Category: Stoicism

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The ancient Stoic philosophy of death

The ancient Stoic philosophy of death

Forget all else, Lucilius, and concentrate your thoughts on this one thing: not to fear the name of death. Through long reflection make death one of your close acquaintances, so that, if the situation arises, you are able even to go out and meet it. — Seneca, On Earthquakes

One day you will die. In many ways, though, death is already present with us throughout life. First, and most obviously, there is the fact that we are, most of us, bereaved several times. We also witness the bereavements suffered by others, and hear about deaths happening all over the world. As children, we learned that animals and plants die — as adults we have already come to know that everything born must die.

Then there is death in another sense: we are, in fact, dying every day. This is not the body to which your mother gave birth, as the Stoic emperor Marcus Aurelius put it. The child dies to become the adolescent. The adolescent dies to become the man. The boy is father to the man but also predeceases him. We die every night when we go to sleep and awaken a different person, although we often barely notice what has been lost in the process.

Third, death is present in our awareness that every thought and act could, for all we know, be cut short. Whatever we begin may, by its nature, insofar as it takes time to complete, be interrupted. We’re always, inescapably, conscious at some level of the utter fragility of our existence. No matter how much we try to ignore it, we know, each moment of our lives, that our life could suddenly stop.

I think for many people, as I write this, the threat of death is on their minds more than usual.

The Stoic teacher Epictetus told his students to learn from the slaves whispering memento mori, and words to that effect, in the ears of generals and emperors as they rode in triumph through the streets of Rome. I think for many people, as I write this, the threat of death is on their minds more than usual. A few months ago I found myself lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling, hoping my heart would continue beating. I didn’t close my eyes and go to sleep that night just in case I didn’t wake up. A few weeks later, first thing in the morning, my phone rang and the stranger’s voice on the other end told me that one of my parents had died suddenly, in another country. We’re surrounded by death. We can try to close our eyes and shut it out but it won’t go away. It’s already there inside us, waiting. Et in arcadia ego — even in paradise, death is waiting.

The Ancient Philosophy of Death

Accepting our death can become a philosophy of life. One of the first men to speak openly about the philosophy of life and death in this way was the ancient Greek Sophist known as Prodicus of Ceos. I think it’s imperative today that we rediscover the ancient Greek wisdom concerning death that used to be part of our heritage.

The state of nonexistence to which we permanently return after our death is no different than the one we were in, for countless aeons, before we were born

Contrary to what I’ve said above, Prodicus taught that death does not exist, either for the living or for the dead. He meant that the living cannot know what death is like until they experience it — it’s just a word or something we perceive happening to other people. Death does not exist yet for the living; yet those who are dead no longer exist themselves. In the eponymous dialogue, Socrates explains this argument to his friend Axiochus, who is dying, and adds “Vain then is the sorrow in Axiochus grieving for Axiochus!”

Socrates describes the argument, perhaps also from Prodicus’ speech on death, that the state of nonexistence to which we permanently return after our demise is no different than the one we inhabited, for countless aeons, before we were born. (This “Argument from Symmetry” is usually attributed to the Epicureans, I know, but here we’re told it predates their school by well over a century.)

When he was dying, Diogenes reputedly asked his followers to simply dump his body outside the city walls.

There’s a wonderful illustration, by the way, of the same idea in an anecdote about Diogenes the Cynic. When he was dying, Diogenes reputedly asked his followers to simply dump his body outside the city walls. They were horrified and said that wild beasts would eat his corpse if it wasn’t disposed of properly. Diogenes calmly said that in that case he’d like them to leave his staff beside his body so that he could use it to beat off the animals. His friends were confused and said that if he was dead he surely wouldn’t know to lift his staff and defend himself — he’d be unconscious. Exactly, said Diogenes, so why on earth would I care, you fools, whether or not my corpse is being eaten? Death, as Seneca put it, is a release from all suffering, and a boundary beyond which our ills cannot pass.

However, to return to our friend, Axiochus objects that supposing death is a state of nonexistence free from pain, nevertheless he is right to fear losing his life, because death is also devoid of pleasures. Life contains many opportunities for enjoyment, he contends, of which he is about to be robbed. Socrates nods and replies that his friend will not, however, be at all conscious of that deprivation. It seems Axiochus can’t escape that easily from the steamroller logic of Socrates’ argument.

This line of reasoning is, of course, not meant to justify taking one’s own life. Socrates is consoling Axiochus about the inevitability of his own impending death from illness. However, Socrates seems also to agree with most of these arguments, and he goes on living. The Stoic ideal holds that the Sage, the man we should seek to emulate, “finds it a joy to live and in spite of that is not reluctant to die”, accepting his mortality and facing death with dignity when the time comes. Life gains value, paradoxically, from our acceptance of death.

The Value of Living

Everyone knows that a brush with death can make you reappraise your priorities in life. What does that really mean, though? It’s not the same for everyone, of course. For most people, nevertheless, it’s pretty similar. We realize that a lot of the things we previously thought were really important, and invested a lot of time and energy in, aren’t actually important at all. That’s powerful medicine. It shatters the illusions that we inherit from the society around us: all the consumerism, celebrity culture, narcissism, egotism, hedonism — all that kind of stuff. To learn how to die, is to unlearn how to be a slave, as Seneca puts it.

