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Tag: philosophy
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The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius
The duration of a man’s life is as a point; the substance of it ever flowing, the sense obscure; and the whole composition of the body tending to decay. His soul is a restless vortex, fortune uncertain, and fame doubtful; in a word, as a rushing stream so are all things belonging to the body; as a dream, or as a smoke, so are all that belong unto the soul. Life is a warfare, and a sojourn in a foreign land. Fame after life is nothing more than oblivion.
What is it then that will guide man? One thing alone: philosophy. And philosophy consists in this, for a man to preserve that inner genius or divine spark which is within him, from violence and injuries, and above all pains or pleasures; never to do anything either without purpose, or falsely, or hypocritically: wholly to depend from himself and his own proper actions: all things that happen unto him to embrace contentedly, as coming from Him from whom he himself also came; and above all things, with all meekness and a calm cheerfulness, to expect death, as being nothing else but the dissolution of those elements, of which every living being is composed.
And if the elements themselves suffer nothing by this their perpetual conversion of one into another, that dissolution, and alteration, which is so common unto all, why should it be feared by any? Is not this according to nature? But nothing that is according to nature can be evil.
Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations, Book II, Section 15
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Stoicism Workshop at Exeter University
I’m posting this again, mainly to test out the special video post feature on WordPress, which I’ve never used before! It’s a very well-made video describing the workshop on Stoic philosophy and psychotherapy that took place at Exeter University earlier this year. I was there along with some of my friends and other academics and psychologists and therapists. The whole thing was organised by Prof. Christopher Gill. It led to the Stoic Week project, which was a huge success in terms of publicity for Stoicism, featuring in The Independent and Guardian (twice) newspapers!
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Whoever it was …
Whoever it was who said, “Fortune, I have made a pre-emptive strike against you, and I have deprived you of every single loophole,” was not basing his confidence on bolts, locks and fortifications, but on principles and arguments which are available to anyone who wants them. […] For if the mind is self-indulgent, and takes the easiest courses all the time, and retreats from unwelcome matters to what maximizes its pleasure, the consequence is weakness and feebleness born of lack of exertion; but a mind which trains and strains itself to use rationality to conceive an image of illness and pain and exile will find that there is plenty of unreality, superficiality and unsoundness in the apparent problems and horrors each of them has to offer, as detailed rational argument demonstrates. (Plutarch, On Contentment, 467C)
Plutarch was a Platonist but perhaps influenced to some extent by aspects of Stoicism.
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The Stoic Teachings of Zeus
Copyright © Donald Robertson, 2012. All rights reserved.
It is wise, not listening to me but to the Logos, to agree that all things are one.
The one and only wise thing wishes and does not wish to be called by the name of Zeus. – Heraclitus, On Nature
Heraclitus’ cryptic Greek, in the passage above, can be read as implying that it is as though the voice of Nature, or Zeus, were calling us saying “all things are one”, and that wisdom consists in echoing this, in our own thoughts and words. Is he attributing these words to the divine Logos, to the voice of Zeus? The Stoics, who followed Heraclitus in many regards, also appear to attribute certain doctrines or phrases to Zeus, to God, or to Nature – all broadly equivalent terms in their pantheistic worldview.
For example, Musonius Rufus taught his students that Zeus “orders and encourages” us to study philosophy.
Stated briefly, the law of Zeus orders the human being to be good, and being good is the same thing as being a philosopher. (Lectures, 16)
He says this “commandment and law” of Nature is that humans should be “just, righteous, kind, self-controlled, magnanimous, above pain and pleasure, and devoid of all envy and treachery.” However, his most famous student, Epictetus, is our source for many more references to Stoic laws or directions attributed directly to Zeus:
For the Zeus at Olympia does not show a proud look, does he? No, but his gaze is steady, as befits one who is about to say: “No word of mine can be revoked or proved untrue.” (Discourses, 2.9.26)
However, the following passage is perhaps the most striking example of a Stoic-sounding maxim being put into the mouth of Zeus:
This is the law which God has ordained, and He says, “If you wish any good thing, get it from yourself.” (Discourses, 1.29.4)
It appears to express perhaps the most fundamental doctrine of Stoicism: that “the only good is moral good”, or that the essence of the good is virtue. Being a good person and having a good life are synonymous for the Stoics, in contrast to the other philosophical schools of their period.
