A Tree of Virtues

Anonymous German, A Tree of Virtues from the Speculum Virginum (c. 1200) 

The root of virtue: Humility (humilitas)
The crowning fruit: Charity (caritas) 

The New Adam 
In The City of Jerusalem

PRUDENCE (prudentia) 

Fear of God (timor Domini)
Promptness (alacritas)
Counsel (consilium)
Memory (memoria)
Intelligence (intelligentia)
Foresight (providentia)
Deliberation (deliberatio)

JUSTICE (justitia )

Law (lex)
Strictness (severitas)
Equity (aequitas)
Correction (correctio) 
Honoring a pledge (juris jurandi observatio) 
Judgment (judicium)
Truth (veritas)

COURAGE (fortitudo)

Magnanimity (magnanimitas)
Fidelity (fiducia)
Tolerance (tolerantia)
Rest (requies)
Stability (stabilitas)
Constancy (constantia)
Perseverance (perseverantia)

TEMPERANCE (temperantia) 

Discernment (discretio)
Acquiescence (morigeratio)
Silence (taciturnitas)
Fasting (jejunium)
Sobriety (sobrietas)
Physical penance (afflictio carnis)
Contempt of the world (contemptus saeculi)

FAITH (fides) 

Pratice of religion (religio)
Decorum (munditia)
Obedience (obedientia)
Chastity (castitas)
Reverence (reverentia)
Continence (continentia)
Good desire (affectus)

HOPE (spes) 

Heavenly contemplation (contemplatio supernorum) 
Joy (gaudium)
Modesty (modestia)
Confession (confessio)
Patience (patientia)
Sorrow for faults (compunctio)
Longsuffering (longanimitas)

CHARITY (caritas) 

Forgiveness (gratia)
Peace (pax)
Piety (pietas)
Mildness (mansuetudo)
Liberality (liberalitas)
Mercy (misericordia)
Indulgence (indulgentia)
Compassion (compassio)
Benignity (benignitas)
Concord (concordia) 

"Be Pleased to Inform Her Majesty . . ."

At the tender age of twelve, being both outcast and precocious, I latched onto any meaning and purpose, wherever I could possibly find it. 

I had long taken an interest in history, as it helped me to see the bigger picture; I was especially fond of dusty old maps and forgotten narratives about daring adventures. I had also become absorbed in military technology, collecting dozens of books about planes, tanks, and warships. 

Please don't laugh at my geekiness, for there are far worse ways for a young man to occupy his time!  

In April of 1982, Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands, a dependency of Great Britain. I perked up immediately, because my love of the glory from the past had led to a deep affection for all things British. 

Yes, I had become an odd sort of Anglophile, complete with my grand imaginings about an elaborate alternate history where the Stuarts retained the Crown, and the Colonies were never lost. That was all about the Irish Catholic in me. 

Ah, the joys of daydreaming! 

Long before the time of the Blessed Internet, I had to read the daily newspapers, and watch the nightly news, to get updates on this epic battle. They said Thatcher could never do it, that Britain had no chance of recovering those distant islands. We were told it was insignificant in any event: why would it matter if a few thousand shepherds were under a different flag? 

But it did matter. If nothing else, it mattered to me, because I was forming my sense of conscience. Though the politicians turned it into a matter of national pride, I saw it as a matter of personal freedom. If those fine folks in the Falklands wished to be British, I would gladly give my very life to defend their rights. 

The Royal Navy obviously didn't want a sickly American teenager to help with the task, but I was at least there in spirit. 

It felt like years passed as I kept up with the news, even as it was a mere two months. I followed every detail, and I kept my own humble diary of the gains and losses, which I still have in my little bag of precious mementos. 

When the Belgrano went down, one side cheered. When the Sheffield was sunk, the other side cheered. This wasn't a game—it was a real war, where both sides had staked most everything. The very identities of Argentina and Britain hung in the balance. 

In the end, Thatcher's gambit paid off, and Great Britain was once again great, if but for a moment. Galtieri, on the other hand, didn't have such a good time of it. 

Ah, the fickleness of Lady Fortune! 

