Epictetus, Discourses 2.15.5

“If you force me to this, I would fain die.” 
 
Why, man, what has happened? 
 
“I have decided.” 
 
Lucky for me that you have not decided to kill me. 
 
“I do not take fees.” 
 
Why? 
 
“I have decided." 

 
Let me tell you that the same energy with which you now refuse to take fees may incline you one day (what is to prevent it?) to take them and to say again, “I have decided.” 
 
Just as in an ailing body, which suffers from a flux, the flux inclines now to this part and now to that, so it is with a weak mind: no one can tell which way it sways, but when this swaying and drift has energy to back it, then the mischief becomes past help and remedy. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.15 

 
I can recall so many times when the people around me were being obstinate, and so many more when I was the one who wouldn’t give an inch, that reliving those petty struggles fills me with disgust. Was I the one who started it, or did I justify myself on only being the one who would finish it? Does it even matter? Any hope for progress is lost at that moment when I can’t bear to confess my error. 
 
We laugh when children hold their breaths in protest, and yet the adults do much the same, just in more refined and cunning ways. I have engaged in battles with men in suits that never moved beyond the immaturity of the playground, and I have traded “I love you’s” as if they were no more than tokens for bragging rights. We put on such a show because we have abandoned any measure beyond our own pride. 
 
Here is a fine lesson I wish I had learned much earlier: if you are looking for the fellow who is acting in good faith, find the one who is perfectly happy to lose face. He is working from a far higher standard. 
 
I get so frustrated with others when they remain stubborn, and I feel so ashamed of myself when I remain stubborn. To dwell on this is itself another form of stubbornness, of clinging to what should be left in the past, so I will refrain from any further examples, however instructive or humorous they may be.
 
Now you would think that insistent people would never change their minds, taking their pledges to the grave, and yet they are just as likely to stand their ground for a mere day as they are for an entire decade. As Epictetus observes, the strength of their commitment proceeds from the intensity of an immediate passion, not from any grounding in a timeless truth, so there is really no way to predict where things might stand tomorrow. How tiring such a life becomes! 
 
In order to avoid the exhausting back-and-forth, the constant waffling that comes from confusing a preference with a principle, it is best to look before we leap, to seek out a certainty in our judgments. If this means going slow, then so be it. Take the small steps before making the bigger ones. Don’t allow the impulsive folks to drag you along. 
 
Despite all of this, mistakes will still be made, and the trick is then to transform those blunders into a means for self-improvement. A man can never learn to be right if he can never admit that he was wrong. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.15.4

Well, I had much ado to persuade that friend to change his mind. But it is impossible to move some of the men of today, so that I think that I know now what I did not know before, the meaning of the familiar saying, “A fool is not to be persuaded nor broken of his folly.” 
 
May it never be my lot to have for friend a wise fool: nothing is more difficult to handle. 
 
“I have decided.” 
 
So have the madmen, but the more firmly they persist in false judgements the more hellebore do they require. Will you not act as the sick man should, and call in the physician? 
 
As he says, “I am sick, master; help me: consider what I ought to do, it is for me to obey you”, so you should say, “I do not know what I ought to do, but I have come to learn.” 
 
Oh no, you say: “Talk to me about other things; this I have decided.” 
 
Other things indeed! What is greater or more to your advantage than that you should be convinced that it is not sufficient to have decided and to refuse all change of mind? This is the firmness of madness, not of health. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.15 
 
I will often hear people reducing a poor decision to a mere lack of intelligence, with phrases such as “dumber than a box of rocks” or “you can’t fix stupid”. I have recently discovered how in the South, there can be nothing kinder, and also nothing more condescending, than exclaiming “Bless your heart!” 
 
Now I understand that we tend to use words casually, and that we should not split hairs over colloquialisms, but I will protest if someone hastily insists on equating folly with idiocy. While we are all gifted with different degrees of intellectual skills, and some of us are challenged by disabilities beyond our control, a man does not become good because his is a genius, or bad because he is a dunce—the difference arises from the depth of our deliberate concern, regardless of any IQ scores. 
 
Some of the best folks I have known were dismissed for being dull, and some of the worst folks I have known were celebrated for being clever. Whatever the mental capacity, it is a caring and humble attitude that builds genuine character, for anyone is able to form a sound judgment, within the limits of what nature has provided to him. The quickest or the flashiest solution is not necessarily the wisest or the most loving; slow and steady wins the race. 
 
No, I do not suffer a fool gladly, if by foolishness we mean a willful refusal to think with clarity and integrity. It isn’t that the fool can’t reason, but rather that he won’t reason, choosing to begin with his preferred conclusion, instead of arriving at an uncomfortable conclusion through his own hard deliberation. As the Thomist might say, one may cast blame for vincible ignorance, not for invincible ignorance. 
 
