Anger, Book III

I. We will now, my Novatus, attempt to do that which you so especially long to do, that is, to drive out anger from our minds, or at all events to curb it and restrain its impulses. This may sometimes be done openly and without concealment, when we are only suffering from a slight attack of this mischief, and at other times it must be done secretly, when our anger is excessively hot, and when every obstacle thrown in its way increases it and makes it blaze higher. It is important to know how great and how fresh its strength may be, and whether it can be driven forcibly back and suppressed, or whether we must give way to it until its first storm blow over, lest it sweep away with it our remedies themselves. We must deal with each case according to each man’s character: some yield to entreaties, others are rendered arrogant and masterful by submission: we may frighten some men out of their anger, while some may be turned from their purpose by reproaches, some by acknowledging oneself to be in the wrong, some by shame, and some by delay, a tardy remedy for a hasty disorder, which we ought only to use when all others have failed: for other passions admit of having their case put off, and may be healed at a later time; but the eager and self-destructive violence of anger does not grow up by slow degrees, but reaches its full height as soon as it begins. Nor does it, like other vices, merely disturb men’s minds, but it takes them away, and torments them till they are incapable of restraining themselves and eager for the common ruin of all men, nor does it rage merely against its object, but against every obstacle which it encounters on its way. The other vices move our minds; anger hurls them headlong. If we are not able to withstand our passions, yet at any rate our passions ought to stand firm: but anger grows more and more powerful, like lightning flashes or hurricanes, or any other things which cannot stop themselves because they do not proceed along, but fall from above. Other vices affect our judgment, anger affects our sanity: others come in mild attacks and grow unnoticed, but men’s minds plunge abruptly into anger. There is no passion that is more frantic, more destructive to its own self; it is arrogant if successful, and frantic if it fails. Even when defeated it does not grow weary, but if chance places its foe beyond its reach, it turns its teeth against itself. Its intensity is in no way regulated by its origin: for it rises to the greatest heights from the most trivial beginnings.

I. My dear Novatus, let us now attempt what you especially long to do: drive anger from our minds. Or at least let us curb anger and restrain its impulses. Sometimes we can do this openly, without concealment, when we suffer only a mild attack of this evil. At other times we must work in secret, when anger burns too fiercely. Then every obstacle in anger’s path feeds the flames and makes them rise higher. We must know how strong the anger is and how recently it arose. Can we force it back and suppress it? Or must we give way until its first storm passes, lest the storm sweep away our remedies too? We must handle each case according to the person’s character. Some people yield to appeals, while others become arrogant and domineering when we give in to them. We may frighten some people out of their anger. Others may abandon their purpose when we criticize them, admit we were wrong, make them feel ashamed, or delay them. Delay is a slow remedy for a swift disorder, and we should use it only when all other remedies fail. Other passions can wait and may be cured later. But anger’s fierce, self-destructive violence does not grow slowly. Anger reaches its full height the moment it begins. Unlike other vices, anger does not merely disturb people’s minds. Anger robs people of their minds and torments them until they cannot restrain themselves and eagerly seek everyone’s destruction. Nor does anger rage only against its target. Anger attacks every obstacle in its path. Other vices stir our minds, but anger sends our minds hurtling headlong. Even if we cannot hold our passions back, at least the passions themselves ought to hold steady. But anger grows ever stronger, like lightning, hurricanes, or anything else that cannot stop itself. Such things do not move along a level course but fall from above. Other vices impair our judgment. Anger destroys our sanity. Other vices begin with mild attacks and grow unnoticed, but people’s minds plunge into anger all at once. No passion is more frenzied or more destructive to itself. Anger is arrogant when successful and frantic when it fails. Even defeat does not wear anger down. If chance puts its enemy beyond reach, anger turns its teeth on itself. The intensity of anger bears no relation to its cause. Anger rises to the greatest heights from the most trivial beginnings.

II. It passes over no time of life; no race of men is exempt from it: some nations have been saved from the knowledge of luxury by the blessing of poverty; some through their active and wandering habits have escaped from sloth; those whose manners are unpolished and whose life is rustic know not chicanery and fraud and all the evils to which the courts of law give birth: but there is no race which is not excited by anger, which is equally powerful with Greeks and barbarians, and is just as ruinous among law-abiding folk as among those whose only law is that of the stronger. Finally, the other passions seize upon individuals; anger is the only one which sometimes possesses a whole state. No entire people ever fell madly in love with a woman, nor did any nation ever set its affections altogether upon gain and profit. Ambition attacks single individuals; ungovernable rage is the only passion that affects nations. People often fly into a passion by troops; men and women, old men and boys, princes and populace all act alike, and the whole multitude, after being excited by a very few words, outdoes even its exciter: men betake themselves straightway to fire and sword, and proclaim a war against their neighbours or wage one against their countrymen. Whole houses are burned with the entire families which they contain, and he who but lately was honoured for his popular eloquence now finds that his speech moves people to rage. Legions aim their darts at their commander; the whole populace quarrels with the nobles; the senate, without waiting for troops to be levied or appointing a general, hastily chooses leaders, for its anger chases well-born men through the houses of Rome, and puts them to death with its own hand. Ambassadors are outraged, the law of nations violated, and an unnatural madness seizes the state. Without allowing time for the general excitement to subside, fleets are straightway launched and laden with a hastily enrolled soldiery. Without organization, without taking any auspices, the populace rushes into the field guided only by its own anger, snatches up whatever comes first to hand by way of arms, and then atones by a great defeat for the reckless audacity of its anger. This is usually the fate of savage nations when they plunge into war: as soon as their easily excited minds are roused by the appearance of wrong having been done them, they straightway hasten forth, and, guided only by their wounded feelings, fall like an avalanche upon our legions, without either discipline, fear, or precaution, and wilfully seeking for danger. They delight in being struck, in pressing forward to meet the blow, writhing their bodies along the weapon, and perishing by a wound which they themselves make.

II. Anger spares no age, and no race is free from it. Some nations have been spared the knowledge of luxury by the blessing of poverty. Others have escaped laziness through their active, wandering way of life. People with rough manners and rural lives know nothing of trickery, fraud, and all the evils bred by law courts. But no race is untouched by anger. Anger is equally powerful among Greeks and barbarians. It is just as destructive among law-abiding people as among those whose only law is the rule of the stronger. Finally, other passions take hold of individuals. Anger alone sometimes takes over an entire state. No whole people ever fell madly in love with a woman. Nor did any nation ever devote all its affections to gain and profit. Ambition attacks individuals. Uncontrollable rage alone takes hold of nations. People often fly into a rage in crowds. Men and women, old men and boys, rulers and ordinary people all act alike. A few words stir up the whole crowd, whose fury then exceeds even that of the person who stirred it. People immediately turn to fire and sword. They declare war on their neighbors or fight their fellow citizens. Whole houses are burned down with entire families inside. A man recently honored for his public speaking now finds that his words drive people to rage. Legions hurl their spears at their commander. The whole population fights with the nobles. The senate does not wait for troops to be raised or a general to be appointed. Instead, it hastily chooses leaders. In its anger, the senate hunts men of noble birth through the houses of Rome and kills them itself. Ambassadors are assaulted, the law of nations is violated, and an unnatural madness takes hold of the state. Without allowing time for the public frenzy to settle, people immediately launch fleets filled with hastily recruited soldiers. Without organization or consulting the omens, the people rush into battle, guided only by their anger. They seize whatever weapons come to hand. Then they pay for their anger's reckless daring with a crushing defeat. This is usually the fate of savage nations when they plunge into war. Their minds are easily stirred, and as soon as they think they have suffered a wrong, they rush out. Guided only by their wounded feelings, they fall like an avalanche upon our legions. They have no discipline, fear, or caution, and deliberately seek danger. They delight in being struck and in pressing forward to meet the blow. They twist their bodies along the weapon and die from a wound they themselves make.

III. “No doubt,” you say, “anger is very powerful and ruinous: point out, therefore, how it may be cured.” Yet, as I stated in my former books, Aristotle stands forth in defence of anger, and forbids it to be uprooted, saying that it is the spur of virtue, and that when it is taken away, our minds become weaponless, and slow to attempt great exploits. It is therefore essential to prove its unseemliness and ferocity, and to place distinctly before our eyes how monstrous a thing it is that one man should rage against another, with what frantic violence he rushes to destroy alike himself and his foe, and overthrows those very things whose fall he himself must share. What, then? can any one call this man sane, who, as though caught up by a hurricane, does not go but is driven, and is the slave of a senseless disorder? He does not commit to another the duty of revenging him, but himself exacts it, raging alike in thought and deed, butchering those who are dearest to him, and for whose loss he himself will ere long weep. Will any one give this passion as an assistant and companion to virtue, although it disturbs calm reason, without which virtue can do nothing? The strength which a sick man owes to a paroxysm of disease is neither lasting nor wholesome, and is strong only to its own destruction. You need not, therefore, imagine that I am wasting time over a useless task in defaming anger, as though men had not made up their minds about it, when there is some one, and he, too, an illustrious philosopher, who assigns it services to perform, and speaks of it as useful and supplying energy for battles, for the management of business, and indeed for everything which requires to be conducted with spirit. Lest it should delude any one into thinking that on certain occasions and in certain positions it may be useful, we must show its unbridled and frenzied madness, we must restore to it its attributes, the rack, the cord, the dungeon, and the cross, the fires lighted round men’s buried bodies, the hook¹ that drags both living men and corpses, the different kinds of fetters, and of punishments, the mutilations of limbs, the branding of the forehead, the dens of savage beasts. Anger should be represented as standing among these her instruments, growling in an ominous and terrible fashion, herself more shocking than any of the means by which she gives vent to her fury.

III. “No doubt,” you say, “anger is very powerful and destructive. Show us, then, how to cure it.” Yet, as I said in my earlier books, Aristotle defends anger and argues against rooting it out. He says anger spurs virtue, and that without anger our minds are unarmed and slow to attempt great deeds. So we must prove how ugly and savage anger is. We must show clearly how monstrous it is for one person to rage against another. See how violently he rushes to destroy both himself and his enemy. He tears down the very things whose fall must bring him down too. Can anyone call such a man sane? As though swept up by a hurricane, he does not move by choice but is driven along. He is a slave to a mindless frenzy. He does not leave revenge to someone else but takes it himself, raging in thought and action alike. He slaughters those dearest to him, whose loss he himself will soon mourn. Will anyone give this passion to virtue as a helper and companion? Anger disrupts calm reason, without which virtue can do nothing. The strength a sick man gains from a violent attack of illness is neither lasting nor healthy. That strength serves only to destroy him. So do not imagine I am wasting time on a pointless task by condemning anger, as though everyone already agreed. Someone, and an eminent philosopher at that, assigns anger useful duties. He describes anger as useful and energizing in battle, in managing business, and indeed in everything requiring spirit. We must prevent anger from deceiving anyone into thinking it may be useful on certain occasions and in certain circumstances. So we must show anger's uncontrolled, frenzied madness. We must restore anger's proper tools: the rack, the cord, the dungeon, and the cross. Add the fires lit around men's buried bodies, the hook¹ that drags both living men and corpses. Add the various kinds of shackles and punishments, the severed limbs, the branded foreheads, and the dens of savage beasts. Anger should be pictured standing among these tools of hers, growling with a menacing and terrible sound. She herself is more horrifying than any of the tools she uses to unleash her fury.

IV. There may be some doubt about the others, but at any rate no passion has a worse look. We have described the angry man’s appearance in our former books, how sharp and keen he looks, at one time pale as his blood is driven inwards and backwards, at another with all the heat and fire of his body directed to his face, making it reddish-coloured as if stained with blood, his eyes now restless and starting out of his head, now set motionless in one fixed gaze. Add to this his teeth, which gnash against one another, as though he wished to eat somebody, with exactly the sound of a wild boar sharpening his tusks: add also the cracking of his joints, the involuntary wringing of his hands, the frequent slaps he deals himself on the chest, his hurried breathing and deep-drawn sighs, his reeling body, his abrupt broken speech, and his trembling lips, which sometimes he draws tight as he hisses some curse through them. By Hercules, no wild beast, neither when tortured by hunger, or with a weapon struck through its vitals, not even when it gathers its last breath to bite its slayer, looks so shocking as a man raging with anger. Listen, if you have leisure, to his words and threats: how dreadful is the language of his agonized mind! Would not every man wish to lay aside anger when he sees that it begins by injuring himself? When men employ anger as the most powerful of agents, consider it to be a proof of power, and reckon a speedy revenge among the greatest blessings of great prosperity, would you not wish me to warn them that he who is the slave of his own anger is not powerful, nor even free? Would you not wish me to warn all the more industrious and circumspect of men, that while other evil passions assail the base, anger gradually obtains dominion over the minds even of learned and in other respects sensible men? So true is that, that some declare anger to be a proof of straight-forwardness, and it is commonly believed that the best-natured people are prone to it.

IV. There may be some doubt about the other passions, but certainly none looks worse than anger. In my earlier books, I described the angry man’s appearance and his fierce, piercing expression. Sometimes he is pale as his blood is driven inward and back. At other times, all his body’s heat and fire rush to his face, turning it red as if bloodstained. His eyes are sometimes restless and bulging, sometimes locked in a motionless stare. Add his grinding teeth, as though he wanted to eat someone. They make exactly the sound of a wild boar sharpening its tusks. Add his cracking joints, his involuntary hand-wringing, and the frequent blows he deals himself on the chest. Add his hurried breathing, deep sighs, swaying body, and abrupt, broken speech. His lips tremble, and sometimes he draws them tight as he hisses a curse through them. By Hercules, no wild beast looks as horrifying as a man raging with anger. Not when tormented by hunger, not with a weapon driven through its vital organs. Not even when gathering its last breath to bite its killer. Listen, if you have time, to his words and threats. How dreadful is the language of his tormented mind! Would not everyone want to give up anger on seeing that anger begins by harming the angry person himself? Some men use anger as their most powerful tool and consider it a sign of power. They count swift revenge among the greatest blessings of great prosperity. Would you not want me to warn them? A man enslaved by his own anger is not powerful, or even free. Would you not want me to warn all the more hardworking and careful men? Other destructive passions attack people of bad character. But anger gradually takes control even of educated men who are otherwise sensible. This is so true that some call anger a sign of honesty. People commonly believe that those with the kindest natures are prone to anger.

