Discourses
Epictetus
Epictetus. The Works of Epictetus, His Discourses, in Four Books, the Enchiridion, and Fragments. Higginson, Thomas Wentworth, translator. New York: Thomas Nelson and Sons. 1890.
They who have merely received bare maxims are presently inclined to throw them up, as a sick stomach does its food. Digest it, and then you will not throw it up; otherwise it will be crude and impure, and unfit for nourishment. But show us, from what you have digested, some change in your ruling faculty; as wrestlers do in their shoulders, from their exercise and their diet; as artificers, in their skill, from what they have learnt. A carpenter does not come and say, Hear me discourse on the art of building; but he hires a building, and fits it up, and shows himself master of his trade. Let it be your business likewise to do something like this; be manly in your ways of eating, drinking, dressing; marry, have children, perform the duty of a citizen; bear reproach; bear with an unreasonable brother; bear with a father; bear with a son, a neighbor, a companion, as becomes a man. Show us these things, that we may see that you have really learned something from the philosophers. No; but come and hear me repeat commentaries. Get you gone, and seek somebody else upon whom to bestow them. Nay, but I will
- Forth by the roots he rends his hairs.
- To whom the people is trusted, and many a care?
- How then shall he keep up society?
- To sleep all the night becomes not a man who gives counsel;
- Conduct me, Zeus, and thou, O Destiny,
- War is the sphere for all men, and for me.
When one of his scholars, who seemed inclined to the Cynic philosophy, asked him what a Cynic must be, and what was the general plan of that sect, Let us examine it, he said, at our leisure. But thus much I can tell you now, that he who attempts so great an affair without divine guidance is an object of divine wrath, and would only bring public dishonor upon himself. For in a well-regulated house no one comes and says to himself, ought to be the manager here. If he does, and the master returns and sees him insolently giving orders, he drags him out and has him punished. Such is the case likewise in this great city. For here, too, is a master of the family who orders everything. You are the sun; you can, by making a circuit, form the year and the seasons, and increase and nourish the fruits; you can raise and calm the winds, and give an equable warmth to the bodies of men. Go; make your circuit, and thus move everything from the greatest to the least. You are a calf; when the lion appears, act accordingly, or you will suffer for it. You are a bull; come and fight; for that is incumbent on you and becomes you, and you can do
Do you, too, carefully deliberate upon this undertaking; it is not what you think it. I wear an old cloak now, and I shall have one then. I sleep upon the hard ground now, and I shall sleep so then. I will moreover take a wallet and a staff, and go about, and beg of those I meet, and begin by rebuking them; and if I see any one using effeminate practices, or arranging his curls, or walking in purple, I will rebuke him. If you imagine this to be the whole thing, avaunt; come not near it; it belongs not to you. But if you imagine it to be what it really is, and do not think yourself unworthy of it, consider how great a thing you undertake.
First, with regard to yourself; you must no longer, in any instance, appear as now. You must accuse neither God nor man. You must altogether control desire, and must transfer aversion to such things only as are controllable by Will. You must have neither anger, nor resentment, nor envy, nor pity. Neither boy, nor girl, nor fame, nor dainties must have charms for you. For you must know that other men indeed fence themselves with walls and houses and darkness, when they indulge in anything of this
In the first place, then, you must purify your own ruling faculty, to match this method of life. Now, the material for me to work upon is my own mind, as wood is for a carpenter, or leather for a shoemaker; and my business is a right use of things as they appear. But body is nothing to me; its parts nothing to me. Let death come when it will, either of the whole body or of part. Go into exile. And whither? Can any one turn me out of the universe? He cannot. But wherever I go there is the sun, the moon, the stars, dreams, auguries, communication with God. And even this preparation is by no
He must, then, if it should so happen, be able to lift up his voice, to come upon the stage, and say, like Socrates:
O mortals, whither are you hurrying? What are you about? Why do you tumble up and down, O miserable wretches! like blind men? You are going the wrong way, and have forsaken the right. You seek prosperity and happiness in a wrong place, where they are not; nor do you give credit to another, who shows you where they are. Why do you seek this possession without? It lies not in the body; if you do not believe me, look at Myro, look at Ofellius. It is not in wealth; if you do not believe me, look upon Croesus; look upon the rich of the present age, how full of lamentation their life is. It is not in power; for otherwise, they who have been twice and
Homer, Iliad, 10.15; 91-5.—H.
