In the first place, Anger is unwarrantable as it is unjust: for it falls many times upon the wrong person, and discharges itself upon the innocent instead of the guilty: beside the disproportion of making the most trivial offences to be capital, and punishing an inconsiderate word perhaps with torments, fetters, infamy, or death. It allows a man neither time nor means for defence, but judges a cause without hearing it, and admits of no mediation. It flies into the face of truth itself, if it be of the adverse party; and turns obstinacy in an error, into an argument of justice. It does every thing with agitation and tumult; whereas reason and equity can destroy whole families, if there be occasion for it, even to the extinguishing of their names and memories, without any indecency, either of countenance or action.
First, anger is wrong because it's unfair. It often targets the wrong person and punishes the innocent instead of the guilty. It treats minor offenses as serious crimes, perhaps punishing a thoughtless word with torture, chains, disgrace, or death. Anger gives a person no time or opportunity to defend themselves. It judges without listening and refuses any attempt at peace-making. It attacks truth itself if truth opposes it, and it mistakes stubborn error for justice. Everything it does involves chaos and violence. Reason and fairness, on the other hand, can destroy entire families when necessary, even wiping out their names and memories, without any unseemly behavior or actions.
Secondly, It is unsociable to the highest point; for it spares neither friend nor foe; but tears all to pieces, and casts human nature into a perpetual state of war. It dissolves the bond of mutual society, insomuch that our very companions and relations dare not come near us; it renders us unfit for the ordinary offices of life: for we can neither govern our tongues, our hands, nor any part of our body. It tramples upon the laws of hospitality, and of nations, leaves every man to be his own carver, and all things, public and private, sacred and profane, suffer violence.
Secondly, it is antisocial in the extreme. It spares neither friend nor enemy but tears everyone apart and throws human nature into constant warfare. It breaks the bonds that hold society together. Our companions and family members don't dare come near us. It makes us unfit for ordinary life because we can't control our tongues, our hands, or any part of our body. It tramples on the laws of hospitality and international relations. Every person becomes their own judge, and everything suffers violence—public and private matters, sacred and secular things alike.
Thirdly, It is to no purpose. “It is a sad thing,” we cry, “to put up with these injuries, and we are not able to bear them;” as if any man that can bear anger could not bear an injury, which is much more supportable. You will say that anger does some good yet, for it keeps people in awe, and secures a man from contempt; never considering, that it is more dangerous to be feared than despised. Suppose that an angry man could do as much as he threatens; the more terrible, he is still the more odious; and on the other side, if he wants power, he is the more despicable for his anger; for there is nothing more wretched than a choleric huff, that makes a noise, and nobody cares for it.
Third, anger serves no purpose. "It's terrible," we complain, "to put up with these insults, and we can't bear them." But if someone can bear anger, they should easily bear an injury, which is much easier to handle. You might argue that anger does some good because it keeps people in line and prevents others from looking down on you. But you're not considering that being feared is more dangerous than being despised. Let's say an angry person could actually do everything they threaten. The more terrifying they are, the more people will hate them. On the flip side, if they lack real power, their anger only makes them more pathetic. Nothing is more pitiful than someone who flies into a rage, makes a lot of noise, and gets completely ignored.
If anger would be valuable because men are afraid of it, why not an adder, a toad, or a scorpion as well? It makes us lead the life of gladiators; we live, and we fight together. We hate the happy, despise the miserable, envy our superiors, insult our inferiors, and there is nothing in the world which we will not do, either for pleasure or profit. To be angry at offenders is to make ourselves the common enemies of mankind, which is both weak and wicked; and we may as well be angry that our thistles do not bring forth apples, or that every pebble in our ground is not an oriental pearl. If we are angry both with young men and with old, because they do offend, why not with infants too, because they will offend? It is laudable to rejoice for anything that is well done; but to be transported for another man’s doing ill, is narrow and sordid. Nor is it for the dignity of virtue to be either angry or sad.
If anger were valuable because people fear it, then why not value a snake, a toad, or a scorpion as well? Anger makes us live like gladiators. We live and fight together. We hate happy people, look down on the miserable, envy our superiors, and insult those beneath us. There's nothing in the world we won't do for pleasure or profit. Getting angry at people who offend us makes us enemies of all mankind. This is both weak and wicked. We might as well be angry that our thistles don't grow apples, or that every pebble in our yard isn't a precious pearl. If we get angry with both young and old people because they offend us, why not get angry with babies too, since they will offend us someday? It's good to celebrate when something is done well. But getting worked up over another person's bad behavior is petty and cheap. It's not dignified for virtue to be either angry or sad.