V. You ask me, whither does all this tend? To prove, I answer, that no one should imagine himself to be safe from anger, seeing that it rouses up even those who are naturally gentle and quiet to commit savage and violent acts. As strength of body and assiduous care of the health avail nothing against a pestilence, which attacks the strong and weak alike, so also steady and good-humoured people are just as liable to attacks of anger as those of unsettled character, and in the case of the former it is both more to be ashamed of and more to be feared, because it makes a greater alteration in their habits. Now as the first thing is not to be angry, the second to lay aside our anger, and the third to be able to heal the anger of others as well as our own, I will set forth first how we may avoid falling into anger; next, how we may set ourselves free from it, and, lastly, how we may restrain an angry man, appease his wrath, and bring him back to his right mind. We shall succeed in avoiding anger, if from time to time we lay before our minds all the vices connected with anger, and estimate it at its real value: it must be prosecuted before us and convicted: its evils must be thoroughly investigated and exposed. That we may see what it is, let it be compared with the worst vices. Avarice scrapes together and amasses riches for some better man to use: anger spends money; few can indulge in it for nothing. How many slaves an angry master drives to run away or to commit suicide! how much more he loses by his anger than the value of what he originally became angry about! Anger brings grief to a father, divorce to a husband, hatred to a magistrate, failure to a candidate for office. It is worse than luxury, because luxury enjoys its own pleasure, while anger enjoys another’s pain. It is worse than either spitefulness or envy; for they wish that some one may become unhappy, while anger wishes to make him so: they are pleased when evil befalls one by accident, but anger cannot wait upon Fortune; it desires to injure its victim personally, and is not satisfied merely with his being injured. Nothing is more dangerous than jealousy: it is produced by anger. Nothing is more ruinous than war: it is the outcome of powerful men’s anger; and even the anger of humble private persons, though without arms or armies, is nevertheless war. Moreover, even if we pass over its immediate consequences, such as heavy losses, treacherous plots, and the constant anxiety produced by strife, anger pays a penalty at the same moment that it exacts one: it forswears human feelings. The latter urge us to love, anger urges us to hatred: the latter bid us do men good, anger bids us do them harm. Add to this that, although its rage arises from an excessive self-respect and appears to show high spirit, it really is contemptible and mean: for a man must be inferior to one by whom he thinks himself despised, whereas the truly great mind, which takes a true estimate of its own value, does not revenge an insult because it does not feel it. As weapons rebound from a hard surface, and solid substances hurt those who strike them, so also no insult can make a really great mind sensible of its presence, being weaker than that against which it is aimed. How far more glorious is it to throw back all wrongs and insults from oneself, like one wearing armour of proof against all weapons, for revenge is an admission that we have been hurt. That cannot be a great mind which is disturbed by injury. He who has hurt you must be either stronger or weaker than yourself. If he be weaker, spare him: if he be stronger, spare yourself.

V. You ask me, where is all this leading? My answer is to prove that no one should think themselves safe from anger. Anger drives even naturally gentle, quiet people to commit savage, violent acts. Physical strength and careful attention to health offer no protection against a plague, which attacks strong and weak alike. In the same way, steady, good-natured people are just as vulnerable to anger as those with unstable characters. In steady people, anger is both more shameful and more frightening, because it changes their usual behavior more drastically. Our first aim is not to become angry. Our second is to let go of our anger. Our third is to be able to cure other people’s anger as well as our own. So I will first explain how we can avoid becoming angry. Next, I will explain how we can free ourselves from anger. Finally, I will explain how to restrain an angry person, calm his fury, and bring him back to reason. We will succeed in avoiding anger if we regularly consider all the vices connected with it and judge its true worth. We must put anger on trial and convict it. We must thoroughly investigate and expose its evils. To see anger for what it is, let us compare it with the worst vices. Greed scrapes together and piles up wealth for some better person to use. Anger spends money. Few people can indulge in anger without paying for it. How many slaves an angry master drives to run away or kill themselves! How much more his anger costs him than the value of whatever first made him angry! Anger brings grief to a father, divorce to a husband, hatred to a magistrate, and defeat to a candidate for office. Anger is worse than luxury, because luxury enjoys its own pleasure, while anger enjoys someone else’s pain. Anger is worse than either spite or envy. Spite and envy wish someone to be unhappy, while anger wishes to make him unhappy. Spite and envy take pleasure when misfortune happens to someone by chance. But anger cannot wait for Fortune. Anger wants to harm its victim personally and is not satisfied merely to see him harmed. Nothing is more dangerous than jealousy, and anger produces jealousy. Nothing is more destructive than war, and war is the result of powerful men’s anger. Even the anger of ordinary private citizens is war, though they have neither weapons nor armies. Moreover, suppose we overlook anger’s immediate consequences: heavy losses, treacherous plots, and the constant anxiety caused by conflict. Even then, anger suffers punishment at the very moment it inflicts punishment. Anger rejects our human feelings. Those feelings urge us to love, while anger urges us to hate. Those feelings tell us to help others, while anger tells us to harm them. Add to this that anger’s fury comes from excessive self-regard and seems to show strength of spirit. Yet anger is really contemptible and petty. A man must be inferior to anyone whose contempt he believes he has suffered. By contrast, a truly great mind knows its own worth. Such a mind does not avenge an insult, because it does not feel the insult. Weapons bounce off a hard surface, and solid objects hurt those who strike them. In the same way, no insult can make a truly great mind feel its impact. The insult is weaker than the mind it targets. How much more glorious to repel every wrong and insult, as though wearing armor that withstands every weapon! For revenge is an admission that we have been hurt. A mind disturbed by injury cannot be great. Whoever has hurt you must be either stronger or weaker than you. If he is weaker, spare him. If he is stronger, spare yourself.

VI. There is no greater proof of magnanimity than that nothing which befalls you should be able to move you to anger. The higher region of the universe, being more excellently ordered and near to the stars, is never gathered into clouds, driven about by storms, or whirled round by cyclones: it is free from all disturbance: the lightnings flash in the region below it. In like manner a lofty mind, always placid and dwelling in a serene atmosphere, restraining within itself all the impulses from which anger springs, is modest, commands respect, and remains calm and collected: none of which qualities will you find in an angry man: for who, when under the influence of grief and rage, does not first get rid of bashfulness? who, when excited and confused and about to attack some one, does not fling away any habits of shamefacedness he may have possessed? what angry man attends to the number or routine of his duties? who uses moderate language? who keeps any part of his body quiet? who can guide himself when in full career? We shall find much profit in that sound maxim of Democritus which defines peace of mind to consist in not labouring much, or too much for our strength, either in public or private matters. A man’s day, if he is engaged in many various occupations, never passes so happily that no man or no thing should give rise to some offence which makes the mind ripe for anger. Just as when one hurries through the crowded parts of the city one cannot help jostling many people, and one cannot help slipping at one place, being hindered at another, and splashed at another, so when one’s life is spent in disconnected pursuits and wanderings, one must meet with many troubles and many accusations. One man deceives our hopes, another delays their fulfilment, another destroys them: our projects do not proceed according to our intention. No one is so favoured by Fortune as to find her always on his side if he tempts her often: and from this it follows that he who sees several enterprises turn out contrary to his wishes becomes dissatisfied with both men and things, and on the slightest provocation flies into a rage with people, with undertakings, with places, with fortune, or with himself. In order, therefore, that the mind may be at peace, it ought not to be hurried hither and thither, nor, as I said before, wearied by labour at great matters, or matters whose attainment is beyond its strength. It is easy to fit one’s shoulder to a light burden, and to shift it from one side to the other without dropping it: but we have difficulty in bearing the burdens which others’ hands lay upon us, and when overweighted by them we fling them off upon our neighbours. Even when we do stand upright under our load, we nevertheless reel beneath a weight which is beyond our strength.

VI. There is no greater sign of greatness of spirit than remaining free from anger, whatever happens to you. The upper region of the universe is better ordered and closer to the stars. Clouds never gather there, storms never sweep through it, and cyclones never whirl it about. It is free from all disturbance. Lightning flashes in the region below. In the same way, a noble mind is always peaceful and lives in a calm atmosphere. It holds back every impulse that gives rise to anger. It is modest, commands respect, and remains calm and collected. You will find none of these qualities in an angry man. For who, overcome by grief and rage, does not first lose his sense of shame? Who, agitated, confused, and about to attack someone, does not throw aside whatever modesty he may have had? What angry man pays attention to the number or order of his duties? Who speaks with restraint? Who keeps any part of his body still? Who can control himself once he is charging ahead? We can gain much from Democritus's sound advice about peace of mind. He says we should not work too much, or beyond our strength, in either public or private affairs. If a man fills his day with many different tasks, the day never goes so well that nothing offends him. Someone or something always causes an irritation that leaves his mind ready for anger. Just so, when you hurry through crowded city streets, you cannot help bumping into many people. You cannot avoid slipping in one place, being held up in another, and getting splashed in another. Likewise, when you spend your life rushing between unrelated pursuits, you must encounter many troubles and accusations. One person disappoints our hopes, another delays their fulfillment, and another destroys them. Our plans do not work out as we intended. No one is so favored by Fortune that she always supports him if he tries his luck often. So a man who sees several ventures go against his wishes becomes dissatisfied with both people and circumstances. At the slightest provocation, he rages at people, tasks, places, fortune, or himself. For the mind to be at peace, then, it must not be rushed from one thing to another. Nor, as I said before, should it be exhausted by great undertakings or tasks beyond its strength. It is easy to shoulder a light load and shift it from side to side without dropping it. But we struggle to carry the burdens that other people's hands place on us. When those burdens become too heavy, we throw them off onto our neighbors. Even when we manage to stay upright under our load, we still stagger beneath a weight beyond our strength.

VII. Be assured that the same rule applies both to public and private life: simple and manageable undertakings proceed according to the pleasure of the person in charge of them, but enormous ones, beyond his capacity to manage, are not easily undertaken. When he has got them to administer, they hinder him, and press hard upon him, and just as he thinks that success is within his grasp, they collapse, and carry him with them: thus it comes about that a man’s wishes are often disappointed if he does not apply himself to easy tasks, yet wishes that the tasks which he undertakes may be easy. Whenever you would attempt anything, first form an estimate both of your own powers, of the extent of the matter which you are undertaking, and of the means by which you are to accomplish it: for if you have to abandon your work when it is half done, the disappointment will sour your temper. In such cases, it makes a difference whether one is of an ardent or of a cold and unenterprising temperament: for failure will rouse a generous spirit to anger, and will move a sluggish and dull one to sorrow. Let our undertakings, therefore, be neither petty nor yet presumptuous and reckless: let our hopes not range far from home: let us attempt nothing which if we succeed will make us astonished at our success.

VII. Be sure that the same rule applies to both public and private life. Simple, manageable tasks go as the person in charge wishes. But enormous tasks, beyond that person’s ability to manage, are not easy to take on. Once he has taken charge of them, they get in his way and weigh heavily on him. Just as he thinks success is within reach, they collapse and drag him down with them. So a man’s wishes often go unfulfilled if he avoids easy tasks but wants his chosen tasks to be easy. Whenever you attempt anything, first assess your own abilities, the scale of the task, and the means of completing it. For if you must abandon your work halfway through, disappointment will sour your temper. In such cases, your response depends on whether you are passionate or cool and unambitious. Failure will stir a spirited person to anger, but leave a sluggish, dull person sad. So let our undertakings be neither petty nor overconfident and reckless. Let our hopes stay close to home. Let us attempt nothing whose success would astonish us.

VIII. Since we know not how to endure an injury, let us take care not to receive one: we should live with the quietest and easiest-tempered persons, not with anxious or with sullen ones: for our own habits are copied from those with whom we associate, and just as some bodily diseases are communicated by touch, so also the mind transfers its vices to its neighbours. A drunkard leads even those who reproach him to grow fond of wine: profligate society will, if permitted, impair the morals even of robust-minded men: avarice infects those nearest it with its poison. Virtues do the same thing in the opposite direction, and improve all those with whom they are brought in contact: it is as good for one of unsettled principles to associate with better men than himself as for an invalid to live in a warm country with a healthy climate. You will understand how much may be effected this way, if you observe how even wild beasts grow tame by dwelling among us, and how no animal, however ferocious, continues to be wild, if it has long been accustomed to human companionship: all its savageness becomes softened, and amid peaceful scenes is gradually forgotten. We must add to this, that the man who lives with quiet people is not only improved by their example, but also by the fact that he finds no reason for anger and does not practise his vice: it will, therefore, be his duty to avoid all those who he knows will excite his anger. You ask, who these are: many will bring about the same thing by various means; a proud man will offend you by his disdain, a talkative man by his abuse, an impudent man by his insults, a spiteful man by his malice, a quarrelsome man by his wrangling, a braggart and liar by his vain-gloriousness: you will not endure to be feared by a suspicious man, conquered by an obstinate one, or scorned by an ultra-refined one: Choose straightforward, good-natured, steady people, who will not provoke your wrath, and will bear with it. Those whose dispositions are yielding, polite and suave, will be of even greater service, provided they do not flatter, for excessive obsequiousness irritates bad-tempered men. One of my own friends was a good man indeed, but too prone to anger, and it was as dangerous to flatter him as to curse him. Caelius the orator, it is well known, was the worst-tempered man possible. It is said that once he was dining in his own chamber with an especially long-suffering client, but had great difficulty when thrown thus into a man’s society to avoid quarrelling with him. The other thought it best to agree to whatever he said, and to play second fiddle, but Caelius could not bear his obsequious agreement, and exclaimed, “Do contradict me in something, that there may be two of us!” Yet even he, who was angry at not being angry, soon recovered his temper, because he had no one to fight with. If, then, we are conscious of an irascible disposition, let us especially choose for our friends those who will look and speak as we do: they will pamper us and lead us into a bad habit of listening to nothing that does not please us, but it will be good to give our anger respite and repose. Even those who are naturally crabbed and wild will yield to caresses: no creature continues either angry or frightened if you pat him. Whenever a controversy seems likely to be longer or more keenly disputed than usual, let us check its first beginnings, before it gathers strength. A dispute nourishes itself as it proceeds, and takes hold of those who plunge too deeply into it: it is easier to stand aloof than to extricate oneself from a struggle.