And yet, observe also the glory of integrity, the triumph of individual virtue. The specific flag is far less important than the content of character. To this day, I vividly remember the first message from the Royal Marines after the recovery of South Georgia: 

Be pleased to inform Her Majesty that the White Ensign flies alongside the Union Jack in South Georgia. God Save the Queen.

I read those lines after sneaking out of class to check the Boston Globe at the front desk of my school. 

And I suddenly began to cry. They were uncontrollable tears, a whole expulsion of my emotions. The school secretary asked if she needed to call my parents, as there was surely something wrong with me. In the midst of my blubbering, I assured her I would mange. I got away with a tardy slip for my crimes. 

What did all of that mean? In hindsight, it meant that my passions were being guided by my convictions. That is a good thing, actually the best of things. 

Most of my so-called friends were so macho that they would never admit to crying, and I was being steadily led along the way of becoming a tool for whoever wanted to use me for his convenience. But this was finally a moment of free thought. 

I cried because I had already developed a set of judgments about good and evil, however primitive, and so my feelings followed in their wake. It was an instance where I knew why how I felt was a consequence of how I thought. 

While no one else in my class cared one bit about the Falklands, I cried because it meant something to me, and it meant something to me because I had made a conscious choice about what makes a human life worthy. Virtue, without any adornments, is what makes us worthy. 

Decades later, I look to that event as profoundly formative. Laughter or tears will proceed from our opinions about the true and the false, the right and the wrong. We laugh for what we choose to care about, and we cry for what we choose to care about. 

I wish I still had the front page from that newspaper, but it is of no matter. I still know, in my mind and in my heart, where I need to go. 

—2/1994 

Chuang Tzu 5.5

A person who had no lips, whose legs were bent so that he could only walk on his toes, and who was otherwise deformed, addressed his counsels to duke Ling of Wei, who was so pleased with him, that he looked on a perfectly formed man as having a lean and small neck in comparison with him. 

Another who had a large goitre like an earthenware jar addressed his counsels to duke Hwan of Khì, who was so pleased with him that he looked on a perfectly formed man as having a neck lean and small in comparison with him. 

So it is that when one's virtue is extraordinary, any deficiency in his bodily form may be forgotten. When men do not forget what is easily forgotten, and forget what is not easily forgotten, we have a case of real oblivion. 

Therefore, the sagely man has that in which his mind finds its enjoyment, and looks on wisdom as but the shoots from an old stump; agreements with others are to him but so much glue; kindnesses are but the arts of intercourse; and great skill is but as merchants' wares. 

The sagely man lays no plans—of what use would wisdom be to him? He has no cutting and hacking to do—of what use would glue be to him? He has lost nothing—of what use would arts of intercourse be to him? He has no goods to dispose of—what need has he to play the merchant? 

The want of these four things are the nourishment of his Heavenly nature; that nourishment is its Heavenly food. Since he receives this food from Heaven, what need has he for anything of man's devising? 

He has the bodily form of man, but not the passions and desires of other men. He has the form of man, and therefore he is a man. Being without the passions and desires of men, their approvings and disapprovings are not to be found in him. How insignificant and small is the body by which he belongs to humanity! How grand and great is he in the unique perfection of his Heavenly nature! 

Hui-tsze said to Kwang-tsze, "Can a man indeed be without desires and passions?" 

The reply was, "He can." 

"But on what grounds do you call him a man, who is thus without passions and desires?" 

Kwang-tsze said, "The Tâo gives him his personal appearance and powers; Heaven gives him his bodily form; how should we not call him a man?" 

Hui-tsze rejoined, "Since you call him a man, how can he be without passions and desires?" 

The reply was, "You are misunderstanding what I mean by passions and desires. What I mean when I say that he is without these is, that this man does not by his likings and dislikings do any inward harm to his body—he always pursues his course without effort, and does not try to increase his store of life." 

Hui-tsze rejoined, "If there were not that increasing of the amount of life, how would he get his body?" 

Kwang-tsze said, "The Tâo gives him his personal appearance and powers; Heaven gives him his bodily form; and he does not by his likings and dislikings do any internal harm to his body. 

"But now you, Sir, deal with your spirit as if it were something external to you, and subject your vital powers to toil. You sing your ditties, leaning against a tree; you go to sleep, grasping the stump of a rotten dryandra tree. Heaven selected for you the bodily form of a man, and you babble about what is strong and what is white." 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.7

M. But they insist upon it that all perturbations depend on opinion and judgment; therefore they define them more strictly, in order not only the better to show how blamable they are, but to discover how much they are in our power. 
 
