2011.01.09 — From The Discourses by Epictetus

From my list of over 200 e.mail quips, the random one that popped up today was particularly interesting. Now, objectively I can see that it would likely be uninteresting — or at least I think I can. But for some reason, the manner of its description is so ... I am tempted to write 'charming,' but that's not quite right. Maybe the charm I see in it is because it is so blunt and unusually colourful.

Anyway, some Epictetus for a Sunday afternoon.

…it is a more valuable thing to get a dinner, than not;

and a greater disgrace to be whipt, than not to be whipt; so that, if you measure yourself by these things, go and do your office.

“Ay, but this is not suitable to my character.”

It is you who are to consider that, not I;
for it is you who know yourself, what value you set upon yourself, and at what rate you sell yourself; for different people sell themselves at different prices.

Epictetus Moral Discourses Book I Chapter 2

Epictetus: Discourses — Continues 2010.07.04

Well, Epictetus is still holding my attention! With the Canada Day holiday on Thursday, I took the Friday off to give myself a long four day weekend. With that break, despite being busy, I managed to find time to return to the verbiage of Epictetus. I have thoroughly enjoyed how delightfully expressed and expressive are his ideas, told in bold, sophisticated and yet somehow simple, prose.

Today, his lesson on the problem of learning/teaching to the person who has achieved social success resonated with me. Perhaps, because it provides a striking contrast, for me, to my having recently taken on the challenge of being a tutor/teacher-for-hire to people ranging in age from 9 to 18, who have yet to have the opportunity to achieve any societal success much beyond having learned to walk, talk, control the bodily functions, and acquire a modicum of language and science skills.

On the other hand, my 'real' work day is fraught with MBA-itis! The well schooled MBAs, epitomizing in our age societal success, are flagellating their employees with their learned ignorance as if flowcharts were effused wisdom.

Anyway, more Epictetus. Today's blog will be of two translations extracted from Book 2 Chapter 14.

George Long translation (slightly edited):

Epictetus Book 2 Chapter 14 

To Naso

... Every art, when it is taught, causes labour to him who is unacquainted with it and is unskilled in it, and indeed the things which proceed from the arts immediately show their use in the purpose for which they were made.

...

May it not, then, in philosophy also not be sufficient to wish to be wise and good, and that there is also a necessity to learn certain things?

...

"With what then must we begin?" 

If you will enter on the discussion, I will tell you that you must first understand names. 

"So," you say "I do not now understand names?" 

You do not understand them.

"How, then, do I use them?" 

Just as the illiterate use written language, as cattle use appearances: for use is one thing, understanding is another. But if you think that you understand them, produce whatever word you please, and let us try whether we understand it.

But it is a disagreeable thing for a man to be confuted who is now old and, it may be, has now served his three campaigns.

I too know this: for now you are come to me as if you were in want of nothing: and what could you even imagine to be wanting to you? You are rich, you have children, and a wife, perhaps and many slaves: Caesar knows you, in Rome you have many friends, you render their dues to all, you know how to requite him who does you a favour, and to repay in the same kind him who does a wrong. What do you lack? If, then, I shall show you that you lack the things most necessary and the chief things for happiness, and that hitherto you have looked after everything rather than what you ought, and, to crown all, that you neither know what God is nor what man is, nor what is good nor what is bad; and as to what I have said about your ignorance of other matters, that may perhaps be endured, but if I say that you know nothing about yourself, how is it possible that you should endure me and bear the proof and stay here? It is not possible; but you immediately go off in bad humour. And yet what harm have I done you? unless the mirror also injures the ugly man because it shows him to himself such as he is; unless the physician also is supposed to insult the sick man, when he says to him, "Man, do you think that you ail nothing? But you have a fever: go without food to-day; drink water." And no one says, "What an insult!" But if you say to a man, "Your desires are inflamed, your aversions are low, your intentions are inconsistent, your pursuits are not comfortable to nature, your opinions are rash and false," the man immediately goes away and says, "he has insulted me."

Thomas Wentworth Higginson translation, (slightly edited):

Book II Chapter XIV

Concerning Naso

There was once a certain Roman who came to see Epictetus with his son. He heard one lesson.

...