VIII. Since we do not know how to endure an injury, let us take care not to suffer one. We should live with the calmest, most easygoing people, not with anxious or gloomy ones. For we copy the habits of those around us. Just as some bodily diseases spread through touch, so the mind passes its vices to its neighbors. A drunkard leads even those who criticize him to grow fond of wine. If allowed, immoral company will weaken the morals even of strong-minded men. Greed infects those nearest it with its poison. Virtues work in the opposite direction, improving everyone they touch. Someone whose principles are unsteady benefits from the company of better men. The benefit is like that of a sick person living in a warm country with a healthy climate. You will understand how much such company can achieve by watching wild beasts grow tame among us. No animal, however fierce, remains wild after long exposure to human company. All its savagery softens and is gradually forgotten in peaceful surroundings. We must also remember that someone who lives with calm people improves not only through their example. He also finds no reason for anger and gets no practice in his vice. He must therefore avoid everyone he knows will stir his anger. You ask who these people are. Many will provoke you in different ways. A proud man will offend you with his contempt, a talkative man with his abuse, an insolent man with his insults. A spiteful man will offend you with his malice, a quarrelsome man with his arguments. A boastful liar will offend you with his self-importance. You will not tolerate being feared by a suspicious man, beaten by a stubborn one, or scorned by someone excessively refined. Choose honest, good-natured, steady people who will not provoke your anger and will put up with it. People who are accommodating, polite, and pleasant will help even more, provided they do not flatter you. Excessive eagerness to please irritates bad-tempered men. One of my own friends was a truly good man, but too quick to anger. Flattering him was as dangerous as cursing him. Caelius the orator, as everyone knows, had the worst temper imaginable. Once, they say, he was dining in his own room with an especially patient client. Even in this company, Caelius found it very difficult to avoid a quarrel. His companion thought it best to agree with everything Caelius said and let him take the lead. But Caelius could not bear such eager agreement and exclaimed, “Do disagree with me about something, so there can be two of us!” Yet even Caelius, angry because he was not angry, soon regained his temper because he had no one to fight. If, then, we know we are quick-tempered, let us especially choose friends whose expressions and words agree with ours. These friends will pamper us. They will encourage the bad habit of listening only to what pleases us. Still, giving our anger rest and relief will do us good. Even people who are naturally ill-tempered and wild will yield to gentle affection. No creature remains angry or frightened if you stroke it. Whenever an argument seems likely to last longer or become fiercer than usual, let us stop it at the start. We must act before the argument gathers strength. An argument feeds itself as it continues and takes hold of those who get too deeply involved. It is easier to stay out of a struggle than to escape from one.

IX. Irascible men ought not to meddle with the more serious class of occupations, or, at any rate, ought to stop short of weariness in the pursuit of them; their mind ought not to be engaged upon hard subjects, but handed over to pleasing arts: let it be softened by reading poetry, and interested by legendary history: let it be treated with luxury and refinement. Pythagoras used to calm his troubled spirit by playing upon the lyre: and who does not know that trumpets and clarions are irritants, just as some airs are lullabies and soothe the mind? Green is good for wearied eyes, and some colours are grateful to weak sight, while the brightness of others is painful to it. In the same way cheerful pursuits soothe unhealthy minds. We must avoid law courts, pleadings, verdicts, and everything else that aggravates our fault, and we ought no less to avoid bodily weariness; for it exhausts all that is quiet and gentle in us, and rouses bitterness. For this reason those who cannot trust their digestion, when they are about to transact business of importance always allay their bile with food, for it is peculiarly irritated by fatigue, either because it draws the vital heat into the middle of the body, and injures the blood and stops its circulation by the clogging of the veins, or else because the worn-out and weakened body reacts upon the mind: this is certainly the reason why those who are broken by ill-health or age are more irascible than other men. Hunger also and thirst should be avoided for the same reason; they exasperate and irritate men’s minds: it is an old saying that “a weary man is quarrelsome “: and so also is a hungry or a thirsty man, or one who is suffering from any cause whatever: for just as sores pain one at the slightest touch, and afterwards even at the fear of being touched, so an unsound mind takes offence at the slightest things, so that even a greeting, a letter, a speech, or a question, provokes some men to anger.

IX. People prone to anger should not take on more demanding work. Or at least they should stop before the work wears them out. Their minds should not wrestle with difficult subjects but turn instead to enjoyable arts. Let poetry soften their minds, and let legendary history hold their interest. Let them enjoy luxury and refinement. Pythagoras used to calm his troubled spirit by playing the lyre. And who does not know that trumpets and clarions stir us up, just as some tunes soothe us like lullabies? Green is good for tired eyes. Some colors are pleasant to weak eyes, while the brightness of others hurts them. In the same way, cheerful activities soothe unhealthy minds. We must avoid courts, legal arguments, verdicts, and everything else that makes our tendency to anger worse. We must also avoid physical exhaustion, because exhaustion drains all that is calm and gentle in us and stirs up bitterness. For this reason, people who cannot trust their digestion always eat to settle their bile before handling important business. Fatigue especially irritates the bile. This happens either because fatigue draws vital heat into the body's center, damages the blood, and blocks circulation by clogging veins. Or it happens because the exhausted, weakened body affects the mind in turn. This effect of the body on the mind certainly explains why people weakened by illness or age are more irritable than others. We should also avoid hunger and thirst for the same reason: both aggravate and irritate people's minds. As the old saying goes, “a tired person is quarrelsome”. So is a hungry or thirsty person, or anyone suffering for any reason. Sores hurt at the slightest touch, and later even at the fear of being touched. In the same way, an unhealthy mind takes offense at the smallest things. As a result, even a greeting, a letter, a speech, or a question makes some people angry.

X. That which is diseased can never bear to be handled without complaining: it is best, therefore, to apply remedies to oneself as soon as we feel that anything is wrong, to allow oneself as little licence as possible in speech, and to restrain one’s impetuosity: now it is easy to detect the first growth of our passions: the symptoms precede the disorder. Just as the signs of storms and rain come before the storms themselves, so there are certain forerunners of anger, love, and all the storms which torment our minds. Those who suffer from epilepsy know that the fit is coming on if their extremities become cold, their sight fails, their sinews tremble, their memory deserts them, and their head swims: they accordingly check the growing disorder by applying the usual remedies: they try to prevent the loss of their senses by smelling or tasting some drug; they battle against cold and stiffness of limbs by hot fomentations; or, if all remedies fail, they retire apart, and faint where no one sees them fall. It is useful for a man to understand his disease, and to break its strength before it becomes developed. Let us see what it is that especially irritates us. Some men take offence at insulting words, others at deeds: one wishes his pedigree, another his person, to be treated with respect. This man wishes to be considered especially fashionable, that man to be thought especially learned: one cannot bear pride, another cannot bear obstinacy. One thinks it beneath him to be angry with his slaves, another is cruel at home, but gentle abroad. One imagines that he is proposed for office because he is unpopular, another thinks himself insulted because he is not proposed. People do not all take offence in the same way; you ought then to know what your own weak point is, that you may guard it with especial care.

X. Anything diseased cannot bear to be touched without complaining. So it is best to treat ourselves as soon as we feel something is wrong. We should give ourselves as little freedom as possible in speech and hold back our impulses. It is easy to detect our passions when they first arise. The symptoms come before the illness. Just as signs of storms and rain come before the storms themselves, our passions give warning signs. Anger, love, and all the storms that torment our minds have such warnings. People with epilepsy know a seizure is coming if their hands and feet grow cold or their sight fails. Other signs include trembling muscles, failing memory, and dizziness. So they use their usual remedies to check the developing illness. They try to prevent losing consciousness by smelling or tasting some medicine. They fight cold and stiff limbs with hot compresses. Or, if all remedies fail, they withdraw to faint where no one sees them fall. It is useful to understand your illness and weaken it before it fully develops. Let us consider what irritates us most. Some men take offense at insulting words, others at actions. One wants his ancestry respected, another his person. One man wants to be considered especially fashionable, another especially learned. One cannot bear arrogance, another stubbornness. One thinks it beneath him to be angry with his slaves. Another is cruel at home but gentle in public. One imagines he is nominated for office because he is unpopular. Another feels insulted because he is not nominated. People do not all take offense in the same way. So you should know your own weak point and guard it with special care.

XI. It is better not to see or to hear everything: many causes of offence may pass by us, most of which are disregarded by the man who ignores them. Would you not be irascible? then be not inquisitive. He who seeks to know what is said about him, who digs up spiteful tales even if they were told in secret, is himself the destroyer of his own peace of mind. Some stories may be so construed as to appear to be insults: wherefore it is best to put some aside, to laugh at others, and to pardon others. There are many ways in which anger may be checked; most things may be turned into jest. It is said that Socrates when he was given a box on the ear, merely said that it was a pity a man could not tell when he ought to wear his helmet out walking. It does not so much matter how an injury is done, as how it is borne; and I do not see how moderation can be hard to practise, when I know that even despots, though success and impunity combine to swell their pride, have sometimes restrained their natural ferocity. At any rate, tradition informs us that once, when a guest in his cups bitterly reproached Pisistratus, the despot of Athens, for his cruelty, many of those present offered to lay hands on the traitor, and one said one thing and one another to kindle his wrath, he bore it coolly, and replied to those who were egging him on, that he was no more angry with the man than he should be with one who ran against him blindfold.

XI. It is better not to see or hear everything. Many causes of offense may pass us by, and someone unaware of them disregards most of them. Do you want to avoid being quick-tempered? Then do not pry. Anyone who tries to discover what others say about him destroys his own peace of mind. He digs up spiteful stories even when they were told in secret. Some stories can be interpreted as insults. So it is best to dismiss some, laugh at others, and forgive still others. There are many ways to check anger. Most things can be turned into a joke. Socrates, we are told, once received a slap on the ear. He merely said it was a pity a man could not know when to wear his helmet while walking. How an injury is inflicted matters less than how it is endured. I do not see why self-restraint should be hard to practice. Even tyrants have sometimes restrained their natural cruelty, although success and freedom from punishment combine to inflate their pride. At any rate, tradition tells us that a drunken guest once bitterly criticized Pisistratus, the tyrant of Athens, for his cruelty. Many of those present offered to seize the traitor. One said one thing and another said something else, all trying to stir up his anger. But Pisistratus took the criticism calmly. He told those urging him on that he was no angrier with the man than with someone who bumped into him blindfolded.

XII. A large part of mankind manufacture their own grievances either by entertaining unfounded suspicions or by exaggerating trifles. Anger often comes to us, but we often go to it. It ought never to be sent for: even when it falls in our way it ought to be flung aside. No one says to himself, “I myself have done or might have done this very thing which I am angry with another for doing.” No one considers the intention of the doer, but merely the thing done: yet we ought to think about him, and whether he did it intentionally or accidentally, under compulsion or under a mistake, whether he did it out of hatred for us, or to gain something for himself, whether he did it to please himself or to serve a friend. In some cases the age, in others the worldly fortunes of the culprit may render it humane or advantageous to bear with him and put up with what he has done. Let us put ourselves in the place of him with whom we are angry: at present an overweening conceit of our own importance makes us prone to anger, and we are quite willing to do to others what we cannot endure should be done to ourselves. No one will postpone his anger: yet delay is the best remedy for it, because it allows its first glow to subside, and gives time for the cloud which darkens the mind either to disperse or at any rate to become less dense. Of these wrongs which drive you frantic, some will grow lighter after an interval, not of a day, but even of an hour: some will vanish altogether. Even if you gain nothing by your adjournment, still what you do after it will appear to be the result of mature deliberation, not of anger. If you want to find out the truth about anything, commit the task to time: nothing can be accurately discerned at a time of disturbance. Plato, when angry with his slave, could not prevail upon himself to wait, but straightway ordered him to take off his shirt and present his shoulders to the blows which he meant to give him with his own hand: then, when he perceived that he was angry, he stopped the hand which he had raised in the air, and stood like one in act to strike. Being asked by a friend who happened to come in, what he was doing, he answered: “I am making an angry man expiate his crime.” He retained the posture of one about to give way to passion, as if struck with astonishment at its being so degrading to a philosopher, forgetting the slave, because he had found another still more deserving of punishment. He therefore denied himself the exercise of authority over his own household, and once, being rather angry at some fault, said, “Speusippus, will you please to correct that slave with stripes; for I am in a rage.” He would not strike him, for the very reason for which another man would have struck him. “I am in a rage,” said he; “I should beat him more than I ought: I should take more pleasure than I ought in doing so: let not that slave fall into the power of one who is not in his own power.” Can any one wish to grant the power of revenge to an angry man, when Plato himself gave up his own right to exercise it? While you are angry, you ought not to be allowed to do anything. “Why?” do you ask? Because when you are angry there is nothing that you do not wish to be allowed to do.