So Zeus says: ei ti agathon theleis, para seautou labe or “If you wish any good thing, get it from yourself.” That obviously resonates with what Shaftesbury called the “Sovereign” precept of Epictetus’ Stoicism: “Some things are under our control and some things are not.” From this a twofold doctrine emerges: (1) the good resides squarely within our sphere of volition, in moral excellence or virtue (2) external events, beyond our control, are indifferent with regard to our happiness and wellbeing (eudaimonia). As we shall see, this twofold doctrine is repeatedly attributed to Zeus himself by Epictetus, alongside the claim that it is something that anyone may discern through considering the basic “common sense” facts of human nature.
For example, Epictetus elsewhere uses the rhetorical strategy known as apostrophe (“turning away”) when he breaks off from his dialogue with students into an imaginary conversation with Zeus himself in order to put the following words in the god’s mouth:
But what says Zeus? “Epictetus, if it were possible, I would have made both your little body and your little property free and not exposed to hindrance. But now be not ignorant of this: this body is not yours, but it is clay finely tempered. And since I was not able to do for you what I have mentioned, I have given you a small portion of us, this faculty of pursuing an object and avoiding it, and the faculty of desire and aversion, and, in a word, the faculty of using the appearances of things; and if you will take care of this faculty and consider it your only possession, you will never be hindered, never meet with impediments; you will not lament, you will not blame, you will not flatter any person.” (Discourses, 1.1)
The “law” of Zeus is elsewhere defined as (1) to guard what is our own, our reason and faculty of choice, and make good use of it; and (2) to not claim as ours what is external, or yearn for what fate has denied us, but to be willing to give up what fate has temporarily “loaned” us, as Epictetus likes to put it.
And what is the law of God? To guard what is his own, not to lay claim to what is not his own, but to make use of what is given him, and not to yearn for what has not been given; when something is taken away, to give it up readily and without delay, being grateful for the time in which he had the use of it – all this if you do not wish to be crying for your nurse and your mammy! (Discourses, 2.16.27-28)
Elsewhere, Epictetus talks about how, when death or misfortune strike, he wishes to be found obeying the commandments of Zeus. This are likewise described as (1) to use the powers, perceptions, and preconceptions, granted to him, wisely and (2) to be contented with whatever fate Zeus sends him:
For I wish to be surprised by disease or death when I am looking after nothing else than my own will, that I may be free from perturbation, that I may be free from hindrance, free from compulsion, and in a state of liberty. I wish to be found practising these things that I may be able to say to God, Have I in any respect transgressed thy commands? have I in any respect wrongly used the powers which thou gavest me? have I misused my perceptions or my preconceptions have I ever blamed thee? have I ever found fault with thy administration? I have been sick, because it was thy will, and so have others, but I was content to be sick. I have been poor because it was thy will, but I was content also. I have not filled a magisterial office, because it was not thy pleasure that I should: I have never desired it Hast thou ever seen me for this reason discontented? have I not always approached thee with a cheerful countenance, ready to do thy commands and to obey thy signals? Is it now thy will that I should depart from the assemblage of men? I depart. I give thee all thanks that thou hast allowed me to join in this thy assemblage of men and to see thy works, and to comprehend this thy administration. (Discourses, 3.5)
Again, Epictetus insists that Zeus himself has given them guidance. Perhaps recalling Heraclitus (“Listening not to me but to the Logos…”) he therefore insists the students present should listen to the guidance of Zeus and not to their mortal teacher. Again, the word of Zeus, embodied in human nature, clearly encapsulates the basic Stoic doctrine (“Follow Nature”), which divides into the twofold injunction: (1) Protect that which is your own, your reason, volition, and virtue; (2) do not grasp after that which is external, and belongs to another, or to God.