Every art seems tedious, when it is delivered to a person ignorant and unskilful in it. The things performed by the common arts, quickly manifest the use for which they were made; and most of them have something attractive and agreeable.

...

So here we take it to be the work of one who studies philosophy, to bring his will into harmony with events; so that none of the things which happen may happen against our inclination, nor those which do not happen be desired by us. Hence they, who have settled this point, have it in their power never to be disappointed in what they seek, nor to incur what they shun; but to lead their own lives without sorrow, fear, or perturbation; and in society to preserve all the natural or acquired relations of son, father, brother, citizen, husband, wife, neighbor, fellow-traveller, ruler, or subject. Something like this is what we take to be the work of a philosopher. It remains to inquire, how it is to be effected. Now we see that a carpenter becomes a carpenter by learning certain things; and a pilot, by learning certain things, becomes a pilot. Probably then it is not sufficient, in the case of philosophy, merely to be willing to be wise and good; but it is moreover necessary that certain things should be learned. What these things are, is the question.

...

“Whence, then, are we to begin?” the Roman asked.

If you will give me leave, I will tell you. It is necessary, in the first place, that you should understand words.

“So then! I do not understand them now?”

No. You do not.

“How is it, then, that I use them?”

Just as the illiterate use the words of the learned; and as brutes use the phenomena of nature. For use is one thing, and understanding another. But if you think you understand them, bring whatever words you please, and let us see whether we understand them or not.

“Well; but it is a grievous thing for a man to be confuted who has grown old; and has perhaps served through his three campaigns to a senatorship.”

I know it very well. For you now come to me, as if you wanted nothing. And how can it enter into your imagination, that there should be anything in which you are deficient? You are rich; and perhaps have a wife and children, and a great number of domestics. Cæsar takes notice of you: you have many friends at Rome: you render to all their dues: you know how to requite a favor, and revenge an injury. In what are you deficient? Suppose then, I should prove to you, that you are deficient in what is most necessary and important to happiness; and that hitherto you have taken care of everything, rather than your duty; and, to complete all, that you understand not what God or man, or good or evil, means? That you are ignorant of all the rest, perhaps, you may bear to be told; but if I prove to you that you are ignorant even of yourself, how will you bear with me, and how will you have patience to stay and be convinced? Not at all. You will immediately be offended, and go away. And yet what injury have I done you; unless a looking-glass injures a person not handsome, when it shows him to himself, such as he is? Or unless a physician can be thought to affront his patient, when he says to him: “Do you think, sir, that you are not ill? You have a fever. Eat no meat to-day, and drink water.” Nobody cries out here, “What an intolerable affront!” But, if you say to any one: You exhibit feverishness in your desires, and low habits in what you shun; your aims are contradictory, your pursuits not conformable to nature, your opinions rash, and mistaken; he presently goes away, and complains that he is affronted.

I like both, but prefer the second one over the first one. I have put up here both translations because I find the nuances between them, which is a natural part/problem with all translations, to be interesting. And I have omitted here Epictetus's references to the need to be in all ways the embodiment of God's attributes on earth if one is to be happy.

Zen and Japanese Culture – Still Being Read 2010.03.10

Daisetz T. Suzuki.

Zen and Japanese Culture.

New York: Princeton University Press Bollingen Series #64, 1973. ISBN 0-691-01770-0.

Well, I have been continuing, albeit somewhat inconsistently, my reading Zen and Japanese Culture. It continues to fascinate, in a delicious pairing with Epictetus, and with C.G. Jung. Epictetus argues all that is important to live a happy (complete?) life is to willfully recognize those things in life over which we have the power of the will; Jung argues that the will is subject to the natural existence of the unconscious. Suzuki argues that the highest expression of Zen is to mindfully remove the mind, and to exist being an expression of capital 'N' nature! Hmmmmm. Seems like there are some philosophical hurdles here — which I am in the process of exploring. To begin that exploration I am writing out an example of each philosopher's philosophy, beginning with Suzuki.

Some may ask: How can the sword which implements the will to kill work out its function by itself without the willer's directive behind it? What originality, what creative work, can an inanimate mechanical tool be made to carry out all by itself? When a tool performs whatever function it is made to perform, can we say it has achieved something original? The point is this: When the sword is in the hands of a technician-swordsman skilled in its use, it is no more than an instrument with no mind of its own. What it does is done mechanically, and there is no myōyū discernible in it. 

