Are you not willing, at this late date, like children, to be weaned and to partake of more solid food, and not to cry for mammies and nurses — old wives’ lamentations? “But if I leave, I shall cause those women sorrow?” You cause them sorrow? Not at all, but it will be the same thing that causes sorrow to you yourself — bad judgement. What, then, can you do? Get rid of that judgement, and, if they do well, they will themselves get rid of their judgement; otherwise, they will come to grief and have only themselves to thank for it. Man, do something desperate, as the expression goes, now if never before, to achieve peace, freedom, and mindedness. Lift up your neck at last like a mau escaped from bondage, be bold to look towards God and say, “Use me henceforward for whatever Thou wilt; I am of one mind with Thee; I am Thine; I crave exemption from nothing that seems good in Thy sight; where Thou wilt, lead me; in what raiment Thou wilt, clothe me. Wouldst Thou have me to hold office, or remain in private life; to remain here or go into exile; to be poor or be rich? I will defend all these Thy acts before men; I will show what the true nature of each thing is. “Nay, you will not; sit rather in the house as girls do and wait for your mammy until she feeds you! If Heracles had sat about at home, what would he have amounted to? He would have been Eurystheus and no Heracles. Come, how many acquaintances and friends did he have with him as he went up and down through the whole world? Nay, he had no dearer friend than God. That is why he was believed to be a son of God, and was. It was therefore in obedience to His will that he went about clearing away wickedness and lawlessness. But you are no Heracles, you say, and you cannot clear away the wickedness of other men, nay, nor are you even a Theseus, to clear away the ills of Attica merely. Very well, clear away your own then. From just here, from out your own mind, cast not Procrustes and Sciron, but grief, fear, desire, envy, joy at others’ ills; cast out greed, effeminacy, incontinency. These things you cannot cast out in any other way than by looking to God alone, being specially devoted to Him only, and consecrated to His commands. But if you wish anything else, with lamentation and groaning you will follow that which is stronger than you are, ever seeking outside yourself for peace, and never able to be at peace. For you seek peace where it is not, and neglect to seek it where it is.
CHAPTER XVII
How ought we adjust our preconceptions to individual instances?
What is the first business of one who practises philosophy? To get rid of thinking that one knows; for it is impossible to get a man to begin to learn that which he thinks he knows. However, as we go to the philosophers we all babble hurly-burly about what ought to be done and what ought not, good and evil, fair and foul, and on these grounds assign praise and blame, censure and reprehension, passing judgement on fair and foul practices, and discriminating between them. But what do we go to the philosophers for? To learn what we do not think we know. And what is that? General principles. For some of us want to learn what the philosopliers are saying, thinking it will be witty and shrewd, others, because they wish to profit thereby. But it is absurd to think that when a man wishes to learn one thing he will actually learn something else, or, in short, that a man will make progress in anything without learning it. But the multitude are under the same misapprehension as was Theopompus, the orator, who actually censures Plato for wishing to define every term. Well, what does he say? “Did none of us before your time ever use the words ‘good’ or ‘just’? Or, without understanding what each of these terms severally mean, did we merely utter them as vague and empty sounds?” Why, who tells you, Theopompus, that we did not have a natural conception of each term, that is, a preconceived idea of it? But it is impossible to adjust our preconceived ideas to the appropriate facts without having first systematized them and having raised precisely this question — what particular fact is to be classified under each preconception. Suppose, for example, that you make the same sort of remark to the physicians: “Why, who among us did not use terms ‘healthy’ and ‘diseased’ before Hippocrates was born? Or were we merely making an empty noise with these sounds?” For, of course, we have a certain preconception of the idea “healthy.” But we are unable to apply it. That is why one jjerson says, “Keep abstaining from food,” and another, “Give nourishment”; again, one says, “Cut a vein,” and another says, “Use the cupping-glass.” What is the reason? Is it really anything but the fact that a person is unable properly to apply the preconceived idea of “healthy” to the specific instances?
So it stands here also, in the affairs of life. Who among us has not upon his lips the words “good” and “evil,” “advantageous” and “disadvantageous”? For who among us does not have a preconceived idea of each of these terms? Very well, is it fitted into a system and complete? Prove that it is. “How shall I prove it?” Apply it properly to specific facts. To start with, Plato classifies definitions under the preconception “the useful,” but you classify them under that of “the useless.” Is it, then, possible for both of you to be right? How can that be? Does not one man apply his preconceived idea of “the good” to the fact of wealth, while another does not? And another to that of pleasure, and yet another to that of health? Indeed, to sum up the whole matter, if all of us who have these terms upon our lips possess no mere empty knowledge of each one severally, and do not need to devote any pains to the systematic arrangement of our preconceived ideas, why do we disagree, why fight, why blame one another?