XII. Many people create their own grievances by feeding groundless suspicions or making too much of small things. Anger often comes to us, but we often go looking for it. We should never invite anger. Even when anger crosses our path, we should cast it aside. No one says to himself, “I have done, or might have done, the very thing I am angry with someone else for doing.” No one considers the other person’s intention, only the act itself. Yet we should consider the person who acted. Did he act deliberately or by accident, under pressure or because of a mistake? Did he act out of hatred for us or to gain something for himself? Was he pleasing himself or helping a friend? Sometimes the offender’s age or circumstances may make patience humane or to our advantage. Let us put ourselves in the place of the person we are angry with. As things stand, an inflated sense of our own importance makes us quick to anger. We readily do to others what we cannot bear to have done to us. No one is willing to put off his anger. Yet delay is the best remedy for anger. Delay lets the first heat fade and gives the cloud over the mind time to clear, or at least thin. Some of the wrongs driving you frantic will seem less serious after not a day, but even an hour. Some will disappear altogether. Even if you gain nothing by waiting, your later actions will still look like the result of careful thought, not anger. If you want to discover the truth about anything, leave the task to time. Nothing can be judged accurately when the mind is disturbed. Plato, angry with his slave, could not bring himself to wait. He immediately ordered the slave to remove his shirt and bare his shoulders for a beating. Plato intended to deliver the blows himself. Then, realizing he was angry, he stopped his raised hand and stood poised to strike. A friend happened to come in and asked what he was doing. Plato answered: “I am making an angry man pay for his crime.” He remained poised to give way to anger, as if astonished that anger could so degrade a philosopher. He forgot the slave because he had found someone else who deserved punishment even more. So Plato refused to exercise authority over his own household. Once, rather angry over some fault, he said, “Speusippus, will you please whip that slave? I am in a rage.” He refused to strike the slave for the very reason another man would have struck him. “I am in a rage,” he said. “I would beat him more than I should. I would take more pleasure in the beating than I should. Do not let that slave fall into the power of someone who has no power over himself.” Can anyone want to give an angry man the power to take revenge, when Plato himself surrendered that right? While you are angry, you should not be allowed to do anything. “Why?” you ask. Because when you are angry, there is nothing you do not want permission to do.

XIII. Fight hard with yourself and if you cannot conquer anger, do not let it conquer you: you have begun to get the better of it if it does not show itself, if it is not given vent. Let us conceal its symptoms, and as far as possible keep it secret and hidden. It will give us great trouble to do this, for it is eager to burst forth, to kindle our eyes and to transform our face; but if we allow it to show itself in our outward appearance, it is our master. Let it rather be locked in the innermost recesses of our breast, and be borne by us, not bear us: nay, let us replace all its symptoms by their opposites; let us make our countenance more composed than usual, our voice milder, our step slower. Our inward thoughts gradually become influenced by our outward demeanour. With Socrates it was a sign of anger when he lowered his voice, and became sparing of speech; it was evident at such times that he was exercising restraint over himself. His friends, consequently, used to detect him acting thus, and convict him of being angry; nor was he displeased at being charged with concealment of anger; indeed, how could he help being glad that many men should perceive his anger, yet that none should feel it? they would however, have felt it had not he granted to his friends the same right of criticizing his own conduct which he himself assumed over theirs. How much more needful is it for us to do this? let us beg all our best friends to give us their opinion with the greatest freedom at the very time when we can bear it least, and never to be compliant with us when we are angry. While we are in our right senses, while we are under our own control, let us call for help against so powerful an evil, and one which we regard with such unjust favour. Those who cannot carry their wine discreetly, and fear to be betrayed into some rash and insolent act, give their slaves orders to take them away from the banquet when they are drunk; those who know by experience how unreasonable they are when sick give orders that no one is to obey them when they are in ill health. It is best to prepare obstacles beforehand for vices which are known, and above all things so to tranquilize our mind that it may bear the most sudden and violent shocks either without feeling anger, or, if anger be provoked by the extent of some unexpected wrong, that it may bury it deep, and not betray its wound. That it is possible to do this will be seen, if I quote a few of an abundance of examples, from which we may learn both how much evil there is in anger, when it exercises entire dominion over men in supreme power, and how completely it can control itself when overawed by fear.

XIII. Struggle hard with yourself. If you cannot conquer anger, do not let anger conquer you. You have begun to gain the upper hand if your anger does not show, if you do not release it. Let us hide its signs and keep it as secret as possible. Hiding anger will take great effort, because anger is eager to burst out, set our eyes ablaze, and change our expression. But if we let anger show in our appearance, anger is our master. Instead, let us lock anger deep within our hearts. Let us carry anger rather than let anger carry us away. Better still, let us replace every sign of anger with its opposite. Let us make our expression calmer than usual, our voice gentler, and our pace slower. Our outward behavior gradually influences our thoughts. When Socrates lowered his voice and said little, his behavior was a sign of anger. At such times, he was clearly restraining himself. His friends would notice his restraint and point out that he was angry. He did not resent being accused of hiding his anger. Indeed, how could he help being glad that many people noticed his anger, yet no one suffered from it? His friends would have suffered, however, unless he had given them the same right to criticize his behavior that he claimed over theirs. How much more necessary is such openness for us? Let us ask all our closest friends to speak with complete freedom precisely when we can least bear their criticism. Let us ask them never to give in to us when we are angry. While we are thinking clearly and have control of ourselves, let us call for help against so powerful an evil. We look on anger with such unjustified favor. People who cannot handle their wine sensibly fear being led into some reckless and insulting act. So they order their slaves to take them away from the banquet when they are drunk. Others know from experience how unreasonable they become when sick. So they order everyone not to obey them when they are ill. It is best to prepare safeguards beforehand against faults we know we have. Above all, we should calm our minds enough to withstand the most sudden and violent shocks without anger. Or, if some unexpected wrong is so great that it provokes anger, we should bury that anger deep. We should not reveal the hurt. A few examples from the many available will show that such restraint is possible. These examples will teach us how much harm anger causes when it completely rules people who hold supreme power. They will also show how completely anger can restrain itself when held in check by fear.

XIV. King Cambyses² was excessively addicted to wine. Praexaspes was the only one of his closest friends who advised him to drink more sparingly, pointing out how shameful a thing drunkenness was in a king, upon whom all eyes and ears were fixed. Cambyses answered, “That you may know that I never lose command of myself, I will presently prove to you that both my eyes and my hands are fit for service after I have been drinking.” Hereupon he drank more freely than usual, using larger cups, and when heavy and besotted with wine ordered his reprover’s son to go beyond the threshold and stand there with his left hand raised above his head; then he bent his bow and pierced the youth’s heart, at which he had said that he aimed. He then had his breast cut open, showed the arrow sticking exactly into the heart, and, looking at the boy’s father, asked whether his hand was not steady enough. He replied, that Apollo himself could not have taken better aim. God confound such a man, a slave in mind, if not in station! He actually praised an act which he ought not to have endured to witness. He thought that the breast of his son being torn assunder, and his heart quivering with its wound, gave him an opportunity of making a complimentary speech. He ought to have raised a dispute with him about his success, and have called for another shot, that the king might be pleased to prove upon the person of the father that his hand was even steadier than when he shot the son. What a savage king! what a worthy mark for all his follower’s arrows! Yet though we curse him for making his banquet end in cruelty and death, still it was worse to praise that arrow-shot than to shoot it. We shall see hereafter how a father ought to bear himself when standing over the corpse of his son, whose murder he had both caused and witnessed: the matter which we are now discussing, has been proved, I mean, that anger can be suppressed. He did not curse the king, he did not so much as let fall a single inauspicious word, though he felt his own heart as deeply wounded as that of his son. He may be said to have done well in choking down his words; for though he might have spoken as an angry man, yet he could not have expressed what he felt as a father. He may, I repeat, be thought to have behaved with greater wisdom on that occasion than when he tried to regulate the drink of one who was better employed in drinking wine than in drinking blood, and who granted men peace while his hands were busy with the winecup. He, therefore, added one more to the number of those who have shown to their bitter cost how little kings care for their friends’ good advice.

XIV. King Cambyses² was deeply addicted to wine. Praexaspes was the only one of his closest friends who advised him to drink less. He pointed out how shameful drunkenness was in a king, whose every move and word drew everyone's attention. Cambyses answered, “I will show you that I never lose control of myself. I will prove right now that my eyes and hands still work properly after I have been drinking.” He then drank more than usual, using larger cups. When he was heavy and muddled with wine, he sent his critic’s son outside the doorway. He ordered the boy to stand there with his left hand raised above his head. Then he drew his bow and shot the boy through the heart, exactly where he had said he was aiming. He then had the boy’s chest cut open and showed the arrow lodged squarely in his heart. Looking at the boy’s father, he asked whether his hand was steady enough. Praexaspes replied that Apollo himself could not have aimed better. God curse such a man, a slave in spirit, if not in rank! He actually praised an act he should not have endured watching. His son’s chest lay torn open, and his wounded heart still quivered. The father saw an opportunity for a compliment. He should have challenged the king’s success and called for another shot. Then the king could have enjoyed proving his hand even steadier on the father than on the son. What a savage king! What a fitting target for the arrows of all his followers! Yet although we curse him for ending his banquet in cruelty and death, praising that shot was worse than firing it. Later we shall consider how a father should behave beside his son’s corpse, having both caused and witnessed his murder. For now, the point we are discussing has been proved: anger can be suppressed. Praexaspes did not curse the king. He did not let slip even one word of ill omen, though his own heart felt as deeply wounded as his son’s. He may be said to have done well to hold back his words. Although he could have spoken as an angry man, he could not have expressed what he felt as a father. Again, he may be thought wiser then than when he tried to control the king’s drinking. The king was better occupied drinking wine than drinking blood. He left people in peace while his hands were busy with the winecup. So Praexaspes joined the many who have learned, at bitter cost, how little kings care for their friends’ good advice.

XV. I have no doubt that Harpagus must have given some such advice to the king of the Persians and of himself, in anger at which the king placed Harpagus’s own children before him on the dinner-table for him to eat, and asked him from time to time, whether he liked the seasoning. Then, when he saw that he was satiated with his own misery, he ordered their heads to be brought to him, and asked him how he liked his entertainment. The wretched man did not lose his readiness of speech; his face did not change. “Every kind of dinner,” said he, “is pleasant at the king’s table.” What did he gain by this obsequiousness? He avoided being invited a second time to dinner, to eat what was left of them. I do not forbid a father to blame the act of his king, or to seek for some revenge worthy of so bloodthirsty a monster, but in the meanwhile I gather from the tale this fact, that even the anger which arises from unheard of outrages can be concealed, and forced into using language which is the very reverse of its meaning. This way of curbing anger is necessary, at least for those who have chosen this sort of life and who are admitted to dine at a king’s table; this is how they must eat and drink, this is how they must answer, and how they must laugh at their own deaths. Whether life is worth having at such a price, we shall see hereafter; that is another question. Let us not console so sorry a crew, or encourage them to submit to the orders of their butchers; let us point out that however slavish a man’s condition may be, there is always a path to liberty open to him, unless his mind be diseased. It is a man’s own fault if he suffers, when by putting an end to himself he can put an end to his misery. To him whose king aimed arrows at the breasts of his friends, and to him whose master gorged fathers with the hearts of their children, I would say “Madman, why do you groan? for what are you waiting? for some enemy to avenge you by the destruction of your entire nation, or for some powerful king to arrive from a distant land? Wherever you turn your eyes you may see an end to your woes. Do you see that precipice? down that lies the road to liberty; do you see that sea? that river? that well? Liberty sits at the bottom of them. Do you see that tree? stunted, blighted, dried up though it be, yet liberty hangs from its branches. Do you see your own throat, your own neck, your own heart? they are so many ways of escape from slavery. Are these modes which I point out too laborious, and needing much strength and courage? do you ask what path leads to liberty? I answer, any vein³ in your body.

XV. I have no doubt that Harpagus must have given some such advice to the king who ruled Persia and Harpagus himself. Angered by that advice, the king served Harpagus his own children at dinner. From time to time, he asked Harpagus whether he liked the seasoning. Then, when he saw that Harpagus had had his fill of his own misery, he ordered their heads brought in. He asked Harpagus how he liked the meal. The wretched man still had a ready answer. His expression did not change. “Every kind of dinner,” he said, “is pleasant at the king’s table.” What did he gain by such groveling? He avoided another dinner invitation to eat what remained of his children. I do not forbid a father to condemn his king’s act or seek revenge worthy of so bloodthirsty a monster. But for now, I draw this lesson from the story. Even anger caused by unheard-of outrages can be hidden and forced to say the opposite of what it means. Such control of anger is necessary, at least for those who choose this life and dine at a king’s table. This is how they must eat and drink, how they must answer, and how they must laugh at their own deaths. Whether life is worth such a price is something we will consider later. That is another question. Let us not comfort so pitiful a crowd or encourage them to obey their butchers. Instead, let us point out that even the most enslaved man always has a path to freedom. Only a diseased mind can close that path. A man has only himself to blame for suffering when he can end his misery by ending his life. I would address the man whose king shot arrows at his friends’ chests. I would also address the man whose master stuffed fathers with their children’s hearts. To both I would say, “Madman, why do you groan? What are you waiting for? Some enemy to avenge you by destroying your entire nation? Or some powerful king to arrive from a distant land? Wherever you look, you can see an end to your suffering. Do you see that cliff? The road to freedom lies down there. Do you see that sea? That river? That well? Freedom waits at the bottom of them. Do you see that tree? Though it is stunted, blighted, and dried up, freedom still hangs from its branches. Do you see your own throat, your own neck, your own heart? Each offers an escape from slavery. Are the ways I point out too difficult, requiring too much strength and courage? Do you ask what path leads to freedom? I answer, any vein³ in your body.