Has not Zeus given you directions? Has he not given you that which is your own, unhindered and unrestrained, while that which is not your own is subject to hindrance and restraint. What directions, then, did you bring with you when you came from him into this world, what kind of an order? Guard by every means that which is your own, but do not grasp at that which is another’s. Your trustworthiness is your own, your self-respect is your own; who then, can take these things from you? Who but yourself will prevent you from using them? But you, how do you act? When you seek earnestly that which is not your own, you lose that which is your own. Since you have such promptings and directions from Zeus, what kind do you still want from me? Am I greater than he, or more trustworthy? But if you keep these commands of his, do you need any others besides? But has he not given you these directions? (Discourses, 1.25.3-6)
Likewise, a fragment attributed as being “by [Musonius] Rufus from Epictetus” by Stobaeus reads as follows:
Of the things that exist, Zeus has put some in our control and some not in our control. In our control is the most beautiful and important thing, the thing because of which even the god himself is happy – namely, the proper use of our impressions. Such use brings freedom, prosperity, serenity, and stability; it also brings justice, law, self-control, and complete virtue. All other things he did not put in our control. Therefore, we must agree with [Zeus] the god: after we have divided matters in this way, we must concern ourselves absolutely with the things that are under our control and entrust the things not in our control to the universe. And whether it be our children, our fatherland, our body, or anything else that the universe demands, we must yield them readily.
However, although these passages suggest that the Stoics mainly attributed their central Ethical precept to Zeus, Epictetus also bemoans the fact that even Zeus has been unable to teach mankind about the nature of good and evil:
[To teach people not to pity you unnecessarily] is ineffectual and tedious – to attempt the very thing which Zeus himself has been unable to accomplish, that is, to convince all men of what things are good, and what evil. Why, that has not been vouchsafed to you, has it? Nay, this only has been vouchsafed – to convince yourself. (Discourses, 4.6.5)
Moreover, there are a couple of other cryptic passages in which Epictetus appears to attribute certain doctrines or sayings to Zeus. First, “let the better always prevail over the worse”, which seems to be taken by the Stoics to mean that the Divine Spark in man, his volition (prohairesis), is inherently able to overcome external impressions, through the faculty of judgement.
[…] nothing else can overcome volition, but it overcomes itself. For this reason too the law of God is most good and most just: “Let the better always prevail over the worse.” […] For this is a law of nature and of God: “Let the better always prevail over the worse.” Prevail in what? In that in which it is better. (Discourses, 1.29.13)
The second passage suggests that a Divine Law says that he who falsely claims to be a Stoic, or who, in general, claims things outside of his control as his own, is doomed to suffer and injure himself as a result:
For what does this [divine] law say? Let him who pretends to things which do not belong to him be a boaster, a vain-glorious man: let him who disobeys the divine administration be base, and a slave; let him suffer grief, let him be envious, let him pity; and in a word let him be unhappy and lament. (Discourses, 3.24)
There’s also a peculiar passage in Book Nine of the Stoic Lucan’s epic poem Pharsalia, about the Great Roman Civil War. The Stoic hero Cato marches his beleaguered troops through the deserts of Africa, where they endure many hardships, and suffer many casualties. However, they are inspired to persevere in the face of great adversity by Cato’s example. At one point, Cato’s army come across the only temple to Jupiter (or Zeus), under the name of Ammon, in the surrounding lands. A general who had defected from Caesar’s army, Labienus, urges Cato to consult the oracle about their fate in the civil war. However, Cato refuses to do so, because of his Stoic principles, and instead becomes a kind of oracle himself, delivering a short speech on Stoic doctrine to reproach and inspire his men.
He, filled with the god he carried in his silent mind,
poured forth from his breast words worthy of the shrine:
’What question, Labienus, do you bid me ask? Whether I prefer
to meet my death in battle, free, to witnessing a tyranny?
Whether it makes no difference if our lives be long or short?
Whether violence can harm no good man and Fortune wastes her threats
when virtue lines up against her, and whether it is enough to wish for
things commendable and whether what is upright never grows by its success?
We know the answer: Ammon will not plant it deeper in me.
We are all connected with the gods above, and even if the shrine is silent
we do nothing without God’s will; no need has deity of any
utterances: the Creator told us at our birth once and always
whatever we can know. Did he select the barren sands
to prophesy to a few and in this dust submerge the truth
and is there any house of God except the earth and sea and air
and sky and excellence? Why do we seek gods any further?
Whatever you see, whatever you experience, is Jupiter.
Let those unsure and always dubious of future events
require fortune-tellers: no oracles make me certain,
certain death does. Coward and brave must fall:
it is enough that Jupiter has said this.’ So declaring
he departed from the altars with the temples credit intact,
leaving Ammon to the peoples, uninvestigated.
