Anger, Book I

You have demanded of me, Novatus, that I should write how anger may be soothed, and it appears to me that you are right in feeling especial fear of this passion, which is above all others hideous and wild: for the others have some alloy of peace and quiet, but this consists wholly in action and the impulse of grief, raging with an utterly inhuman lust for arms, blood and tortures, careless of itself provided it hurts another, rushing upon the very point of the sword, and greedy for revenge even when it drags the avenger to ruin with itself. Some of the wisest of men have in consequence of this called anger a short madness: for it is equally devoid of self control, regardless of decorum, forgetful of kinship, obstinately engrossed in whatever it begins to do, deaf to reason and advice, excited by trifling causes, awkward at perceiving what is true and just, and very like a falling rock which breaks itself to pieces upon the very thing which it crushes. That you may know that they whom anger possesses are not sane, look at their appearance; for as there are distinct symptoms which mark madmen, such as a bold and menacing air, a gloomy brow, a stern face, a hurried walk, restless hands, changed colour, quick and strongly-drawn breathing; the signs of angry men, too, are the same: their eyes blaze and sparkle, their whole face is a deep red with the blood which boils up from the bottom of their heart, their lips quiver, their teeth are set, their hair bristles and stands on end, their breath is laboured and hissing; their joints crack as they twist them about, they groan, bellow, and burst into scarcely intelligible talk, they often clap their hands together and stamp on the ground with their feet, and their whole body is highly-strung and plays those tricks which mark a distraught mind, so as to furnish an ugly and shocking picture of self-perversion and excitement. You cannot tell whether this vice is more execrable or more disgusting. Other vices can be concealed and cherished in secret; anger shows itself openly and appears in the countenance, and the greater it is, the more plainly it boils forth. Do you not see how in all animals certain signs appear before they proceed to mischief, and how their entire bodies put off their usual quiet appearance and stir up their ferocity? Boars foam at the mouth and sharpen their teeth by rubbing them against trees, bulls toss their horns in the air and scatter the sand with blows of their feet, lions growl, the necks of enraged snakes swell, mad dogs have a sullen look—there is no animal so hateful and venomous by nature that it does not, when seized by anger, show additional fierceness. I know well that the other passions, can hardly be concealed, and that lust, fear, and boldness give signs of their presence and may be discovered beforehand, for there is no one of the stronger passions that does not affect the countenance: what then is the difference between them and anger? Why, that the other passions are visible, but that this is conspicuous.

You have asked me, Novatus, to write about how anger can be soothed. I think you are right to fear this passion especially. Above all others, anger is hideous and savage. The other passions contain some peace and quiet, but anger consists entirely of action and impulses driven by pain. It rages with an utterly inhuman hunger for weapons, blood, and torture. It cares nothing for itself as long as it hurts someone else. It rushes straight onto the point of a sword. It craves revenge even when revenge drags the avenger down to ruin. For this reason, some of the wisest men have called anger a brief madness. Like madness, anger has no self-control, ignores proper behavior, and forgets family ties. It stubbornly pursues whatever it begins, deaf to reason and advice. Trivial things stir it up, and it struggles to recognize what is true and just. It closely resembles a falling rock that shatters against the very thing it crushes. To see that people possessed by anger are not sane, look at their appearance. Madness has distinct symptoms: a bold, threatening manner, a gloomy brow, a grim face, hurried steps, and restless hands. The face changes color, and breathing becomes rapid and forceful. Angry people show the same signs. Their eyes blaze and flash. Their whole face turns deep red as blood boils up from the depths of their heart. Their lips tremble, their teeth clench, and their hair bristles and stands on end. Their breathing is strained and hissing. Their joints crack as they twist them about. They groan, roar, and burst into speech that can barely be understood. They often clap their hands together and stamp their feet on the ground. Their whole body is tense and makes the movements of a disturbed mind. They present an ugly, shocking picture of people distorting themselves in their agitation. You cannot tell whether this vice is more hateful or more disgusting. Other vices can be hidden and secretly nurtured. Anger reveals itself openly in the face. The greater the anger, the more plainly it boils over. Do you not see how all animals show certain signs before they attack? Their whole bodies lose their usual calm appearance as they rouse their ferocity. Boars foam at the mouth and sharpen their tusks against trees. Bulls toss their horns into the air and scatter sand by stamping their feet. Lions growl, the necks of enraged snakes swell, and mad dogs look sullen. No animal is so naturally hateful and venomous that anger does not make it show still greater fierceness. I know well that the other passions can hardly be hidden. Lust, fear, and boldness reveal their presence through signs that can be recognized beforehand. Every stronger passion affects the face. What, then, is the difference between those passions and anger? The other passions can be seen, but anger stands out.

II. Next, if you choose to view its results and the mischief that it does, no plague has cost the human race more dear: you will see slaughterings and poisonings, accusations and counter-accusations, sacking of cities, ruin of whole peoples, the persons of princes sold into slavery by auction, torches applied to roofs, and fires not merely confined within city-walls but making whole tracts of country glow with hostile flame. See the foundations of the most celebrated cities hardly now to be discerned; they were ruined by anger. See deserts extending for many miles without an inhabitant: they have been desolated by anger. See all the chiefs whom tradition mentions as instances of ill fate; anger stabbed one of them in his bed, struck down another, though he was protected by the sacred rights of hospitality, tore another to pieces in the very home of the laws and in sight of the crowded forum, bade one shed his own blood by the parricide hand of his son, another to have his royal throat cut by the hand of a slave, another to stretch out his limbs on the cross: and hitherto I am speaking merely of individual cases. What, if you were to pass from the consideration of those single men against whom anger has broken out to view whole assemblies cut down by the sword, the people butchered by the soldiery let loose upon it, and whole nations condemned to death in one common ruin . . . .¹ as though by men who either freed themselves from our charge or despised our authority? Why, wherefore is the people angry with gladiators, and so unjust as to think itself wronged if they do not die cheerfully? It thinks itself scorned, and by looks, gestures, and excitement turns itself from a mere spectator into an adversary. Everything of this sort is not anger, but the semblance of anger, like that of boys who want to beat the ground when they have fallen upon it, and who often do not even know why they are angry, but are merely angry without any reason or having received any injury, yet not without some semblance of injury received, or without some wish to exact a penalty for it. Thus they are deceived by the likeness of blows, and are appeased by the pretended tears of those who deprecate their wrath, and thus an unreal grief is healed by an unreal revenge.

II. Next, if you choose to look at anger’s effects and the harm it causes, no plague has cost humanity more. You will see murders and poisonings, accusations and counteraccusations, cities plundered, and entire peoples destroyed. You will see princes auctioned into slavery and torches set to roofs. Fires spread beyond city walls, making whole stretches of countryside glow with the flames of war. Look at the foundations of the most celebrated cities, now barely visible. Anger destroyed those cities. Look at the deserted lands stretching for miles without a single inhabitant. Anger laid those lands waste. Look at all the rulers remembered in tradition as examples of tragic misfortune. Anger stabbed one in his bed. It struck down another, though the sacred rights of hospitality protected him. It tore another apart in the very home of the law, before the crowded forum. It ordered one to bleed to death at the hand of his own son, who murdered his father. It ordered another’s royal throat cut by a slave, and another’s limbs stretched out on a cross. So far, I have spoken only of individual cases. What if you turned from those individuals against whom anger erupted to entire assemblies cut down by the sword? What if you considered people butchered by soldiers unleashed upon them, and whole nations condemned to die in one shared disaster . . . .¹ as though by men who either freed themselves from our control or scorned our authority? Why, then, are the people angry with gladiators? Why are they so unjust that they think themselves wronged if the gladiators do not die willingly? The crowd thinks the gladiators are treating it with contempt. Through its looks, gestures, and excitement, the crowd changes from a mere spectator into an opponent. None of this is anger, but only something that resembles anger. It is like the behavior of boys who want to beat the ground after falling on it. Often, the boys do not even know why they are angry. They are simply angry without any reason or any injury done to them. Yet they imagine some injury and have some wish to punish it. So pretend blows deceive them, and the fake tears of those begging them to stop being angry calm them. In this way, an imagined hurt is healed by an imagined revenge.