XVI. As long, however, as we find nothing in our life so unbearable as to drive us to suicide, let us, in whatever position we may be, set anger far from us: it is destructive to those who are its slaves. All its rage turns to its own misery, and authority becomes all the more irksome the more obstinately it is resisted. It is like a wild animal whose struggles only pull the noose by which it is caught tighter; or like birds who, while flurriedly trying to shake themselves free, smear birdlime on to all their feathers. No yoke is so grievous as not to hurt him who struggles against it more than him who yields to it: the only way to alleviate great evils is to endure them and to submit to do what they compel. This control of our passions, and especially of this mad and unbridled passion of anger, is useful to subjects, but still more useful to kings. All is lost when a man’s position enables him to carry out whatever anger prompts him to do; nor can power long endure if it be exercised to the injury of many, for it becomes endangered as soon as common fear draws together those who bewail themselves separately. Many kings, therefore, have fallen victims, some to single individuals, others to entire peoples, who have been forced by general indignation to make one man the minister of their wrath. Yet many kings have indulged their anger as though it were a privilege of royalty, like Darius, who, after the dethronement of the Magian, was the first ruler of the Persians and of the greater part of the East: for when he declared war⁴ against the Scythians who bordered on the empire of the East, Oeobazus, an aged noble, begged that one of his three sons might be left at home to comfort his father, and that the king might be satisfied with the services of two of them. Darius promised him more than he asked for, saying that he would allow all three to remain at home, and flung their dead bodies before their father’s eyes. He would have been harsh, had he taken them all to the war with him. How much more good-natured was Xerxes,⁵ who, when Pythias, the father of five sons, begged for one to be excused from service, permitted him to choose which he wished for. He then tore the son whom the father had chosen into two halves, placed one on each side of the road, and, as it were, purified his army by means of this propitiatory victim. He therefore had the end which he deserved, being defeated, and his army scattered far and wide in utter rout, while he in the midst of it walked among the corpses of his soldiers, seeing on all sides the signs of his own overthrow.

XVI. As long as nothing in our lives is so unbearable that it drives us to suicide, let us keep anger away. Whatever our position, anger destroys those it enslaves. All its fury turns into misery for the angry person. And authority becomes more oppressive the more stubbornly we resist it. An angry person is like a wild animal whose struggles only tighten the noose that traps it. Or like birds that frantically try to free themselves, only to spread birdlime over all their feathers. No yoke is so harsh that it does not hurt those who struggle more than those who yield. The only way to ease great evils is to endure them and accept what they force us to do. Controlling our passions, especially the mad, unrestrained passion of anger, is useful to subjects, but even more useful to kings. All is lost when a man's position lets him do whatever anger urges him to do. Nor can power last long when used to harm many people. Such power becomes endangered as soon as shared fear unites those who mourn their suffering separately. Many kings have therefore fallen victim, some to individuals, others to entire peoples. Shared outrage has driven these peoples to choose one man to carry out their vengeance. Yet many kings have indulged their anger as though anger were a royal privilege. One was Darius, the first ruler of the Persians and most of the East after the Magian was overthrown. When Darius declared war⁴ against the Scythians bordering the eastern empire, an elderly noble named Oeobazus made a request. He begged Darius to leave one of his three sons at home to comfort him. He asked the king to be content with the service of the other two. Darius promised more than Oeobazus had asked, saying he would let all three stay home. Then he had their dead bodies thrown before their father's eyes. Even taking all three to war would have been harsh. How much kinder Xerxes⁵ was! When Pythias, the father of five sons, begged to have one excused from service, Xerxes let him choose the son. Then Xerxes tore the chosen son in half and placed one half on either side of the road. In this way he supposedly purified his army with a sacrifice meant to win divine favor. So Xerxes met the end he deserved. He was defeated, and his army was scattered far and wide in total disorder. Amid the rout, he walked among his soldiers' corpses, seeing signs of his own downfall on every side.

XVII. So ferocious in their anger were those kings who had no learning, no tincture of polite literature: now I will show you King Alexander (the Great), fresh from the lap of Aristotle, who with his own hand while at table stabbed Clitus, his dearest friend, who had been brought up with him, because he did not flatter him enough, and was too slow in transforming himself from a free man and a Macedonian into a Persian slave. Indeed he shut up Lysimachus,⁶ who was no less his friend than Clitus, in a cage with a lion; yet did this make Lysimachus, who escaped by some happy chance from the lion’s teeth, any gentler when he became a king? Why, he mutilated his own friend, Telesphorus the Rhodian, cutting off his nose and ears, and kept him for a long while in a den, like some new and strange animal, after the hideousness of his hacked and disfigured face had made him no longer appear to be human, assisted by starvation and the squalid filth of a body left to wallow in its own dung! Besides this, his hands and knees, which the narrowness of his abode forced him to use instead of his feet, became hard and callous, while his sides were covered with sores by rubbing against the walls, so that his appearance was no less shocking than frightful, and his punishment turned him into so monstrous a creature that he was not even pitied. Yet, however unlike a man he was who suffered this, even more unlike was he who inflicted it.

XVII. Such was the ferocious anger of kings who had no education or exposure to literature. Now I will show you King Alexander (the Great), fresh from Aristotle’s teaching. At dinner, he stabbed Clitus with his own hand. Clitus was his dearest friend and had grown up with him. Alexander killed him because he did not flatter him enough. He was also too slow to change from a free man and a Macedonian into a Persian slave. Alexander even locked Lysimachus,⁶ who was just as much his friend as Clitus, in a cage with a lion. Yet did this treatment make Lysimachus any gentler when he became king, after some lucky chance saved him from the lion’s teeth? Why, Lysimachus mutilated his own friend, Telesphorus the Rhodian, cutting off his nose and ears. He then kept Telesphorus in a den for a long time, like some strange new animal. His horribly hacked and disfigured face no longer looked human. Starvation and the foul filth of a body left wallowing in its own dung made him look still less human! Besides this, the cramped den forced him to move on his hands and knees instead of his feet. His hands and knees grew hard and calloused, while rubbing against the walls covered his sides with sores. So his appearance was as shocking as it was frightening. His punishment made him so monstrous that people did not even pity him. Yet however inhuman the sufferer looked, the man who inflicted this suffering was even less human.

XVIII. Would to heaven that such savagery had contented itself with foreign examples, and that barbarity in anger and punishment had not been imported with other outlandish vices into our Roman manners! Marcus Marius, to whom the people erected a statue in every street, to whom they made offerings of incense and wine, had, by the command of Lucius Sulla, his legs broken, his eyes pulled out, his hands cut off, and his whole body gradually torn to pieces limb by limb, as if Sulla killed him as many times as he wounded him. Who was it who carried out Sulla’s orders? who but Catiline, already practising his hands in every sort of wickedness? He tore him to pieces before the tomb of Quintus Catulus, an unwelcome burden to the ashes of that gentlest of men, above which one who was no doubt a criminal, yet nevertheless the idol of the people, and who was not undeserving of love, although men loved him beyond all reason, was forced to shed his blood drop by drop. Though Marius deserved such tortures, yet it was worthy of Sulla to order them, and of Catiline to execute them; but it was unworthy of the State to be stabbed by the swords of her enemy and her avenger alike. Why do I pry into ancient history? quite lately Gaius Caesar flogged and tortured Sextus Papinius, whose father was a consular, Betilienus Bassus, his own quaestor, and several others, both senators and knights, on the same day, not to carry out any judicial inquiry, but merely to amuse himself. Indeed, so impatient was he of any delay in receiving the pleasure which his monstrous cruelty never delayed in asking, that when walking with some ladies and senators in his mother’s gardens, along the walk between the colonnade and the river, he struck off some of their heads by lamplight. What did he fear? what public or private danger could one night threaten him with? how very small a favour it would have been to wait until morning, and not to kill the Roman people’s senators in his slippers?

XVIII. If only such savagery had stayed among foreign peoples! If only brutality in anger and punishment had not entered Roman life along with other foreign vices! The people put up a statue of Marcus Marius in every street and offered him incense and wine. Yet Lucius Sulla ordered his legs broken, his eyes torn out, and his hands cut off. His whole body was gradually torn apart, limb by limb, as if Sulla killed him with every wound. Who carried out Sulla’s orders? Who but Catiline, already training his hands in every kind of wickedness? He tore Marius apart before the tomb of Quintus Catulus. The slaughter was an unwelcome burden on the ashes of that gentlest of men. Above those ashes, Marius was forced to bleed, drop by drop. Marius was certainly a criminal, yet he was still the people’s idol. Nor was he unworthy of love, although people loved him beyond all reason. Though Marius deserved such tortures, ordering them was just like Sulla, and carrying them out was just like Catiline. But the State did not deserve to be stabbed by the swords of both its enemy and its avenger. Why dig into ancient history? Quite recently, Gaius Caesar flogged and tortured Sextus Papinius, whose father had been a consul. On the same day, he also flogged and tortured Betilienus Bassus, his own quaestor, and several other senators and knights. He did not do this as part of any judicial investigation, but simply for his own amusement. His monstrous cruelty always demanded immediate pleasure, and he could not bear any delay in getting it. He was walking with some ladies and senators in his mother’s gardens, along the path between the colonnade and the river. There, by lamplight, he cut off some of their heads. What was he afraid of? What public or private danger could a single night bring him? How little he was being asked to grant: to wait until morning, rather than kill the Roman people’s senators in his slippers!

XIX. It is to the purpose that we should know how haughtily his cruelty was exercised, although some one might suppose that we are wandering from the subject and embarking on a digression; but this digression is itself connected with unusual outbursts of anger. He beat senators with rods; he did it so often that he made men able to say, “It is the custom.” He tortured them with all the most dismal engines in the world, with the cord, the boots, the rack, the fire, and the sight of his own face. Even to this we may answer, “To tear three senators to pieces with stripes and fire like criminal slaves was no such great crime for one who had thoughts of butchering the entire Senate, who was wont to wish that the Roman people had but one neck, that he might concentrate into one day and one blow all the wickedness which he divided among so many places and times. Was there ever anything so unheard-of as an execution in the night-time? Highway robbery seeks for the shelter of darkness, but the more public an execution is, the more power it has as an example and lesson. Here I shall be met by: “This, which you are so surprised at, was the daily habit of that monster; this was what he lived for, watched for, sat up at night for.” Certainly one could find no one else who would have ordered all those whom he condemned to death to have their mouths closed by a sponge being fastened in them, that they might not have the power even of uttering a sound. What dying man was ever forbidden to groan? He feared that the last agony might find too free a voice, that he might hear what would displease him. He knew, moreover, that there were countless crimes, with which none but a dying man would dare to reproach him. When sponges were not forthcoming, he ordered the wretched men’s clothes to be torn up, and the rags stuffed into their mouths. What savagery was this? Let a man draw his last breath: give room for his soul to escape through: let it not be forced to leave the body through a wound. It becomes tedious to add to this that in the same night he sent centurions to the houses of the executed men and made an end of their fathers also, that is to say, being a compassionate-minded man, he set them free from sorrow: for it is not my intention to describe the ferocity of Gaius, but the ferocity of anger, which does not merely vent its rage upon individuals, but rends in pieces whole nations, and even lashes cities, rivers, and things which have no sense of pain.

XIX. We should understand how arrogantly he carried out his acts of cruelty. Some might think we are straying from the subject and going off on a tangent. But this digression itself concerns extraordinary outbursts of anger. He beat senators with rods, so often that people could say, “It is the custom.” He tortured them with all the most dreadful instruments in the world: the cord, the boots, the rack, fire, and the sight of his own face. Even to this we may answer, “Tearing three senators apart with whips and fire, like criminal slaves, was no great crime for him. After all, he had thoughts of slaughtering the entire Senate. He used to wish that the Roman people had only one neck. Then he could concentrate into one day and one blow all the wickedness he spread across so many places and times.” Was anything ever so unheard of as an execution at night? Highway robbers seek the cover of darkness. But the more public an execution is, the more powerful its example and lesson. Here someone will object: “The conduct that surprises you so much was that monster’s daily habit. He lived for it, kept watch for it, and stayed up at night for it.” Certainly no one else could be found who would have ordered sponges fastened inside the mouths of everyone he condemned to death. He wanted them unable to make even a sound. What dying man was ever forbidden to groan? He feared that their final agony might give them too much freedom to speak. He feared hearing something that displeased him. He also knew that only a dying man would dare confront him with his countless crimes. When no sponges were available, he ordered the wretched men’s clothes torn up and the rags stuffed into their mouths. What savagery was this? Let a man draw his last breath. Leave room for his soul to escape. Do not force it to leave his body through a wound. It grows tiresome to add that, that same night, he sent centurions to the executed men’s homes. He had their fathers killed too. Being such a compassionate man, he freed them from sorrow. But my purpose is not to describe the savagery of Gaius. It is to describe the savagery of anger. Anger does not merely unleash its rage on individuals. It tears whole nations apart and even lashes cities, rivers, and things that cannot feel pain.

XX. Thus, the king of the Persians cut off the noses of a whole nation in Syria, wherefore the place is called Rhinocolura. Do you think that he was merciful, because he did not cut their heads off altogether? no, he was delighted at having invented a new kind of punishment. Something of the same kind would have befallen the Aethiopians,⁷ who on account of their prodigiously long lives are called Macrobiotae; for, because they did not receive slavery with hands uplifted to heaven in thankfulness, and sent an embassy which used independent, or what kings call insulting language, Cambyses became wild with rage, and, without any store of provisions, or any knowledge of the roads, started with all his fighting men through an arid and trackless waste, where during the first day’s march the necessaries of life failed, and the country itself furnished nothing, being barren and uncultivated, and untrodden by the foot of man. At first the tenderest parts of leaves and shoots of trees relieved their hunger, then hides softened by fire, and anything else that their extremity drove them to use as food. When as they proceeded neither roots nor herbs were to be found in the sand, and they found a wilderness destitute even of animal life, they chose each tenth man by lot and made of him a meal which was more cruel than hunger. Rage still drove the king madly forwards, until after he had lost one part of his army and eaten another he began to fear that he also might be called upon to draw the lot for his life; then at last he gave the order for retreat. Yet all the while his well-bred hawks were not sacrificed, and the means of feasting were carried for him on camels, while his soldiers were drawing lots for who should miserably perish, and who should yet more miserably live.

