by Epictetus
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
BOOK IV
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
BOOK I
Arrian to Lucius Gellius, greeting:
I have not composed these Words of Epictetus as one might be said to “compose” books of this kind, nor have I of my own act published them to the world; indeed, I acknowledge that I have not “composed” them at all. But whatever I heard him say I used to write down, word for word, as best I could, endeavouring to preserve it as a memorial, for my own future use, of his way of thinking and the frankness of his speech. They are, accordingly, as you might expect, such remarks as one man might make off-hand to another, not such as he would compose for men to read in after time. This being their character, they have fallen, I know not how, without my will or knowledge, into the hands of men. Yet to me it is a matter of small concern if I shall be thought incapable of “composing” a work, and to Epictetus of no concern at all if anyone shall despise his words, seeing that even when he uttered them he was clearly aiming at nothing else but to incite the minds of his hearers to the best things. If, now, these words of his should produce that same effect, they would have, I think, just that success which the words of the philosophers ought to have; but if not, let those who read them be assured of this, that when Epictetus himself spoke them, the hearer could not help but feel exactly what Epictetus wanted him to feel. If, however, the words by themselves do not produce this effect, perhaps I am at fault, or else, perhaps, it cannot well be otherwise. Farewell.
CHAPTER I
Of the things which are under our control and not under our control
Among the arts and faculties in general you will find none that is self-contemplative, and therefore none that is either self-approving or self-disapproving. How far does the art of grammar possess the power of contemplation? Only so far as to pass judgement upon what is written. How far the art of music? Only so far as to pass judgement upon the melody. Does either of them, then, contemplate itself? Not at all. But if you are writing to a friend and are at a loss as to what to write, the art of grammar will tell you; yet whether or no you are to write to your friend at all, the art of grammar will not tell. The same holds true of the art of music with regard to melodies; but whether you are at this moment to sing and play on the lyre, or neither sing nor play, it will not tell. What art or faculty, then, will tell? That one which contemplates both itself and everything else. And what is this? The reasoning faculty; for this is the only one we have inherited which will take knowledge both of itself — what it is, and of what it is capable, and how valuable a gift it is to us — and likewise of all the other faculties. For what else is it that tells us gold is beautiful? For the gold itself does not tell us. Clearly it is the faculty which makes use of external impressions. What else judges with discernment the art of music, the art of grammar, the other arts and faculties, passing judgement upon their uses and pointing out the seasonable occasions for their use? Nothing else does.
As was fitting, therefore, the gods have put under our control only the most excellent faculty of all and that which dominates the rest, namely, the power to make correct use of external impressions, but all the others they have not put under our control. Was it indeed because they would not? I for one think that had they been able they would have entrusted us with the others also; but they were quite unable to do that. For since we are upon earth and trammelled by an earthy body and by earthy associates, how was it possible that, in respect of them, we should not be hampered by external things?
But what says Zeus? “Epictetus, had it been possible I should have made both this paltry body and this small estate of thine free and unhampered. But as it is — let it not escape thee — this body is not thine own, but only clay cunningly compounded. Yet since I could not give thee this, we have given thee a certain portion of ourself, this faculty of choice and refusal, of desire and aversion, or, in a word, the faculty which makes use of external impressions; if thou care for this and place all that thou hast therein, thou shalt never be thwarted, never hampered, shalt not groan, shalt not blame, shalt not flatter any man. What then? Are these things small in thy sight?” “Far be it from me!” “Art thou, then, content with them?” “I pray the Gods I may be.”
But now, although it is in our power to care for one thing only and devote ourselves to but one, we choose rather to care for many things, and to be tied fast to many, even to our body and our estate and brother and friend and child and slave. Wherefore, being tied fast to many things, we are burdened and dragged down by them. That is why, if the weather keeps us from sailing, we sit down and fidget and keep constantly peering about. “What wind is blowing?” we ask. Boreas. “What have we to do with it? When will Zephyrus blow?” When it pleases, good sir, or rather when Aeolus pleases. For God has not made you steward of the winds, but Aeolus. “What then?” We must make the best of what is under our control, and take the rest as its nature is. “How, then, is its nature?” As God wills.
“Must I, then, be the only one to be beheaded now?” Why, did you want everybody to be beheaded for your consolation? Are you not willing to stretch out your neck as did a certain Lateranus at Rome, when Nero ordered him to be beheaded? For he stretched out his neck and received the blow, but, as it was a feeble one, he shrank back for an instant, and then stretched out his neck again. Yes, and before that, when Epaphroditus, a freedman of Nero, approached a certain man and asked about the ground of his offence, he answered, “If I wish anything, I will speak to your master.”