III. “We often are angry,” says our adversary, “not with men who have hurt us, but with men who are going to hurt us: so you may be sure that anger is not born of injury.” It is true that we are angry with those who are going to hurt us, but they do already hurt us in intention, and one who is going to do an injury is already doing it. “The weakest of men,” argues he, “are often angry with the most powerful: so you may be sure that anger is not a desire to punish their antagonist—for men do not desire to punish him when they cannot hope to do so.” In the first place, I spoke of a desire to inflict punishment, not a power to do so: now men desire even what they cannot obtain. In the next place, no one is so low in station as not to be able to hope to inflict punishment even upon the greatest of men: we all are powerful for mischief. Aristotle’s definition differs little from mine: for he declares anger to be a desire to repay suffering. It would be a long task to examine the differences between his definition and mine: it may be urged against both of them that wild beasts become angry without being excited by injury, and without any idea of punishing others or requiting them with pain: for, even though they do these things, these are not what they aim at doing. We must admit, however, that neither wild beasts nor any other creature except man is subject to anger: for, whilst anger is the foe of reason, it nevertheless does not arise in any place where reason cannot dwell. Wild beasts have impulses, fury, cruelty, combativeness: they have not anger any more than they have luxury: yet they indulge in some pleasures with less self-control than human beings. Do not believe the poet who says:

III. “We are often angry,” our opponent says, “not with people who have hurt us, but with people about to hurt us. So you can be sure that anger does not arise from injury.” We are indeed angry with people who are going to hurt us. But their intention already hurts us, and someone who is going to do harm is already doing it. “The weakest people,” he argues, “are often angry with the most powerful. So you can be sure that anger is not a desire to punish an opponent. People do not desire to punish someone when they have no hope of doing so.” First, I spoke of a desire to punish, not the power to punish. People desire even what they cannot obtain. Second, no one’s position is so low that they cannot hope to punish even the greatest people. We all have the power to do harm. Aristotle’s definition differs little from mine. He defines anger as a desire to repay suffering. Examining the differences between his definition and mine would take a long time. One objection could be raised against both definitions. Wild beasts become angry without being provoked by injury or having any thought of punishment or repayment through pain. For even when beasts punish or inflict pain in return, those are not their aims. We must admit, however, that neither wild beasts nor any other creature except humans can feel anger. For although anger is reason’s enemy, anger cannot arise where reason cannot exist. Wild beasts have impulses, fury, cruelty, and a drive to fight. But they are no more capable of anger than of a taste for luxury. Yet they indulge in some pleasures with less self-control than humans. Do not believe the poet who says:

When he speaks of beasts being angry he means that they are excited, roused up: for indeed they know no more how to be angry than they know how to pardon. Dumb creatures have not human feelings, but have certain impulses which resemble them: for if it were not so, if they could feel love and hate, they would likewise be capable of friendship and enmity, of disagreement and agreement. Some traces of these qualities exist even in them, though properly all of them, whether good or bad, belong to the human breast alone. To no creature besides man has been given wisdom, foresight, industry, and reflexion. To animals not only human virtues but even human vices are forbidden: their whole constitution, mental and bodily, is unlike that of human beings: in them the royal³ and leading principle is drawn from another source, as, for instance, they possess a voice, yet not a clear one, but indistinct and incapable of forming words: a tongue, but one which is fettered and not sufficiently nimble for complex movements: so, too, they possess intellect, the greatest attribute of all, but in a rough and inexact condition. It is, consequently, able to grasp those visions and semblances which rouse it to action, but only in a cloudy and indistinct fashion. It follows from this that their impulses and outbreaks are violent, and that they do not feel fear, anxieties, grief, or anger, but some semblances of these feelings: wherefore they quickly drop them and adopt the converse of them: they graze after showing the most vehement rage and terror, and after frantic bellowing and plunging they straightway sink into quiet sleep.

When he speaks of beasts being angry, he means they are excited or stirred up. For they know no more about being angry than they do about forgiving. Animals cannot speak and do not have human feelings, but they have certain impulses that resemble those feelings. For if animals could feel love and hate, they would also be capable of friendship and hostility, disagreement and agreement. Some traces of these qualities exist even in animals. Strictly speaking, though, all these qualities, good or bad, belong to humans alone. No creature besides humans has been given wisdom, foresight, diligence, and reflection. Animals are incapable not only of human virtues but even of human vices. Their whole nature, both mental and physical, differs from ours. In animals, the ruling³ and guiding principle comes from a different source. For example, animals have voices, but their voices are unclear, indistinct, and unable to form words. They have tongues, but their tongues are restricted and not nimble enough for complex movements. Animals also possess intellect, the greatest attribute of all, but in a rough and imprecise form. As a result, their intellect grasps the images and appearances that stir them to action only vaguely and indistinctly. It follows that animals’ impulses and outbursts are violent. Animals do not feel fear, anxiety, grief, or anger, but only something resembling these feelings. That is why animals quickly abandon these apparent feelings and turn to their opposites. They graze after showing the fiercest rage and terror. After frantic bellowing and thrashing about, they immediately settle into peaceful sleep.

IV. What anger is has been sufficiently explained. The difference between it and irascibility is evident: it is the same as that between a drunken man and a drunkard; between a frightened man and a coward. It is possible for an angry man not to be irascible; an irascible man may sometimes not be angry. I shall omit the other varieties of anger, which the Greeks distinguish by various names, because we have no distinctive words for them in our language, although we call men bitter, and harsh, and also peevish, frantic, clamorous, surly, and fierce: all of which are different forms of irascibility. Among these you may class sulkiness, a refined form of irascibility; for there are some sorts of anger which go no further than noise, while some are as lasting as they are common: some are fierce in deed, but inclined to be sparing of words: some expend themselves in bitter words and curses: some do not go beyond complaining and turning one’s back: some are great, deep-seated, and brood within a man: there are a thousand other forms of a multiform evil.

IV. We have explained anger well enough. The difference between anger and a quick temper is clear. It is like the difference between a drunken man and a drunkard, or between a frightened man and a coward. A man can be angry without having a quick temper. A quick-tempered man may sometimes not be angry. I will leave out the other kinds of anger that the Greeks distinguish by different names. Our language has no separate words for them. Still, we call men bitter, harsh, touchy, frenzied, loud, surly, and fierce. All these qualities are different forms of a quick temper. Among them you may include sulkiness, a refined form of a quick temper. For some kinds of anger go no further than noise, while some are as lasting as they are common. Some are fierce in action but tend to use few words. Some spend themselves in bitter words and curses. Some go no further than complaining and turning away. Some are powerful and deep-rooted, brooding within a man. There are a thousand other forms of this many-sided evil.

V. We have now finished our enquiry as to what anger is, whether it exists in any other creature besides man, what the difference is between it and irascibility, and how many forms it possesses. Let us now enquire whether anger be in accordance with nature, and whether it be useful and worth entertaining in some measure.

V. We have now finished examining what anger is and whether any creature besides humans experiences anger. We have also examined how anger differs from a tendency to become angry, and how many forms anger takes. Let us now ask whether anger is natural, and whether anger is useful and worth allowing to some degree.

Whether it be according to nature will become evident if we consider man’s nature, than which what is more gentle while it is in its proper condition? Yet what is more cruel than anger? What is more affectionate to others than man? Yet what is more savage against them than anger? Mankind is born for mutual assistance, anger for mutual ruin: the former loves society, the latter estrangement. The one loves to do good, the other to do harm; the one to help even strangers, the other to attack even its dearest friends. The one is ready even to sacrifice itself for the good of others, the other to plunge into peril provided it drags others with it. Who, then, can be more ignorant of nature than he who classes this cruel and hurtful vice as belonging to her best and most polished work? Anger, as we have said, is eager to punish; and that such a desire should exist in man’s peaceful breast is least of all according to his nature; for human life is founded on benefits and harmony, and is bound together into an alliance for the common help of all, not by terror, but by love towards one another.

Whether anger is natural will become clear if we consider human nature. What is gentler than a human being in a natural, healthy state? Yet what is crueler than anger? What is more loving toward others than a human being? Yet what is more savage toward others than anger? Human beings are born to help one another, anger to destroy one another. Human nature loves company, anger loves separation. Human nature loves to do good, anger to do harm. Human nature seeks to help even strangers, anger to attack even the dearest friends. Human nature is ready even to sacrifice itself for others. Anger is ready to rush into danger, provided it drags others along. Who, then, could understand nature less than someone who calls this cruel, harmful vice part of nature’s finest, most refined creation? Anger, as we have said, is eager to punish. Nothing could be less natural than such a desire in the peaceful human heart. For human life rests on kindness and harmony. People are bound together to help one another, not by fear, but by love for one another.

VI. “What, then? Is not correction sometimes necessary?” Of course it is; but with discretion, not with anger; for it does not injure, but heals under the guise of injury. We char crooked spearshafts to straighten them, and force them by driving in wedges, not in order to break them, but to take the bends out of them; and, in like manner, by applying pain to the body or mind we correct dispositions which have been rendered crooked by vice. So the physician at first, when dealing with slight disorders, tries not to make much change in his patient’s daily habits, to regulate his food, drink, and exercise, and to improve his health merely by altering the order in which he takes them. The next step is to see whether an alteration in their amount will be of service. If neither alteration of the order or of the amount is of use, he cuts off some and reduces others. If even this does not answer, he forbids food, and disburdens the body by fasting. If milder remedies have proved useless he opens a vein; if the extremities are injuring the body and infecting it with disease he lays his hands upon the limbs; yet none of his treatment is considered harsh if its result is to give health. Similarly, it is the duty of the chief administrator of the laws, or the ruler of a state, to correct ill-disposed men, as long as he is able, with words, and even with gentle ones, that he may persuade them to do what they ought, inspire them with a love of honour and justice, and cause them to hate vice and set store upon virtue. He must then pass on to severer language, still confining himself to advising and reprimanding; last of all he must betake himself to punishments, yet still making them slight and temporary. He ought to assign extreme punishments only to extreme crimes, that no one may die unless it be even to the criminal’s own advantage that he should die. He will differ from the physician in one point alone; for whereas physicians render it easy to die for those to whom they cannot grant the boon of life, he will drive the condemned out of life with ignominy and disgrace, not because he takes pleasure in any man’s being punished, for the wise man is far from such inhuman ferocity, but that they may be a warning to all men, and that, since they would not be useful when alive, the state may at any rate profit by their death. Man’s nature is not, therefore, desirous of inflicting punishment; neither, therefore, is anger in accordance with man’s nature, because that is desirous of inflicting punishment. I will also adduce Plato’s argument—for what harm is there in using other men’s arguments, so far as they are on our side? “A good man,” says he, “does not do any hurt: it is only punishment which hurts. Punishment, therefore, does not accord with a good man: wherefore anger does not do so either, because punishment and anger accord one with another. If a good man takes no pleasure in punishment, he will also take no pleasure in that state of mind to which punishment gives pleasure: consequently anger is not natural to man.”