And what does he himself say? wander bewildered; my heart leaps forth from my bosom.
Why, which of your affairs goes ill, poor wretch, your possessions? No. Your body? No. But you have gold and brass in abundance. What then goes ill? That part of you is neglected and corrupted, whatever it be called, by which we desire, and shrink; by which we pursue, and avoid. How neglected? It is ignorant of that for which it was naturally formed, of the essence of good, and of the essence of evil. It is ignorant what is its own, and what another’s. And when anything belonging to others goes ill, it says,
Where, then, does our good lie, since it does not lie in these things? Tell us, sir, you who are our messenger and spy. Where you do not think, nor are willing to seek it. For if you were willing, you
Consider carefully, know yourself; consult the Divinity; attempt nothing without God; for if he counsels you, be assured that it is his will, whether that you should become eminent, or that you should suffer many a blow. For there is this fine circumstance connected with the character of a Cynic, that he must be beaten like an ass, and yet, when beaten, must love those who beat him as the father, as the brother of all.
No, to be sure; but if anybody beats you, stand publicly and roar out, O Caesar! am I to suffer such things in breach of your peace? Let us go before the Proconsul.
But what is Caesar to a Cynic, or what is the Proconsul, or any one else, but Zeus, who hath deputed him, and whom he serves? Does he invoke any other but him? And is he not persuaded that, whatever he suffers of this sort, it is Zeus who doth it to exercise him? Now Hercules, when he was exercised by Eurystheus, did not think himself miserable: but executed with alacrity all that was to be done. And shall he who is appointed to the combat, and exercised by Zeus, cry out and take offence at things? A worthy person, truly, to bear the sceptre of Diogenes! Hear what he in a fever said to those who were passing
-The same young man inquiring whether, if a friend should desire to come to him and take care of him when he was sick, he should comply? And where, says Epictetus, will you find me the friend of a Cynic? For to be worthy of being numbered among his friends, a person ought to be such another as himself; he ought to be a partner of the sceptre and the kingdom, and a worthy minister, if he would be honored with his friendship; as Diogenes was the friend of Antisthenes; as Crates, of Diogenes. Do you think that he who only comes to him and salutes him is his friend; and that he will think him worthy of being entertained as such? If such a thought comes into your head, rather look round you for some desirable dunghill to shelter you in your fever from the north wind, that you may not perish by taking cold. But you seem to me to prefer to get into somebody’s house, and to be well fed there awhile. What business have you, then, even to attempt so important an undertaking as this?
But, said the young man, will marriage and parentage be recognized as important duties by a Cynic?
Grant me a community of sages, and no one there, perhaps, will readily apply himself to the Cynic philosophy. For on whose account should he there embrace that method of life? However, supposing he does, there will be nothing to restrain him from marrying and having children. For his wife will be such another as himself, his father-in-law such another
Homer, Iliad, ii. 25. H. who ought to superintend others, married men, fathers of children,—whether one treats his wife
For Heaven’s sake, do they confer a greater benefit upon the world who leave two or three brats in their stead, than those who, so far as possible, oversee all
Ask me, if you please, too, whether a Cynic will engage in the administration of the commonwealth. What commonwealth do you inquire after, foolish man, greater than what he administers? Why should
But he has need of a constitution duly qualified; for if he should appear consumptive, thin, and pale, his testimony has no longer the same authority. For he must not only give a proof to the vulgar, by the constancy of his mind, that it is possible to be a man of weight and merit without those things that strike them with admiration; but he must show, too, by his body, that a simple and frugal diet, under the open air, does no injury to the constitution. See, I and my body bear witness to this. As Diogenes did; for he went about in hale condition, and gained the attention of the many by his mere physical aspect. But a Cynic in poor condition seems a mere beggar; all avoid him, all are offended at him; for he ought not to appear slovenly, so as to drive people from him; but even his indigence should be clean and attractive.
Much natural tact and acuteness are likewise necessary
Homer, Iliad, ii. 24, 25.—H. before he was quite awake, he responded,—
To whom the people is trusted, and many a care.
