by Epictetus
That is an excellent answer of Diogenes to the man who asked for a letter of recommendation from him: “That you are a man,” he says, “he will know at a glance; but whether you are a good or a bad man he will discover if he has the skill to distinguish between good and bad, and if he is without that skill he will not discover the facts, even though I write him thousands of times.” For it is just as though a drachma asked to be recommended to someone, in order to be tested. If the man in question is an assayer of silver, you will recommend yourself. We ought, therefore, to have also in everyday life the sort of thing that we have in the case of silver, so that I may be able to say, as the assayer of silver says, “Bring me any drachma you please, and I will appraise it.” Now in the case of syllogisms I say, “Bring me any you please and I will distinguish for you between the one that is capable of analysis and the one that is not.” How so? Because, I know how to analyze syllogisms myself; I have the faculty which the man must have who is going to appraise those who handle syllogisms properly. But in everyday life what do I do? Sometimes I call a thing good, and sometimes bad. What is the reason? The opposite of what was true in the case of syllogisms, namely, ignorance and inexperience.
CHAPTER IV
To the man who had once been caught in adultery
As Epictetus was remarking that man is born to fidelity, and that the man who overthrows this is overthrowing the characteristic quality of man, there entered one who had the reputation of being a scholar, and who had once been caught in the city in the act of adultery. But, goes on Epictetus, if we abandon this fidelity to which we are by nature born, and make designs against our neighbour’s wife, what are we doing? Why, what but ruining and destroying? Whom? The man of fidelity, of self-respect, of piety. Is that all? Are we not overthrowing also neighbourly feeling, friendship, the state? In what position are we placing ourselves? As what am I to treat you, fellow? As a neighbour, as a friend? Of what kind? As a citizen? What confidence am I to place in you? If you were a vessel so cracked that it was impossible to use you for anything, you would be cast forth upon the dunghills and even from there no one would pick you up; but if, although a man, you cannot fill a man’s place, what are we going to do with you? For, assuming that you cannot hold the place of a friend, can you hold that of a slave? And who is going to trust you? Are you not willing, therefore, that you too should be cast forth upon some dunghill as a useless vessel, as a piece of dung? For all that will you say, “Nobody cares for me, a scholar!”? No, for you are an evil man, and useless. It is just as if the wasps complained that nobody cares for them, but all run away from them, and, if anyone can, he strikes them and knocks them down. You have such a sting that you involve in trouble and pain whomever you strike. What do you want us to do with you? There is no place where you can be put.
What then, you say; are not women by nature common property? I agree. And the little pig is the common property of the invited guests; but when portions have been assigned, if it so pleases you, approach and snatch up the portion of the guest who reclines at your side, steal it secretly, or slip in your hand and glut your greed, and if you cannot tear off a piece of the meat, get your fingers greasy and lick them. A fine companion you would make at a feast, and a dinner-guest worthy of Socrates! Come now, is not the theatre the common property of the citizens? When, therefore, they are seated there, go, if it so pleases you, and throw someone of them out of his seat. In the same way women also are by nature common property. But when the law-giver, like a host at a banquet, has apportioned them, are you not willing like the rest to look for your own portion instead of filching away and glutting your greed upon that which is another’s? “But I am a scholar and understand Archedemus.” Very well then, understand Archedemus and be an adulterer and faithless and a wolf or an ape instead of a man; for what is there to prevent you?
CHAPTER V
How are magnanimity and carefulness compatible?
Materials are indifferent, but the use which we make of them is not a matter of indifference. How, therefore, shall a man maintain steadfastness and peace of mind, and at the same time the careful spirit and that which is neither reckless nor negligent? If he imitates those who play at dice. The counters are indifferent, the dice are indifferent; how am I to know what is going to fall? But to make a careful and skilful use of what has fallen, that is now my task. In like manner, therefore, the principal task in life is this: distinguish matters and weigh them one against another, and say to yourself, “Externals are not under my control; moral choice is under my control. Where am I to look for the good and the evil? Within me, in that which is my own.” But in that which is another’s never employ the words “good” or “evil,” or “benefit” or “injury,” or anything of the sort.
