by Epictetus
Diogenes, who before you was sent forth as a scout, has brought us back a different report. He says, “Death is not an evil, since it is not dishonourable”; he says, “Ill repute is a noise made by madmen.” And what a report this scout has made us about toil and about pleasure and about poverty! He says, “To be naked is better than any scarlet robe; and to sleep on the bare ground,” he says, “is the softest couch.” And he offers as a proof of each statement his own courage, his tranquillity, his freedom, and finally his body, radiant with health and hardened. “There is no enemy near,” says he; “all is full of peace.” How so, Diogenes? “Why, look!” says he, “I have not been struck with any missile, have I, or received any wound? I have not fled from anyone, have I?” This is what it means to be a proper scout, but you return and tell us one thing after another. Will you not go away again and observe more accurately, without this cowardice?
What am I to do, then? — What do you do when you disembark from a ship? You do not pick up the rudder, do you, or the oars? What do you pick up, then? Your own luggage, your oil-flask, your wallet. So now, if you are mindful of what is your own property, you will never lay claim to that which is another’s. He says to you, “Lay aside your broad scarlet hem” Behold, the narrow hem. “Lay aside this also.” Behold, the plain toga. “Lay aside your toga.” Behold, I am naked. “But you arouse my envy.” Well, then, take the whole of my paltry body. Do I any longer fear the man to whom I can throw my body? But he will not leave me as his heir. What then? Did I forget that none of these things is my own? How, then, do we call them “‘my own”? Merely as we call the bed in the inn “my own.” If, then, the inn-keeper dies and leaves you the beds, you will have them; but if he leaves them to someone else, he will have them, and you will look for another bed. If, then, you do not find one, you will have to sleep on the ground; only do so with good courage, snoring and remembering that tragedies find a place among the rich and among kings and tyrants, but no poor man fills a tragic role except as a member of the chorus. Now the kings commence in a state of prosperity:
“Hang the palace with garlands”;
then, about the third or fourth act, comes —
“Alas, Cithaeron, why didst thou receive me?”
Slave, where are your crowns, where your diadem? Do your guards avail you not at all? When, therefore, you approach one of those great men, remember all this — that you are approaching a tragic character, not the actor, but Oedipus himself. “Nay, but so-and-so is blessed; for he has many companions to walk with.” So have I; I fall in line with the multitude and have many companions to walk with. But, to sum it all up: remember that the door has been thrown open. Do not become a greater coward than the children, but just as they say, “I wont play any longer,” when the thing does not please them, so do you also, when things seem to you to have reached that stage, merely say, “I won’t play any longer,” and take your departure; but if you stay, stop lamenting.
CHAPTER XXV
Upon the same theme
If all this is true and we are not silly nor merely playing a part when we say, “Man’s good and man’s evil lies in moral choice, and all other things are nothing to us,” why are we still distressed and afraid? Over the things that we seriously care for no one has authority; and the things over which other men have authority do not concern us. What kind of thing have we left to discuss?— “Nay, give me directions.” — What directions shall I give you? 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 faithfulness 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? Produce your preconceptions, produce the demonstrations of the philosophers, produce what you have often heard, and produce what you have said yourself, produce what you have read, produce what you have practised.
How long, then, is it well to keep these precepts and not to break up the game? As long as it is played pleasantly. At the Saturnalia a king is chosen by lot; for it has been decided to play this game. The king gives his commands: “You drink, you mix wine, you sing, you go, you come.” I obey, so as not to be the one to break up the game. “Come, suppose that you are in an evil plight.” I do not so suppose; and who is there to compel me so to suppose? Again, we have agreed to play the story of Agamemnon and Achilles. The one who has been appointed to play the part of Agamemnon says to me, “Go to Achilles, and drag away Briseis.” I go. He says, “Come,” and I come. For as we behave in the matter of hypothetical proposals, so we ought to behave in life also. “Let it be night.” So be it. “What then? Is it day?” No, for I have accepted the assumption that it is night. “Let us suppose that you assume it to be night” So be it. “But go on and assume that it is night,” That is not consistent with the hypothesis. So also in the present case. “Let us suppose that you are unhappy.” So be it, “Are you, then, unfortunate?” Yes. “What then? Are you troubled with ill-fortune?” Yes. “But go on and assume that you are in a wretched plight.” That is not consistent with the hypothesis; moreover, there is Another who forbids me so to think.