Wealth and reputation… You can’t take any of it with you — even if you were going anywhere. Alexander the Great knew that. He reputedly asked for his body to be carried through the towns with his hands dangling out either side of the casket so that everyone could see that he left the world empty-handed. It’s the revelation that most of the things people make out to be so very important in life are not — that it’s all a big con, basically. The Stoics and Cynics called this the τύφος (smoke) that surrounds us in life — smoke and mirrors.

Accepting the certainty of our own death is the royal road to Stoic magnanimity, the ability to become bigger than our troubles…

The Stoics called this ability to rise above our fears “magnanimity” (μεγαλοψυχία), which literally means having a big soul or vast mind in Greek (and Latin). All other virtues, they said, depend upon this quality.

For if magnanimity by itself alone can raise us far above everything, and if magnanimity is but a part of virtue, then too virtue as a whole will be sufficient in itself for well-being — looking down upon all things that seem troublesome. — Diogenes Laertius

Accepting the certainty of our own death is the royal road to Stoic magnanimity, the ability to become bigger than our troubles, and look down upon both pain and pleasure with equanimity. It’s the source of our moral and psychological freedom.

The Love of Wisdom

The Stoics believed that grasping this realization and holding on to it is, in a sense, the goal of life. It’s the beginning of wisdom — the epiphany that reveals all “external goods” such as wealth and reputation are necessarily ephemeral and ultimately vacuous. Socrates said that the unexamined life is not worth living, and by that he meant first and foremost examining our knowledge of virtue, our highest good. The meaning of philosophy as a way of life, for Socrates and the Stoics, is right there in its name, which literally means the love of wisdom. The way of the philosopher consists in cherishing insights such as these and viewing them as worth fighting to maintain.

Seneca thought that, ironically, an excessive fear of dying often leads to an early grave — nobody, I think, would dispute that. He goes much further, though, and says that the man who fears his own death will never do anything worthy of life. When we face death, if we can bear to look him in the face we have the opportunity to learn something that liberates us forever. If we dare to lift the bogeyman’s scary mask, as Socrates put it, each one of us may make the discovery that not wealth or reputation but wisdom is the goal of life.

Conquering Death-Anxiety

Marcus therefore advises contemplating death in each action, to focus our attention on its true worth:

During every one of your actions pause at each step and ask yourself: “Is death deemed catastrophic because of the loss of this?” — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

Seneca likewise imagines that we should respond to those afraid to die by saying “So are you living now?” We cannot be truly alive so long as we are enslaved by fears, and dread of death itself is the mother of all fears. The philosophy that makes us fearless in the face of death, says Seneca, is a battle plan “effective against all weapons and every kind of enemy”.

In his essay On Earthquakes, Seneca likewise emphasises the folly of fearing death by earthquakes or any other specific thing, when death surrounds us and can strike us down in an infinite number of ways. We can as easily be killed by a single stone as an entire city collapsing on our heads. He writes: “If you wish to fear nothing, consider that all things are to be feared.” Elsewhere he says in his letters: “It is not clear where death is waiting for you, so you should wait for it everywhere.” Epictetus makes the same point: “Do you want me, then, to respect and do obeisance to all these things, and to go about as the slave of them all?” To be everywhere is to be nowhere — and to fear everything is to fear nothing.

Know Thyself and be Mortal

The Delphic Temple of Apollo had several maxims engraved on a pillar at its entrance. According to legend, these went back to the Seven Sages of Greece, in the 6th century BC. Their influence permeated Western philosophy, in other words, from its very beginning. The most famous of these Delphic maxims was undoubtedly “Know thyself.” Seneca claimed that it was to be interpreted as a reference to human mortality:

Those whom you love and those whom you despise will both be made equal in the same ashes. This is the meaning of that command, “Know thyself”, which is written on the shrine of the Pythian oracle. — Seneca, Moral Letters

“What is man?”, asks Seneca. Nothing more than a potter’s vase, which can be shattered into pieces by the slightest knock.

You were born a mortal, and you have given birth to mortals: yourself a weak and fragile body, liable to all diseases, can you have hoped to produce anything strong and lasting from such unstable material? — Seneca, Moral Letters

The oracle also said “Think things befitting a mortal” (Φρόνει θνητά). To know ourselves is to remember that we are mortal, reason accordingly, and live accordingly.

Seneca told himself each night as he closed his eyes to sleep that he might not awaken to see the morning. Marcus Aurelius told himself repeatedly to contemplate his own death. In fact, he told himself to imagine he was already dead, and living on borrowed time.

In a world torn by hope and worry, dread and anger, imagine every day that dawns is the last you’ll see; the hour you never hoped for will prove a happy surprise. — Horace, Letters

This notion of contemplative meditation on the inevitability of death, and the transience of life, was common in philosophy until recent centuries. The iconic image of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, a young philosophy student, holding aloft the skull of his childhood friend Yorick would have been recognisable to Elizabethan audiences as an allusion to common philosophical practices that involved contemplating images of death. It should make you realize, if nothing else, that anyone who resents or complains about absolutely anything in life is a rank hypocrite — because we’re ultimately all here by our own choosing.

