Category: Stoicism

How the Stoic Roman Emperor got his nickname

How the Stoic Roman Emperor got his nickname

You’ve probably heard of Marcus Aurelius, the Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher. He’s the author of The Meditations, one of the most popular self-improvement classics of all time. Even if you’ve not read that book, maybe you saw Richard Harris playing him in the first act of the Russell Crowe movie Gladiator (2000).

Did you know that Marcus was also called Verissimus, though? This name means “most true” in Latin. It’s confirmed by at least three or four ancient sources. and seems to have caught on, in part, because it naturally suited his reputation as a philosopher, and a lover of wisdom.

Marcus Annius Verus

First let me explain a bit more about his original name. Roman names are notoriously confusing, especially those of emperors, which often change several times during their lives. Marcus was born into a Roman family or gens known as the Annii, more specifically to a branch called the Annii Veri. His father, who died from unknown causes when Marcus was small, perhaps four years old, was called Marcus Annius Verus. The son was given the same name as the father. So our Marcus Aurelius was actually called Marcus Annius Verus as an infant.

Marcus Aurelius is never referred to simply as “Aurelius”, his adoptive family name.

Later, when Marcus was adopted by the emperor Antoninus Pius, he was renamed Marcus Aelius Aurelius Verus. When he succeeded Antoninus and was acclaimed emperor himself he became Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, having adopted the family name and cognomen of his predecessor Antoninus Pius. Today we usually just know him as Marcus Aurelius, although during his rule as emperor he would be officially addressed, normally, as Antoninus, or using his imperial titles: Imperator, Caesar, and Augustus. Hence, he writes in his notes to himself:

But my nature is rational and social, and my city and country, so far as I am Antoninus, is Rome, but so far as I am a man, it is the world. — Meditations, 6.44

Marcus Aurelius, is never referred to simply as “Aurelius”, incidentally, his adoptive family name. Scholars usually just refer to him as “Marcus”, following the convention that sovereigns are known by their first name, i.e., we don’t refer to Emperor Napoleon simply as “Bonaparte” or to Queen Elizabeth as “Windsor”.

The Origin of Verissimus

So how did Marcus come to be known as Verissimus and what does it mean? We have several sources attesting to this name but the most helpful is the Roman historian Cassius Dio. He claims that Emperor Hadrian, who knew Marcus as a boy, took a shine to him, after his father died, viewing him as a potential successor “because he was already giving indication of exceptional strength of character.” Dio adds:

This led Hadrian to apply to the young man the name Verissimus, thus playing upon the meaning of the Latin word. — Cassius Dio

This was at the time when Marcus, as a child, went by his family name Marcus Annius Verus. Hadrian, who fancied himself a poet, and enjoyed wordplay, was upgrading the name Verus, which means “true”, to Verissimus meaning “truest” or “most true”. If only we knew why he came up with this pun!

Perhaps young Marcus said something remarkably truthful and honest in the emperor’s presence. However, it can also mean “most appropriate”, so it could be, given the context, that Hadrian was hinting that he saw Marcus as the most fitting successor to the throne. Nevertheless, as we’ll see, the name certainly became associated with Marcus as a philosopher in adulthood, where it must have been interpreted as meaning that he was known for being markedly truthful, or a lover of truth.

As an aside, there’s something I find quite odd about this nickname. Modern readers tend to underestimate how important subtle wordplay was to educated Romans of this period. Hadrian lived during a cultural movement called The Second Sophistic, which celebrated the art of rhetoric. Intellectuals at Rome, of whom Hadrian considered himself one, relished good puns. Master rhetoricians were also adept (much more than we typically are today) at insinuating digs or criticisms. Although Marcus’ father was dead, his grandfather, also named Marcus Annius Verus lived on for some time, and Marcus was actually raised for a while in his household. He was one of the most senior statesmen in Rome, a triple consul, and a friend of Hadrian. By calling Verus’ grandson “Verissimus” was Hadrian implying that the young boy was truer and the elder statesman less true by comparison?

This verbal contrast between Verus and Verissimus became even more awkward once Marcus himself was acclaimed emperor. He took his adoptive brother, and son-in-law, Lucius Verus, as co-emperor. So Rome had two emperors, known as Verus and Verissimus or “True” and “Truest”. As though one ruler was good but the other was better! In taverns across the empire, surely, this must have led to jokes at Lucius’ expense. He was clearly the subordinate in this relationship, a second-rate emperor.

Marcus had a favourite son who bore his own original name Marcus Annius Verus. This child was appointed Caesar, along with his older brother Commodus, presumably with the intention that they would rule jointly. However, he died tragically, when he was around six years old, during an operation to remove a tumour growing behind his ear. The Roman historian Herodian, who lived during the rule of Commodus, says that at some point in his short life this boy Caesar was also given the nickname Verissimus, like his father, Marcus Aurelius.

