Remember what the poet says about the stranger:
Stranger, I may not with right dishonour a stranger, not even
Worse man were he than art thou; for of God are all strangers and beggars.
This, then, is what one should have ready to use in the case of a father: “I may not righitfully dishonour a father, not even if a worse man than art thou should come; for of Zeus, the God of Fathers, are they all”; and so in the case of a brother: “For of Zeus, the God of Kindred, are they all.” And similarly, in the other social relations, we shall find Zeus overseeing them all.
CHAPTER XII
Of training
We ought not to take our training in things that are unnatural or fantastic, since in that case we who profess to be philosophers will be no better than the mountebanks. For it is a hard thing also to walk a tight-rope, and not merely hard but dangerous too. Ought we also for this reason to practise walking a tight-rope, or setting up a palm, or throwing our arms about statues? Not a bit of it. Not every difficult and dangerous thing is suitable for training, but only that which is conducive to success in achieving the object of our effort. And what is the object of our effort? To act without hindrance in choice and in aversion. And what does this mean? Neither to fail to get what we desire, nor to fall into what we would avoid. Toward this end, therefore, our training also should tend. For since it is impossible without great and constant training to secure that our desire fail not to attain, and our aversion fall not into what it would avoid, be assured that, if you allow training to turn outwards, towards the things that are not in the realm of the moral purpose, you will have neither your desire successful in attaining what it would, nor your aversion successful in avoiding what it would. And since habit is a powerful influence, when we have accustomed ourselves to employ desire and aversion only upon these externals, we must set a contrary habit to counteract this habit, and where the very slippery nature of sense-impressions is in play, there we must set our training as a counteracting force.
I am inclined to pleasure; I will betake myself to the opposite side of the rolling ship, and that beyond measure, so as to train myself I am inclined to avoid hard work; I will strain and exercise my sense-impressions to this end, so that my aversion from everything of this kind shall cease. For who is the man in training? He is the man who practises not employing his desire, and practises employing his aversion only upon the things that are within the sphere of his moral purpose, yes, and practises particularly in the things that are difficult to master. And so different men will have to practise particularly to meet different things. To what purpose is it, then, under these conditions, to set up a palm tree, or to carry around a leather tent, or a mortar and pestle? Man, practise, if you are arrogant, to submit when you are reviled, not to be disturbed when you are insulted. then you will make such progress, that, even if someone strikes you, you will say to yourself, “Imagine that you have thrown your arms about a statue.” Next train yourself to use wine with discretion, not with a view to heavy drinking (for there are some clumsy fools who practise with this in mind), but first for the purpose of achieving abstention from wine, and keeping your hands off a wench, or a sweet-cake. And then some day, if the occasion for a test really comes, you will enter the lists at a proper time for the sake of discovering whether your sense-impressions still overcome you just as they did before. But first of all flee far away from the things that are too strong for you. It is not a fair match that, between a pretty wench and a young beginner in philosophy. “A pot,” as they say, “and a stone do not go together.”
After your desire and your aversion the next topic has to do with your choice and refusal. Here the object is to be obedient to reason, not to choose or to refuse at the wrong time, or the wrong place, or contrary to some other similar propriety.
The third topic has to do with cases of assent; it is concerned with the things that are plausible and attractive. For, just as Socrates used to tell us not to live a life unsubjected to examination, so we ought not to accept a sense-impression unsubjected to examination, but should say, “Wait, allow me to see who you are and whence you come” (just as the night-watch say, “Show me your tokens”). “Do you have your token from nature, the one which every sense-impression which is to be accepted must have?” And, in conclusion, all the methods which are applied to the body by the persons who are giving it exercise, might also themselves be conducive to training, if in some such way as this they tend toward desire and aversion; but if they tend toward display, they are characteristic of a man who has turned toward the outside world, and is hunting for something other than the thing itself which he is doing, and is looking for spectators who will say, “Ah, what a great man!” It is this consideration which renders admirable the remark that Apollonius used to make: “When you wish to train for your own sake, then when you are thirsty some hot day take a mouthful of cold water, and spit it out — and don’t tell anybody about it!”
