Anger, Book II

My first book, Novatus, had a more abundant subject: for carriages roll easily down hill:¹ now we must proceed to drier matters. The question before us is whether anger arises from deliberate choice or from impulse, that is, whether it acts of its own accord or like the greater part of those passions which spring up within us without our knowledge. It is necessary for our debate to stoop to the consideration of these matters, in order that it may afterwards be able to rise to loftier themes; for likewise in our bodies the parts which are first set in order are the bones, sinews, and joints, which are by no means fair to see, albeit they are the foundation of our frame and essential to its life: next to them come the parts of which all beauty of face and appearance consists; and after these, colour, which above all else charms the eye, is applied last of all, when the rest of the body is complete. There is no doubt that anger is roused by the appearance of an injury being done: but the question before us is, whether anger straightway follows the appearance, and springs up without assistance from the mind, or whether it is roused with the sympathy of the mind. Our (the Stoics’) opinion is, that anger can venture upon nothing by itself, without the approval of mind: for to conceive the idea of a wrong having been done, to long to avenge it, and to join the two propositions, that we ought not to have been injured and that it is our duty to avenge our injuries, cannot belong to a mere impulse which is excited without our consent. That impulse is a simple act; this is a complex one, and composed of several parts. The man understands something to have happened: he becomes indignant thereat: he condemns the deed; and he avenges it. All these things cannot be done without his mind agreeing to those matters which touched him.

My first book, Novatus, had a richer subject, for carriages roll easily downhill.¹ Now we must turn to drier matters. The question is whether anger comes from deliberate choice or impulse. Does anger act of its own accord, or like most passions, which arise within us without our knowledge? Our discussion must come down to these questions so that it can later rise to higher themes. In the same way, the first parts formed in our bodies are the bones, sinews, and joints. These are far from beautiful, although they support our whole frame and are essential to life. Next come the parts that give the face and body all their beauty. Finally, once the rest of the body is complete, color is added, which delights the eye above all else. There is no doubt that anger is stirred by the impression that someone has wronged us. But does anger immediately follow that impression and arise without the mind’s help? Or does anger arise with the mind’s agreement? We (the Stoics) believe that anger can undertake nothing on its own without the mind’s approval. We form the idea that someone has wronged us, and we want revenge. We also link two judgments: we should not have been wronged, and we have a duty to avenge our injuries. These thoughts cannot come from a mere impulse stirred without our consent. Such an impulse is a simple act. Anger is complex and consists of several parts. A person understands that something has happened, becomes indignant about it, condemns the deed, and takes revenge. None of these steps can happen unless his mind agrees with the impressions that have affected him.

II. Whither, say you, does this inquiry tend? That we may know what anger is: for if it springs up against our will, it never will yield to reason: because all the motions which take place without our volition are beyond our control and unavoidable, such as shivering when cold water is poured over us, or shrinking when we are touched in certain places. Men’s hair rises up at bad news, their faces blush at indecent words, and they are seized with dizziness when looking down a precipice; and as it is not in our power to prevent any of these things, no reasoning can prevent their taking place. But anger can be put to flight by wise maxims; for it is a voluntary defect of the mind, and not one of those things which are evolved by the conditions of human life, and which, therefore, may happen even to the wisest of us. Among these and in the first place must be ranked that thrill of the mind which seizes us at the thought of wrongdoing. We feel this even when witnessing the mimic scenes of the stage, or when reading about things that happened long ago. We often feel angry with Clodius for banishing Cicero, and with Antonius for murdering him. Who is not indignant with the wars of Marius, the proscriptions of Sulla? who is not enraged against Theodotus and Achillas and the boy king who dared to commit a more than boyish crime?² Sometimes songs excite us, and quickened rhythm and the martial noise of trumpets; so, too, shocking pictures and the dreadful sight of tortures, however well deserved, affect our minds. Hence it is that we smile when others are smiling, that a crowd of mourners makes us sad, and that we take a glowing interest in another’s battles; all of which feelings are not anger, any more than that which clouds our brow at the sight of a stage shipwreck is sadness, or what we feel, when we read how Hannibal after Cannae beset the walls of Rome, can be called fear. All these are emotions of minds which are loth to be moved, and are not passions, but rudiments which may grow into passions. So, too, a soldier starts at the sound of a trumpet, although he may be dressed as a civilian and in the midst of a profound peace, and camp horses prick up their ears at the clash of arms. It is said that Alexander, when Xenophantus was singing, laid his hand upon his weapons.

II. Where is this inquiry leading, you ask? Toward understanding what anger is. For if anger arises against our will, anger will never yield to reason. All movements that happen without our willing them are beyond our control and unavoidable. We shiver when cold water is poured over us, or flinch when touched in certain places. People’s hair stands on end at bad news, their faces blush at indecent words, and they grow dizzy looking down a cliff. Since we cannot prevent any of these reactions, no reasoning can stop them from happening. But wise principles can drive anger away. For anger is a voluntary fault of the mind, not a reaction produced by the conditions of human life. Such reactions may therefore happen even to the wisest among us. First among these reactions is the jolt we feel at the thought of wrongdoing. We feel this jolt even when watching fictional scenes onstage or reading about events from long ago. We often feel angry with Clodius for banishing Cicero, and with Antonius for murdering him. Who does not feel outrage at the wars of Marius and the proscriptions of Sulla? Who is not enraged at Theodotus, Achillas, and the boy king who dared commit a crime beyond his years?² Sometimes songs stir us, as do a quickening rhythm and the warlike blare of trumpets. Shocking pictures also affect our minds, as does the dreadful sight of torture, however well deserved. This is why we smile when others smile, and why a crowd of mourners makes us sad. It also explains why we take a passionate interest in another person’s battles. None of these feelings is anger. Likewise, the feeling that clouds our brow at a shipwreck onstage is not sadness. Nor can we call it fear when we read how Hannibal threatened Rome’s walls after Cannae. All these are stirrings in minds reluctant to be moved. These stirrings are not passions, but beginnings that may develop into passions. So, too, a soldier starts at a trumpet’s sound, although dressed as a civilian in a time of complete peace. And army horses prick up their ears at the clash of weapons. It is said that Alexander put his hand on his weapons when Xenophantus was singing.

III. None of these things which casually influence the mind deserve to be called passions: the mind, if I may so express it, rather suffers passions to act upon itself than forms them. A passion, therefore, consists not in being affected by the sights which are presented to us, but in giving way to our feelings and following up these chance promptings: for whoever imagines that paleness, bursting into tears, lustful feelings, deep sighs, sudden flashes of the eyes, and so forth, are signs of passion and betray the state of the mind, is mistaken, and does not understand that these are merely impulses of the body. Consequently, the bravest of men often turns pale while he is putting on his armour; when the signal for battle is given, the knees of the boldest soldier shake for a moment; the heart even of a great general leaps into his mouth just before the lines clash together, and the hands and feet even of the most eloquent orator grow stiff and cold while he is preparing to begin his speech. Anger must not merely move, but break out of bounds, being an impulse: now, no impulse can take place without the consent of the mind: for it cannot be that we should deal with revenge and punishment without the mind being cognisant of them. A man may think himself injured, may wish to avenge his wrongs, and then may be persuaded by some reason or other to give up his intention and calm down: I do not call that anger, it is an emotion of the mind which is under the control of reason. Anger is that which goes beyond reason and carries her away with it: wherefore the first confusion of a man’s mind when struck by what seems an injury is no more anger than the apparent injury itself: it is the subsequent mad rush, which not only receives the impression of the apparent injury, but acts upon it as true, that is anger, being an exciting of the mind to revenge, which proceeds from choice and deliberate resolve. There never has been any doubt that fear produces flight, and anger a rush forward; consider, therefore, whether you suppose that anything can be either sought or avoided without the participation of the mind.

III. None of these things that happen to affect the mind deserve to be called passions. The mind, if I may put it this way, lets passions act upon it rather than creates them. A passion, then, does not consist in being affected by what we see. It consists in giving way to our feelings and following these chance impulses. Some people think that turning pale, bursting into tears, sexual feelings, deep sighs, sudden flashes of the eyes, and similar reactions reveal passion. They believe these reactions expose the state of the mind. But they are mistaken and fail to understand that these are merely bodily impulses. So even the bravest man often turns pale while putting on his armor. When the battle signal sounds, even the boldest soldier’s knees shake for a moment. Even a great general’s heart leaps into his mouth just before the battle lines clash. Even the most eloquent speaker’s hands and feet grow stiff and cold as he prepares to begin his speech. Anger must do more than stir us. It must break beyond our control, because anger is an impulse to act. Now, no such impulse can arise without the mind’s consent. For we cannot set about revenge and punishment without the mind being aware of them. A man may think he has been wronged and wish to take revenge. Then some reason or other may persuade him to abandon his intention and calm down. I do not call that anger. It is a movement of the mind that remains under reason’s control. Anger goes beyond reason and sweeps reason along with it. So the mind’s first confusion at what seems an injury is no more anger than the apparent injury itself. Anger is the mad rush that follows. The mind not only receives the impression of an apparent injury but accepts that impression as true and acts on it. Anger is the mind’s drive toward revenge, arising from choice and deliberate resolve. No one has ever doubted that fear makes us flee and anger makes us rush forward. Consider, then, whether you think anything can be pursued or avoided without the mind taking part.

IV. Furthermore, that you may know in what manner passions begin and swell and gain spirit, learn that the first emotion is involuntary, and is, as it were, a preparation for a passion, and a threatening of one. The next is combined with a wish, though not an obstinate one, as, for example, “It is my duty to avenge myself, because I have been injured,” or “It is right that this man should be punished, because he has committed a crime.” The third emotion is already beyond our control, because it overrides reason, and wishes to avenge itself, not if it be its duty, but whether or no. We are not able by means of reason to escape from that first impression on the mind, any more than we can escape from those things which we have mentioned as occurring to the body: we cannot prevent other people’s yawns temping us to yawn:³ we cannot help winking when fingers are suddenly darted at our eyes. Reason is unable to overcome these habits, which perhaps might be weakened by practice and constant watchfulness: they differ from an emotion which is brought into existence and brought to an end by a deliberate mental act.

IV. Furthermore, to understand how passions begin, grow, and gather force, consider their stages. The first emotional response is involuntary. It is, so to speak, a preparation for a passion and a warning that one is coming. The next response includes a wish, though not a stubborn one. For example, “I have a duty to take revenge, because I have been injured,” or “This man deserves punishment, because he has committed a crime.” The third response is already beyond our control because it overrides reason. At this stage, we want revenge whether or not revenge is our duty. Reason cannot prevent that first impression on the mind, any more than it can prevent the bodily reactions mentioned earlier. We cannot stop other people’s yawns from making us want to yawn:³ we cannot help blinking when fingers suddenly dart toward our eyes. Reason cannot overcome these habits, though practice and constant watchfulness might perhaps weaken them. These habits differ from an emotion that a deliberate act of thought brings into being and brings to an end.

V. We must also enquire whether those whose cruelty knows no bounds, and who delight in shedding human blood, are angry when they kill people from whom they have received no injury, and who they themselves do not think have done them any injury; such as were Apollodorus or Phalaris. This is not anger, it is ferocity: for it does not do hurt because it has received injury: but is even willing to receive injury, provided it may do hurt. It does not long to inflict stripes and mangle bodies to avenge its wrongs, but for its own pleasure. What then are we to say? This evil takes its rise from anger; for anger, after it has by long use and indulgence made a man forget mercy, and driven all feelings of human fellowship from his mind, passes finally into cruelty. Such men therefore laugh, rejoice, enjoy themselves greatly, and are as unlike as possible in countenance to angry men, since cruelty is their relaxation. It is said that when Hannibal saw a trench full of human blood, he exclaimed, “O, what a beauteous sight!” How much more beautiful would he have thought it, if it had filled a river or a lake? Why should we wonder that you should be charmed with this sight above all others, you who were born in bloodshed and brought up amid slaughter from a child? Fortune will follow you and favour your cruelty for twenty years, and will display to you everywhere the sight that you love. You will behold it both at Trasumene and at Cannae, and lastly at your own city of Carthage. Volesus, who not long ago, under the Emperor Augustus, was proconsul of Asia Minor, after he had one day beheaded three hundred persons, strutted out among the corpses with a haughty air, as though he had performed some grand and notable exploit, and exclaimed in Greek, “What a kingly action!” What would this man have done, had he been really a king? This was not anger, but a greater and an incurable disease.

V. We must also ask whether people whose cruelty has no limits are angry when they kill. Such people delight in shedding human blood, like Apollodorus or Phalaris. They kill people who have not harmed them, and whom they themselves do not believe have harmed them. This is not anger but ferocity. Ferocity does not hurt others because it has suffered harm. It is even willing to suffer harm, provided it can hurt others. It longs to whip people and mutilate their bodies, not for revenge, but for pleasure. What, then, should we say? This evil begins with anger. Through long practice and indulgence, anger makes a person forget mercy and drives out all feelings of human fellowship. Anger finally turns into cruelty. Such men therefore laugh, rejoice, and thoroughly enjoy themselves. Their faces look as different as possible from those of angry men, since cruelty is their way of relaxing. It is said that Hannibal once saw a trench full of human blood and exclaimed, “Oh, what a beautiful sight!” How much more beautiful would he have thought the blood if it had filled a river or a lake? Why should we be surprised that this sight delights you more than any other? You were born in bloodshed and raised amid slaughter from childhood. Fortune will follow you and favor your cruelty for twenty years. Everywhere, Fortune will show you the sight you love. You will see bloodshed both at Trasumene and at Cannae, and finally at your own city of Carthage. Not long ago, under the Emperor Augustus, Volesus was proconsul of Asia Minor. One day, after having three hundred people beheaded, he strutted proudly among the corpses. He acted as though he had accomplished something great and remarkable, and exclaimed in Greek, “What a kingly act!” What would this man have done if he had really been a king? This was not anger, but a greater and incurable disease.

