Of provocations to anger there are two sorts; there is an injury, and there is a contumely. The former in its own nature is the heavier; the other slight in itself, and only troublesome to a wounded imagination. And yet some there are that will bear blows, and death itself, rather than contumelious words. A contumely is an indignity below the consideration of the very law; and not worthy either of a revenge, or so much as a complaint. It is only the vexation and infirmity of a weak mind, as well as the practice of a haughty and insolent nature, and signifies no more to a wise and sober man than an idle dream, that is no sooner past than forgotten. It is true, it implies contempt; but what needs any man care for being contemptible to others, if he be not so to himself? For a child in the arms to strike the mother, tear her hair, claw the face of her, and call her names, that goes for nothing with us, because the child knows not what he does. Neither are we moved at the impudence and bitterness of a buffoon, though he fall upon his own master as well as the guests; but, on the contrary, we encourage and entertain the freedom.
There are two kinds of things that provoke anger: actual injury and insult. Injury is naturally more serious. Insult is minor in itself and only troubles a wounded ego. Yet some people would rather endure physical blows, even death, than insulting words. An insult is such a petty offense that the law doesn't even consider it. It's not worth revenge or even a complaint. It only bothers weak minds and comes from arrogant, rude people. To a wise and level-headed person, an insult means no more than an idle dream that's forgotten as soon as it passes. True, an insult implies contempt. But why should anyone care about being looked down on by others if they don't look down on themselves? When a child in someone's arms hits their mother, pulls her hair, scratches her face, and calls her names, we think nothing of it because the child doesn't know what they're doing. We're not bothered by the rudeness and cruelty of a jester, even when he attacks his own master as well as the guests. Instead, we encourage and enjoy his boldness.
Are we not mad then, to be delighted and displeased with the same thing, and to take that as an injury from one man, which passes only for a raillery from another? He that is wise will behave himself toward all men as we do to our children; for they are but children too, though they have gray hairs: they are indeed of a larger size, and their errors are grown up with them; they live without rule, they covet without choice, they are timorous and unsteady; and if at any time they happen to be quiet, it is more out of fear than reason. It is a wretched condition to stand in awe of everybody’s tongue; and whosoever is vexed at a reproach would be proud if he were commended. We should look upon contumelies, slanders, and ill words, only as the clamor of enemies, or arrows shot at a distance, that make a clattering upon our arms, but do no execution. A man makes himself less than his adversary by fancying that he is contemned. Things are only ill that are ill taken; and it is not for a man of worth to think himself better or worse for the opinion of others. He that thinks himself injured, let him say, “Either I have deserved this, or I have not. If I have, it is a judgment; if I have not, it is an injustice: and the doer of it has more reason to be ashamed than the sufferers.”
Isn't it crazy that we get happy and upset about the same thing? We take something as an insult from one person, but laugh it off as a joke from someone else. A wise person treats everyone like we treat children. That's really what they are, even with gray hair. They're just bigger, and their mistakes have grown up with them. They live without rules. They want things without thinking. They're scared and unstable. When they're quiet, it's usually from fear, not wisdom. It's miserable to worry about what everyone says. Anyone who gets upset by criticism would feel proud if they got praise instead. We should treat insults, lies, and harsh words like noise from enemies or arrows shot from far away. They clatter against our armor but don't hurt us. You make yourself smaller than your enemy when you think they look down on you. Things are only bad if you take them badly. A person of worth shouldn't think they're better or worse because of what others think. If you think someone has wronged you, ask yourself: "Did I deserve this or not? If I did, it's justice. If I didn't, it's unfair. Either way, the person doing it should be more ashamed than I am."
Nature has assigned every man his post, which he is bound in honor to maintain, let him be never so much pressed. Diogenes was disputing of anger, and an insolent young fellow, to try if he could put him beside his philosophy, spit in his face: “Young man,” says Diogenes, “this does not make me angry yet; but I am in some doubt whether I should be so or not.” Some are so impatient that they cannot bear a contumely, even from a woman; whose very beauty, greatness, and ornaments, are all of them little enough to vindicate her from any indecencies, without much modesty and discretion; nay, they will lay it to heart even from the meanest of servants. How wretched is that man whose peace lies at the mercy of the people?