It is indeed a sort of madness when I close my mind to some inconvenient truth, though the insanity is something I freely invited, by making my immediate desire the final measure. However mortifying they felt, the most fruitful moments of my life were always the ones where I finally adapted my wants to fit my needs. I refused to talk it over while I was obdurate, and the fever only lifted once I made that painful admission: “I don’t know. Help me to work this out.” 
 
Don’t get caught up in being “smart” or “educated”, which is often no more than an excuse for being headstrong. An open mind will bend without breaking. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

IMAGE: Hieronymus Bosch, The Ship of Fools (c. 1500) 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.15.3

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? 

—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. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.15.2

Let me describe another state of mind to be found in those who hear these precepts amiss. A friend of mine, for instance, determined for no reason to starve himself. I learnt of it when he was in the third day of his fasting, and went and asked him what had happened. 
 
“I have decided,” said he. 
 
Yes, but, for all that, say what it was that persuaded you; for if your decision was right, here we are at your side ready to help you to leave this life, but, if your decision was against reason, then change your mind. 
 
“A man must abide by his decisions.” 
 
What are you doing, man? Not all decisions, but right decisions. For instance, if you were convinced at the moment that it was right, abide by that opinion if you think fit, and do not change it, but say, “one must abide by one's decisions." 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.15 

 
I spit out my tea, all over the desk, when I first read this section. I had recently been flirting with the discipline of fasting, and it felt as if Epictetus was personally calling me out for my eccentricity. 
 
I was sure I had a good reason, but was I really just sticking with it out of pure stubbornness? To merely prove that I could do it was hardly enough, like when I doggedly waited all those years for a phone call or a letter from the girl who had long ago left me behind. 
 
While my experiment with fasting is a story for another time, this letter reminds me to always check my work, to be critical of my intentions, to honestly evaluate if I am acting out of a genuine conviction or simply out of vanity and willfulness. It is bad to deceive others, even worse to deceive ourselves. 
 
My mother often used a German phrase, “Jetzt erst recht nicht!”, or “Certainly not now!”, whenever I repeatedly hounded her for something she had already denied me. This drove me absolutely bananas, since I assumed she was being hard-nosed, though the irony was that I became more unyielding as she was trying to teach me a lesson about not always having my way. 
 
An acceptance of how it must unfold is a vastly underrated virtue, for I should yield when reason tells me why it is not meant to be. 
 
Contrary to what the liberals or the conservatives would have us believe, change is in itself neither good nor bad. Perhaps I will learn why I was mistaken, in which case I should mend my ways, or I will find a confirmation for my point of view, in which case I should stand my ground. 
 
The true, the good, and the beautiful remain the same in the mind of God, and yet our own awareness is constantly in flux; sometimes we move closer, and sometimes we drift away. Decide when you are sure, but then always be prepared to reconsider your choice. 
 
Growth is a process, not a destination. There is no end to becoming. Be certain that the final word is not yet written. 
 
A decade ago, I promised myself that I would never marry, and that I would commit to a life of celibacy. Even as I still hold to the reasons behind that decision, a pledge to never again treat love in a mercenary manner, life ended up having other plans for me. 
 
She appeared when I did not expect her, offering an opportunity I no longer thought possible. I affectionately say that she is a “piece of work”, in the full knowledge that I would now gladly die for her, without hesitation. In this case, the opinion was meant to evolve. 
 
Have I set aside food? For what purpose? Is it for the sake of restraint, or for the sake of appearances? Do I wish to improve my health, or do I wish to stroke my ego? Am I practicing piety, or am I playing God? It ceases to be the right thing when I discover how I have been doing it for all the wrong reasons. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.15.1

Chapter 15: On those who cling stubbornly to their judgments.

There are some who when they hear these precepts—that a man must be steadfast, and that the will is by nature a free thing and not subject to compulsion, whereas all else is subject to hindrance and compulsion, being in bondage and dependence—imagine that they must abide without swerving by every judgement that they have formed. 

 
No—first of all the judgement arrived at must be sound. 
 
For I would have the body firmly braced, but it must be the firmness of health and good condition; if you show me that you have the firmness of a madman and boast of that, I shall say to you, “Look, man, for someone to cure you.” 
 
This is not firmness, but the opposite. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.15 
 
I find this chapter to be both comic and tragic. I laugh at how stubborn we can be, and I cry at how stubborn we can be. If I could only recognize the inflexibility in myself as quickly as I draw attention to it in others. 
 