What then? Are these externals to be used carelessly? Not at all. For this again is to the moral purpose an evil and thus unnatural to it. They must be used carefully, because their use is not a matter of indifference, and at the same time with steadfastness and peace of mind, because the material is indifferent. For in whatever really concerns us, there no man can either hinder or compel me. The attainment of those things in which I can be hindered or compelled is not under my control and is neither good nor bad, but the use which I make of them is either good or bad, and that is under my control. It is, indeed, difficult to unite and combine these two things — the carefulness of the man who is devoted to material things and the steadfastness of the man who disregards them, but it is not impossible. Otherwise happiness were impossible. But we act very much as though we were on a voyage. What is possible for me? To select the helmsman, the sailors, the day, the moment. Then a storm comes down upon us. Very well, what further concern have I? For my part has been fulfilled. The business belongs to someone else, that is, the helmsman. But, more than that, the ship goes down. What, then, have I to do? What I can; that is the only thing I do; I drown without fear, neither shrieking nor crying out against God, but recognizing that what is born must also perish. For I am not eternal, but a man; a part of the whole, as an hour is part of a day. I must come on as the hour and like an hour pass away. What difference, then, is it to me how I pass away, whether by drowning or by a fever? For by something of the sort I must needs pass away.
This is what you will see skilful ball players doing also. None of them is concerned about the ball as being something good or bad, but about throwing and catching it. Accordingly, form has to do with that, skill with that, and speed, and grace; where I cannot catch the ball even if I spread out my cloak, the expert catches it if I throw. Yet if we catch or throw the ball in a flurry or in fear, what fun is there left, and how can a man be steady, or see what comes next in the game? But one player will say “Throw!” another, “Don’t throw!” and yet another, “Don’t throw it up!” That, indeed, would be a strife and not a game.
In that sense, then, Socrates knew how to play ball. How so? He knew how to play in the law-court. “Tell me,” says he, “Anytus, what do you mean when you say that I do not believe in God. In your opinion who are the daemones? Are they not either the offspring of the gods or a hybrid race, the offspring of men and gods?” And when Anytus had agreed to that statement Socrates went on, “Who, then, do you think, can believe that mules exist, but not asses?” In so speaking he was like a man playing ball. And at that place and time what was the ball that he was playing with? Imprisonment, exile, drinking poison, being deprived of wife, leaving children orphans. These were the things with which he was playing, but none the less he played and handled the ball in good form. So ought we also to act, exhibiting the ball-player’s carefulness about the game, but the same indifference about the object played with, as being a mere ball. For a man ought by all means to strive to show his skill in regard to some of the external materials, yet without making the material a part of himself, but merely lavishing his skill in regard to it, whatever it may be. So also the weaver does not make wool, but he lavishes his skill on whatever wool he receives. Another gives you sustenance and p
roperty and can likewise take them away, yes, and your paltry body itself. Do you accordingly accept the material and work it up. Then if you come forth without having suffered any harm, the others who meet you will congratulate you on your escape, but the man who knows how to observe such matters, if he sees that you have exhibited good form in this affair, will praise you and rejoice with you; but if he sees that you owe your escape to some dishonourable action, he will do the opposite. For where a man may rejoice with good reason, there others may rejoice with him.