VI. “Virtue,” argues our adversary, “ought to be angry with what is base, just as she approves of what is honourable.” What should we think if he said that virtue ought to be both mean and great; yet this is what he means, when he wants her to be raised and lowered, because joy at a good action is grand and glorious, while anger at another’s sin is base and befits a narrow mind: and virtue will never be guilty of imitating vice while she is repressing it; she considers anger to deserve punishment for itself, since it often is even more criminal than the faults which which it is angry. To rejoice and be glad is the proper and natural function of virtue: it is as much beneath her dignity to be angry, as to mourn: now, sorrow is the companion of anger, and all anger ends in sorrow, either from remorse or from failure. Secondly, if it be the part of the wise man to be angry with sins, he will be more angry the greater they are, and will often be angry: from which it follows that the wise man will not only be angry but irascible. Yet if we do not believe that great and frequent anger can find any place in the wise man’s mind, why should we not set him altogether free from this passion? for there can be no limit, if he ought to be angry in proportion to what every man does: because he will either be unjust if he is equally angry at unequal crimes, or he will be the most irascible of men, if he blazes into wrath as often as crimes deserve his anger.

VI. “Virtue,” our opponent argues, “ought to be angry at what is shameful, just as she approves of what is honorable.” What would we think if he said virtue ought to be both petty and great? Yet that is what he means when he wants her to rise and fall. For joy at a good action is noble and glorious. But anger at another person’s wrongdoing is petty and suits a narrow mind. Virtue will never imitate vice while trying to suppress it. She considers anger itself worthy of punishment, since anger is often even more blameworthy than the faults that provoke it. Joy and gladness are the proper and natural work of virtue. Anger is as far beneath her dignity as grief. Now, sorrow accompanies anger, and all anger ends in sorrow, either through remorse or through failure. Second, if a wise man ought to be angry at wrongdoing, greater wrongdoing will make him angrier. He will also be angry often. So the wise man will not merely feel anger but will be prone to it. Yet we do not believe that intense and frequent anger can have any place in a wise man’s mind. If so, why should we not free him entirely from this passion? For anger can have no limit if his anger must match each person’s actions. He will either be unjust by feeling equal anger at unequal crimes, or he will be the most anger-prone man alive. That will happen if he flares up as often as crimes deserve his anger.

VII. What, too, can be more unworthy of the wise man, than that his passions should depend upon the wickedness of others? If so, the great Socrates will no longer be able to return home with the same expression of countenance with which he set out. Moreover, if it be the duty of the wise man to be angry at base deeds, and to be excited and saddened at crimes, then is there nothing more unhappy than the wise man, for all his life will be spent in anger and grief. What moment will there be at which he will not see something deserving of blame? whenever he leaves his house, he will be obliged to walk among men who are criminals, misers, spendthrifts, profligates, and who are happy in being so: he can turn his eyes in no direction without their finding something to shock them. He will faint, if he demands anger from himself as often as reason calls for it. All these thousands who are hurrying to the law courts at break of day, how base are their causes, and how much baser their advocates? One impugns his father’s will, when he would have done better to deserve it; another appears as the accuser of his mother; a third comes to inform against a man for committing the very crime of which he himself is yet more notoriously guilty. The judge, too, is chosen to condemn men for doing what he himself has done, and the audience takes the wrong side, led astray by the fine voice of the pleader.

VII. What could be more unworthy of a wise man than letting his emotions depend on other people’s wickedness? If they do, the great Socrates can no longer return home with the same expression he had when he left. Moreover, suppose a wise man has a duty to be angry at shameful deeds, and upset and saddened by crimes. If so, no one is more unhappy than the wise man, for his whole life will pass in anger and grief. When will he ever see nothing deserving blame? Whenever he leaves home, he must walk among criminals, misers, spendthrifts, and people who live immorally. And these people are happy to be as they are. Wherever he looks, he will find something shocking. He will collapse if he demands anger of himself whenever reason calls for anger. Consider all these thousands hurrying to the law courts at daybreak. How shameful their cases are, and how much more shameful their advocates! One challenges his father’s will, when he would have done better to deserve his inheritance. Another comes to accuse his mother. A third comes to report someone for a crime he himself is even more notorious for committing. The judge, too, is chosen to condemn men for acts he himself has committed. And the audience takes the wrong side, misled by the advocate’s fine voice.

VIII. Why need I dwell upon individual cases? Be assured, when you see the Forum crowded with a multitude, the Saepta⁴ swarming with people, or the great Circus, in which the greater part of the people find room to show themselves at once, that among them there are as many vices as there are men. Among those whom you see in the garb of peace there is no peace: for a small profit any one of them will attempt the ruin of another: no one can gain anything save by another’s loss. They hate the fortunate and despise the unfortunate: they grudgingly endure the great, and oppress the small: they are fired by divers lusts: they would wreck everything for the sake of a little pleasure or plunder: they live as though they were in a school of gladiators, fighting with the same people with whom they live: it is like a society of wild beasts, save that beasts are tame with one another, and refrain from biting their own species, whereas men tear one another, and gorge themselves upon one another. They differ from dumb animals in this alone, that the latter are tame with those who feed them, whereas the rage of the former preys on those very persons by whom they were brought up.

VIII. Why should I dwell on individual cases? When you see the Forum crowded or the Saepta⁴ swarming with people, be sure of one thing. There are as many vices among them as there are people. The same is true of the great Circus, where most of the people can gather to display themselves at once. There is no peace among those you see dressed for peace. For a small profit, any one of them will try to ruin another. No one can gain anything except at another’s expense. They hate the fortunate and despise the unfortunate. They resentfully tolerate the powerful and oppress the weak. They burn with all kinds of desires. They would wreck everything for a little pleasure or plunder. They live as though they were in a gladiator school, fighting the very people they live with. Their society is like a pack of wild beasts, except that beasts are peaceful toward one another. Beasts do not bite their own kind, but people tear one another apart and gorge themselves on one another. People differ from animals without speech in only one way. Those animals are gentle with the people who feed them. But people turn their rage against the very people who raised them.

IX. The wise man will never cease to be angry, if he once begins, so full is every place of vices and crimes. More evil is done than can be healed by punishment: men seem engaged in a vast race of wickedness. Every day there is greater eagerness to sin, less modesty. Throwing aside all reverence for what is better and more just, lust rushes whithersoever it thinks fit, and crimes are no longer committed by stealth, they take place before our eyes, and wickedness has become so general and gained such a footing in everyone’s breast that innocence is no longer rare, but no longer exists. Do men break the law singly, or a few at a time? Nay, they rise in all quarters at once, as though obeying some universal signal, to wipe out the boundaries of right and wrong.

IX. If the wise man ever starts getting angry, he will never stop. Every place is so full of vice and crime. More evil is done than punishment can cure. People seem to be competing in a vast race of wickedness. Every day, people grow more eager to sin and less restrained by shame. Desire casts aside all respect for what is better and more just, and rushes wherever it pleases. Crimes are no longer committed in secret, but right before our eyes. Wickedness has become so widespread and so firmly rooted in everyone’s heart that innocence is no longer merely rare. Innocence no longer exists. Do people break the law one at a time, or just a few at once? No, people rise up everywhere at once, as though answering some universal signal to erase the boundaries between right and wrong.

And how small a part of men’s crimes are these! The poet⁵ has not described one people divided into two hostile camps, parents and children enrolled on opposite sides, Rome set on fire by the hand of a Roman, troops of fierce horsemen scouring the country to track out the hiding-places of the proscribed, wells defiled with poison, plagues created by human hands, trenches dug by children round their beleaguered parents, crowded prisons, conflagrations that consume whole cities, gloomy tyrannies, secret plots to establish despotisms and ruin peoples, and men glorying in those deeds which, as long as it was possible to repress them, were counted as crimes—I mean rape, debauchery, and lust . . . . . Add to these, public acts of national bad faith, broken treaties, everything that cannot defend itself carried off as plunder by the stronger, knaveries, thefts, frauds, and disownings of debt such as three of our present law-courts would not suffice to deal with. If you want the wise man to be as angry as the atrocity of men’s crimes requires, he must not merely be angry, but must go mad with rage.

And how small a share of human crimes these are! The poet⁵ has not described a single people split into two hostile camps, with parents and children fighting on opposite sides. He has not described Rome set on fire by a Roman. Nor has he described fierce cavalry sweeping the countryside, hunting down the hiding places of those condemned as outlaws. His account leaves out poisoned wells, plagues caused by human hands, and children digging trenches around their besieged parents. He leaves out crowded prisons, fires consuming whole cities, and grim tyrannies. He leaves out secret plots to impose absolute rule and ruin peoples. Nor does he describe men boasting of deeds considered crimes as long as those deeds could still be suppressed. I mean rape, sexual excess, and lust . . . . . Add to these crimes nations openly betraying trust and breaking treaties. Add the strong plundering everything unable to defend itself. Add dishonest schemes, theft, fraud, and denials of debt too numerous for three of our present law courts to handle. If you want the wise man to feel anger equal to the horror of human crimes, anger alone will not do. He must go mad with rage.

X. You will rather think that we should not be angry with people’s faults; for what shall we say of one who is angry with those who stumble in the dark, or with deaf people who cannot hear his orders, or with children, because they forget their duty and interest themselves in the games and silly jokes of their companions? What shall we say if you choose to be angry with weaklings for being sick, for growing old, or becoming fatigued? Among the other misfortunes of humanity is this, that men’s intellects are confused, and they not only cannot help going wrong, but love to go wrong. To avoid being angry with individuals, you must pardon the whole mass, you must grant forgiveness to the entire human race. If you are angry with young and old men because they do wrong, you will be angry with infants also, for they soon will do wrong. Does any one become angry with children, who are too young to comprehend distinctions? Yet, to be a human being is a greater and a better excuse than to be a child. Thus are we born, as creatures liable to as many disorders of the mind as of the body; not dull and slow-witted, but making a bad use of our keenness of wit, and leading one another into vice by our example. He who follows others who have started before him on the wrong road is surely excusable for having wandered on⁶ the highway. A general’s severity may be shown in the case of individual deserters; but where a whole army deserts, it must needs be pardoned. What is it that puts a stop to the wise man’s anger? It is the number of sinners. He perceives how unjust and how dangerous it is to be angry with vices which all men share. Heraclitcus, whenever he came out of doors and beheld around him such a number of men who were living wretchedly, nay, rather perishing wretchedly, used to weep: he pitied all those who met him joyous and happy. He was of a gentle but too weak disposition: and he himself was one of those for whom he ought to have wept. Democritus, on the other hand, is said never to have appeared in public without laughing; so little did men’s serious occupations appear serious to him. What room is there for anger? Everything ought either to move us to tears or to laughter. The wise man will not be angry with sinners. Why not? Because he knows that no one is born wise, but becomes so: he knows that very few wise men are produced in any age, because he thoroughly understands the circumstances of human life. Now, no sane man is angry with nature: for what should we say if a man chose to be surprised that fruit did not hang on the thickets of a forest, or to wonder at bushes and thorns not being covered with some useful berry? No one is angry when nature excuses a defect. The wise man, therefore, being tranquil, and dealing candidly with mistakes, not an enemy to but an improver of sinners, will go abroad every day in the following frame of mind:—”Many men will meet me who are drunkards, lustful, ungrateful, greedy, and excited by the frenzy of ambition.” He will view all these as benignly as a physician does his patients. When a man’s ship leaks freely through its opened seams, does he become angry with the sailors or the ship itself? No; instead of that, he tries to remedy it: he shuts out some water, bales out some other, closes all the holes that he can see, and by ceaseless labour counteracts those which are out of sight and which let water into the hold; nor does he relax his efforts because as much water as he pumps out runs in again. We need a long-breathed struggle against permanent and prolific evils; not, indeed, to quell them, but merely to prevent their overpowering us.