The Contemplation of Death

Plato wasn’t there to witness Socrates’ execution. He portrays Phaedo, a beautiful and talented young man whom Socrates had rescued from life as a slave in an Athenian brothel, recounting the event, with awe, in the dialogue that bears his name:

Although I was witnessing the death of one who was my friend, I had no feeling of pity, for the man appeared happy both in manner and words as he died nobly and without fear. — Plato, Phaedo

In prison, awaiting execution, Socrates spent his final hours debating amiably with his friends about philosophy. Given the nearness of his own end, he chose to explore the question of what happens to the soul after death. He coolly examines several possibilities while keeping an open mind, tolerant of uncertainty.

He explains his view that philosophy is essentially a lifelong “practice of death” (melete thanatou), as the reason for his surprising indifference. He says that those who practice philosophy in the right way are constantly in training for death. His friends ask him to speak to them as though a little child remains deep within them who still fears death, and to reassure them there is nothing scary behind the mask of this bogeyman. He replies that they should “sing a charm” over their inner child every day until they have charmed away his fears. True philosophers, he says, fear dying least of all men.

The “contemplation of death” therefore emerged right at the most dramatic moment in the birth of Western philosophy, spoken at the heart of what Socrates called his philosophical swansong. When the time came, he calmly drank the poison and waited to die, something he’d clearly reconciled himself to, and faced with supreme equanimity and an attitude of philosophical curiosity.

It is not the things themselves that disturb men, but their judgements about these things. For example, death is nothing catastrophic, or else Socrates too would have thought so, but the judgement that death is catastrophic, this is the catastrophic thing. — Epictetus, Enchiridion

Forget all else, Lucilius, and concentrate your thoughts on this one thing: not to fear the name of death. Through long reflection make death one of your close acquaintances, so that, if the situation arises, you are able even to go out and meet it. — Seneca, On Earthquakes

One day you will die. In many ways, though, death is already present with us throughout life. First, and most obviously, there is the fact that we are, most of us, bereaved several times. We also witness the bereavements suffered by others, and hear about deaths happening all over the world. As children, we learned that animals and plants die — as adults we have already come to know that everything born must die.

Then there is death in another sense: we are, in fact, dying every day. This is not the body to which your mother gave birth, as the Stoic emperor Marcus Aurelius put it. The child dies to become the adolescent. The adolescent dies to become the man. The boy is father to the man but also predeceases him. We die every night when we go to sleep and awaken a different person, although we often barely notice what has been lost in the process.

Third, death is present in our awareness that every thought and act could, for all we know, be cut short. Whatever we begin may, by its nature, insofar as it takes time to complete, be interrupted. We’re always, inescapably, conscious at some level of the utter fragility of our existence. No matter how much we try to ignore it, we know, each moment of our lives, that our life could suddenly stop.

Read the rest of this article on Medium.

Some questions I ask myself to get stuff written

Some questions I ask myself to get stuff written

I’m a writer. I was known for enjoying writing in my youth, as a schoolboy, but it was never my intention to do it for a living. Still, here we are… I’m the author of about six books and counting. I’m just finishing a graphic novel for one major publishing house, and about to start a biography for another. It seems like all I do these days is, well, write.

I find that sometimes writing comes easily. Usually that’s at about 3am in the morning, unfortunately, when normal people are asleep. Years and years ago, when I was stuck working on an essay, I decided to write down some questions and make myself answer them in order to get unstuck. I found it helped.

I still use the same questions when I’m writing nonfiction books and articles. Sometimes when my friends have told me that they’re stuck trying to write an essay or book chapter, I’ve shared my questions with them. They’re tough questions so it can be a bit annoying. If you’ve got the patience for it, though, they often seem to help. So here they are…

Essay-Writing Machine

1. What’s the main point you’re trying to arrive at in your conclusion?

2. What conclusion do you think your audience will expect you to arrive at?

3. What are the three main supporting points you must include?

4. “In other words…” — Say the same thing again but use completely different words to prove comprehension of your key points.

5. “So what?” — What’s the fundamental importance of each of your key points?

6. “What does it all mean?” — Explain how your key points link together or support your main conclusion as briefly as you can.

7. “Rubbish!” — What are the most powerful criticisms that could be made against your position? How can you best answer each one in turn?

8. What essential words, phrases, or quotations, should you include?

9. Paraphrase or explain each one to prove your comprehension of the terminology.

10. What unanswered questions do you still have about the subject?

11. Do some quick research — try to answer each of them as best you can.

12. What’s the most powerful statement of your position that you could include in your conclusion?

I’ve found it helpful to play other tricks on myself to get creative. Strangely, I often find that if I change the font and the background colour and layout of pages, then re-read my drafts, it helps me see things differently. I often print out drafts and read them aloud, or get other people to read them to me.

I’d love to know what strategies you use to

We didn’t say that that both influences shouldn’t or “can’t co-exist” as you put it, and that isn’t what we meant, nor was it intended to…

You’re referring to the sentence: “It’s unfortunate that third-wave therapists turned predominantly to Buddhism as an inspiration for introducing mindfulness to CBT when similar ideas were already there in Stoicism.” I think you’ve misread that, with respect.

We didn’t say that that both influences shouldn’t or “can’t co-exist” as you put it, and that isn’t what we meant, nor was it intended to be pejorative regarding Buddhism. All we said was that it was unfortunate that researchers turned *predominantly* to Buddhism, when they should also have looked at Stoicism insofar as it was already an existing influence. What we meant was that both influences could and should co-exist within CBT.