Odd thought - this reminds me of the horse whisperer's comment about a 'dead' horse lacking spirit, on the episode 'The Dog Whisperer Meets the Horse Whisperer.' Suzuki continues:

But when the sword is held by the swordsman whose spiritual attainment is such that he holds it as though not holding it, it is identified with the man himself, it acquires a soul, it moves with all the subtleties which have been imbedded in him as a swordsman. The man emptied of all thoughts, all emotions originating in fear, all sense of insecurity, all desire to win, is not conscious of using the sword; both man and sword have turned into instruments in the hands, as it were, of the unconscious, and it is this unconscious that achieves wonders of creativity. It is here that swordplay becomes an art.

As the sword is not separated from the man, it is an extension of his arms and accordingly a part of his body. Furthermore, the body and the mind are not separated, as they are in the case of intellectualization. The mind and the body move in perfect unison,, with no interference from intellect or emotion. Even the distinction of subject and object is annihilated. The opponent's movements are not perceived as such and therefore the subject, so called, acts instinctually in response to what is presented to him. There is no deliberation on his part as to how to react. His unconscious automatically takes care of the whole situation (p146).

The last paragraph corresponds exactly with the Dog Whisperer's actions. He frequently comments that he is acting instinctively to what this particular dog presents to him as its particular course of treatment. Also, Suzuki's comment about the unconscious automatically taking care, reminds me tangentially of the submissive dog — it is instinctively acting as per the pack leader's mien and is happier to do it than to be the leader. And yet, it is not an act of unconsciousness, but one derived from consciously making the choice to not interfere with the natural instincts, to work with it. Again, I feel an intuitive link between TDW's comment that animals are striving to do something/anything in the service of their pack leader/master. This was strongly stated in the episode with the horse whisperer.


And, even more bizarrely, I am reminded of Krishna's admonishment to Arjuna, after Arjuna expressed reluctance to fight his relatives. Krishna pointed out that it would be unwise for him to turn away from his true nature, which is that of a warrior. Krishna's wisdom required that Arjuna fight his relatives, even if morally that was unwise, and to fight with is heart and soul and, if necessary, to kill them, because his fight was a right and just one. Arjuna refuses to fight against the greed destructiveness of his relatives, arguing that ...

The sins of men who violate the family 

undermines the constant laws

of caste and family duty
(1.41).

To which Krishna replied:

Look to your own duty;

do not tremble before it;

nothing is better for a warrior

than a battle of sacred duty
(2.31).

Odd connection of ideas. Stay tuned; I will be citing from Jung and from Epictetus.

Epictetus: Discourses — Continued 2010.03.01

Once again I experienced an amusing fushigi while reading

Epictetus.

Born about 55 C.E. in Hierapolis in Phrygia,

modern-day Pamukkale,

in south-western Turkey.

The fushigi begins with my reading:

... Where I can be hindered and compelled the obtaining of those things is not in my power. Nor is it good or bad, but the use is either bad or good, and the use is in my power. But it is difficult to mingle and to bring together these two things, the carefulness of him who is affected by the matter and the firmness of him who has no regard for it. But it is not impossible, and if it were, happiness is impossible. But we can act as we do in the case of a voyage. What do I do to prepare for it? I choose the master of the ship, the sailors, the day, the opportunity. [It was at this point that for no logical reason, into my mind's eye came the scene in the movie '28 Days' where Sandra Bullock's character Gwen is being taught by the professional baseball pitcher on how to throw a baseball. The lesson Viggo Mortensen's character, Eddie, is giving is to control what is in your hand — how the ball is held, the timing of the release, etc., and to let go whether or not it is a strike because 'that is someone else's business.' Even as I was thinking this, I thought, how funny! The lesson's of Epictetus can be found in feel good American movies! Epictetus continues...] Then comes a storm, regardless my careful preparations. What more have I to care for, for my part is done. The business belongs to another — the master. But the ship is sinking — what then have I to do? I do the only things that I can, which is not to be drowned full of fear, nor screaming, nor blaming God, but knowing that what has been produced must also perish: for I am not an immortal being, but a man, a part of the whole, as an hour is a part of the day. I am present like the hour, and past like the hour. What difference, then, does it make to me how I pass away, whether by being suffocated or by a fever, for I shall pass through some such means (Discourses 2.5 slightly edited).