CHAPTER XIII
The meaning of a forlorn state, and the kind of person a forlorn man is
A forlorn state is the condition of one who is without help. For a man is not forlorn merely because he is alone, any more than a man in the midst of a crowd is necessarily not forlorn. At all events, when we have lost a brother, or a son, or a friend with whom we have shared the same bed, we say that we have been left forlorn, though often we are in Rome, with such large crowds meeting us in the streets, and so many people living in the same house with us, and sometimes even though we have a multitude of slaves. For according to the nature of the concept the ‘forlorn’ means the person who is without help, and exposed to those who wish to injure him. That is why, when we go on a journey, we call ourselves forlorn most especially at the moment that we encounter robbers. For it is not the sight of a human being as such which puts an end to our forlorn condition, but the sight of a faithful, and unassuming, and helpful human being. Why, if being alone is enough to make one forlorn, you will have to say that even Zeus himself is forlorn at the World-Conflagration, and bewails himself: “Wretched me! I have neither Hera, nor Athena, nor Apollo, nor, in a word, brother, or son, or grandson, or kinsman.” There are even those who say that this is what he does when left alone at the World-Conflagration; for they cannot conceive of the mode of life of one who is all alone, starting as they do from a natural principle, namely, the facts of natural community of interest among men, and mutual affection, and joy in intercourse. But one ought none the less to prepare oneself for this also, that is, to be able to be self-sufficient, to be able to commune with oneself; even as Zeus communes with himself, and is at peace with himself, and contemplates the character of his governance, and occupies himself with ideas appropriate to himself, so ought we also to be able to converse with ourselves, not to be in need of others, not to be at a loss for some way to spend our time; we ought to devote ourselves to the study of the divine governance, and of our own relation to all other things; to consider how we used to act toward the things that happen to us, and how we act now; what the things are that still distress us; how these too can be remedied, or how removed; if any of these matters that I have mentioned need to be brought to perfection, to perfect them in accordance with the principle of reason inherent in them.
Behold now, Caesar seems to provide us with profound peace, there are no wars any longer, nor battles, no brigandage on a large scale, nor piracy, but at any hour we may travel by land, or sail from the rising of the sun to its setting. Can he, then, at all provide us with peace from fever too, and from shipwreck too, and from fire, or earthquake, or lightning? Come, can he give us peace from love? He cannot. From sorrow? From envy? He cannot — from absolutely none of these things. But the doctrine of the philosophers promises to give us peace from these troubles too. And what does it say? “Men, if you heed me, wherever you may be, whatever you may be doing, you will feel no pain, no anger, no compulsion, no hindrance, but you will pass your lives in tranquillity and in freedom from every disturbance.” When
a man has this kind of peace proclaimed to him, not by Caesar — why, how could he possibly proclaim it? — but proclaimed by God through the reason, is he not satisfied, when he is alone? When he contemplates and reflects, “Now no evil can befall me, for me there is no such thing as a brigand, for me there is no such thing as an earthquake, everything is full of peace, everything full of tranquillity; every road, every city, every fellow-traveller, neighbour, companion, all are harmless. Another, whose care it is, supplies food; Another supplies raiment; Another has given senses; Another preconceptions. Now whenever He does not provide the necessities for existence, He sounds the recall; He has thrown open the door and says to you, “Go.” Where? To nothing you need fear, but back to that from which you came, to what is friendly and akin to you, to the physical elements. What there was of fire in you shall pass into fire, what there was of earth into earth, what there was of spirit into spirit, what there was of water into water. There is no Hades, nor Acheron, nor Cocytus, nor Pyriphlegethon, but everything is filled with gods and divine powers.” A man who has this to think upon, and who beholds the sun, and moon, and stars, and enjoys land and sea, is no more forlorn than he is without help. “Why, what then? What if someone should attack me when I am alone and murder me?” Fool, not murder you but your trivial body.
What kind of forlornness is left, then, to talk about? What kind of helplessness? Why make ourselves worse than little children? When they are left alone, what do they do? They gather up sherds and dust and build something or other, then tear it down and build something else again; and so they are never at a loss as to how to spend their time. Am I, then, if you set sail, to sit down and cry because I am left alone and forlorn in that fashion? Shan’t I have sherds, shan’t I have dust? But they act thus out of folly, and are we miserable out of wisdom?
Great power is always dangerous for the beginner. We ought, therefore, to bear such things according to our power — nay, in accordance with nature . . . but not for the consumptive. Practise at some one time a style of living like an invalid, that at some other time you may live like a healthy man. Take no food, drink only water; refrain at some one time altogether from desire, that at some other time you may exercise desire, and then with good reason. And if you do so with good reason, whenever you have some good in you, you will exercise your desire aright. No, that’s not our way, but we wish to live like wise men from the very start, and to help mankind. Help indeed! What are you about? Why, have you helped yourself? But you wish to help them progress. Why, have you made progress yourself? Do you wish to help them? Then show them, by your own example, the kind of men philosophy produces, and stop talking nonsense. As you eat, help those who are eating with you; as you drink, those who are drinking with you; by yielding to everybody, giving place, submitting — help men in this way, and don’t bespatter them with your own sputum.
CHAPTER XIV
Some scattered sayings
As the good chorus-singers in tragedy cannot render solos, but can sing perfectly well with a number of other voices, so some men cannot walk around by themselves. Man, if you are anybody, both walk around by yourself, and talk to yourself, and don’t hide yourself in the chorus. Let yourself be laughed at sometimes, look about you, shake yourself up, so as to find out who you actually are.
Whenever a man drinks water only, or has some ascetic practice, he takes every opportunity to talk about it to everybody: “I drink water only.” Why, do you drink water just for the sake of drinking water? Man, if it is good for you to drink water, drink it! Otherwise your conduct is absurd. But if it does you good and you drink water onlv, don’t say a word about it to the people who are annoyed by such persons. Why, what’s your object? Are these just the ones you wish to please?
Among actions some are performed primarily on their own account, others on occasion, or as a matter of good management, or as required by tact, or as part of a formal plan.