So Cato is portrayed as saying that he does not need to consult Zeus in a temple. Zeno reputedly said that the ideal Stoic Republic, incidentally would have no place for temples. Zeus is all around us, in whatever we see or hear. Moreover, he has planted the seed of virtue, knowledge of our goal in life, within us, including the clue that death is certain for all men. It’s only what we can know from within, without depending on external sources of information, that’s of absolute moral importance – otherwise such knowledge would lie in the hands of fate rather than within our own power. Perhaps because we depend only on ourselves for knowledge of the good, we can grasp it with complete certainty, which provides wisdom with a special security or stability, once attained.
Finally, the famous Hymn to Zeus of Cleanthes. Epictetus quotes this repeatedly, although never more than the first four lines below, and sometimes the first line only. This doesn’t tell us any more about the laws or commandments attributed by Stoics to Zeus but it’s the perfect expression of their commitment to “Follow Nature” or “Follow God”, namely Zeus, in all they do:
Lead me on, O Zeus, and thou Destiny,
To that goal long ago to me assigned.
I’ll follow readily but if my will prove weak;
Wretched as I am, I must follow still.
Fate guides the willing, but drags the unwilling.– Cleanthes, Hymn to Zeus
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Invictus by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)
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Goethe: Aphorisms on Nature
Translated by T. H. Huxley
NATURE! We are surrounded and embraced by her: powerless to separate ourselves from her, and powerless to penetrate beyond her.
Without asking, or warning, she snatches us up into her circling dance, and whirls us on until we are tired, and drop from her arms.
She is ever shaping new forms: what is, has never yet been; what has been, comes not again. Everything is new, and yet nought but the old.
We live in her midst and know her not. She is incessantly speaking to us, but betrays not her secret. We constantly act upon her, and yet have no power over her.
The one thing she seems to aim at is Individuality; yet she cares nothing for individuals. She is always building up and destroying; but her workshop is inaccessible.
Her life is in her children; but where is the mother? She is the only artist; working-up the most uniform material into utter opposites; arriving, without a trace of effort, at perfection, at the most exact precision, though always veiled under a certain softness.
Each of her works has an essence of its own; each of her phenomena a special characterisation: and yet their diversity is in unity.
She performs a play; we know not whether she sees it herself, and yet she acts for us, the lookers-on.
Incessant life, development, and movement are in her, but she advances not. She changes for ever and ever, and rests not a moment. Quietude is inconceivable to her, and she has laid her curse upon rest. She is firm. Her steps are measured, her exceptions rare, her laws unchangeable.
She has always thought and always thinks; though not as a man, but as Nature. She broods over an all-comprehending idea, which no searching can find out.
Mankind dwell in her and she in them. With all men she plays a game for love, and rejoices the more they win. With many, her moves are so hidden, that the game is over before they know it.
That which is most unnatural is still Nature; the stupidest philistinism has a touch of her genius. Whoso cannot see her everywhere, sees her nowhere rightly.
She loves herself, and her innumberable eyes and affections are fixed upon herself. She has divided herself that she may be her own delight. She causes an endless succession of new capacities for enjoyment to spring up, that her insatiable sympathy may be assuaged.
She rejoices in illusion. Whoso destroys it in himself and others, him she punishes with the sternest tyranny. Whoso follows her in faith, him she takes as a child to her bosom.
Her children are numberless. To none is she altogether miserly; but she has her favourites, on whom she squanders much, and for whom she makes great sacrifices. Over greatness she spreads her shield.
She tosses her creatures out of nothingness, and tells them not whence they came, nor whither they go. It is their business to run, she knows the road.
Her mechanism has few springs — but they never wear out, are always active and manifold.
The spectacle of Nature is always new, for she is always renewing the spectators. Life is her most exquisite invention; and death is her expert contrivance to get plenty of life.
She wraps man in darkness, and makes him for ever long for light. She creates him dependent upon the earth, dull and heavy; and yet is always shaking him until he attempts to soar above it.
She creates needs because she loves action. Wondrous! that she produces all this action so easily. Every need is a benefit, swiftly satisfied, swiftly renewed.— Every fresh want is a new source of pleasure, but she soon reaches an equilibrium.
Every instant she commences an immense journey, and every instant she has reached her goal.
She is vanity of vanities; but not to us, to whom she has made herself of the greatest importance. She allows every child to play tricks with her; every fool to have judgment upon her; thousands to walk stupidly over her and see nothing; and takes her pleasure and finds her account in them all.