But, above all, the reason of the man must be clearer than the sun; otherwise he must necessarily be a common cheat and a rascal if, while himself guilty of some vice, he reproves others. For consider how the case stands. Arms and guards give a power to common kings and tyrants of reproving and of punishing delinquents, though they be wicked themselves; but to a Cynic, instead of arms and guards, conscience gives this power. When he knows that he has watched and labored for mankind; that he has slept pure, and waked still purer; and that he hath regulated all his thoughts as the friend, as the minister of the gods, as a partner of the empire of Zeus; that he is ready to say, upon all occasions,—
Cleanthes, in Diogenes Laertius.—H.
A Cynic must, besides, have so much patience as to seem insensible and like a stone to the vulgar. No one reviles, no one beats, no one affronts him; but he has surrendered his body to be treated at pleasure by any one who will. For he remembers that the inferior, in whatever respect it is the inferior, must be conquered by the superior; and the body is inferior to the multitude, the weaker to the stronger. He never, therefore, enters into a combat where he can be conquered, but immediately gives up what belongs to others; he
Such is the affair about which you are deliberating; therefore, if you please, for Heaven’s sake! defer it, and first consider how you are prepared for it. Observe what Hector says to Andromache,—
Homer, Iliad, vi. 492, 493.—H.
Thus conscious was he of his own qualifications and of her weakness.
First, say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do. For in almost everything we see this to be the practice. Olympic champions first determine what they would be, and then act accordingly. To a racer in a longer course there must be one kind of diet, walking, anointing, and training; to one in a shorter, all these must be different; and to a Pentathlete, still more different. You will find the case the same in the manual arts. If a carpenter, you must have such and such things; if a smith, such other. For if we do not refer each of our actions to some end, we shall act at random; if to an improper one, we shall miss our aim. Further, there is a general and a particular end. The first is, to act as a man. What is comprehended in this? To be gentle, yet not sheepish; not to be mischievous, like a wild beast. But the particular end relates to the study and choice of each individual. A harper is to act as a harper; a carpenter, as a carpenter; a philosopher, as a philosopher; an orator, as an orator. When, therefore, you say, Come, and hear me discourse, observe, first, not to do this at random; and,
Did not you, the other day, praise a man contrary to your own opinion? Did not you flatter a certain senator? Yet would you wish your own children to be like him? Heaven forbid! Why then did you praise and cajole him? He is an ingenuous young man, and attentive to discourses. How so? He admires me. Now indeed you have produced your proof.
After all, what do you think? Do not these very people secretly despise you? When a man conscious of no good action or intention finds some philosopher saying, You are a great genius, and of a frank and candid disposition, what do you think he says, but, This man has some need of me? Pray tell me what mark of a great genius he has shown. You see he has long conversed with you, has heard your discourses, has attended your lectures. Has he turned his attention to himself? Has he perceived his own faults? Has he thrown off his conceit? Does he seek an instructor? Yes, he does. An instructor how to live? No, fool, but how to talk; for it is upon this account that he admires you. Hear what he says: This man writes with very great art, and much more finely than Dion. That is quite another thing. Does he say, This is a modest, faithful, calm person? But if he said this too, I would ask him, if be is faithful, what it is to be faithful? And if he
While you are in this bad disposition, then, and gaping after applauders, and counting your hearers, can you be of benefit to others? To-day I had many more hearers. Yes, many; we think there were five hundred. You say nothing; estimate them at a thousand. Dion never had so great an audience. How should he? And they have a fine taste for discourses. What is excellent, sir, will move even a stone. Here is the language of a philosopher! Here is the disposition of one who is to be beneficial to mankind! Here is the man, attentive to discourses, who has read the works of the Socratic philosophers, as such; not as if they were the writings of orators, like Lysias and Isocrates! have often wondered by what arguments—[*](These words are the beginning of Xenophon’s Memoirs of Socrates; and it was a debate among the minute critics, whether argument or arguments was the proper reading.—C.) No; By what argument; that is the more perfectly accurate expression. Is this to have read them any otherwise than as you read little pieces of poetry? If you read them as you ought, you would not dwell on such trifles, but would rather consider such a passage as this: Anytus and Melitus may kill, but they cannot hurt me. And am always so disposed as to defer to none of my friends, but to that reason which, after examination, appears to me to
Rufus used to say, If you are at leisure to praise me, I speak to no purpose. And indeed he used to speak in such a manner, that each of us who heard him supposed that some person had accused us to him; he so precisely hit upon what was done by us, and placed the faults of every one before his eyes.