Just as I may struggle to distinguish love from lust, or courage from recklessness, it seems so easy to cross that line from constancy into obstinacy. My confusion, however, comes from assuming that an increase of sheer willpower will somehow make things better, when all along the quantity of my resolve can only be as good as the quality of my understanding. I learn too late how a greater determination in doing what is wrong can never help me with making anything right. 
 
As I was growing up in the 1980’s there was surge of self-help movements, most of which promised to make us boatloads of cash, and all of which treated self-confidence and perseverance as if they were ends in themselves: “If you can dream it, you can achieve it!” Few seemed to ask whether it was worth desiring to being with. 
 
Now I was still bright enough to know that money wouldn’t bring me happiness, but I did let that yuppie ideal of boundless ambition creep into my thinking; this merely served to encourage the worst aspects of my Irish temperament.
 
So if something didn’t go my way, I was tempted to dig in my heels, to present my spunky demands, even if it involved little more than yelling and screaming. If you pushed, I wanted to push back harder, and when I failed, as I inevitably did, I would go off to sulk in the corner, convinced all the more of the righteousness of my cause. Yes, this is a particular weakness of adolescence, but the bigger problems arise when we remain perpetual teenagers. 
 
How much grief I could have saved myself by grounding my perseverance in prudence! It is only good to be strong if you can first be wise, and no amount of force will help if I lack a sense of direction. Stoicism teaches us to remember why nothing in life becomes beneficial or harmful, except through the presence or absence of understanding. The heavy hand and the steadfast heart require the vision of an informed conscience. 
 
It is one thing to insist that I want it, and quite another to know why I should want it. The value of the choice is dependent on the merit of the judgment, and no amount of stubbornness can change that. As the diseased body calls for a dose of medicine, so the pigheaded soul calls for the remedy of philosophy. Only the fool will never change his mind. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.14.7

Does no one govern it? How can that be? A city or a household cannot endure even for a brief span of time without one to govern and take charge of it, and can this great and noble frame of things be administered in such good order by mere random chance? 
 
There is, then, One who governs it. What is His nature and how does He govern? And we, what are we, His creations, and to what work are we born? Have we any connection and relation with Him or not? 
 
Such are the thoughts which occur to these few, and so they devote their time to this and this alone, to investigate the assembly of life before they leave it. 
 
What follows? They are laughed at by the multitude, just as in the other assembly those who look on are laughed at by those who buy and sell. Nay, the cattle themselves, if they shared our perception, would laugh at those who have made anything else but fodder the object of their wonder and regard! 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.14 
 
The positivists were quite right to begin with the empirical, but they were sadly misguided when they also ended with the empirical. There is a world of difference between saying that I experience it because it is real, and that it is real because I experience it—be wary of the man who rejects a God because he has not been able to contain the Divine inside a test tube. 
 
Take what you can perceive, and then apply the power of reason to its workings. To deny a cause to the effect, or the necessary to what is contingent, or a purpose to an order is a rather illiberal and unscientific way to proceed, a skepticism that has more to do with obstinacy than it does with clarity. I am reminded of getting drunk with an esteemed physics professor, who finally admitted how he hated religion because his mother had dragged him out of bed on Sunday mornings. 
 
Once I declare that the world is chaotic, I am just describing my inner frustrations, not anything regarding the arrangement of nature. I wasted too many years worried about life failing to make any sense, when the problem was always a turmoil in my thinking. I will not succumb to doubt and despair as long as I remain intensely curious. 
 
If the idea of the Absolute continues to feel uncomfortable, I should realize it is because I am making too much of my own being at the expense of an openness to complete Being. The part will only find a function within the harmony of the whole. That I do not know everything about the grand design does not mean that I know nothing about my particular place. 
 
What will become of me if I continue down this path? The buyers and the sellers in the marketplace will have no further use for me, since I am no longer trading in their currency. They will make clever jokes, and they will roll their eyes as I pass by, yet this will not trouble me as much as it once did. I can now appreciate something I used to ridicule, which makes me wonder if that old man, the one who would mumble about repentance at the bus stop, might have been onto something. 
 
There comes a point when the question, “What do I want?” is replaced by the question, “What does He ask of me?” Instead of scheming over how to make a profit, I am questioning the very meaning of benefit and harm. I am more concerned with opening my mind than I am with stuffing my belly. 
 
As a child, the words “laughing cow” brought to mind delicious little cheese wedges. Now they bring to mind this letter by Epictetus. You can’t go home again. There’s no going back after I’ve peeked under the curtain. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.14.6

Our condition may be compared to the gathering at a public festival. 
 