“What aid, then, must we have ready at hand in such circumstances?” Why, what else than the knowledge of what is mine, and what is not mine, and what is permitted me, and what is not permitted me? I must die: must I, then, die groaning too? I must be fettered: and wailing too? I must go into exile: does anyone, then, keep me from going with a smile and cheerful and serene? “Tell your secrets.” I say not a word; for this is under my control. “But I will fetter you.” What is that you say, man? fetter me? My leg you will fetter, but my moral purpose not even Zeus himself has power to over
come. “I will throw you into prison.” My paltry body, rather! “I will behead you.” Well, when did I ever tell you that mine was the only neck that could not be severed? These are the lessons that philosophers ought to rehearse, these they ought to write down daily, in these they ought to exercise themselves.
Thrasea used to say: “I would rather be killed to-day than banished to-morrow.” What, then, did Rufus say to him? “If you choose death as the heavier of two misfortunes, what folly of choice! But if as the lighter, who has given you the choice? Are you not willing to practise contentment with what has been given you?”
Wherefore, what was it that Agrippinus used to remark? “I am not standing in my own way.” Word was brought him, “Your case is being tried in the Senate.”— “Good luck betide! But it is the fifth hour now” (he was in the habit of taking his exercise and then a cold bath at that hour); “let us be off and take our exercise.” After he had finished his exercise someone came and told him, “You have been condemned.”— “To exile,” says he, “or to death?”— “To exile.”— “What about my property?”— “It has not been confiscated.”— “Well then, let us go to Aricia and take our lunch there.” This is what it means to have rehearsed the lessons one ought to rehearse, to have set desire and aversion free from every hindrance and made them proof against chance. I must die. If forthwith, I die; and if a little later, I will take lunch now, since the hour for lunch has come, and afterwards I will die at the appointed time. How? As becomes the man who is giving back that which was another’s.
CHAPTER II
How may a man preserve his proper character upon every occasion?
To the rational being only the irrational is unendurable, but the rational is endurable. Blows are not by nature unendurable. — How so? — Observe how: Lacedaemonians take a scourging once they have learned that it is rational. — But is it not unendurable to be hanged? — Hardly; at all events whenever a man feels that it is rational he goes and hangs himself. In short, if we observe, we shall find mankind distressed by nothing so much as by the irrational, and again attracted to nothing so much as to the rational.
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 preconceived 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 to one man it is reasonable to hold a chamber-pot for another, since he considers only that, if he does not hold it, he will get a beating and will not get food, whereas, if he does hold it, nothing harsh or painful will be done to him; but some other man feels that it is not merely unendurable to hold such a pot himself, but even to tolerate another’s doing so. If you ask me, then, “Shall I hold the pot or not?” I will tell you that to get food is of greater value than not to get it, and to be flayed is of greater detriment than not to be; so that if you measure your interests by these standards, go and hold the pot. “Yes, but it would be unworthy of me.” That is an additional consideration, which you, and not I, must introduce into the question. 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.
Wherefore, when Florus was debating whether he should enter Nero’s festival, so as to make some personal contribution to it, Agrippinus said to him, “Enter.” And when Florus asked, “Why do you not enter yourself?” he replied, “I? why, I do not even raise the question.” For when a man once stoops to the consideration of such questions, I mean to estimating the value of externals, and calculates them one by one, he comes very close to those who have forgotten their own proper character. Come, what is this you ask me? “Is death or life preferable?” I answer, life. “Pain or pleasure?” I answer, pleasure. “But unless I take a part in the tragedy I shall be beheaded.” Go, then, and take a part, but I will not take a part. “Why not?” Because you regard yourself as but a single thread of all that go to make up the garment. What follows, then? This, that you ought to take thought how you may resemble all other men, precisely as even the single thread wants to have no point of superiority in comparison with the other threads. But I want to be the red, that small and brilliant portion which causes the rest to appear comely and beautiful. Why, then, do you say to me, “Be like the majority of people?” And if I do that, how shall I any longer be the red?
