M. What hinders Critolaus, then, or that gravest of philosophers, Xenocrates (who raises virtue so high, and who lessens and depreciates everything else), from not only placing a happy life, but the happiest possible life, in virtue?
And, indeed, if this were not the case, virtue would be absolutely lost. For whoever is subject to grief must necessarily be subject to fear too, for fear is an uneasy apprehension of future grief; and whoever is subject to fear is liable to dread, timidity, consternation, cowardice. Therefore, such a person may, some time or other, be defeated, and not think himself concerned with that precept of Atreus,
“And let men so conduct themselves in life,
As to be always strangers to defeat.”
But such a man, as I have said, will be defeated; and not only defeated, but made a slave of. But we would have virtue always free, always invincible; and were it not so, there would be an end of virtue.
But if virtue has in herself all that is necessary for a good life, she is certainly sufficient for happiness: virtue is certainly sufficient, too, for our living with courage; if with courage, then with a magnanimous spirit, and indeed so as never to be under any fear, and thus to be always invincible.
Hence it follows that there can be nothing to be repented of, no wants, no lets or hinderances. Thus all things will be prosperous, perfect, and as you would have them, and, consequently, happy; but virtue is sufficient for living with courage, and therefore virtue is able by herself to make life happy.
For as folly, even when possessed of what it desires, never thinks it has acquired enough, so wisdom is always satisfied with the present, and never repents on her own account.
And, indeed, if this were not the case, virtue would be absolutely lost. For whoever is subject to grief must necessarily be subject to fear too, for fear is an uneasy apprehension of future grief; and whoever is subject to fear is liable to dread, timidity, consternation, cowardice. Therefore, such a person may, some time or other, be defeated, and not think himself concerned with that precept of Atreus,
“And let men so conduct themselves in life,
As to be always strangers to defeat.”
But such a man, as I have said, will be defeated; and not only defeated, but made a slave of. But we would have virtue always free, always invincible; and were it not so, there would be an end of virtue.
But if virtue has in herself all that is necessary for a good life, she is certainly sufficient for happiness: virtue is certainly sufficient, too, for our living with courage; if with courage, then with a magnanimous spirit, and indeed so as never to be under any fear, and thus to be always invincible.
Hence it follows that there can be nothing to be repented of, no wants, no lets or hinderances. Thus all things will be prosperous, perfect, and as you would have them, and, consequently, happy; but virtue is sufficient for living with courage, and therefore virtue is able by herself to make life happy.
For as folly, even when possessed of what it desires, never thinks it has acquired enough, so wisdom is always satisfied with the present, and never repents on her own account.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.18
I get tripped up on the theory when I forget why virtue is the pinnacle of human nature, and I get worn down in the practice when I allow myself to become a victim of sorrow. The first bit is usually resolved by a moment of calm reflection, though the second bit is a more stubborn obstacle, because the intensity of the feeling can muddle the clarity of the thinking. Following Epictetus, I must stand my ground: “You are but an impression, and not at all what you seem to be.”
Behind the immediate appearance, I can understand how my character is not at the mercy of either pleasure or pain, that I am a creature of free judgment who can decide to be the master of his passions. This requires modifying my notions of victory and defeat, from being intimidated by the events to being composed in my convictions. While I will inevitably lose control of external things, I need never abandon myself.
As much as I may doubt the Stoic claim that the soul is invincible, if it only so chooses, I must sheepishly admit how any despair on my part has always followed from permitting a disordered emotion to enter. It did not force its way into my mind, and however much my body might be enfeebled, I had to welcome it over the threshold. I think of how vampires apparently need to ask permission, and of how my mother scolded me for treating the pressure from my peers as if it were a command.
I simply have to say “no”. This can be done calmly, and it not does not require a tantrum, which would itself be a surrender of my composure. The hurt can stay on the outside, while the serenity can remain on the inside. As Cicero has argued so forcibly throughout the text, the grief, the fear, the gratification, and the lust are derived from my estimation, not somehow imposed by its objects.
I am mistaken to view courage as some violent outburst, by which I can effortlessly sweep aside my enemies. I have been around the block often enough to know full well who counts as the real enemy; when my own house in order, why do I fret over the state of another man’s home? Let him be consumed by his longing and his rage, but there is a portion of me, the only one that counts, outside of his power, and to maintain this in harmony and constancy is everything I need to be good, and so to be happy.
A life can never become “perfect” by arranging all the circumstances in precisely the most satisfying way, just as a life will never be “fair” if I measure it by the vagaries of fortune. A life can, however, be complete in the exercise of wisdom and virtue, just as it can be just through the integrity of my own thoughts, words, and deeds.
I get tripped up on the theory when I forget why virtue is the pinnacle of human nature, and I get worn down in the practice when I allow myself to become a victim of sorrow. The first bit is usually resolved by a moment of calm reflection, though the second bit is a more stubborn obstacle, because the intensity of the feeling can muddle the clarity of the thinking. Following Epictetus, I must stand my ground: “You are but an impression, and not at all what you seem to be.”
Behind the immediate appearance, I can understand how my character is not at the mercy of either pleasure or pain, that I am a creature of free judgment who can decide to be the master of his passions. This requires modifying my notions of victory and defeat, from being intimidated by the events to being composed in my convictions. While I will inevitably lose control of external things, I need never abandon myself.
As much as I may doubt the Stoic claim that the soul is invincible, if it only so chooses, I must sheepishly admit how any despair on my part has always followed from permitting a disordered emotion to enter. It did not force its way into my mind, and however much my body might be enfeebled, I had to welcome it over the threshold. I think of how vampires apparently need to ask permission, and of how my mother scolded me for treating the pressure from my peers as if it were a command.
I simply have to say “no”. This can be done calmly, and it not does not require a tantrum, which would itself be a surrender of my composure. The hurt can stay on the outside, while the serenity can remain on the inside. As Cicero has argued so forcibly throughout the text, the grief, the fear, the gratification, and the lust are derived from my estimation, not somehow imposed by its objects.
I am mistaken to view courage as some violent outburst, by which I can effortlessly sweep aside my enemies. I have been around the block often enough to know full well who counts as the real enemy; when my own house in order, why do I fret over the state of another man’s home? Let him be consumed by his longing and his rage, but there is a portion of me, the only one that counts, outside of his power, and to maintain this in harmony and constancy is everything I need to be good, and so to be happy.
A life can never become “perfect” by arranging all the circumstances in precisely the most satisfying way, just as a life will never be “fair” if I measure it by the vagaries of fortune. A life can, however, be complete in the exercise of wisdom and virtue, just as it can be just through the integrity of my own thoughts, words, and deeds.
—Reflection written in 2/1999
IMAGE: Jean-Jacques-Francois Le Barbier, The Courage of the Women of Sparta (1787)
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