We obey her laws even when we rebel against them; we work with her even when we desire to work against her.
She makes every gift a benefit by causing us to want it. She delays, that we may desire her; she hastens, that we may not weary of her.
She has neither language nor discourse; but she creates tongues and hearts, by which she feels and speaks.
Her crown is love. Through love alone dare we come near her. She separates all existences, and all tend to intermingle. She has isolated all things in order that all may approach one another. She holds a couple of draughts from the cup of love to be fair payment for the pains of a lifetime.
She is all things. She rewards herself and punishes herself; is her own joy and her own misery. She is rough and tender, lovely and hateful, powerless and omnipotent. She is an eternal present. Past and future are unknown to her. The present is her eternity. She is beneficient. I praise her and all her works. She is silent and wise.
No explanation is wrung from her; no present won from her, which she does not give freely. She is cunning, but for good ends; and it is best not to notice her tricks.
She is complete, but never finished. As she works now, so can she always work. Everyone sees her in his own fashion. She hides under a thousand names and phrases, and is always the same. She has brought me here and will also lead me away. I trust her. She may scold me, but she will not hate her work. It was not I who spoke of her. No! What is false and what is true, she has spoken it all. The fault, the merit, is all hers.
“For what shall it profit [ôphelei] a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” (Mark, 8.36)
“No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.” (Matthew, 6.24)
What if we were to view life as consisting of a series of “transactions”, in which our own actions and character are “spent” in exchange for various things? According to the Stoics, virtue is always profitable, because it is a reward enough in itself but also leads to many other good things, such as friendship. Accepting that your fate entails the occasional loss of external things is the price nature demands for your sanity. If the price you pay for external things is that you enslave yourself to them or to other people, says Epictetus, then be grateful that if you renounce them by saving your freedom you have profited insofar as you put a higher value upon that.
This metaphor goes back at least as far as Socrates, who says in Plato’s Phaedo:
The exchange of one fear or pleasure or pain for another fear or pleasure or pain, which are measured like coins, the greater with the less, is not the exchange of virtue. O, my dear Simmias, is there not one true coin, for which all things ought to exchange?—and that is wisdom; and only in exchange for this, and in company with this, is anything truly bought or sold, whether courage or temperance or justice. …in the true exchange, there is a purging away of all these things, and temperance, and justice, and courage, and wisdom herself are a purgation of them.
The early Stoics reputedly defined the good as, among other things, that which is lusiteles or “profitable” (Diogenes Laertius, Lives, 7.98). According to Diogenes Laertius, this term was used as a synonym for the good specifically “because it pays back what is expended on it, so that it exceeds in benefit a mere repayment of the effort”. However, the same concept is appealed to by the late Roman Stoics. For example, Epictetus refers to the incident when a thief stole his (relatively valuable) iron lamp during the night:
That is why I lost my lamp, because in the matter of keeping awake the thief was better than I was. However, he bought a lamp for a very high price; for a lamp he became a thief, for a lamp he became untrustworthy, for a lamp he became like a wild-beast. This seemed to him to be profitable [lusiteles]. (Discourses, 1.29.21)
He also alludes here to another Stoic theory, which held that insofar as we abandon reason and hand over our actions to our passions we become like animals rather than rational human beings. By placing too much value on external objects we risk sacrificing our very humanity. At times, indeed, this analogy with financial transactions is made very explicit in Stoic writings:
[…] and bear in mind that, if you do not act the same way that others do, with a view to getting things which are not under our control. you cannot be considered worthy to receive an equal share with others. […] You will be unjust, therefore, and insatiable, if, while refusing to pay the price for which such things are bought, you want to obtain them for nothing. Well, what is the price for heads of lettuce? An obol, perhaps. If, then, somebody gives up his obol and gets his heads of lettuce, while you do not give your obol, and do not get them, do not imagine that you are worse off than the man who gets his lettuce. For as he has heads of lettuce, so you have your obol which you have not given away.