And yet what need is there for me to bring forward now our strife with one another and make mention of that? Take your own case; if you apply properly your preconceived ideas, why are you troubled, why are you hampered? Let us pass by for the moment the second field of study — that which has to do with our choices and the discussion of what is our duty in regard to them. Let us pass by also the third — that which has to do with our assents. I make you a present of all this. Let us confine our attention to the first field, one which allows an almost palpable proof that you do not properly apply your preconceived ideas. Do you at this moment desire what is possible in general and what is possible for you in particular? If so, why are you hampered? Why are you troubled? Are you not at this moment trying to escape what is inevitable? If so, why do you fall into any trouble, why are you unfortunate? Why is it that when you want something it does not happen, and when you do not want it, it does happen? For this is the strongest proof of trouble and misfortune. I want something, and it does not happen; and what creature is more wretched than I? I do not want something, and it does happen; and what creature is more wretched than I?
Medea, for example, because she could not endure this, came to the point of killing her children. In this respect at least hers was the act of a great spirit. For she had the proper conception of what it means for anyone’s wishes not to come true. “Very well, then,” says she, “in these circumstances I shall take vengeance upon the man who has wronged and insulted me. Yet what good do I get out of his being in such an evil plight? How can that be accomplished? I kill my children. But I shall be punishing myself also. Yet what do I care?” This is the outbursting of a soul of great force. For she did not know where the power lies to do what we wish — that we cannot get this from outside ourselves, nor by disturbing and deranging things. Give up wanting to keep your husband, and nothing of what you want fails to happen. Give up wanting him to live with you at any cost. Give up wanting to remain in Corinth, and, in a word, give up wanting anything but what God wants. And who will prevent you, who will compel you? No one, any more than anyone prevents or compels Zeus.
When you have such a leader as Zeus and identify your wishes and your desires with His, why are you still afraid that you will fail? Give to poverty and to wealth your aversion and your desire: you will fail to get what you wish, and you will fall into what you would avoid. Give them to health; you will come to grief; so also if you give them to offices, honours, country, friends, children, in short to anything that lies outside the domain of moral purpose. But give them to Zeus and the other gods; entrust them to their keeping, let them exe
rcise the control; let your desire and your aversion be ranged on their side — and how can you be troubled any longer? But if you show envy, wretched man, and pity, and jealousy, and timidity, and never let a day pass without bewailing yourself and the gods, how can you continue to say that you have been educated? What kind of education, man, do you mean? Because you have worked on syllogisms, and arguments with equivocal premisses? Will you not unlearn all this, if that be possible, and begin at the beginning, realizing that hitherto you have not even touched the matter; and for the future, beginning at this point, add to your foundations that which comes next in order — provision that nothing shall be that you do not wish, and that nothing shall fail to be that you do wish?
Give me but one young man who has come to school with this purpose in view, who has become an athlete in this activity, saying, “As for me, let everything else go; I am satisfied if I shall be free to live untrammelled and untroubled, to hold up my neck in the face of facts like a free man, and to look up to heaven as a friend of God, without fear of what may possibly happen.” Let one of you show me such a person, so that I can say to him: Enter, young man, into your own, for it is your destiny to adorn philosophy, yours are these possessions, yours these books, yours these discourses. Then, when he has worked his way through this first field of study and mastered it like an athlete, let him come to me again and say, “I want, it is true, to be tranquil and free from turmoil, but I want also, as a god-fearing man, a philosopher and a diligent student, to know what is my duty towards the gods, towards parents, towards brothers, towards my country, towards strangers.” Advance now to the second field of study; this also is yours. “Yes, but I have already studied this second field. What I wanted was to be secure and unshaken, and that not merely in my waking hours, but also when asleep, and drunk, and melancholy-mad.” Man, you are a god, great are the designs you cherish!
No, that is not the way it goes, but someone says, “I wish to know what Chrysippus means in his treatise on The Liar.” If that is your design, go hang, you wretch! And what good will knowing that do you? With sorrow you will read the whole treatise, and with trembling you will talk about it to others. This is the way you also, my hearers, behave. You say: “Shall I read aloud to you, brother, and you to me?” “Man, you write wonderfully.” And again, “You have a great gift for writing in the style of Xenophon,” “You for that of Plato,” “You for that of Antisthenes.” And then, when you have told dreams to one another, you go back to the same things again; you have exactly the same desires as before, the same aversions, in the same way you make your choices, your designs, and your purposes, you pray for the same things and are interested in the same things. In the second place, you do not even look for anybody to give you advice, but you are annoyed if you are told what I am telling you. Again, you say: “He is an old man without the milk of human kindness in him; he did not weep when I left, nor say, ‘I fear you are going into a very difficult situation, my son; if you come through safely, I will light lamps.’” Is this what a man with the milk of human kindness in him would say? It will be a great piece of good luck for a person like you to come through safely, a thing worth lighting lamps to celebrate! Surely you ought to be free from death and free from disease!
