CHAPTER XI
What is the beginning of philosophy?
The beginning of philosophy with those who take it up as they should, and enter in, as it were, by the gate, is a consciousness of a man’s own weakness and impotence with reference to the things of real consequence in life. For we come into being without any innate concept of a right-angled triangle, or of a half-tone musical interval, but by a certain systematic method of instruction we are taught the meaning of each of these things, and for that reason those who do not know them also do not fancy that they do. But, on the other hand, who has come into being without an innate concept of what is good and evil, honourable and base, appropriate and inappropriate, and happiness, and of what is proper and falls to our lot, and what we ought to do and what we ought not to do? Wherefore, we all use these terms and endeavour to adapt our preconceptions about them to the individual instances. “He has done well, as he ought, or as he ought not; he has been unfortunate, or fortunate; he is a wicked man, or he is a just man” — who of us refrains from expressions of this kind? Who of us waits before he uses them until he has learned what they mean, as those who have no knowledge of lines or sounds wait before they use the terms relating to them? The reason is that we come into the world with a certain amount of instruction upon this matter already given us, as it were, by nature, and that starting with this we have added thereto our opinion. — Yes, by Zeus, for do I in my own case not have by gift of nature knowledge of what is noble and base; do I not have a concept of the matter? — You do. — Do I not apply it to individual instances? — You do. — Do I not, then, apply it properly? — There lies the whole question, and there opinion comes in. For men start with these principles upon which they are agreed, but then, because they make an unsuitable application of them, get into disputes. Since if, in addition to having the principles themselves, they really possessed also the faculty of making suitable application of the same, what could keep them from being perfect? But now, since you think that you can also apply your preconceptions suitably to the individual cases, tell me, whence do you get this gift? — It is because I think so. — But on this precise point someone else does not think so, and yet he too fancies that he is applying the principles properly, does he not? — He does so fancy. — Can both of you, then, be making suitnble applications of your preconceptions in the matters upon which your opinions are at variance? — We cannot. — Can you, then, show us anything higher than your own opinion which will make it possible for us to apply our preconceptions better? And does the madman do anything else but that which seems to him to be good? Is this criterion, then, sufficient in his case also? — It is not. — Go, therefore, to something higher than your own opinion, and tell us what that is.
Behold the beginning of philosophy! — a recognition of the conflict between the opinions of men, and a search for the origin of that conflict, and a condenmation of mere opinion, coupled with scepticism regarding it, and a kind of investigation to determine whether the opinion is rightly held, together with the invention of a kind of standard of judgement, as we have invented the balance for the determination of weights, or the carpenter’s rule for the determination of things straight and crooked. — Is this the beginning of philosophy? Is everything right that every man thinks? Nay, how is it possible for conflicting opinions to be right? Consequently, not all opinions are right. — But are our opinions right? Why ours, rather than those of the Syrians; why ours, rather than those of the Egyptians; why ours, rather than my own, or those of so-and-so? — There is no reason why. — Therefore, the opinion which each man holds is not a sufficient criterion for determining the truth; for also in the case of weights and measures we are not satisfied with the mere appearance, but we have invented a certain standard to test each. In the present case, then, is there no standard higher than opinion? And yet how can it possibly be that matters of the utmost consequence among men should be undeterminable and undiscoverable. — Therefore, there is some standard. — Then why do we not look for it and find it, and when we have found it thenceforth use it unswervingly, not so much as stretching out our finger without it? For this is something, I think, the discovery of which frees from madness those who use only opinion as the measure of all things, so that thenceforward, starting with certain principles that are known and clearly discriminated, we may use in the judgement of specific cases an organically articulated system of preconceived ideas.
What subject has arisen that we wish to investigate? — Pleasure. — Subject it to the standard, put it into the balance. Should the good be the sort of thing that we can properly have confidence and trust in? — It should. — Can we properly have confidence, then, in something that is insecure? — No. — Pleasure contains no element of security, does it? — No. — Away with it, then, and throw it out of the balance, and drive it far away from the region of things good. But if you are not endowed with keen eyesight and if one balance is not enough for you, bring another. Can one properly feel elated over the good? — Yes. — Can one properly feel elated, then, over the moment’s pleasure? See that you do not say that it is proper; if you do, I shall no longer regard you as a proper person even to have a balance!
And so are matters judged and weighed, if we have the standards ready with which to test them; and the task of philosophy is this — to examine and to establish the standards; but to go ahead and use them after they have become known is the task of the good and excellent man.
CHAPTER XII
Upon the art of argumentation
What a man ought to learn before he will know how to conduct an argument has been precisely defined by the philosophers of our school; but as to the proper use of what we have learned we are still utterly inexperienced. At all events, give to anyone of us you please some layman with whom to carry on an argument; he will find no way of dealing with him, but after moving the man a little, in case the latter thwarts him, our man gives up trying to handle him, and thereafter either reviles him, or laughs him to scorn, and remarks, “He is a mere layman; it is impossible to do anything with him.” But the real guide, whenever he finds a person going astray, leads him back to the right road, instead of leaving him with a scornful laugh or an insult. So also do you show him the truth and you will see that he follows. But so long as you do not show him the truth, do not laugh him to scorn, but rather recognize your own incapacity.
