by Epictetus
Man, be neither ungrateful for these gifts, nor yet forgetful of the better things, but for sight and hearing, yes and, by Zeus, for life itself and for what is conducive to it, for dry fruits, for wine, for olive oil, give thanks unto God; and at the same time remember that He has given you something better than all these things — the faculty which can make use of them, pass judgement upon them, estimate the value of each. For what is that which, in the case of each of these faculties, shows what it is worth? Is it each faculty itself? Did you ever hear the faculty of sight say anything about itself? Or the faculty of vision? No, but they have been appointed as servants and slaves to minister to the faculty which makes use of external impressions. And if you ask, what each thing is worth, of whom do you ask? Who is to answer you? How, then, can any other faculty be superior to this which both uses the rest as its servants, and itself passes judgement upon each several thing and pronounces upon it? For which one of them knows what it is and what it is worth? Which one of them knows when one ought to use it, and when not? What is the faculty that opens and closes the eyes, and turns them away from the things from which it should turn them, but directs them toward other things? The faculty of sight? No, but the faculty of moral purpose. What is the faculty that closes and opens the ears? What is that faculty by virtue of which men are curious and inquisitive, or again, unmoved by what is said? The faculty of hearing? No, it is none other than the faculty of moral purpose. When, then, this faculty sees that all the other faculties which surround it are blind and deaf, and unable to see anything but the very acts for which they have been appointed to serve and minister unto it, while it alone sees clearly and surveys, not only all the rest, determining what each is worth, but itself also, is it likely to pronounce that anything else is supreme but itself? And what else can the open eye do but see? But whether it ought to see someone’s wife and how, what faculty tells it? That of moral purpose. And what faculty tells a man whether he ought to believe what he has been told, or disbelieve, and, if he believes, whether he ought to be provoked by it or not? Is it not that of moral purpose? And this faculty of speech and of the adornment of language, if it really is a separate faculty, what else does it do, when discourse arises about some topic, but ornament and compose the words, as hairdressers do the hair? But whether it is better to speak than to keep silence, and to do so in this way, or in that, and whether this is appropriate or not appropriate, and the proper occasion and utility of each action — what else tells us all this but the faculty of moral purpose? Would you, then, have it come forward and condemn itself?
“What then,” says an objector, “if the matter stands like this, and it is possible for that which serves to be superior to what it serves — the horse to the rider, or the dog to the hunter, or his instrument to the harper, or his servants to the king?” Well, what faculty is it that uses the services of the rest in this way? Moral purpose. What is it that attends to everything? Moral purpose. What is it that destroys the whole man, sometimes by hunger, sometimes by a noose, sometimes by hurling him over a cliff? Moral purpose. Is there, then, anything stronger than this among men? Yet how can the things that are subject to hindrance be stronger than that which is unhindered? What are by their very nature capable of hindering the faculty of vision? Both moral purpose and things that lie outside its sphere. The same hinder vision; and so it is also with speech. But what is by its very nature capable of hindering moral purpose? Nothing that lies outside its sphere, but only itself when perverted. For this reason moral purpose becomes the only vice, or the only virtue.
Therefore, since it is so great a faculty and has been set over everything else, let it come before us and say that the flesh is of all things the most excellent. Nay, even if the flesh itself called itself most excellent, one would not have tolerated such a statement. But now what is it, Epicurus, that makes such a declaration? that composed the treatise On the End, or The Physics, or On the Standard? that caused you to let your beard grow long? that wrote as it was dying: “We are spending what is our last and at the same time a happy day?” Was it the flesh or the moral purpose? Come, do you confess that you have something superior to the flesh, and you are not insane, either? Are you, in all truth, so blind and deaf?
Well, what then? Does a man despise his other faculties? Far from it! Does a man say there is no use or advancement save in the faculty of moral purpose? Far from it! That is unintelligent, impious, ungrateful towards God. Nay, he is but assigning its true value to each thing. For there is some use in an ass, but not as much as there is in an ox; there is use also in a dog, but not as much as there is in a slave; there is use also in a slave, but not as much as there is in your fellow-citizens; there is use also in these, but not as much as there is in the magistrates. Yet because some things are superior we ought not to despise the use which the others give. There is a certain value also in the faculty of eloquence, but it is not as great as that of the faculty of moral purpose. When, therefore, I say this, let no one suppose that I am bidding you neglect speech, any more than I bid you neglect eyes, or ears, or hands, or feet, or dress, or shoes. But if you ask me, “What, then, is the highest of all things?” what shall I say? The faculty of eloquence? I cannot; but rather that of moral purpose, when it becomes a right moral purpose. For it is this which uses not only that faculty of eloquence but also all the other faculties both small and great; when this has been set right a man becomes good, when it has failed a man becomes bad; it is through this that we are unfortunate, and are fortunate, blame one another, and are pleased with one another; in a word, it is this which, when ignored, produces wretchedness, but when attended to produces happiness.