It is with a tainted mind as with an ulcer, not only the touch, but the very offer at it, makes us shrink and complain; when we come once to be carried off from our poise, we are lost. In the choice of a sword, we take care that it be wieldy and well mounted; and it concerns us as much to be wary of engaging in the excesses of ungovernable passions. It is not the speed of a horse altogether that pleases us unless we find that he can stop and turn at pleasure. It is a sign of weakness, and a kind of stumbling, for a man to run when he intends only to walk; and it behoves us to have the same command of our mind that we have of our bodies. Besides that the greatest punishment of an injury is the conscience of having done it; and no man suffers more than he that is turned over to the pain of a repentance. How much better is it to compose injuries than to revenge them? For it does not only spend time, but the revenge of one injury exposes to more. In fine, as it is unreasonable to be angry at a crime, it is as foolish to be angry without one.
A corrupted mind is like an infected wound. Not only does touching it hurt, but even the slightest contact makes us flinch and cry out. Once we lose our balance, we're lost. When choosing a sword, we make sure it's easy to handle and well-made. We should be just as careful about getting caught up in wild, uncontrollable emotions. We don't admire a horse just for its speed unless it can also stop and turn when we want it to. It shows weakness when a man runs when he only meant to walk. We need the same control over our minds that we have over our bodies. The worst punishment for doing wrong is knowing you did it. No one suffers more than someone tormented by regret. How much better it is to settle wrongs peacefully than to seek revenge. Revenge not only wastes time, but getting back at someone for one injury often leads to more injuries. In the end, it's unreasonable to be angry about a real crime. It's just as foolish to be angry when no crime was committed at all.
But “may not an honest man then be allowed to be angry at the murder of his father, or the ravishing of his sister or daughter before his face?” No, not at all. I will defend my parents, and I will repay the injuries that are done them; but it is my piety and not my anger, that moves me to it. I will do my duty without fear or confusion, I will not rage, I will not weep; but discharge the office of a good man without forfeiting the dignity of a man. If my father be assaulted, I will endeavor to rescue him; if he be killed, I will do right to his memory; find all this, not in any transport of passion, but in honor and conscience. Neither is there any need of anger where reason does the same thing.
But "shouldn't an honest man be allowed to get angry when his father is murdered, or his sister or daughter is raped right in front of him?" No, not at all. I will defend my parents, and I will make sure those who hurt them pay for it. But it's my sense of duty, not my anger, that drives me to act. I will do what's right without fear or confusion. I won't rage, I won't weep. I'll carry out the duties of a good man without losing my dignity as a human being. If my father is attacked, I will try to save him. If he is killed, I will honor his memory. I'll do all this not from passionate emotion, but from honor and conscience. There's no need for anger when reason accomplishes the same thing.
A man may be temperate, and yet vigorous, and raise his mind according to the occasion, more or less, as a stone is thrown according to the discretion and intent of the caster. How outrageous have I seen some people for the loss of a monkey or a spaniel! And were it not a shame to have the same sense for a friend that we have for a puppy; and to cry like children, as much for a bauble as for the ruin of our country? This is not the effect of reason, but of infirmity. For a man indeed to expose his person for his prince, or his parents, or his friends, out of a sense of honesty, and judgment of duty, it is, without dispute, a worthy and a glorious action; but it must be done then with sobriety, calmness, and resolution.
A person can be moderate and still be strong. They can raise their spirits to match the situation, more or less, just like a stone is thrown with different force depending on what the thrower intends. I've seen people become absolutely furious over losing a monkey or a dog! Wouldn't it be shameful to feel the same way about a friend as we do about a puppy? To cry like children as much over a toy as over our country's destruction? This isn't the result of reason, but of weakness. Now, for a man to risk his life for his prince, his parents, or his friends out of a sense of honor and duty - that is without question a worthy and glorious action. But it must be done with self-control, calmness, and determination.