VI. “What, then? Isn’t correction sometimes necessary?” Of course it is, but with judgment, not anger. Correction does not harm, but heals through what seems like harm. We scorch crooked spear shafts to straighten them, and force them into shape by driving in wedges. We do not do this to break them, but to remove their bends. In the same way, we use physical or mental pain to correct characters that vice has twisted. When treating a mild illness, a physician first tries to avoid major changes to the patient’s daily habits. He regulates the patient’s food, drink, and exercise, trying to improve health simply by changing their timing. Next, he sees whether changing their amounts will help. If changing neither the timing nor the amounts helps, he eliminates some and reduces others. If even these measures fail, he forbids food and relieves the body’s burden through fasting. If gentler remedies have proved useless, he opens a vein. If the limbs are harming the body and spreading disease through it, he operates on those limbs. Yet none of his treatment is considered harsh if it restores health. Similarly, the chief administrator of the laws, or the ruler of a state, must correct those inclined toward wrongdoing. As long as he can, he must use words, and gentle words at that. His aim is to persuade them to do their duty and inspire a love of honor and justice. He must also lead them to hate vice and value virtue. Then he must move on to stronger language, still limiting himself to advice and reprimands. Only as a last resort must he turn to punishments, and even then they must be mild and temporary. He should reserve extreme punishments for extreme crimes. No one should die unless death would benefit even the criminal himself. The ruler will differ from the physician in only one respect. Physicians make death easy for those whose lives they cannot save. But the ruler will send the condemned to their deaths in shame and disgrace. He does not do this because he enjoys seeing anyone punished. A wise man is far removed from such inhuman cruelty. Instead, the condemned must serve as a warning to everyone. Since they refused to be useful while alive, the state may at least benefit from their deaths. Human nature, then, does not desire to inflict punishment. Anger therefore does not accord with human nature either, because anger desires to inflict punishment. I will also offer Plato’s argument. After all, what harm is there in using other people’s arguments when they support our position? “A good man,” he says, “does no harm. Only punishment does harm. Punishment, therefore, does not accord with a good man. Neither, then, does anger, because punishment and anger accord with one another. If a good man takes no pleasure in punishment, neither will he enjoy a state of mind that delights in punishment. Therefore, anger is not natural to human beings.”

VII. May it not be that, although anger be not natural, it may be right to adopt it, because it often proves useful? It rouses the spirit and excites it; and courage does nothing grand in war without it, unless its flame be supplied from this source; this is the goad which stirs up bold men and sends them to encounter perils. Some therefore consider it to be best to control anger, not to banish it utterly, but to cut off its extravagances, and force it to keep within useful bounds, so as to retain that part of it without which action will become languid and all strength and activity of mind will die away.

VII. Although anger is not natural, might it be right to adopt it because it often proves useful? Anger rouses and energizes the spirit. Courage achieves nothing great in war unless anger supplies its fire. Anger is the spur that drives bold men to face danger. Some therefore think it best to control anger rather than banish it completely. They would curb its excesses and force it to stay within useful limits. Their aim is to preserve the part of anger without which action grows sluggish and all mental strength and energy fade.

In the first place, it is easier to banish dangerous passions than to rule them; it is easier not to admit them than to keep them in order when admitted; for when they have established themselves in possession of the mind they are more powerful than the lawful ruler, and will in no wise permit themselves to be weakened or abridged. In the next place, Reason herself, who holds the reins, is only strong while she remains apart from the passions; if she mixes and befouls herself with them she becomes no longer able to restrain those whom she might once have cleared out of her path; for the mind, when once excited and shaken up, goes whither the passions drive it. There are certain things whose beginnings lie in our own power, but which, when developed, drag us along by their own force and leave us no retreat. Those who have flung themselves over a precipice have no control over their movements, nor can they stop or slacken their pace when once started, for their own headlong and irremediable rashness has left no room for either reflexion or remorse, and they cannot help going to lengths which they might have avoided. So, also, the mind, when it has abandoned itself to anger, love, or any other passion, is unable to check itself: its own weight and the downward tendency of vices must needs carry the man off and hurl him into the lowest depth.

First, it is easier to banish dangerous passions than to control them. It is easier to keep passions out than to keep them in order once admitted. For once passions take possession of the mind, they become stronger than its rightful ruler. They will not allow their power to be weakened or reduced. Next, Reason herself, who holds the reins, is strong only while she stays apart from the passions. If she mixes with them and becomes tainted, she can no longer restrain the passions she once could have removed. For once the mind is stirred and shaken, it goes wherever the passions drive it. Some things are within our control at the start. But once those things develop, their own force drags us along and leaves us no way back. People who have thrown themselves over a cliff have no control over their movements. Once they begin falling, they cannot stop or slow down. Their own reckless plunge, which cannot be undone, has left no room for reflection or regret. They cannot help going to extremes they could have avoided. In the same way, once the mind gives itself over to anger, love, or any other passion, it cannot stop itself. Its own weight and the downward pull of its vices must carry the person away into the lowest depths.

VIII. The best plan is to reject straightway the first incentives to anger, to resist its very beginnings, and to take care not to be betrayed into it: for if once it begins to carry us away, it is hard to get back again into a healthy condition, because reason goes for nothing when once passion has been admitted to the mind, and has by our own free will been given a certain authority, it will for the future do as much as it chooses, not only as much as you will allow it. The enemy, I repeat, must be met and driven back at the outermost frontier-line: for when he has once entered the city and passed its gates, he will not allow his prisoners to set bounds to his victory. The mind does not stand apart and view its passions from without, so as not to permit them to advance further than they ought, but it is itself changed into a passion, and is therefore unable to check what once was useful and wholesome strength, now that it has become degenerate and misapplied: for passion and reason, as I said before, have not distinct and separate provinces, but consist of the changes of the mind itself for better or for worse. How then can reason recover itself when it is conquered and held down by vices, when it has given way to anger? or how can it extricate itself from a confused mixture, the greater part of which consists of the lower qualities? “But,” argues our adversary, “some men when in anger control themselves.” Do they so far control themselves that they do nothing which anger dictates, or somewhat? If they do nothing thereof, it becomes evident that anger is not essential to the conduct of affairs, although your sect advocated it as possessing greater strength than reason . . . . Finally, I ask, is anger stronger or weaker than reason? If stronger, how can reason impose any check upon it, since it is only the less powerful that obey: if weaker, then reason is competent to effect its ends without anger, and does not need the help of a less powerful quality. “But some angry men remain consistent and control themselves.” When do they do so? It is when their anger is disappearing and leaving them of its own accord, not when it was red-hot, for then it was more powerful than they. What then? do not men, even in the height of their anger, sometimes let their enemies go whole and unhurt, and refrain from injuring them? “They do: but when do they do so? It is when one passion overpowers another, and either fear or greed gets the upper hand for a while. On such occasions, it is not thanks to reason that anger is stilled, but owing to an untrustworthy and fleeting truce between the passions.

VIII. The best plan is to reject the first stirrings of anger immediately and resist anger from the start. We must take care not to be drawn into it. For once anger begins to carry us away, returning to a healthy state of mind is hard. Reason counts for nothing once we have admitted passion into the mind and freely given passion some authority. From then on, passion will do as much as it chooses, not merely as much as you allow. The enemy, I repeat, must be confronted and driven back at the outermost border. For once the enemy has entered the city and passed its gates, he will not let his prisoners limit his victory. The mind does not stand apart from its passions, watching from outside and preventing them from going too far. Instead, the mind itself turns into passion. So the mind cannot restrain what was once a useful, healthy strength but has now become corrupted and misdirected. For passion and reason, as I said before, do not occupy separate territories. They are changes in the mind itself, for better or worse. How, then, can reason recover when vices have defeated and overwhelmed it, when it has surrendered to anger? Or how can reason free itself from a confused mixture made up mostly of baser qualities? “But,” our opponent argues, “some men control themselves when angry.” Do they control themselves enough to do nothing anger demands, or do they obey some of its demands? If they do nothing anger demands, then clearly anger is not essential to getting things done. Yet your school defended anger as stronger than reason . . . . Finally, I ask, is anger stronger or weaker than reason? If anger is stronger, how can reason restrain it, since only the weaker power obeys? If anger is weaker, then reason can achieve its aims without anger and needs no help from a weaker power. “But some angry men remain steady and control themselves.” When do they do so? When their anger is fading and leaving them of its own accord, not when their anger was red-hot. At that point, anger was stronger than they were. What then? Do men not sometimes let their enemies go unharmed, even at the height of anger, and refrain from hurting them? “They do, but when does this happen? When one passion overpowers another, and either fear or greed gains the upper hand for a while. On such occasions, reason does not quiet anger. Instead, anger is quieted by an unreliable, fleeting truce between the passions.