Grief, then, is a recent opinion of some present evil, in which it seems to be right that the mind should shrink and be dejected. 
 
Joy is a recent opinion of a present good, in which it seems to be right that the mind should be elated. 
 
Fear is an opinion of an impending evil which we apprehend will be intolerable. 
 
Lust is an opinion of a good to come, which would be of advantage were it already come, and present with us. 
 
But however I have named the judgments and opinions of perturbations, their meaning is, not that merely the perturbations consist in them, but that the effects likewise of these perturbations do so; as grief occasions a kind of painful pricking, and fear engenders a recoil or sudden abandonment of the mind, joy gives rise to a profuse mirth, while lust is the parent of an unbridled habit of coveting. 
 
But that imagination, which I have included in all the above definitions, they would have to consist in assenting without warrantable grounds. 
 
Now, every perturbation has many subordinate parts annexed to it of the same kind. 
 
Grief is attended with enviousness (invidentia)—I use that word for instruction’s sake, though it is not so common; because envy (invidia) takes in not only the person who envies, but the person, too, who is envied—emulation, detraction, pity, vexation, mourning, sadness, tribulation, sorrow, lamentation, solicitude, disquiet of mind, pain, despair, and many other similar feelings are so too. 
 
Under fear are comprehended sloth, shame, terror, cowardice, fainting, confusion, astonishment. 
 
In pleasure they comprehend malevolence—that is, pleased at another’s misfortune—delight, boastfulness, and the like. 
 
To lust they associate anger, fury, hatred, enmity, discord, wants, desire, and other feelings of that kind. 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.7 
 
The text here appears to sometimes use “joy” and “unbridled desire” interchangeably, though it is quite possible I am overlooking an important distinction. In any case, it ties into my earlier point that the labels alone shouldn’t be an obstacle. When any desire or aversion is in harmony with Nature, it is of benefit, but when any desire or aversion is contrary to Nature, it brings us harm.
 
The modern reader may be taken aback by the seeming severity of the Stoic model. I long struggled, for example, with the claim that grief is, properly speaking, a perturbation, until I began to understand why my sadness was something I could control by means of my judgments. This does not come easily, and it does not come quickly, and it does not involve any cessation of feeling, but it does allow for finding meaning and purpose in my passions, which then opens the way for a transformation of sorrow into joy, from an affliction into an opportunity.
 
The strictness of Stoicism does indeed set a high standard, yet, as Cicero says, it does so in order to remind us of our own responsibility for our own happiness, through the improvement of our own attitudes. If I continue to define my worth by the arrangement of my circumstances, I will remain at the mercy of my longing for pleasure, property, or position. If, however, I decide to find my dignity in the exercise of my virtues, I have finally become my own master. 
 
Everything for me hinges upon my estimation, upon my opinion of what is true or false, right or wrong. A disorder in my thinking, where my judgment does not conform to the reality, brings about an imbalance in my feeling, where I suffer anxiety because I have misidentified the true good. 
 
Am I in distress on account of a worldly loss? I am confused about what constitutes a proper gain. 
 
Am I wallowing in pleasure? I have mistaken an increase of gratification for an excellence character.
 
Am I terrified of whatever will come? I limit myself to what might happen to me, at the expense of what I can do. 
 
Am I consumed by a craving? I abandon my internal merits for the sake of external prospects. 
 
If the Stoic division of the passions still seems simplistic, I am called to consider how every other emotion I have ever experienced is an aspect or a modification of one of these basic categories; there is a wide range of colors, while they are all a part of a single spectrum. 
 
Grief is, for instance, a source of envy, for when I feel I have been denied what is mine, I am also inclined to be jealous of those to whom it has been granted. Indeed, my resentment toward others has been one of the most powerful forms of my lingering melancholy. 
 
A surrender to a pleasure can easily take on a malicious form, as when I find a twisted satisfaction on the suffering of another, a feeling for which I can only find a German word: Schadenfreude. 
 