XX. Thus, the king of the Persians cut off the noses of an entire nation in Syria. That is why the place is called Rhinocolura. Do you think he was merciful because he did not cut off their heads instead? No, he was delighted to have invented a new kind of punishment. Something similar would have happened to the Aethiopians,⁷ who are called Macrobiotae because of their extraordinarily long lives. They did not welcome slavery with their hands raised to heaven in thanks. Instead, they sent envoys who spoke with independence, or what kings call insolence. Because of this, Cambyses flew into a rage. Without supplies or any knowledge of the roads, he led all his fighting men into a dry, trackless wilderness. During the first day's march, they ran out of life's necessities. The land itself provided nothing. It was barren, uncultivated, and untouched by human feet. At first, the most tender leaves and tree shoots eased their hunger. Then they ate hides softened over fire and anything else that desperation drove them to use as food. As they went on, they could find neither roots nor plants in the sand. They found themselves in a wilderness without even animal life. So they chose every tenth man by lot and made him into a meal more cruel than hunger itself. Rage still drove the king madly onward. Only after losing one part of his army and eating another did he begin to fear for himself. He too might have to draw lots for his life. Only then did he order a retreat. Yet all this time, his well-bred hawks were spared. Camels carried everything he needed for feasting. Meanwhile, his soldiers drew lots to decide who would die miserably, and who would live even more miserably.

XXI. This man was angry with an unknown and inoffensive nation, which nevertheless was able to feel his wrath; but Cyrus⁸ was angry with a river. When hurrying to besiege Babylon, since in making war it is above all things important to seize one’s opportunity, he tried to ford the wide-spread river Gyndes, which it is hardly safe to attempt even when the river has been dried up by the summer heat and is at its lowest. Here one of the white horses which drew the royal chariot was washed away, and his loss moved the king to such violent rage, that he swore to reduce the river which had carried off his royal retinue to so low an ebb that even women should walk across it and trample upon it. He thereupon devoted all the resources of his army to this object, and remained working until by cutting one hundred and eighty channels across the bed of the river he divided it into three hundred and sixty brooks, and left the bed dry, the waters flowing through other channels. Thus he lost time, which is very important in great operations, and lost, also, the soldiers’ courage, which was broken by useless labour, and the opportunity of falling upon his enemy unprepared, while he was waging against the river the war which he had declared against his foes. This frenzy, for what else can you call it, has befallen Romans also, for G. Caesar destroyed a most beautiful villa at Herculaneum because his mother was once imprisoned in it, and has thus made the place notorious by its misfortune; for while it stood, we used to sail past it without noticing it, but now people inquire why it is in ruins.

XXI. This man was angry with an unknown, harmless nation, though its people could still feel his wrath. But Cyrus⁸ was angry with a river. He was hurrying to besiege Babylon, since seizing the right opportunity matters more than anything else in war. He tried to wade across the broad river Gyndes. Such a crossing is hardly safe even when summer heat has dried up the river to its lowest level. There, one of the white horses pulling the royal chariot was swept away. The loss drove the king into a violent rage. He swore to reduce the river that had carried off his royal attendants to a mere trickle. Even women, he declared, would walk across the river and trample on it. He then devoted all his army’s resources to this task and stayed until the work was done. By cutting one hundred and eighty channels across the riverbed, he divided the river into three hundred and sixty streams. He left the riverbed dry, with the water flowing through other channels. So he lost time, which matters greatly in major campaigns. He also destroyed his soldiers’ courage through useless labor and lost the chance to catch his enemy unprepared. Meanwhile, he was fighting the river instead of the enemies he had declared war on. This madness, for what else can you call it, has struck Romans too. G. Caesar destroyed a beautiful villa at Herculaneum because his mother had once been imprisoned there. By destroying the villa, he made it notorious for its misfortune. While the villa stood, we used to sail past without noticing it. But now people ask why it lies in ruins.

XXII. These should be regarded as examples to be avoided, and what I am about to relate, on the contrary, to be followed, being examples of gentle and lenient conduct in men who both had reasons for anger and power to avenge themselves. What could have been easier than for Antigonus to order those two common soldiers to be executed who leaned against their king’s tent while doing what all men especially love to do, and run the greatest danger by doing, I mean while they spoke evil of their king. Antigonus heard all they said, as was likely, since there was only a piece of cloth between the speakers and the listener, who gently raised it, and said “Go a little further off, for fear the king should hear you.” He also on one night, hearing some of his soldiers invoking everything that was evil upon their king for having brought them along that road and into that impassable mud, went to those who were in the greatest difficulties, and having extricated them without their knowing who was their helper, said, “Now curse Antigonus, by whose fault you have fallen into this trouble, but bless the man who has brought you out of this slough.” This same Antigonus bore the abuse of his enemies as good-naturedly as that of his countrymen; thus when he was besieging some Greeks in a little fort, and they, despising their enemy through their confidence in the strength of their position, cut many jokes upon the ugliness of Antigonus, at one time mocking him for his shortness of stature, at another for his broken nose, he answered, “I rejoice, and expect some good fortune because I have a Silenus in my camp.” After he had conquered these witty folk by hunger, his treatment of them was to form regiments of those who were fit for service, and sell the rest by public auction; nor would he, said he, have done this had it not been better that men who had such evil tongues should be under the control of a master.

XXII. The examples just given should be avoided. By contrast, the examples I am about to give should be followed. They show gentleness and mercy in men who had both reasons for anger and the power to take revenge. What could have been easier for Antigonus than ordering the execution of two ordinary soldiers leaning against their king’s tent? They were doing what all men especially love to do, and what puts them in the greatest danger. They were speaking badly of their king. Antigonus heard everything they said, as might be expected. Only a piece of cloth separated the speakers from their listener. He gently lifted the cloth and said, “Go a little farther away, so the king won’t hear you.” One night, he also heard some of his soldiers calling down every possible evil on their king. They blamed him for bringing them along that road and into mud they could not get through. He went to those struggling most and helped them out without their knowing who their helper was. Then he said, “Now curse Antigonus, whose fault it is that you got into this trouble. But bless the man who brought you out of this mud.” This same Antigonus took insults from his enemies as good-naturedly as insults from his own countrymen. Once, he was besieging some Greeks in a small fort. Confident in the strength of their position, the Greeks looked down on their enemy. They made many jokes about Antigonus’s ugliness, mocking him sometimes for his short stature and sometimes for his broken nose. He replied, “I am delighted, and I expect good fortune because I have a Silenus in my camp.” After starving these witty people into surrender, he formed regiments from those fit for military service. He sold the rest as slaves at public auction. He said he would not have done so, except that such foul-mouthed men were better off under a master’s control.

XXIII. This man’s grandson⁹ was Alexander, who used to hurl his lance at his guests, who, of the two friends which I have mentioned above, exposed one to the rage of a wild beast, and the other to his own; yet of these two men, he who was exposed to the lion survived. He did not derive this vice from his grandfather, nor even from his father; for it was an especial virtue of Philip’s to endure insults patiently, and was a great safeguard of his kingdom. Demochares, who was surnamed Parrhesiastes on account of his unbridled and impudent tongue, came on an embassy to him with other ambassadors from Athens. After graciously listening to what they had to say, Philip said to them, “Tell me, what can I do that will please the Athenians? “Demochares took him up, and answered, “Hang yourself.” All the bystanders expressed their indignation at so brutal an answer, but Philip bade them be silent, and let this Thersites depart safe and sound. “But do you,” said he, “you other ambassadors, tell the Athenians that those who say such things are much more arrogant than those who hear them without revenging themselves.”

XXIII. This man’s grandson⁹ was Alexander, who used to throw his lance at his guests. Of the two friends I mentioned above, Alexander exposed one to a wild beast’s rage and the other to his own. Yet of these two men, the one exposed to the lion survived. Alexander did not inherit this vice from his grandfather or even from his father. Philip was especially good at patiently enduring insults, and this virtue did much to protect his kingdom. Demochares came to Philip with other ambassadors from Athens. He was nicknamed Parrhesiastes because of his reckless and shameless way of speaking. After graciously listening to the ambassadors, Philip said to them, “Tell me, what can I do to please the Athenians?” Demochares answered at once, “Hang yourself.” All the bystanders expressed outrage at such a brutal answer. But Philip told them to be silent and to let this Thersites leave unharmed. “But you other ambassadors,” he said, “tell the Athenians that people who say such things are far more arrogant than those who hear them without taking revenge.”

The late Emperor Augustus also did and said many memorable things, which prove that he was not under the dominion of anger. Timagenes, the historical writer, made some remarks upon him, his wife, and his whole family: nor did his jests fall to the ground, for nothing spreads more widely or is more in people’s mouths than reckless wit. Caesar often warned him to be less audacious in his talk, and as he continued to offend, forbade him his house. Timagenes after this passed the later years of his life as the guest of Asinius Pollio, and was the favourite of the whole city: the closing of Caesar’s door did not close any other door against him. He read aloud the history which he wrote after this, but burned the books which contained the doings of Augustus Caesar. He was at enmity with Caesar, but yet no one feared to be his friend, no one shrank from him as though he were blasted by lightning: although he fell from so high a place, yet some one was found to catch him in his lap. Caesar, I say, bore this with patience, and was not even irritated by the historian’s having laid violent hands upon his own glories and acts: he never complained of the man who afforded his enemy shelter, but merely said to Asinius Pollio “You are keeping a wild beast:” then, when the other would have excused his conduct, he stopped him, and said “Enjoy, my Pollio, enjoy his friendship.” When Pollio said, “If you order me, Caesar, I will straightway forbid him my house,” he answered, “Do you think that I am likely to do this, after having made you friends again?” for formerly Pollio had been angry with Timagenes, and ceased to be angry with him for no other reason than that Caesar began to be so.

The late Emperor Augustus also said and did many memorable things that prove anger did not rule him. Timagenes, the historian, made remarks about Augustus, his wife, and his whole family. His jokes did not go unnoticed, for nothing spreads more widely or gets repeated more often than reckless wit. Caesar often warned him to be less bold in his remarks. When Timagenes kept offending him, Caesar banned him from his house. After this, Timagenes spent his later years as a guest of Asinius Pollio and was the whole city’s favorite. The closing of Caesar’s door did not close any other door to him. He gave public readings of the history he wrote afterward, but burned the books describing Augustus Caesar’s deeds. He was Caesar’s enemy, yet no one feared being his friend. No one avoided him as though he had been struck by lightning. Although he had fallen from such a height, someone was still there to catch him in his lap. Caesar, I repeat, bore all this patiently. He was not even angered when the historian destroyed his own accounts of Caesar’s glories and achievements. He never complained about the man who sheltered his enemy. He merely said to Asinius Pollio, “You are keeping a wild beast:” When Pollio tried to explain himself, Caesar stopped him and said, “Enjoy his friendship, my Pollio, enjoy it.” Pollio said, “If you order me, Caesar, I will immediately ban him from my house.” Caesar answered, “Do you think I would do that, after bringing you back together as friends?” Pollio had previously been angry with Timagenes. He stopped being angry for no other reason than that Caesar had begun to be angry with Timagenes.

XXIV. Let every one, then, say to himself, whenever he is provoked, “Am I more powerful than Philip? yet he allowed a man to curse him with impunity. Have I more authority in my own house than the Emperor Augustus possessed throughout the world? yet he was satisfied with leaving the society of his maligner. Why should I make my slave atone by stripes and manacles for having answered me too loudly or having put on a stubborn look, or muttered something which I did not catch? Who am I, that it should be a crime to shock my ears? Many men have forgiven their enemies: shall I not forgive men for being lazy, careless, and gossipping?” We ought to plead age as an excuse for children, sex for women, freedom for a stranger, familiarity for a house-servant. Is this his first offence? think how long he has been acceptable. Has he often done wrong, and in many other cases? then let us continue to bear what we have borne so long. Is he a friend? then he did not intend to do it. Is he an enemy? then in doing it he did his duty. If he be a sensible man, let us believe his excuses; if a fool, let us grant him pardon; whatever he may be, let us say to ourselves on his behalf, that even the wisest of men are often in fault, that no one is so alert that his carefulness never betrays itself, that no one is of so ripe a judgment that his serious mind cannot be goaded by circumstances into some hotheaded action, that, in fine, no one, however much he may fear to give offence, can help doing so even while he tries to avoid it.

XXIV. Whenever we are provoked, then, let each of us say, “Am I more powerful than Philip? Yet he let a man curse him without punishment. Do I have more authority in my own house than the Emperor Augustus had throughout the world? Yet he was content simply to leave the company of the man who insulted him. Why should I punish my slave with whipping and chains for answering me too loudly or looking defiant? Why punish him for muttering something I could not make out? Who am I, that offending my ears should be a crime? Many men have forgiven their enemies. Should I not forgive people for being lazy, careless, and given to gossip?” We should excuse children because of their age, women because of their sex, and strangers because they are free. We should excuse household servants because they are familiar with us. Is this his first offense? Think how long his behavior has been acceptable. Has he done wrong often, and in many other situations? Then let us keep putting up with what we have tolerated for so long. Is he a friend? Then he did not mean to offend us. Is he an enemy? Then by offending us, he did his duty. If he is sensible, let us believe his excuses. If he is a fool, let us forgive him. Whoever he may be, let us remind ourselves in his defense that even the wisest people often make mistakes. No one is so watchful that his care never fails him. No one has such sound judgment that circumstances cannot provoke him into acting rashly. In short, no one, however much he fears giving offense, can avoid doing so even while trying not to.

XXV. As it is a consolation to a humble man in trouble that the greatest are subject to reverses of fortune, and a man weeps more calmly over his dead son in the corner of his hovel if he sees a piteous¹⁰ funeral proceed out of the palace as well; so one bears injury or insult more calmly if one remembers that no power is so great as to be above the reach of harm. Indeed, if even the wisest do wrong, who cannot plead a good excuse for his faults? Let us look back upon our own youth, and think how often we then were too slothful in our duty, too impudent in our speech, too intemperate in our cups. Is anyone angry? then let us give him enough time to reflect upon what he has done, and he will correct his own self. But suppose he ought to pay the penalty of his deeds: well, that is no reason why we should act as he does. It canot be doubted that he who regards his tormentor with contempt raises himself above the common herd and looks down upon them from a loftier position: it is the property of true magnanimity not to feel the blows which it may receive. So does a huge wild beast turn slowly and gaze at yelping curs: so does the wave dash in vain against a great cliff. The man who is not angry remains unshaken by injury: he who is angry has been moved by it. He, however, whom I have described as being placed too high for any mischief to reach him, holds as it were the highest good in his arms: he can reply, not only to any man, but to fortune herself: “Do what you will, you are too feeble to disturb my serenity: this is forbidden by reason, to whom I have entrusted the guidance of my life: to become angry would do me more harm than your violence can do me. ‘More harm?’ say you. Yes, certainly: I know how much injury you have done me, but I cannot tell to what excesses anger might not carry me.”