IX. In the next place, anger has nothing useful in itself, and does not rouse up the mind to warlike deeds: for a virtue, being self-sufficient, never needs the assistance of a vice: whenever it needs an impetuous effort, it does not become angry, but rises to the occasion, and excites or soothes itself as far as it deems requisite, just as the machines which hurl darts may be twisted to a greater or lesser degree of tension at the manager’s pleasure. “Anger,” says Aristotle, “is necessary, nor can any fight be won without it, unless it fills the mind, and kindles up the spirit. It must, however, be made use of, not as a general, but as a soldier,” Now this is untrue; for if it listens to reason and follows whither reason leads, it is no longer anger, whose characteristic is obstinacy: if, again, it is disobedient and will not be quiet when ordered, but is carried away by its own wilful and headstrong spirit, it is then as useless an aid to the mind as a soldier who disregards the sounding of the retreat would be to a general. If, therefore, anger allows limits to be imposed upon it, it must be called by some other name, and ceases to be anger, which I understand to be unbridled and unmanageable: and if it does not allow limits to be imposed upon it, it is harmful and not to be counted among aids: wherefore either anger is not anger, or it is useless: for if any man demands the infliction of punishment, not because he is eager for the punishment itself, but because it is right to inflict it, he ought not to be counted as an angry man: that will be the useful soldier, who knows how to obey orders: the passions cannot obey any more than they can command.

IX. Next, anger has no use in itself and does not stir the mind to deeds of war. For virtue is self-sufficient and never needs help from a vice. Whenever virtue needs a forceful effort, it does not become angry but rises to the occasion. Virtue stirs or calms itself as much as it considers necessary. In the same way, machines that launch darts can be tightened or loosened as their operator chooses. “Anger,” says Aristotle, “is necessary. No fight can be won unless anger fills the mind and fires the spirit. Yet anger must be used as a soldier, not as a general.” But this is untrue. If anger listens to reason and follows its lead, it is no longer anger, whose defining feature is stubbornness. But suppose anger disobeys and refuses to settle down when ordered, driven instead by its own headstrong will. Then anger is as useless to the mind as a soldier who ignores the retreat signal is to a general. So if anger accepts limits, it must have another name and ceases to be anger. By anger, I mean something unrestrained and unmanageable. If anger refuses limits, it is harmful and cannot be counted as a source of help. So either anger is not anger, or it is useless. For suppose someone demands punishment, not because he wants the punishment itself, but because imposing it is right. He should not be considered angry. The useful soldier is the one who knows how to obey orders. The passions can no more obey than they can command.

X. For this cause reason will never call to its aid blind and fierce impulses, over whom she herself possesses no authority, and which she never can restrain save by setting against them similar and equally powerful passions, as for example, fear against anger, anger against sloth, greed against timidity. May virtue never come to such a pass, that reason should fly for aid to vices! The mind can find no safe repose there, it must needs be shaken and tempest-tossed if it be safe only because of its own defects, if it cannot be brave without anger, diligent without greed, quiet without fear: such is the despotism under which a man must live if he becomes the slave of a passion. Are you not ashamed to put virtues under the patronage of vices? Then, too, reason ceases to have any power if she can do nothing without passion, and begins to be equal and like unto passion; for what difference is there between them if passion without reason be as rash as reason without passion is helpless? They are both on the same level, if one cannot exist without the other. Yet who could endure that passion should be made equal to reason? “Then,” says our adversary, “passion is useful, provided it be moderate.” Nay, only if it be useful by nature: but if it be disobedient to authority and reason, al that we gain by its moderation is that the less there is of it, the less harm it does: wherefore a moderate passion is nothing but a moderate evil.

X. For this reason, reason will never seek help from blind, fierce impulses over which it has no authority. Reason can restrain these impulses only by opposing them with equally powerful passions. For example, fear against anger, anger against laziness, greed against timidity. May virtue never sink so low that reason must turn to vices for help! The mind can find no safe rest in such a state. The mind must be shaken and tossed about if its safety depends on its own faults. The same is true if the mind cannot be brave without anger, hardworking without greed, or calm without fear. Such is the tyranny a person must live under after becoming the slave of a passion. Are you not ashamed to put virtues under the protection of vices? Then, too, reason loses all power if it can do nothing without passion. Reason begins to resemble passion and become its equal. For what difference separates them if passion without reason is as reckless as reason without passion is helpless? Reason and passion stand on the same level if neither can exist without the other. Yet who could bear to see passion made equal to reason? “Then,” says our opponent, “passion is useful, provided it is moderate.” No, only if passion is useful by nature. But if passion disobeys authority and reason, moderation gives us only this: less passion does less harm. So a moderate passion is nothing but a moderate evil.

XI. “But,” argues he, “against our enemies anger is necessary.” In no case is it less necessary; since our attacks ought not to be disorderly, but regulated and under control. What, indeed, is it except anger, so ruinous to itself, that overthrows barbarians, who have so much more bodily strength than we, and are so much better able to endure fatigue? Gladiators, too, protect themselves by skill, but expose themselves to wounds when they are angry. Moreover, of what use is anger, when the same end can be arrived at by reason? Do you suppose that a hunter is angry with the beasts he kills? Yet he meets them when they attack him, and follows them when they flee from him, all of which is managed by reason without anger. When so many thousands of Cimbri and Teutones poured over the Alps, what was it that caused them to perish so completely, that no messenger, only common rumour, carried the news of that great defeat to their homes, except that with them anger stood in the place of courage? and anger, although sometimes it overthrows and breaks to pieces whatever it meets, yet is more often its own destruction. Who can be braver than the Germans? who charge more boldly? who have more love of arms, among which they are born and bred, for which alone they care, to the neglect of everything else? Who can be more hardened to undergo every hardship, since a large part of them have no store of clothing for the body, no shelter from the continual rigour of the climate: yet Spaniards and Gauls, and even the unwarlike races of Asia and Syria cut them down before the main legion comes within sight, nothing but their own irascibility exposing them to death. Give but intelligence to those minds, and discipline to those bodies of theirs, which now are ignorant of vicious refinements, luxury, and wealth,—to say nothing more, we should certainly be obliged to go back to the ancient Roman habits of life. By what did Fabius restore the shattered forces of the state, except by knowing how to delay and spin out time, which angry men know not how to do? The empire, which then was at its last gasp, would have perished if Fabius had been as daring as anger urged him to be: but he took thought about the condition of affairs, and after counting his force, no part of which could be lost without everything being lost with it, he laid aside thoughts of grief and revenge, turning his sole attention to what was profitable and to making the most of his opportunities, and conquered his anger before he conquered Hannibal. What did Scipio do? Did he not leave behind Hannibal and the Carthaginian army, and all with whom he had a right to be angry, and carry over the war into Africa with such deliberation that he made his enemies think him luxurious and lazy? What did the second Scipio do? Did he not remain a long, long time before Numantia, and bear with calmness the reproach to himself and to his country that Numantia took longer to conquer than Carthage? By blockading and investing his enemies, he brought them to such straits that they perished by their own swords. Anger, therefore, is not useful even in wars or battles: for it is prone to rashness, and while trying to bring others into danger, does not guard itself against danger. The most trustworthy virtue is that which long and carefully considers itself, controls itself, and slowly and deliberately brings itself to the front.

XI. “But,” he argues, “anger is necessary against our enemies.” Nowhere is anger less necessary. Our attacks should not be disorderly, but disciplined and controlled. What defeats the barbarians, if not their self-destructive anger? They are far stronger than we are and far better able to endure exhaustion. Gladiators, too, protect themselves through skill, but leave themselves open to wounds when angry. Besides, what use is anger when reason can achieve the same result? Do you suppose a hunter is angry with the beasts he kills? Yet he faces the beasts when they attack and follows them when they flee. Reason manages all of this without anger. When so many thousands of Cimbri and Teutones poured over the Alps, why were they so utterly destroyed? No messenger brought news of that great defeat to their homes. Only rumor reached them. Was the cause not that anger took the place of courage among them? Anger sometimes crushes and shatters everything in its path, yet more often destroys itself. Who can be braver than the Germans? Who charges more boldly? Who loves weapons more? They are born and raised among weapons and care for nothing else, neglecting everything else. Who can be tougher in enduring every hardship? Many of them have no supply of clothing for their bodies, nor shelter from the climate’s constant harshness. Yet Spaniards and Gauls cut them down before the main legion even comes into sight. Even the unwarlike peoples of Asia and Syria do the same. Nothing but the Germans’ own quick tempers exposes them to death. Give their minds intelligence and their bodies discipline. They are still strangers to corrupt refinements, luxury, and wealth. To say no more, we would certainly have to return to the ancient Roman way of life. How did Fabius rebuild the state’s shattered forces? By knowing how to delay and draw things out, something angry men do not know how to do. Rome’s power was then at its last gasp. It would have collapsed if Fabius had been as daring as anger urged him to be. But he considered the situation and counted his forces. He could not lose any part of his army without losing everything. So he set aside grief and revenge. He focused only on what would help and on making the most of his opportunities. He conquered his anger before he conquered Hannibal. What did Scipio do? Did he not leave Hannibal, the Carthaginian army, and everyone he had a right to be angry with behind? Did he not carry the war into Africa? He proceeded so deliberately that his enemies thought him idle and devoted to luxury. What did the second Scipio do? Did he not remain outside Numantia for a very long time? He calmly endured criticism directed at himself and his country because Numantia took longer to conquer than Carthage. By surrounding and blockading his enemies, he reduced them to such desperation that they died by their own swords. Anger, then, is not useful even in wars or battles. Anger encourages rashness. While trying to put others in danger, an angry person fails to guard against danger himself. The most reliable courage examines itself long and carefully, keeps itself under control, and advances slowly and deliberately.

