Some men have made a distinction as follows, saying: “If a man has self-control and wisdom, he is indeed at peace as regards the attitude and habit of his mind, but not as regards the outcome. For, as far as his habit of mind is concerned, he is not perturbed, or saddened, or afraid; but there are many extraneous causes which strike him and bring perturbation upon him.”
What they mean to say is this: “So-and-so is indeed not a man of an angry disposition, but still he sometimes gives way to anger,” and “He is not, indeed, inclined to fear, but still he sometimes experiences fear”; in other words, he is free from the fault, but is not free from the passion of fear.
If, however, fear is once given an entrance, it will by frequent use pass over into a vice; and anger, once admitted into the mind, will alter the earlier habit of a mind that was formerly free from anger.
Besides, if the wise man, instead of despising all causes that come from without, ever fears anything, when the time arrives for him to go bravely to meet the spear, or the flames, on behalf of his country, his laws, and his liberty, he will go forth reluctantly and with flagging spirit. Such inconsistency of mind, however, does not suit the character of a wise man.
What they mean to say is this: “So-and-so is indeed not a man of an angry disposition, but still he sometimes gives way to anger,” and “He is not, indeed, inclined to fear, but still he sometimes experiences fear”; in other words, he is free from the fault, but is not free from the passion of fear.
If, however, fear is once given an entrance, it will by frequent use pass over into a vice; and anger, once admitted into the mind, will alter the earlier habit of a mind that was formerly free from anger.
Besides, if the wise man, instead of despising all causes that come from without, ever fears anything, when the time arrives for him to go bravely to meet the spear, or the flames, on behalf of his country, his laws, and his liberty, he will go forth reluctantly and with flagging spirit. Such inconsistency of mind, however, does not suit the character of a wise man.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 85
Stoicism is hardly opposed to feelings, and not even to intense feelings, but it does warn us against being at the mercy of unbridled feelings, where we are swept along instead of deciding upon our own path. That so many of us choose to be consumed by anger, or fear, or lust does not mean that such agitations somehow ought to become our natural state.
The common assumption is that since our emotions just “happen” to us, we are therefore obliged to obey them, much like we believe our happiness to be determined by the arrangement of our circumstances. So, we might praise a man for being ordered in his thinking, but we then excuse his rage, or his dread, or his cravings on account of events that are beyond his control.
Indeed, I often hear people insisting that wrath and hatred are righteous responses to whatever we find to be unpleasant, as if indiscipline were somehow a mark of excellence. I recently asked a student why she felt obliged to insult her peers whenever they proposed a different point of view, and she stared at me with confusion. “Well what else am I supposed to do? I was offended!”
Heaven knows, I don’t wish to add up the number of times I have lost my temper, and fallen into despair, and burned with longing, and yet all of my blunders have taught me why there is nothing worthy in the act of losing myself. My courage can be without malice, my suffering does not call for self-pity, and my love need never demand gratification. If the understanding is sound, and the intentions are sincere, my feelings do not have to become bitter and twisted.
I’m not saying much if I claim to be untroubled on the inside, though I might lose my composure as soon as the world frustrates my preferences. If my priorities are in order, I will recognize how the rise and fall of fortune has absolutely no power over my character, and why a confusion in my values is the only obstacle to my serenity. The Stoic Turn, as I call it, asks me to place a far greater importance on my own judgments than on any external conditions, treating any variations in the latter as a means to the stability of the former.
Once I can justify slandering my neighbor because he voted for the wrong party, or giving up all hope because the odds were stacked against me, or cheating on my wife because the other woman was simply irresistible, what could possibly be left of my so-called virtue? At least it would be more honest of me to openly admit that I care more for convenience than I do for character, rather than pursuing the one under the appearance of the other.
Yes, the Stoic is asking for much when he proposes keeping the passions at bay, but he is not asking for too much, because he trusts in the great capacities of human nature, and he knows why a compromise on the minor flaws will inevitably weaken us in the face of the major vices. Do not rely on a man who overlooks the lesser things, for he will lack the conviction to conquer the greater things.
Stoicism is hardly opposed to feelings, and not even to intense feelings, but it does warn us against being at the mercy of unbridled feelings, where we are swept along instead of deciding upon our own path. That so many of us choose to be consumed by anger, or fear, or lust does not mean that such agitations somehow ought to become our natural state.
The common assumption is that since our emotions just “happen” to us, we are therefore obliged to obey them, much like we believe our happiness to be determined by the arrangement of our circumstances. So, we might praise a man for being ordered in his thinking, but we then excuse his rage, or his dread, or his cravings on account of events that are beyond his control.
Indeed, I often hear people insisting that wrath and hatred are righteous responses to whatever we find to be unpleasant, as if indiscipline were somehow a mark of excellence. I recently asked a student why she felt obliged to insult her peers whenever they proposed a different point of view, and she stared at me with confusion. “Well what else am I supposed to do? I was offended!”
Heaven knows, I don’t wish to add up the number of times I have lost my temper, and fallen into despair, and burned with longing, and yet all of my blunders have taught me why there is nothing worthy in the act of losing myself. My courage can be without malice, my suffering does not call for self-pity, and my love need never demand gratification. If the understanding is sound, and the intentions are sincere, my feelings do not have to become bitter and twisted.
I’m not saying much if I claim to be untroubled on the inside, though I might lose my composure as soon as the world frustrates my preferences. If my priorities are in order, I will recognize how the rise and fall of fortune has absolutely no power over my character, and why a confusion in my values is the only obstacle to my serenity. The Stoic Turn, as I call it, asks me to place a far greater importance on my own judgments than on any external conditions, treating any variations in the latter as a means to the stability of the former.
Once I can justify slandering my neighbor because he voted for the wrong party, or giving up all hope because the odds were stacked against me, or cheating on my wife because the other woman was simply irresistible, what could possibly be left of my so-called virtue? At least it would be more honest of me to openly admit that I care more for convenience than I do for character, rather than pursuing the one under the appearance of the other.
Yes, the Stoic is asking for much when he proposes keeping the passions at bay, but he is not asking for too much, because he trusts in the great capacities of human nature, and he knows why a compromise on the minor flaws will inevitably weaken us in the face of the major vices. Do not rely on a man who overlooks the lesser things, for he will lack the conviction to conquer the greater things.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
IMAGE: Dosso Dossi, Anger (c. 1515)
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