The school of a philosopher is a surgery. You are not to go out of it with pleasure, but with pain; for you do not come there in health; but one of you has a dislocated shoulder; another, an abscess; a third, a fistula; a fourth, the headache. And am I, then, to sit uttering pretty, trifling thoughts and little exclamations, that, when you have praised me, you may each of you go away with the same dislocated shoulder, the same aching head, the same fistula. and the
What then! is there not in speaking a style and manner of exhortation? Who denies it? Just as there is a manner of confutation and of instruction. But who ever, therefore, added that of ostentation for a fourth? For in what doth the hortatory manner consist? In being able to show, to one and all, the contradictions in which they are involved; and that they care for everything rather than what they mean to care for; for they mean the things conducive to happiness, but they seek them where they are not to be found. To effect this, must a thousand seats be placed, and an audience invited; and you, in a fine robe or cloak, ascend the rostrum, and describe the death of Achilles? Forbear, for Heaven’s sake! to bring, so far as you are able, good works and practices into disgrace. Nothing, to be sure, gives more force to exhortation than when the speaker shows that he has need of the hearers; but tell me who, when he hears you reading or speaking, is solicitous about himself; or turns his attention upon himself; or says, when he is gone away, The philosopher hit me well? Instead of this, even though you are in high vogue, one hearer merely remarks to another,
Let not another’s disobedience to Nature become an ill to you; for you were not born to be depressed and unhappy with others, but to be happy with them. And if any is unhappy, remember that he is so for himself; for God made all men to enjoy felicity and peace. He hath furnished all with means for this purpose; having given them some things for their own, others not for their own. Whatever is subject to restraint, compulsion, or deprivation is not their own; whatever is not subject to restraint is their own. And the essence of good and evil he has placed in things which are our own, as it became him who provides for, and protects us, with paternal care.
But I have parted with such a one, and he is therefore in grief.
And why did he esteem what belonged to another his own? Why did he not consider, while he was happy in seeing you, that you are mortal, that you
Ay, but this happens from their want of reason.
Was reason then given to us by the gods for the purpose of unhappiness and misery, to make us live wretched and lamenting? Oh, by all means, let every one be deathless! Let nobody go from home! Let us never go from home ourselves, but remain rooted to a spot, like plants! And if any of our acquaintance should quit his abode, let us sit and cry; and when he comes back, let us dance and clap our hands like children. Shall we never wean ourselves, and remember what we have heard from the philosophers,—unless we have heard them only as juggling enchanters,—that the universe is one great city, and the substance one of which it is formed; that there must necessarily be a certain rotation of things;
Homer, Odyssey, 1.3.—H. and, even before him, of Hercules, to travel over the habitable world,
- Saw the cities and watched the habits of various men;
Hom. Od. 15.487.—H. to expel and clear away the one, and, in its stead, to introduce the other. Yet how many friends do you not think he must have at Thebes; how many at Argos; how many at Athens; and how many did he acquire in his travels? He married, too, when he thought it a proper time, and became a father, and then quitted his children; not lamenting and longing for them, nor as if he had left them orphans; for he knew that no human creature is an orphan, but that
- Observing manners, good or ill, of men;
But Odysseus longed for his wife, and sat weeping on a rock.
Why do you regard Homer and his fables in everything? Or, if Odysseus really did weep, what was he but a wretched man? But what wise and good man is wretched? The universe is surely but ill governed, if Zeus does not take care that his subjects may be happy like himself. But these are unlawful and profane thoughts; and Odysseus, if he did indeed cry and bewail himself, was not a good man. For who can be a good man who does not know what he is? And who knows this, and yet forgets that all things made are perishable; and that it is not possible for man and man always to live together? What then? To desire impossibilities is base and foolish; it is the behavior of a stranger [to the world]; of one who fights against God in the only way he can, by holding false principles.
But my mother grieves when she does not see me.