So, then here comes one of those quiet fushigi that are simply too small and peculiar to take seriously, but so strange and peculiar that they seem worthy of taking some notice, if for no other reason than stopping to see them is like stopping to smell the roses, or pausing to enjoy a sun set or a moon rise.

After being bemused by the curious parallel between a Sandra Bullock movie in which she is being taught to throw a ball and the stoic philosophy of Epictetus, I then read the next paragraph:

This is just what you will see those doing who play at ball skillfully. No one cares about the ball being good or bad, but about throwing and catching it. In this therefore is the skill, this the art, the quickness, the judgement, so that if I spread out my lap I may not be able to catch it, and another, if I throw, may catch the ball. But if with perturbation and fear we receive or throw the ball, what kind of play is it then, and wherein shall a man be steady, and how shall a man see the order in the game? (Discourses 2.5. my emphasis.)

Sorry, but I found that very amusing.

Epictetus: Discourses &mdash Continued 2010.02.21

Ἐπίκτητος; AD 55–AD 135

I have been thoroughly enjoying the philosophical arguments of Epictetus, and find myself re-reading many of his them because of the elegant beauty of the prose as well as their sophistication and obvious and immediate applicability to many of the social/economic/political 'problems' of today. Delightful, and thought-provoking stuff.

The following quotation will not be presenting anything thought provoking, let alone new. However, I love the language and manner of the presentation.

From Discourses 1.12: Discipline = Freedom.

He, then, who comes to be instructed,

come with this aim:

“How may I in everything follow the gods?

How may I acquiesce in the divine administration?

And how may I be free?”

For he is free, to whom all happens agreeably to his desire,

and whom no one can unduly restrain.

“What then, is freedom mere license?”

By no means; for madness and freedom are incompatible.

“But I would have that happen which appears to me desirable;

however it comes to appear so.”

You are mad: you have lost your senses. Do not you know, that freedom is a very beautiful and valuable thing? But for me to choose at random, and for things to happen agreeably to such a choice, may be so far from a beautiful thing, as to be, of all others, the most undesirable. For how do we proceed in writing? Do I choose to write the name of Dion (for instance) as I will? No; but I am taught to be willing to write it as it is written. And what is the case in music? The same. And what in every other art or science? Otherwise, it would be of no purpose to learn anything, if it were to be adapted to each one’s particular humor. Is it then only in the greatest and principal matter, that of freedom, permitted me to desire at random? By no means; but true instruction is this — learning to desire that things happen as they do. And how do they happen? As the appointer of them hath appointed. He hath appointed that there is summer and winter, plenty and dearth, virtue and vice, and all such contrarieties, for the harmony of the whole. To each of us he has given a body and its parts, and our several possessions and companions. Mindful of this appointment, we can enter upon a course of education and instruction, not in order to change the constitution of things; — a gift neither practicable nor desirable; — but that things being as they are with regard to us, we may have our mind accommodated to the facts. Can we, for instance, flee from mankind? How is that possible? Can we, by conversing with them, transform them? Who has given us such a power? What then remains, or what method is there to be found, for such a commerce with them, that, while they act according to the appearances in their own minds, we may nevertheless be affected conformably to nature? [Slightly edited.]

Epictetus: Discourses — Re-Begun 2009.11.30

I began reading Epictetus at the beginning of the year, on the web.

I looked him up because Mark Kingwell mentioned him in his book Better Living: In Pursuit of Happiness from Plato to Prozac. Since then I have been looking in the used book stores for my own hard copy of Epictetus. Rather difficult to find! I here give great thanks to Peter Gribble, the proprietor of my large local used bookstore, Booktown, for pointing out to me that Epictetus's Discourses are included in the Encyclopaedia Brittanica's Great Book series, Volume 12. And it so happened that he even had one on hand, and that by lucky(?) happenstance this volume also includes Marcus Aurelius and Lucretius — whom I will now be reading in the near future, I imagine. Especially M.A. because with his inclusion in this volume arises one of the oddest little fushigis I can imagine — about 4 years ago one of my co-workers was been given, by me, the nickname Marcus Aurelius!