It is this conceit of fancying that we know something useful, that, as I have said, we ought to cast aside before we come to philosophy, as we do in the case of geometry and music. Otherwise we shall never even come near to making progress, even if we go through all the Introductions and the Treatises of Chrysippus, with those of Antipater and Archedemus thrown in!
CHAPTER XVIII
How must we struggle against our external impressions?
Every habit and faculty is confirmed and strengthened by the corresponding actions, that of walking by walking, that of running by running. If you wish to be a good reader, read; if you wish to be a good writer, write. If you should give up reading for thirty days one after the other, and be engaged in something else, you will know what happens. So also if you lie in bed for ten days, get up and try to take a rather long walk, and you will see how wobbly your legs are. In general, therefore, if you want to do something, make a habit of it; if you want not to do something, refrain from doing it, and accustom yourself to something else instead. The same principle holds true in the affairs of the mind also; when you are angry, you may be sure, not merely that this evil has befallen you, but also that you have strengthened the habit, and have, as it were, added fuel to the flame. When you have yielded to someone in carnal intercourse, do not count merely this one defeat, but count also the fact that you have fed your incontinence, you have given it additional strength. For it is inevitable that some habits and faculties should, in consequence of the corresponding actions, spring up, though they did not exist before, and that others which were already there should be intensified and made strong.
In this way, without doubt, the infirmities of our mind and character spring up, as the philosophers say. For when once you conceive a desire for money, if reason be applied to bring you to a realization of the evil, both the passion is stilled and our governing principle is restored to its original authority; but if you do not apply a remedy, your governing principle does not revert to its previous condition, but, on being aroused again by the corresponding external impression, it bursts into the flame of desire more quickly than it did before. And if this happens over and over again, the next stage is that a callousness results and the infirmity strengthens the avarice. For the man who has had a fever, and then recovered, is not the same as he was before the fever, unless he has experienced a complete cure. Something like this happens also with the affections of the mind. Certain imprints and weals are left behind on the mind, and unless a man erases them perfectly, the next time he is scourged upon the old scars, he has weals no longer but wounds. If, therefore, you wish not to be hot-tempered, do not feed your habit, set before it nothing on which it can grow. As the first step, keep quiet and count the days on which you have not been angry. “I used to be angry every day, after that every other day, then every third, and then every fourth day.” If you go as much as thirty days without a fit of anger, sacrifice to God. For the habit is first weakened and then utterly destroyed. “To-day I was not grieved” (and so the next day, and thereafter for two or three months); “but I was on my guard when certain things happened that were capable of provoking grief.” Know that things are going splendidly with you.
To-day when I saw a handsome lad or a handsome woman I did not say to myself, “Would that a man might sleep with her,” and “Her husband is a happy man,” for the man who uses the expression “happy” of the husband means “Happy is the adulterer” also; I do not even picture to myself the next scene — the woman herself in my presence, disrobing and lying down by my side. I pat myself on the head and say. Well done, Epictetus, you have solved a clever problem, one much more clever than the so-called “Master”: But when the wench is not only willing, but nods to me and sends for me, yes, and when she even lays hold upon me and snuggles up to me, if I still hold aloof and conquer, this has become a solved problem greater than The Liar, and The Quiescent. On this score a man has a right to be proud indeed, but not about his proposing “The Master” problem.
How, then, may this be done? Make it your wish finally to satisfy your own self, make it your wish to appear beautiful in the sight of God. Set your desire upon becoming pure in the presence of your pure self and of God. “Then when an external impression of that sort comes suddenly upon you,” says Plato, “go and offer an expiatory sacrifice, go and make offering as a suppliant to the sanctuaries of the gods who avert evil”; it is enough if you only withdraw “to the society of the good and excellent men,” and set yourself to comparing your conduct with theirs, whether you take as your model one of the living, or one of the dead. Go to Socrates and mark him as he lies down beside Alcibiades and makes light of his youthful beauty. Bethink yourself how great a victory he once won and knew it himself, like an Olympic victor
y, and what his rank was, counting in order from Heracles; so that, by the gods, one might justly greet him with the salutation, “Hail, wondrous man!” for he was victor over something more than these rotten boxers and pancratiasts, and the gladiators who resemble them. If you confront your external impression with such thoughts, you will overcome it, and not be carried away by it. But, to begin with, be not swept off your feet, I beseech you, by the vividness of the impression, but say, “Wait for me a little, O impression; allow me to see who you are, and what you are an impression of; allow me to put you to the test.” And after that, do not suffer it to lead you on by picturing to you what will follow. Otherwise, it will take possession of you and go off with you wherever it will. But do you rather introduce and set over against it some fair and noble impression, and throw out this filthy one. And if you form the habit of taking such exercises, you will see what mighty shoulders you develop, what sinews, what vigour; but as it is, you have merely your philosophic quibbles, and nothing more.