When I am deeply afraid, I am often plagued by hesitation and diffidence. I worry that I can’t do anything, since I imagine the obstacle to be insurmountable. Once again, my gut is woozy because my head is wonky. 
 
I only need to look at the quarrels of lovers to see why the mere prospect of consummation can bring out the most vicious aggression. Just as a lie is the perversion of a truth, so hatred is a lustful perversion of love. 

—Reflection written in 1/1999 

IMAGE: Anonymous Italian, Allegory of Envy (c. 1500) 

Stoic Snippets 245

If the things do not come to you, the pursuits and avoidances of which disturb you, still in a manner you go to them. 

Let then your judgment about them be at rest, and they will remain quiet, and you will not be seen either pursuing or avoiding. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 11.11 

IMAGE: Henri-Jean Guillaume Martin, Serenity (1899) 

Dhammapada 381, 382

The Bhikshu, full of delight, who is calm in the doctrine of Buddha will reach the quiet place, cessation of natural desires, and happiness. 

He who, even as a young Bhikshu, applies himself to the doctrine of Buddha, brightens up this world, like the moon when free from clouds. 

Sayings of Publilius Syrus 154

An inglorious life is the next thing to death. 

IMAGE: Jose Ferraz de Almeida Junior, The Remorse of Judas (1880) 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.6

M. Zeno’s definition, then, is this: “A perturbation” (which he calls a πάθος) “is a commotion of the mind repugnant to reason, and against nature.” Some of them define it even more briefly, saying that a perturbation is a somewhat too vehement appetite: but by too vehement they mean an appetite that recedes further from the constancy of nature. 

 

But they would have the divisions of perturbations to arise from two imagined goods, and from two imagined evils; and thus they become four: 

 

From the good proceed lust and joy—joy having reference to some present good, and lust to some future one. 

 

They suppose fear and grief to proceed from evils: fear from something future, grief from something present; for whatever things are dreaded as approaching always occasion grief when present. 

 

But joy and lust depend on the opinion of good; as lust, being inflamed and provoked, is carried on eagerly towards what has the appearance of good; and joy is transported and exults on obtaining what was desired: for we naturally pursue those things that have the appearance of good, and avoid the contrary. 

 

Wherefore, as soon as anything that has the appearance of good presents itself, nature incites us to endeavor to obtain it. 

 

Now, where this strong desire is consistent and founded on prudence, it is by the Stoics called βούλησις, and the name which we give it is volition; and this they allow to none but their wise man, and define it thus: 

 

Volition is a reasonable desire; but whatever is incited too violently in opposition to reason, that is a lust, or an unbridled desire, which is discoverable in all fools. 

 

And, therefore, when we are affected so as to be placed in any good condition, we are moved in two ways; for when the mind is moved in a placid and calm motion, consistent with reason, that is called joy; but when it exults with a vain, wanton exultation, or immoderate joy, then that feeling may be called immoderate ecstasy or transport, which they define to be an elation of the mind without reason. 

 

And as we naturally desire good things, so in like manner we naturally seek to avoid what is evil; and this avoidance of which, if conducted in accordance with reason, is called caution; and this the wise man alone is supposed to have: but that caution which is not under the guidance of reason, but is attended with a base and low dejection, is called fear. Fear is, therefore, caution destitute of reason. 

 

But a wise man is not affected by any present evil; while the grief of a fool proceeds from being affected with an imaginary evil, by which his mind is contracted and sunk, since it is not under the dominion of reason. 

 

This, then, is the first definition, which makes grief to consist in a shrinking of the mind contrary to the dictates of reason. 

 

Thus, there are four perturbations, and but three calm rational emotions; for grief has no exact opposite.

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.6 
 
When I began reading philosophy, I was often frustrated by trying to keep track of the many different terms, much like I might struggle at remembering all the characters in a novel by Dickens or Dostoyevsky. I would sometimes cast the book aside, making the vain assumption that the author was a fool, just because I was being so impetuous. My befuddlement is almost always a result of my impatience. 
 
It doesn’t help when different thinkers or schools have their own distinct vocabularies, and then translators will add their own variations, some of which can diverge wildly. Over the years, I have been learning to look behind the particular words to a universal meaning, and I try not to get too tied up in the fancy language. You might say “toMAYto”, and I might say “toMAHto”, but that hardly means we have to call the whole thing off. 
 