XXV. A poor man in trouble finds comfort in knowing that even the greatest suffer changes of fortune. He weeps more calmly over his dead son in the corner of his hut if he sees a sorrowful¹⁰ funeral leaving the palace too. In the same way, we bear injury or insult more calmly if we remember that no power is beyond harm. Indeed, if even the wisest do wrong, who cannot offer a good excuse for his faults? Let us look back at our youth. Think how often we neglected our duties, spoke too rudely, or drank too much. Is someone angry? Then let us give him enough time to reflect on his actions, and he will correct himself. But suppose he deserves punishment for his actions. Even so, we have no reason to behave as he does. There is no doubt that someone who looks on his tormentor with contempt rises above the crowd. He looks down on them from a higher position. True greatness of spirit means not feeling the blows one receives. So a huge wild beast slowly turns to look at yapping dogs. So a wave crashes uselessly against a great cliff. A man who is not angry remains unshaken by injury. A man who is angry has been shaken by it. But the man I have described stands too high for any harm to reach him. He holds, as it were, the highest good in his arms. He can answer not only any man, but fortune herself: “Do what you will. You are too weak to disturb my peace of mind. Reason, which I have trusted to guide my life, will not allow you to disturb that peace. Becoming angry would harm me more than your violence can. ‘More harm?’ you say. Yes, certainly. I know how much harm you have done me. But I cannot tell what extremes anger might drive me to.”

XXVI. You say, “I cannot endure it: injuries are hard to bear.” You lie; for how can any one not be able to bear injury, if he can bear to be angry? Besides, what you intend to do is to endure both injury and anger. Why do you bear with the delirium of a sick man, or the ravings of a madman, or the impudent blows of a child? Because, of course, they evidently do not know what they are doing: if a man be not responsible for his actions, what does it matter by what malady he became so: the plea of ignorance holds equally good in every case. “What then?” say you, “shall he not be punished?” He will be, even supposing that you do not wish it: for the greatest punishment for having done harm is the sense of having done it, and no one is more severely punished than he who is given over to the punishment of remorse. In the next place, we ought to consider the whole state of mankind, in order to pass a just judgment on all the occurrences of life: for it is unjust to blame individuals for a vice which is common to all. The colour of an Aethiop is not remarkable amongst his own people, nor is any man in Germany ashamed of red hair rolled into a knot. You cannot call anything peculiar or disgraceful in a particular man if it is the general characteristic of his nation. Now, the cases which I have quoted are defended only by the usage of one out-of-the-way quarter of the world: see now, how far more deserving of pardon those crimes are which are spread abroad among all mankind. We all are hasty and careless, we all are untrustworthy, dissatisfied, and ambitious: nay, why do I try to hide our common wickedness by a too partial description? we all are bad. Every one of us therefore will find in his own breast the vice which he blames in another. Why do you remark how pale this man, or how lean that man is? there is a general pestilence. Let us therefore be more gentle one to another: we are bad men, living among bad men: there is only one thing which can afford us peace, and that is to agree to forgive one another. “This man has already injured me,” say you, “and I have not yet injured him.” No, but you have probably injured some one else, and you will injure him some day. Do not form your judgment by one hour, or one day: consider the whole tendency of your mind: even though you have done no evil, yet you are capable of doing it.

XXVI. You say, “I cannot stand it. Injuries are hard to bear.” You lie. How can anyone be unable to bear an injury if he can bear being angry? Besides, you intend to endure both the injury and the anger. Why do you put up with a sick man’s delirium, a madman’s ravings, or a child’s insolent blows? Because, of course, they clearly do not know what they are doing. If a man is not responsible for his actions, what does it matter what illness made him so? Ignorance is an equally good excuse in every case. “What then?” you ask. “Should he not be punished?” He will be, even if you do not wish it. For the greatest punishment for doing harm is knowing you have done it. No one is punished more severely than someone left to suffer remorse. Next, we should consider the condition of all humanity so that we can judge life’s events fairly. For it is unjust to blame individuals for a fault common to everyone. The skin color of an Aethiop is nothing unusual among his own people. Nor is any man in Germany ashamed of red hair tied in a knot. You cannot call a trait unusual or disgraceful in one man if his whole nation shares it. Yet these examples are excused only by the customs of one remote part of the world. Consider, then, how much more forgiveness is deserved by wrongs found throughout humanity. We are all rash and careless. We are all untrustworthy, dissatisfied, and ambitious. But why am I trying to hide our shared wickedness with an overly generous description? We are all bad. Every one of us will therefore find in his own heart the fault he blames in someone else. Why point out how pale one man is, or how thin another is? There is an epidemic everywhere. So let us be gentler with one another. We are bad people living among bad people. Only one thing can bring us peace: agreeing to forgive one another. “This man has already injured me,” you say, “and I have not yet injured him.” No, but you have probably injured someone else, and you will injure him someday. Do not judge yourself by a single hour or day. Consider the whole direction of your thoughts. Even if you have done no wrong, you are still capable of doing it.

XXVII. How far better is it to heal an injury than to avenge it? Revenge takes up much time, and throws itself in the way of many injuries while it is smarting under one. We all retain our anger longer than we feel our hurt: how far better it were to take the opposite course and not meet one mischief by another. Would any one think himself to be in his perfect mind if he were to return kicks to a mule or bites to a dog?” These creatures,” you say, “know not that they are doing wrong.” Then, in the first place, what an unjust judge you must be if a man has less chance of gaining your forgiveness than a beast! Secondly, if animals are protected from your anger by their want of reason, you ought to treat all foolish men in the like manner: for if a man has that mental darkness which excuses all the wrong-doings of dumb animals, what difference does it make if in other respects he be unlike a dumb animal? He has sinned. Well, is this the first time, or will this be the last time? Why, you should not believe him even if he said, “Never will I do so again.” He will sin, and another will sin against him, and all his life he will wallow in wickedness. Savagery must be met by kindness: we ought to use, to a man in anger, the argument which is so effective with one in grief, that is, “Shall you leave off this at some time, or never? If you will do so at some time, how better is it that you should abandon anger than that anger should abandon you? Or, will this excitement never leave you? Do you see to what an unquiet life you condemn yourself? for what will be the life of one who is always swelling with rage?” Add to this, that after you have worked yourself up into a rage, and have from time to time renewed the causes of your excitement, yet your anger will depart from you of its own accord, and time will sap its strength: how much better then is it that it should be overcome by you than by itself?

XXVII. How much better is it to heal an injury than to avenge it? Revenge takes up much time. While still suffering from one injury, revenge exposes itself to many more. We all hold on to anger longer than we feel the hurt. How much better it would be to do the opposite, rather than answer one harm with another. Would anyone think he was in his right mind if he kicked a mule back or bit a dog back? “These creatures,” you say, “do not know they are doing wrong.” First, what an unjust judge you must be if a man has less chance of your forgiveness than an animal! Second, if animals escape your anger because they lack reason, you ought to treat all foolish men the same way. Suppose a man has the same mental blindness that excuses every wrong an animal does. What difference does it make if he is unlike an animal in other ways? He has done wrong. Well, is this the first time, or will it be the last? You should not believe him even if he said, “I will never do it again.” He will do wrong, and someone else will wrong him. All his life he will wallow in wickedness. Cruelty must be met with kindness. We should reason with an angry man as we so effectively reason with someone grieving: “Will you stop feeling this way someday, or never? If you will stop someday, how much better to give up your anger than wait for your anger to leave you? Or will this agitation never leave you? Do you see what a restless life you are condemning yourself to? For what kind of life will you have if you are always seething with rage?” Consider, too, that even after you have worked yourself into a rage and repeatedly stirred up its causes, anger will fade. Your anger will leave on its own, and time will weaken it. How much better, then, for you to overcome your anger than for anger to wear itself out!

XXVIII. If you are angry, you will quarrel first with this man, and then with that: first with slaves, then with freedmen: first with parents, then with children: first with acquaintances, then with strangers: for there are grounds for anger in every case, unless your mind steps in and intercedes with you: your frenzy will drag you from one place to another, and from thence to elsewhere, your madness will constantly meet with newly-occurring irritants, and will never depart from you. Tell me, miserable man, what time you will have for loving? O, what good time you are wasting on an evil thing! How much better it would be to win friends, and disarm enemies: to serve the state, or to busy oneself with one’s private affairs, rather than to cast about for what harm you can do to somebody, what wound you can inflict either upon his social position, his fortune, or his person, although you cannot succeed in doing so without a struggle and risk to yourself, even if your antagonist be inferior to you. Even supposing that he were handed over to you in chains, and that you were at liberty to torture him as much as you please, yet even then excessive violence in striking a blow often causes us to dislocate a joint, or entangles a sinew in the teeth which it has broken. Anger makes many men cripples, or invalids, even when it meets with an unresisting victim: and besides this, no creature is so weak that it can be destroyed without any danger to its destroyer: sometimes grief, sometimes chance, puts the weakest on a level with the strongest. What shall we say of the fact that the greater part of the things which enrage us are insults, not injuries? It makes a great difference whether a man thwarts my wishes or merely fails to carry them out, whether he robs me or does not give me anything: yet we count it all the same whether a man takes anything from us or refuses to give anything to us, whether he extinguishes our hope or defers it, whether his object be to hinder us or to help himself, whether he acts out of love for some one or out of hatred for us. Some men are bound to oppose us not only on the ground of justice, but of honour: one is defending his father, another his brother, another his country, another his friend: yet we do not forgive men for doing what we should blame them for not doing; nay, though one can hardly believe it, we often think well of an act, and ill of the man who did it. But, by Hercules, a great and just man looks with respect at the bravest of his enemies, and the most obstinate defender of his freedom and his country, and wishes that he had such a man for his own countryman and soldier.

XXVIII. If you are angry, you will quarrel first with one man, then another. First with slaves, then with freedmen. First with parents, then with children. First with acquaintances, then with strangers. Every situation offers reasons for anger, unless your reason steps in and restrains you. Your rage will drag you from place to place, then somewhere else again. Your madness will constantly find new irritations and will never leave you. Tell me, you miserable man, what time will you have left for love? Oh, how much precious time you waste on something so evil! How much better to win friends and win over enemies, to serve the state or attend to your private affairs. Instead, you look for ways to harm someone, damaging his standing, his wealth, or his body. Yet you cannot succeed without a struggle and danger to yourself, even if your opponent is weaker than you. Suppose your opponent were handed over to you in chains, and you were free to torture him as you pleased. Even then, striking too hard often dislocates a joint or catches a tendon in the teeth the blow has broken. Anger leaves many men crippled or in poor health, even when their victims offer no resistance. Besides, no creature is so weak that destroying it poses no danger to its destroyer. Sometimes grief, sometimes chance, puts the weakest on equal terms with the strongest. What about the fact that most things that enrage us are insults, not actual harm? There is a great difference between someone obstructing my wishes and merely failing to fulfill them. There is a great difference between robbing me and giving me nothing. Yet we treat taking something from us and refusing to give us something as the same. We make no distinction between destroying our hopes and delaying them. Nor do we distinguish between someone trying to obstruct us and someone trying to help himself. We treat actions prompted by love for someone else as though they came from hatred for us. Some men are bound to oppose us, not only because justice demands it, but because honor does too. One defends his father, another his brother, another his country, another his friend. Yet we do not forgive men for doing what we would blame them for failing to do. Indeed, hard as it is to believe, we often approve of an action while condemning the man who performed it. But, by Hercules, a great and just man respects the bravest of his enemies. He respects the most determined defender of his freedom and his country. He wishes he had such a man as his own fellow countryman and soldier.

XXIX. It is shameful to hate him whom you praise: but how much more shameful is it to hate a man for something for which he deserves to be pitied? If a prisoner of war, who has suddenly been reduced to the condition of a slave, still retains some remnants of liberty, and does not run nimbly to perform foul and toilsome tasks, if, having grown slothful by long rest, he cannot run fast enough to keep pace with his master’s horse or carriage, if sleep overpowers him when weary with many days and nights of watching, if he refuses to undertake farm work, or does not do it heartily when brought away from the idleness of city service and put to hard labour, we ought to make a distinction between whether a man cannot or will not do it: we should pardon many slaves, if we began to judge them before we began to be angry with them: as it is, however, we obey our first impulse, and then, although we may prove to have been excited about mere trifles, yet we continue to be angry, lest we should seem to have begun to be angry without cause; and, most unjust of all, the injustice of our anger makes us persist in it all the more; for we nurse it and inflame it, as though to be violently angry proved our anger to be just.

XXIX. It is shameful to hate someone you praise. But how much more shameful is it to hate a man for something that deserves pity? Suppose a prisoner of war, suddenly made a slave, still holds on to some of his former freedom. If he is slow to perform filthy, exhausting tasks, we should distinguish between inability and unwillingness. The same applies if long inactivity has made him sluggish, unable to keep up with his master’s horse or carriage. Or if sleep overcomes him after many days and nights of keeping watch. Or if he refuses farm work, or works without enthusiasm, after moving from idle city service to hard labor. In each case, we ought to ask whether the man cannot do the work or will not. We would forgive many slaves if we began by judging them rather than getting angry with them. Instead, we follow our first impulse. Then, although we may discover that mere trifles provoked us, we remain angry. We do not want to seem to have become angry without cause. Most unjust of all, the injustice of our anger makes us cling to that anger even more. We feed and inflame our anger, as though its violence proved that our anger was justified.

