Will you not lay this foundation to begin with—that is, examine your decision and see whether it is sound or unsound, and then afterwards build on it your firmness and unshaken resolve?
But if you lay a rotten and crumbling foundation you will not be able to build even a tiny building; the more courses and the stronger that you lay upon it the quicker will it collapse.
You are removing from life without any reason our familiar friend, our fellow citizen in the great City and the small, and then, though you are guilty of murder and of killing one who has done no wrong, you say, “I must abide by my decisions.”
If perchance it occurred to you to kill me, would you be bound to abide by your decisions?
But if you lay a rotten and crumbling foundation you will not be able to build even a tiny building; the more courses and the stronger that you lay upon it the quicker will it collapse.
You are removing from life without any reason our familiar friend, our fellow citizen in the great City and the small, and then, though you are guilty of murder and of killing one who has done no wrong, you say, “I must abide by my decisions.”
If perchance it occurred to you to kill me, would you be bound to abide by your decisions?
—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.15
In what we like to call a “developed” country, I imagine that all of us have suffered under the dull inflexibility of a mindless bureaucracy. I repeatedly run across these three variations, which are common symptoms of the mulishness Epictetus describes:
“I really don’t want to do this, but I’m afraid I have to.”
Strictly speaking, you never have to do anything you don’t want to, but I suspect your real meaning to be that you can’t be bothered to reevaluate your priorities. If you truly believed it to be right, you would gladly change your tune.
“These are the procedures. These are the rules. These are the best practices. My hands are tied.”
I believe Emerson put it best: “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” A law ought to be in service to the good of people, not the good of people in service to a law. As our understanding increases, our practices should be modified accordingly.
“Unfortunately, the wheels are already in motion. There is no turning back.”
I don’t think I have ever seen this one to be literally true. I was once deeply impressed by a fellow who intercepted a letter, after he had second thoughts about the contents of a recommendation. We are all capable of such concern and diligence.
I am usually met with blank stares, or sometimes branded as a disturber of the peace, whenever I question the lazy assumptions behind a tired routine. However politely I point out how the house is built on sand, the stubborn man will take it as a personal insult, as it does not occur to him why a suggestion for improvement can be a mark of respect.
A local contractor was recently taken to court over new homes already sinking into the ground. His defense was that the cost of repouring the foundations would have been too high—though surely not as high as the price he must now pay for his carelessness? He was more ashamed of being caught than he was of having done a poor job to begin with.
I’m afraid Epictetus is not exaggerating when he says this can also be a matter of life and death. How many innocent men have been executed because a district attorney couldn’t admit he was wrong? How many livelihoods have been destroyed because a mogul refused to deviate from his master plan? You say it can’t be all that many, just a small minority? You would not say such a thing if you chose humility over pride, and if you loved virtue more than utility.
There comes a critical point in our growth when a mistake is no longer something to be hidden away, but rather an opportunity to finally become responsible for ourselves. To admit the error of my thinking is a necessary step toward any progress; love regularly means having to say you’re sorry.
In what we like to call a “developed” country, I imagine that all of us have suffered under the dull inflexibility of a mindless bureaucracy. I repeatedly run across these three variations, which are common symptoms of the mulishness Epictetus describes:
“I really don’t want to do this, but I’m afraid I have to.”
Strictly speaking, you never have to do anything you don’t want to, but I suspect your real meaning to be that you can’t be bothered to reevaluate your priorities. If you truly believed it to be right, you would gladly change your tune.
“These are the procedures. These are the rules. These are the best practices. My hands are tied.”
I believe Emerson put it best: “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” A law ought to be in service to the good of people, not the good of people in service to a law. As our understanding increases, our practices should be modified accordingly.
“Unfortunately, the wheels are already in motion. There is no turning back.”
I don’t think I have ever seen this one to be literally true. I was once deeply impressed by a fellow who intercepted a letter, after he had second thoughts about the contents of a recommendation. We are all capable of such concern and diligence.
I am usually met with blank stares, or sometimes branded as a disturber of the peace, whenever I question the lazy assumptions behind a tired routine. However politely I point out how the house is built on sand, the stubborn man will take it as a personal insult, as it does not occur to him why a suggestion for improvement can be a mark of respect.
A local contractor was recently taken to court over new homes already sinking into the ground. His defense was that the cost of repouring the foundations would have been too high—though surely not as high as the price he must now pay for his carelessness? He was more ashamed of being caught than he was of having done a poor job to begin with.
I’m afraid Epictetus is not exaggerating when he says this can also be a matter of life and death. How many innocent men have been executed because a district attorney couldn’t admit he was wrong? How many livelihoods have been destroyed because a mogul refused to deviate from his master plan? You say it can’t be all that many, just a small minority? You would not say such a thing if you chose humility over pride, and if you loved virtue more than utility.
There comes a critical point in our growth when a mistake is no longer something to be hidden away, but rather an opportunity to finally become responsible for ourselves. To admit the error of my thinking is a necessary step toward any progress; love regularly means having to say you’re sorry.
—Reflection written in 9/2001
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