But to do away with the faculty of eloquence and to say that in all truth it is nothing is the act not merely of a man ungrateful to those who have given it, but also cowardly. For such a person seems to me to be afraid that, if there really is a faculty of this kind, we may not be able to despise it. Such also are those who assert that there is no difference between beauty and ugliness. What! could a man be affected in the same way by the sight of Thersites and that of Achilles? Or by the sight of Helen and that of some ordinary woman? But these are the notions of foolish and boorish persons who do not know the nature of each several thing, but are afraid that if a man notices the superiority of the faculty in question he will immediately be carried away by it and come off worsted. Nay, the great thing is this: to leave each in the possession of his own proper faculty, and, so leaving him, to observe the value of the faculty, and to learn what is the highest of all things, and in everything to pursue after this, to be zealous about this, treating all other things as of secondary value in comparison with it, though without neglecting these, as far as this is possible. For we must take care of our eyes too, yet not as the highest thing, but we must take care of them for the sake of the highest; because this latter will not have its natural perfection unless it uses the eyes with reason and chooses one thing instead of another.
What, then, generally takes place? Men act like a traveller on the way to his own country who stops at an excellent inn, and, since the inn pleases him, stays there. Man, you have forgotten your purpose; you were not travelling to this but through it. “But this is a fine inn.” And how many other inns are fine, and how many meadows — yet simply for passing through. But your purpose is the other thing, to return to your country, to relieve the fear of your kinsmen, to do the duties of a citizen yourself, to marry, bring up children, hold the customary offices. For you did not come into the world to select unusually fine places, I ween, but to live and go about your business in the place where you were born and were enrolled as a citizen. Something like this takes place also in the matter which we are considering. Since a man must advance to perfection through the spoken word and such instruction as you receive here, and must purify his own moral purpose and correct the faculty which makes use of external impressions, and since the instruction must necessarily be given by means of certain principles, and in a particular style, and with
a certain variety and impressiveness in the form of these principles, some persons are captivated by all these things and stay where they are; one is captivated by style, another by syllogisms, another by arguments with equivocal premisses, another by some other “inn” of that sort, and staying there they moulder away as though they were among the Sirens.
Man, your purpose was to make yourself competent to use conformably with nature the external impressions that came to you, in desire not to fail in what you would attain, and in avoidance not to fall into what you would avoid, never suffering misfortune, never ill fortune, free, unhindered, unconstrained, conforming to the governance of Zeus, obeying this, well satisfied with this, blaming no one, charging no one, able to say with your whole heart the verses, beginning:
“Lead thou me on, O Zeus, and Destiny.”
And then, although you have this purpose, because some petty trick of style, or certain principles, catch your fancy, are you going to stay just where you are and choose to dwell there, forgetful of the things at home and saying “This is fine”? Well, who says that it is not fine? But only like a passageway, like an “inn.” For what is to prevent a man having the eloquence of Demosthenes and yet being unhappy, and what is to prevent him from analyzing syllogisms like Chrysippus, and yet being wretched, from sorrowing, envying, in a word, from being disturbed and miserable? Absolutely nothing. You see, then, that these were “inns” of no value, while your purpose was something else. When I speak thus to some people they think that I am disparaging the study of rhetoric or that of general principles. Yet I am not disparaging this, but only the habit of dwelling unceasingly on these matters and setting one’s hopes in them. If a man does his hearers harm by presenting this view, set me down too as one of those who work harm. But when I see that one thing is highest and supreme, I cannot say the same of something else, in order to gratify you, my hearers.
CHAPTER XXIV
To one of those whom he did not deem worthy
Someone said to him: I have often come to you, wishing to hear you and you have never given me an answer; and now, if it be possible, I beg you to say something to me. He answered: Do you think that, just as in anything else there is an art, so there is also an art in speaking, and that he who has this art will speak with skill, while he who does not have it will speak without skill? — I do. — Then he who by speaking benefits himself and is able to benefit others would be speaking with skill, while he who confers injury rather than benefit would be without skill in this art of speaking? You would find that some are injured and others benefited. And are all those who hear benefited by what they hear, or would you find that of them too some are benefited but others injured? — Yes, that is true of them also, he said. — Then in this case too are all those that show skill in listening benefited, but all those that do not show such skill are injured? — He agreed. — Is there, therefore, also a certain skill in listening, just as there is in speaking? — So it seems. — But, if you please, look at the matter from this angle also: whose part do you think it is to handle an instrument musically? — The musician’s. — Very well, and whose part does it appear to you to be to make a statue properly? — The sculptor’s. — Does it appear to you to require no art to look at a statue with skill? — This also requires art. — If, then, to speak as one ought is the part of a skilled person, do you see that to hear with benefit to himself is also the part of the skilled person? Now as for perfection and benefit, if you please, let us drop the consideration of them for the present, since both of us are far removed from anything of that sort; but this I think everyone would admit, that the man who is going to listen to the philosophers needs at least a certain amount of practice in listening. Is it not so?
