Epictetus, Discourses 2.9.4

What is the good of expounding these doctrines any more than those of another school? Sit down now and discourse on the doctrines of Epicurus, and you will soon discourse more effectively than Epicurus himself. 
 
Why then do you call yourself a Stoic, why do you deceive the world, why being a Hellene do you act the Jew? Do you not see in what sense a man is called a Jew, in what sense a Syrian, in what an Egyptian? 
 
When we see a man trimming between two faiths we are wont to say, “He is no Jew, but is acting a part”, but when he adopts the attitude of mind of him who is baptized and has made his choice, then he is not only called a Jew but is a Jew indeed. 
 
So we also are but counterfeit “baptists”, Jews in name only, but really something else, with no feeling for reason, far from acting on the principles we talk of, though we pride ourselves on them as though we knew them. 
 
So, being unable to fulfil the calling of Man we adopt that of the Philosopher, a heavy burden indeed! It is as though one who could not lift ten pounds were fain to lift the stone of Ajax! 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.9 
 
I am weary of fretting over the many affectations I see around me, and so, as I am sure Epictetus intended, I choose to reflect on what I can do to improve my own integrity. Even as I can’t help but notice how rarely a fellow puts his money where his mouth is, let his poor example serve as an inspiration to something better, not as a grievance over something worse. 
 
From the context of this section, I suspect that Epictetus is conflating Jews and Christians here, though one could just as easily substitute any other creed or school, and the problem would be much the same. After years of working for the Church, I must confess that the vast majority of the “faithful” will abandon the teachings of the Gospel as soon as they confront some worldly inconvenience; in this they are hardly different from most disciples, who make their excuses once the going gets tough. 
 
The pious cheerleaders will cry foul, but deep in their hearts they know it to be true. I should not be discouraged, or even surprised, when we consistently fail at rising to the virtues, because a creature of free judgment can just as readily follow evil instead of good, and because excellence demands effort, while mediocrity comes easy. It isn’t that only a few are capable, but rather that only a few are willing; scarcity simply makes character all the more precious. 
 
If I preach the Gospel, I am a fraud unless I can practice the love of God and the love of neighbor. If I profess Stoic principles, I am a charlatan unless I can be truly indifferent to the whims of fortune. While the priest may seek his luxuries, and the professor may pursue his fame, I can gladly let them have their reward. I, in turn, will strive to be consistent in what I say and what I do, so that, however else I fall short, I will at least have lived in good faith. 
 
The philosopher who postures and bickers is concerned with the title, not with the task. Keep the company of gentle saints over brash salesmen, and revere the reticent sage instead of the flamboyant scholar. 

—Reflection written in 7/2001 

IMAGE: Jusepe de Ribera, Two Philosophers (1612) 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.14

M. Therefore, this ruminating beforehand upon future evils which you see at a distance makes their approach more tolerable; and on this account what Euripides makes Theseus say is much commended. You will give me leave to translate them, as is usual with me: 
 
“I treasured up what some learn’d sage did tell,
And on my future misery did dwell;
I thought of bitter death, of being drove
Far from my home by exile, and I strove
With every evil to possess my mind,
That, when they came, I the less care might find.” 
 
But Euripides says that of himself, which Theseus said he had heard from some learned man, for the poet had been a pupil of Anaxagoras, who, as they relate, on hearing of the death of his son, said, “I knew that my son was mortal;” which speech seems to intimate that such things afflict those men who have not thought on them before. 
 
Therefore, there is no doubt but that all those things which are considered evils are the heavier from not being foreseen. Though, notwithstanding this is not the only circumstance which occasions the greatest grief, still, as the mind, by foreseeing and preparing for it, has great power to make all grief the less, a man should at all times consider all the events that may befall him in this life; and certainly the excellence and divine nature of wisdom consists in taking a near view of, and gaining a thorough acquaintance with, all human affairs, in not being surprised when anything happens, and in thinking, before the event, that there is nothing but what may come to pass. 
 