How did Socrates act? He used to force the man who was arguing with him to be his witness, and never needed any other witness. That is why he could say, “I can dispense with all the others, and am always satisfied to have my fellow-disputant for a witness; and the votes of the rest I do not take, but only that of my fellow-disputant.” For he used to make so clear the consequences which followed from the concepts, that absolutely evervone realized the contradiction involved and gave up the battle. “And so does the man who feels envy rejoice in it.?”— “Not at all; but he experiences pain rather than joy.” (By the contradiction in terms he has moved the other party to the argument.) “Very well, does envy seem to you to be feeling of pain at evils? And yet what envy is there of evils?” (Consequently, he has made his opponent say that envy is a feeling of pain at good things.) “Very well, would a man feel envy about matters that did not concern him in the least?”— “Not at all.” And so he filled out and articulated the concept, and after that went his way; he did not start in by saying, “Define envy for me,” and then, when the other had defined it, remark, “That is a bad definition you have made, for the definition term does not fit the subject defined.” Those are technical terms, and for that reason wearisome to the layman and hard for him to follow, and yet we are unable to dispense with them. But as to terms which the layman could himself follow, and so, by the assistance of his own external impressions, be able to accept or reject some proposition — we are absolutely unable to move him by their use. The result is that, recognizing this incapacity of ours, we naturally refrain from attempting the matter, those of us, I mean, who are at all cautious. But the r
ash multitude of men, when once they have let themselves in for something of this sort, get confused themselves and confuse others, and finally, after reviling their opponents and being themselves reviled, they walk away.
Now this was the first and most characteristic thing about Socrates, that he never got wrought up during an argument, never used any term of abuse or insolence, but endured the abuse of others, and put an end to strife. If you wish to know how great was the faculty he had in this field, read the Symposium of Xenophon, and you will see how many cases of strife he settled. Therefore, and with good reason, among the poets also very high praise has been accorded to the following sentiment:
“Soon doth he shrewdly make an end of a quarrel though weighty.”
Well, what then? Nowadays this activity is not a very safe one, and especially so in Rome. For the man who engages in it will clearly be under obligation not to do it in a comer, but he must go up to some rich person of consular rank, if it so chance, and ask him, “You there, can you tell to whose care you have entrusted your horses?” “I can, indeed,” answers the man. “Is it, then, some chance comer, a man who knows nothing about the care of horses?” “Not at all.” “And what then? Can you tell me to whom you have entrusted your gold, or your silver, or your clothing?” “I have not entrusted these, either, to a chance comer,” “And have you ever thought about entrusting your body to someone to look after it?” “Why, certainly.” “And, of course, he too is a man of special skill in the art of physical training, or medicine, is he not?” “Yes, indeed.” “Are these your most valuable possessions, or have you something else that is better than all of them?” “Just what do you mean?” “That, by Zeus, which utilizes these other things, and puts each of them to the test, and exercises deliberation?” “Ah so, you are talking about my soul, are you?” “You have understood me aright, for it is precisely this that I am talking about.” “By Zeus, I regard this as far and away the most valuable of all my possessions.” “Can you, then, tell in what way you have taken care of your soul? For it is not to be supposed that as wise a man as yourself and one so honoured in the city is recklessly and at random allowing the very best of his possessions to go to ruin through neglect.” “Certainly not.” “But have you yourself taken care of that possession? Did you learn how to take care of it from somebody else, or did you discover how yourself?” Then comes the danger that first he will say, “What is that to you, good sir? Are you my master?” and after that, if you persist in annoying him, that he will lift his fist and give you a blow. This was a pursuit that I too was very fond of once upon a time, before I fell to my present estate.
CHAPTER XIII
Of anxiety
When I see a man in anxiety, I say to myself, What can it be that this fellow wants? For if he did not want something that was outside of his control, how could he still remain in anxiety? That is why the citharoede when singing all alone shows no anxiety, but does so when he enters the theatre, even though he has a very beautiful voice and plays the cithara admirably; for he does not wish merely to sing well, but also to win applause, and that is no longer under his control. Accordingly, where he has skill, there he shows confidence. Set before him any layman that you please, and the musician pays no attention to him; but in a matter of which he has no knowledge, and which he has never studied, there he is in anxiety. What is the meaning of this? Why, he simply does not know what a crowd is, or the applause of a crowd; to be sure, he has learned how to strike the lowest and the highest strings on the cithara, but what the praise of the multitude is, and what function it has in life, that he neither knows nor has studied. Hence he must needs tremble and turn pale.