The expressions we use to describe emotions can be especially tricky, as the experience is so deeply subjective, and yet I remember how we all share in a common humanity. So when I read about the Stoic model of the passions, I tend to “bracket” the label, while focusing on the core concept. 
 
Yes, the Greek is different from the Latin, and the Latin is different from the English, but I don’t let that distract me too much. For the informal purposes of this reflection, I am using the English terms I tend to prefer, and making a note whenever this differs from Yonge’s translation. 
 
Though it comes out a bit differently each time I try to write it down, here, as I understand it, is the basic Stoic framework for the emotions: 
 
Any feeling I have is either an attraction to a perceived good, or an aversion to a perceived evil. 
 
Within this division, I am also reacting to things that are already present, or to things that I anticipate in the future. 
 
Finally, I must distinguish between a true perception of good and evil that is reasonable, or a false perception of good and evil that is unreasonable. This is why the Stoics speak of our feelings as being ordered or disordered, according to whether they agree with Nature or are in conflict with Nature, whether they are, so to speak, balanced or imbalanced. 
 
This reveals that there are really only eight possible classes of passions, of which all the others are peculiar variations. As we shall see, one of these categories is actually a practical impossibility, which then leaves us with only seven classes: 
 
When I am drawn to a true good that is present, I am feeling joy. 
 
When I am drawn to a false good that is present, I am feeling gratification. Yonge also calls this immoderate ecstasy or transport. 
 
When I am drawn to a true good that is anticipated, I am feeling a wish. Yonge also calls this volition. 
 
When I am drawn to a false good that is anticipated, I am feeling lust. Yonge also calls this unbridled desire. 
 
When I am repulsed by a true evil that is present, there can be no proper feeling, since the Stoic knows that any evil for him is only in his judgements, which he always has the power to modify at this very moment. In other words, grief is never truly reasonable. 
 
When I am repulsed by a false evil that is present, I am feeling grief. 
 
When I am repulsed by a true evil that is anticipated, I am feeling caution. 
 
When I am repulsed by a false evil that is anticipated, I am feeling fear. 
 
Cicero will have more to say on the various subdivisions, but in the end, for the Stoic it is healthy to feel joy, wish, and caution, while it is unhealthy to feel gratification, lust, grief, and fear. It all depends upon how our thinking directs our passions. 
 
However clever the theory might be, the only test that matters is whether such an awareness will really help me to live with peace of mind. I can honestly say that, despite the many false starts, what happiness I now have is due to my capacity for untangling the mess that was in my heart. To rightly distinguish is to find order in the chaos. 

—Reflection written in 1/1999 

Wisdom from the Early Cynics, Diogenes 30

When someone reproached Diogenes with his exile, his reply was, "Nay, it was through that, you miserable fellow, that I came to be a philosopher." 

Again, when someone reminded him that the people of Sinope had sentenced him to exile, "And I them," said he, "to home-staying." 

Once he saw an Olympic victor tending sheep and thus accosted him: "Too quickly, my good friend, have you left Olympia for Nemea." 

Being asked why athletes are so stupid, his answer was, "Because they are built up of pork and beef." 

He once begged alms of a statue, and, when asked why he did so, replied, "To get practice in being refused." 

In asking alms—as he did at first by reason of his poverty—he used this form: "If you have already given to anyone else, give to me also; if not, begin with me." 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 6.49 

IMAGE: Jean-Bernard Restout, Diogenes Asking for Alms (1767) 

Wisdom from the Early Stoics, Zeno of Citium 70

And as there are said to be certain infirmities in the body, as for instance gout and arthritic disorders, so too there is in the soul love of fame, love of pleasure, and the like. 

By infirmity is meant disease accompanied by weakness; and by disease is meant a fond imagining of something that seems desirable. 

And as in the body there are tendencies to certain maladies such as colds and diarrhea, so it is with the soul, there are tendencies like enviousness, pitifulness, quarrelsomeness, and the like. 

Also the Stoics say that there are three emotional states which are good, namely, joy, caution, and wishing. 

Joy, the counterpart of pleasure, is rational elation. 

Caution, the counterpart of fear, is rational avoidance; for though the wise man will never feel fear, he will yet use caution. 