Nature has given every person a role in life that they must honor and maintain, no matter how much pressure they face. Diogenes was teaching about anger when a rude young man spit in his face, trying to see if he could break the philosopher's composure. "Young man," Diogenes said, "this doesn't make me angry yet, but I'm not sure whether it should or not." Some people are so impatient they can't tolerate insults, even from a woman. A woman's beauty, status, and fine clothes should be enough to excuse any improper behavior, especially when combined with modesty and good judgment. Yet these same people will take offense even at comments from the lowliest servants. How miserable is the person whose peace of mind depends on what other people do?
A physician is not angry at the intemperance of a mad patient; nor does he take it ill to be railed at by a man in a fever; just so should a wise man treat all mankind as a physician does his patient; and looking upon them only as sick and extravagant, let their words and actions, whether good or bad, go equally for nothing, attending still his duty even in the coarsest offices that may conduce to their recovery. Men that are proud, froward, and powerful, he values their scorn as little as their quality, and looks upon them no otherwise than as people in the excess of a fever. If a beggar worships him, or if he takes no notice of him, it is all one to him; and with a rich man he makes it the same case. Their honors and their injuries he accounts much alike; without rejoicing at the one, or grieving at the other.
A doctor doesn't get angry when a mentally ill patient acts out. He doesn't take it personally when a feverish man yells at him. A wise person should treat all people the same way a doctor treats patients. He should see everyone as sick and out of control. Whether people's words and actions are good or bad shouldn't matter to him. He should focus on his duty, even when it means doing unpleasant tasks that might help them get better. When dealing with proud, difficult, and powerful people, he should care as little about their contempt as he does about their status. He should see them simply as people burning with fever. It makes no difference to him whether a beggar worships him or ignores him completely. He treats rich people the same way. He views their praise and their insults as basically the same thing. He doesn't celebrate the praise or feel hurt by the attacks.
In these cases, the rule is to pardon all offenses, where there is any sign of repentance, or hope of amendment. It does not hold in injuries as in benefits, the requiting of the one with the other; for it is a shame to overcome in the one, and in the other to be overcome. It is the part of a great mind to despise injuries; and it is one kind of revenge to neglect a man as not worth it: for it makes the first aggressor too considerable. Our philosophy, methinks, might carry us up to the bravery of a generous mastiff, that can hear the barking of a thousand curs without taking any notice of them. He that receives an injury from his superior, it is not enough for him to bear it with patience, and without any thought of revenge, but he must receive it with a cheerful countenance, and look as if he did not understand it too; for if he appear too sensible, he shall be sure to have more of it. “It is a damned humor in great men, that whom they wrong they will hate.”
In these cases, the rule is to forgive all offenses when there's any sign of repentance or hope for improvement. The same logic doesn't apply to injuries as it does to benefits. You can't repay one with the other. It's shameful to be outdone in giving benefits, but it's also shameful to be outdone in taking revenge. A great mind should despise injuries. One kind of revenge is to ignore a person as not worth your attention. This makes the original aggressor seem too important. Our philosophy should give us the courage of a noble mastiff that can hear a thousand dogs barking without paying them any notice. When someone receives an injury from a superior, it's not enough to bear it patiently without thoughts of revenge. He must receive it with a cheerful face and act as if he doesn't understand it. If he appears too sensitive, he'll surely get more of the same treatment. "It's a damned trait in great men that they hate those they wrong."
It is well answered of an old courtier, that was asked how he kept so long in favor? “Why,” says he, “by receiving injuries, and crying your humble servant for them.” Some men take it for an argument of greatness to have revenge in their power; but so far is he that is under the dominion of anger from being great, that he is not so much as free. Not but that anger is a kind of pleasure to some in the act of revenge; but the very word is inhuman, though it may pass for honest. “Virtue,” in short, “is impenetrable, and revenge is only the confession of an infirmity.”
An old courtier was once asked how he stayed in favor for so long. "Simple," he said. "By accepting insults and thanking people for them." Some men think it shows greatness to have the power of revenge. But anyone controlled by anger is far from great. In fact, they're not even free. Anger can feel good to some people when they get revenge. But the word "revenge" itself is inhuman, even if people think it's justified. True virtue cannot be touched. Revenge only shows our weakness.