It is high time to convince the world of the indignity and uselessness of this passion, when it has the authority and recommendation of no less than Aristotle himself, as an affection very much conducing to all heroic actions that require heat and vigor: now, to show, on the other side, that it is not in any case profitable, we shall lay open the obstinate and unbridled madness of it: a wickedness neither sensible of infamy nor of glory, without either modesty or fear; and if it passes once from anger into a hardened hatred, it is incurable. It is either stronger than reason, or it is weaker. If stronger, there is no contending with it; if weaker, reason will do the business without it. Some will have it that an angry man is good-natured and sincere; whereas, in truth, he only lays himself open out of heedlessness and want of caution. If it were in itself good the more of it the better; but in this case, the more the worse; and a wise man does his duty, without the aid of anything that is ill. It is objected by some, that those are the most generous creatures which are the most prone to anger. But, first, reason in man is impetuous in beasts. Secondly, without discipline it runs into audaciousness and temerity; over and above that, the same thing does not help all. If anger helps the lion, it is fear that saves the stag, swiftness the hawk, and flight the pigeon: but man has God for his example (who is never angry) and not the creatures. And yet it is not amiss sometimes to counterfeit anger; as upon the stage; nay, upon the bench, and in the pulpit, where the imitation of it is more effectual than the thing itself.
It's time to convince the world that anger is both undignified and useless. This may seem surprising since Aristotle himself recommended it as an emotion that helps with heroic actions requiring heat and energy. But we need to show that anger is never profitable by exposing its stubborn and wild madness. It's a wickedness that feels neither shame nor glory, without modesty or fear. Once anger hardens into hatred, it becomes incurable. Anger is either stronger than reason or weaker than it. If it's stronger, we can't fight against it. If it's weaker, reason can handle things without it. Some people claim that angry people are good-natured and honest. In truth, they only expose themselves through carelessness and lack of caution. If anger were truly good, more would be better. But with anger, more is worse. A wise person does their duty without help from anything harmful. Some argue that the most generous creatures are the most prone to anger. But first, what passes for reason in humans is just impulse in animals. Second, without discipline, anger becomes recklessness and foolishness. Beyond that, the same thing doesn't help everyone. If anger helps the lion, fear saves the stag, speed helps the hawk, and flight saves the pigeon. But humans should follow God's example, who is never angry, not the example of animals. Still, it's sometimes useful to fake anger, like on stage or in courtrooms and pulpits. In these cases, imitating anger works better than the real thing.
But it is a great error to take this passion either for a companion or for an assistant to virtue; that makes a man incapable of those necessary counsels by which virtue is to govern herself. Those are false and inauspicious powers, and destructive of themselves, which arise only from the accession and fervor of disease. Reason judges according to right; anger will have every thing seem right, whatever it does, and when it has once pitched upon a mistake, it is never to be convinced, but prefers a pertinacity, even in the greatest evil, before the most necessary repentance.
But it's a serious mistake to treat this passion as either a friend or helper to virtue. It makes a person unable to think clearly, which is exactly what virtue needs to guide itself. These are false and dangerous powers that destroy themselves. They only come from the heat and fever of sickness. Reason judges things correctly. Anger wants everything to seem right, no matter what it does. Once anger settles on a mistake, it can never be convinced otherwise. It would rather stick stubbornly to the greatest evil than accept the most necessary repentance.