A later Roman historian, in the Historia Augusta, confirms that Marcus himself bore this name by writing that after the death of his father, “Hadrian called him [Marcus] Annius Verissimus” as opposed to Marcus Annius Verus. In a subsequent passage it reiterates that Marcus was “reared under the eye of Hadrian, who called him Verissimus, as we have already related.”

Regarding his character as emperor, the Historia Augusta says of Marcus:

He did not readily accept the version of those who were partisans in any matter, but always searched long and carefully for the truth.

As we’ll see, this love of truth was an aspect of Stoic philosophy that Marcus took to heart and in his private notes, in The Meditations, we can perhaps see him musing somewhat about the meaning of his family name, Verus or True.

Truth in The Meditations

At one point, in The Meditations, he refers, albeit somewhat figuratively, to having assumed the names of certain virtues, including true.

When you have assumed these names, good, modest, true, rational, a man of equanimity, and magnanimous, take care that you do not change them; and if you should lose them, quickly return to them. — Meditations, 10.8

The word he uses here is alethes as he’s writing in Greek not Latin. Nevertheless, he clearly knew that this could be viewed as a translation of his family name, Verus.

Indeed, throughout The Meditations we can find numerous references to the love of truth. For instance:

If it is not right, do not do it: if it is not true, do not say it. — Meditations, 12.17

At one point he goes so far as to equate truth with the divine Nature of the universe:

This universal Nature is named truth, and is the prime cause of all things that are true. He then who lies intentionally is guilty of impiety, inasmuch as he acts unjustly by deceiving. And he also who lies unintentionally, inasmuch as he is at variance with the universal Nature, and inasmuch as he disturbs the order by fighting against the nature of the world. — Meditations, 9.1

In this passage, he equates truthfulness with piety, typically for a Stoic, almost turning philosophy into a kind of mystical religion.

Verissimus the Philosopher

That brings me to one final reference. Around 156 CE, during the rule of Antoninus Pius, the Christian author Justin Martyr wrote an open letter called The First Apology. Justin begins the letter by addressing the emperor as follows, using his full imperial title:

To the Emperor Titus Ælius Adrianus Antoninus Pius Augustus Cæsar, and to his son Verissimus the Philosopher, and to Lucius the Philosopher, the natural son of Cæsar, and the adopted son of Pius, a lover of learning, and to the sacred Senate, with the whole People of the Romans… — Justin Martyr, First Apology

It may seem peculiar to call Lucius Verus a philosopher, but he was studying philosophy under some of the same Stoic teachers as Marcus around this time. More importantly, though, Marcus is here clearly referred to as “Verissimus the Philosopher”. In fact, Justin assumes that it’s perfectly sufficient to use this name alone in order for his own readers, the Senate, and the emperor, to know that Marcus Aurelius is intended.

So it wasn’t just a childhood nickname given to Marcus Annius Verus by Hadrian. Apart from the fact that it became well-known enough to be recorded by Roman historians, we can see from Justin’s letter that Marcus was still being addressed as Verissimus later in life, as Caesar, probably in his mid thirties.

I think Marcus thoroughly owned his childhood nickname, which become synonymous with his philosophy of life.

If you hold to this, expecting nothing, fearing nothing, but satisfied with your present activity according to nature, and with heroic truth in every word and sound which you utter, you will live happily. And there is no man who is able to prevent this. — Meditations, 3.12

It seems to me that this nickname became permanent, Verus became Verissimus, the true became the truest, in the eyes of the Roman people, and all subsequent generations, precisely because of this remarkable commitment to “embracing heroic truth in every word and sound you utter.”

Donald Robertson is the author of the forthcoming graphic novel Verissimus: The Stoic Philosophy of Marcus Aurelius, due for publication June 2022 by MacMillan.

For many years, it’s been on my mind that people confuse Stoicism with having a stiff upper-lip and being not only unemotional but uncaring…

For many years, it’s been on my mind that people confuse Stoicism with having a stiff upper-lip and being not only unemotional but uncaring toward others. That’s wrong. It’s a misconception. Ancient Stoic philosophers would have been amazed because they made love and kindness central to their philosophy of life.

Finally, today, I sat down and worked all day long. (It’s now nearly 5am! Don’t worry, I keep strange hours because I move between time zones.) I wrote a brand new article, from my notes, read it, reread it, edited it myself, got feedback from my editor, read it aloud, and finally sent it to Medium.

Read: How Compassionate is Stoicism?

Before I hit publish, though, I also set up my camera and recorded myself reading through the whole thing live for our new verissimusgraphicnovel Instagram account.

Watch: How Compassionate is Stoicism?

We’d love to read your comments on the article. I know it may be controversial for some people but I’d really like to hear what you have to say — so don’t be shy! I hope “Compassionate Stoicism” is an idea that other people will get behind, or that somehow we can return to the original focus on love and kindness in Stoicism.

Hope you enjoy and thanks, as always, for your support.