X. You will instead think that we should not be angry at people’s faults. What would we say about someone who gets angry with people who stumble in the dark? Or with deaf people who cannot hear his orders? Or with children who forget their duties and focus on their companions’ games and silly jokes? What would we say if you chose to be angry with frail people for being sick, growing old, or tiring? Among humanity’s other misfortunes is the confusion of our minds. We not only cannot help going wrong, but love to go wrong. To avoid being angry with individuals, you must pardon everyone. You must forgive the entire human race. If you are angry with young and old men because they do wrong, you will be angry with infants too. For infants will soon do wrong. Does anyone get angry with children too young to understand right and wrong? Yet being human is a stronger and better excuse than being a child. We are born vulnerable to as many disorders of the mind as of the body. We are not dull or slow-witted, but we misuse our sharp minds and lead one another into vice by example. Someone who follows others down the wrong road surely deserves forgiveness for straying along⁶ the highway. A general may deal harshly with individual deserters. But when a whole army deserts, the army must be pardoned. What stops the wise man’s anger? The number of wrongdoers. He sees how unjust and dangerous it is to be angry at faults everyone shares. Whenever Heraclitcus went outdoors, he saw crowds living miserably, or rather, dying miserably, and would weep. He pitied everyone he met, even those who were cheerful and happy. His nature was gentle but too weak. He himself was among those he should have wept for. Democritus, by contrast, is said never to have appeared in public without laughing. So little did people’s serious business seem serious to him. What room is there for anger? Everything should move us either to tears or to laughter. The wise man will not be angry with wrongdoers. Why not? Because he knows that no one is born wise, but becomes wise. He knows that very few wise men emerge in any age, because he thoroughly understands the conditions of human life. Now, no sane person is angry with nature. What would we say if someone chose to be surprised that fruit did not hang from forest thickets? Or if he wondered why bushes and thorns were not covered with some useful berry? No one is angry when nature provides an excuse for a defect. The wise man is therefore calm and deals fairly with mistakes. He is not an enemy of wrongdoers, but someone who helps them improve. Each day he will go out with this thought: “Many men I meet will be drunkards, lustful, ungrateful, greedy, and driven mad by ambition.” He will regard all these people as kindly as a doctor regards his patients. When someone’s ship takes in water through gaps in its seams, does he get angry with the sailors or the ship? No, he tries to repair the damage instead. He keeps some water out, bails some out, and seals every hole he can see. Through constant work, he counters the hidden leaks that let water into the hold. Nor does he ease his efforts because water flows in as fast as he pumps it out. We need a sustained struggle against evils that persist and multiply. Our aim is not to defeat these evils, but merely to keep them from overpowering us.

XI. “Anger,” says our opponent, “is useful, because it avoids contempt, and because it frightens bad men.” Now, in the first place, if anger is strong in proportion to its threats, it is hateful for the same reason that it is terrible: and it is more dangerous to be hated than to be despised. If, again, it is without strength, it is much more exposed to contempt, and cannot avoid ridicule; for what is more flat than anger when it breaks out into meaningless ravings? Moreover, because some things are somewhat terrible, they are not on that account desirable: nor does wisdom wish it to be said of the wise man, as it is of a wild beast, that the fear which he inspires is as a weapon to him. Why, do we not fear fever, gout, consuming ulcers? and is there, for that reason, any good in them? nay; on the other hand, they are all despised and thought to be foul and base, and are for this very reason feared. So, too, anger is in itself hideous and by no means to be feared; yet it is feared by many, just as a hideous mask is feared by children. How can we answer the fact that terror always works back to him who inspired it, and that no one is feared who is himself at peace? At this point it is well that you should remember that verse of Laberius, which, when pronounced in the theatre during the height of the civil war, caught the fancy of the whole people as though it expressed the national feeling:—

XI. “Anger,” our opponent says, “is useful because it prevents contempt and frightens bad men.” First, if anger has the strength to match its threats, the same strength makes it both hateful and terrifying. And being hated is more dangerous than being despised. If, on the other hand, anger lacks strength, it invites far more contempt and cannot escape ridicule. For what is more pathetic than anger that erupts into meaningless ranting? Besides, some things are somewhat frightening, but that does not make them desirable. Wisdom does not want a wise man described as a wild beast is described, with fear as his weapon. Why, do we not fear fever, gout, and spreading ulcers? Does that mean there is anything good in them? No. On the contrary, all these conditions are despised and considered disgusting and degrading. And those very qualities make them frightening. So too, anger is hideous in itself and by no means deserves to be feared. Yet many people fear anger, just as children fear a hideous mask. How can we answer this fact: terror always comes back to the person who inspires it? No one who is feared is himself at peace. At this point, you should remember that line by Laberius, spoken in the theatre at the height of the civil war. The line struck a chord with the whole people, as though it expressed the nation's feelings:

Thus has nature ordained, that whatever becomes great by causing fear to others is not free from fear itself. How disturbed lions are at the faintest noises! How excited those fiercest of beasts become at strange shadows, voices, or smells! Whatever is a terror to others, fears for itself. There can be no reason, therefore, for any wise man to wish to be feared, and no one need think that anger is anything great because it strikes terror, since even the most despicable things are feared, as, for example, noxious vermin whose bite is venomous: and since a string set with feathers stops the largest herds of wild beasts and guides them into traps, it is no wonder that from its effect it should be named a “Scarer.”⁷ Foolish creatures are frightened by foolish things: the movement of chariots and the sight of their wheels turning round drives lions back into their cage: elephants are frightened at the cries of pigs: and so also we fear anger just as children fear the dark, or wild beasts fear red feathers: it has in itself nothing solid or valiant, but it affects feeble minds.

Nature has made it so: whatever becomes powerful by frightening others is not free from fear itself. How startled lions are by the faintest noises! How agitated those fiercest of beasts become at unfamiliar shadows, voices, or smells! Whatever terrifies others fears for itself. So no wise person has any reason to want to be feared. Nor should anyone think anger is great because it inspires terror. Even the most contemptible things are feared, such as harmful vermin with venomous bites. A string hung with feathers stops even the largest herds of wild beasts and directs them into traps. So it is no wonder that this string is called a “Scarer” because of its effect.⁷ Foolish creatures are frightened by foolish things. Moving chariots and the sight of their spinning wheels drive lions back into their cages. Elephants are frightened by the cries of pigs. In the same way, we fear anger just as children fear the dark or wild beasts fear red feathers. Anger has no real strength or courage in itself, but it affects weak minds.

XII. “Wickedness,” says our adversary, “must be removed from the system of nature, if you wish to remove anger: neither of which things can be done.” In the first place, it is possible for a man not to be cold, although according to the system of nature it may be winter-time, nor yet to suffer from heat, although it be summer according to the almanac. He may be protected against the inclement time of the year by dwelling in a favoured spot, or he may have so trained his body to endurance that it feels neither heat nor cold. Next, reverse this saying:—You must remove anger from your mind before you can take virtue into the same, because vices and virtues cannot combine, and none can at the same time be both an angry man and a good man, any more than he can be both sick and well. “It is not possible,” says he, “to remove anger altogether from the mind, nor does human nature admit of it.” Yet there is nothing so hard and difficult that the mind of man cannot overcome it, and with which unremitting study will not render him familiar, nor are there any passions so fierce and independent that they cannot be tamed by discipline. The mind can carry out whatever orders it gives itself: some have succeeded in never smiling: some have forbidden themselves wine, sexual intercourse, or even drink of all kinds. Some, who are satisfied with short hours of rest, have learned to watch for long periods without weariness. Men have learned to run upon the thinnest ropes even when slanting, to carry huge burdens, scarcely within the compass of human strength, or to dive to enormous depths and suffer themselves to remain under the sea without any chance of drawing breath. There are a thousand other instances in which application has conquered all obstacles, and proved that nothing which the mind has set itself to endure is difficult. The men whom I have just mentioned gain either no reward or one that is unworthy of their unwearied application; for what great thing does a man gain by applying his intellect to walking upon a tight rope? or to placing great burdens upon his shoulders? or to keeping sleep from his eyes? or to reaching the bottom of the sea? and yet their patient labour brings all these things to pass for a trifling reward. Shall not we then call in the aid of patience, we whom such a prize awaits, the unbroken calm of a happy life? How great a blessing is it to escape from anger, that chief of all evils, and therewith from frenzy, ferocity, cruelty, and madness, its attendants?

XII. “Wickedness,” our opponent says, “must be removed from nature if you want to remove anger. Neither can be done.” First, a person can avoid feeling cold even though it is winter in the natural world. Likewise, he can avoid suffering from heat even though the calendar says it is summer. He may shelter from harsh weather by living in a place with a mild climate. Or he may have trained his body to endure weather so well that he feels neither heat nor cold. Next, turn the argument around: you must remove anger from your mind before you can bring virtue into it. For vices and virtues cannot coexist. No one can be both angry and good, any more than he can be both sick and well. “It is impossible,” our opponent says, “to remove anger completely from the mind. Human nature does not allow it.” Yet nothing is so hard or difficult that the human mind cannot overcome it. Nothing is so unfamiliar that constant practice cannot make it familiar. No passions are so fierce and unruly that discipline cannot tame them. The mind can carry out whatever commands it gives itself. Some people have succeeded in never smiling. Some have denied themselves wine, sex, or even drinks of any kind. Some are content with little rest and have learned to stay awake for long periods without tiring. People have learned to run along the thinnest ropes, even when the ropes slope. They have learned to carry enormous weights, barely within the limits of human strength. Others have learned to dive to great depths and remain underwater without any chance to breathe. There are a thousand other examples of persistent effort overcoming every obstacle. These examples prove that nothing the mind has resolved to endure is difficult. The people I have just mentioned gain either no reward or a reward unworthy of their tireless efforts. For what great benefit does anyone gain by using his mind to learn to walk a tightrope? Or to carry great weights on his shoulders? Or to keep himself awake? Or to reach the bottom of the sea? Yet patient effort achieves all these things for a tiny reward. Should we not also call on patience, when such a prize awaits us: the unbroken peace of a happy life? What a great blessing to escape anger, the greatest of all evils. And with anger, to escape its companions: frenzy, savagery, cruelty, and madness!

XIII. There is no reason why we should seek to defend such a passion as this or excuse its excesses by declaring it to be either useful or unavoidable. What vice, indeed, is without its defenders? yet this is no reason why you should declare anger to be ineradicable. The evils from which we suffer are curable, and since we were born with a natural bias towards good, nature herself will help us if we try to amend our lives. Nor is the path to virtue steep and rough, as some think it to be: it may be reached on level ground. This is no untrue tale which I come to tell you: the road to happiness is easy; do you only enter upon it with good luck and the good help of the gods themselves. It is much harder to do what you are doing. What is more restful than a mind at peace, and what more toilsome than anger? What is more at leisure than clemency, what fuller of business than cruelty? Modesty keeps holiday while vice is overwhelmed with work. In fine, the culture of any of the virtues is easy, while vices require a great expense. Anger ought to be removed from our minds: even those who say that it ought to be kept low admit this to some extent: let it be got rid of altogether; there is nothing to be gained by it. Without it we can more easily and more justly put an end to crime, punish bad men, and amend their lives. The wise man will do his duty in all things without the help of any evil passion, and will use no auxiliaries which require watching narrowly lest they get beyond his control.

XIII. We have no reason to defend anger or excuse its excesses by calling it useful or unavoidable. What vice has no defenders? Yet having defenders is no reason to claim that anger cannot be rooted out. The evils we suffer from can be cured. We were born with a natural leaning toward goodness, so nature herself will help us if we try to improve. Nor is the path to virtue steep and rough, as some think. We can reach virtue on level ground. I am not telling you a false story. The road to happiness is easy. Just set out on it with good fortune and help from the gods themselves. What you are doing now is much harder. What is more restful than a peaceful mind, and what takes more effort than anger? What has more leisure than mercy, and what is busier than cruelty? Modesty enjoys a holiday while vice is swamped with work. In short, developing any virtue is easy, while vices come at great expense. Anger should be removed from our minds. Even those who say anger should be restrained admit this to some extent. Let us get rid of anger altogether. We gain nothing from it. Without anger, we can more easily and more justly stop crime, punish bad people, and help them improve their lives. The wise man will do his duty in all things without help from any harmful passion. He will use no helpers that need close watching to keep them from escaping his control.

XIV. Anger, then, must never become a habit with us, but we may sometimes affect to be angry when we wish to rouse up the dull minds of those whom we address, just as we rouse up horses who are slow at starting with goads and firebrands. We must sometimes apply fear to persons upon whom reason makes no impression: yet to be angry is of no more use than to grieve or to be afraid. “What? do not circumstances arise which provoke us to anger?” Yes: but at those times above all others we ought to choke down our wrath. Nor is it difficult to conquer our spirit, seeing that athletes, who devote their whole attention to the basest parts of themselves, nevertheless are able to endure blows and pain, in order to exhaust the strength of the striker, and do not strike when anger bids them, but when opportunity invites them. It is said that Pyrrhus, the most celebrated trainer for gymnastic contests, used habitually to impress upon his pupils not to lose their tempers: for anger spoils their science, and thinks only how it can hurt: so that often reason counsels patience while anger counsels revenge, and we, who might have survived our first misfortunes, are exposed to worse ones. Some have been driven into exile by their impatience of a single contemptuous word, have been plunged into the deepest miseries because they would not endure the most trifling wrong in silence, and have brought upon themselves the yoke of slavery because they were too proud to give up the least part of their entire liberty.

XIV. Anger, then, must never become a habit with us. But we may sometimes pretend to be angry to stir the dull minds of those we address. We do the same with horses slow to start, using goads and burning torches. We must sometimes use fear on people who will not listen to reason. Yet being angry is no more useful than grieving or being afraid. “What? Don’t situations arise that provoke us to anger?” Yes, but those are the very times when we must suppress our anger most firmly. Nor is it difficult to control our temper. Even athletes, who devote all their attention to the lowest parts of themselves, can endure blows and pain. They do so to wear out the person striking them. They strike not when anger urges them, but when the opportunity comes. Pyrrhus, the most celebrated trainer for athletic contests, is said to have regularly urged his pupils not to lose their tempers. For anger ruins their skill and thinks only of how to hurt. So reason often advises patience while anger urges revenge. As a result, we face worse misfortunes, though we might have survived the first ones. Some have been driven into exile because they could not tolerate a single contemptuous word. They have been plunged into the deepest misery because they would not silently endure the slightest wrong. They have brought slavery upon themselves because they were too proud to surrender even the smallest part of their freedom.