Some people are of opinion that anger inflames and animates the soldier; that it is a spur to bold and arduous undertakings; and that it were better to moderate than to wholly suppress it, for fear of dissolving the spirit and force of the mind. To this I answer, that virtue does not need the help of vice; but where there is any ardor of mind necessary, we may rouse ourselves, and be more or less brisk and vigorous as there is occasion: but all without anger still. It is a mistake to say, that we may make use of anger as a common soldier, but not as a commander; for if it hears reason, and follows orders, it is not properly anger; and if it does not, it is contumacious and mutinous. By this argument a man must be angry to be valiant; covetous to be industrious; timorous to be safe, which makes our reason confederate with our affections. And it is all one whether passion be inconsiderate without reason, or reason ineffectual without passion; since the one cannot be without the other. It is true, the less the passion, the less is the mischief; for a little passion is the smaller evil. Nay, so far is it from being of use or advantage in the field, that it is in place of all others where it is the most dangerous; for the actions of war are to be managed with order and caution, not precipitation and fancy; whereas anger is heedless and heady, and the virtue only of barbarous nations; which, though their bodies were much stronger and more hardened, were still worsted by the moderation and discipline of the Romans. There is not upon the face of the earth a bolder or a more indefatigable nation than the Germans; not a braver upon a charge, nor a hardier against colds and heats; their only delights and exercise is in arms, to the utter neglect of all things else: and, yet upon the encounter, they are broken and destroyed through their own undisciplined temerity, even by the most effeminate of men. The huntsman is not angry with the wild boar when he either pursues or receives him; a good swordsman watches his opportunity, and keeps himself upon his guard, whereas passion lays a man open: nay, it is one of the prime lessons in a fencing-school to learn not to be angry. If Fabius had been choleric, Rome had been lost; and before he conquered Hannibal he overcame himself. If Scipio had been angry, he would never have left Hannibal and his army (who were the proper objects of his displeasure) to carry the war into Afric and so compass his end by a more temperate way. Nay, he was so slow, that it was charged upon him for want of mettle and resolution. And what did the other Scipio? (Africanus I mean:) how much time did he spend before Numantia, to the common grief both of his country and himself? Though he reduced it at last by so miserable a famine, that the inhabitants laid violent hands upon themselves, and left neither man, woman, nor child, to survive the ruins of it. If anger makes a man fight better, so does wine, frenzy, nay, and fear itself; for the greatest coward in despair does the greatest wonders. No man is courageous in his anger that was not so without it. But put the case, that anger by accident may have done some good, and so have fevers removed some distempers; but it is an odious kind of remedy that makes us indebted to a disease for a cure. How many men have been preserved by poison; by a fall from a precipice; by a shipwreck; by a tempest! does it therefore follow that we are to recommend the practice of these experiments?
Some people believe that anger fires up soldiers and drives them to bold, difficult actions. They think it's better to control anger rather than eliminate it completely, worried that removing it might weaken the mind's spirit and strength. I disagree. Virtue doesn't need vice to help it. When we need mental energy, we can motivate ourselves and be more or less energetic as needed, all without anger. It's wrong to say we can use anger like a common soldier but not like a commander. If anger listens to reason and follows orders, it's not really anger anymore. If it doesn't listen, it's rebellious and mutinous. This argument suggests a person must be angry to be brave, greedy to be hardworking, and fearful to be safe. This makes our reason work together with our emotions. It doesn't matter whether passion acts without reason or reason fails without passion, since one can't exist without the other. True, less passion means less harm, so a little passion is the smaller problem. But anger isn't useful or helpful in battle. In fact, war is where anger is most dangerous. Military actions need order and caution, not reckless haste and wild ideas. Anger is careless and rash. It's only a virtue among barbarous nations. Even though their bodies were much stronger and tougher, they were still defeated by the discipline and self-control of the Romans. No nation on earth is bolder or more tireless than the Germans. None are braver in a charge or tougher against cold and heat. Their only pleasures and activities involve weapons, ignoring everything else. Yet in battle, they're broken and destroyed by their own undisciplined recklessness, even by the most soft and weak opponents. A hunter isn't angry with a wild boar when chasing or facing it. A good swordsman watches for his chance and stays on guard, while passion leaves a person exposed. In fact, one of the first lessons in fencing school is learning not to get angry. If Fabius had been hot-tempered, Rome would have been lost. Before he conquered Hannibal, he had to conquer himself first. If Scipio had been angry, he never would have left Hannibal and his army (the proper targets of his anger) to carry the war into Africa and achieve his goal through a calmer approach. He was so deliberate that people criticized him for lacking spirit and determination. And what about the other Scipio (I mean Africanus)? How much time did he spend before Numantia, causing grief to both his country and himself? He finally conquered it through such terrible famine that the inhabitants killed themselves, leaving no man, woman, or child to survive the city's destruction. If anger makes someone fight better, so do wine, madness, and even fear itself. The biggest coward in despair performs the greatest miracles. No one is brave in anger who wasn't brave without it. But suppose anger accidentally does some good, just as fevers sometimes cure certain illnesses. It's still a horrible remedy that makes us grateful to a disease for healing us. Many people have been saved by poison, by falling off a cliff, by shipwreck, by storms. Does this mean we should recommend trying these dangerous experiments?
