M. Perhaps I may find something to say; but I will make this observation first: do you take notice with what modesty the Academics behave themselves? For they speak plainly to the purpose. The Peripatetics are answered by the Stoics; they have my leave to fight it out, who think myself no otherwise concerned than to inquire for what may seem to be most probable.
Our present business is, then, to see if we can meet with anything in this question which is the probable, for beyond such approximation to truth as that human nature cannot proceed.
The definition of a perturbation, as Zeno, I think, has rightly determined it, is thus: That a perturbation is a commotion of the mind against nature, in opposition to right reason; or, more briefly, thus, that a perturbation is a somewhat too vehement appetite; and when he says somewhat too vehement, he means such as is at a greater distance from the constant course of nature.
What can I say to these definitions? The greater part of them we have from those who dispute with sagacity and acuteness: some of them expressions, indeed, such as the “ardors of the mind,” and “the whetstones of virtue,” savoring of the pomp of rhetoricians.
As to the question, if a brave man can maintain his courage without becoming angry, it may be questioned with regard to the gladiators; though we often observe much resolution even in them: they meet, converse, they make objections and demands, they agree about terms, so that they seem calm rather than angry.
But let us admit a man of the name of Placideianus, who was one of that trade, to be in such a mind, as Lucilius relates of him,
“If for his blood you thirst, the task be mine;
His laurels at my feet he shall resign;
Not but I know, before I reach his heart,
First on myself a wound he will impart.
I hate the man; enraged I fight, and straight
In action we had been, but that I wait
Till each his sword had fitted to his hand.
My rage I scarce can keep within command."
Our present business is, then, to see if we can meet with anything in this question which is the probable, for beyond such approximation to truth as that human nature cannot proceed.
The definition of a perturbation, as Zeno, I think, has rightly determined it, is thus: That a perturbation is a commotion of the mind against nature, in opposition to right reason; or, more briefly, thus, that a perturbation is a somewhat too vehement appetite; and when he says somewhat too vehement, he means such as is at a greater distance from the constant course of nature.
What can I say to these definitions? The greater part of them we have from those who dispute with sagacity and acuteness: some of them expressions, indeed, such as the “ardors of the mind,” and “the whetstones of virtue,” savoring of the pomp of rhetoricians.
As to the question, if a brave man can maintain his courage without becoming angry, it may be questioned with regard to the gladiators; though we often observe much resolution even in them: they meet, converse, they make objections and demands, they agree about terms, so that they seem calm rather than angry.
But let us admit a man of the name of Placideianus, who was one of that trade, to be in such a mind, as Lucilius relates of him,
“If for his blood you thirst, the task be mine;
His laurels at my feet he shall resign;
Not but I know, before I reach his heart,
First on myself a wound he will impart.
I hate the man; enraged I fight, and straight
In action we had been, but that I wait
Till each his sword had fitted to his hand.
My rage I scarce can keep within command."
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.21
I do not know if the Academics of Cicero’s time did indeed “speak plainly to the purpose”, but that should certainly be the goal of any self-respecting philosopher. I’m afraid I can easily imagine the Peripatetics and the Stoics duking it out, growing ever more passionate about the problem of ordering the passions. In any case, I always see red when philosophers bicker, since belligerence is hardly fitting for the man who prizes serenity.
While I do have my own thoughts on the question of philosophical certainty, I can surely respect Cicero’s trust in a practical likelihood. I take metaphysics and epistemology very seriously, and yet all the theory will not do me a bit of good if I cannot discern the results in my daily living; it is fine to define virtue without a doubt, and even finer to practice it without a doubt.
At the level of common sense, I might say that something is “disordered” when it doesn’t work right, and it doesn’t work right when it isn’t doing what it is supposed to do. Just as I need not ponder the cosmic essence of my car when I change the oil, so my own nature is quite apparent by simply looking at its function: as a creature who thinks, I am made to act through my understanding, and something in my purpose is flawed once the parts don’t properly fit together.
Now what sorts of feelings are necessary for me to live well? Do racing stripes and a fancy spoiler really make the car go faster? I am regularly told, for example, that anger is a condition for courage, so we teach soldiers, athletes, and business executives to be consumed by rage in order to get the job done. I think of the berserker from Norse legend, the blood-and-guts pep talk before the match, and the motivational speaker who instructs you to strangle a pillow before making the big deal.
This usually looks good in the movies, but I’m not so sure it’s true for real life. Yes, anger may well give a momentary boost to the strength of the body, and it will likewise bring confusion to the soul: where is the benefit of a mighty hand guided by a befuddled mind? Motivation is not the same thing as aggression—fortitude, classically understood, is a steady commitment of the will, not a fury of the passions.
I cannot speak to the challenges of mortal combat, as the fiercest battle I ever fought was with a bunch of wild dogs. Still, without the advantage of a clear head, I would have walked away from that skirmish far bloodier, and I wonder if the best gladiators also happened to be those who maintained an absolute control over themselves.
Put another way, I have known many veterans over the years, and it inevitably turned out that the real heroes were the self-disciplined ones, and the imposters were the enraged braggarts. Even if Placideianus happened to win in the arena, did that make him a better man, or just a bigger beast?
I do not know if the Academics of Cicero’s time did indeed “speak plainly to the purpose”, but that should certainly be the goal of any self-respecting philosopher. I’m afraid I can easily imagine the Peripatetics and the Stoics duking it out, growing ever more passionate about the problem of ordering the passions. In any case, I always see red when philosophers bicker, since belligerence is hardly fitting for the man who prizes serenity.
While I do have my own thoughts on the question of philosophical certainty, I can surely respect Cicero’s trust in a practical likelihood. I take metaphysics and epistemology very seriously, and yet all the theory will not do me a bit of good if I cannot discern the results in my daily living; it is fine to define virtue without a doubt, and even finer to practice it without a doubt.
At the level of common sense, I might say that something is “disordered” when it doesn’t work right, and it doesn’t work right when it isn’t doing what it is supposed to do. Just as I need not ponder the cosmic essence of my car when I change the oil, so my own nature is quite apparent by simply looking at its function: as a creature who thinks, I am made to act through my understanding, and something in my purpose is flawed once the parts don’t properly fit together.
Now what sorts of feelings are necessary for me to live well? Do racing stripes and a fancy spoiler really make the car go faster? I am regularly told, for example, that anger is a condition for courage, so we teach soldiers, athletes, and business executives to be consumed by rage in order to get the job done. I think of the berserker from Norse legend, the blood-and-guts pep talk before the match, and the motivational speaker who instructs you to strangle a pillow before making the big deal.
This usually looks good in the movies, but I’m not so sure it’s true for real life. Yes, anger may well give a momentary boost to the strength of the body, and it will likewise bring confusion to the soul: where is the benefit of a mighty hand guided by a befuddled mind? Motivation is not the same thing as aggression—fortitude, classically understood, is a steady commitment of the will, not a fury of the passions.
I cannot speak to the challenges of mortal combat, as the fiercest battle I ever fought was with a bunch of wild dogs. Still, without the advantage of a clear head, I would have walked away from that skirmish far bloodier, and I wonder if the best gladiators also happened to be those who maintained an absolute control over themselves.
Put another way, I have known many veterans over the years, and it inevitably turned out that the real heroes were the self-disciplined ones, and the imposters were the enraged braggarts. Even if Placideianus happened to win in the arena, did that make him a better man, or just a bigger beast?
—Reflection written in 1/1999
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