XV. “That you may be sure,” says our opponent, “that anger has in it something noble, pray look at the free nations, such as the Germans and Scythians, who are especially prone to anger.” The reason of this is that stout and daring intellects are liable to anger before they are tamed by discipline; for some passions engraft themselves upon the better class of dispositions only, just as good land, even when waste, grows strong brushwood, and the trees are tall which stand upon a fertile soil. In like manner, dispositions which are naturally bold produce irritability, and, being hot and fiery, have no mean or trivial qualities, but their energy is misdirected, as happens with all those who without training come to the front by their natural advantages alone, whose minds, unless they be brought under control, degenerate from a courageous temper into habits of rashness and reckless daring. “What? are not milder spirits linked with gentler vices, such as tenderness of heart, love, and bashfulness?” Yes, and therefore I can often point out to you a good disposition by its own faults: yet their being the proofs of a superior nature does not prevent their being vices. Moreover, all those nations which are free because they are wild, like lions or wolves, cannot command any more than they can obey: for the strength of their intellect is not civilized, but fierce and unmanageable: now, no one is able to rule unless he is also able to be ruled. Consequently, the empire of the world has almost always remained in the hands of those nations who enjoy a milder climate. Those who dwell near the frozen north have uncivilized tempers—

XV. “To see that anger has something noble in it,” our opponent says, “look at free nations like the Germans and Scythians. They are especially prone to anger.” The reason is that strong, daring minds are prone to anger before discipline tames them. For some passions take root only in better natures. In the same way, good land grows thick brush even when uncultivated, and fertile soil produces tall trees. Likewise, naturally bold people develop quick tempers. Their hot, fiery natures have no petty or trivial qualities, but their energy goes in the wrong direction. This happens to all who rise through natural advantages alone, without training. Unless their minds are brought under control, their courage turns into rashness and reckless daring. “What? Aren’t milder natures associated with gentler faults, such as tenderheartedness, love, and shyness?” Yes, and that is why I can often show you a good nature through its very faults. Yet even though these faults reveal a superior nature, they are still faults. Moreover, all nations that are free because they are wild, like lions or wolves, can neither command nor obey. Their mental strength is not civilized, but fierce and unmanageable. Now, no one can rule unless he can also accept being ruled. Consequently, rule over the world has almost always remained with nations that live in a milder climate. Those who live near the frozen north have uncivilized tempers...

XVI. Those animals, urges our opponent, are held to be the most generous who have large capacity for anger. He is mistaken when he holds up creatures who act from impulse instead of reason as patterns for men to follow, because in man reason takes the place of impulse. Yet even with animals, all do not alike profit by the same thing. Anger is of use to lions, timidity to stags, boldness to hawks, flight to doves. What if I declare that it is not even true that the best animals are the most prone to anger? I may suppose that wild beasts, who gain their food by rapine, are better the angrier they are; but I should praise oxen and horses who obey the rein for their patience. What reason, however, have you for referring mankind to such wretched models, when you have the universe and God, whom he alone of animals imitates because he alone comprehends Him? “The most irritable men,” says he, “are thought to be the most straightforward of all.” Yes, because they are compared with swindlers and sharpers, and appear to be simple because they are outspoken. I should not call such men simple, but heedless. We give this title of “simple” to all fools, gluttons, spendthrifts, and men whose vices lie on the surface.

XVI. Our opponent argues that animals with the greatest capacity for anger are considered the noblest. He is wrong to hold up creatures guided by impulse rather than reason as examples for people to follow. In humans, reason takes the place of impulse. Yet even among animals, the same quality does not benefit all equally. Anger helps lions, fear helps stags, boldness helps hawks, and flight helps doves. What if I say that the best animals are not even the most prone to anger? I may grant that wild beasts who live by plunder are better the angrier they are. But I would praise oxen and horses that obey the reins for their patience. Why, though, point humanity toward such poor models when you have the universe and God? Humans alone among animals imitate God because humans alone understand him. “The most easily angered men,” he says, “are thought to be the most straightforward of all.” Yes, because people compare them with swindlers and cheats, and mistake their outspokenness for innocence. I would not call such men innocent, but careless. We call all fools, gluttons, spendthrifts, and men whose vices are out in the open “innocent.”

XVII. “An orator,” says our opponent, “sometimes speaks better, when he is angry.” Not so, but when he pretends to be angry: for so also actors bring down the house by their playing, not when they are really angry, but when they act the angry man well: and in like manner, in addressing a jury or a popular assembly, or in any other position in which the minds of others have to be influenced at our pleasure, we must ourselves pretend to feel anger, fear, or pity before we can make others feel them, and often the pretence of passion will do what the passion itself could not have done. “The mind which does not feel anger,” says he, “is feeble.” True, if it has nothing stronger than anger to support it. A man ought to be neither robber nor victim, neither tender-hearted nor cruel. The former belongs to an over-weak mind, the latter to an over-hard one. Let the wise man be moderate, and when things have to be done somewhat briskly, let him call force, not anger, to his aid.

XVII. “A public speaker,” our opponent says, “sometimes speaks better when he is angry.” No, he speaks better when he pretends to be angry. Actors, too, win applause not when they are truly angry, but when they play an angry man well. The same applies when we address a jury or a public assembly. It also applies whenever we need to influence other people’s feelings as we wish. We must pretend to feel anger, fear, or pity before we can make others feel those emotions. Often, pretending to feel an emotion achieves what the emotion itself could not. “A mind that feels no anger,” he says, “is weak.” True, if that mind has nothing stronger than anger to support it. A man should be neither a robber nor a victim, neither softhearted nor cruel. Softheartedness belongs to an excessively weak mind, cruelty to an excessively hard one. Let the wise man be moderate. When he needs to act with some vigor, let him call on force, not anger.

XVIII. Now that we have discussed the questions propounded concerning anger, let us pass on to the consideration of its remedies. These, I imagine, are two-fold: the one class preventing our becoming angry, the other preventing our doing wrong when we are angry. As with the body we adopt a certain regimen to keep ourselves in health, and use different rules to bring back health when lost, so likewise we must repel anger in one fashion and quench it in another. That we may avoid it, certain general rules of conduct which apply to all men’s lives must be impressed upon us. We may divide these into such as are of use during the education of the young and in after-life.

XVIII. Now that we have discussed the questions raised about anger, let us turn to its remedies. These, I think, fall into two groups. One prevents us from becoming angry. The other prevents us from doing wrong when we are angry. We follow one routine to keep our bodies healthy and different rules to restore our health when we lose it. In the same way, we must prevent anger by one method and calm it by another. To avoid anger, we must learn certain general rules of conduct that apply to everyone’s life. We can divide these rules into those useful when educating the young and those useful in later life.

Education ought to be carried on with the greatest and most salutary assiduity: for it is easy to mould minds while they are still tender, but it is difficult to uproot vices which have grown up with ourselves.

Education should receive the greatest care and the most beneficial, sustained attention. For young minds are easy to shape, but vices that have grown with us are hard to uproot.

XIX. A hot mind is naturally the most prone to anger: for as there are four elements,⁸ consisting of fire, air, earth, and water, so there are powers corresponding and equivalent to each of these, namely, hot, cold, dry, and moist. Now the mixture of the elements is the cause of the diversities of lands and of animals, of bodies and of character, and our dispositions incline to one or the other of these according as the strength of each element prevails in us. Hence it is that we call some regions wet or dry, warm or cold. The same distinctions apply likewise to animals and mankind; it makes a great difference how much moisture or heat a man contains; his character will partake of whichever element has the largest share in him. A warm temper of mind will make men prone to anger; for fire is full of movement and vigour; a mixture of coldness makes men cowards, for cold is sluggish and contracted. Because of this, some of our Stoics think that anger is excited in our breasts by the boiling of the blood round the heart: indeed, that place is assigned to anger for no other reason than because the breast is the warmest part of the whole body. Those who have more moisture in them become angry by slow degrees, because they have no heat ready at hand, but it has to be obtained by movement; wherefore the anger of women and children is sharp rather than strong, and arises on lighter provocation. At dry times of life anger is violent and powerful, yet without increase, and adding little to itself, because as heat dies away cold takes its place. Old men are testy and full of complaints, as also are sick people and convalescents, and all whose store of heat has been consumed by weariness or loss of blood. Those who are wasted by thirst or hunger are in the same condition, as also are those whose frame is naturally bloodless and faints from want of generous diet. Wine kindles anger, because it increases heat; according to each man’s disposition, some fly into a passion when they are heavily drunk, some when they are slightly drunk: nor is there any other reason than this why yellow-haired, ruddy-complexioned people should be excessively passionate, seeing that they are naturally of the colour which others put on during anger; for their blood is hot and easily set in motion.

XIX. A hot mind is naturally the most prone to anger. For just as there are four elements,⁸ fire, air, earth, and water, there are corresponding qualities of equal force: hot, cold, dry, and moist. The mixture of these elements accounts for differences among lands and animals, bodies and characters. Our dispositions lean one way or another according to the strength of each element within us. This is why we call some regions wet or dry, warm or cold. The same distinctions apply to animals and human beings. How much moisture or heat a person contains makes a great difference. A person's character reflects whichever element has the greatest share. A warm temperament makes people prone to anger, because fire is full of movement and energy. A mixture of coldness makes people cowardly, because cold is sluggish and draws inward. For this reason, some of our Stoics think that anger arises when the blood around the heart boils. Indeed, anger is located in the chest for no other reason than that the chest is the body's warmest part. People with more moisture grow angry slowly, because they have no heat readily available. Instead, heat must be generated through movement. Thus, the anger of women and children is sharp rather than strong, and smaller provocations bring it on. At dry stages of life, anger is violent and powerful. Yet it does not grow, and adds little to its strength, because cold replaces heat as the heat fades. Old men are irritable and full of complaints. So are sick people, those recovering from illness, and all whose heat has been used up by exhaustion or blood loss. People weakened by thirst or hunger are in the same condition. So are those whose bodies naturally lack blood and grow faint for want of nourishing food. Wine kindles anger because it increases heat. Depending on their individual dispositions, some people fly into a rage when very drunk, others when only slightly drunk. This is also the only reason why people with yellow hair and ruddy complexions are excessively prone to anger. Their natural coloring is the color others take on when angry, because their blood is hot and easily stirred.

XX. But just as nature makes some men prone to anger, so there are many other causes which have the same power as nature. Some are brought into this condition by disease or bodily injury, others by hard work, long watching, nights of anxiety, ardent longings, and love: and everything else which is hurtful to the body or the spirit inclines the distempered mind to find fault. All these, however, are but the beginning and causes of anger. Habit of mind has very great power, and, if it be harsh, increases the disorder. As for nature, it is difficult to alter it, nor may we change the mixture of the elements which was formed once for all at our birth: yet knowledge will be so far of service, that we should keep wine out of the reach of hot-tempered men, which Plato thinks ought also to be forbidden to boys, so that fire be not made fiercer. Neither should such men be over-fed: for if so, their bodies will swell, and their minds will swell with them. Such men ought to take exercise, stopping short, however, of fatigue, in order that their natural heat may be abated, but not exhausted, and their excess of fiery spirit may be worked off. Games also will be useful: for moderate pleasure relieves the mind and brings it to a proper balance. With those temperaments which incline to moisture, or dryness and stiffness, there is no danger of anger, but there is fear of greater vices, such as cowardice, moroseness, despair, and suspiciousness: such dispositions therefore ought to be softened, comforted, and restored to cheerfulness: and since we must make use of different remedies for anger and for sullenness, and these two vices require not only unlike, but absolutely opposite modes of treatment, let us always attack that one of them which is gaining the mastery.

XX. But just as nature makes some men prone to anger, many other causes have the same power. Some men become prone to anger through illness or bodily injury. Others do so through hard work, long hours awake, anxious nights, intense desires, and love. Everything else that harms the body or spirit makes a troubled mind inclined to find fault. All these, however, are only the beginnings and causes of anger. Mental habits have great power, and harsh habits make the disorder worse. As for our nature, changing it is difficult. Nor can we change the mixture of elements fixed at our birth. Yet understanding can help us this far: we should keep wine away from hot-tempered men. Plato thinks wine should also be forbidden to boys, so that fire is not made fiercer. Nor should hot-tempered men be overfed. If they are, their bodies will swell, and their minds will swell with them. Such men should exercise, but stop before they become tired. The aim is to reduce their natural heat without exhausting it, and to work off their excess fiery spirit. Games will also help, because moderate pleasure relieves the mind and restores its proper balance. People whose temperaments tend toward moisture, or toward dryness and stiffness, face no danger of anger. But they risk greater faults, such as cowardice, sullenness, despair, and suspicion. Such dispositions therefore need to be softened, comforted, and restored to cheerfulness. Anger and sullenness need different remedies. These two faults require treatments that are not merely different, but completely opposite. So let us always tackle whichever fault is gaining control.