And they make wishing the counterpart of desire (or craving), inasmuch as it is rational appetency. 

And accordingly, as under the primary passions are classed certain others subordinate to them, so too is it with the primary eupathies or good emotional states. 

Thus under wishing they bring well-wishing or benevolence, friendliness, respect, affection; under caution, reverence and modesty; under joy, delight, mirth, cheerfulness. 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 7.115-116 

IMAGE: James Gillray, The Gout (1799) 

Sayings of Publilius Syrus 153

It is a kingly spirit that can return good deeds from reproaches. 

IMAGE: Marcus Aurelius shows clemency to the vanquished Germans (Bas-relief from the Arch of Marcus Aurelius, 2nd century) 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.5

M. Because, Chrysippus and the Stoics, when they discuss the perturbations of the mind, make great part of their debate to consist in definitions and distinctions; while they employ but few words on the subject of curing the mind, and preventing it from being disordered. 
 
Whereas the Peripatetics bring a great many things to promote the cure of it, but have no regard to their thorny partitions and definitions. 
 
My question, then, was, whether I should instantly unfold the sails of my eloquence, or be content for a while to make less way with the oars of logic? 
 
A. Let it be so; for by the employment of both these means the subject of our inquiry will be more thoroughly discussed. 
 
M. It is certainly the better way; and should anything be too obscure, you may examine that afterward.
 
A. I will do so; but those very obscure points you will, as usual, deliver with more clearness than the Greeks. 
 
M. I will, indeed, endeavor to do so; but it well requires great attention, lest, by losing one word, the whole should escape you. 
 
What the Greeks call πάθη we choose to name perturbations (or disorders) rather than diseases; in explaining which, I shall follow, first, that very old description of Pythagoras, and afterward that of Plato: for they both divide the mind into two parts, and make one of these partake of reason, and the other they represent without it. 
 
In that which partakes of reason they place tranquility, that is to say, a placid and undisturbed constancy; to the other they assign the turbid motions of anger and desire, which are contrary and opposite to reason. 
 
Let this, then, be our principle, the spring of all our reasonings. But notwithstanding, I shall use the partitions and definitions of the Stoics in describing these perturbations; who seem to me to have shown very great acuteness on this question. 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.5 
 
I am delighted by this analogy of sailing and rowing, used to represent the contrast between speeding toward a grand conclusion and making slow headway when first defining the terms. I very much enjoy the exhilaration of the former, but I also appreciate the grueling necessity of the latter; so much confusion and misery will inevitably follow from hasty arguments! 
 
I was trained for many years in the tradition of Aristotle, and one thing that always drew me in was its remarkable sense of precision. Nevertheless, I sometimes felt like I wanted more insight on the inner workings of the mind, so Cicero’s observation about the different stresses of the Peripatetics and the Stoics came as a blessed relief. 
 
Yes, Aristotle had much to say on the practical remedies for a disordered soul, while the Stoics were masters at discerning the underlying causes of a disordered soul. I therefore always turn to Stoicism when I wish to understand the subtle nature of what makes me tick; though it is tedious work, it unearths the structure of the foundation. 
 
No good will ever come from making sweeping claims without taking the time to identify the first principles; we end up with what my wife calls a “hot mess” when we pontificate about the big issues without having established the itty-bitty good of each human person, much like trying to bake a cake without choosing the proper ingredients. At least the Auditor is willing to exercise some patience, when most people would lazily abandon the task. 
 
As G.K. Chesterton said, there is little point in dwelling upon what is wrong, before we can first establish what is right. To understand the lay of the land, many of the Classical philosophies will distinguish between different powers of the soul, where the most basic division is between the function of reason itself and then our various inclinations, which lack reason but are made subject to it. To relieve any disorder, the imbalance between these aspects of the higher and the lower must be addressed. 
 
Whatever specific terms we may choose to describe such disturbances, we should do so with precision and with consistency. I, for one, avoid the word “disease”, so I do not confuse it with an ailment of the body, and I also resist reducing a perturbation or disorder of the soul to a mere discomfort within the passions. There is something deeper at work here, a conflict within the very harmony of our nature. 
 