Here are two things of which one must rid men, conceit and diffidence. Now conceit is to fancy that one needs nothing further. And diffidence is to assume that one cannot enjoy a life of serenity under so many adverse circumstances. Now conceit is removed by cross-examination, and this is what Socrates starts with. . . . But that the matter is not impossible, consider and search — this kind of search will do you no harm; and, indeed, to philosophize practically amounts to this, that is, to search how it is possible to employ desire and aversion without hindrance.
“I am superior to you, for my father has consular rank.” Another says, “I have been a tribune, and you have not.” And if we were horses, you would be saying: “My sire was swifter than yours,” or, “I have quantities of barley and fodder,” or, “I have pretty neck-trappings.” What then, if, when you were talking like this, I said, “Granted all that, let’s run a race, then”? Come now, is there, then, nothmg in man like running in the case of a horse, whereby the worse and the better will be recognized? Isn’t there such a thing as reverence, faith, justice? Prove yourself superior in these points, in order to be superior as a human being. If you tell me, “I can deliver a mighty kick,” I shall say to you in my turn, “You are proud over what is the act of an ass.”
CHAPTER XV
That we ought to approach each separate thing with circumspection
In each separate thing that you do consider the matters which come first, and those which follow after, and only then approach the thing itself. Otherwise, at the start you will come to it enthusiastically because you have never reflected upon any of the subsequent steps, but later on, when some of them appear, you will give up disgracefully. “I wish to win an Olympic victory.” But consider the matters which come before that and those which follow after; and only when you have done that, then, if it profits you, put your hand to the task. You have to submit to discipline, follow a strict diet, give up sweet-cakes, train under compulsion, at a fixed hour, in heat or in cold; you must not drink cold water, nor wine just whenever you feel like it; you must have turned yourself over to your trainer precisely as you would to a physician. Then when the contest comes on, you have to “dig in” beside your opponent, sometimes dislocate your wrist, sprain your ankle, swallow quantities of sand, take a scourging; yes, and then sometimes get beaten along with all that. After you have counted up these points, go on into the games, if you still wish to; otherwise, I would have you observe that you will be turning back like children. Sometimes they play athletes, again gladiators, again they blow trumpets, and then act a play about anything that they have seen and admired. So you too are now an athlete, now a gladiator, then a philosopher, after that a rhetorician, yet with your whole soul nothing, but like an ape you imitate whatever you see, and one thing after another is always striking your fancy, but what you are accustomed to bores you. For you have never gone out after anything with circumspection, nor after you have examined the whole matter all over and tested it, but you act at haphazard and half-heartedly.
In the same way, when some people have seen a philosopher and heard someone speaking like Euphrates (though, indeed, who can speak like him?), they wish to be philosophers themselves. Man, consider first what the business is, and then your own natural ability, what you can bear. If you wish to be a wrestler, look to your shoulders, your thighs, your loins. For one man has a natural talent for one thing, another for another. Do you suppose that you can do the things you do now, and yet be a philosopher? Do you suppose that you can eat in the same fashion, drink in the same fashion, give way to anger and to irritation, just as you do now? You must keep vigils, work hard, overcome certain desires, abandon your own people, be despised by a paltry slave, be laughed to scorn by those who meet you, in everything get the worst of it, in office, in honour, in court. Look these drawbacks over carefully, and then, if you think best, approach philosophy, that is, if you are willing at the price of these things to secure tranquillity, freedom, and calm. Otherwise, do not approach; don’t act like a child — now a philosopher, later on a tax-gatherer, then a rhetorician, then a procura
tor of Caesar. These things do not go together. You must be one person, either good or bad; you must labour to improve either your own governing principle or externals; you must work hard either on the inner man, or on things outside; that is, play the role of a philosopher, or else that of a layman.
When Galba was assassinated, someone said to Rufus, “Is the universe governed now by Providence?” But he replied, “Did I ever, even in passing, take the case of Galba as the basis for an argument that the universe is governed by Providence?”
CHAPTER XVI
That one should enter cautiously into social intercourse
The man who consorts frequently with one person or another either for conversation, or for banquets, or for social purposes in general, is compelled either to become like them himself, or else to bring them over to his own style of living; for if you put by the side of a live coal one that has gone out, either the dead coal will put the live one out, or the latter will kindle the former. Since the risk, then, is so great, we ought to enter cautiously into such social intercourse with the laymen, remembering that it is impossible for the man who brushes up against the person who is covered with soot to keep from getting some soot on himself. For what are you going to do if he talks about gladiators, or horses, or athletes, or, worse still, about people: “So-and-so is bad, So-and-so is good; this was well done, this ill”; or again, if he scoffs, or jeers, or shows an ugly disposition? Has any of you the capacity of the expert lyre-player when he takes up his lyre, which enables him, the instant he touches the strings, to recognize the ones which are off pitch, and to tune the instrument? Or the power that Socrates had, which enabled him in every kind of social intercourse to bring over to his own side those who were in his company? How could you have? But you must necessarily be converted by the laymen.