The need to return to a philosophy of love and kindness

The need to return to a philosophy of love and kindness

Stoicism is for tough guys, right? It’s about looking out for number one and not giving a fig about other people. It means going around telling everyone else to “suck it up”, right? At least that’s what a lot of people tell me. One of the main reasons they believe this nonsense is because the word “stoicism” (lowercase s) long ago came to refer simply to an unemotional style of coping. It means having a stiff upper-lip or, more specifically, a way of coping that emphasizes suppressing or concealing painful, embarrassing, or unpleasant emotions.

Although many people on the Internet confuse Stoicism with being unemotional and uncaring… the truth is that it was originally a philosophy of love.

That’s not what Stoicism (uppercase S) means, though. When we capitalize Stoicism it means we’re talking about the ancient Greek school of philosophy, which differs from lowercase stoicism in two main regards:

1. It teaches us a much healthier and more nuanced way of coping with our emotions

2. It emphasizes the virtue of exhibiting genuine love and kindness toward other human beings

See my Medium article on The difference between stoicism and Stoicism for a more in-depth discussion of this first point. In this article, and in my Instagram video discussing it, I’m going to focus on the second point, and clear up a few things.

As I wrote in my book on Marcus Aurelius, it’s surprising that some people can read The Meditations without even noticing how important kindness actually was to the Stoics.

Although this social dimension of Stoicism is often overlooked today, it’s one of the main themes of The Meditations. Marcus touches on topics such as the
virtues of justice and kindness, natural affection, the brotherhood of man, and ethical cosmopolitanism on virtually every page. — How to Think Like a Roman Emperor

Although many people on the Internet confuse Stoicism with being unemotional and uncaring, therefore, the truth is that it was originally a philosophy of love.

Stoicism as a Philosophy of Love

Nobody ever said “That guy’s so stoic; he really loves his kids”, right? Yet, the ancient Stoics did believe that their philosophy helps us to love and care for our children properly. Musonius Rufus, one of the most celebrated Roman Stoic teachers, asked his students “Who, more than a female philosopher,” by which he meant a female Stoic, “would love her children more than life?” He means that Stoicism helps a mother to love her children with wisdom and kindness. His most famous student, the Stoic philosopher Epictetus, went as far as to say that “once a child is born, it is no longer in our power not to love it nor care about it.”

The Stoics, therefore, believed that it’s human nature to care about our own children. Indeed, long before Darwin, ancient philosophers realized that the survival of our species depends upon this because human infants are unusually vulnerable compared to the newborn of other species. This caring feeling was called philostorgia, which is usually translated “natural affection”, although it often simply denoted what we would call paternal love.

The Stoics claimed that this bond of natural affection will usually extend to our partners, and, to some extent, to the rest of our family — it encompasses our loved ones, in other words. Natural affection radiates outward, in concentric circles, encompassing our family, friends, countrymen, and ultimately all human beings, although the sense of affinity become weaker as the relations become more distant.

However, the ideal wise man or woman, according to the Stoics, sees beyond mere blood relations. Learning to rely more on reason than instinct, he or she comes to view all human beings as kindred at a much deeper level, insofar as they share self-awareness and the capacity for reason. In another sense, the Stoic Sage resembles Zeus, as father of mankind, who looks upon all his children with natural affection. Hence, another Stoic author writes:

Zeus is called “father of gods and men”, because cosmic nature caused these things to exist, as fathers give being to their children. — Cornutus

We are all equal citizens of the world, or cosmos, according the the Stoics. This ethical view that all human beings should be considered as though members of a single worldwide community, like children in the kingdom of Zeus, is therefore called cosmopolitanism.

However, adopting a truly cosmopolitan outlook on life requires effort. At first we feel alienated from strangers and foreigners, we have to choose to view them as akin to us rather than as other. The Stoics called the process of extending greater consideration to a wider range of people oikeiosis, which literally means bringing someone into your household — we would say “treating them like family”.

Funnily enough, the English word “kindness” is etymologically cognate with the word “kin” — they both derive from an early Germanic word for family. So even in modern English, when we speak of being kind to someone, we’re using language that implies treating them as if they were our kin, our brothers and sisters. That’s basically the Stoic concept of oikeiosis, viewing strangers as if they were our family.

It seems glaringly obvious to me that Stoic oikeiosis is related to the famous Greek concept of philoxenia, which my Greek friends still go on about even today. Philoxenia literally means love of hospitality, or friendship toward strangers and foreigners. Its opposite is xenophobia, fear or hatred of foreigners. It’s a very ancient tradition in Greece, central, for instance, to Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. Indeed, the entire Trojan war was sparked when Paris outrageously violated the accepted rules of philoxenia by running off with his host’s wife, Helen of Troy. Zeus, the god most associated with Stoicism, was even worshipped under the title Zeus Philoxenon, he’s the god of philoxenia or hospitality.