“But in case of an exemplary and prostitute dissolution of manners, when Clodius shall be preferred, and Cicero rejected; when loyalty shall be broken upon the wheel, and treason sit triumphant upon the bench; is not this a subject to move the choler of any virtuous man?” No, by no means, virtue will never allow of the correcting of one vice by another; or that anger, which is the greater crime of the two, should presume to punish the less. It is the natural property of virtue to make a man serene and cheerful; and it is not for the dignity of a philosopher to be transported either with grief or anger; and then the end of anger is sorrow, the constant effect of disappointment and repentance. But, to my purpose. If a man should be angry at wickedness, the greater the wickedness is, the greater must be his anger; and, so long as there is wickedness in the world he must never be pleased: which makes his quiet dependent upon the humor or manners of others.
"But what if society completely breaks down? What if corrupt men like Clodius get promoted while honest men like Cicero get rejected? What if loyalty is destroyed and traitors take control of the courts? Shouldn't this make any good person angry?" No, absolutely not. Virtue never allows us to fight one vice with another. Anger is actually the worse crime of the two, so it has no right to punish the lesser one. Virtue naturally makes a person calm and cheerful. A philosopher shouldn't be overwhelmed by grief or anger. Besides, anger always ends in sorrow, which comes from disappointment and regret. But here's my main point. If someone got angry at every wicked act, then the worse the wickedness, the angrier they'd have to be. As long as there's evil in the world, they could never be at peace. This would make their happiness depend entirely on how other people behave.
There passes not a day over our heads but he that is choleric shall have some cause or other of displeasure, either from men, accidents, or business. He shall never stir out of his house but he shall meet with criminals of all sorts; prodigal, impudent, covetous, perfidious, contentious, children persecuting their parents, parents cursing their children, the innocent accused, the delinquent acquitted, and the judge practicing that in his chamber which he condemns upon the bench. In fine, wherever there are men there are faults; and upon these terms, Socrates himself should never bring the same countenance home again that he carried out with him.
Not a single day passes without someone who is quick to anger finding some reason to be upset, whether from people, accidents, or business matters. He can't leave his house without encountering criminals of every kind: the wasteful, the shameless, the greedy, the dishonest, the argumentative, children who mistreat their parents, parents who curse their children, the innocent who are blamed, the guilty who go free, and judges who practice in private what they condemn in court. In short, wherever there are people, there are faults. On these terms, even Socrates himself could never return home with the same peaceful expression he had when he left.
If anger was sufferable in any case, it might be allowed against an incorrigible criminal under the hand of justice: but punishment is not matter of anger but of caution. The law is without passion, and strikes malefactors as we do serpents and venomous creatures, for fear of greater mischief. It is not for the dignity of a judge, when he comes to pronounce the fatal sentence, to express any motions of anger in his looks, words, or gestures: for he condemns the vice, not the man; and looks upon the wickedness without anger, as he does upon the prosperity of wicked men without envy. But though he be not angry, I would have him a little moved in point of humanity; but yet without any offence, either to his place or wisdom. Our passions vary, but reason is equal; and it were a great folly for that which is stable, faithful, and sound, to repair for succor to that which is uncertain, false, and distempered. If the offender be incurable, take him out of the world, that if he will not be good he may cease to be evil; but this must be without anger too. Does any man hate an arm, or a leg, when he cuts it off; or reckon that a passion which is only a miserable cure? We knock mad dogs on the head, and remove scabbed sheep out of the fold: and this is not anger still, but reason, to separate the sick from the sound. Justice cannot be angry; nor is there any need of an angry magistrate for the punishment of foolish and wicked men. The power of life and death must not be managed with passion. We give a horse the spur that is restive or jadish, and tries to cast his rider; but this is without anger too, and only to take down his stomach, and bring him, by correction, to obedience.