Stoicism and History as a Meditation on Death

Stoicism and History as a Meditation on Death

In a letter, believed to have been written in 139 AD, when Marcus Aurelius was just eighteen, his rhetoric master, Marcus Cornelius Fronto says in passing “I gave you advice on what you should do to prepare yourself for writing a work of history, since that is what you wished.”

…that I did not waste my time on writers of histories…

However, roughly three decades later, in The Meditations, looking back, Marcus thanks the gods that:

…when I had an inclination to philosophy, I did not fall into the hands of any Sophist, and that I did not waste my time on writers of histories… — Meditations, 1.17

Fronto himself was a Sophist of sorts, incidentally, although he taught Latin rather than Greek, but Marcus doesn’t seem to have him in mind here. By this point, in any case, Marcus seems to have thoroughly given up on the dream of becoming a historian.

Wander aimlessly no longer. For neither will you read your own memoirs, nor the acts of the ancient Romans and Greeks, and the selections from books which you were reserving for your old age. — Meditations, 3.14

What this seems to confirm, unsurprisingly, is that Marcus was mainly interested in Greek and Roman history. However, it seems that his desire to read histories has cooled along with his desire to write them. Indeed, he now exclaims: “Throw away your books; no longer distract yourself: it is not allowed” (2.2) and “cast away your thirst for books, so that you may not die murmuring, but cheerfully, truly, and from your heart thankful to the gods.” (3.2).

In general, the Stoic attitude toward books and study appears to have been that it’s good in moderation, precisely insofar as it serves the fundamental goal of life, which is to achieve wisdom and virtue. Studying can be virtuous but it can also be a vice if divorced from the goal of self-improvement.

History as a Meditation on Death

Throughout The Meditations Marcus reflects on history from a philosophical perspective, almost always as a reminder of the transience of material things and the insubstantial nature of our reputation after death.

Everywhere up and down you will find the same things, with which the old histories are filled, those of the middle ages and those of our own day, with which cities and houses are filled now. There is nothing new: all things are both familiar and short-lived. — Meditations, 7.1

This perspective lends itself to contemplation on transience and mortality but perhaps not to writing a detailed history.

Constantly consider how all things such as they now are, in time past also were; and consider that they will be the same again. And place before your eyes entire dramas and stages of the same form, whatever you have learned from your experience or from older history. For example, the whole court of Hadrian, and the whole court of Antoninus, and the whole court of Philip [of Macedon], Alexander the Great, Croesus; for all those were such dramas as we see now, only with different actors. — Meditations, 10.27

Here we get a hint at the individuals that Marcus’ histories may have focused upon. The historical figures he mentions most often in The Meditations are:

• Philip of Macedon

• Alexander the Great

• Pompey the Great

• Julius Caesar

• Augustus

Overall, this is not a particularly surprising list and the other names he mentions reflect the typical historical interest of educated Romans in the conquests of Alexander the Great, the Civil War of Julius Caesar, and the succession of emperors following Augustus. Indeed, the historical figure he mentions most often is Alexander the Great. However, when Marcus alludes to military and political leaders it’s often to criticize them, minimize their achievements, or to compare them negatively with philosophers.

Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar and Pompey the Great, what are they in comparison with Diogenes [the Cynic] and Heraclitus and Socrates? For they were acquainted with things, and their causes, and their matter, and the ruling principles of these men were the same. But as to the others, how many things had they for which to care, and to how many things were they slaves! — Meditations, 8.3

Despite having long contemplated the idea of writing histories, Marcus says very bluntly that Alexander the Great and his mule-driver were both levelled, and brought to exactly the same state, by death (Meditations, 6.24).

However, elsewhere he reminds himself that the wise are also mortal:

Alexander the Great, Pompey, and Julius Caesar, after so often completely destroying whole cities, and in battle cutting to pieces many ten thousands of cavalry and infantry, themselves too at last departed from life. Heraclitus, after so many speculations on the conflagration of the universe, was filled with water internally and died smeared all over with mud. Lice destroyed Democritus, and other lice killed Socrates. — Meditations, 3.3

The two philosophers he mentions or cites most frequently are Epictetus and Heraclitus, although he also mentions Pythagoras, Democritus, Socrates, Diogenes, Chrysippus, Epicurus, among others.

These meditations on the lives of famous historical individuals are sometimes expanded to encompass the history of great cities and even whole civilizations.

Augustus’ court, wife, daughter, descendants, ancestors, sister, Agrippa, kinsmen, intimates, friends; Areius, Maecenas, physicians, and sacrificing priests — the whole court is dead. Then turn to the rest, not considering the death of a single man [but of a whole race], as of the Pompeii; and that which is inscribed on the tombs: “The last of his race.” Then consider what trouble those before them have had that they might leave a successor, and then that of necessity some one must be the last. Again, here consider the death of a whole race. — Meditations, 8.31

Elsewhere he urges himself to think of how many are dead despite dedicating their lives to preventing illness or predicting the future. Every general who has defeated great armies has, in the end, been defeated by death. Great cities, like Pompeii, destroyed completely.