XII. “What, then,” asks our adversary, “is a good man not to be angry if he sees his father murdered or his mother outraged?” No, he will not be angry, but will avenge them, or protect them. Why do you fear that filial piety will not prove a sufficient spur to him even without anger? You may as well say—“What then? When a good man sees his father or his son being cut down, I suppose he will not weep or faint,” as we see women do whenever any trifling rumour of danger reaches them. The good man will do his duty without disturbance or fear, and he will perform the duty of a good man, so as to do nothing unworthy of a man. My father will be murdered: then I will defend him: he has been slain, then I will avenge him, not because I am grieved, but because it is my duty. “Good men are made angry by injuries done to their friends.” When you say this, Theophrastus, you seek to throw discredit upon more manly maxims; you leave the judge and appeal to the mob: because every one is angry when such things befall his own friends, you suppose that men will decide that it is their duty to do what they do: for as a rule every man considers a passion which he recognises to be a righteous one. But he does the same thing if the hot water is not ready for his drink, if a glass be broken, or his shoe splashed with mud. It is not filial piety, but weakness of mind that produces this anger, as children weep when they lose their parents, just as they do when they lose their toys. To feel anger on behalf of one’s friends does not show a loving, but a weak mind: it is admirable and worthy conduct to stand forth as the defender of one’s parents, children, friends, and countrymen, at the call of duty itself, acting of one’s own free will, forming a deliberate judgment, and looking forward to the future, not in an impulsive, frenzied fashion. No passion is more eager for revenge than anger, and for that very reason it is unapt to obtain it: being over hasty and frantic, like almost all desires, it hinders itself in the attainment of its own object, and therefore has never been useful either in peace or war: for it makes peace like war, and when in arms forgets that Mars belongs to neither side, and falls into the power of the enemy, because it is not in its own. In the next place, vices ought not to be received into common use because on some occasions they have effected somewhat: for so also fevers are good for certain kinds of ill-health, but nevertheless it is better to be altogether free from them: it is a hateful mode of cure to owe one’s health to disease. Similarly, although anger, like poison, or falling headlong, or being shipwrecked, may have unexpectedly done good, yet it ought not on that account to be classed as wholesome, for poisons have often proved good for the health.

XII. “What, then,” our opponent asks, “should a good man not be angry if he sees his father murdered or his mother violated?” No, he will not be angry, but he will avenge them or protect them. Why fear that his duty to his parents will not motivate him enough without anger? You might as well say, “What then? If a good man sees his father or son being cut down, I suppose he will not weep or faint.” Yet we see women weep or faint whenever they hear even a slight rumor of danger. The good man will do his duty without distress or fear. He will fulfill his duty as a good man without doing anything unworthy of a man. My father is about to be murdered, so I will defend him. He has been killed, so I will avenge him, not because I am grieving, but because it is my duty. “Good men become angry when their friends are harmed.” When you say this, Theophrastus, you try to discredit more manly principles. You turn away from the judge and appeal to the mob. Everyone becomes angry when such things happen to their own friends. So you suppose people will decide that what they already do must be their duty. As a rule, everyone considers a passion justified when he recognizes it in himself. But he gets just as angry if the hot water for his drink is not ready. He does the same if a glass breaks or mud splashes his shoe. Such anger comes not from devotion to one's parents, but from weakness of mind. Children cry when they lose their parents, just as they cry when they lose their toys. Anger on behalf of friends shows not a loving mind, but a weak one. It is admirable and honorable to defend one's parents, children, friends, and fellow citizens because duty itself calls. Such a defender acts freely, judges carefully, and considers the future, rather than acting impulsively and wildly. No passion is more eager for revenge than anger. For that very reason, anger is poorly suited to getting revenge. Like almost all desires, anger is too hasty and frantic, and so prevents itself from reaching its goal. Anger has therefore never been useful in either peace or war. It turns peace into war. In battle, anger forgets that Mars favors neither side. Anger falls under the enemy's control because it cannot control itself. Nor should we accept vices as normal practices because they have occasionally achieved something. Fevers, too, help with certain illnesses, but it is still better to be entirely free of fevers. It is a hateful kind of cure when you owe your health to disease. Similarly, anger may have done unexpected good, like poison, a headlong fall, or a shipwreck. Yet that is no reason to call anger beneficial, for poisons have often proved good for health.

XIII. Moreover, qualities which we ought to possess become better and more desirable the more extensive they are: if justice is a good thing, no one will say that it would be better if any part were subtracted from it; if bravery is a good thing, no one would wish it to be in any way curtailed: consequently the greater anger is, the better it is, for who ever objected to a good thing being increased? But it is not expedient that anger should be increased: therefore it is not expedient that it should exist at all, for that which grows bad by increase cannot be a good thing. “Anger is useful,” says our adversary, “because it makes men more ready to fight.” According to that mode of reasoning, then, drunkenness also is a good thing, for it makes men insolent and daring, and many use their weapons better when the worse for liquor: nay, according to that reasoning, also, you may call frenzy and madness essential to strength, because madness often makes men stronger. Why, does not fear often by the rule of contraries make men bolder, and does not the terror of death rouse up even arrant cowards to join battle? Yet anger, drunkenness, fear, and the like, are base and temporary incitements to action, and can furnish no arms to virtue, which has no need of vices, although they may at times be of some little assistance to sluggish and cowardly minds. No man becomes braver through anger, except one who without anger would not have been brave at all: anger does not therefore come to assist courage, but to take its place. What are we to say to the argument that, if anger were a good thing it would attach itself to all the best men? Yet the most irascible of creatures are infants, old men, and sick people. Every weakling is naturally prone to complaint.

XIII. Moreover, the qualities we ought to possess become better and more desirable the more fully we possess them. If justice is good, no one will say that less justice would be better. If bravery is good, no one would want bravery reduced in any way. So the greater our anger, the better it must be. Who ever objected to having more of a good thing? But increasing anger is not beneficial. Therefore, anger should not exist at all, because anything that becomes bad as it increases cannot be good. “Anger is useful,” our opponent says, “because it makes men more ready to fight.” By that reasoning, drunkenness is also good, because drunkenness makes men aggressive and daring. Many men even use their weapons better when drunk. Indeed, by that reasoning, you could also call frenzy and madness essential to strength, because madness often makes men stronger. Doesn't fear often produce the opposite effect and make men bolder? Doesn't the terror of death stir even utter cowards to fight? Yet anger, drunkenness, fear, and similar impulses are base and temporary motives for action. They cannot arm virtue, because virtue has no need of vices. Still, these impulses may sometimes give a little help to sluggish and cowardly minds. Anger makes no man braver unless he would lack bravery altogether without anger. So anger does not support courage but takes its place. What about this argument: if anger were good, wouldn't anger be found in all the best men? Yet infants, old men, and sick people are the creatures most prone to anger. Every weak person is naturally inclined to complain.

XIV. It is impossible, says Theophrastus, for a good man not to be angry with bad men. By this reasoning, the better a man is, the more irascible he will be: yet will he not rather be more tranquil, more free from passions, and hating no one: indeed, what reason has he for hating sinners, since it is error that leads them into such crimes? now it does not become a sensible man to hate the erring, since if so he will hate himself: let him think how many things he does contrary to good morals, how much of what he has done stands in need of pardon, and he will soon become angry with himself also, for no righteous judge pronounces a different judgment in his own case and in that of others. No one, I affirm, will be found who can acquit himself. Every one when he calls himself innocent looks rather to external witnesses than to his own conscience. How much more philanthropic it is to deal with the erring in a gentle and fatherly spirit, and to call them into the right course instead of hunting them down? When a man is wandering about our fields because he has lost his way, it is better to place him on the right path than to drive him away.

XIV. Theophrastus says a good man cannot help being angry with bad men. By this reasoning, the better a man is, the more easily he will become angry. Yet shouldn’t he instead be calmer, freer from passions, and free of hatred for anyone? Indeed, what reason does he have to hate wrongdoers, since error leads them into such crimes? A sensible man should not hate those who make mistakes, because then he will hate himself. Let him consider how often he acts against good morals, and how much he has done that needs forgiveness. He will soon become angry with himself too. For no fair judge applies one standard to himself and another to others. No one, I insist, will be found who can declare himself innocent. Everyone who calls himself innocent relies more on outside witnesses than on his own conscience. How much more humane to treat those who make mistakes gently, as a father would. How much better to guide them back to the right course instead of hunting them down? When a man wanders through our fields because he has lost his way, we should show him the right path. That is better than driving him away.

XV. The sinner ought, therefore, to be corrected both by warning and by force, both by gentle and harsh means, and may be made a better man both towards himself and others by chastisement, but not by anger: for who is angry with the patient whose wounds he is tending? “But they cannot be corrected, and there is nothing in them that is gentle or that admits of good hope.” Then let them be removed from mortal society, if they are likely to deprave every one with whom they come in contact, and let them cease to be bad men in the only way in which they can: yet let this be done without hatred: for what reason have I for hating the man to whom I am doing the greatest good, since I am rescuing him from himself? Does a man hate his own limbs when he cuts them off? That is not an act of anger, but a lamentable method of healing. We knock mad dogs on the head, we slaughter fierce and savage bulls, and we doom scabby sheep to the knife, lest they should infect our flocks: we destroy monstrous births, and we also drown our children if they are born weakly or unnaturally formed; to separate what is useless from what is sound is an act, not of anger, but of reason. Nothing becomes one who inflicts punishment less than anger, because the punishment has all the more power to work reformation if the sentence be pronounced with deliberate judgment. This is why Socrates said to the slave, “I would strike you, were I not angry.” He put off the correction of the slave to a calmer season; at the moment, he corrected himself. Who can boast that he has his passions, under control, when Socrates did not dare to trust himself to his anger?