How long, then, should we obey such commands? As long as it is beneficial, and that means, as long as I preserve what is becoming and consistent. Further, some men are unduly crabbed and have too sharp tongues and say, “I cannot dine at this fellow’s house, where I have to put up with his telling every day how he fought in Moesia: ‘I have told you, brother, how I climbed up to the crest of the hill; well now, I begin to be besieged again.’” But another says, “I would rather dine and hear him babble all he pleases.” And it is for you to compare these estimates; only do nothing as one burdened, or afflicted, or thinking that he is in a wretched plight; for no one forces you to this. Has some one made a smoke in the house? If he has made a moderate amount of smoke I shall stay; if too much, I go outside. For one ought to remember and hold fast to this, that the door stands open. But some one says, “Do not dwell in Nicopolis.” I agree not to dwell there. “Nor in Athens.” I agree not to dwell in Athens, either. “Nor in Rome.” I agree not to dwell in Rome, either. “Dwell in Gyara.” I agree to dwell there. But to dwell in Gyara seems to me to be like a great quantity of smoke in the house. I leave for a place where no one will prevent me from dwelling; for that dwelling-place stands open to every man. And as for the last inner tunic, that is, my paltry body, beyond that no one has any authority over me. That is why Demetrius said to Nero, “You threaten me with death, but nature threatens you.” If I admire my paltry body, I have given myself away as a slave; if I admire my paltry property, I have given myself away as a slave; for at once I show thereby to my own hurt what I can be caught with. Just as when the snake draws in his head, I say, “Strike that part of him which he is protecting”; so do you be assured that your master will attack you at that point which you particularly wish to protect. If you remember all this, whom will you flatter or fear any more?
But I wish to sit where the senators do. — Do you realize that you are making close quarters for yourself, that you are crowding yourself? — How else, then, shall I have a good view in the amphitheatre? — Man, do not become spectator and you will not be crowded. Why do you make trouble for yourself? Or else wait a little while, and when the show is over sit down among the seats of the senators and sun yourself. For in general remember this — that we crowd ourselves, we make close quarters for ourselves, that is to say, the decision
s of our will crowd us and make us close quarters. Why, what is this matter of being reviled? Take your stand by a stone and revile it; and what effect will you produce? If, then, a man listens like a stone, what profit is there to the reviler? But if the reviler has the weakness of the reviled as a point of vantage, then he does accomplish something. “Strip him.” Why do you say ‘him’? Take his cloak and strip that off. “I have outraged you.” Much good may it do you! This is what Socrates practised, and that is why he always wore the same expression on his face. But we prefer to practise and rehearse anything rather than how to be untrammelled and free. “The philosophers talk paradoxes,” you say. But are there not paradoxes in the other arts? And what is more paradoxical than to lance a man in the eye in order that he may see? If anyone said this to a man who was inexperienced in the art of surgery, would he not laugh at the speaker? What is there to be surprised at, then, if in philosophy also many things which are true appear paradoxical to the inexperienced?
CHAPTER XXVI
What is the rule of life?
As some one was reading the hypothetical arguments, Epictetus said, This also is a law governing hypotheses — that we must accept what the hypothesis or premiss demands. But much more important is the following law of life — that we must do what nature demands. For if we wish in every matter and circumstance to observe what is in accordance with nature, it is manifest that in everything we should make it our aim neither to avoid that which nature demands, nor to accept that which is in conflict with nature. The philosophers, therefore, exercise us first in the theory where there is less difficulty, and then after that lead us to the more difficult matters; for in theory there is nothing which holds us back from following what we are taught, but in the affairs of life there are many things which draw us away. He is ridiculous, then, who says that he wishes to begin with the latter; for it is not easy to begin with the more difficult things. And this is the defence that we ought to present to such parents as are angry because their children study philosophy. “Very well then, father, I go astray, not knowing what is incumbent upon me or what my duty is. Now if this is a thing that can neither be taught nor learned, why do you reproach me? But if it can be taught, teach me; and if you cannot do this, allow me to learn from those who profess to know. Really, what is your idea? That I intentionally fall into evil and miss the good? Far from it! What, then, is the cause of my going astray? Ignorance. Very well, do you not want me to put away my ignorance? Whom did anger ever teach the art of steering, or music? Do you think, then, that your anger will make me learn the art of living?”
Only he can so speak who has applied himself to philosophy in such a spirit. But if a man reads upon the subject and resorts to the philosophers merely because he wants to make a display at a banquet of his knowledge of hypothetical arguments, what else is he doing but trying to win the admiration of some senator sitting by his side? For there in Rome are found in truth the great resources, while the riches of Nicopolis look to them like mere child’s-play. Hence it is difficult there for a man to control his own external impressions, since the distracting influences at Rome are great. I know a certain man who clung in tears to the knees of Epaphroditus and said that he was in misery; for he had nothing left but a million and a half sesterces. What, then, did Epaphroditus do? Did he laugh at him as you are laughing? No; he only said, in a tone of amazement, “Poor man, how, then, did you manage to keep silence? How did you endure it?”
