to become “indifferent” to our circumstances, is also tied up in the subtleties of language. In everyday usage, indifference is usually understood to be a state of not caring, and I confuse matters even more if I introduce the Greek apatheia, from which we derive our modern word “apathy”.
I will let the scholars bicker as much as they like, for while I appreciate the importance of precise phrasing, I also believe the reality behind the words should be the ultimate focus of our attention. I don’t prefer to use foreign terms when native ones will do: besides the fact that it smacks of pretentiousness, just a few minor tweaks are usually sufficient to set the record straight.
Whether we translate apatheia as indifference, or perhaps most accurately as equanimity, it means recognizing that whatever value a thing may have in itself, its value for the sake of my character depends entirely upon how I choose to make use of it. It becomes good for me when I employ it as an opportunity for virtue, and it becomes bad for me when I twist it into an occasion for vice.
The Stoic most certainly does care, even if how and why he cares is quite unconventional. We become accustomed to thinking of events as being either beneficial or harmful to us, yet this reduces us to creatures made happy or miserable by everything beyond ourselves. Instead, we can find peace of mind by withholding any presumptions about their worth: they are, so to speak, neutral matter, upon which we then work by applying our judgments.
Just as a hypothetical statement is open to possibilities, so all aspects of our lives will only become bound one way or another by our estimation. Is money a good thing or a bad thing? It is neither, since it has no merit until it is placed in the service of some human purpose—what moral end does it assist? The same is true of pleasure, or honor, or any of the other conditions we usually take as being desirable.
I must be wary of becoming attached to things, and I must also be mindful of not confusing that distance with any sort of resentment. Have I done something in the right way? Then let me find joy in that, without a posture of arrogance. Have I failed to meet the mark? Then let me patiently get to work at reforming my habits, without a hint of envy.
What others have done reflects on them, and not on me; what I can do is my sole business, always maintaining my composure, whichever way the wind may happen to blow. Fears, frustrations, and anxieties are the result of our distorted attitudes, not of the way the world unfolds. Things should be “indifferent” to me because they do not define or govern me.
The very term “Stoic” is now sadly associated with someone who is cold and emotionless, even if the original school taught rather a commitment to possessing a mastery over our passions. Someone recently told me that this was a distinction without a difference, though I will respectfully insist on a real contrast between minding one’s feelings and being enslaved to one’s feelings.
Nor does it help when a critical Stoic concept, the willingness to become “indifferent” to our circumstances, is also tied up in the subtleties of language. In everyday usage, indifference is usually understood to be a state of not caring, and I confuse matters even more if I introduce the Greek apatheia, from which we derive our modern word “apathy”.
I will let the scholars bicker as much as they like, for while I appreciate the importance of precise phrasing, I also believe the reality behind the words should be the ultimate focus of our attention. I don’t prefer to use foreign terms when native ones will do: besides the fact that it smacks of pretentiousness, just a few minor tweaks are usually sufficient to set the record straight.
Whether we translate apatheia as indifference, or perhaps most accurately as equanimity, it means recognizing that whatever value a thing may have in itself, its value for the sake of my character depends entirely upon how I choose to make use of it. It becomes good for me when I employ it as an opportunity for virtue, and it becomes bad for me when I twist it into an occasion for vice.
The Stoic most certainly does care, even if how and why he cares is quite unconventional. We become accustomed to thinking of events as being either beneficial or harmful to us, yet this reduces us to creatures made happy or miserable by everything beyond ourselves. Instead, we can find peace of mind by withholding any presumptions about their worth: they are, so to speak, neutral matter, upon which we then work by applying our judgments.
Just as a hypothetical statement is open to possibilities, so all aspects of our lives will only become bound one way or another by our estimation. Is money a good thing or a bad thing? It is neither, since it has no merit until it is placed in the service of some human purpose—what moral end does it assist? The same is true of pleasure, or honor, or any of the other conditions we usually take as being desirable.
I must be wary of becoming attached to things, and I must also be mindful of not confusing that distance with any sort of resentment. Have I done something in the right way? Then let me find joy in that, without a posture of arrogance. Have I failed to meet the mark? Then let me patiently get to work at reforming my habits, without a hint of envy.
What others have done reflects on them, and not on me; what I can do is my sole business, always maintaining my composure, whichever way the wind may happen to blow. Fears, frustrations, and anxieties are the result of our distorted attitudes, not of the way the world unfolds. Things should be “indifferent” to me because they do not define or govern me.
—Reflection written in 6/2001
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