Cattle and oxen are brought thither for sale, and the mass of men come to buy or to sell; only some few come to look at the assembled people and see how and why the assembly gathers and who instituted it and with what object. 
 
It is just the same here, in this assembly of the world: some are like cattle and trouble themselves about nothing but their fodder, for you who busy yourselves with property and lands and servants and public offices are busy with fodder and nothing else. 
 
There are but few who come to this assembly with a desire to see what really is the meaning of the Universe and Who governs it. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.14 
 
This passage speaks to me immediately, because I have never much enjoyed following the herd, and I am always at my best after I first stand back to observe. What is that fellow up to? What makes her tick? Who is being sincere, and who is putting on an act? How can I understand the deeper motives, through the relationship of their words and deeds? All that glitters is not gold. 
 
There is, however, the danger of an eccentricity out of pride, a weirdness for the sake of show, as distinct from simply going against the grain as a consequence of an informed conscience. I don’t have to be different to be special, but I should be prepared for some odd glances once I start thinking for myself. By their fruits shall you know them. 
 
I sometimes wonder how the little green men from outer space might see us: are they confused by the way we frantically rush about, forever enthralled by images of money, power, and sex, unwilling to imagine a life beyond the rat race? How odd when creatures gifted with the freedom of understanding behave like livestock, fattened up to be sold at the market! 
 
I could easily stop right there, bemoaning the fate of society and falling in line with the snarky cynics, but then wouldn’t I just be hiding away in yet another clique? I could instead choose to embrace the very qualities that I claim are lacking; I can be in the world, but not of the world. I could choose to pursue wisdom in the presence of ignorance, love in the face of lust, and liberty while surrounded by conformity. Though I won’t make the front page, I will also have learned why that never mattered much to begin with. 
 
Whether I find myself in the office, or on the subway, or at the shopping mall, I remain free to ask “Why?” If you tell me I will be alone, I assure you that there are others, who will stand with me, in the spirit if not in the flesh. You do not take notice of them, for they do right without asking to be reimbursed, and they watch carefully without demanding attention. Take a snapshot of any crowd, and you are guaranteed to discover at least one thinking man. 
 
What sort of questions does he ask, as everyone else is occupied with petty business? He looks for the truth behind the appearance, for the good within the annoyance, for the beauty underneath the drabness. He gazes at anyone, and he seeks out the face of God. Having a sense of the beginning and the end, he knows that nothing is in vain. 
 
As helpful as it is to go to work, to pay your taxes, and to save up for the house with the white picket fence, those are not the things for which you were made. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

IMAGE: Francesco Bassano the Younger, Market Scene (c. 1585) 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.14.5

What do you lack? 
 
If I show you that you lack what is most necessary and important for happiness, and that hitherto you have paid attention to everything rather than to acting appropriately, and if I conclude my criticism by saying that you do not know what God or man is, or what good or evil is, though perhaps you may bear being told of your ignorance in other ways, you cannot bear with me when I say that you do not know your own self; how can you submit to examination and abide my question? 
 
You cannot bear it at all: you go away at once in disgust. 
 
And yet what evil have I done you? Unless indeed the mirror does harm to the ugly man, by showing him what sort of man he is: unless the physician too insults the sick man, when he says to him, “Sir, you think there is nothing wrong with you, but you are in a fever; take no food today and drink water”; and no one says, “What shocking insolence!” 
 
But if you say to a man, “There is fever in your will to get, your will to avoid is degraded, your designs are inconsistent, your impulses out of harmony with nature, your conceptions random and false,” he goes away at once and says, “He insulted me!" 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.14 
 
We quickly comply with medical advice, while becoming quite indignant about moral advice. Why might this be? 
 
An old friend once proposed it was because science is like our new religion, and doctors now behave as if they were priests, but I then asked him how this could explain Epictetus describing the very same problem back in ancient Rome. 
 
He shrugged and said, “I dunno, maybe folks are just boneheads?” We had a good laugh, and I will always remember him for that stock phrase. 
 
Nevertheless, what makes anyone choose to be so stubborn? Don’t we know what’s good for us? Ah, there’s the rub! For all the materialism of the modern age, a confusion about our nature is a universal shortcoming. Give a man the freedom of judgment, and he is so tempted to follow the easiest route. 
 
My priorities inform my choices, so I will gladly obey if I perceive a certain benefit. When a professional tells me that a new drug will grant me a longer and more comfortable life, I am eager to hand him my money, because the pleasures of my body matter the most. Yet when a philosopher tells me that a timeless attitude will greatly increase my virtues, I am hesitant to change my habits, because the character of my soul is not so high on my list. 
 