Now it is the same way also in life. You have not been invited to somebody’s dinner party? Of course not; for you didn’t give the host the price at which he sells his dinner. He sells it for praise; he sells it for personal attention. Give him the price, then, for which it is sold, if it is to your interest. But if you wish both not to give up the one and yet to get the other, you are insatiable and a simpleton. Have you, then, nothing in place of the dinner? Indeed you have; you have not had to praise the man you did not want to praise; you have not had to put up with the insolence of his doorkeepers. (Enchiridion, 25)
Likewise, we’re told that for the early Stoics the most important synonym of the good (agathos) was the noun “benefit” (ôpheleia) or “help” (yes, perhaps like the name of Hamlet’s “girlfriend”, Ophelia). This word can mean the “help” a physician provides to a patient, military support, but also help or assistance in a more general sense, including financial assistance, and it is sometimes also translated as a “profit”.
What, must you lose a bit of money so as to suffer damage, and does the loss of nothing else damage a man? Yet, if you lost your skill in the use of language or in music, you would regard the loss of it as damage but if you are going to lose self-respect and dignity and gentleness, do you think that does not matter? […] What does the adulterer lose? He loses the man of self-respect that was, the man of self-control, the gentleman, the citizen, the neighbour. What doe the man lose who is given to anger? Something else. Who is given to fear? Something else. No one is wretched without loss and damage. Furthermore, if you look for your loss in money, all those whom I have just mentioned suffer neither injury nor loss; nay, if it so chance, they even get gain and profit [ôpheleia], when, through some of their deeds just mentioned they also acquire money. […] Is there, then, no such thing as a faculty of the mind, the possession of which means gain to a man, and the loss, injury? –What faculty do you mean? Have we not a natural sense of self-respect [which is lost or harmed]? (Discourses, 2.10.14-22)
In other words, “the good” was interpreted as analogous to something profitable in a financial transaction or, as we might say, it’s a “good investment” on our part, one that “repays” everything we put into it. We might say the Stoic refuses to “sell out” and abandon his fundamental principles for material gain. There are, in fact, many references to the metaphor of financial transactions in the surviving Stoic literature and so this concept appears to have been a very old and important one in the Stoic tradition. It seems likely that the founders of Stoicism, whose writings are almost entirely lost to us now, may have written more on the subject, which inspired the later Roman Stoics to continue the theme.
Thus then in life also the chief business is this: distinguish and separate things, and say, Externals are not in my power: will is in my power. Where shall I seek the good and the bad? Within, in the things which are my own. But in what does not belong to you call nothing either good or bad, or profit [ôpheleia] or damage or any thing of the kind. (Discourses, 2.5, 4-5)
What then is being bought and sold?
Do you suppose that you can do the things you do now, and yet be a philosopher? Do you suppose that you can eat in the same fashion, drink in the same fashion, give way to anger and to irritation, just as you do now? You must keep vigils, work hard, overcome certain desires, abandon your own people, be despised by a paltry slave, be laughed to scorn by those who meet you, in everything get the worst of it, in office, in honour, in court. Look these drawbacks over carefully, and then, if you think best, approach philosophy, that is, if you are willing at the price of these things to secure absence of irrational passions [apatheia], freedom [eleutheria], and absence of distress [ataraxia]. (Discourses, 3.15.8-12; cf. Enchiridion, 29)
Essentially, we are selling our own essential nature as rational beings, our ruling faculty (hêgemonikon) or volition (prohairesis), into slavery. More specifically, Epictetus repeatedly refers to the price we are willing to pay for:
- “Absence of irrational passions” (apatheia), sometimes translated as tranquillity or calm
- “Absence of distress” (ataraxia), sometimes translated as peace of mind
- “Freedom” (eleutheria), which contrasts with the many references to “slavery” in Stoic writings
Hence, we are by nature “free” but sell ourselves, throughout life, in a way that must, to the ancient Greeks and Romans, have recalled the selling of a slave, a metaphor widespread in Stoic literature.
Now it so happens that the rational and the irrational are different for different persons, precisely as good and evil, and the profitable and the unprofitable, are different for different persons. It is for this reason especially that we need education, so as to learn how, in conformity with nature, to adapt to specific instances our preconceive idea of what is rational and what is irrational. But for determining the rational and the irrational, we employ not only our estimates of the value of external things, but also the criterion of that which is in keeping with one’s own character. […] For you are the one that knows yourself, how much you are worth in your own eyes and at what price you sell yourself. For different men sell themselves at different prices. (Discourses, 1.2.11)
Study these things, these judgements, these arguments, look at these examples, if you wish to have freedom [eleutheria], if you desire the thing itself in proportion to its value. And what wonder is there if you buy something so great at the price of things so many and so great? (Discourses, 4.1.170-172)
The price of being a philosopher, and fulfilling our potential as rational beings, can be particularly high but the rewards make it a profitable investment.