For so much of my life, my emotions felt like a jumbled mess; the Stoic account of desire and aversion, so simple and yet so comprehensive, was a revelation for me, in much the same way that the logic of Aristotle showed me why the patterns of my thinking did not need to be mysterious and intimidating. 

—Reflection written in 1/1999 

IMAGE: Pieter Christiaan Cornelis Dommelshuizen, A Ship Becalmed and a Rowing Boat (1884) 

Michael Leunig 62

Awe

Cosmos 10

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.4

But let everyone defend his own opinion, for everyone is at liberty to choose what he likes: I shall keep to my old custom; and, being under no restraint from the laws of any particular school, which in philosophy everyone must necessarily confine himself to, I shall always inquire what has the most probability in every question, and this system, which I have often practiced on other occasions, I have adhered closely to in my Tusculan Disputations.
 
Therefore, as I have acquainted you with the disputations of the three former days, this book shall conclude the discussion of the fourth day. When we had come down into the Academy, as we had done the former days, the business was carried on thus: 
 
M. Let anyone say, who pleases, what he would wish to have discussed. 
 
A. I do not think a wise man can possibly be free from every perturbation of mind. 
 
M. He seemed by yesterday’s discourse to be free from grief; unless you agreed with us only to avoid taking up time. 
 
A. Not at all on that account, for I was extremely satisfied with your discourse. 
 
M. You do not think, then, that a wise man is subject to grief? 
 
A. No, by no means. 
 
M. But if that cannot disorder the mind of a wise man, nothing else can. For what—can such a man be disturbed by fear? 
 
Fear proceeds from the same things when absent which occasion grief when present. Take away grief, then, and you remove fear. 
 
The two remaining perturbations are, a joy elate above measure, and lust; and if a wise man is not subject to these, his mind will be always at rest. 
 
A. I am entirely of that opinion. 
 
M. Which, then, shall we do? Shall I immediately crowd all my sails? Or shall I make use of my oars, as if I were just endeavoring to get clear of the harbor? 
 
A. What is it that you mean, for I do not exactly comprehend you? 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.4 
 
In the end, however, it matters very little whether this or that nation is more refined in its philosophy, or which particular positions this or that school happens to promote. Each and every one of us must live by his own judgments, and we are hardly doing so if we bow to the will of the tribes. A “professional” philosopher may insist that you are obliged to pick a side, but your common sense should tell you why the truth has no partisan preference. 
 
Cicero did not adhere to any formal “-ism”, and I have always admired him for doing so. His general method tended to follow a moderate skepticism, in that he was less concerned with establishing any metaphysical certainty, and far more interested in seeking out practical guidelines for living well. If the shoe fits, wear it.
 
Whether it be learned from the Academics or the Peripatetics, from the Stoics or the Epicureans, the lesson should teach us how to increase what is best in us, and to leave behind what is worst in us. 
 
While the last book was focused on the specific problem of grief, this next book considers disturbances of the mind more broadly, and isolates the root causes of our many miseries, revealing how they are ultimately self-imposed. 
 
Cicero’s arguments do make use of many Stoic principles, and they leave us with the conclusion that either there is no evil to be found in circumstances at all, following the Stoics, or that any evils suffered in the world are quite insignificant in contrast to the goods of virtue, following the Peripatetics. 
 
If the wise man is to be happy, surely he will have the ability to overcome all of life’s challenges, and not just some of them? It would seem odd, for example, if I could resist my sadness, but still be enslaved to my fear, my pleasure, or my longings. And yet the Auditor suggests precisely that, willing to admit how grief can be conquered, while leaving a mastery of other troubles beyond our power. 
 
I should not be surprised, however, for we will often toss aside a unity of the person in favor of some fractured clutter. For my own generation, we proudly insist that we can achieve whatever we set our minds to, while we also claim to have absolutely no control over our own sexual urges. Besides being an opportunity to make excuses, why should sloth be a curable condition, while lust remains invincible?
 
Our passions are closely bound to one another, and do not exist in isolation. Grief and fear are both cases of distress, and they differ only in whether the perceived evil is already present or yet to come. The trick for curing both will be in showing how that perception was mistaken. 
 
And what about excessive pleasures and extreme cravings? These are both cases of inordinate desire, and they differ only in whether the perceived good is already present or yet to come. Now we will see far more of this as the text continues, but the pattern has already been set. . . . . 
 