Though this helps to explain an indifference about a healthy conscience, it can’t account for the downright hostility we have toward any moral correction. For myself, I can only observe how I would still like to appear like a good man to others, even as I don’t necessarily care about acting like a good man to others. As a result, I take offense at being called out, at having my cover blown; I retain an instinctive knowledge about my purpose, even when I fail to make it authentic. 
 
I can do so much better. I can do far more than pretend. 
 
For all the make-believe, do I truly understand the rudimentary principles of my nature? What is good and what is evil? What brings happiness and what brings misery? What is God and what is man? I cannot proceed with any other aspects of my life when these questions remain unanswered, or when my awareness is superficial. I lash out at the wise counsel, in the hope of dodging my own responsibility. 
 
It is humbling to be exposed for not knowing myself, and it is more convenient to be angry with another than to improve myself. It would be best for me to heed the guidance of the sage, since he recognizes exactly what I need, far more than any physician. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

IMAGE: Jacob Toorenvliet, The Doctor's Visit (c. 1667) 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.14.4

“At what point, then, must we begin?” 
 
If you attempt this task, I will tell you, that you must first understand terms. 
 
“What? Do you imply that I do not understand terms now?” 
 
You do not. 
 
“How then do I use them?” 
 
You use them as illiterate persons deal with written sounds, as cattle deal with impressions: for it is one thing to use them, and another to understand. If you think you understand them, let us take any term you like and put ourselves to the test, to see if we understand. 
 
“But it is vexatious when one is getting old, and has served, if it so chance, one's three campaigns, to be put through an examination.” 
 
I know that as well as you. You have come to me now as if you were in want of nothing: and indeed what could you be imagined as wanting? You are rich, you have children, it may be, and a wife and many servants, the Emperor knows you, you possess many friends in Rome, you perform the acts appropriate to you, you know how to return good for good and evil for evil. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.14 
 
I don’t much like being told that I don’t get it, until I realize why the offense is not about the exposure of my ignorance, but rather about my hasty presumption of understanding. I feel insulted because of my vanity, when I should actually feel grateful because of my humility. 
 
Naso’s weakness is such a widespread weakness. He is convinced he has it all figured out, and he is then ashamed to learn how he skipped over the most important bits. Which of us has not been blindsided by such a rude awakening? Which of us has not responded with outrage, in order to mask the vulnerability? 
 
In so many cases, going right back to the beginning is the best choice; it will only seem degrading and tedious if I remain hung up on my standing, as if such claims of expertise have any authentic merit. I may brag that I have an advanced degree, that I possess years of professional experience, or that my credentials are impeccable, but it won’t make a spot of difference if I haven’t the slightest clue about the workings of my own nature.
 
Though I do worry about the performative language on LinkedIn creeping its way into daily speech, it is a relief to see Naso spouting similar nonsense, just in the style of ancient Rome. We are not alone in believing that a list of fancy titles can somehow take the place of genuine competence. 
 
We also try to hide behind old age as an excuse for avoiding the legwork, as if seniority gives us the privilege to cease forming rudimentary judgments. The old man tells the middle-aged man to fix it, and the middle-aged man tells the young man to fix it, and the young man lacks a training to fix it, so in the end, shockingly, nothing gets fixed. 
 
Behind the specialized words, there are the simple words, the ones that express the most basic concepts in daily living. As often as I use them, do I truly understand what these terms represent? I speak of what is appropriate, and yet I have never questioned the fashion. I claim it is a fair decision, and yet I have no definition of justice. I insist it will bring us a profit, and yet I lack a description of benefit. 
 
In kindergarten, we had books that taught us the letters of the alphabet, and how those letters were then joined together to build common words. But as we grew older, was it enough to point at some colorful picture for an explanation of the meaning? We sadly neglect the critical and the reflective components, settling for the dull awareness of a pretty parrot. 
 
Like all of us, Naso needs to ask himself what he really wants out of life. Fortune has smiled on him—now what can be said about his character? He rewards his friends and he punishes his enemies, without ever challenging the rules of the game. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.14.3

The philosophers say that the first thing one must learn is this: that God exists and provides for the Universe, and it is impossible for a man to act or even to conceive a thought or reflection without God knowing. 
 
The next thing is to learn the true nature of the gods. For whatever their nature is discovered to be, he that is to please and obey them must needs try, so far as he can, to make himself like them. 
 
If God is faithful, he must be faithful too; if free, he must be free too; if beneficent, he too must be beneficent: if high-minded, he must be high-minded: he must, in fact, as one who makes God his ideal, follow this out in every act and word. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.14 
 
As soon as there is any mention of God, the postmodernists go into a panic. The abject terror of anything Divine can quickly translate into an extreme belligerence, even if the consequent burning at the stake is merely symbolic. 
 