Think continually how many physicians are dead after often contracting their eyebrows over the sick, and how many astrologers after predicting with great pretensions the deaths of others, and how many philosophers after endless discourses on death or immortality, how many heroes after killing thousands, and how many tyrants who have used their power over men’s lives with terrible insolence, as if they were immortal. And how many cities are entirely dead, so to speak, Helice and Pompeii and Herculaneum, and others innumerable. Add to the reckoning all whom you have known, one after another. One man after burying another has been laid out dead, and another buries him, and all this in a short time. — Meditations, 4.48

Dead Emperors

Marcus asks himself to reflect, in particular, on the lives of earl emperors, particularly the first Augustus, but also Vespasian and Trajan:

Consider, for example, the times of Vespasian. you will see all these things, people marrying, bringing up children, sick, dying, warring, feasting, trafficking, cultivating the ground, flattering, obstinately arrogant, suspecting, plotting, wishing for some to die, grumbling about the present, loving, heaping up treasure, desiring consulship, kingly power. Well, then, that life of these people no longer exists at all. Again, remove to the times of Trajan. Again, all is the same. Their life too is gone. In like manner view also the other epochs of time and of whole nations, and see how many after great efforts soon fell and were resolved into the elements. — Meditations, 4.32

There’s nothing good or bad to say about them. Nero, however, mentioned in passing as a tyrant and moral degenerate comparable to the cruel Sicilian despot Phalaris (Meditations, 3.16).

Moreover, the names of famous Romans of the Republic, Augustus, the founder of the empire, and even recent emperors like Hadrian and Antoninus, all come to sound like historical references.

The words which were formerly familiar are now antiquated: so also the names of those who were famed of old, are now in a manner antiquated, Camillus, Caeso, Volesus, Leonnatus, and a little after also Scipio and Cato, then Augustus, then also Hadrian and Antoninus. For all things soon pass away and become a mere tale, and complete oblivion soon buries them. And I say this of those who have shone in a wondrous way. For the rest, as soon as they have breathed out their breath they are gone, and no man speaks of them. — Meditations, 4.33

They’re just names in history books or statues rather than references to flesh-and-blood individuals.

Autobiography as a Meditation on Death

Of course, Marcus also mentions not reading his own memoirs. We might have expected such a literate emperor to leave behind an autobiographical account of his own life for posterity. Once again, though, reflection on his life takes the form of a meditation on transience and mortality. Like Augustus and Hadrian, he will soon be nothing but another name in the history books.

This is the chief thing: Do not be perturbed, for all things are according to the nature of the universal, and in a little time you will be nobody and nowhere, like Hadrian and Augustus. — Meditations, 8.5

And again,

And call to recollection both how many things you have passed through, and how many things you have been able to endure, and that the history of your life is now complete and your service is ended. And how many beautiful things you have seen, and how many pleasures and pains you have despised, and how many things called honorable you have spurned, and to how many ill-minded folks you have shown a kind disposition. — Meditations, 5.31

Marcus even tells himself that when he sees living individuals he should call to mind historical figures of whom he’s reminded by them. Moreover, when he sees his own image he must “think of any other Caesar”, i.e., any preceding emperor.

Then let this thought be in your mind, “Where then are those men now?” Nowhere, or nobody knows where. For thereby you will continuously look at human things as smoke and nothing at all, especially if you reflect at the same time that what has once changed will never exist again in the infinite duration of time. — Meditations, 10.31

“Where are they now?” or ubi sunt, as it was known in Latin, became a well-known trope in poetry.

Conclusion

The theme of Marcus’ reflections on history, and his own autobiography, in The Meditations is very clear:

Consider the past — such great changes of political supremacies. You may foresee also the things which will be. For they will certainly be of like form, and it is not possible that they should deviate from the order of the things which take place now. Accordingly to have contemplated human life for forty years is the same as to have contemplated it for ten thousand years. For what more will you see? — Meditations, 7.49

This doesn’t lead Marcus to an attitude of hopelessness, though, but rather to one of non-attachment and perseverance. Those who engage in public life and merely imagine they are acting wisely like philosophers are absurd, he says, maybe because they pay too much heed to other people’s perceptions. Marcus tells himself, by contrast, to do right away what nature and reason require rather than looking around to see if anyone will observe it. However, Rome was not built in a day…

Nor yet expect Plato’s Republic: but be content if the smallest thing goes on well, and consider such an event to be no small matter. For who can change men’s opinions? And without a change of opinions what else is there than the slavery of men who groan while they pretend to obey? Come now and tell me of Alexander the Great and Philippus and Demetrius of Phalerum. They themselves shall judge whether they discovered what the common nature required, and trained themselves accordingly. But if they acted like tragic heroes, no one has condemned me to imitate them. Simple and modest is the work of philosophy. Do not draw me aside to insolence and pride. — Meditations, 9.29

What matters is doing what’s right whether or not you win acclaim for doing so. We should judge our own lives rather than being overly-concerned how history judges us.

This is a pretty cool video. I like the way it was edited, subtitled, etc., and had a lot of fun doing it.

Socrates, Stoicism, and the Philosophy of Apollo

Socrates, Stoicism, and the Philosophy of Apollo

Upon a column once standing at the entrance (pronaos) of the Temple of Apollo in Delphi, two famous maxims were inscribed: “Know thyself” (gnothi seauton) and “Nothing in excess” (meden agan).