This is what Helvidius Priscus also saw, and, having seen, did. When Vespasian sent him word not to attend a meeting of the Senate, he answered, “It is in your power not to allow me to be a member of the Senate, but so long as I am one I must attend its meetings.” “Very well then, but when you attend, hold your peace.” “Do not ask for my opinion and I will hold my peace.” “But I must ask for your opinion.” “And I must answer what seems to me right.” “But if you speak, I shall put you to death.” “Well, when did I ever tell you that I was immortal? You will do your part and I mine. It is yours to put me to death, mine to die without a tremor; yours to banish, mine to leave without sorrow.” What good, then, did Priscus do, who was but a single individual? And what good does the red do the mantle? What else than that it stands out conspicuous in it as red, and is displayed as a goodly example to the rest? But had Caesar told another man in such circumstances not to attend the meetings of the Senate, he would have said, “I thank you for excusing me.” A man like that Caesar would not even have tried to keep from attending, but would have known that he would either sit like a jug, or, if he spoke, would say what he knew Caesar wanted said, and would pile up any amount more on the top of it.
In like manner also a certain athlete acted, who was in danger of dying unless his private parts were amputated. His brother (and he was a philosopher) came to him and said, “Well, brother, what are you going to do? Are we going to cut off this member, and step forth once more into the gymnasium?” He would not submit, but hardened his heart and died. And as someone asked, “How did he do this? As an athlete, or as a philosopher?” As a man, replied Epictetus; and as a man who had been proclaimed at the Olympic games and had striven in them, who had been at home in such places, and had not merely been rubbed down with oil in Bato’s wrestling school. But another would have had even his neck cut off, if he could have lived without his neck. This is what we mean by regard for one’s proper character; and such is its strength with those who in their deliberations habitually make it a personal contribution. “Come then, Epictetus, shave off your beard.” If I am a philosopher, I answer, “I will not shave it off” “But I will take off your neck.” If that will do you any good, take it off.
Someone inquired, “How, then, shall each of us become aware of what is appropriate to his own proper character?” How comes it, replied he, that when the lion charges, the bull alone is aware of his own prowess and rushes forward to defend the whole herd? Or is it clear that with the possession of the prowess comes immediately the consciousness of it also? And so, among us too, whoever has such prowess will not be unaware of it. Yet a bull does not become a bull all at once, any more than a man becomes noble, but a man must undergo a winter training, he must prepare himself and must not plunge recklessly into what is inappropriate for him.
Only consider at what price you sell your freedom of will. If you must sell it, man, at least do not sell it cheap. But the great and pre-eminent deed, perhaps, befits others, Socrates and men of his stamp. — Why then, pray, if we are endowed by nature for such greatness, do not all men, or many, become like him? What, do all horses become swift, all dogs keen to follow the scent? What then? Because I have no natural gifts, shall I on that account give up my discipline? Far be it from me! Epictetus will not be better than Socrates; but if only I am not
worse, that suffices me. For I shall not be a Milo, either, and yet I do not neglect my body; nor a Croesus, and yet I do not neglect my property; nor, in a word, is there any other field in which we give up the appropriate discipline merely from despair of attaining the highest.
CHAPTER III
From the thesis that God is the father of mankind how may one proceed to the consequences?
If a man could only subscribe heart and soul, as he ought, to this doctrine, that we are all primarily begotten of God, and that God is the father of men as well as of gods, I think that he will entertain no ignoble or mean thought about himself. Yet, if Caesar adopts you no one will be able to endure your conceit, but if you know that you are a son of Zeus, will you not be elated? As it is, however, we are not, but inasmuch as these two elements were comingled in our begetting, on the one hand the body, which we have in common with the brutes, and, on the other, reason and intelligence, which we have in common with the gods, some of us incline toward the former relationship, which is unblessed by fortune and is mortal, and only a few toward that which is divine and blessed. Since, then, it is inevitable that every man, whoever he be, should deal with each thing according to the opinion which he forms about it, these few, who think that by their birth they are called to fidelity, to self-respect, and to unerring judgement in the use of external impressions, cherish no mean or ignoble thoughts about themselves, whereas the multitude do quite the opposite. “For what am I? A miserable, paltry man,” say they, and, “Lo, my wretched, paltry flesh!” Wretched indeed, but you have also something better than your paltry flesh. Why then abandon that and cleave to this?
It is because of this kinship with the flesh that those of us who incline toward it become like wolves, faithless and treacherous and hurtful, and others like lions, wild and savage and untamed; but most of us become foxes, that is to say, rascals of the animal kingdom. For what else is a slanderous and malicious man but a fox, or something even more rascally and degraded? Take heed, therefore, and beware that you become not one of these rascally creatures.