XV. A wrongdoer should therefore be corrected through both warnings and force, through both gentle and harsh methods. Punishment may make him better toward himself and others, but anger cannot. For who gets angry with a patient whose wounds he is treating? “But they cannot be corrected. There is nothing gentle in them, and nothing that gives any reason for hope.” Then let them be removed from human society, if they are likely to corrupt everyone they meet. Let them stop being bad men in the only way they can. Yet let this be done without hatred. For why should I hate a man when I am doing him the greatest good by rescuing him from himself? Does a man hate his own limbs when he cuts them off? Amputation is not an act of anger, but a painful way of healing. We kill mad dogs with a blow to the head, and we slaughter fierce and savage bulls. We put sheep with scab to the knife so they will not infect our flocks. We destroy monstrous offspring, and we also drown our children if they are born weak or deformed. Separating what is useless from what is sound is an act of reason, not anger. Nothing is less fitting for someone who punishes than anger. For punishment has all the more power to reform when the sentence is based on careful judgment. This is why Socrates said to the slave, “I would strike you if I were not angry.” He put off correcting the slave until he was calmer. For the moment, he corrected himself. Who can boast of controlling his passions when Socrates did not dare trust himself when angry?

XVI. We do not, therefore, need an angry chastiser to punish the erring and wicked: for since anger is a crime of the mind, it is not right that sins should be punished by sin. “What! am I not to be angry with a robber, or a poisoner?” No: for I am not angry with myself when I bleed myself. I apply all kinds of punishment as remedies. You are as yet only in the first stage of error, and do not go wrong seriously, although you do so often: then I will try to amend you by a reprimand given first in private and then in public.⁴ You, again, have gone too far to be restored to virtue by words alone; you must be kept in order by disgrace. For the next, some stronger measure is required, something that he can feel must be branded upon him; you, sir, shall be sent into exile and to a desert place. The next man’s thorough villany needs harsher remedies: chains and public imprisonment must be applied to him. You, lastly, have an incurably vicious mind, and add crime to crime: you have come to such a pass, that you are not influenced by the arguments which are never wanting to recommend evil, but sin itself is to you a sufficient reason for sinning: you have so steeped your whole heart in wickedness, that wickedness cannot be taken from you without bringing your heart with it. Wretched man! you have long sought to die; we will do you good service, we will take away that madness from which you suffer, and to you who have so long lived a misery to yourself and to others, we will give the only good thing which remains, that is, death. Why should I be angry with a man just when I am doing him good: sometimes the truest form of compassion is to put a man to death. If I were a skilled and learned physician, and were to enter a hospital, or a rich⁵ man’s house, I should not have prescribed the same treatment for all the patients who were suffering from various diseases. I see different kinds of vice in the vast number of different minds, and am called in to heal the whole body of citizens: let us seek for the remedies proper for each disease. This man may be cured by his own sense of honour, that one by travel, that one by pain, that one by want, that one by the sword. If, therefore, it becomes my duty as a magistrate to put on black⁶ robes, and summon an assembly by the sound of a trumpet,⁷ I shall walk to the seat of judgment not in a rage or in a hostile spirit, but with the countenance of a judge; I shall pronounce the formal sentence in a grave and gentle rather than a furious voice, and shall bid them proceed sternly, yet not angrily. Even when I command a criminal to be beheaded, when I sew a parricide up in a sack, when I send a man to be punished by military law, when I fling a traitor or public enemy down the Tarpeian Rock, I shall be free from anger, and shall look and feel just as though I were crushing snakes and other venomous creatures. “Anger is necessary to enable us to punish.” What? do you think that the law is angry with men whom it does not know, whom it has never seen, who it hopes will never exist? We ought, therefore, to adopt the law’s frame of mind, which does not become angry, but merely defines offences: for, if it is right for a good man to be angry at wicked crimes, it will also be right for him to be moved with envy at the prosperity of wicked men: what, indeed, is more scandalous than that in some cases the very men, for whose deserts no fortune could be found bad enough, should flourish and actually be the spoiled children of success? Yet he will see their affluence without envy, just as he sees their crimes without anger: a good judge condemns wrongful acts, but does not hate them. “What then? when the wise man is dealing with something of this kind, will his mind not be affected by it and become excited beyond its usual wont?” I admit that it will: he will experience a slight and trifling emotion; for, as Zeno says, “Even in the mind of the wise man, a scar remains after the wound is quite healed.” He will, therefore, feel certain hints and semblances of passions; but he will be free from the passions themselves.

XVI. We therefore do not need an angry punisher to deal with wrongdoers and the wicked. Anger is itself a fault of the mind, so it is wrong to punish one sin with another. “What! Am I not to be angry with a robber or a poisoner?” No. I am not angry with myself when I draw my own blood as a treatment. I use all kinds of punishment as remedies. You are still in the early stages of wrongdoing. Your faults are not serious, although they are frequent. So I will try to reform you with a reprimand, first in private and then in public.⁴ You, on the other hand, have gone too far for words alone to restore you to virtue. You must be kept in line through disgrace. The next man needs a stronger measure, a mark of punishment he can feel. You, sir, will be exiled to a deserted place. The next man’s deep wickedness needs harsher remedies. He must be put in chains and held in a public prison. You, finally, have an incurably corrupt mind, and you pile crime upon crime. You have reached a point where the arguments for evil, which are never lacking, no longer influence you. Instead, sin itself gives you reason enough to sin. You have soaked your whole heart in wickedness. Wickedness cannot be torn from you without tearing out your heart as well. Wretched man! You have long sought death. We will do you a service by freeing you from the madness you suffer. Your life has long been a misery to yourself and others. We will give you the only good thing left to you: death. Why should I be angry with a man at the very moment I am doing him good? Sometimes the truest compassion is to put a man to death. Suppose I were a skilled, knowledgeable physician entering a hospital or a rich⁵ man’s house. I would not prescribe the same treatment for every patient suffering from different diseases. I see different kinds of vice among the vast number of different minds. I am called upon to heal the whole body of citizens. So let us find the right remedy for each disease. This man may be cured by his own sense of honor, another by travel, another by pain. Another may be cured by poverty, another by the sword. Suppose, then, my duty as a magistrate requires me to put on black⁶ robes and summon an assembly by trumpet.⁷ I will approach the judgment seat without rage or hostility, but with the expression of a judge. I will deliver the formal sentence in a serious, gentle voice rather than a furious one. I will order the punishment carried out firmly, but without anger. I will remain free from anger even when I order a criminal beheaded or a parent’s murderer sewn into a sack. The same holds when I send a man for punishment under military law. It also holds when I throw a traitor or public enemy from the Tarpeian Rock. I will look and feel just as though I were crushing snakes and other venomous creatures. “Anger is necessary for us to punish.” What? Do you think the law is angry with people it does not know and has never seen? People, indeed, whom the law hopes will never exist? We should therefore adopt the law’s attitude. The law does not grow angry, but simply defines offenses. If a good man should be angry at wicked crimes, he should also envy wicked people’s prosperity. Indeed, what could be more outrageous than seeing some such people flourish and become fortune’s spoiled favorites? No misfortune could be bad enough for what those very people deserve. Yet the good man will see their wealth without envy, just as he sees their crimes without anger. A good judge condemns wrongful acts, but does not hate them. “What, then? When the wise man faces something like this, will his mind remain unaffected? Will he feel no more agitation than usual?” I admit that he will feel some agitation. He will experience a slight, insignificant emotion. For, as Zeno says, “Even in the wise man’s mind, a scar remains after the wound has fully healed.” So he will feel faint traces and likenesses of passions. But he will be free from the passions themselves.

XVII. Aristotle says that “certain passions, if one makes a proper use of them, act as arms”: which would be true if, like weapons of war, they could be taken up or laid aside at the pleasure of their wielder. These arms, which Aristotle assigns to virtue, fight of their own accord, do not wait to be seized by the hand, and possess a man instead of being possessed by him. We have no need of external weapons, nature has equipped us sufficiently by giving us reason. She has bestowed this weapon upon us, which is strong, imperishable, and obedient to our will, not uncertain or capable of being turned against its master. Reason suffices by itself not merely to take thought for the future, but to manage our affairs:⁸ what, then, can be more foolish than for reason to beg anger for protection, that is, for what is certain to beg of what is uncertain? what is trustworthy of what is faithless? what is whole of what is sick? What, indeed? since reason is far more powerful by itself even in performing those operations in which the help of anger seems especially needful: for when reason has decided that a particular thing should be done, she perseveres in doing it; not being able to find anything better than herself to exchange with. She, therefore, abides by her purpose when it has once been formed; whereas anger is often overcome by pity: for it possesses no firm strength, but merely swells like an empty bladder, and makes a violent beginning, just like the winds which rise from the earth and are caused by rivers and marshes, which blow furiously without any continuance: anger begins with a mighty rush, and then falls away, becoming fatigued too soon: that which but lately thought of nothing but cruelty and novel forms of torture, is become quite softened and gentle when the time comes for punishment to be inflicted. Passion soon cools, whereas reason is always consistent: yet even in cases where anger has continued to burn, it often happens that although there may be many who deserve to die, yet after the death of two or three it ceases to slay. Its first onset is fierce, just as the teeth of snakes when first roused from their lair are venomous, but become harmless after repeated bites have exhausted their poison. Consequently those who are equally guilty are not equally punished, and often he who has done less is punished more, because he fell in the way of anger when it was fresher. It is altogether irregular; at one time it runs into undue excess, at another it falls short of its duty: for it indulges its own feelings and gives sentence according to its caprices, will not listen to evidence, allows the defence no opportunity of being heard, clings to what it has wrongly assumed, and will not suffer its opinion to be wrested from it, even when it is a mistaken one.