Now then, I cannot say that the man is not a citharoede, when I see anyone in a state of fear, but I can say something else of him, and, indeed, not one thing only, but a number of things. And first of all, I call him a stranger and say: This man does flot know where in the world he is, but though he has been living here so long a time, he is ignorant of the laws of the city and its customs, what he is allowed to do and what he is not allowed to do. Nay more, he has never even called in a lawyer to tell him and explain to him what are the usages conformable with law; yet he does not write a will without knowing how he ought to write it or else calling in an expert, nor does he just casually affix his seal to a bond or give a written guarantee; but without the services of a lawyer he exercises desire and aversion and choice and design and purpose. How do I mean “without the services of a lawyer”? Why, he does not know that he is wishing for things that are not vouchsafed him, and wishing to avoid the inevitable, and he does not know either what is his own or what is another’s. Did he but know, he would never feel hindered, never constrained, would not be anxious. How could he? Is any man in fear about things that are not evil? — No. — What then? Is he in fear about things that are evil, indeed, but that are in his own power to prevent? — Not at all. — If, then, things indifferent are neither good nor bad, but all matters of moral purpose are under our control, and no man can either take them away from us, or bring upon us such of them as we do not wish, what room is there left for anxiety? Yet we are anxious about our wretched body, about our trifling estate, about what Caesar will think, but are anxious about none of the things that are within us. We are not anxious about not conceiving a false opinion, are we? — No, for that is under my control. — Or about making a choice contrary to nature? — No, not about this, either. — Then, whenever you see a man looking pale, just as the physician judging from the complexion says, “This mans spleen is affected, and this man’s liver,” so do you also say, “This man’s desire and aversion are affected, he is not getting along well, he is feverish.” For there is nothing else that changes a man’s complexion, or makes him tremble, or his teeth to chatter, or to
“Shift from knee to knee and rest on either foot.”
That is why Zeno was not anxious when he was about to meet Antigonus; for over none of the things that Zeno regarded highly did Antigonus have power, and what Antigonus did have power over Zeno cared nothing about. But Antigonus was anxious when he was about to meet Zeno, and very naturally so; for he wanted to please him, and that lay outside of his control; yet Zeno did not care about pleasing him, any more than any other artist cares about pleasing one who has no knowledge of his art.
Do I care to please you? What do I gain thereby? For do you know the standards according to which man is judged by man? Have you been concerned to know what a good man is, and what an evil man, and how each becomes what he is? Why, then, are you not a good man yourself? — How do you make out, he answers, that I am not a good man? — Why, because no good man grieves or groans, no good man laments, no good man turns pale and trembles, or asks, “How will he receive me? How will he listen to me?” You slave! He will receive you and listen to you as seems best to him. Why, then, are you concerned about things that are not your own? Now is it not his own fault if he gives a bad reception to what you have to say? — Of course. — Is it possible for one man to make the mistake and yet another suffer the harm? — No. — Why, then, are you anxious over what is not your own? — That is all very well, but I am anxious over how I shall speak to him. — What, are you not privileged to speak to him as you please? — Yes, but I am afraid that I shall be disconcerted. — You are not afraid of being disconcerted when you are about to write the name Dio, are you? — No, not at all. — What is the reason? Is it not that you have practised writing? — Yes, of course. — What then? If you were about to read something, would you not feel the same way about it? — Quite the same. — What is the reason? Why, because every art has an element of strength and confidence inside its own field. Have you, then, not practised speaking? And what else did you practise in your school? — Syllogisms and arguments involving equivocal premisses. — To what end? Was it not to enable you to conduct an argument skilfully? And does not “skilfully” mean seasonably and securely and intelligently, and, more than that, without making mistakes and without embarrassment, and, in a
ddition to all this, with confidence? — Surely. — Well then, if you are on horseback and have ridden out upon the plain against a man who is on foot, are you in anxiety, assuming that you are in practice and the other is not? — Yes, that is all very well, but Caesar has authority to put me to death. — Then tell the truth, wretch, and do not brag, nor claim to be a philosopher, nor fail to recognize your masters; but as long as you let them have this hold on you through your body, follow everyone that is stronger than you are. But Socrates used to practise speaking to some purpose — Socrates, who discoursed as he did to the Tyrants, to his judges, and in the prison. Diogenes had practised speaking — Diogenes, who talked to Alexander as he did, to Philip, to the pirates, to the man who had bought him . . . [Leave such matters] to those who are seriously interested in them, to the brave; but do you walk away to your own concerns and never depart from them again; go into your corner and sit down, and spin syllogisms and propound them to others:
“In thee the State hath found no leader true.”
CHAPTER XIV
To Naso
Once when a certain Roman citizen accompanied by his son had come in and was listening to one of his readings, Epictetus said: This is the style of my teaching, and then lapsed into silence. But when the other requested to know what came next, he replied: Instruction in the technique of any art is boring to the layman who has had no experience in it. Now the products of the arts show immediately their use towards the purpose for which they are made, and most of them possess also a certain attractiveness and charm. For example, to stand by and watch the process by which a shoemaker learns his trade is, indeed, not pleasant, yet the shoe is useful and not an unpleasant thing to look at either. And the process of education in the case of a carpenter is especially tiresome to the layman who happens to be watching, but the work which the carpenter does shows the use of his art. You will find the same much more true in the case of music; for if you are standing by when someone is taking a lesson, the process of instruction will strike you as the most unpleasant of all, yet the results of music are sweet and pleasing to the ear of the layman.