The philosopher Hierocles, in a lost book called Elements of Ethics, explained ways in which Stoics would train themselves to adopt a more cosmopolitan attitude toward mankind. He says we should try progressively to bring those in the outer circles of our natural affection closer to the centre, rather than pushing them further away. Hierocles said we can help ourselves get into the habit of viewing things this way by referring to friends as “brothers” or “sisters”, and so on. We can see Marcus Aurelius putting this into practice, quite frequently, when he refers figuratively to others as “my kin”, “my brother”, and “my son”.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because it’s one of the most obvious precursors of the Christian notion of brotherly love. Indeed, in his Epistle to the Romans, Saint Paul writes that Christians should exhibit both natural affection (philostorgia) and brotherly love (philadelphia) toward one another (Romans, 12.10). However, Stoic philosophy predates Christianity by roughly three centuries, and the Stoics were already well-known for making the love of mankind one of their main ethical ideals.

It cannot, then, be said that “loving one’s neighbour as oneself” is a specifically Christian invention. Rather, it could be maintained that the motivation of Stoic love is the same as that of Christian love. […] Even the love of one’s enemies is not lacking in Stoicism. — Pierre Hadot, The Inner Citadel

There was a resurgence of interest in Stoicism during the Renaissance, which saw attempts to combine it with Christian values. Anthony Ashley-Cooper, 3rd Earl of Shaftesbury, a 17th century Stoic, wrote in his Philosophical Regimen:

What is it to have Natural Affection? Not that which is only towards relations, but towards all mankind; to be truly philanthrôpos [philanthropic, a lover of mankind], neither to scoff, nor hate, nor be impatient with them, nor abominate them, nor overlook them; and to pity in a manner and love those that are the greatest miscreants, those that are most furious against thyself in particular, and at the time when they are most furious? — Shaftesbury

It’s worth pausing to reflect on this for a moment because although many people today think of Stoicism as unemotional and indifferent to the welfare of others that’s the opposite of the truth. Early Christian ethics was inspired by Stoicism, they have similar ideals, and nobody would accuse Christians of being cold-hearted and uncaring. Yet for some reason they say this about the Stoics. Once again, this seems to be a common misinterpretation of Stoic philosophy due largely to people confusing it with lowercase stoicism, the unemotional coping style.

What Stoics Mean by Kindness

The Stoics believed that while it’s wise and virtuous to show friendship and affection toward other people, it’s nevertheless foolish to join them in their misery. We should care about others but, despite what Shaftesbury said, we should not pity them. In psychotherapy, my own profession, this is a very familiar problem. We tend to say the therapist should try to empathize with clients, understanding how they feel, but be careful not to start sympathizing with them, by joining them in their anxiety.

So words like “compassion”, which originally implied mutual “passion”, pathos, or suffering, don’t quite sit right with Stoic philosophy. Translations of ancient Stoic texts refer instead to kindness, benevolence, affection, or friendship, toward others. Today, though, in many of these instances, modern readers would probably just use the word compassion.

The wise are motivated, instead, by kindness toward their friends and enemies alike….

Another issue with translation affects the famous “cardinal virtues” of Stoicism: wisdom, justice, fortitude, and temperance. We think of justice today as being largely impersonal, formal, and mainly about fairness. That’s not what the Greek word dikaiosune means, though. It refers to a wise and virtuous way of treating other people in general. For instance, it might include the way a mother treats her children. Sometimes, in the past, it used to be translated as “righteousness” but that sounds anachronistic and a bit pretentious now.

The ancient doxographer, Diogenes Laertius, straight-up tells us that the Stoics divided this virtue, dikaiosune, into two main elements:

1. Impartiality or fairness (isotes)

2. Kindness or benevolence (eugnomosune)

The first ingredient is similar to what we mean by “justice” today but the second part got lost in translation somewhere along the line. However, we can definitely see the Stoics talking about the importance of kindness as a virtue many times in the surviving texts. So, incidentally, I think it’s probably better to translate dikaiosune not as “justice” but simply as “social virtue”.

In part, this confusion also has to do with the misconception that the Stoics thought we should root out all of our emotions (scholars use the word “extirpate”). That’s definitely not what they said, though. The Stoics thought our unhealthy emotions were based on underlying errors of reasoning. Hence, they invented a rational or philosophical approach to psychotherapy. The goal of Stoicism isn’t to suppress what they describe as our irrational, excessive, and unhealthy emotions but rather to transform them into more rational, moderate, and healthy ones.

Stoicism therefore had an entire system for classifying healthy emotions (eupatheia), which the doxographers Stobaeus and Diogenes Laertius both describe. These include a healthy form of desire, which encompasses:

• Goodwill or benevolence (eunoia)

• Kindness or graciousness (eumeneia)

• Acceptance or welcoming (aspasmos)

• Contentment or affection (agapesis)

Unfortunately, terms describing different emotions happen to be particularly difficult to translate from certain languages, such as ancient Greek, into English. Their ancient culture makes different distinctions between emotions than we do today. For comparison, though, in one scholarly translation, the words I’ve translated above are given as “goodwill, kindliness, acceptance, and contentment” by Inwood and Gerson. In another, they’re rendered as “kindness, generosity, warmth, and affection” by Long and Sedley. You get the idea, though. These and related terms are used repeatedly throughout the surviving texts of Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, and Seneca used equivalent Latin terms. Emotions like these describe the prosocial ideals of Stoicism, such as the value it places on what, for simplicity, I’ll just call kindness.