In Plato’s Protagoras, Socrates claims that the legendary Seven Sages invented these sayings and had them placed at Delphi:

They met together and dedicated in the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, as the first-fruits of their wisdom, the far-famed inscriptions, which are in all men’s mouths — “Know thyself”, and “Nothing in excess.”

The god Apollo was the Leader of the Muses, and therefore ultimately responsible for arts such as music and oratory. He was also the god especially responsible for the arts of prophecy and healing. He is the god of the kithara or lyre (harp) but also of the “far-shooting” and death-dealing bow. He is also the favourite son of Zeus, and the one responsible for putting his father’s divine will into words and communicating them, through oracular pronouncements, to mortals.

Ever belovèd to me may the kithara be, and the curved bow;
I will declare to mankind great Zeus’s infallible purpose.
 — Homeric Hymn to Apollo

In addition to these traditional roles, however, Apollo came to be associated with philosophy. Indeed, Plutarch calls Apollo “that god who is above all things the lover of truth”, and claims that he “is no less philosopher than he is prophet.”

Apollo was also frequently associated with famous philosophers. Diogenes Laertius says that the followers of Pythagoras actually considered him Apollo incarnate: “his bearing is said to have been most dignified, and his disciples held the opinion about him that he was Apollo come down from the far north.” We are also told: “Of course the only altar at which he worshipped was that of Apollo the Giver of Life, behind the Altar of Horns at Delos.”

Plato’s Phaedo claims that Socrates wrote a hymn (paean) to Apollo, which Diogenes Laertius says some claim began with the words: All hail, Apollo, Delos’ lord! Indeed, in the Phaedo, Socrates describes himself as “the consecrated servant” of Apollo. There was also a tradition, reported by Diogenes Laertius, that Apollo appeared to the philosopher Plato’s father in a dream foretelling his son’s birth. Indeed, Plato’s birth happened to fall upon the very day the priests of Apollo on the isle of Delos claimed Apollo himself had been born.

We have a whopping list of 147 ethical maxims derived from the cult of Apollo, which survive thanks to a book of quotations from earlier sources, compiled in the 5th century AD, known as the Anthology of Stobaeus.

“[The god Apollo] is no less philosopher than he is prophet.”

Individual examples of many of the maxims listed by Stobaeus are, though, found scattered throughout other ancient writings. Certain themes recur such as the emphasis on moderation, friendship, contentment, virtue, and the pursuit of wisdom. We can therefore regard the temples of Apollo as propounding a sort of proto-philosophy, or perhaps even a fully-fledged philosophy of life.

The Lord whose oracle is at Delphi neither reveals nor conceals, but gives a sign.

However, Apollo was also renowned for speaking in riddles, through the cryptic pronouncements of his priestesses. The pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus said of him: “The Lord whose oracle is at Delphi neither reveals nor conceals, but gives a sign.”

Plutarch likewise says that whereas the god offers many remedies, solutions for physical problems, through dreams, etc., he actually creates intellectual problems for us, or riddles. These are intended to stimulate our natural love of wisdom, i.e., our inclination to philosophy and the pursuit of truth. They’re supposed, in other words, to make us think. Just look at the famous inscriptions “Know thyself” and “Nothing in excess”, says Plutarch — “How many philosophical inquiries they have provoked!” These ancient maxims are like seeds, he adds, from which countless arguments have grown over the centuries.

For inquisitive minds the Delphic Maxims often seemed to have a hidden meaning, although their intention might appear quite straightforward at first. Sophocles had long ago spoken of Apollo as being:

Unto the wise a riddling prophet aye,
to silly souls a teacher plain and brief.

Plutarch therefore describes maxims such as “Know thyself” and “Nothing in excess” as resembling streams rushing through narrow, channels, whose waters appear turbid and unclear. There is so much more to say about these little maxims that, without patient study, their true significance is actually quite opaque to our mind’s eye. If you want to learn what scholars have written about their proper meaning, he says, “you will not easily find longer treatises elsewhere.” In other words, a whole Apollonian philosophy of life is compressed into these short sayings.

Although the vast majority of these ancient treatises are now lost, we do, fortunately, encounter many philosophical discussions of the Delphic Maxims scattered throughout an assortment of texts that survive today. Of course, the maxims about which we learn most are the two most famous examples: “Know thyself” and “Nothing in excess”. As we’ll see, these can be viewed as complementing, or even depending upon, one another…

Know Thyself

In the Memorabilia Socratis written by Xenophon, we find a very interesting discussion of how Socrates interpreted the saying “Know thyself”.

And isn’t this obvious, that people derive most of their benefits from knowing themselves, and most of their misfortunes from being self-deceived?

Socrates asks a somewhat pretentious young student called Euthydemus whether he’s been to Delphi and seen the inscription “Know thyself”. Euthydemus replies that although he has, indeed, been there twice, he paid little attention to the saying because he felt certain that he already knew himself. Socrates encourages him, though, to think more deeply about its meaning…

Who do you think knows himself — the man who merely knows his own name, or the one who behaves like people buying a horse? They don’t consider that they know a horse in which they are interested until they have satisfied themselves whether it’s obedient or disobedient, strong or weak, swift or slow, and how it stands with respect to all the other qualities which make a horse desirable or undesirable as regards its usefulness; and the man I am thinking of has in the same way ascertained his own ability by examining his own qualifications in respect of human relationships. — Xenophon, Memorabilia, 4.2

We should carefully study our own nature, our character, particularly our strengths and weaknesses, because a man, he says, who “does not know his own ability is ignorant of himself.”