“Wherefore ev’ry man,
When his affairs go on most swimmingly,
E’en then it most behooves to arm himself
Against the coming storm: loss, danger, exile,
Returning ever, let him look to meet;
His son in fault, wife dead, or daughter sick;
All common accidents, and may have happen’d
That nothing shall seem new or strange. But if
Aught has fall’n out beyond his hopes, all that
Let him account clear gain." 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.14 
 
I was far from being an exemplary Boy Scout, though as the years have passed, I have come to realize how great an influence my old Scoutmaster had on the formation of my character. He was a true gentleman, and like any good gentleman, he combined a remarkable strength with a patient kindness. If I could right now be a little bit more like he was back then, I would die happy. 
 
As is common with gruff teenagers, we would recite the Scout Oath and the Scout Law without really thinking about what they meant, and we assumed the Scout Motto, “Be Prepared”, was mainly about getting our camping gear in order. 
 
Yet on a bitterly cold camping trip, in the harshest weather the region had seen in ages, my Scoutmaster gave a brief but profoundly moving explanation of how preparation also meant being ready to endure any hardship, not just of the body but also of the spirit. 
 
“If your head is on straight, and your heart is in the right place, what does the cold matter? Expect everything, and then nothing will surprise you.” 
 
Where is the “winning”? Simply in rising to the task. Both pain and death are inevitable. Now how will I make myself ready to face them with dignity? While I laughed at the phrase then, I now appreciate the old-school advice to gird my loins. 
 
Euripides has Theseus express these principles nobly, and the statement from Anaxagoras, which I have also seen attributed to Xenophon, gives it to me far more bluntly. The final passage from Terence properly reminds us not to become complacent when fortune smiles upon us, and to always be fortified for that moment when she changes her mood. You tell me it will never happen? I assure you it will. 
 
Some might say that Anaxagoras was being heartless, yet we should not confuse his candor with an insensitivity. That he understood why his son must die, sooner or later, does not mean he did not feel a great loss—it simply means he had already braced himself for the harsh blow. 
 
To be calm is not the same as being uncaring. As Cicero says, this can be achieved when I make the effort to learn about all the highs and the lows of this life, to closely familiarize myself with the ways of the world. Once I am accustomed to the breadth of what may happen, I acquire the necessary depth of awareness to remain steadfast and serene. 
 
Parents rightly wish to protect their children from danger; this does not, however, mean we should hide them away from the realities of life. Learning to cope requires becoming familiar with the lay of the land, and immediate experience, however disturbing, is often the best training for what is sure to come. 
 
To plan for the worst is not pessimism if it is guided by a regard for the best within us. 

—Reflection written in 10/1996 

IMAGE: Jusepe de Ribera, Anaxagoras (1636) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 52.4

You may be sure that this refractory nature, which demands much toil, has been implanted in us. There are obstacles in our path; so let us fight, and call to our assistance some helpers. 
 
"Whom," you say, "shall I call upon? Shall it be this man or that?" 
 
There is another choice also open to you; you may go to the ancients; for they have the time to help you. We can get assistance not only from the living, but from those of the past.
 
Let us choose, however, from among the living, not men who pour forth their words with the greatest glibness, turning out commonplaces and holding. as it were, their own little private exhibitions—not these, I say, but men who teach us by their lives, men who tell us what we ought to do and then prove it by practice, who show us what we should avoid, and then are never caught doing that which they have ordered us to avoid. 
 
Choose as a guide one whom you will admire more when you see him act than when you hear him speak. Of course, I would not prevent you from listening also to those philosophers who are wont to hold public meetings and discussions, provided they appear before the people for the express purpose of improving themselves and others, and do not practice their profession for the sake of self-seeking. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 52 

 
If I know I am not up to the task on my own, who can I turn to for aid in taming my stubbornness? 
 
I forget far too readily that there are so many good people in this world, and that it is ultimately the content of character that makes for the best teachers. I run into trouble finding them, however, because I am more interested in the style than in the substance, and so I am lured in by all the wrong qualities. I need to look with different eyes; decent folks don’t feel the need to market themselves. 
 
If I am still having difficulty, I should not neglect appealing to those from the past. In the current fashion of progress, it is assumed that newer is always better, when I should only be concerned with better being better, regardless of the time or the place. Wisdom is perennial, and it tends to have a patina instead of being shiny. 
 