And why has she not learned these doctrines? I do not say that care ought not to be taken that she may not lament; but that we are not to insist absolutely upon what is not in our own power. Now, the grief of another is not in my power; but my own grief is. I will therefore absolutely suppress my own, for that is in my power; and I will endeavor to suppress another’s grief so far as I am able; but I will not insist upon it absolutely, otherwise I shall fight against God; I shall resist Zeus, and oppose him in the administration of the universe; and not only my children’s children will bear the punishment of this disobedience and fighting against God, but I myself too,—starting, and full of perturbation, both in the day-time and in my nightly dreams; trembling at every message, and having my peace dependent on intelligence from others. Somebody is come from Rome. trust no harm has happened. Why, what harm can happen to you where you are not? From Greece. No harm, I hope. Why, at this rate, every place may be the cause of misfortune to you. Is it not enough for you to be unfortunate where you are, but it must happen beyond sea, too, and by letters? Such is the security of your condition!
But what if my friends there should be dead?
What, indeed, but that those are dead who were
Is this what you have heard from the philosophers; this what you have learned? Do you not know what sort of a thing warfare is? One must keep guard, another go out for a spy, another even to battle. It is neither possible, nor indeed desirable, that all should be in the same place; but you, neglecting to perform the orders of your General, complain whenever anything a little hard is commanded; and do not consider what influence you have on the army, so far as lies in your power. For, if all should imitate you, nobody will dig a trench, or throw up a rampart, or stand guard, or expose himself to danger; but every one will appear useless to the expedition. Again, if you were a sailor in a voyage, suppose you were to fix upon one place, and there remain,—if it should be
Why; it is pleasant.
Who denies it? And so is a ragout pleasant, and a fine woman is pleasant. Is not this just what they say who make pleasure their end? Do you not perceive whose language you have spoken? That of Epicureans and debauchees. And while you follow their practices and hold their principles, do you talk to us of the doctrines of Zeno and Socrates? Why do you not throw away as far as possible those assumed
What then! would you have me pay my court to such a one? Would you have me frequent his door?
If reason requires it for your country, for your relations, for mankind, why should you not go? You are not ashamed to go to the door of a shoemaker when you want shoes, nor of a gardener when you want lettuce. Why, then, in regard to the rich, when you have some similar want?
Ay; but I need not be awed before a shoemaker. Nor before a rich man. I need not flatter a gardener. Nor a rich man. How, then, shall I get what I want?
Why, do I bid you go in expectation of getting it? No; only that you may do your duty.
Why, then, after all, should I go?
That you may have gone; that you may have discharged the duties of a citizen, of a brother, of a friend. And, after all, remember that you are going as if to a shoemaker, to a gardener, who has no monopoly of anything great or respectable, though he should sell it ever so dear. You are going as if to buy lettuces worth an obolus, but by no means worth a talent. So here, too, if the matter is worth going to his door about, I will go; if it is worth talking with him about, I will talk with him. But if one must kiss his hand, too, and cajole him with praise, that is paying too dear. It is not expedient for myself, nor my country, nor my fellow-citizens, nor my friends, to destroy what constitutes the good citizen and the friend.
But one will appear not to have set heartily about the business, if one thus fails.
What, have you again forgotten why you went? Do you not know that a wise and good man does nothing for appearance, but everything for the sake of having acted well?
What advantage is it, then, to him, to have acted well?
What advantage is it to one who writes down the name of Dion without a blunder? The having written it.
Is there no reward, then?
Why, do you seek any greater reward for a good man than the doing what is fair and just? And yet, at Olympia, you desire nothing else, but think it enough to be crowned victor. Does it appear to you so small and worthless a thing to be just, good, and happy? Besides, being introduced by God into this Great City [the world], and bound to discharge at this time the duties of a man, do you still want nurses and a mamma; and are you conquered and effeminated by the tears of poor weak women? Are you thus determined never to cease being an infant? Do not you know that, if one acts like a child, the older he is, so much the more he is ridiculous?
Did you never visit any one at Athens at his own house?
Yes; whomsoever I pleased. Why, now you are here, be willing to visit this person,
How, then, am I to preserve an affectionate disposition?