XXI. It is, I assure you, of the greatest service to boys that they should be soundly brought up, yet to regulate their education is difficult, because it is our duty to be careful neither to cherish a habit of anger in them, nor to blunt the edge of their spirit. This needs careful watching, for both qualities, both those which are to be encouraged, and those which are to be checked, are fed by the same things; and even a careful watcher may be deceived by their likeness. A boy’s spirit is increased by freedom and depressed by slavery: it rises when praised, and is led to conceive great expectations of itself: yet this same treatment produces arrogance and quickness of temper: we must therefore guide him between these two extremes, using the curb at one time and the spur at another. He must undergo no servile or degrading treatment; he never must beg abjectly for anything, nor must he gain anything by begging; let him rather receive it for his own sake, for his past good behaviour, or for his promises of future good conduct. In contests with his comrades we ought not to allow him to become sulky or fly into a passion: let us see that he be on friendly terms with those whom he contends with, so that in the struggle itself he may learn to wish not to hurt his antagonist but to conquer him: whenever he has gained the day or done something praiseworthy, we should allow him to enjoy his victory, but not to rush into transports of delight: for joy leads to exultation, and exultation leads to swaggering and excessive self-esteem, We ought to allow him some relaxation, yet not yield him up to laziness and sloth, and we ought to keep him far beyond the reach of luxury, for nothing makes children more prone to anger than a soft and fond bringing-up, so that the more only children are indulged, and the more liberty is given to orphans, the more they are corrupted. He to whom nothing is ever denied, will not be able to endure a rebuff, whose anxious mother always wipes away his tears, whose paedagogus⁹ is made to pay for his shortcomings. Do you not observe how a man’s anger becomes more violent as he rises in station? This shows itself especially in those who are rich and noble, or in great place, when the favouring gale has roused all the most empty and trivial passions of their minds. Prosperity fosters anger, when a man’s proud ears are surrounded by a mob of flatterers, saying, “That man answer you! you do not act according to your dignity, you lower yourself.” And so forth, with all the language which can hardly be resisted even by healthy and originally well-principled minds. Flattery, then, must be kept well out of the way of children. Let a child hear the truth, and sometimes fear it: let him always reverence it. Let him rise in the presence of his elders. Let him obtain nothing by flying into a passion: let him be given when he is quiet what was refused him when he cried for it: let him behold, but not make use of his father’s wealth: let him be reproved for what he does wrong. It will be advantageous to furnish boys with even-tempered teachers and paedagogi: what is soft and unformed clings to what is near, and takes its shape: the habits of young men reproduce those of their nurses and paedagogi. Once, a boy who was brought up in Plato’s house went home to his parents, and, on seeing his father shouting with passion, said, “I never saw any one at Plato’s house act like that.” I doubt not that he learned to imitate his father sooner than he learned to imitate Plato. Above all, let his food be scanty, his dress not costly, and of the same fashion as that of his comrades: if you begin by putting him on a level with many others, he will not be angry when some one is compared with him.

XXI. I assure you, a sound upbringing is of the greatest benefit to boys. Yet guiding their education is difficult. We must take care neither to encourage anger nor to crush their spirit. This balance needs close attention, because the same things nourish both the qualities we should encourage and those we should restrain. Even a careful observer may mistake one quality for the other. Freedom strengthens a boy’s spirit, while slavery weakens it. Praise lifts his spirit and leads him to expect great things of himself. Yet the same treatment produces arrogance and a quick temper. So we must guide him between these two extremes, sometimes holding him back and sometimes urging him on. He must never be treated like a slave or humiliated. He must never beg pitifully for anything, nor gain anything by begging. Instead, let him receive things for his own sake, for past good behavior, or for promises of future good conduct. In contests with his companions, we should not allow him to sulk or lose his temper. Let us make sure he remains friendly with his opponents. Then, during the contest itself, he may learn to want victory rather than to hurt his opponent. Whenever he wins or does something praiseworthy, we should let him enjoy his success. But we should not let him become wildly excited. For joy leads to triumph, and triumph leads to boasting and an inflated opinion of himself. We should allow him some relaxation, but not let him sink into laziness and idleness. We should also keep him well away from luxury. Nothing makes children more prone to anger than a soft, indulgent upbringing. So the more only children are indulged, and the more freedom orphans receive, the more they are spoiled. A boy who is never denied anything will not be able to bear a refusal. His anxious mother always wipes away his tears, and his paedagogus⁹ is punished for his faults. Do you not notice how a man’s anger grows more violent as his rank rises? This is especially clear among the rich, the noble, and those in high office. Their good fortune stirs up all their emptiest and most trivial passions. Prosperity encourages anger when a crowd of flatterers surrounds a man too proud to hear criticism. They say, “That man dares answer you! You are not acting as your rank demands. You are lowering yourself.” And so on, with words that even sound minds, guided by good principles from the start, can hardly resist. So flattery must be kept well away from children. Let a child hear the truth, and sometimes fear it. Let him always respect it. Let him stand when his elders are present. Let him gain nothing by losing his temper. When he is calm, let him receive what was refused when he cried for it. Let him see his father’s wealth, but not use it. Let him be corrected when he does wrong. Boys will benefit from even-tempered teachers and paedagogi. Whatever is soft and unformed clings to what is nearby and takes its shape. Young men copy the habits of their nurses and paedagogi. Once, a boy brought up in Plato’s house went home to his parents. When he saw his father shouting in anger, he said, “I never saw anyone at Plato’s house act like that.” I have no doubt he learned to imitate his father sooner than he learned to imitate Plato. Above all, let his food be meager and his clothes inexpensive, in the same style as his companions’ clothes. If you begin by placing him on the same level as many others, he will not resent comparisons with anyone.

XXII. These precepts, however, apply to our children: in ourselves the accident of birth and our education no longer admits of either mistakes or advice; we must deal with what follows. Now we ought to fight against the first causes of evil: the cause of anger is the belief that we are injured; this belief, therefore, should not be lightly entertained. We ought not to fly into a rage even when the injury appears to be open and distinct: for some false things bear the semblance of truth. We should always allow some time to elapse, for time discloses the truth. Let not our ears be easily lent to calumnious talk: let us know and be on our guard against this fault of human nature, that we are willing to believe what we are unwilling to listen to, and that we become angry before we have formed our opinion. What shall I say? we are influenced not merely by calumnies but by suspicions, and at the very look and smile of others we may fly into a rage with innocent persons because we put the worst construction upon it. We ought, therefore, to plead the cause of the absent against ourselves, and to keep our anger in abeyance: for a punishment which has been postponed may yet be inflicted, but when once inflicted cannot be recalled.

XXII. These guidelines, however, apply to our children. For us, the circumstances of our birth and upbringing are past the point of mistakes or advice. We must deal with what comes next. Now we ought to fight the root causes of wrongdoing. Anger comes from the belief that we have been wronged, so we should not accept that belief lightly. We ought not to fly into a rage even when the wrong seems plain and unmistakable. Some falsehoods look like the truth. We should always let some time pass, because time reveals the truth. We should not readily listen to slander. We must recognize and guard against this human failing: we willingly believe what we are unwilling to hear. And we grow angry before we have formed an opinion. What more can I say? We are swayed not only by slander but also by suspicion. Even someone's look or smile may make us rage at innocent people because we assume the worst. So we ought to argue against our own judgment on behalf of those who are absent, and hold back our anger. A punishment that has been delayed can still be carried out. But once carried out, it cannot be undone.

XXIII. Every one knows the story of the tyrannicide who, being caught before he had accomplished his task, and being tortured by Hippias to make him betray his accomplices, named the friends of the tyrant who stood around, and every one to whom he knew the tyrant’s safety was especially dear. As the tyrant ordered each man to be slain as he was named, at last the man, being asked if any one else remained, said, “You remain alone, for I have left no one else alive to whom you are dear.” Anger had made the tyrant lend his assistance to the tyrant-slayer, and cut down his guards with his own sword. How far more spirited was Alexander, who after reading his mother’s letter warning him to beware of poison from his physician Philip, nevertheless drank undismayed the medicine which Philip gave him! He felt more confidence in his friend: he deserved that his friend should be innocent, and deserved that his conduct should make him innocent. I praise Alexander’s doing this all the more because he was above all men prone to anger; but the rarer moderation is among kings, the more it deserves to be praised. The great Gaius Caesar, who proved such a merciful conqueror in the civil war, did the same thing; he burned a packet of letters addressed to Gnaeus Pompeius by persons who had been thought to be either neutrals or on the other side. Though he was never violent in his anger, yet he preferred to put it out of his power to be angry: he thought that the kindest way to pardon each of them was not to know what his offence had been.

XXIII. Everyone knows the story of the man who tried to kill a tyrant but was caught before he succeeded. Hippias tortured him to make him betray his accomplices. The man named the tyrant’s friends standing nearby, and everyone he knew cared especially about the tyrant’s safety. As each man was named, the tyrant ordered him killed. At last, the prisoner was asked whether anyone else remained. He answered, “You alone remain, for I have left no one else alive who cares about you.” Anger had made the tyrant help his would-be killer and cut down his own guards with his own sword. How much more courageous was Alexander! He read his mother’s letter warning him to beware of poison from his physician Philip. Nevertheless, Alexander fearlessly drank the medicine Philip gave him. He trusted his friend more than the warning. He deserved to have an innocent friend, and deserved to make his friend innocent through his own conduct. I praise Alexander’s action all the more because he was more prone to anger than anyone else. But the rarer self-control is among kings, the more praise it deserves. The great Gaius Caesar, who proved such a merciful conqueror in the civil war, did the same. He burned a packet of letters sent to Gnaeus Pompeius. Their writers had been thought either neutral or supporters of the other side. Although Caesar was never violent in his anger, he preferred to make anger impossible for himself. He thought the kindest way to pardon each person was not to know what offense that person had committed.

XXIV. Readiness to believe what we hear causes very great mischief; we ought often not even to listen, because in some cases it is better to be deceived than to suspect deceit. We ought to free our minds of suspicion and mistrust, those most untrustworthy causes of anger. “This man’s greeting was far from civil; that one would not receive my kiss; one cut short a story I had begun to tell; another did not ask me to dinner; another seemed to view me with aversion.” Suspicion will never lack grounds: what we want is straightforwardness, and a kindly interpretation of things. Let us believe nothing unless it forces itself upon our sight and is unmistakable, and let us reprove ourselves for being too ready to believe, as often as our suspicions prove to be groundless: for this discipline will render us habitually slow to believe what we hear.

XXIV. Being too ready to believe what we hear causes great harm. Often, we should not even listen, because sometimes it is better to be deceived than to suspect deception. We should free our minds from suspicion and mistrust, those most unreliable sources of anger. “This man’s greeting was hardly polite. That man would not accept my kiss. One interrupted a story I had begun telling. Another did not invite me to dinner. Another seemed to look at me with dislike.” We can always find reasons for suspicion. What we need is an open mind and a generous interpretation of things. Let us believe nothing unless we see it for ourselves and it is unmistakable. Whenever our suspicions prove groundless, let us reproach ourselves for being too quick to believe. This discipline will make us slow to believe what we hear as a matter of habit.

XXV. Another consequence of this will be, that we shall not be exasperated by the slightest and most contemptible trifles. It is mere madness to be put out of temper because a slave is not quick, because the water we are going to drink is lukewarm, or because our couch is disarranged or our table carelessly laid. A man must be in a miserably bad state of health if he shrinks from a gentle breath of wind; his eyes must be diseased if they are distressed by the sight of white clothing; he must be broken down with debauchery if he feels pain at seeing another man work. It is said that there was one Mindyrides, a citizen of Sybaris, who one day seeing a man digging and vigorously brandishing a mattock, complained that the sight made him weary, and forbade the man to work where he could see him. The same man complained that he had suffered from the rose-leaves upon which he lay being folded double. When pleasures have corrupted both the body and the mind, nothing seems endurable, not indeed because it is hard, but because he who has to bear it is soft: for why should we be driven to frenzy by any one’s coughing and sneezing, or by a fly not being driven away with sufficient care, or by a dog’s hanging about us, or a key dropping from a careless servant’s hand? Will one whose ears are agonised by the noise of a bench being dragged along the floor be able to endure with unruffled mind the rude language of party strife, and the abuse which speakers in the forum or the senate house heap upon their opponents? Will he who is angry with his slave for icing his drink badly, be able to endure hunger, or the thirst of a long march in summer? Nothing, therefore, nourishes anger more than excessive and dissatisfied luxury: the mind ought to be hardened by rough treatment, so as not to feel any blow that is not severe.

XXV. Another result of this will be that even the smallest, most worthless trifles will not enrage us. It is sheer madness to lose your temper because a slave is slow or your drinking water is lukewarm. The same goes for an untidy couch or a carelessly set table. A man must be in terribly poor health if he flinches at a gentle breeze. His eyes must be diseased if the sight of white clothing hurts them. He must be ruined by overindulgence if watching another man work causes him pain. There is a story about Mindyrides, a citizen of Sybaris. One day, he saw a man digging and swinging a mattock vigorously. Mindyrides complained that watching made him tired and forbade the man to work within his sight. The same man complained that the rose petals he lay on had hurt him because they were folded over. When pleasure has corrupted both body and mind, nothing seems bearable. This is not because the hardship is severe, but because the person facing it is soft. Why should anyone’s coughing or sneezing drive us into a rage? Why should a fly that someone has not taken enough care to drive away, or a dog lingering around us? Why should a key dropped by a careless servant? Suppose the sound of a bench being dragged across the floor causes a man agony. Will he calmly endure the harsh language of political conflict? Will he bear the insults that speakers in the forum or senate house heap on their opponents? If a man gets angry with his slave for failing to chill his drink properly, will he endure hunger? Will he endure thirst on a long summer march? Nothing, then, feeds anger more than excessive luxury that is never satisfied. The mind should be toughened by rough treatment, so that only a severe blow makes itself felt.