What, then, shall I talk to you about? Tell me. What are you capable of hearing about? About things good and evil? Good and evil for what? Do you mean for a horse? — No. — Well then, for an ox? — No. — What then? For a man? — Yes. — Do we know, then, what a man is, what his nature is, what the concept of man is? And have we ears that are to any degree open with regard to this? Nay, have you a conception of what nature is, or can you in any measure follow me when I speak? But shall I use a demonstration for you? How can I? For do you really understand what a proof is, or how anything is demonstrated, or by what means? Or what things resemble demonstration, but are not demonstration? Do you know, for instance, what is true, or what is false; what follows what, what contradicts, or is out of agreement, or out of harmony with what? But am I to interest you in philosophy? How shall I set before you the contradiction in the ideas of the multitude, which leads them to disagree about things good and evil, advantageous and disadvantageous, when you do not know what contradiction itself is? Show me, then, what I shall accomplish by a discussion with you. Arouse in me an eagerness for it. Just as suitable grass when shown to the sheep arouses in it an eagerness to eat, whereas if you set before it a stone or a loaf of bread, it will not be moved to eat, so we have certain moments of natural eagerness for speech also, when the suitable hearer appears, and when he himself stimulates us. But when the would-be hearer by our side is like a stone, or grass, how can he arouse desire in the breast of a man? Does the vine say to the husbandman, “Pay attention to me”? Nay, but the vine by its very appearance shows that it will profit him to pay attention to it, and so invites him to devote his attention. Who is not tempted by attractive and wide-awake children to join their sports, and crawl on all fours with them, and talk baby talk with them? But who is eager to play with an ass, or to join its braying? For however small it may be, it is still nothing but a little ass.
Why, then, have you nothing to say to me? — There is only one thing I can say to you — that the man who does not know who he is, and what he is born for, and what sort of a world this is that he exists in, and whom he shares it with; and does not know what the good things are and what are the evil, what the noble and what the base; and is unable to follow either reason or demonstration, or what is true and what is false, and cannot distinguish one from the other; and will manifest neither desire, nor aversion, nor choice, nor purpose in accordance with nature; will not assent, will not dissent, will not withhold judgement — such a man, to sum it all up, will go about deaf and blind, thinking that he is somebody, when he reallv is nobody. What I do you think that this is something new? Has it not been true from the time when the human race began to be, that every mistake and every misfortune has been due to this kind of ignorance? Why did Agamemnon and Achilles quarrel? Was it not because they did not know what things are expedient and what are inexpedient? Does not one of them say that it is expedient to give Chryseïs back to her father, while the other says that it is not expedient? Does not one of them say that he ought to get some other man’s meed of honour, while the other says that he ought not? Is it not true that this made them forget who they were and what they had come for? Ho, there, man, what have you come for? To get sweethearts or to fight? “To fight” With whom? The Trojans or the Greeks? “The Trojans.” Well, then, are you turning your back on Hector and drawing your sword against your own king? As for you, O best of men, are you turning your back on your duties as king,
Who has the charge of nations and sustains
Such mighty cares,
and for the sake of a paltry damsel engage in a fist-fight with the greatest warrior among your allies, a man whom you ought to honour and protect in every way? And do you sink below the level of an elegant high priest who treats the noble gladiators with all respect? Do you see the sort of thing that ignorance of what is expedient leads to?
“But I too am rich.” You are not, then, richer than Agamemnon, are you? “But I am also handsome.” You are not, then, handsomer than Achilles, are you? “But I have also a fine head of hair.” And did not Achilles have a finer, and golden hair, too? And did he not comb it elegantly and dress it up? “But I am also strong.” You are not, then, able to lift as large a stone as Hector or Aias lifted, are you? “But I am also noble born.” Your mother is not a
goddess, is she, or your father of the seed of Zeus? What good, then, does all this do him when he sits in tears about the damsel? “But I am an orator.” And was not he? Do you not observe how he has dealt with Odysseus and Phoenix, the most skilful of the Greeks in eloquence, how he stopped their mouths?
This is all I have to say to you, and even for this I have no heart. — Why so? — Because you have not stimulated me. For what is there in you that I may look at and be stimulated, as experts in horseflesh are stimulated when they see thoroughbred horses? At your paltry body? But you make it ugly by the shape which you give to it. At your clothes? There is something too luxurious about them, also. At your air, at your countenance? I have nothing to look at. When you wish to hear a philosopher, do not ask him, “Have you nothing to say to me?” but only show yourself capable of hearing him, and you will see how you will stimulate the speaker.
CHAPTER XXV
How is logic necessary?
When someone in his audience said, Convince me that logic is necessary, he answered: Do you wish me to demonstrate this to you? — Yes. — Well, then, must I use a demonstrative argument? — And when the questioner had agreed to that, Epictetus asked him. How, then, will you know if I impose upon you? — As the man had no answer to give, Epictetus said: Do you see how you yourself admit that all this instruction is necessary, if, without it, you cannot so much as know whether it is necessary or not?
CHAPTER XXVI
What is the distinctive characteristic of error?