If anger could ever be justified, it might be acceptable when dealing with a hopeless criminal facing justice. But punishment isn't about anger. It's about being careful. The law has no emotions. It strikes criminals the same way we kill snakes and poisonous creatures - to prevent greater harm. A judge shouldn't show anger in his face, words, or actions when he delivers a death sentence. This wouldn't be dignified. He condemns the crime, not the person. He looks at wickedness without anger, just as he looks at wicked people's success without envy. Though he shouldn't be angry, I think he should feel some human compassion. But this shouldn't interfere with his duties or judgment. Our emotions change, but reason stays constant. It would be foolish for something stable, reliable, and sound to seek help from something uncertain, false, and unstable. If the criminal can't be reformed, remove him from the world. If he won't be good, at least he can stop being evil. But this must be done without anger too. Does anyone hate an arm or leg when they cut it off? Do we call it passion when it's really just a sad but necessary cure? We put down mad dogs and remove diseased sheep from the flock. This isn't anger - it's reason. We separate the sick from the healthy. Justice can't be angry. We don't need angry judges to punish foolish and wicked people. The power over life and death must not be driven by emotion. We use spurs on a stubborn horse that tries to throw its rider. But this isn't done in anger either. It's just to break the horse's spirit and make it obedient through correction.
It is true, that correction is necessary, yet within reason and bounds; for it does not hurt, but profits us under an appearance of harm. Ill dispositions in the mind are to be dealt with as those in the body: the physician first tries purging and abstinence; if this will not do, he proceeds to bleeding, nay, to dismembering rather than fail; for there is no operation too severe that ends in health. The public magistrate begins with persuasion, and his business is to beget a detestation for vice, and a veneration for virtue; from thence, if need be, he advances to admonition and reproach, and then to punishments; but moderate and revocable, unless the wickedness be incurable, and then the punishment must be so too. There is only this difference, the physician when he cannot save his patient’s life, endeavors to make his death easy; but the magistrate aggravates the death of the criminal with infamy and disgrace; not as delighting in the severity of it, (for no good man can be so barbarous) but for example, and to the end that they that will do no good living may do some dead. The end of all correction is either the amendment of wicked men, or to prevent the influence of ill example: for men are punished with a respect to the future; not to expiate offenses committed, but for fear of worse to come. Public offenders must be a terror to others; but still, all this while, the power of life and death must not be managed with passion. The medicine, in the mean time must be suited to the disease; infamy cures one, pain another, exile cures a third, beggary a fourth; but there are some that are only to be cured by the gibbet. I would be no more angry with a thief, or a traitor, than I am angry with myself when I open a vein. All punishment is but a moral or civil remedy. I do not do anything that is very ill, but yet I transgress often. Try me first with a private reprehension, and then with a public; if that will not serve, see what banishment will do; if not that neither, load me with chains, lay me in prison: but if I should prove wicked for wickedness’ sake, and leave no hope of reclaiming me, it would be a kind of mercy to destroy me. Vice is incorporated with me; and there is no remedy but the taking of both away together; but still without anger.
It's true that correction is necessary, but it must be reasonable and have limits. Correction doesn't hurt us—it actually helps us, even though it may seem harmful at first. Bad tendencies in the mind should be treated like diseases in the body. A doctor first tries purging and fasting. If that doesn't work, he moves to bloodletting, even to cutting off limbs rather than let the patient die. No operation is too severe if it results in health. A public magistrate starts with persuasion. His job is to make people hate vice and respect virtue. From there, if necessary, he moves to warnings and criticism, then to punishments. But these should be moderate and reversible, unless the wickedness can't be cured—then the punishment must be permanent too. There's only one difference: when a doctor can't save his patient's life, he tries to make death easy. But a magistrate makes a criminal's death worse by adding shame and disgrace. He doesn't do this because he enjoys being harsh (no good person could be so cruel), but to set an example. Those who do no good while living might at least do some good by dying. The goal of all correction is either to reform wicked people or to prevent others from following their bad example. People are punished with the future in mind, not to make up for past crimes, but to prevent worse ones from happening. Public criminals must frighten others. But even so, the power of life and death must never be used in anger. The medicine must fit the disease. Shame cures one person, pain another, exile a third, poverty a fourth. But some can only be cured by the gallows. I would be no more angry with a thief or traitor than I am with myself when I open a vein. All punishment is just a moral or civil remedy. I don't do anything truly evil, but I do transgress often. Try me first with a private warning, then with a public one. If that doesn't work, see what banishment will do. If that fails too, load me with chains and throw me in prison. But if I should prove wicked for wickedness' sake and leave no hope of reforming me, it would be a kind of mercy to destroy me. Vice has become part of me, and there's no remedy but taking both away together. But still without anger.