The example of a dead philosopher can help me to then recognize the excellence of a living one, and thus I learn to respect principled actions over fanciful words. What the celebrities have in common should be obvious from the very name we give them, for they are concerned with putting on a show and thereby winning acclaim. 
 
Do not be deceived into thinking that the brooding academics or the edgy poets are necessarily worthier than the slick politicians or the garish rock stars, for they too are trying to sell you an image. If you doubt this, look only to the way they speak of righteousness but then chase after fortune and fame. 
 
If I want to become faithful and temperate, I should not sit at the feet of adulterers and drunkards. While the talking is all well and good, the meat of the matter is in the doing. 

—Reflection written in 4/2013 

IMAGE: Jusepe de Ribera, A Philosopher (c. 1630) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 44.2

Philosophy neither rejects nor selects anyone; its light shines for all. Socrates was no aristocrat. Cleanthes worked at a well and served as a hired man watering a garden. Philosophy did not find Plato already a nobleman; it made him one. 
 
Why then should you despair of becoming able to rank with men like these? They are all your ancestors, if you conduct yourself in a manner worthy of them; and you will do so if you convince yourself at the outset that no man outdoes you in real nobility.
 
We have all had the same number of forefathers; there is no man whose first beginning does not transcend memory. 
 
Plato says: "Every king springs from a race of slaves, and every slave has had kings among his ancestors."
 
The flight of time, with its vicissitudes, has jumbled all such things together, and Fortune has turned them upside down. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 44 
 
When I am so deeply concerned about my reputation and possessions, I betray a serious disorder in my priorities. While the most desirable careers call for the most prestigious qualifications, there are no formal requirements for being a philosopher, and so to grow into a good man, and so to become a happy man. 
 
Philosophy does not care about bank accounts, or a list of titles, or membership in a club. She cares about the decency in your soul. 
 
It’s funny how the bigwigs might speak reverently about Socrates or Plato, but they would brush aside such men if they actually met them in real life. Imagine if an eccentric old man on the subway started questioning them about truth and beauty, of if the janitor in the office building offered them advice on integrity in their business ventures. 
 
There must be a total transformation of values before the best kind of people can be recognized, before the vanities can be swept aside. 
 
So do I wish to noble by class or noble by character? I can’t live with conflicting goals. Might I still pursue an increase in my position as a preference, without compromising my deeper principles? Perhaps, though how much time and effort I am committing to each will reveal my true colors. 
 
Most of my old college chums spend the whole day pushing paper to increase their profits, without a thought to increase their kindness. 
 
If you must ask me about my heritage, I can only say that I am trying to follow in the long line of people who discerned the virtues as their highest goods. Try offering such a reply the next time someone at a cocktail party asks you “And what do you do?” You may not get a promotion, yet you will find peace of mind. 
 
They tell me that any person can ultimately find a king or a queen as an ancestor, and so by extension even the most pompous mogul is descended from a street sweeper or a town drunk. 
 
Careful, our family trees aren’t as pretty as we’d like then to be, and that’s quite all right, since the one measure that counts is what we choose to make of ourselves. 

—Reflection written in 2/2013 

IMAGE: Jusepe de Ribera, A Philosopher (1637) 

Chuang Tzu 2.9

Khü Tshiâo-tsze asked Khang-wû Tsze, saying, "I heard the Master speaking of such language as the following:

"'The sagely man does not occupy himself with worldly affairs. He does not put himself in the way of what is profitable, nor try to avoid what is hurtful; he has no pleasure in seeking for anything from any one; he does not care to be found in any established Way; he speaks without speaking; he does not speak when he speaks; thus finding his enjoyment outside the dust and dirt of the world.' 

"The Master considered all this to be a shoreless flow of mere words, and I consider it to describe the course of the Mysterious Way. What do you, Sir, think of it?" 

Khang-wû Tsze replied, "The hearing of such words would have perplexed even Hwang-Tì, and how should Khiû be competent to understand them? And you, moreover, are too hasty in forming your estimate of their meaning. 