XVII. Aristotle says that “certain passions, if used properly, act as weapons”. That would be true if, like weapons of war, passions could be taken up or set aside at will. But these weapons, which Aristotle gives to virtue, fight on their own. They do not wait for a hand to grasp them. They control a person instead of being controlled. We need no outside weapons. Nature has equipped us well enough by giving us reason. Nature has given us a weapon that is strong, indestructible, and obedient to our will. Reason is neither unreliable nor capable of turning against its master. Reason alone is enough not just to plan for the future, but to manage our affairs.⁸ What could be more foolish, then, than reason begging anger for protection? Why should certainty beg help from uncertainty, trustworthiness from untrustworthiness, or health from sickness? Indeed, reason alone is far more powerful even in tasks where anger's help seems especially necessary. Once reason decides that something should be done, reason keeps doing it. Reason can find nothing better than itself to take its place. So reason sticks to a purpose once formed. Anger, by contrast, is often overcome by pity. Anger has no lasting strength, but merely swells like an empty bladder. Its violent beginning resembles winds that rise from the earth and are caused by rivers and marshes. Those winds blow furiously, but do not last. Anger begins with a mighty rush, then fades, growing tired too soon. Moments earlier, anger thought of nothing but cruelty and new forms of torture. Yet when the time comes to inflict punishment, anger has become soft and gentle. Passion soon cools, while reason remains consistent. Yet even when anger keeps burning, it often stops killing after two or three deaths, although many deserve to die. Its first attack is fierce. In the same way, snakes have venomous teeth when first roused from their lairs. But repeated bites exhaust their poison and leave their teeth harmless. As a result, equally guilty people do not receive equal punishment. Often someone who has done less wrong is punished more because he encountered anger when it was fresher. Anger is completely inconsistent. Sometimes it goes too far, and sometimes it falls short of its duty. Anger indulges its own feelings and passes judgment according to its whims. Anger refuses to hear evidence and gives the defense no chance to speak. Anger clings to its false assumptions and refuses to give up its opinion, even when that opinion is mistaken.

XVIII. Reason gives each side time to plead; moreover, she herself demands adjournment, that she may have sufficient scope for the discovery of the truth; whereas anger is in a hurry: reason wishes to give a just decision; anger wishes its decision to be thought just: reason looks no further than the matter in hand; anger is excited by empty matters hovering on the outskirts of the case: it is irritated by anything approaching to a confident demeanour, a loud voice, an unrestrained speech, dainty apparel, high-flown pleading, or popularity with the public. It often condemns a man because it dislikes his patron; it loves and maintains error even when truth is staring it in the face. It hates to be proved wrong, and thinks it more honourable to persevere in a mistaken line of conduct than to retract it. I remember Gnaeus Piso, a man who was free from many vices, yet of a perverse disposition, and one who mistook harshness for consistency. In his anger he ordered a soldier to be led off to execution because he had returned from furlough without his comrade, as though he must have murdered him if he could not show him. When the man asked for time for search, he would not grant it: the condemned man was brought outside the rampart, and was just offering his neck to the axe, when suddenly there appeared his comrade who was thought to be slain. Hereupon the centurion in charge of the execution bade the guardsman sheathe his sword, and led the condemned man back to Piso, to restore to him the innocence which Fortune had restored to the soldier. They were led into his presence by their fellow soldiers amid the great joy of the whole camp, embracing one another and accompanied by a vast crowd. Piso mounted the tribunal in a fury and ordered them both to be executed, both him who had not murdered and him who had not been slain. What could be more unworthy than this? Because one was proved to be innocent, two perished. Piso even added a third: for he actually ordered the centurion, who had brought back the condemned man, to be put to death. Three men were set up to die in the same place because one was innocent. O, how clever is anger at inventing reasons for its frenzy! “You,” it says, “I order to be executed, because you have been condemned to death: you, because you have been the cause of your comrade’s condemnation, and you, because when ordered to put him to death you disobeyed your general.” He discovered the means of charging them with three crimes, because he could find no crime in them.

XVIII. Reason gives each side time to plead its case. She even asks for delays herself, so she has enough time to discover the truth. Anger, by contrast, is in a hurry. Reason wants to reach a just decision. Anger wants its decision to seem just. Reason considers only the matter at hand. Anger gets worked up over irrelevant details surrounding the case. A confident manner, a loud voice, outspoken language, fine clothing, grand speeches, or public popularity can all irritate anger. Anger often condemns a man because it dislikes his defender. It clings to error and defends it even when the truth is staring it in the face. Anger hates being proved wrong. It thinks continuing on a mistaken course is more honorable than admitting a mistake. I remember Gnaeus Piso, a man free from many vices, but stubbornly unreasonable. He mistook harshness for consistency. In his anger, he ordered a soldier executed because the soldier had returned from leave without his comrade. Piso acted as though the soldier must have murdered his comrade if he could not produce him. When the soldier asked for time to search, Piso refused. The condemned man was taken outside the camp's defensive wall and was just offering his neck to the axe. Suddenly, the comrade believed to have been killed appeared. The centurion overseeing the execution ordered the executioner to sheathe his sword and brought the condemned man back to Piso. Fortune had given the soldier back his innocence. The centurion hoped to give Piso back his innocence too. Their fellow soldiers brought the two comrades before Piso, to the great joy of the whole camp. The two men embraced each other, accompanied by a huge crowd. Piso furiously mounted the tribunal and ordered both men executed: the man who had not murdered and the man not killed. What could be more disgraceful? Because one man was proved innocent, two died. Piso even added a third victim. He actually ordered the execution of the centurion who had brought the condemned man back. Three men were lined up to die in the same place because one was innocent. Oh, how clever anger is at inventing reasons for its madness! “You,” it says, “I order to be executed because you have been sentenced to death. You, because you caused your comrade to be condemned. And you, because you disobeyed your general when ordered to put him to death.” Piso found a way to charge them with three crimes because he could find no crime in them.

XIX. Irascibility, I say, has this fault—it is loth to be ruled: it is angry with the truth itself, if it comes to light against its will: it assails those whom it has marked for its victims with shouting and riotous noise and gesticulation of the entire body, together with reproaches and curses. Not thus does reason act: but if it must be so, she silently and quietly wipes out whole households, destroys entire families of the enemies of the state, together with their wives and children, throws down their very dwellings, levels them with the ground, and roots out the names of those who are the foes of liberty. This she does without grinding her teeth or shaking her head, or doing anything unbecoming to a judge, whose countenance ought to be especially calm and composed at the time when he is pronouncing an important sentence. “What need is there,” asks Hieronymus, “for you to bite your own lips when you want to strike some one?” What would he have said, had he seen a proconsul leap down from the tribunal, snatch the fasces from the lictor, and tear his own clothes because those of others were not torn as fast as he wished. Why need you upset the table, throw down the drinking cups, knock yourself against the columns, tear your hair, smite your thigh and your breast? How vehement do you suppose anger to be, if it thus turns back upon itself, because it cannot find vent on another as fast as it wishes? Such men, therefore, are held back by the bystanders and are begged to become reconciled with themselves. But he who while free from anger assigns to each man the penalty which he deserves, does none of these things. He often lets a man go after detecting his crime, if his penitence for what he has done gives good hope for the future, if he perceives that the man’s wickedness is not deeply rooted in his mind, but is only, as the saying is, skin-deep. He will grant impunity in cases where it will hurt neither the receiver nor the giver. In some cases he will punish great crimes more leniently than lesser ones, if the former were the result of momentary impulse, not of cruelty, while the latter were instinct with secret, underhand, long-practised craftiness. The same fault, committed by two separate men, will not be visited by him with the same penalty, if the one was guilty of it through carelessness, the other with a premeditated intention of doing mischief. In all dealing with crime he will remember that the one form of punishment is meant to make bad men better, and the other to put them out of the way. In either case he will look to the future, not to the past: for, as Plato says, “no wise man punishes any one because he has sinned, but that he may sin no more: for what is past cannot be recalled, but what is to come may be checked.” Those, too, whom he wishes to make examples of the ill success of wickedness, he executes publicly, not merely in order that they themselves may die, but that by dying they may deter others from doing likewise. You see how free from any mental disturbance a man ought to be who has to weigh and consider all this, when he deals with a matter which ought to be handled with the utmost care, I mean, the power of life and death. The sword of justice is ill-placed in the hands of an angry man.