XXVI. We are angry, either with those who can, or with those who cannot do us an injury. To the latter class belong some inanimate things, such as a book, which we often throw away when it is written in letters too small for us to read, or tear up when it is full of mistakes, or clothes which we destroy because we do not like them. How foolish to be angry with such things as these, which neither deserve nor feel our anger! “But of course it is their makers who really affront us.” I answer that, in the first place, we often become angry before making this distinction clear in our minds, and secondly, perhaps even the makers might put forward some reasonable excuses: one of them, it may be, could not make them any better than he did, and it is not through any disrespect to you that he was unskilled in his trade: another may have done his work so without any intention of insulting you: and, finally, what can be more crazy than to discharge upon things the ill-feeling which one has accumulated against persons? Yet as it is the act of a madman to be angry with inanimate objects, so also is it to be angry with dumb animals, which can do us no wrong because they are not able to form a purpose; and we cannot call anything a wrong unless it be done intentionally. They are, therefore, able to hurt us, just as a sword or a stone may do so, but they are not able to do us a wrong. Yet some men think themselves insulted when the same horses which are docile with one rider are restive with another, as though it were through their deliberate choice, and not through habit and cleverness of handling that some horses are more easily managed by some men than by others. And as it is foolish to be angry with them, so it is to be angry with children, and with men who have little more sense than children: for all these sins, before a just judge, ignorance would be as effective an excuse as innocence.

XXVI. We get angry either with those who can harm us or with those who cannot. The second group includes lifeless objects, such as books. We often throw a book aside because the print is too small to read, or tear it up because it is full of mistakes. We also destroy clothes because we do not like them. How foolish to be angry with things that neither deserve nor feel our anger! “But of course it is their makers who really insult us.” My answer is that, first, we often get angry before clearly making this distinction in our minds. Second, perhaps even the makers could offer reasonable excuses. One maker may have been unable to do any better. His lack of skill in his trade showed no disrespect for you. Another may have done his work that way without any intention of insulting you. Finally, what could be crazier than taking out your resentment toward people on objects? Yet just as being angry with lifeless objects is madness, so is being angry with animals that cannot speak. Animals cannot wrong us because they cannot act with deliberate intent. And we cannot call anything a wrong unless it is done intentionally. Animals can therefore hurt us, just as a sword or a stone can, but they cannot wrong us. Yet some men feel insulted when horses that obey one rider are hard for another to control. They act as though the horses deliberately choose to behave this way. But some riders manage horses more easily than others because of familiarity and skill in handling them. And just as anger at animals is foolish, so is anger at children and men with little more sense than children. For all these offenses, a fair judge would accept ignorance as an excuse just as readily as innocence.

XXVII. There are some things which are unable to hurt us, and whose power is exclusively beneficial and salutary, as, for example, the immortal gods, who neither wish nor are able to do harm: for their temperament is naturally gentle and tranquil, and no more likely to wrong others than to wrong themselves. Foolish people who know not the truth hold them answerable for storms at sea, excessive rain, and long winters, whereas all the while these phenomena by which we suffer or profit take place without any reference whatever to us: it is not for our sake that the universe causes summer and winter to succeed one another; these have a law of their own, according to which their divine functions are performed. We think too much of ourselves, when we imagine that we are worthy to have such prodigious revolutions effected for our sake: so, then, none of these things take place in order to do us an injury, nay, on the contrary, they all tend to our benefit. I have said that there are some things which cannot hurt us, and some which would not. To the latter class belong good men in authority, good parents, teachers, and judges whose punishments ought to be submitted to by us in the same spirit in which we undergo the surgeon’s knife, abstinence from food, and such like things which hurt us for our benefit. Suppose that we are being punished; let us think not only of what we suffer, but of what we have done: let us sit in judgement on our past life. Provided we are willing to tell ourselves the truth, we shall certainly decide that our crimes deserve a harder measure than they have received.

XXVII. Some things cannot hurt us, and their power is entirely beneficial and healing. The immortal gods, for example, neither wish to do harm nor are able to. Their nature is gentle and calm. They are no more likely to wrong others than to wrong themselves. Foolish people who do not know the truth blame the gods for storms at sea, excessive rain, and long winters. Yet these events, whether they hurt or benefit us, happen without any regard for us. The universe does not make summer and winter follow one another for our sake. The seasons follow their own law as they carry out their divine functions. We think too highly of ourselves when we imagine we deserve such immense changes to happen for our sake. So none of these events happen in order to harm us. On the contrary, they all work toward our benefit. I have said that some things cannot hurt us, and some would not choose to. The latter group includes good people in authority, good parents, teachers, and judges. We should accept their punishments in the same spirit as we accept the surgeon’s knife or going without food. Such treatments, and others like them, cause pain for our own good. Suppose we are being punished. Let us consider not only what we suffer, but also what we have done. Let us judge our past lives. If we are willing to tell ourselves the truth, we will certainly reach one conclusion. Our crimes deserve harsher punishment than they have received.

XXVIII. If we desire to be impartial judges of all that takes place, we must first convince ourselves of this, that no one of us is faultless: for it is from this that most of our indignation proceeds. “I have not sinned, I have done no wrong.” Say, rather, you do not admit that you have done any wrong. We are infuriated at being reproved, either by reprimand or actual chastisement, although we are sinning at that very time, by adding insolence and obstinacy to our wrong-doings. Who is there that can declare himself to have broken no laws? Even if there be such a man, what a stinted innocence it is, merely to be innocent by the letter of the law. How much further do the rules of duty extend than those of the law! how many things which are not to be found in the statute book, are demanded by filial feeling, kindness, generosity, equity, and honour? Yet we are not able to warrant ourselves even to come under that first narrowest definition of innocence: we have done what was wrong, thought what was wrong, wished for what was wrong, and encouraged what was wrong: in some cases we have only remained innocent because we did not succeed. When we think of this, let us deal more justly with sinners, and believe that those who scold us are right: in any case let us not be angry with ourselves (for with whom shall we not be angry, if we are angry even with our own selves?), and least of all with the gods: for whatever we suffer befalls us not by any ordinance of theirs but of the common law of all flesh. “But diseases and pains attack us.” Well, people who live in a crazy dwelling must have some way of escape from it. Some one will be said to have spoken ill of you: think whether you did not first speak ill of him: think of how many persons you have yourself spoken ill. Let us not, I say, suppose that others are doing us a wrong, but are repaying one which we have done them, that some are acting with good intentions, some under compulsion, some in ignorance, and let us believe that even he who does so intentionally and knowingly did not wrong us merely for the sake of wronging us, but was led into doing so by the attraction of saying something witty, or did whatever he did, not out of any spite against us, but because he himself could not succeed unless he pushed us back. We are often offended by flattery even while it is being lavished upon us: yet whoever recalls to his mind how often he himself has been the victim of undeserved suspicion, how often fortune has given his true service an appearance of wrong-doing, how many persons he has begun by hating and ended by loving, will be able to keep himself from becoming angry straightway, especially if he silently says to himself when each offence is committed: “I have done this very thing myself.” Where, however, will you find so impartial a judge? The same man who lusts after everyone’s wife, and thinks that a woman’s belonging to someone else is a sufficient reason for adoring her, will not allow any one else to look at his own wife. No man expects such exact fidelity as a traitor: the perjurer himself takes vengeance of him who breaks his word: the pettifogging lawyer is most indignant at an action being brought against him: the man who is reckless of his own chastity cannot endure any attempt upon that of his slaves. We have other men’s vices before our eyes, and our own behind our backs: hence it is that a father, who is worse than his son, blames the latter for giving extravagant feasts,¹⁰ and disapproves of the least sign of luxury in another, although he was wont to set no bounds to it in his own case; hence it is that despots are angry with homicides, and thefts are punished by those who despoil temples. A great part of mankind is not angry with sins, but with sinners. Regard to our own selves¹¹ will make us more moderate, if we inquire of ourselves:—have we ever committed any crime of this sort? have we ever fallen into this kind of error? is it for our interest that we should condemn this conduct?

XXVIII. If we want to judge everything fairly, we must first accept that none of us is faultless. Most of our anger comes from failing to recognize our own faults. “I have not sinned. I have done nothing wrong.” Say instead that you do not admit to doing anything wrong. We become furious when someone corrects us, whether with a scolding or actual punishment. Yet even then we are doing wrong, adding defiance and stubbornness to our faults. Who can claim never to have broken a law? Even if someone can, how limited that innocence is, merely to obey the letter of the law. Our duties reach so much further than the law! Respect for parents, kindness, generosity, fairness, and honor demand so many things that no law requires. Yet we cannot even claim innocence under that first, narrowest definition. We have done wrong, thought wrongly, wished for wrong things, and encouraged wrongdoing. Sometimes we have remained innocent only because we failed. Remembering our own faults, let us treat wrongdoers more fairly and believe that those who scold us are right. In any case, let us not be angry with ourselves. For whom will we spare our anger if we are angry even with ourselves? Least of all should we be angry with the gods. Whatever we suffer comes not from their commands, but from the common law governing all mortal life. “But disease and pain attack us.” Well, people living in a crumbling house must have some way to escape it. You may hear that someone has spoken badly of you. Consider whether you spoke badly of him first. Think how many people you yourself have spoken badly of. Let us not assume, I say, that others are wronging us. Instead, let us suppose they are repaying a wrong we did them. Some act with good intentions, some under pressure, and some in ignorance. Even when someone knowingly and deliberately wrongs us, let us believe he did not do so simply to hurt us. Perhaps he was tempted by the chance to say something witty. Or perhaps he acted not from spite, but because he could not get ahead without pushing us back. We often take offense even at the flattery being heaped upon us. Yet consider how often you yourself have been wrongly suspected. Remember how often chance has made your faithful service look like wrongdoing. Remember how many people you first hated and later loved. Anyone who remembers these things will be able to avoid getting angry immediately. This is especially true if, at each offense, he silently tells himself: “I have done this very thing myself.” But where will you find so fair a judge? A man lusts after everyone’s wife. He thinks a woman’s marriage to someone else is reason enough to adore her. Yet he will not let anyone else even look at his own wife. No one demands such complete loyalty as a traitor. A man who lies under oath takes revenge on someone who breaks a promise. A lawyer who abuses legal technicalities is outraged when someone sues him. A man careless about his own sexual conduct cannot bear anyone making advances toward his slaves. We keep other people’s faults before our eyes and our own behind our backs. So a father worse than his son blames the son for giving extravagant feasts,¹⁰ and criticizes others’ smallest luxuries. Yet he used to set no limits on his own luxury. So tyrants rage at murderers, and temple robbers punish theft. Much of humanity is angry not at sins, but at sinners. Examining ourselves¹¹ will make us more restrained if we ask ourselves: Have we ever committed a crime like this? Have we ever made this kind of mistake? Is condemning this behavior in our own interest?

XXIX. The greatest remedy for anger is delay: beg anger to grant you this at the first, not in order that it may pardon the offence, but that it may form a right judgment about it: if it delays, it will come to an end. Do not attempt to quell it all at once, for its first impulses are fierce; by plucking away its parts we shall remove the whole. We are made angry by some things which we learn at second-hand, and by some which we ourselves hear or see. Now, we ought to be slow to believe what is told us. Many tell lies in order to deceive us, and many because they are themselves deceived. Some seek to win our favour by false accusations, and invent wrongs in order that they may appear angry at our having suffered them. One man lies out of spite, that he may set trusting friends at variance; some because they are suspicious,¹² and wish to see sport, and watch from a safe distance those whom they have set by the ears. If you were about to give sentence in court about ever so small a sum of money, you would take nothing as proved without a witness, and a witness would count for nothing except on his oath. You would allow both sides to be heard: you would allow them time: you would not despatch the matter at one sitting, because the oftener it is handled the more distinctly the truth appears. And do you condemn your friend off-hand? Are you angry with him before you hear his story, before you have cross-examined him, before he can know either who is his accuser or with what he is charged. Why then, just now, in the case which you just tried, did you hear what was said on both sides? This very man who has informed against your friend, will say no more if he be obliged to prove what he says. “You need not,” says he, “bring me forward as a witness; if I am brought forward I shall deny what I have said; unless you excuse me from appearing I shall never tell you anything.” At the same time he spurs you on and withdraws himself from the strife and battle. The man who will tell you nothing save in secret hardly tells you anything at all. What can be more unjust than to believe in secret, and to be angry openly?

XXIX. The best remedy for anger is delay. At first, ask anger to give you time, not to forgive the offense, but to judge it correctly. If anger waits, it will come to an end. Do not try to suppress anger all at once, because its first impulses are fierce. By removing anger piece by piece, we will remove the whole. Some things anger us when we hear about them from others. Others anger us when we hear or see them ourselves. Now, we should be slow to believe what others tell us. Many people tell lies to deceive us, and many because they themselves have been deceived. Some seek our favor through false accusations. They invent wrongs so they can seem angry about what we have suffered. One person lies out of spite, to turn trusting friends against each other. Some lie because they are suspicious,¹² and want entertainment. They watch from a safe distance as the people they have stirred up fight. If you were judging a court case over even the smallest sum, you would accept nothing as proven without a witness. And a witness would count for nothing unless he testified under oath. You would let both sides speak. You would give them time. You would not settle the case in a single hearing, because the more often you examine it, the clearer the truth becomes. Yet you condemn your friend without hesitation? Are you angry with him before hearing his account or questioning him? Before he can even know who accuses him or what the charge is? Why, then, did you hear both sides in the case you just tried? The very man who accused your friend will say nothing more if he must prove his claims. “You need not,” he says, “call me as a witness. If you call me, I will deny what I said. Unless you excuse me from testifying, I will never tell you anything.” At the same time, he urges you on and keeps himself out of the conflict and the fight. A man who will tell you nothing except in secret hardly tells you anything at all. What could be more unjust than to believe an accusation in secret and show your anger openly?