"You see the egg, and immediately look out for the cock that is to be hatched from it; you see the bow, and immediately look out for the dove that is to be brought down by it being roasted. I will try to explain the thing to you in a rough way; do you in the same way listen to me. 

"How could any one stand by the side of the sun and moon, and hold under his arm all space and all time? Such language only means that the sagely man keeps his mouth shut, and puts aside questions that are uncertain and dark; making his inferior capacities unite with him in honoring the One Lord. 

"Men in general bustle about and toil; the sagely man seems stupid and to know nothing. He blends ten thousand years together in the one conception of time; the myriad things all pursue their spontaneous course, and they are all before him as doing so. 

"How do I know that the love of life is not a delusion? And that the dislike of death is not like a young person's losing his way, and not knowing that he is really going home? Lì Kì was a daughter of the border Warden of Âi. When the ruler of the state of Tsin first got possession of her, she wept until the tears wetted all the front of her dress. But when she came to the place of the king, shared with him his luxurious couch, and ate his grain-and-grass-fed meat, then she regretted that she had wept. How do I know that the dead do not repent of their former craving for life? 

"Those who dream of the pleasures of drinking may in the morning wail and weep; those who dream of wailing and weeping may in the morning be going out to hunt. When they were dreaming they did not know it was a dream; in their dream they may even have tried to interpret it; but when they awoke they knew that it was a dream. And there is the great awaking, after which we shall know that this life was a great dream. 

"All the while, the stupid think they are awake, and with nice discrimination insist on their knowledge; now playing the part of rulers, and now of grooms. Bigoted was that Khiû! He and you are both dreaming. I who say that you are dreaming am dreaming myself. These words seem very strange; but if after ten thousand ages we once meet with a great sage who knows how to explain them, it will be as if we met him unexpectedly some morning or evening." 

IMAGE: Jusepe de Ribera, Jacob's Dream (1639) 

Epictetus, Discourses 1.20.2

Again, sagacity has been given us. To take cognizance of what? Things good and bad and indifferent.

 

What is it then itself?

 

Good.

 

And what is folly?

 

Bad. 

 

Do you see then that of necessity sagacity has the power of taking cognizance of itself and its opposite? Therefore, the primary and highest task of the philosopher is to test impressions and distinguish them and to make use of none which is untested. 

 

Consider how we have invented an art to test the currency, in which we are admitted to have some interest. Look how many means the assayer uses to test the coin—sight, touch, smell, finally hearing: he breaks the penny and attends to the sound, and is not content with hearing its note once, but by much attention gets an ear for music. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 1.20

 

Where only instinct is present in a living being, all action will proceed from impulse without reflection. But where mind is joined to passion, impressions are subject to judgments, such that how I feel is relative to how I understand.

 

It shouldn’t be so cryptic that a rational animal is naturally ordered by its thoughts, yet we too often permit ourselves to be swept away by emotion loosed from awareness and choice, ironically deciding that we do not have the power to decide. 

 

The very standards of the true and the good are functions of judgment; whenever I say something “feels good” I am already employing a conscious measure of the beneficial as distinct from the harmful, however lazily I may be doing so. Advancing the thinking is precisely what gives greater meaning and value to the feeling. 

 

It isn’t just that wisdom may eventually lead to some later advantage, but rather that wisdom is itself the greatest good of human nature, that by which everything else acquires purpose for us.  

 

By extension, it isn’t just that ignorance may eventually cause some later injury, but rather that ignorance is itself the greatest evil of human nature, that by which everything else is deprived of purpose for us. 

 

All my perceptions of right and wrong arise out of my ability to be aware of myself, to know my own nature and only thereby to work in harmony with the whole of Nature. 

 

How often the Stoics, or any insightful philosophers, will encourage us to look within, to ponder our own essence, to meditate upon who we are and where we are intended to go! They do so for good reason, since all other endeavors must center around such self-consciousness. 

 

And what a remarkable faculty it is that permits us to learn more deeply about ourselves on the inside as we simultaneously reach out further on the outside! The active mind is so much more subtle and encompassing than any passive matter—it not only moves of itself, but also embraces and contains itself. 