Once when he had disconcerted the student who was reading the hypothetical arguments, and the one who had set the other the passage to read laughed at him, Epictetus said to the latter, “You are laughing at yourself. You did not give the young man a preliminary training, nor discover whether he was able to follow these arguments, but you treat him merely as a reader. Why is it, then,” he added, “that to a mind unable to follow a judgement upon a complex argument we entrust the assigning of praise or blame, or the passing of a judgement upon what is done well or ill? If such a person speaks ill of another, does the man in question pay any attention to him, or if he praises another, is the latter elated? when the one who is dispensing praise or blame is unable, in matters as trivial as these, to find the logical consequence? This, then, is a starting point in philosophy — a perception of the state of one’s own governing principle; for when once a man realizes that it is weak, he will no longer wish to employ it upon great matters. But as it is, some who are unable to swallow the morsel buy a whole treatise and set to work to eat that. Consequently they throw up, or have indigestion; after that come colics and fluxes and fevers. But they ought first to have considered whether they have the requisite capacity. However, in a matter of theory it is easy enough to confute the man who does not know, but in the affairs of life a man does not submit himself to confutation, and we hate the person who has confuted us. But Socrates used to tell us not to live a life unsubjected to examination.
CHAPTER XXVII.
In how many ways do the external impressions arise, and what aids should we have ready at hand to deal with them?
The external impressions come to us in four ways; for either things are, and seem so to be; or they are not, and do not seem to be, either; or they are, and do not seem to be; or they are not, and yet seem to be. Consequently, in all these cases it is the business of the educated man to hit the mark. But whatever be the thing that distresses us, against that we ought to bring up our reinforcements. If the things that distress us are sophisms of Pyrrho and the Academy, let us bring up our reinforcements against them; if they are the plausibilities of things, whereby we are led to think that certain things are good when they are not, let us seek reinforcements at that point; if the thing that distresses us is a habit, we should try to hunt up the reinforcements with which to oppose that. What reinforcements, then, is it possible to find with which to oppose habit? Why, the contrary habit. You hear the common folk saying, “That poor man! He is dead; his father perished, and his mother; he was cut off, yes, and before his time, and in a foreign land.” Listen to the arguments on the other side, tear yourself away from these expressions, set over against one habit the contrary habit. To meet sophistic arguments we must have the processes of logic and the exercise and the familiarity with these; against the plausibilities of things we must have our preconceptions clear, polished like weapons, and ready at hand.
When death appears to be an evil, we must have ready at hand the argument that it is our duty to avoid evils, and that death is an inevitable thing. For what can I do? Where shall I go to escape it? Suppose that I am Sarpedon the son of Zeus, in order that I may nobly say, as he did: “Seeing that I have left my home for the war, I wish either to win the prize of valour myself, or else to give someone else the chance to win it; if I am unable to succeed in something myself, I shall not begrudge another the achievement of some noble deed.” Granted that such an act as Sarpedon’s is beyond us, does not the other alternative fall within the compass of our powers? And where can I go to escape death? Show me the country, show me the people to whom I may go, upon whom death does not come; show me a magic charm against it. If I have none, what do you wish me to do? I cannot avoid death. Instead of avoiding the fear of it, shall I die in lamentation and trembling? For the origin of sorrow is this — to wish for something that does not come to pass. Therefore, if I can change externals according to my own wish, I change them; but if I cannot, I am ready to tear out the eyes of the man who stands in my way. For it is man’s nature not to endure to be deprived of the good, not to endure to fall into the evil. Then, finally, when I can neither change the circumstances, nor tear out the eyes of the man who stands in my way, I sit down and groan, and revile whom I can — Zeus and the rest of the gods; for if they do not care for me, what are they to me? “Yes,” you say, “but that will be impious of you.” What, then, shall I get that is worse than what I have now? In short, we must remember this — that unless piety and self-interest be conjoined, piety cannot be maintained in any man. Do not these considerations seem
urgent?
Let the follower of Pyrrho or of the Academy come and oppose us. Indeed I, for my part, have no leisure for such matters, nor can I act as advocate to the commonly received opinion. If I had a petty suit about a mere bit of land, I should have called in some one else to be my advocate. With what evidence, then, am I satisfied? With that which belongs to the matter in hand. To the question how perception arises, whether through the whole body, or from some particular part, perhaps I do not know how to give a reasonable answer, and both views perplex me. But that you and I are not the same persons, I know very certainly. Whence do I get this knowledge? When I want to swallow something, I never take the morsel to that place but to this; when I wish to take bread I never take sweepings, but I always go after the bread as to a mark. And do you yourselves, who take away the evidence of the senses, do anything else? Who among you when he wishes to go to a bath goes to a mill instead? — What then? Ought we not to the best of our ability hold fast also to this — maintain, that is, the commonly received opinion, and be on our guard against the arguments that seek to overthrow it? — And who disputes that? But only the man who has the power and the leisure should devote himself to these studies; while the man who is trembling and perplexed and whose heart is broken within him, ought to devote his leisure to something else.
CHAPTER XXVIII