It’s actually very easy to define what the Stoics meant by kindness: it’s the opposite of anger. Although we might call kindness and anger emotions, the Stoics classed them both as desires. For ancient philosophers, anger, to a large extent, is about revenge. It’s the desire to inflict harm on others in response to a perceived injustice, known as lex talionis or the law of retaliation. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.

I like to say “There’s no such thing as angry Stoicism.”

The Stoics, following Socrates, argued that this way of thinking is both foolish and vicious. The wise are motivated, instead, by kindness toward their friends and enemies alike, the desire to make others better not worse, by helping instead of harming them. For this reason, I like to say “There’s no such thing as angry Stoicism.” When you come across people on the Internet getting into heated arguments about Stoicism, you can try explaining that to them!

Kindness in Marcus Aurelius

I could spend all day going through obscure Stoic writings, pointing out one example after another of the emphasis they place on kindness and suchlike. For instance, here’s Seneca talking about the role of brotherly love in Stoicism:

No school has more goodness and gentleness; none has more love for human beings, nor more attention to the common good. — Seneca, On Clemency

We’ll also find similar things in the writings of important precursors to the Stoic school, such as the Socratic dialogues of Plato and Xenophon. However, we don’t have all day, so I’m going to settle for giving a few more examples from the most famous Stoic of all, Marcus Aurelius.

In the very opening sentence of The Meditations, Marcus praises his grandfather, Marcus Annius Verus, for his exceptional freedom from anger. Indeed, one of the main themes that runs through the entire book is Marcus’ personal struggle to overcome anger and replace it with kindness, through philosophy — to turn himself away from the desire to harm others and toward the desire to help them.

At one point, Marcus describes the Stoic ideal, as exemplified by one of his tutors. He says this man, Sextus of Chaeronea, “never displayed even a hint of anger or of any other [unhealthy] passion” but rather he showed himself to be “free from [irrational] passions and yet full of love”, or philostorgia.

Marcus mentions learning to overcome anger and replace it with love and kindness many times. For example, some of the key lessons he attributes to his other Stoic teachers include:

• Junius Rusticus: “…with respect to those who have offended me by words, or done me wrong, to be easily disposed to be pacified and reconciled, as soon as they have shown a readiness to be reconciled.”

• Claudius Maximus: “He was accustomed to perform acts of kindness, and was ready to forgive.”

• Claudius Severus: “to love my family, and to love truth, and to love justice… to believe that I am loved by my friends.”

• Cinna Catulus: “…to love my children sincerely.”

Throughout The Meditations, as we’ve seen, Marcus emphasizes the Stoic virtues of justice and benevolence. Perhaps that’s not surprising given his status as Roman Emperor. However, he was writing these words at Carnuntum and other legionary fortresses along the Danube frontier. With that in mind, it’s striking that Marcus never talks about showing kindness specifically toward Roman citizens or subjects. In every instance, he’s talking more generally about human beings, the whole of mankind. That appears to include the Germanic and Sarmatian tribes he was fighting against at that time, in what historians call the Marcomannic Wars.

In the mornings, Marcus would hold official meetings with foreign envoys. A great deal of his time was spent in negotiating complex peace treaties. The Romans often felt betrayed by tribal chieftains, who conspired against them, and frequently violated these agreements. Nevertheless, in the evenings, Marcus sat down and wrote, in private, to himself…

It is a man’s especial privilege to love even those who stumble. And this love follows as soon as you reflect that they are akin to you and that they do wrong involuntarily and through ignorance, and that within a little while both they and you will be dead; and this above all, that the man has done you no harm… — Meditations, 7.22

Compare that passage from his private journal with what the historian Herodian claims he said on his deathbed. Marcus is talking about why his policy, as emperor, was to favour clemency and forgiveness:

The ruler who emplants in the hearts of his subjects not fear resulting from cruelty, but love occasioned by kindness, is most likely to complete his reign safely. For it is not those who submit from necessity but those who are persuaded to obedience who continue to serve and to suffer without suspicion and without pretense of flattery. — Marcus Aurelius, quoted by Herodian

Indeed, the Roman histories refer several times to the fact Marcus was known for his kindness and benevolence as a ruler. The historian Cassius Dio clearly states that Marcus’ rule was synonymous with euergesia, which can be translated as kindness, philanthropy, or beneficence:

Most of his life he devoted to beneficence, and that was the reason, perhaps, for his erecting a temple to Beneficence on the Capitol, though he called her by a most peculiar name, that had never been heard before. — Cassius Dio

The histories of his rule as emperor show that Marcus was known not only for having a kindly disposition but for imperial policies showing his clemency and beneficence as a ruler. However, it wasn’t just an act. In his private notes, he repeatedly emphasizes to himself that such outward actions must be accompanied by heartfelt and sincere feelings of brotherly love.