As becomes a noble-spirited and happy person. For reason will never tell you to be dejected and broken-hearted, or to depend on another, or to reproach either God or man. Be affectionate in such a manner as to observe all this. But if, from affection, as you call it, you are to be a slave and miserable, it is not worth your while to be affectionate. And what restrains you from loving any one as a mortal,—as a person who may be obliged to quit you? Pray did not Socrates love his own children? But it was as became one who was free, and mindful that his
What, then, is the proper training for these cases?
First, the highest and principal means, and as obvious as if at your very door, is this,—that when you
How, then?
As to something brittle as glass or earthenware; that when it happens to be broken, you may not lose your self-command. So here, too, when you embrace your child, or your brother, or your friend, never yield yourself wholly to the fair semblance, nor let the passion pass into excess; but curb it, restrain it,—like those who stand behind triumphant victors, and remind them that they are men. Do you likewise remind yourself that you love what is mortal; that you love what is not your own. It is allowed you for the present, not irrevocably, nor forever; but as a fig, or a bunch of grapes, in the appointed season. If you long for these in winter, you are foolish. So, if you long for your son, or your friend, when you cannot have him, remember that you are wishing for figs in winter. For as winter is to a fig, so is every accident in the universe to those things with which it interferes. In the next place, whatever objects give you pleasure, call before yourself the opposite images. What harm is there, while you kiss your child, in saying softly, To-morrow you may die; and so to your friend, To-morrow either you or I may go away, and we may see each other no more?
But these sayings are ominous.
And so are some incantations; but because they
What, then; shall I be no more?
True; but you will be something else, of which at present the world has no need; for even you were not produced when you pleased, but when the world had need of you. Hence a wise and good man, mindful who he is and whence he came, and by whom he was produced, is attentive only how he may fill his post regularly and dutifully before God. Dost thou wish me still to live? Let me live free and noble, as thou desirest; for thou hast made me incapable of restraint in what is my own. But hast
Let these things be ready at hand, night and day. These things write; these things read; of these things talk both to yourself and others. [Ask them,] Have you any assistance to give me for this purpose? And, again, go and ask another and another. Then, if any of those things should happen that are called disagreeable, this will surely be a relief to you, in the first place, that it was not unexpected. For it is
Further yet, when any delusive appearance molests you (for this may not depend on you), strive against it, and conquer it through reason. Do not suffer it to gain strength, nor to lead you indefinitely on, beguiling you at its own will. If you are at Gyaros, do not represent to yourself the manner of living at Rome,—how many pleasures you used to find there, and how many would attend your return; but dwell rather on this point,—how he who must live at Gyaros may live there nobly. And if you are at Rome, do not represent to yourself the manner of living at Athens; but consider only how you ought to live where you are.
Lastly, for all other pleasures substitute the consciousness that you are obeying God, and performing not in word, but in deed, the duty of a wise and good
Having these principles always at hand, and practising them by yourself, and making them ready for use, you will never want any one to comfort and strengthen you. For shame does not consist in having nothing to eat, but in not having wisdom enough to exempt you from fear and sorrow. But if you
Consider which of your undertakings you have fulfilled, which not, and wherefore; which give you pleasure, which pain, in the reflection; and, if possible, recover yourself where you have failed. For the champions in this greatest of combats must not grow weary, but should even contentedly bear chastisement. For this is no combat of wrestling or boxing, where both he who succeeds and he who fails may possibly be of very great worth or of little, indeed may be very fortunate or very miserable, but this combat is for good fortune and happiness itself. What is the case, then? Here, even if we have renounced the contest, no one restrains us from renewing it, nor need we wait for another four years for the return of another Olympiad; but recollecting
Are not you ashamed to be more fearful and mean-spirited than fugitive slaves? To what estates, to what servants, do they trust, when they run away and leave their masters? Do they not, after carrying off a little with them for the first days, travel over land and sea, contriving first one, then another, method of getting food? And what fugitive ever died of hunger? But you tremble, and lie awake at night, for fear you should want necessaries. Foolish man! are you so blind? Do not you see the way whither the want of necessaries leads?
Why, whither does it lead?
Whither a fever or a falling stone may lead,—-to death. Have you not, then, often said this to your companions? Have you not read, have you not written, many things on this point? And how often have you arrogantly boasted that you are undisturbed by fears of death!