For example, the majority of folks who now describe themselves as “Stoics” are atheists, or at the very least agnostic, on the grounds that the ancient teachings must be updated for contemporary sensibilities. This is disturbing, not because of which side currently happens to be winning in the culture wars, but because a philosophy ceases to be that philosophy once you excise one of its underlying principles. 
 
I have no interest in waging tribal warfare, so I will only suggest that some might feel far more at home among the Epicureans. There is plenty of room for many different views, though we shouldn’t obscure them by attaching the wrong labels. 
 
If it’s any consolation, I too have an immediate aversion to the sanctimonious zealots, for whom religion involves little more than admiring themselves in the mirror. I only get beyond the bitterness when my conception of God becomes so very big that my petty preferences now appear so very small. Let’s not forget who was made in whose image and likeness. 
 
When Epictetus builds his philosophy on the presence of God, he is not concerned with sectarian loyalties or extravagant imaginings. At the most basic level, it is a question of where we find the absolute, that by which all other things are measured. If we remove this, we make any judgment impossible, for then there ceases to be a standard, and we are left with the contradiction of claiming that everything is relative to everything else. 
 
Given my background, it helps me to express this in the language of the Scholastics. There can be nothing complex without something simple. There can be no degrees without a perfection. That which has limits exists within the infinite. Here and there are only possible through that which is everywhere. The changing must proceed from the unchanging. For there to be many, there must first be a one. . . . 
 
Whatever name you wish to apply to it, this is the fullness of the Divine. It follows that, however meager our human awareness might be, all of our thoughts, words, and deeds will only become good by a participation with what is ultimate. From the one end, all beings are but an expression of Being, and from the other end, all creatures aspire to the ideal of their Creator. 
 
There can be no philosophy, not of any sort, in the absence of an anchor, a benchmark, or a touchstone. Some will seek to twist themselves into a measure, at which point an effect is mistaken for a cause, and others will seek to dispose of any measure entirely, at which point reason has been abandoned, regardless of how much we call it science. It is perhaps best to attribute such errors to confusion instead of malice. 
 
Before we can even speak of something as true, or good, or beautiful, we must first establish the norm. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

IMAGE: William Blake, Angel of the Revelation (c. 1805) 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.14.2

So with philosophy; we picture to ourselves the work of the philosopher to be something of this sort: he must bring his own will into harmony with events, in such manner that nothing which happens should happen against our will, and that we should not wish for anything to happen that does not happen. 
 
The result of this is that those who have thus ordered their life do not fail to get what they will, and do not fall into what they will to avoid: each man spends his own life free from pain, from fear, and from distraction, and maintains the natural and acquired relations which unite him to his fellows—the part of son, father, brother, citizen, husband, wife, neighbor, fellow traveler, ruler, subject. 
 
Such is the business of the philosopher as we picture it. The next thing is that we seek how we are to achieve it. 
 
Now we see that the carpenter becomes a carpenter by learning certain things, the helmsman becomes a helmsman by learning certain things. May we, then, infer that in the sphere of conduct too it is not enough merely to wish to become good, but one must learn certain things? We have, then, to look and see what these things are. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.14 
 
We are happy to wear the fancy shoes, but we can’t be bothered to make them, or even to repair them, for ourselves. Our houses are filled with furniture, sometimes quite ornate and luxurious, and yet I have, in my many travels, met just one man who had built it all with his own two hands. 
 
Isn’t it much the same with philosophy, when we enjoy the leisure of pondering deep thoughts, while simultaneously feeling disgusted by the drudgery of establishing our principles? 
 
Those with intellectual aspirations will make sweeping claims about truth and justice, though you will rarely find anyone who is able to define such fundamental terms. Even those who have no use for abstractions, hostile to any life of the mind, can’t help but speak of the good and the bad, of the right and the wrong, in every choice they make. Both the nerds and the jocks are always appealing to ideas from philosophy, and never actually practicing the skills of philosophy. 
 
I think of the countless times someone was fascinated upon first learning of my vocation, only to quickly lose interest once it became clear that philosophy is almost as demanding as calculus. Contrary to common opinion, you can indeed meet beautiful people by quoting Marcus Aurelius, as long as you don’t mind them wandering off after a few minutes. 
 
I wonder if Epictetus is being a bit too generous in how he describes our perception of philosophy, because so very few will go through the trouble of ever questioning their desires: we are moved by a passion, and then, if challenged, we construct a convenient justification for it, as if the conclusion comes before the premises. In any case, there is still a pervasive image of the enlightened sage, who has somehow managed to bring himself into harmony with the Universe—though how he has done so remains suspiciously vague. 
 