Adapt yourself to the circumstances among which your lot has been cast, and love the people among whom your lot has fallen, but love them sincerely. — Meditations, 6.39

Again, the people among whom his lot had fallen, at the time of writing, were mainly Roman soldiers and Germanic tribesmen. He’s telling himself to love them all regardless. As we’ve seen, though, this didn’t come naturally to Marcus. For most of his life, he struggled to cope with feelings of anger and frustration. That’s probably one of the main reasons he turned to Stoicism in the first place.

Ten Gifts from Apollo

In one of the most remarkable passages of The Meditations, Marcus lists ten “Gifts from Apollo and the Muses” (Meditations, 11.18). Apollo was the Greek god of healing, and Marcus is listing ten psychological remedies for anger. This master-list contains individual strategies which are repeated many times throughout The Meditations.

It begins with his favourite way of coping with anger, which is to remind himself that all men are his kin, an that nature designed human beings to collaborate with one another by banding together in families, building cities, and forming societies, etc. He therefore tells himself to remember:

What is my relation to men, and that we are made for one another. — Meditations, 11.18

His penultimate strategy, is to tell himself that kindness (eumenes) can never be conquered, as long as it’s not fake but sincere and from the heart. He means that even those who would seek to harm us cannot take away our freedom to choose kindness over hatred and anger. He even imagines saying to someone who is angry with him:

“Not so, my son; we are constituted by nature for something else; I shall certainly not be injured, but you are injuring yourself, my son.” — Meditations, 11.18

He is careful to warn himself that one must say these words with great tact and sensitivity. He adds: “you must do this neither with any insincerity nor in a reproachful way, but with natural affection [philostorgia] and without any bitterness in your soul.” Elsewhere, Marcus says that correcting someone’s moral flaws is like telling them that they have bad breath or smelly armpits — it requires diplomacy.

He might be using the phrase “child” or “son” figuratively, in the passage above. As we’ve seen, Stoics would call others “brother” or “son”, as though treating them like family, in order to practice oikeiosis. However, it’s also possible that he was literally addressing his son, Commodus, who would probably have been aged around 10–13 when The Meditations was being written.

At the mere mention of Commodus’ name, a lot of people will jump on their keyboards and start making snarky comments about how Marcus’ kindness didn’t do much to stop his son becoming a monster and one of the worst emperors in history. Well that would miss the whole point of what he just said, wouldn’t it? Stoicism advises us to remember the fundamental distinction between what’s up to us and what isn’t. Stoic kindness, or compassion, means wanting to help others, by educating them, and trying to show them a better way of looking at events. It’s really the desire to share wisdom with others, or at least to collaborate with them in seeking wisdom. As the saying goes, though, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink.

Stoic kindness is resilient, it cannot be conquered as Marcus puts it, because the wise person accepts that the outcome they desire isn’t directly under their control. Shaftesbury puts this quite beautifully when he says that a perfectly virtuous person would show kindness toward others unconditionally without expecting it to be reciprocated:

Come on, let us see now if thou canst love disinterestedly. “Thanks my good kinsman (brother, sister, friend), for giving me so generous a part, that I can love though not beloved.” — Shaftesbury

How far removed is that from what lowercase stoicism means to people? And yet, Marcus describes this generosity of spirit as what it really means for a Stoic philosopher to be resilient and unconquerable.

He goes on to say that although some people will sneer at the notion of love and kindness, and call it weakness, these people are so confused that they actually have the whole thing back to front. Anger, of course, is nothing but weakness. Strength and moral courage, by contrast, are required for the sort of kindness Marcus Aurelius studied in his inner meditations, as philosopher, and then exhibited in his outward life, as emperor. It’s for this reason that I think we need to return to a philosophy of love and kindness… and to what I would describe as Compassionate Stoicism.

If you enjoyed this article, check out my video discussing it on our verissimusgraphicnovel Instagram profile.

Well done!

Why do people shoot their mouths off every day on social media when life’s too short? Great story Kasey!

How a Philosophy of Life Came From a Snack

How a Philosophy of Life Came From a Snack

To look for the fig in winter is the act of a madman… — Marcus Aurelius

Figs are in season again here in Athens. When they’re spotted in the local groceries it’s a cause for excitement. Who would have thought we’d miss them so much when they weren’t available? Of course dried figs are available year round but, trust me, that’s definitely not the same!

Learning philosophy, or the love of wisdom, requires patience, says Epictetus, because “the fruit of a man’s mind” does not ripen overnight.

“Nothing great”, said the Stoic philosopher Epictetus, is produced immediately, not even figs (Discourses, 1.15). In other words: Rome wasn’t built in a day! Suppose you make it known that you really are craving a fig right now. Epictetus would reply, we’re told, that you need to learn to be patient. It takes a long time for figs to grow and ripen, he says.