 

Given the current fashion for skepticism and relativism, I may well be wasting my time, but I still insist on beginning any introductory class in philosophy with Plato’s Meno: it seems to me an ideal model for both sound method and substantial content. 

 

Can virtue be taught? We must first know what virtue is. After much back and forth, half the fun of the dialectic, Socrates offers the following account of virtue:

 

Soc. If then virtue is a quality of the soul, and is admitted to be profitable, it must be wisdom or prudence, since none of the things of the soul are either profitable or hurtful in themselves, but they are all made profitable or hurtful by the addition of wisdom or of folly; and therefore if virtue is profitable, virtue must be a sort of wisdom or prudence?

 

Men. I quite agree.

 

Soc. And the other goods, such as wealth and the like, of which we were just now saying that they are sometimes good and sometimes evil, do not they also become profitable or hurtful, accordingly as the soul guides and uses them rightly or wrongly; just as the things of the soul herself are benefited when under the guidance of wisdom and harmed by folly? 

 

Men. True.

 

Soc. And the wise soul guides them rightly, and the foolish soul wrongly.

 

Men. Yes.

 

Soc. And is not this universally true of human nature? All other things hang upon the soul, and the things of the soul herself hang upon wisdom, if they are to be good; and so wisdom is inferred to be that which profits—and virtue, as we say, is profitable?

 

Men. Certainly. 

 

The Stoic is only following through on what Socrates, the grandfather of Stoicism, had taught him. Know yourself, and the rest falls into place. Be ignorant of yourself, and you’re in for a world of grief. 

 

Law enforcement exerts tremendous efforts to intercept counterfeit currency, and my bank seems to demand a new layer of identity verification every time I try to access my account. 

 

If only we put as much work into confirming our moral worth, we might not need so much policing from the outside—character flows from the inside. 

—Reflection written in 2/2001 

IMAGE: Jusepe de Ribera, An Allegory of Wisdom and Ignorance (1640)

Jusepe de Ribera, Diogenes

Jusepe de Ribera, Diogenes (1637)

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 11.18.4

. . . Fourth, consider that you also do many things wrong, and that you are a man like others.

And even if you do abstain from certain faults, still you have the disposition to commit them, though either through cowardice, or concern about reputation, or some such mean motive, you do abstain from such faults. . . .

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 11.18 (tr Long)

In my worst moments, I simply want to run away; the idea of becoming a hermit suddenly seems quite appealing. I think of this, however, because I am saddened or offended by others. I would not make a good hermit on these grounds, not even one bit, if my reason for being alone is my resentment for other people.

What is it that fuels my anger or despair? It is nothing else than demanding decency from others, just a bit of respect, a glimmer of love and loyalty. When I don’t get it, I will be tempted to do one of two things: I want to erupt in rage, or I want to crawl into a hole.

I am really just making myself the victim, an antithesis of all that is Stoic, and it isn’t that I need to get tougher, but that I need to become more understanding and compassionate. I need to see myself in others, and others in myself.

Why am I so full of hatred and fear? Because someone else has done something wrong? Let me remember how often I, too, have done wrong because of my own ignorance. Once I came to truly understand my error, I could only think of how to become better, and if I am to be consistent, I should also think of how to help another wrongdoer become better.

There is a twisted hypocrisy in my thinking and living when I treat another as I would never treat myself. I will condemn him, and seek to do him harm, while I will have sympathy with myself, and give myself another chance.

Can I be so confident as to claim that I no longer have such faults? I know I can’t, though let me imagine that I could. Even then, am I not just as prone to fall back into error, or perhaps I am doing the right things for the wrong reasons? I should be aware of my own weakness, and I should be critical about my own motives before I put down someone else’s.

“Look! I have been honest, or helpful, or kind, and my neighbor hasn’t been!” But look how easily I could have done otherwise, how fine that line really was, and maybe I was just honest because I was afraid, or helpful to get ahead, or kind to win affection.

I suspect the real hermit will have no disdain for others at all, and will seek solitude not to stew in his hatred, but to do some work on his ability to love.

Written in 9/2005

IMAGE: Jusepe de Ribera, Saint Paul, The First Hermit (1640)