But that this may take place [the attainment of wisdom] a man must accept no small troubles, and must miss no small things. You cannot wish for a consulship and at the same time wish for this; you cannot have set your heart upon having lands and this too; you cannot at the same time be solicitous for your paltry slaves and yourself too. But if you wish for any one of the things that are not your own, what is your own is lost. This is the nature of the matter: Nothing is done except for a price [proika ouden ginetai]. And why be surprised? […] For absence of irrational passions [apatheia], then, for absence of distress [ataraxia], for sleeping when you are asleep, and being awake when you are awake, for fearing nothing, for being in great anxiety about nothing, are you unwilling to spend anything, to make any exertion? But if something that belongs to you be lost while you are engaged in these affairs, or be spent to no purpose, or someone else get what you ought to have got, are you going to be vexed immediately at what has happened? Will you not balance off what you are getting in return for what, how much in return for how much? Nay, do you wish to get such valuable things for nothing? And how can you? “One serious business [has no partnership] with another.”
You cannot be continually giving attention to both externals and your own ruling faculty [hêgemonikon]. But if you want the former, let the latter go; otherwise you will have neither the latter nor the former, being drawn in both directions. (Discourses, 4.10.18-20)
The proverb “One serious business has no partnership with another” resembles “You cannot serve God and mammon.” Also, “Do you wish to get such valuable things for nothing?”, etc., might be seen to resemble Spinoza’s “All excellent things are as difficult as they are rare.”
Your paltry oil gets spilled, your miserable wine stolen; say to yourself, “This is the price paid for absence of irrational passions [apatheia], this is the price for absence of distress [ataraxia].” Nothing is got without a price. (Enchiridion, 12)
In short, it’s possible that the phrase “nothing is got without a price”, which occurs twice in Epictetus, is being presented as a maxim employed in Stoicism, albeit one which could have been an already-established folk-saying.
Before the Stoics, in Plato’s Phaedo, Socrates uses the analogy of financial transaction to suggest that men who show courage in one situation out of fear of another, or moderation in one area for the sake of licence in another, are doing so at no profit and that the only “valid currency” which pleasures and pains should be exchanged for the sake of, is wisdom (Phaedo, 69ab). When we endure pain or forbear pleasure for wisdom, we have genuine virtue, otherwise we have pseudo-virtues. Yet if men are willing to suffer danger for lust, we might add, or to sacrifice pleasure to avoid danger, then this proves that virtue is possible, and lovers of wisdom should be even more willing than these men to do the same things for greater profit. If men are willing to show great courage and self-discipline for small change then why are we not willing to do so for the chief good in life?
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Stoicism in the Poetry of Persius
Persius was a Roman poet and satirist (34-62 AD), who was apparently schooled in Stoic philosophy from adolescence and explicitly refers to it in his surviving writings. He was a contemporary of the philosopher Seneca, whom he apparently met, and was friends with Seneca’s nephew, the Stoic epic-poet Lucan, although his own mentor was Lucius Annaeus Cornutus, also a Stoic.
Persius’ fifth Satire is actually dedicated to Cornutus, focuses on Stoic philosophy, and expresses his gratitude to the man who taught him “the Stoic way of life”. Some excerpts that address relevant themes are as follows:
Has philosophy taught you to live
a good upstanding life? Can you tell the true from the specious,
alert for the false chink of copper beneath the gold?
Have you settled what to aim for and also what to avoid,
marking the former list with chalk and the other with charcoal?
Are your wants modest, your housekeeping thrifty? Are you nice to your friends?
Do you know when to shut your barns and throw them open? […]
Well then, two hooks are pulling on opposite ways.
Which will you follow, this or that? Your loyalty is bound
to vacillate, obeying and desecrating each master in turn.
Even if you once succeed in making a stand and defying
their incessant orders, you can’t say ‘I’ve broken my bonds!’
For a dog may snap its fastening after a struggle, but still
as it runs away a length of chain trails from its neck.