Some of his students were maybe taking that a bit too literally because he’s careful to spell out that he means it as a metaphor for life in general — he’s doing philosophy not planning his grocery shopping. Learning philosophy, or the love of wisdom, requires patience, says Epictetus, because “the fruit of a man’s mind” does not ripen overnight. Indeed, the essence of training in Stoicism, the “discipline of desire”, is about being able to want something without becoming upset about not having it — replacing irrational demands with rational preferences, as cognitive psychotherapists say today.

Zeno on Figs

The Stoic love of figs goes right back to the founder of the school, the Phoenician philosopher Zeno, who hailed from the town of Citium, in Cyprus. We’re told that after being shipwrecked near Athens, losing his entire fortune, and taking up the life of a Cynic beggar-philosopher there, he would decline most invitations to Athenian homes for supper. Instead, he “he was fond of eating green figs” and would rather be found “basking in the sun”, outdoors. That sounds like paradise but it’s probably meant to show that he was able to enjoy the simple things in life. In ancient Athens, figs literally grew on trees all over the place and so, for a while each year, they were as freely available to everyone as fresh air and sunshine.

Zeno’s contemporary, the satirical poet Philemon of Soli, wrote of him in a lost play called Philosophers:

This man adopts a new philosophy.
He teaches to go hungry: yet he gets
Disciples. One sole loaf of bread his food;
His best dessert dried figs; water his drink. — Quoted by Diogenes Laertius

So apparently, Zeno was known for enjoying fresh figs when they were in season but he wouldn’t turn his nose up at the dried variety when that’s all that was available. He probably inherited this habit during his time training as a Cynic, before founding the Stoic school, as the most famous Cynic of all, Diogenes of Sinope, was also known for eating figs.

According to one story, his most famous successor, the third head of the Stoic school and its greatest intellectual, Chrysippus of Soli, died laughing at one of his own jokes about a donkey eating figs.

After an ass had eaten up his figs, he cried out to the old woman [who looked after him], “Now give the ass a drink of pure wine to wash down the figs.” And thereupon he laughed so heartily that he died. — Diogenes Laertius

I think this joke was funny, in part, because the Stoics often used figs as a metaphor for something that it’s pointless worrying about. Perhaps only a drunken ass would think someone else’s figs are worth stealing.

The Price of Figs

Fig trees bear a lot of fruit. Although figs are sometimes a bit pricey today, to the ancient Athenians figs, like nuts, were symbolic of something “ten a penny” — trivial and abundant. In modern English some people still say I could not give a fig! — usually when talking about the news or other people’s opinions.

The Greeks and Romans liked to watch children scrambling for a handful of little treats. Epictetus reminds his audience of up-tight Roman elites that:

A man scatters dried figs and nuts: the children seize them, and fight with one another; men do not, for they think them to be a small matter. — Discourses, 4.7

He goes on to say that his students should view money, government positions, and suchlike in the same way: “to me these are only dried figs and nuts.” The Stoics loved the presocratic philosopher Heraclitus who went even further: human opinions are toys for children!

Suppose the emperor is scattering around these sort of favours and you lose out for some reason, and fail to get anything. If you have any sense, and you’re being philosophical about things, you’ll be no more perturbed than if you failed to catch some figs or nuts. Of course, if a fig happens to land in your lap, says Epictetus, that’s a nice treat. You should be grateful: “take it and eat it; for so far you may value even a fig.”

However, it’s not worth stabbing people in the back, or demeaning yourself, just to grab some favours from the emperor, and more than it would be to grab some dried figs and nuts being thrown around. Incidentally, around the time we believe Epictetus was saying this the emperor of Rome was Trajan and, for a while, one of the students in the audience listening to all of this was reputedly a young social-climber by the name of Hadrian.

Figs in Winter

To look for the fig in winter is the act of a madman and such is he who looks for his child when it is no longer allowed. — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, 11.33

I’m confident that anyone, Greek or Roman, reading this passage in Marcus Aurelius would be reminded of the myth of the goddess Demeter, and the Eleusinian Mystery religion based on her story. Allow me to explain…

Demeter was the “grain mother”, the Greek goddess of agriculture and the harvest. She was also responsible for teaching mankind how to cultivate fig trees — so the fig was one of her symbols.

After he finished writing The Meditations, Marcus went to Athens for the first time, where we know, from several sources, that he was initiated into the Mysteries at the nearby temple of Demeter in Eleusis. Indeed, he became a major patron of the Eleusinian Mysteries. There’s a bust of Marcus Aurelius that still survives today, sitting right there in Eleusis (modern-day Elefsina). We can see it’s surrounded by poppies, another symbol of Demeter. People going to Eleusis to be initiated, after 176 CE, walked through a massive stone gate, constructed by Marcus, with his image crowning it.

Marcus, who was obviously really into the Eleusinian Mysteries, clearly knew all of this.