XIX. A quick temper, I say, has this fault: it resists control. It is angry even with the truth if the truth emerges against its will. It attacks its chosen victims with shouting, wild noise, and gestures involving the whole body, along with insults and curses. Reason does not act like this. But if necessary, she silently and calmly wipes out whole households. She destroys entire families of the state’s enemies, including their wives and children. She tears down their very homes, levels them to the ground, and erases the names of liberty’s enemies. She does all this without grinding her teeth, shaking her head, or doing anything unworthy of a judge. A judge’s face should be especially calm and composed when delivering an important sentence. “Why,” asks Hieronymus, “must you bite your own lips when you want to strike someone?” What would he have said if he had seen a proconsul leap down from the judgment seat? The proconsul snatched the fasces, the rods of office, from the lictor who carried them. He tore his own clothes because other people’s clothes were not being torn as quickly as he wanted. Why must you overturn the table, knock down the drinking cups, or dash yourself against the columns? Why tear your hair or beat your thigh and chest? How violent must anger be to turn against itself because it cannot strike another person quickly enough? So bystanders restrain such men and beg them to make peace with themselves. But someone who calmly gives each person the punishment he deserves does none of these things. He often lets a man go after discovering his crime, if the man’s remorse offers good hope for the future. He does so if he sees that the man’s wickedness is not deeply rooted, but only skin-deep, as people say. He will leave a man unpunished when doing so harms neither the man nor himself. In some cases, he will punish serious crimes more lightly than lesser ones. He does so if the serious crimes sprang from a momentary impulse rather than cruelty. The lesser crimes, by contrast, were driven by secret, underhand cunning practiced over a long time. He will not give two men the same punishment for the same offense if their motives differed. One may have acted carelessly, while the other deliberately intended harm. Whenever he deals with crime, he will remember that one kind of punishment aims to make bad men better. The other aims to remove them. In either case, he will look to the future, not the past. For, as Plato says, “no wise man punishes anyone because he has done wrong, but to prevent him from doing wrong again. The past cannot be undone, but future wrongdoing can be prevented.” He also publicly executes those whose fate he wants to show that wickedness does not pay. His purpose is not merely that they should die, but that their deaths should deter others from doing the same. You see how free from emotional disturbance a man must be when weighing and considering all these things. He is dealing with something that demands the greatest care: the power of life and death. The sword of justice belongs in no angry man’s hands.

XX. Neither ought it to be believed that anger contributes anything to magnanimity: what it gives is not magnanimity but vain glory. The increase which disease produces in bodies swollen with morbid humours is not healthy growth, but bloated corpulence. All those whose madness raises them above human considerations, believe themselves to be inspired with high and sublime ideas; but there is no solid ground beneath, and what is built without foundation is liable to collapse in ruin. Anger has no ground to stand upon, and does not rise from a firm and enduring foundation, but is a windy, empty quality, as far removed from true magnanimity as fool-hardiness from courage, boastfulness from confidence, gloom from austerity, cruelty from strictness. There is, I say, a great difference between a lofty and a proud mind: anger brings about nothing grand or beautiful. On the other hand, to be constantly irritated seems to me to be the part of a languid and unhappy mind, conscious of its own feebleness, like folk with diseased bodies covered with sores, who cry out at the lightest touch. Anger, therefore, is a vice which for the most part affects women and children. “Yet it affects men also.” Because many men, too, have womanish or childish intellects. “But what are we to say? do not some words fall from angry men which appear to flow from a great mind?” Yes, to those who know not what true greatness is: as, for example, that foul and hateful saying, “Let them hate me, provided they fear me,” which you may be sure was written in Sulla’s time. I know not which was the worse of the two things he wished for, that he might be hated or that he might be feared. It occurs to his mind that some day people will curse him, plot against him, crush him: what prayer does he add to this? May all the gods curse him—for discovering a cure for hate so worthy of it. “Let them hate.” How? “Provided they obey me?” No! “Provided they approve of me?” No! How then? “Provided they fear me!” I would not even be loved upon such terms. Do you imagine that this was a very spirited saying? You are wrong: this is not greatness, but monstrosity. You should not believe the words of angry men, whose speech is very loud and menacing, while their mind within them is as timid as possible: nor need you suppose that the most eloquent of men, Titus Livius, was right in describing somebody as being “of a great rather than a good disposition.” The things cannot be separated: he must either be good or else he cannot be great, because I take greatness of mind to mean that it is unshaken, sound throughout, firm and uniform to its very foundation; such as cannot exist in evil dispositions. Such dispositions may be terrible, frantic, and destructive, but cannot possess greatness; because greatness rests upon goodness, and owes its strength to it. “Yet by speech, action, and all outward show they will make one think them great.” True, they will say something which you may think shows a great spirit, like Gaius Caesar, who when angry with heaven because it interfered with his ballet-dancers, whom he imitated more carefully than he attended to them when they acted, and because it frightened his revels by its thunders, surely ill-directed,⁹ challenged Jove to fight, and that to the death, shouting the Homeric verse:—

XX. Nor should we believe that anger contributes anything to greatness of spirit. Anger produces not greatness but empty vanity. When disease makes bodies swell with unhealthy fluids, that increase is not healthy growth but bloating. All those whose madness lifts them above ordinary human concerns believe their ideas are lofty and sublime. But there is no solid ground beneath them, and anything built without foundations can collapse into ruins. Anger has no ground to stand on. It does not rise from a firm, lasting foundation but is empty and full of wind. Anger is as far from true greatness as recklessness is from courage, boasting from confidence, gloom from sternness, or cruelty from strictness. There is, I insist, a great difference between a noble mind and an arrogant one. Anger produces nothing grand or beautiful. By contrast, constant irritation seems to me the mark of a weak, unhappy mind, aware of its own weakness. Such people resemble those whose diseased bodies are covered with sores, who cry out at the slightest touch. Anger, then, is a vice that mostly affects women and children. “Yet it affects men too.” Because many men, too, have the minds of women or children. “But what should we say? Do angry men not sometimes say things that seem to come from a great mind?” Yes, to people who do not know what true greatness is. Take that foul, hateful saying: “Let them hate me, as long as they fear me.” You may be sure it was written in Sulla’s time. I do not know which wish was worse, the wish to be hated or the wish to be feared. He imagines that people will someday curse him, plot against him, and crush him. What prayer does he add to these thoughts? May all the gods curse him for finding a cure for hatred so worthy of hatred. “Let them hate.” On what terms? “As long as they obey me?” No! “As long as they approve of me?” No! On what terms, then? “As long as they fear me!” I would not even want to be loved on those terms. Do you think this saying showed great spirit? You are wrong. This is not greatness but monstrosity. Do not trust the words of angry men. Their speech is loud and threatening, while their minds are as fearful as can be. Nor should you think Titus Livius, that most eloquent of men, was right to describe someone this way: “His character was great rather than good.” Greatness and goodness cannot be separated. A man must be good, or he cannot be great. By greatness of mind, I mean a mind that is unshaken, sound throughout, firm and consistent to its very foundations. Such greatness cannot exist in an evil character. Evil characters may be terrifying, frenzied, and destructive, but they cannot possess greatness. For greatness rests on goodness and draws its strength from goodness. “Yet their words, actions, and every outward appearance will make people think them great.” True, they will say something that you may think shows a great spirit. Take Gaius Caesar, who grew angry with heaven because it disrupted his ballet-dancers. He took more care to imitate those dancers than to watch their performances. Heaven also frightened the guests at his revels with thunder, surely aimed at the wrong target.⁹ So he challenged Jove to a fight to the death, shouting the Homeric verse:

How great was his madness! He must have believed either that he could not be hurt even by Jupiter himself, or that he could hurt even Jupiter itself. I imagine that this saying of his had no small weight in nerving the minds of the conspirators for their task: for it seemed to be the height of endurance to bear one who could not bear Jupiter.

How mad he was! He must have believed that even Jupiter himself could not hurt him, or that he could hurt even Jupiter. I imagine his words did much to strengthen the conspirators’ resolve to carry out their task. For tolerating a man who could not tolerate Jupiter seemed to demand the utmost endurance.

XXI. There is therefore nothing great or noble in anger, even when it seems to be powerful and to contemn both gods and men alike. Any one who thinks that anger produces greatness of mind, would think that luxury produces it: such a man wishes to rest on ivory, to be clothed with purple, and roofed with gold; to remove lands, embank seas, hasten the course of rivers, suspend woods in the air. He would think that avarice shows greatness of mind: for the avaricious man broods over heaps of gold and silver, treats whole provinces as merely fields on his estate, and has larger tracts of country under the charge of single bailiffs than those which consuls once drew lots to administer. He would think that lust shows greatness of mind: for the lustful man swims across straits, castrates troops of boys, and puts himself within reach of the swords of injured husbands with complete scorn of death. Ambition, too, he would think shows greatness of mind: for the ambitious man is not content with office once a year, but, if possible, would fill the calendar of dignities with his name alone, and cover the whole world with his titles. It matters nothing to what heights or lengths these passions may proceed: they are narrow, pitiable, grovelling. Virtue alone is lofty and sublime, nor is anything great which is not at the same time tranquil.

XXI. So there is nothing great or noble in anger, even when anger seems powerful and scorns gods and humans alike. Anyone who thinks anger produces greatness of spirit would think luxury does too. Such a man wants to rest on ivory, wear purple, and live beneath a golden roof. He wants to move land, build barriers against the sea, speed up rivers, and suspend woods in the air. He would think greed shows greatness of spirit. For the greedy man broods over heaps of gold and silver and treats whole provinces as fields on his estate. He puts individual estate managers in charge of territories larger than those consuls once drew lots to govern. He would think lust shows greatness of spirit. For the lustful man swims across straits and castrates whole groups of boys. He puts himself within reach of wronged husbands’ swords, utterly scorning death. He would also think ambition shows greatness of spirit. For the ambitious man is not content to hold office once a year. If possible, he would fill the calendar of public offices with his name alone and cover the world with his titles. No matter how high or how far these passions reach, they remain petty, pitiful, and base. Virtue alone is lofty and sublime. Nothing is great unless it is also calm.