How, then, can it be said that some externals are natural, and others unnatural? It is just as if we were detached from them. For I will assert of the foot as such that it is natural for it to be clean, but if you take it as a foot, and not as a thing detached, it will be appropriate for it to step into mud and trample on thorns and sometimes to be cut off for the sake of the whole body; otherwise it will no longer be a foot. We ought to hold some such view also about ourselves. What are you? A man. Now if you regard yourself as a thing detached, it is natural for you to live to old age, to be rich, to enjoy health. But if you regard yourself as a man and as a part of some whole, on account of that whole it is fitting for you now to be sick, and now to make a voyage and run risks, and now to be in want, and on occasion to die before your time. Why, then, are you vexed? Do you not know that as the foot, if detached, will no longer be a foot, so you too, if detached, will no longer be a man? For what is a man? A part of a state; first of that state which is made up of gods and men, and then of that which is said to be very close to the other, the state that is a small copy of the universal state. “Must I, then, be put on trial now?” Well, would you have someone else be sick of a fever now, someone else go on a voyage, someone else die, someone else be condemned? For it is impossible in such a body as ours, in this universe that envelops us, among these fellow-creatures of ours, that such things should not happen, some to one man and some to another. It is your task, therefore, to step forward and say what you should, to arrange these matters as is fitting. Then the judge says, “I adjudge you guilty.” I reply, “May it be well with you. I have done my part; and it is for you to see whether you have done yours.” For the judge too runs a risk, do not forget that.
CHAPTER VI
Of indifference in things
The hypothetical syllogism in itself is a matter of indifference; yet the judgement about it is not indifferent, but is either knowledge, or opinion, or delusion. In like manner, although life is a matter of indifference, the use which you make of it is not a matter of indifference. Therefore, when someone tells you, “These things also are indifferent,” do not become careless, and when someone exhorts you to be careful, do not become abject and overawed by material things. It is good also to know one’s own training and capacity, so that where you have had no training you may keep quiet and not be annoyed if some other persons outshine you in those matters. For you in your turn will expect to outshine them in syllogisms, and if they are annoyed at that, you will console them by saying, “I have learned this, and you have not.” So also in a case where some acquired skill is needed, do not seek that which only practice can give, but leave that to those who have acquired the knack, and be content yourself to remain steadfast.
“Go and salute so-and-so.” “I salute him.” “How?” “In no abject spirit.” “But the door was shut in your face.” “Yes, for I have not learned how to crawl in at the window; but when I find the door closed, I must either go away or crawl in at the window.” “But go and do speak to him.” “I do so speak.” “In what manner?” “In no abject spirit.” “But you did not get what you wanted.” Surely that was not your business, was it? Nay, it was his. Why, then, lay claim to that which is another’s? If you always bear in mind what is your own and what is another’s, you will never be disturbed. Therefore Chrysippus well says, “As long as the consequences are not clear to me, I cleave ever to what is better adapted to secure those things that are in accordance with nature; for God himself has created me with the faculty of choosing things. But if I really knew that it was ordained for me to be ill at this present moment, I would even seek illness: for the foot also, if it had a mind, would seek to be covered with mud.”
For example, why do heads of grain grow? Is it not that they may also become dry? But when they become dry, is it not that they may also be harvested? Since they do not grow for themselves alone. If, therefore, they had feeling, ought they to pray that they should never at all be harvested? But never to be harvested at all is a curse for heads of grain. In like manner I would have you know that in the case of men as well it is a curse never to die; it is like never growing ripe, never being harvested. But, since we are ourselves those who must both be harvested and also be aware of the very fact that we are being harvested, we are angry on that account. For we neither know who we are, nor have we studied what belongs to man, as horsemen study what belongs to horses. But Chrysantas, when he was on the point of striking the foe, refrained because he heard the bugle sounding the recall; it seemed so much more profitable to him to do the bidding of his general than to follow his own inclination. Yet no one of us is willing, even when necessity calls, to obey her readily, but what we suffer we suffer with fears and groans, and call it “circumstances.” What do you mean by “circumstances,” man? If you call “circumstances” your surroundings, all things are “circumstances”; but if you use the word of hardships, what hardship is involved when that whicli has come into being is destroyed? The instrument of destruction is a sword, or a wheel, or the sea, or a tile, or a tyrant. What concern is it to you by what road you descend to the House of Hades? They are all equal. But if you care to hear the truth, the road by which the tyrant sends you is the shorter. No tyrant ever took six months to cut a man’s throat, but a fever often takes more than a year. All these things are a mere noise and a vaunting of empty names.