It is a fantastical humor, that the same jest in private should make us merry, and yet enrage us in public; nay, we will not allow the liberty that we take. Some railleries we account pleasant, others bitter: a conceit upon a squint-eye, a hunch-back, or any personal defect, passes for a reproach. And why may we not as well hear it as see it? Nay, if a man imitates our gait, speech, or any natural imperfection, it puts us out of all patience; as if the counterfeit were more grievous than the doing of the thing itself. Some cannot endure to hear of their age, nor others of their poverty; and they make the thing the more taken notice of the more they desire to hide it. Some bitter jest (for the purpose) was broken upon you at the table: keep better company then. In the freedom of cups, a sober man will hardly contain himself within bounds. It sticks with us extremely sometimes, that the porter will not let us in to his great master. Will any but a madman quarrel with a cur for barking, when he may pacify him with a crust? What have we to do but to keep further off, and laugh at him? Fidus Cornelius (a tall slim fellow) fell downright a-crying in the senate-house at Corbulo’s saying that “he looked like an ostrich.” He was a man that made nothing of a lash upon his life and manners; but it was worse than death to him a reflection upon his person. No man was ever ridiculous to others that laughed at himself first: it prevents mischief, and it is a spiteful disappointment of those that take pleasure in such abuses. Vatinius, (a man that was made up for scorn and hatred, scurrilous and impudent to the highest degree, but most abusively witty and with all this he was diseased, and deformed to extremity), his way, was always to make sport with himself, and so he prevented the mockeries of other people. There are none more abusive to others than they that lie most open to it themselves; but the humor goes round, and he that laughs at me to-day will have somebody to laugh at him to-morrow, and revenge my quarrel. But, however, there are some liberties that will never go down with some men.
It's strange how the same joke can make us laugh in private but anger us in public. We won't allow others the same freedom we take for ourselves. We find some teasing pleasant and other jokes bitter. A joke about someone's crossed eyes, hunched back, or any physical flaw feels like an insult. Why can't we hear about our flaws as easily as we see them? If someone mimics our walk, speech, or any natural imperfection, we lose all patience. It's as if the imitation hurts more than the actual flaw itself. Some people can't stand hearing about their age, others about their poverty. The more they try to hide these things, the more noticeable they become. Someone made a cruel joke about you at dinner? Find better company then. When people are drinking freely, even a sober person can barely control himself. Sometimes it really bothers us that the doorkeeper won't let us see his important master. Would anyone but a madman fight with a dog for barking when he could quiet it with a piece of bread? Why not just stay away and laugh at the dog? Fidus Cornelius, a tall, thin man, started crying right there in the senate when Corbulo said "he looked like an ostrich." This was a man who didn't care about attacks on his life and character, but a comment about his appearance was worse than death to him. No one ever looked ridiculous to others who laughed at himself first. It prevents trouble and disappoints those who enjoy such abuse. Vatinius was a man built for scorn and hatred. He was vulgar and shameless to the extreme, but wickedly clever. On top of all this, he was diseased and extremely deformed. His approach was always to make fun of himself first, so he prevented other people's mockery. The people who are most abusive to others are often those most vulnerable to abuse themselves. But the cycle continues, and whoever laughs at me today will have someone laugh at him tomorrow, getting revenge for me. Still, some people will never accept certain kinds of teasing.
Asiaticus Valerius, (one of Caligula’s particular friends, and a man of stomach, that would not easily digest an affront) Caligula told him in public what kind of bedfellow his wife was. Good God! that ever any man should hear this, or a prince speak it, especially to a man of consular authority, a friend, and a husband: and in such a manner too as at once to own his disgust and his adultery. The tribune Chæreas had a weak broken voice, like an hermaphrodite; when he came to Caligula for the word, he would give him sometimes Venus, otherwhiles Priapus, as a slur upon him both ways. Valerius was afterwards the principal instrument in the conspiracy against him; and Chæreas, to convince him of his manhood, at one blow cleft him down the chin with his sword. No man was so forward as Caligula to break a jest, and no man so unwilling to bear it.
Asiaticus Valerius was one of Caligula's close friends and a proud man who wouldn't easily tolerate an insult. Caligula told him in public what kind of lover his wife was. Good God! How could any man hear this, or any prince say it, especially to a man of consular rank, a friend, and a husband? And he said it in such a way that he revealed both his disgust and his adultery at the same time. The tribune Chæreas had a weak, broken voice like a hermaphrodite. When he came to Caligula for the password, Caligula would sometimes give him "Venus," other times "Priapus," mocking him both ways. Valerius later became the main organizer of the conspiracy against Caligula. Chæreas, wanting to prove his manhood, split Caligula's chin with one blow of his sword. No man was quicker than Caligula to make a joke, and no man was less willing to take one.