However much I might admire the lofty goal, I will not find any liberation without a painstaking knowledge of the thorny path; mystical yearning will not be enough. I have a noble image of the captain standing at the helm, all the while forgetting how it is only his skill as a navigator, acquired through many years of hard experience, that permits him to bring his ship safely into port. 
 
I cannot do what is good without first understanding what is good, for the very concepts of benefit and harm are dependent on a clear grasp of my nature, and how this, in turn, relates to the whole of Nature. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

IMAGE: Albert Edelfelt, The Helmsman (1894) 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.14.1

Chapter 14: On Naso. 

Once, when a Roman came in with his son and was listening to one of his lectures, Epictetus said: “This is the method of my teaching,” and broke off short. 

 
And when the Roman begged him to continue, he replied: 
 
Every art, when it is being taught, is tiresome to one who is unskilled and untried in it. The products of the arts indeed show at once the use they are made for, and most of them have an attraction and charm of their own; for though it is no pleasure to be present and follow the process by which a shoemaker learns his art, the shoe itself is useful and a pleasant thing to look at as well. 
 
So too the process by which a carpenter learns is very tiresome to the unskilled person who happens to be by, but his work shows the use of his art. 
 
This you will see still more in the case of music, for if you are by when a man is being taught you will think the process of all things the most unpleasant, yet the effects of music are pleasant and delightful for unmusical persons to hear. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.14 
 
A decade ago, I probably found this chapter to be tedious, and it is likely I skimmed over it, believing this to be just another fussy discussion about method, since I was far more interested in getting to the good stuff, an explanation of how I actually needed to live. 

The fact that I do not remember when I first read it, but I now return to it over and over again, helps me to appreciate a change in my own priorities. I can’t go around saying that the product is terribly exciting, while at the same time complaining that the work is painfully dull. 
 
I think it took a stinging line from Chesterton to really wake me up: “There is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject; the only thing that can exist is an uninterested person.” 
 
And so now, when my students grumble about the next boring topic, I playfully remind them how being bored is yet another form of being lazy and smug. For the curious chemist, watching the paint dry is genuinely exciting, and for the inquisitive botanist, watching the grass grow can become a profound revelation. I know all too well how my sense of entitlement is an obstacle to my sense of wonder. 
 
As a fellow who didn’t own a car until much later in life, I walked most everywhere I needed to go, from one end of town to the other, often in the worst kind of weather. While I was always grateful for a solid pair of shoes, I never gave the skills of the cobbler a second thought, until my best boots got mangled, and an old man in a tiny shop made them look like new within two hours. Now I can’t look at a shoe without thinking of the craftsmanship that went into making it. 
 
Though I came from a long line of fine carpenters, I quickly grew frustrated with the patience and precision the trade required, and so I sadly never mastered the art of woodworking. I regret this now, with only my backyard whittling as a paltry compensation. This unpleasant experience has become a way to remember why the dignity of the end is only possible through the discipline of the means. 
 
Last but not least, I was raised in a house full of music, from which I learned to value the harmony of sound as a reflection of the beauty in all creation, as powerful as any interplay of light. Yet this did not come to me without continual effort, to the point where I would sometimes toss aside my instrument in disgust. What little competence I do possess is thanks to constant practice, and what remains beyond my ability is mainly due to indolence. 
 
Never underestimate the importance of playing your scales, over and over again, until you can no longer feel your fingers. It is the same in all aspects of life: the habit is built through the exercise, and the exercise, however tiresome it may initially appear, opens the way to finally doing the good, instead of merely wishing for it. 

—Reflection written in 9/2001 

IMAGE: Adriaen van Ostade, The Shoemaker (c. 1650) 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.13.6

Well, if you are a rider and have to confront a man on foot in the plain, where you have the advantage of practice and he has not, are you anxious? 
 
“Nay, but he has power to put me to death.” 
 
Miserable man, tell the truth and be not a braggart nor claim to be a philosopher. Know who are your masters. As long as you give them this hold over your body, you must follow everyone who is stronger than you. 
 
But Socrates, who spoke to the Tyrants, to his judges, and in prison, in the tone we know, had studied speaking to some purpose. So had Diogenes, who spoke in the same tone to Alexander, to Philip, to the pirates, to his purchaser. . . . 
 