However, the reason I'm writing this out is because of a nice little fushigi that I came across in the writings of Epictetus. It applies to my place of work and the recent discussions I've had with a couple of my work co-podders. Our recent discussions, over morning coffee the last few days before knuckling down work, have been about the power (or lack of power) we individuals have to change that annoying other person, be it kith, kin or co-worker.

And to extend the fushigi just a wee bit, Epictetus comments on dreaming and dreamers. And dreams have also recently started to become a morning coffee topic of discussion with my pod-mates. (For example, the other night I dreamt I was in New York with Regis Philbin taking in the sites and looking for real-estate while NR dreamt he was walking across an upper floor of a small hotel that was covered in mangled, dead and dying baby ducks. He was unconcerned about them as he wended his way through them to get to the stairwell and to the main floor which was having some kind of reception or event.)

And as a great bit of philosophical dessert, and that I find particularly fascinating, is how Epictetus's dream comment contrasts with that of my favourite ancient eastern philosopher, Chuang-Tzu (莊子).

Anyway, here's Epictetus on the nature of personal obstinacy and what can be done to change it (in others):

Book I Chapter V.

Concerning the Academics.

It is said that there are those who will oppose very evident truths, and yet it is not easy to find a reason which may persuade such an one to alter his opinion. This may arise neither from his own strength, nor from the weakness of his teacher; but when a man becomes obstinate in error, reason cannot always reach him.

Now there are two sorts of obstinacy: the one, of the intellect; the other, of the will. A man may obstinately set himself not to assent to evident truths, nor to quit the defence of contradictions. We all dread a bodily paralysis; and would make use of every contrivance to avoid it: but none of us is troubled about a paralysis of the soul. And yet, indeed, even with regard to the soul, when a person is so affected as not to apprehend or understand anything, we think him in a sad condition; but where the emotions of shame and modesty are under an absolute paralysis, we go so far as even to call this strength of mind!

[Epictetus then takes his 'obstinancy' argument into a strange direction, that of dreams. He continued the above with:]

Are you certain that you are awake? — “I am not,” replies such a person, “for neither am I certain when in dreaming I appear to myself to be awake.” Is there no difference, then, between these appearances? — “None.” Shall I argue with this man any longer? For what steel or what caustic can I apply, to make him sensible of his paralysis? If he is sensible of it, and pretends not to be so, he is even worse than dead. He sees not his inconsistency, or, seeing it, holds to the wrong. He moves not, makes no progress; he rather falls back. His sense of shame is gone; his reasoning faculty is not gone, but brutalized. Shall I call this strength of mind? By no means: unless we allow it to be such in the vilest debauchees, publicly to speak and act out their worst impulses.

I included the last bit for a couple of reasons. In part because, as I mentioned, we have been talking about dreams, lately, but also because of how the existence of 'lucid dreaming' perhaps refutes Epictetus's argument! But that is not the only, nor even the main, reason I included it. I included it because Chuang-Tzu, the Chinese philosopher of about 300 B.C. or so (Epictetus died in 135 A.D.), also comments on the problem of dreams:

Once upon a time Chuang dreamed that he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting about happily enjoying himself. He didn't know that he was Chou. Suddenly he awoke and was palpably Chou. He did not know whether he was Chou who had dreamed of being a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming that he was Chou. Now, there must be a difference between Chou and the butterfly. This is called the transformation of things.

Chuang Tzu. Wandering on the Way: Early Taoist Tales and Parables of Chuang Tzu. Toronto: Bantam Books, 1994. Translated by Victor H. Mair, p. 24.

What is most interesting about this, in comparison to Epictetus, is that Chuang-Tzu does not dismiss as irrational the person who couldn't tell whether or not he was dreaming. How Chuang-Tzu puts it is very interesting, because he says that there must be difference – even if it is impossible to distinguish the two. Basic western philosophy, of which Epictetus here is clearly enunciating, is so fixated on the power of the mind that he cannot conceive of two ostensibly disparate things so alike that the mind cannot distinguish between the two. He has failed to observe that the heart/soul knows truths the mind cannot grasp, despite his use of 'soul' here and elsewhere. Curious.