Ay; but my family, too, will perish with hunger.
What then? Does their hunger lead any other way than yours? Is there not the same descent, the same state below? Will you not, then, in every want and necessity, look with confidence there, where even the most rich and powerful, and kings and tyrants themselves, must descend? You indeed may descend hungry, perhaps, and they full of indigestion and drunkenness. For have you often seen a beggar who did not live to old age, nay, to extreme old age? Chilled by day and night, lying on the ground, and eating only what is barely necessary, they yet seem almost to become incapable of dying. But cannot you write? Cannot you keep a school? Cannot you be a watchman at somebody’s door?
But it is shameful to come to this necessity.
First, therefore, learn what things are shameful, and then claim to be a philosopher; but at present do not suffer even another to call you so. Is that shameful to you which is not your own act; of which you are not the cause; which has happened to you by accident, like a fever or the headache? If your parents were poor, or left others their heirs, or, though living, do not assist you, are these things shameful for you? Is this what you have learned from the philosophers? Have you never heard that what is shameful is blamable; and what is blamable must be something which deserves to be blamed? Whom do you blame for an action not his own, which he has not himself performed? Did you, then, make your
Not to be shaken by sophistry.
Shaken from what? Show me first what you have in your custody; what you measure, or what you weigh; and then accordingly show me your weights and measures, and to what purpose you measure that which is but dust. Ought you not to show what makes men truly happy, what makes their affairs proceed as they wish; how we may blame no one, accuse no one; how acquiesce in the administration of the universe? Show me these things. See, I do show them, say you; will solve syllogisms to you. This is but the measure, O unfortunate! and not the thing measured. Hence you now pay the penalty due for neglecting philosophy. You tremble; you lie awake; you advise with everybody, and if the result of the advice does not please everybody, you think that you have been ill-advised. Then you dread hunger, as you fancy; yet it is not hunger that you dread, but you are afraid that you will not have some one to cook for you, some one else for a butler, another to pull off your shoes, a fourth to dress you, others to rub you, others to follow you; that when you have undressed yourself in the bathing-room, and stretched yourself out, like a man crucified, you may be rubbed here and there; and the attendant may stand by, and say, Come this way; give your side; take hold of his head; turn your shoulder; and
In what?
In the only thing that can be confided in; in what is sure, incapable of being restrained or taken away,—your own will.
But why have you contrived to make yourself so useless and good for nothing that nobody will receive you into his house, nobody take care of you; but although, if any sound, useful vessel be thrown out of doors, whoever finds it will take it up and prize it as something gained, yet nobody will take you up, but everybody esteem you a loss. What, cannot you so much as perform the office of a dog or a cock? Why, then, do you wish to live any longer if you are so worthless? Does any good man fear that food should fail him? It does not fail the blind; it does not fail the lame. Shall it fail a good man? A paymaster is always to be found for a soldier, or a laborer, or a shoemaker, and shall one be wanting to a good man?
Homer, Odyssey, 6.130. H.
- As some lion, bred in the mountains, confiding in strength.
Confiding in what? Not in glory, or in riches, or in dominion, but in his own strength; that is, in his knowledge of what is within him and without him. For this alone is what can render us free and incapable of restraint; can raise the heads of the humble, and make them look with unaverted eyes full in the face of the rich and of the tyrants; and this is what philosophy bestows. But you will not even set forth with confidence; but all trembling about such trifles as clothes and plate. Foolish man! have you thus. wasted your time till now?
But what if I should be ill?
It will then be for the best that you should be ill.
Who will take care of me?
God and your friends.
I shall lie in a hard bed.
But like a man.
I shall not have a convenient room.
Then you will be ill in an inconvenient one.
Who will provide food for me?
They who provide for others too; you will be ill like Manes.[*](The name of a slave, particularly of a slave who once belonged to Diogenes; and perhaps this expression alludes to some story about him which is now unknown.—C.)
But what will be the conclusion of my illness,—any other than death?
Why, do you not know, then, that the origin of all human evils, and of baseness and cowardice, is not death, but rather the fear of death? Fortify yourself, therefore, against this. Hither let all your discourses, readings, exercises, tend. And then you will know that thus alone are men made free.