And isn’t this obvious, that people derive most of their benefits from knowing themselves, and most of their misfortunes from being self-deceived? Those who know themselves know what is appropriate for them and can distinguish what they can and cannot do; and, by doing what they understand, they both supply their needs and enjoy success, while, by refraining from doing things that they don’t understand, they avoid making mistakes and escape misfortune.

This self-knowledge also makes it easier for them to understand how to deal with other people.

Self-knowledge also enables them to assess others; and it is through their relations with others that they provide themselves with what is good and guard against what is bad for them. Those who do not know themselves and are totally deceived about their own abilities are in the same position whether they are dealing with other people or any other aspect of human affairs. They don’t know what they want or what they are doing or what means they are using; and, through making gross mistakes about all these, they miss the good things and get into trouble.

Through self-knowledge, particularly knowing what’s good or bad for us, we become clearer about our fundamental goals in life. We’re therefore able not only to live wisely and flourish ourselves but also to win the respect of others.

People who know what they are doing succeed in their activities and become famous and respected. Those who are like them gladly associate with them, while those who are unsuccessful in their affairs are anxious for these men to make decisions for them and to represent their interests, and pin to them their hopes of prosperity, and for all these reasons regard them with special affection.

Socrates says the same is obviously true for states. A state that does not know itself may overestimate its military strength and end up going to war with a stronger nation leading to its own people being destroyed or enslaved. Socrates says that the process of self-examination that leads to such knowledge should begin with the question “What is good or bad?”, by which he means what’s beneficial or harmful for us.

For Socrates, therefore, “Know thyself” means knowing our own character, our strengths and weaknesses, and the things that are good or bad for us. Later authors in the Socratic tradition, though, often focus more narrowly on certain aspects of self-knowledge. The Stoic philosopher Epictetus, for example, says that “Know thyself” means knowing what is “up to us”, or under our direct control, and what is not.

But the tyrant will chain — what? the leg. He will take away — what? the neck. What then will he not chain and not take away? the will. This is why the ancients taught the maxim, “Know thyself”. — Discourses, 1.18

However, in a well-known fragment attributed to Epictetus, he also used the same maxim to refer to our knowledge of our role, or position, in a particular situation, and our ability to act in harmony with others.

Is, therefore, also the precept at Delphi superfluous, “Know thyself”? — That, indeed, no, the man answers. — What, then, does it mean? If one bade a singer in a chorus to “know himself,” would he not heed the order by paying attention both to his fellows in the chorus and to singing in harmony with them? — Yes. — And so in the case of a sailor? or a soldier? Does it seem to you, then, that man has been made a creature to live all alone by himself, or for society? — For society. — By whom? — By Nature. — What Nature is, and how she administers the universe, and whether she really exists or not, these are questions about which there is no need to go on to bother ourselves. — Epictetus, Fragments

The Stoic philosopher Seneca claimed that this maxim was to be interpreted as a reference to human mortality:

Those whom you love and those whom you despise will both be made equal in the same ashes. This is the meaning of that command, “Know thyself”, which is written on the shrine of the Pythian oracle. — Moral Letters, 11

“What is man?”, asks Seneca. Nothing more than a potter’s vase, which can be shattered into pieces by the slightest knock.

You were born a mortal, and you have given birth to mortals: yourself a weak and fragile body, liable to all diseases, can you have hoped to produce anything strong and lasting from such unstable material? — Moral Letters, 11

Plutarch likewise says that, among other things, to know oneself is to realize that you are not the same person you once were. Our lives are constantly changing and our old self is dying, as our new self is being born, every day of our lives. Plutarch notes that the name “Apollo” can be interpreted as meaning “not many” in Greek. This implies that the god is one and eternal, whereas we are to know ourselves, by contrast, as mortals, consisting merely of a constant stream of varying states.

These interpretations may appear quite different but they’re potentially related. The Stoics in particular would say to know oneself is to realize that because our bodies, and indeed all external things, are fragile and transient, our true good resides not in possessions but in our use of reason. Indeed, they derive that notion from Socrates who argues elsewhere that man’s highest good is the love of wisdom not such unreliable things as health, wealth, or reputation.

Nothing in Excess

Apollo was known for his association both with archery and with playing the lyre. The strings of the lyre (an ancient harp) need to be tuned properly before the sound can become harmonious. If they are too tight or not tight enough, it won’t work properly. The same goes for stringing the bow. Both instruments symbolize Apollo’s symbolic association with beauty, and the notion of health being achieved through harmony and moderation. The arts of archery and lyre-playing both require the ability to know when the strings are even a fraction too slack or too tight. The maxim “Nothing in excess” expresses the same basic idea.

According to the doxographer Diogenes Laertius the saying “Nothing in excess” (meden agan) was typically thought to have originated with Solon, the ancient lawgiver of Athens and one of the Seven Sages. Its fame today is due partly to the fact that Socrates liked to quote it. For instance, Diogenes Laertius elsewhere claims that when asked what virtue is most suited for a young man Socrates replied simply:“Nothing in excess”.