XXX. Some offences we ourselves witness: in these cases let us examine the disposition and purpose of the offender. Perhaps he is a child; let us pardon his youth, he knows not whether he is doing wrong: or he is a father; he has either rendered such great services, as to have won the right even to wrong us—or perhaps this very act which offends us is his chief merit: or a woman; well, she made a mistake. The man did it because he was ordered to do it. Who but an unjust person can be angry with what is done under compulsion? You had hurt him: well, there is no wrong in suffering the pain which you have been the first to inflict. Suppose that your opponent is a judge; then you ought to take his opinion rather than your own: or that he is a king; then, if he punishes the guilty, yield to him because he is just, and if he punishes the innocent, yield to him because he is powerful. Suppose that it is a dumb animal or as stupid as a dumb animal: then, if you are angry with it, you will make yourself like it. Suppose that it is a disease or a misfortune; it will take less effect upon you if you bear it quietly: or that it is a god; then you waste your time by being angry with him as much as if you prayed him to be angry with some one else. Is it a good man who has wronged you? do not believe it: is it a bad one? do not be surprised at this; he will pay to some one else the penalty which he owes to you—indeed, by his sin he has already punished himself.

XXX. Some offenses we witness ourselves. In these cases, let us examine the offender’s character and intentions. Perhaps he is a child. Let us forgive him because he is young and does not know whether he is doing wrong. Or he is a father. Either he has done so much for us that he has earned the right even to wrong us. Or perhaps the very act that offends us is his greatest service. Or the offender is a woman. Well, she made a mistake. The man acted because he was ordered to. Who but an unjust person can be angry at an act done under compulsion? You had hurt him. Well, there is nothing wrong with suffering the pain you were the first to inflict. Suppose your opponent is a judge. Then you should accept his judgment rather than your own. Or suppose he is a king. If he punishes the guilty, submit because he is just. If he punishes the innocent, submit because he is powerful. Suppose the offender is an animal that cannot speak, or someone just as stupid. Then, if you are angry with the offender, you will make yourself just as stupid. Suppose you face a disease or a misfortune. Either will affect you less if you bear it calmly. Or suppose you face a god. Then being angry with him wastes your time just as much as praying for him to be angry with someone else. Has a good man wronged you? Do not believe it. Has a bad man wronged you? Do not be surprised. He will pay someone else the penalty he owes you. Indeed, by doing wrong, he has already punished himself.

XXXI. There are, as I have stated, two cases which produce anger: first, when we appear to have received an injury, about which enough has been said, and, secondly, when we appear to have been treated unjustly: this must now be discussed. Men think some things unjust because they ought not to suffer them, and some because they did not expect to suffer them: we think what is unexpected is beneath our deserts. Consequently, we are especially excited at what befalls us contrary to our hope and expectation: and this is why we are irritated at the smallest trifles in our own domestic affairs, and why we call our friends’ carelessness deliberate injury. How is it, then, asks our opponent, that we are angered by the injuries inflicted by our enemies? It is because we did not expect those particular injuries, or, at any rate, not on so extensive a scale. This is caused by our excessive self-love: we think that we ought to remain uninjured even by our enemies: every man bears within his breast the mind of a despot, and is willing to commit excesses, but unwilling to submit to them. Thus it is either ignorance or arrogance that makes us angry: ignorance of common facts; for what is there to wonder at in bad men committing evil deeds? what novelty is there in your enemy hurting you, your friend quarrelling with you, your son going wrong, or your servant doing amiss? Fabius was wont to say that the most shameful excuse a general could make was “I did not think.” I think it the most shameful excuse that a man can make. Think of everything, expect everything: even with men of good character something queer will crop up; human nature produces minds that are treacherous, ungrateful, greedy, and impious: when you are considering what any man’s morals may be, think what those of mankind are. When you are especially enjoying yourself, be especially on your guard: when everything seems to you to be peaceful, be sure that mischief is not absent, but only asleep. Always believe that something will occur to offend you. A pilot never spreads all his canvas abroad so confidently as not to keep his tackle for shortening sail ready for use. Think, above all, how base and hateful is the power of doing mischief, and how unnatural in man, by whose kindness even fierce animals are rendered tame. See how bulls yield their necks to the yoke, how elephants¹³ allow boys and women to dance on their backs unhurt, how snakes glide harmlessly over our bosoms and among our drinking-cups, how within their dens bears and lions submit to be handled with complacent mouths, and wild beasts fawn upon their master: let us blush to have exchanged habits with wild beasts. It is a crime to injure one’s country: so it is, therefore, to injure any of our countrymen, for he is a part of our country; if the whole be sacred, the parts must be sacred too. Therefore it is also a crime to injure any man: for he is your fellow-citizen in a larger state. What, if the hands were to wish to hurt the feet? or the eyes to hurt the hands? As all the limbs act in unison, because it is the interest of the whole body to keep each one of them safe, so men should spare one another, because they are born for society. The bond of society, however, cannot exist unless it guards and loves all its members. We should not even destroy vipers and water-snakes and other creatures whose teeth and claws are dangerous, if we were able to tame them as we do other animals, or to prevent their being a peril to us: neither ought we, therefore, to hurt a man because he has done wrong, but lest he should do wrong, and our punishment should always look to the future, and never to the past, because it is inflicted in a spirit of precaution, not of anger: for if everyone who has a crooked and vicious disposition were to be punished, no one would escape punishment.

XXXI. As I have said, two situations cause anger. First, we think someone has injured us. Enough has been said about that. Second, we think someone has treated us unjustly. We must now discuss that. People think some things unjust because they should not have to suffer them. They think other things unjust because they did not expect to suffer them. We think we deserve better than whatever comes unexpectedly. So we become especially upset when events go against our hopes and expectations. That is why the smallest troubles at home irritate us, and why we call our friends’ carelessness deliberate harm. How, then, our opponent asks, do injuries from our enemies make us angry? Because we did not expect those particular injuries, or at least not on such a large scale. Our excessive self-love causes this reaction. We think even our enemies should leave us unharmed. Every man carries a tyrant’s mind within him. He is willing to go too far himself, but unwilling to suffer the same treatment. So either ignorance or arrogance makes us angry. The ignorance concerns ordinary facts. Why be surprised when bad people do evil things? What is new about your enemy hurting you, your friend quarreling with you, your son straying, or your servant misbehaving? Fabius used to say that a general’s most shameful excuse was “I did not think.” I think it is the most shameful excuse anyone can make. Consider everything, expect everything. Even people of good character will show some unexpected fault. Human nature produces minds that are treacherous, ungrateful, greedy, and irreverent toward the gods. When judging someone’s character, consider what human beings are like. Be especially on guard when you are enjoying yourself most. When everything seems peaceful, be sure that trouble is not absent, but only asleep. Always believe that something will happen to offend you. A sailor never sets all his sails so confidently that he neglects to keep the gear for reducing sail ready. Above all, consider how shameful and hateful the power to do harm is. Consider how unnatural that power is in human beings, whose kindness tames even fierce animals. See how bulls offer their necks to the yoke. See how elephants¹³ let boys and women dance on their backs without hurting them. See how snakes glide harmlessly across our chests and among our drinking cups. See how bears and lions let us handle them in their dens, keeping their mouths gentle. See how wild animals fawn on their master. We should blush to have traded habits with wild beasts. It is a crime to harm your country. So it is also a crime to harm any fellow citizen, because each citizen is part of your country. If the whole is sacred, its parts must be sacred too. Therefore, it is also a crime to harm any human being. Every person is your fellow citizen in a larger state. What if the hands wanted to hurt the feet, or the eyes wanted to hurt the hands? All our limbs work together because keeping each limb safe serves the whole body. In the same way, people should spare one another because they are born to live together. But the bond of society cannot exist unless it protects and loves all its members. We should not even kill vipers, water snakes, or other creatures with dangerous teeth and claws if we could tame them. Nor should we kill them if we could otherwise prevent them from endangering us. So we should not hurt someone because he has done wrong, but to prevent him from doing wrong. Our punishment should always look to the future, never to the past. Punishment is imposed as a precaution, not out of anger. For if everyone with a corrupt and vicious character were punished, no one would escape punishment.

XXXII. “But anger possesses a certain pleasure of its own, and it is sweet to pay back the pain you have suffered.” Not at all; it is not honourable to requite injuries by injuries, in the same way as it is to repay benefits by benefits. In the latter case it is a shame to be conquered; in the former it is a shame to conquer. Revenge and retaliation are words which men use and even think to be righteous, yet they do not greatly differ from wrong-doing, except in the order in which they are done: he who renders pain for pain has more excuse for his sin; that is all. Some one who did not know Marcus Cato struck him in the public bath in his ignorance, for who would knowingly have done him an injury? Afterwards when he was apologizing, Cato replied, “I do not remember being struck.” He thought it better to ignore the insult than to revenge it. You ask, “Did no harm befall that man for his insolence?” No, but rather much good; he made the acquaintance of Cato. It is the part of a great mind to despise wrongs done to it; the most contemptuous form of revenge is not to deem one’s adversary worth taking vengeance upon. Many have taken small injuries much more seriously to heart than they need, by revenging them: that man is great and noble who like a large wild animal hears unmoved the tiny curs that bark at him.

XXXII. “But anger has a pleasure of its own, and it is sweet to repay the pain you have suffered.” Not at all. Repaying harm with harm is not honorable in the way that repaying kindness with kindness is. When returning kindness, it is shameful to be outdone. When returning harm, it is shameful to outdo someone. People use the words revenge and retaliation, and even think these actions are just. Yet revenge and retaliation differ little from wrongdoing, except in the order of the acts. Someone who repays pain with pain has more excuse for doing wrong. That is all. Someone who did not recognize Marcus Cato struck him in the public bath without knowing who he was. For who would knowingly have harmed Cato? Later, when the man apologized, Cato replied, “I do not remember being struck.” Cato thought it better to ignore the insult than to take revenge. You ask, “Did the man suffer no harm for his insolence?” No, instead he gained a great deal. He got to know Cato. A great mind rises above the wrongs done to it. The most scornful revenge is to consider your opponent unworthy of revenge. Many people, by taking revenge, have treated small injuries far more seriously than necessary. A great and noble person is like a large wild animal, unmoved by the little dogs barking at it.

XXXIII. “We are treated,” says our opponent, “with more respect if we revenge our injuries.” If we make use of revenge merely as a remedy, let us use it without anger, and not regard revenge as pleasant, but as useful: yet often it is better to pretend not to have received an injury than to avenge it. The wrongs of the powerful must not only be borne, but borne with a cheerful countenance: they will repeat the wrong if they think they have inflicted it. This is the worst trait of minds rendered arrogant by prosperity, they hate those whom they have injured. Every one knows the saying of the old courtier, who, when some one asked him how he had achieved the rare distinction of living at court till he reached old age, replied, “By receiving wrongs and returning thanks for them.” It is often so far from expedient to avenge our wrongs, that it will not do even to admit them. Gaius Caesar, offended at the smart clothes and well-dressed hair of the son of Pastor, a distinguished Roman knight, sent him to prison. When the father begged that his son might suffer no harm, Caius, as if reminded by this to put him to death, ordered him to be executed, yet, in order to mitigate his brutality to the father, invited him that very day to dinner. Pastor came with a countenance which betrayed no illwill. Caesar pledged him in a glass of wine, and set a man to watch him. The wretched creature went through his part, feeling as though he were drinking his son’s blood: the emperor sent him some perfume and a garland, and gave orders to watch whether he used them: he did so. On the very day on which he had buried, nay, on which he had not even buried his son, he sat down as one of a hundred guests, and, old and gouty as he was, drank to an extent which would have been hardly decent on a child’s birthday; he shed no tear the while; he did not permit his grief to betray itself by the slightest sign; he dined just as though his entreaties had gained his son’s life. You ask me why he did so? he had another son. What did Priam do in the Iliad? Did he not conceal his wrath and embrace the knees of Achilles? did he not raise to his lips that death-dealing hand, stained with the blood of his son, and sup with his slayer? True! but there were no perfumes and garlands, and his fierce enemy encouraged him with many soothing words to eat, not to drain huge goblets with a guard standing over him to see that he did it. Had he only feared for himself, the father would have treated the tyrant with scorn: but love for his son quenched his anger: he deserved the emperor’s permission to leave the banquet and gather up the bones of his son: but, meanwhile, that kindly and polite youth the emperor would not even permit him to do this, but tormented the old man with frequent invitations to drink, advising him thereby to lighten his sorrows. He, on the other hand, appeared to be in good spirits, and to have forgotten what had been done that day: he would have lost his second son had he proved an unacceptable guest to the murderer of his eldest.