For the sake of convenient reference, here are the Stoic distinctions between ordered and disordered emotions, as first presented in Book 3: 
 
• • • • • 
 
My disordered emotions, which are those in conflict with sound reason, are therefore as follows: 
 
Exulting pleasure or gratification: satisfaction in a false good 
 
Lust: desire for a false good 
 
Pain or grief: distress at a false evil 
 
Fear: expectation of a false evil 
 
In contrast, my ordered emotions, which are those in harmony with reason, are therefore as follows: 
 
Joy: satisfaction in a true good 
 
Wish: desire for a true good 
 
[there can be no such thing as rational grief, i.e. a distress at a true evil] 
 
Caution: expectation of a true evil 
 
• • • • • 
 
Now how should Cicero proceed to address the problem, by sailing or by rowing? . . .  

—Reflection written in 1/1999 

IMAGE: Wilhelm Amberg, Lost in Thoughts (c. 1890) 

Xenophon, Memorabilia of Socrates 33

At another time, as I am aware, Socrates had heard a remark made by Crito, that life at Athens was no easy matter for a man who wished to mind his own affairs. 

"As, for instance, at this moment," Crito proceeded, "there are a set of fellows threatening me with lawsuits, not because they have any misdemeanor to allege against me, but simply under the conviction that I will sooner pay a sum of money than be troubled further." 

To which Socrates replied: "Tell me, Crito, you keep dogs, do you not, to ward off wolves from your flocks?" 

Crito: "Certainly; it pays to do so." 

Socrates: "Then why do you not keep a watchman, willing and competent, to ward off this pack of people who seek to injure you?" 

"I should not at all mind," he answered, "if I were not afraid he might turn again and rend his keeper." 

"What!" rejoined Socrates, "do you not see that to gratify a man like yourself is far pleasanter as a matter of self-interest than to quarrel with you? You may be sure there are plenty of people here who will take the greatest pride in making you their friend." 

Accordingly, they sought out Archedemus, a practical man with a clever tongue in his head but poor; the fact being, he was not the sort to make gain by hook or by crook, but a lover of honesty and of too good a nature himself to make his living as a pettifogger. 

Crito would then take the opportunity of times of harvesting and put aside small presents for Achedemus of corn and oil, or wine, or wool, or any other of the farm produce forming the staple commodities of life, or he would invite him to a sacrificial feast, and otherwise pay him marked attention. 

Archedemus, feeling that he had in Crito's house a harbor of refuge, could not make too much of his patron, and before long he had hunted up a long list of iniquities which could be lodged against Crito's pettifogging persecutors themselves, and not only their numerous crimes but their numerous enemies; and presently he prosecuted one of them in a public suit, where sentence would be given against him "what to suffer or what to pay." 

The accused, conscious as he was of many rascally deeds, did all he could to be quit of Archedemus, but Archedemus was not to be got rid of. He held on until he had made the informer not only loose his hold of Crito, but pay himself a sum of money; and now that Archedemus had achieved this and other similar victories, it is easy to guess what followed. 

It was just as when some shepherd has got a very good dog, all the other shepherds wish to lodge their flocks in his neighborhood that they too may reap the benefit of him. So a number of Crito's friends came begging him to allow Archedemus to be their guardian also, and Archedemus was overjoyed to do something to gratify Crito, and so it came about that not only Crito abode in peace, but his friends likewise. 

If any of those people with whom Archedemus was not on the best of terms were disposed to throw it in his teeth that he accepted his patron's benefits and paid in flatteries, he had a ready retort: 

"Answer me this question—which is the more scandalous, to accept kindnesses from honest folk and to repay them, with the result that I make such people my friends, but quarrel with knaves, or to make enemies of honorable gentlemen by attempts to do them wrong, with the off-chance indeed of winning the friendship of some scamps in return for my cooperation, but the certainty of losing in the tone of my acquaintances?"

The net result of the whole proceedings was that Archedemus was now Crito's right hand, and by the rest of Crito's friends he was held in honor. 

—from Xenophon, Memorabilia 2.9 

IMAGE: Richard Westall, Summer Storm: A Shepherd with His Dog and Sheep in a Stormy Landscape (1795)