In Plato’s Menexenus Socrates explains its meaning as follows:

Of old the saying, “Nothing in excess”, appeared to be, and really was, well said. For he whose happiness rests with himself, if possible, wholly, and if not, as far as is possible — who is not hanging in suspense on other men, or changing with the vicissitudes of their fortune — has his life ordered for the best. He is the temperate and courageous and wise; and when his riches come and go, when his children are given and taken away, he will remember the proverb: “Neither rejoicing overmuch nor grieving overmuch”, for he relies upon himself. And such we would have our parents to be — that is our word and wish, and as such we now offer ourselves, neither lamenting overmuch, nor fearing overmuch, if we are to die at this time.

It’s closely-related to another well-known Greek saying “Moderation is best” (metron ariston). Today we say “All things in moderation”.

One of Socrates’ paradoxes, according to Xenophon, was the notion that people who exercise self-control and moderation actually obtain more pleasure from their desires than people who indulge to excess. Someone who eats moderately will enjoy his food more, for instance, than someone who stuffs himself and spoils his appetite.

Aristotle is famous for propounding the related concept of the “Golden Mean”, which states that the best course of action is often “in the middle” between vices that lie at two extremes. For instance, courage lies in-between the extremes of recklessness and cowardice.

Some vices miss what is right because they are deficient, others because they are excessive, in feelings or in actions, while virtue finds and chooses the mean. — Nicomachean Ethics

However, this isn’t quite what the Delphic Maxim said. For Socrates, as for the Stoics, the emphasis was on avoiding excess, and finding the appropriate amount to do something. The appropriate amount doesn’t necessarily lie at the mean or middle between two extremes, though — that’s overly-simplistic advice. Rather we need to study ourselves very carefully in order to ascertain, for instance, when we’re sleeping, drinking, or eating too much and when we’re doing so too little.

“But it is necessary to take rest also.” It is necessary. However, Nature has fixed bounds to this too: she has fixed bounds to eating and drinking, and yet you go beyond these bounds, beyond what is sufficient. — Meditations, 5.1

Every individual is different; what’s appropriate for me might not be for you. Moreover, what’s appropriate will vary depending on our circumstances. The right amount of food to eat during a siege might be quite different from the right amount to eat during a wedding feast. Sometimes the right amount might be nothing; at other times it might be as much as possible.

Xenophon, in fact, claims that Socrates made no distinction between the virtues of wisdom and temperance (sophrosune). In order to exercise, self-control we have to know and understand what’s appropriate for us. When we really perceive the value of things clearly we’ll act accordingly.

“For I think”, he said, “that all men have a choice between various courses, and choose and follow the one which they think is most to their advantage. Therefore I hold that those who follow the wrong course are neither wise nor temperate.” — Memorabilia

Self-knowledge is therefore not only the basis for identifying when we’re doing something too much. It’s also self-knowledge, of a sort, that potentially helps us to change our behaviour — the knowledge of what is good or advantageous for us. Of course, people will say that they often know something is bad for them, such as smoking cigarettes, but they can’t help themselves and do it anyway. Socrates would reply by claiming that they don’t really understand how important it is to stop, though.

Although this seems like a perennial controversy, we can actually settle it quite easily by means of a simple example. Even someone who says they can’t quit a bad habit, no matter how hard they try, would normally succeed if we increased the stakes dramatically. Even the most weak-willed smoker would be able to voluntarily stub out their cigarette if they had a gun pointed at their head (threat) and were being offered a million dollars (reward) for putting it down. That’s true even if it turns out the gun is loaded with blanks and the bank notes are fakes — what matters is what we believe. Socrates would say that proves that it is our belief in what’s advantageous for us that ultimately determines our behaviour.

Conclusion

If Plutarch is right and we should consider Apollo “no less philosopher than he is prophet” then these two sayings appear to capture the essence of the Apollonian philosophy of life. Self-knowledge leads to what Stoics called the virtue of wisdom. It requires understanding our own nature so that we can grasp what’s truly good for us, throughout the course of life, and what isn’t. That means understanding that the sort of things people typically value such as health, wealth, and reputation aren’t entirely up to us, but always at least partly in the hands of fate. We’re fragile creatures and our true good lies in our ability to accept that while nevertheless making the best use of our circumstances, and thereby living wisely.

Knowing ourselves means genuinely understanding what’s in our own self-interest, in a way that changes our experience of ourselves at an emotional level. By studying our own natures carefully, we can learn how to judge better what “excess” means for us as individuals. Seeing this more clearly is the key to finding the balance, and living wisely and with moderation.

Upon a column once standing at the entrance (pronaos) of the Temple of Apollo in Delphi, two famous maxims were inscribed: “Know thyself” (gnothi seauton) and “Nothing in excess” (meden agan).

In Plato’s Protagoras, Socrates claims that the legendary Seven Sages invented these sayings and had them placed at Delphi:

They met together and dedicated in the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, as the first-fruits of their wisdom, the far-famed inscriptions, which are in all men’s mouths — “Know thyself”, and “Nothing in excess.”

The god Apollo was the Leader of the Muses, and therefore ultimately responsible for the arts, such as music and oratory. He was also the god especially responsible for the arts of prophecy and healing. In addition to these traditional roles, however, Apollo came to be associated with philosophy. Indeed, Plutarch calls Apollo “that god who is above all things the lover of truth”, and claims that he “is no less philosopher than he is prophet.”

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