“I run the risk of my life in Caesar’s presence.” But do I not run a risk by living in Nicopolis, where there are so many earthquakes? And what risk do you yourself take when you cross the Adriatic? Do you not risk your life? “But I also risk my opinion at court.” Your own opinion? How so? Why, who can compel you to opine anything against your will? But do you mean some other man’s opinion? And what kind of risk is it of yours that others should entertain false opinions? “But I run the risk of banishment.” What is banishment? To be somewhere else than in Rome? “Yes.” What then? “Suppose I am sent to Gyara.” If it is to your good, you will go; if not, you have a place to which you may go instead of Gyara — where he too will go, whether he will or no, who is sending you to Gyara. Then why do you go up to Rome as though it were some great thing? It amounts to less than your preparation for it; so that a young man of parts may say, “It was not worth so much to have listened to so many lectures, and to have written so many exercises, and to have sat so long at the side of a little old man, who was not worth very much himself.” Only remember that distinction which is drawn between what is yours and what is not yours. Never lay claim to anything that is not your own. A platform and a prison is each a place, the one high, and the other low; but your moral purpose can be kept the same, if you wish to keep it the same, in either place. And then we shall be emulating Socrates, when we are able to write paeans in prison. But considering what has been our state hitherto, I wonder if we should have endured it, had some one else said to us in prison, “Would you like to have me read you paeans?” “Why bother me? Do you not know the trouble that I am in? What, is it possible for me in this condition —— ?” In what condition, then? “I am about to die.” But will other men be immortal?
CHAPTER VII
How should one employ Divination?
Because we employ divination when there is no occasion for it, many of us neglect many of the duties of life. For what can the diviner see that is of greater import than death, or danger, or illness, or in general such things as these? If, then, it becomes necessary for me to risk my life for my friend, and if it becomes my duty even
to die for him, where do I find beyond that any occasion to employ divination? Have I not within me the diviner that has told me the true nature of good and of evil, that has set forth the signs characteristic of both of them? What further use have I, then, of entrails, or of birds? But when he says, “It is expedient for you,” do I accept it? Why, does he know what is expedient? Does he know what is good? Has he learned the signs characteristic of things good and things evil, as he has the signs characteristic of entrails? For if he knows the signs characteristic of these, he knows also those of things honourable and base, and right and wrong. Man, it is for you to tell me what is indicated by signs — life or death, poverty or wealth; but whether these things are expedient or inexpedient, am I going to ask of you? Why don’t you speak on points of grammar? Well then, on this matter, in which we mortals are all astray and in conflict with one another, you do speak? Wherefore, that was an admirable answer which the woman gave who wished to send a boatload of supplies to Gratilla after she had been exiled. To a man who said, “Domitian will confiscate them,” she replies, “I should rather have him confiscate them than myself fail to send them.”
What, then, induces us to employ divination so constantly? Cowardice, fear of the consequences. This is why we flatter the diviners, saying: “Master, shall I inherit my father’s property?” “Let us see; let us offer a sacrifice about that matter.” “Yes, master, as fortune wills.” Then if the diviner says, “You will inherit the property,” we thank him as though we had received the inheritance from him. That is why they in their turn go on making mock of us. Well, what then? We ought to go to them without either desire or aversion, just as the wayfarer asks the man who meets him which of two roads leads to his destination, without any desire to have the right-hand road lead there any more than the left-hand road; for he does not care to travel one particular road of the two, but merely the one that leads to his destination. So also we ought to go to God as a guide, making use of Him as we make use of our eyes; we do not call upon them to show us such-and-such things by preference, but we accept the impressions of precisely such things as they reveal to us. But as it is, we tremble before the bird-augur, lay hold upon him, and appealing to him as if he were a god, we beg of him, saying: “Master, have mercy; grant that I come off safe.” You slave! What, do you want anything but what is best for you? Is anything else best for you than what pleases God? Why do you do all that in you lies to corrupt your judge, to mislead your counsellor?