The main myth around which the mysteries were based was the abduction of Demeter’s virgin daughter, Persephone, by Hades, the tyrannical god of the Underworld. Demeter searched the earth in vain looking for her daughter, and had some adventures along the way. Eventually, Zeus felt sorry for the grieving mother and ordered Hades to return her daughter. He agreed but tricked Persephone into eating six pomegranate seeds, which meant she had to spend six months of each year in the Underworld. Demeter was forced to reconcile herself to only having her beloved daughter with her part-time — so she knew a thing or two about loss. Of course, this is universally agreed to be a metaphor for the cycles of growing and harvesting crops, particularly grain, sacred to Demeter, but also her figs. Marcus, who was obviously really into the Eleusinian Mysteries, clearly knew all of this.

When Marcus talks about wanting your child to be with you when they’re no longer around being as irrational as craving fresh figs in winter, he’s quoting the Stoic philosopher Epictetus. The “highest discipline” of Stoicism, says Epictetus, “which stands as it were at the entrance” is that we must learn to view the things we enjoy, or desire, as temporary — so that we don’t freak out when we lose them. He even says, somewhat notoriously, that when we kiss our children, friends, or brothers — Roman men kissed their friends on the lips — we should remind ourselves that they are mortal.

Do you also remind yourself in like manner, that he whom you love is mortal, and that what you love is nothing of your own: it has been given to you for the present, not that it should not be taken from you, nor has it been given to you for all time, but as a fig is given to you or a bunch of grapes at the appointed season of the year. But if you wish for these things in winter, you are a fool. — Discourses 3.24

Figs and grapes were both associated with the Eleusinian Mystery religion and familiar symbols of the cycles of nature. Demeter, famously, was deprived of her beloved daughter, Persephone, just as nature deprives us of fresh figs and grapes except when they’re in season.

So if you wish for your son or friend when it is not allowed to you, you must know that you are wishing for a fig in winter. For such as winter is to a fig, such is every event which happens from the universe to the things which are taken away according to its nature.

Epictetus says that people are frightened to talk about death. The Greeks and Romans didn’t even like to say the name of Hades. However, Epictetus thinks this is an irrational superstition, and philosophy requires that we talk about and face our mortality.

Say that even for the ears of corn to be reaped is of bad omen, for it signifies the destruction of the ears, but not of the world. Say that the falling of the leaves also is of bad omen, and for the dried fig to take the place of the green fig, and for raisins to be made from the grapes. For all these things are changes from a former state into other states; not a destruction…

This is a major theme of Stoicism: that death is not a catastrophe but merely a natural process, the inevitable change of one thing into another.

In Meditations 3.2, Marcus Aurelius, who had studied painting in his youth, muses that figs, when they are very ripe, burst open. Although, in a sense, this is a flaw, a natural sign of their impending decay, like the lines on the face of an elderly man or woman, it can potentially be seen as something quite appealing and even beautiful. Birth and death are both part of the cycle of nature. Sometimes the greatness of a thing, or a person, lies precisely in the way that it meets its end — think of the “noble death” of Socrates, going out in a blaze of philosophical glory.

Taking the Good with the Bad

In Meditations 4.6, Marcus speaks of the Stoic doctrine that we should be prepared to accept as inevitable the way foolish people do foolish things, or vicious people do vicious things, and so on. He compares this to fresh figs, which naturally contain an acrid juice that can, sometimes, slightly burn the lips and tongue. In other words, every rose has its thorn. An ancient Greek or Roman wouldn’t get angry with a ripe fig for burning his lips— that’s just how things are in nature. It would be childlike to act surprised and bitterly resent something like that happening from time to time because that’s life. He returns to this metaphor several times:

Consider that he who would not have the bad man do wrong, is like the man who would not have the fig tree to bear [acrid] juice in the figs, and infants to cry, and the horse to neigh, and whatever else must necessarily be. For what must a man do who has such a character? If then you are irritable, cure this man’s disposition. — Meditations, 12.16

Marcus says again later that someone would rightly be ashamed if he was surprised at the way a fig-tree produces figs because that’s common knowledge. And yet people act surprised when they encounter misfortunes or setbacks in life that they could easily have anticipated (Meditations, 8.15).

The Bigger Picture

The fresh fig was as freely available as fresh air and sunshine in ancient Greece, except when it wasn’t in season. Even beggars, like the Cynics, could feast on figs, which kept them healthy. Dried figs were thrown to children as small gifts. So they became a metaphor for trivial things in life. Nevertheless, we become attached to them, and crave fresh figs when they’re not available. Like Demeter, goddess of the mysteries, we must learn to enjoy our loved ones, the fruits of the harvest, and other good things in life, without attachment, knowing that they won’t always be around.

The tiny seed of a fig becomes a metaphor for another important concept from Stoic philosophy in Meditations 10.17. Here it symbolizes our place in the vastness of the universe. All individual things, says Marcus, are no more than a fig seed in comparison to existence considered as a whole.

Wednesday, August 11th — A Guide to Stoic Exercises

Hello everyone,

Thanks for subscribing to Stoicism — Philosophy as a Way of Life on Medium. If you want to follow my Medium profile for even more articles it’s Donald J. Robertson. Oh, and scroll down to the end for a sneak peek of our current cover design proposal for Verissimus my forthcoming graphic novel on Marcus Aurelius.

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