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Stoicism in Horace’s Satires
Stoicism in Horace’s Satires
The Roman poet Horace (65- 8 BC) explicitly refers to Stoicism several times in his Satires and Epistles, and there appear to be many more Stoic influences scattered throughout his work. Horace studied philosophy in Athens but scholars disagree as to whether he was primarily a Stoic, an Epicurean, or an eclectic.
One of the Satires (2.7) describes a speech delivered to Horace during the festival of Saturnalia by his own slave, called Davus, who had learned Stoicism from a servant of the (perhaps fictional) Stoic philosopher and poet Crispinus.
Who then is free? The wise man who is master of himself,
who remains undaunted in the face of poverty, chains and death,
who stubbornly defies his passions and despises positions of power,
a man complete in himself, smooth and round, who prevents
extraneous elements clinging to his polished surface, who is such
that when Fortune attacks him she maims only herself. Can you
lay claim to a single one of these qualities? A woman demands
a small fortune, bullies you, slams the door, saturates you
with cold water – and invites you back. Tear that degrading yoke from your neck! Come on, say you are free! You can’t.
For a cruel master is riding your soul, jabbing the spurs
in your weary flanks, and hauling round your head when you shy. […]Moreover, you can’t stand so much as an hour of your own company
or spend your leisure properly; you avoid yourself like a truant
or fugitive, hoping by drink or sleep to elude Angst.
But it’s no good, for that dark companion stays on your heels.
The first excerpt above resembles several passages from the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius (121-180 AD), written over 200 years later:
Are you affected by pain or pleasure? Your senses must look to that. Did something stand in the way of your impulse? If you exercised your impulse without reservation the hindrance will be detrimental to you as a rational being, but if you anticipated the obstacle, you are not yet harmed or hindered. As to the operations of your intellect, no other person is in a position to hinder them; for neither fire, nor steel, nor a tyrant, nor abuse, can affect the mind in any way. When it has become a ‘well-rounded sphere’, it always remains so. (8.41)
He repeats this metaphor of the sphere again, attributing it to the presocratic philosopher Empedocles:
There are three things of which you are composed: body, breath, and mind. Of these, the first two are your own in so far as it is your duty to take care of them; but only the third is your own in the full sense. So if you will put away from yourself—that is to say, from your mind—all that others do or say, and all that you yourself have done or said, and all that troubles you with regard to the future, and all that belongs to the body which envelops you, and to the breath conjoined with it, or is attached to you independently of your will, and all that the vortex whirling around outside you sweeps in its wake, so that the power of your mind, thus delivered from the bonds of fate, may live a pure and unfettered life alone with itself doing what is just, desiring what comes to pass, and saying what is true—if, I say, you will put away from your ruling centre all that accretes to it from the affections of the body, and all that lies in the future or in time gone by, and make yourself, in Empedocles’ words, ‘a well-rounded sphere rejoicing in the solitude around it’, and strive to live only the life that is your own, that is to say, your present life, then you will be able to pass at least the time that is left to you until you die in calm and kindliness, and as one who is at peace with the guardian-spirit that dwells within him. (12.3)
Elsewhere, Marcus appears to refer once more to this Empedoclean “sphere”:
The soul is “a sphere truly shaped”, when it neither projects itself towards anything outside nor shrinks together inwardly, neither expands nor contracts, but irradiates a light whereby it sees the reality of all things and the reality that is in itself. (Meditations, 11.12)
Empedocles was a very ancient Pythagorean-influenced philosopher. The Stoics in general make many references to Pythagorean theories and practices, which this should probably be grouped alongside. It’s possible that Marcus had read this passage from Horace and was influenced by it. However, it may be more likely that they are both drawing upon a third, older, unnamed Stoic source, that makes use of this concept from Empedocles.
The second excerpt from Horace above, about “that dark companion”, also resembles a Pythagorean text called The Golden Verses, which is cited by both Epictetus and Seneca, and clearly played an important role in Stoicism:
Men shall you find whose sorrows themselves have created,
Wretches who see not the Good, that is too near, nothing they hear;
Few know how to help themselves in misfortune.
That is the Fate that blinds humanity; in circles,
Hither and yon they run in endless sorrows;
For they are followed by a grim companion, disunion within themselves;
Unnoticed; never rouse him, and fly from before him!
Father Zeus, O free them all from sufferings so great,
Or show unto each the daemon, who is their guide!