Leave this to those who have made it their concern, to the confident: and do you go to your own concerns and never leave them again. Go and sit in your corner and weave syllogisms and propound them to others, “No ruler of a state is found in you." 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.13 
 
I feel sympathetic when Epictetus gets irritated with those whose convictions disappear at the moment they become inconvenient. Such folks are quick to brag about their lofty principles, and yet you won’t hear a peep out of them once there is any danger to their property or reputation, let alone a risk to life and limb. Allow them to sit in their corner, while you are now free to join the company of the sincere and the confident. 
 
I may claim that I am merely playing it safe, but am I considering the true balance of my gains and losses? Perhaps I have retained some comforts for my body, at least for the time being, but what has been the cost to the dignity of my soul? As soon as I bow to the threats, I am selling the conscience within my power, and I have become subject to the circumstances beyond my power. 
 
I sometimes hear the bounders debating whether it is better to be a little fish in a big pond or a big fish in a little pond, and I can only think that I would just prefer to be a good fish in any sort of pond. I should be much pickier about my character than I am about the scenery. 
 
How quickly the sharks end up looking more like minnows! If I wish to be a man of any worth, I must first get my priorities in order. If I wish to aim at some great achievement, let that be in the pursuit of the virtues, where the fine words must always be followed by gutsy deeds. No one can ever take that away. 
 
Do I aspire to be more like Socrates? Where some see only an agitator, feeding off the doubts of his neighbors, others will recognize his mission of self-awareness. He scolded the jurors so that they might learn to find a blessing in a curse. Socrates had no need to impress anyone, so he had no need to fear anyone. 
 
Do I aspire to be more like Diogenes? Where some see only a showman, intent on shocking his audience, others will follow his example of self-mastery. He dismissed Alexander so that he might learn why a king is no different than a slave. Diogenes had no rank to protect, so he had no limits to his liberty. 
 
An anxiety over our consequences decreases as a trust in our integrity increases. 

—Reflection written in 8/2001 

IMAGE: Pierre Paul Puget, The Meeting of Alexander and Diogenes (1680) 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.13.5

“Nay, but I am anxious to know how I am to address him.” 
 
What, is it not in your power to address him as you will? 
 
“Yes, but I am afraid I may lose my self-possession.” 
 
Are you afraid of losing your self-possession when you are going to write the name Dion? 
 
“Certainly not.” 
 
What is the reason? Is it not, that you have practiced writing? Of course it is. Or again, when you are about to read, would you not be in like case? 
 
“Exactly.” 
 
What is the reason? The reason is that every art contains within it an element of strength and confidence. 
 
Have you not practiced speaking, then? What else did you study at school? You studied syllogisms and variable arguments. 
 
What for? Was it not that you might converse with skill, and does not “with skill’ mean in good season, with security and good sense, and, more than that, without failure or hindrance, and, to crown all, with confidence? 
 
“Yes." 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.13 

 
In the peculiar circles I travel in, I have now experienced both the secular and the spiritual varieties of bombastic language. There’s nothing like an impressive title to make a dull bureaucrat feel like he’s a terribly important person, or a mystical utterance to cast the illusion of dignity on our bland mediocrity. Though words ought to clarify things, we too often use them to obfuscate things. 
 
I noticed that our nurse has become a senior wellness coordinator, and our janitor is listed in the directory as a facilities management technician. I fear I am the only one who still thinks the old names were far more distinguished, and even comforting, but while I see no shame in using humble and honest words, I have also learned to keep my mouth shut, lest I suddenly find myself subject to a workforce imbalance correction. 
 
I am standing my ground, however, with a local priest, who was recently made a monsignor, and now loudly corrects me whenever I still address him as “Father”. Although I have a great attachment to medieval formalities, I have absolutely no intention of stroking his ego, even as I am happy to overlook his butchering of so many Latin phrases, which he sadly believes will make him appear more holy. 
 
Let them have their titles, for I bear then no ill will. You will please forgive me, however, for not playing along with the game, or for having a confidence in the unadorned expressions of common sense. It is one thing to be careful about what we might say, but quite another to be afraid about what we are permitted to say. It remains the task of a man to form his own conscience, by his own skill, and while he should patiently listen to others, he should never allow himself to be bullied. 
 
Will I offend the master? What will he do to me if I fumble for my words? Shall I be cast out for failing to submit to the latest fashion? Such an anxiety reveals that I have already surrendered a mastery of myself, by reducing the true, the good, and the beautiful to the vagaries of mere impressions. Regardless of your scolding, I still know how to spell the words, and I still know what they mean. I am trying to examine the thing itself, and I am not looking over my shoulder to see if you happen to approve. 
 
All is lost once the bosses can dictate how we think and how we speak, by threatening us with poverty, suppression, or the fires of hell. 

—Reflection written in 8/2001