XXXIII. “We are treated,” says our opponent, “with more respect if we avenge the wrongs done to us.” If we use revenge merely as a remedy, let us take revenge without anger. Let us see revenge as useful, not pleasant. Yet often it is better to pretend we have not been wronged than to take revenge. We must not only endure wrongs from the powerful, but endure them with a cheerful face. They will repeat the wrong if they think they have hurt us. This is the worst trait of people made arrogant by success: they hate those they have injured. Everyone knows the saying of the old courtier. Someone asked how he had managed the rare achievement of surviving at court into old age. He replied, “By accepting wrongs and giving thanks for them.” Avenging our wrongs is often so far from advisable that we cannot even admit we have been wronged. Gaius Caesar took offense at the fine clothes and carefully styled hair of the son of Pastor, a distinguished Roman knight. He sent the young man to prison. The father begged that his son should suffer no harm. Caius ordered the son executed, as if the plea had reminded him to do so. Yet, to soften his brutality toward the father, he invited Pastor to dinner that very day. Pastor arrived with no sign of resentment on his face. Caesar drank a toast to him and assigned a man to watch him. The miserable father played his part, feeling as though he were drinking his son’s blood. The emperor sent him perfume and a garland, with orders to watch whether he used them. Pastor used both. That very day, when he had buried his son, or rather, had not even buried him, he joined a hundred guests. Old and suffering from gout, he drank an amount that would have been hardly decent at a child’s birthday celebration. He shed no tears throughout the meal. He let no trace of grief show. He dined just as though his pleas had saved his son’s life. You ask me why he did so? He had another son. What did Priam do in the Iliad? Did he not hide his anger and embrace the knees of Achilles? Did he not kiss that deadly hand, stained with his son’s blood, and dine with his son’s killer? True! But there were no perfumes or garlands. And his fierce enemy urged him, with many soothing words, to eat. Achilles did not make him drain huge cups while a guard stood over him to make sure he drank. Had Pastor feared only for himself, he would have treated the tyrant with contempt. But love for his son put out his anger. He deserved the emperor’s permission to leave the banquet and gather his son’s bones. But meanwhile, that kind and courteous young man, the emperor, would not even let him do that. Instead, he tormented the old man with repeated invitations to drink, advising him to ease his grief with wine. Pastor, for his part, seemed cheerful and appeared to have forgotten what had happened that day. He would have lost his second son had he failed to please his eldest son’s murderer as a dinner guest.

XXXIV. We must, therefore, refrain from anger, whether he who provokes us be on a level with ourselves, or above us, or below us. A contest with one’s equal is of uncertain issue, with one’s superior is folly, and with one’s inferior is contemptible. It is the part of a mean and wretched man to turn and bite one’s biter: even mice and ants show their teeth if you put your hand to them, and all feeble creatures think that they are hurt if they are touched. It will make us milder tempered to call to mind any services which he with whom we are angry may have done us, and to let his deserts balance his offence. Let us also reflect, how much credit the tale of our forgiveness will confer upon us, how many men may be made into valuable friends by forgiveness. One of the lessons which Sulla’s cruelty teaches us is not to be angry with the children of our enemies, whether they be public or private; for he drove the sons of the proscribed into exile. Nothing is more unjust than that any one should inherit the quarrels of his father. Whenever we are loth to pardon any one, let us think whether it would be to our advantage that all men should be inexorable. He who refuses to pardon, how often has he begged it for himself? how often has he grovelled at the feet of those whom he spurns from his own? How can we gain more glory than by turning anger into friendship? what more faithful allies has the Roman people than those who have been its most unyielding enemies? where would the empire be to-day, had not a wise foresight united the conquered and the conquerors? If any one is angry with you, meet his anger by returning benefits for it: a quarrel which is only taken up on one side falls to the ground: it takes two men to fight. But¹⁴ suppose that there is an angry struggle on both sides, even then, he is the better man who first gives way; the winner is the real loser. He struck you; well then, do you fall back: if you strike him in turn you will give him both an opportunity and an excuse for striking you again: you will not be able to withdraw yourself from the struggle when you please.

XXXIV. We must therefore avoid anger, whether the person provoking us is our equal, our superior, or our inferior. A fight with an equal has an uncertain outcome. Fighting a superior is foolish, and fighting an inferior is contemptible. Only a petty, miserable person turns to bite someone who bites him. Even mice and ants bare their teeth if you put your hand near them. All weak creatures think they are being hurt when touched. Remembering any favors done by the person who has angered us will make us gentler. Let us weigh his good deeds against his offense. Let us also consider how much respect we will gain when others hear of our forgiveness. Think how many people we may turn into valuable friends by forgiving them. One lesson from Sulla’s cruelty is not to be angry with our enemies’ children, whether our enemies are public or private. Sulla drove the sons of those he had outlawed into exile. Nothing is more unjust than making someone inherit his father’s quarrels. Whenever we hesitate to forgive someone, let us ask whether we would benefit if everyone refused to forgive. How often has the man who refuses forgiveness begged for it himself? How often has he grovelled at the feet of people he now drives away from his own? How can we gain greater glory than by turning anger into friendship? What allies of the Roman people are more faithful than those who were once its most determined enemies? Where would the empire be today if wise foresight had not united the conquered with their conquerors? If someone is angry with you, respond by doing him good. A quarrel pursued by only one side collapses. It takes two men to fight. But¹⁴ suppose both sides are fighting angrily. Even then, the better man is the one who gives way first. The winner is the real loser. He struck you. Then step back. If you strike him back, you will give him both an opportunity and an excuse to strike you again. You will not be able to leave the fight whenever you please.

XXXV. Does any one wish to strike his enemy so hard, as to leave his own hand in the wound, and not to be able to recover his balance after the blow? yet such a weapon is anger: it is scarcely possible to draw it back. We are careful to choose for ourselves light weapons, handy and manageable swords: shall we not avoid these clumsy, unwieldy,¹⁵ and never-to-be-recalled impulses of the mind? The only swiftness of which men approve is that which, when bidden, checks itself and proceeds no further, and which can be guided, and reduced from a run to a walk: we know that the sinews are diseased when they move against our will. A man must be either aged or weakly who runs when he wants to walk: let us think that those are the most powerful and the soundest operations of our minds, which act under our own control, not at their own caprice. Nothing, however, will be of so much service as to consider, first, the hideousness, and, secondly, the danger of anger. No passion bears a more troubled aspect: it befouls the fairest face, makes fierce the expression which before was peaceful. From the angry “all grace has fled;” though their clothing may be fashionable, they will trail it on the ground and take no heed of their appearance; though their hair be smoothed down in a comely manner by nature or art, yet it will bristle up in sympathy with their mind. The veins become swollen, the breast will be shaken by quick breathing, the man’s neck will be swelled as he roars forth his frantic talk: then, too, his limbs will tremble, his hands will be restless, his whole body will sway hither and thither. What, think you, must be the state of his mind within him, when its appearance without is so shocking? how far more dreadful a countenance he bears within his own breast, how far keener pride, how much more violent rage, which will burst him unless it finds some vent? Let us paint anger looking like those who are dripping with the blood of foemen or savage beasts, or those who are just about to slaughter them—like those monsters of the nether world fabled by the poet to be girt with serpents and breathing flame, when they sally forth from hell, most frightful to behold, in order that they may kindle wars, stir up strife between nations, and overthrow peace; let us paint her eyes glowing with fire, her voice hissing, roaring, grating, and making worse sounds if worse there be, while she brandishes weapons in both hands, for she cares not to protect herself, gloomy, stained with blood, covered with scars and livid with her own blows, reeling like a maniac, wrapped in a thick cloud, dashing hither and thither, spreading desolation and panic, loathed by every one and by herself above all, willing, if otherwise she cannot hurt her foe, to overthrow alike earth, sea, and heaven, harmful and hateful at the same time. Or, if we are to see her, let her be such as our poets have described her—

XXXV. Does anyone want to strike an enemy so hard that his own hand stays lodged in the wound? Does anyone want to lose his balance after the blow and be unable to recover it? Yet anger is just such a weapon. Once used, anger is almost impossible to pull back. We carefully choose light weapons and swords that are easy to handle. Should we not avoid these clumsy, unwieldy,¹⁵ uncontrollable impulses of the mind? The only speed people approve of is speed that stops on command and goes no further. Such speed can be guided and slowed from a run to a walk. We know our muscles are diseased when they move against our will. A man who runs when he wants to walk must be either old or weak. Likewise, let us judge our minds strongest and healthiest when they act under our control, not on their own whims. Nothing, however, will help us more than considering first how hideous anger is, and then how dangerous. No passion looks more disturbed. Anger spoils the most beautiful face and makes a once peaceful expression fierce. From angry people, “all grace has fled.” Though their clothes may be fashionable, they drag them on the ground and ignore their appearance. Though their hair may lie neatly, whether naturally or through grooming, it bristles in sympathy with their minds. Their veins swell, and rapid breathing shakes their chests. Their necks swell as they roar out frantic words. Their limbs tremble, their hands cannot stay still, and their whole bodies sway back and forth. What must a man's mind be like within, when its outward appearance is so shocking? How much more dreadful must its face be within his own breast? How much fiercer must his pride be? How much more violent must his rage be, ready to burst him unless it finds some outlet? Let us picture anger looking like people dripping with the blood of enemies or wild beasts. Or let us picture her like people just about to slaughter them. Let her resemble those monsters of the underworld that the poet describes, wrapped in snakes and breathing fire. They rush out of hell, terrifying to behold, to kindle wars, stir up conflict between nations, and destroy peace. Let us picture her eyes blazing with fire. Her voice hisses, roars, and grates, making still worse sounds, if worse sounds exist. She brandishes weapons in both hands, for she has no concern for protecting herself. She is grim, bloodstained, covered with scars, and bruised by her own blows. She reels like a madwoman, wrapped in a thick cloud. She rushes back and forth, spreading destruction and panic. Everyone loathes her, and she loathes herself most of all. If she cannot otherwise hurt her enemy, she is willing to destroy earth, sea, and heaven together. She is both harmful and hateful. Or, if we are to see her, let her appear as our poets have described her:

or, if possible, let some even more dreadful aspect be invented for this dreadful passion.

or, if possible, let someone imagine an even more terrifying appearance for this terrifying passion.

XXXVI. Some angry people, as Sextius remarks, have been benefited by looking at the glass: they have been struck by so great an alteration in their own appearance: they have been, as it were, brought into their own presence and have not recognized themselves: yet how small a part of the real hideousness of anger did that reflected image in the mirror reproduce? Could the mind be displayed or made to appear through any substance, we should be confounded when we beheld how black and stained, how agitated, distorted, and swollen it looked: even at present it is very ugly when seen through all the screens of blood, bones, and so forth: what would it be, were it displayed uncovered? You say, that you do not believe that any one was ever scared out of anger by a mirror: and why not? Because when he came to the mirror to change his mind, he had changed it already: to angry men no face looks fairer than one that is fierce and savage and such as they wish to look like. We ought rather to consider, how many men anger itself has injured. Some in their excessive heat have burst their veins; some by straining their voices beyond their strength have vomited blood, or have injured their sight by too violently injecting humours into their eyes, and have fallen sick when the fit passed off. No way leads more swiftly to madness: many have, consequently, remained always in the frenzy of anger, and, having once lost their reason, have never recovered it. Ajax was driven mad by anger, and driven to suicide by madness. Men, frantic with rage, call upon heaven to slay their children, to reduce themselves to poverty, and to ruin their houses, and yet declare that they are not either angry or insane. Enemies to their best friends, dangerous to their nearest and dearest, regardless of the laws save where they injure, swayed by the smallest trifles, unwilling to lend their ears to the advice or the services of their friends, they do everything by main force, and are ready either to fight with their swords or to throw themselves upon them, for the greatest of all evils, and one which surpasses all vices, has gained possession of them. Other passions gain a footing in the mind by slow degrees: anger’s conquest is sudden and complete, and, moreover, it makes all other passions subservient to itself. It conquers the warmest love: men have thrust swords through the bodies of those whom they loved, and have slain those in whose arms they have lain. Avarice, that sternest and most rigid of passions, is trampled underfoot by anger, which forces it to squander its carefully collected wealth and set fire to its house and all its property in one heap. Why, has not even the ambitious man been known to fling away the most highly valued ensigns of rank, and to refuse high office when it was offered to him? There is no passion over which anger does not bear absolute rule.

XXXVI. Some angry people, as Sextius observes, have benefited from looking in a mirror. They were struck by how much their appearance had changed. It was as if they had come face to face with themselves and failed to recognize themselves. Yet how little of anger’s true ugliness did that reflection show? If the mind could be shown, or seen through some material, its appearance would horrify us. We would see how dark and stained, how disturbed, twisted, and swollen it was. Even now, the mind looks very ugly through all its coverings of blood, bones, and the rest. What would it look like uncovered? You say you do not believe a mirror ever frightened anyone out of anger. Why not? Because anyone who approached a mirror to change his mind had already changed it. To angry people, no face looks more beautiful than a fierce and savage one. That is how they want to look. We should consider instead how many people anger itself has harmed. Some have burst their veins in the heat of anger. Some have vomited blood by straining their voices beyond their strength. Others have damaged their sight by forcing fluids too violently into their eyes, and fallen ill after the fit passed. No path leads more quickly to madness. Many have therefore remained permanently in anger’s frenzy. Once they lost their reason, they never recovered it. Anger drove Ajax mad, and madness drove him to suicide. People frantic with rage call on heaven to kill their children, impoverish them, and destroy their homes. Yet they insist they are neither angry nor insane. They become enemies to their best friends and a danger to those nearest and dearest to them. They disregard the laws except when the laws cause harm. The smallest trifles sway them. They refuse to listen to their friends’ advice or accept their help. They do everything by brute force, ready either to fight with their swords or throw themselves on them. For the greatest of all evils, worse than every vice, has taken possession of them. Other passions gradually gain a foothold in the mind. Anger conquers the mind suddenly and completely. Moreover, anger makes all other passions serve it. Anger overcomes the deepest love. Men have driven swords through the bodies of those they loved. They have killed those in whose arms they lay. Greed, the harshest and most unyielding of passions, is trampled underfoot by anger. Anger forces the greedy person to squander carefully gathered wealth and burn his house and all his possessions together. Why, have not even ambitious men thrown away the symbols of rank they valued most? Have they not refused high office when it was offered? There is no passion over which anger does not rule absolutely.