XXX. How much better is it to observe how trifling, how inoffensive are the first beginnings of anger? You will see that men are subject to the same influences as dumb animals: we are put out by trumpery, futile matters. Bulls are excited by red colour, the asp raises its head at a shadow, bears or lions are irritated at the shaking of a rag, and all creatures who are naturally fierce and wild are alarmed at trifles. The same thing befalls men both of restless and of sluggish disposition; they are seized by suspicions, sometimes to such an extent that they call slight benefits injuries: and these form the most common and certainly the most bitter subject for anger: for we become angry with our dearest friends for having bestowed less upon us than we expected, and less than others have received from them: yet there is a remedy at hand for both these grievances. Has he favoured our rival more than ourselves? then let us enjoy what we have without making any comparisons. A man will never be well off to whom it is a torture to see any one better off than himself. Have I less than I hoped for? well, perhaps I hoped for more than I ought. This it is against which we ought to be especially on our guard: from hence arises the most destructive anger, sparing nothing, not even the holiest. The Emperor Julius was not stabbed by so many enemies as by friends whose insatiable hopes he had not satisfied. He was willing enough to do so, for no one ever made a more generous use of victory, of whose fruits he kept nothing for himself save the power of distributing them; but how could he glut such unconscionable appetites, when each man coveted as much as any one man could possess? This was why he saw his fellow-soldiers standing round his chair with drawn swords, Tillius Cimber, though he had a short time before been the keenest defender of his party, and others who only became Pompeians after Pompeius was dead. This it is which has turned the arms of kings against them, and made their trustiest followers meditate the death of him for whom and before whom¹¹ they once would have been glad to die.

XXX. How much better to notice how trivial and harmless the first stirrings of anger are! You will see that people react to the same things as animals that cannot speak. We get upset over worthless, pointless things. Bulls are excited by the color red. The asp raises its head at a shadow. Bears or lions are irritated by a shaking rag. All creatures that are naturally fierce and wild are frightened by trifles. The same happens to people, whether restless or sluggish. Suspicions grip them, sometimes so strongly that they call small favors injuries. These supposed injuries are the most common cause of anger, and certainly the bitterest. For we become angry with our dearest friends for giving us less than we expected or less than others received. Yet a remedy for both grievances is close at hand. Has our friend favored our rival more than us? Then let us enjoy what we have without making comparisons. A man will never feel well off if seeing anyone better off than himself is torture. Have I received less than I hoped for? Well, perhaps I hoped for more than I should. We must be especially on guard against such expectations. They produce the most destructive anger, which spares nothing, not even what is holiest. The Emperor Julius was stabbed by more friends whose endless hopes he had disappointed than by enemies. He was willing enough to satisfy those hopes. For no one ever used victory more generously. He kept none of its rewards for himself except the power to distribute them. But how could he satisfy such outrageous appetites when each man wanted as much as any one man could possess? That was why he saw his fellow soldiers surrounding his chair with drawn swords. Among them was Tillius Cimber, though shortly before he had been the most passionate defender of Julius's party. Others became Pompeians only after Pompeius was dead. Such disappointed hopes have turned kings' weapons against them. They have made their most trusted followers plot the death of a man they once would gladly have died for and before¹¹.

XXXI. No man is satisfied with his own lot if he fixes his attention on that of another: and this leads to our being angry even with the gods, because somebody precedes us, though we forget of how many we take precedence, and that when a man envies few people, he must be followed in the background by a huge crowd of people who envy him. Yet so churlish is human nature, that, however much men may have received, they think themselves wronged if they are able to receive still more. “He gave me the praetorship. Yes, but I had hoped for the consulship. He bestowed the twelve axes upon me: true, but he did not make me a regular¹² consul. He allowed me to give my name to the year, but he did not help me to the priesthood. I have been elected a member of the college: but why only of one? He has bestowed upon me every honour that the state affords: yes, but he has added nothing to my private fortune. What he gave me he was obliged to give to somebody: he brought out nothing from his own pocket.” Rather than speak thus, thank him for what you have received: wait for the rest, and be thankful that you are not yet too full to contain more: there is a pleasure in having something left to hope for. Are you preferred to every one? then rejoice at holding the first place in the thoughts of your friend. Or are many others preferred before you? then think how many more are below you than there are above you. Do you ask, what is your greatest fault? It is, that you keep your accounts wrongly: you set a high value upon what you give, and a low one upon what you receive.

XXXI. No one is satisfied with their own lot if they focus on someone else’s. This makes us angry even with the gods because someone ranks above us. Yet we forget how many people rank below us. We forget that anyone who envies only a few people has a huge crowd behind him who envy him. Yet human nature is so ungrateful that people feel wronged if they could receive more, however much they have received. “He gave me the praetorship. Yes, but I had hoped for the consulship. He gave me the twelve axes of office. True, but he did not make me a regular¹² consul. He let me give my name to the year, but he did not help me enter the priesthood. I have been elected to a college of priests, but why only one? He has given me every honor the state offers. Yes, but he has added nothing to my personal wealth. What he gave me had to go to somebody. He paid nothing out of his own pocket.” Instead of speaking like this, thank him for what you have received. Wait for the rest, and be thankful that you still have room for more. There is pleasure in having something left to hope for. Are you favored above everyone else? Then be glad that you come first in your friend’s thoughts. Or are many others favored above you? Then consider how many more people are below you than above you. Do you ask what your greatest fault is? You keep your accounts incorrectly: you place a high value on what you give and a low value on what you receive.

XXXII. Let different qualities in different people keep us from quarrelling with them: let us fear to be angry with some, feel ashamed of being angry with others, and disdain to be angry with others. We do a fine thing, indeed, when we send a wretched slave to the workhouse! Why are we in such a hurry to flog him at once, to break his legs straightway? we shall not lose our boasted power if we defer its exercise. Let us wait for the time when we ourselves can give orders: at present we speak under constraint from anger. When it has passed away we shall see what amount of damage has been done; for this is what we are especially liable to make mistakes about: we use the sword, and capital punishment, and we appoint chains, imprisonment, and starvation to punish a crime which deserves only flogging with a light scourge. “In what way,” say you, “do you bid us look at those things by which we think ourselves injured, that we may see how paltry, pitiful, and childish they are?” Of all things I would charge you to take to yourself a magnanimous spirit, and behold how low and sordid all these matters are about which we squabble and run to and fro till we are out of breath; to any one who entertains any lofty and magnificent ideas, they are not worthy of a thought.

XXXII. Let the different qualities of different people keep us from quarreling with them. Let us fear to be angry with some, feel ashamed of being angry with others, and consider others beneath our anger. What a fine thing we do when we send a wretched slave to the workhouse! Why are we so eager to whip him at once, to break his legs immediately? We will not lose the power we boast of if we delay using it. Let us wait until we can give orders ourselves. Right now, anger dictates our words. Once our anger has passed, we will see how much damage has been done. For we are especially likely to misjudge the damage. We use the sword and the death penalty, and impose chains, imprisonment, and starvation for offenses deserving only light whipping. “How,” you ask, “should we look at the things we consider injuries, so we can see how trivial, pathetic, and childish they are?” Above all, I urge you to develop a generous, noble spirit. See how petty and mean all these matters are, over which we quarrel and rush about until we are breathless. To anyone with lofty and grand ideas, such matters are not worth a thought.

XXXIII. The greatest hullabaloo is about money: this it is which wearies out the law-courts, sows strife between father and son, concocts poisons, and gives swords to murderers just as to soldiers: it is stained with our blood: on account of it husbands and wives wrangle all night long, crowds press round the bench of magistrates, kings rage and plunder, and overthrow communities which it has taken the labour of centuries to build, that they may seek for gold and silver in the ashes of their cities. Do you like to look at your money-bags lying in the corner? it is for these that men shout till their eyes start from their heads, that the law-courts ring with the din of trials, and that jurymen brought from great distances sit to decide which man’s covetousness is the more equitable. What shall we say if it be not even for a bag of money, but for a handful of coppers or a shilling scored up by a slave that some old man, soon to die without an heir, bursts with rage? what if it be an invalid money-lender whose feet are distorted by the gout, and who can no longer use his hands to count with, who calls for his interest of one thousandth a month,¹³ and by his sureties demands his pence even during the paroxysms of his disease? If you were to bring to me all the money from all our mines, which we are at this moment sinking, if you were to bring to-night all that is concealed in hoards, where avarice returns money to the earth from whence it came, and pity that it ever was dug out—all that mass I should not think worthy to cause a wrinkle on the brow of a good man. What ridicule those things deserve which bring tears into our eyes!

XXXIII. The greatest uproar is over money. Money wears out the courts, sows conflict between fathers and sons, prepares poisons, and arms murderers just as it arms soldiers. Money is stained with our blood. Because of money, husbands and wives quarrel all night, crowds surround magistrates’ benches, and kings rage and plunder. Kings destroy communities built through centuries of labor so they can search for gold and silver in the cities’ ashes. Do you enjoy looking at your money bags lying in the corner? For those bags, men shout until their eyes bulge, and the courts echo with the noise of trials. Jurors travel great distances to decide whose greed has the stronger claim. What shall we say if the dispute is not even over a bag of money? What if some old man, soon to die without an heir, explodes with rage over a handful of coppers? Or over a shilling entered in the accounts by a slave? What if a sick moneylender demands his monthly interest of one thousandth,¹³ though gout has twisted his feet? He can no longer even use his hands to count. Yet even during attacks of his illness, he demands his pennies through those who guarantee his loans. Suppose you brought me all the money from all the mines we are digging at this moment. Suppose you brought me tonight all the money hidden in hoards. There, greed returns money to the earth it came from, regretting that it was ever dug up. I would not think that entire mass worth a single wrinkle on a good man’s brow. How ridiculous the things that bring tears to our eyes deserve to be called!

XXXIV. Come now, let us enumerate the other causes of anger: they are food, drink, and the showy apparatus connected with them, words, insults, disrespectful movements of the body, suspicions, obstinate cattle, lazy slaves, and spiteful construction put upon other men’s words, so that even the gift of language to mankind becomes reckoned among the wrongs of nature. Believe me, the things which cause us such great heat are trifles, the sort of things that children fight and squabble over: there is nothing serious, nothing important in all that we do with such gloomy faces. It is, I repeat, the setting a great value on trifles that is the cause of your anger and madness. This man wanted to rob me of my inheritance, that one has brought a charge against me before persons¹⁴ whom I had long courted with great expectations, that one has coveted my mistress. A wish for the same things, which ought to have been a bond of friendship, becomes a source of quarrels and hatred. A narrow path causes quarrels among those who pass up and down it; a wide and broadly spread road may be used by whole tribes without jostling. Those objects of desire of yours cause strife and disputes among those who covet the same things, because they are petty, and cannot be given to one man without being taken away from another.

XXXIV. Come now, let us list the other causes of anger: food, drink, and the elaborate displays surrounding them. Then come words, insults, disrespectful gestures, suspicions, stubborn cattle, lazy slaves, and malicious interpretations of other people’s words. So even the gift of speech to humanity is counted among nature’s wrongs. Believe me, the things that stir up such fierce anger in us are trifles, the kind children fight and squabble over. There is nothing serious, nothing important in all we do with such grim faces. I repeat, your anger and madness come from placing great value on trifles. One man wanted to rob me of my inheritance. Another accused me before people¹⁴ whose favor I had long sought with high hopes. Another coveted my mistress. Wanting the same things ought to bring us together as friends. Instead, our shared desires become a source of quarrels and hatred. A narrow path causes quarrels among people traveling in opposite directions. A wide, open road can carry whole tribes without anyone jostling. The things you desire cause conflict and disputes among people who want the same things, because those things are petty. They cannot be given to one person without being taken from another.

XXXV. You are indignant at being answered back by your slave, your freedman, your wife, or your client: and then you complain of the state having lost the freedom which you have destroyed in your own house: then again if he is silent when you question him, you call it sullen obstinacy. Let him both speak and be silent, and laugh too. “In the presence of his master?” you ask. Nay, say rather “in the presence of the house-father.” Why do you shout? why do you storm? why do you in the middle of dinner call for a whip, because the slaves are talking, because a crowd as large as a public meeting is not as silent as the wilderness? You have ears, not merely that you may listen to musical sounds, softly and sweetly drawn out and harmonized: you ought to hear laughter and weeping, coaxing and quarrelling, joy and sorrow, the human voice and the roaring and barking of animals. Miserable one! why do you shudder at the noise of a slave, at the rattling of brass or the banging of a door? you cannot help hearing the thunder, however refined you may be. You may apply these remarks about your ears with equal truth to your eyes, which are just as dainty, if they have been badly schooled: they are shocked at stains and dirt, at silver plate which is not sufficiently bright, or at a pool whose water is not clear down to the bottom. Those same eyes which can only endure to see the most variegated marble, and that which has just been scoured bright, which will look at no table whose wood is not marked with a network of veining, and which at home are loth to tread upon anything that is not more precious than gold, will, when out of doors, gaze most calmly upon rough and miry paths, will see unmoved that the greater number of persons that meet them are shabbily dressed, and that the walls of the houses are rotten, full of cracks, and uneven. What, then, can be the reason that they are not distressed out of doors by sights which would shock them in their own home, unless it be that their temper is placid and long-suffering in one case, sulky and fault-finding in the other?

XXXV. You are outraged when your slave, freedman, wife, or client answers you back. Then you complain that the state has lost the freedom you have destroyed in your own home. Yet if someone stays silent when you question him, you call his silence sullen stubbornness. Let him speak, be silent, and laugh too. “In his master’s presence?” you ask. No, say instead, “in the presence of the father of the household.” Why do you shout? Why do you rage? Why do you call for a whip in the middle of dinner because the slaves are talking? Because a crowd as large as a public gathering is not as silent as the wilderness? Your ears are not just for listening to soft, sweet, harmonious music. You ought to hear laughter and weeping, coaxing and quarreling, joy and sorrow, human voices, and animals roaring and barking. You miserable creature! Why do you shudder at a slave’s noise, the clatter of brass, or a door banging? However refined you may be, you cannot avoid hearing thunder. These remarks about your ears apply just as well to your eyes. Your eyes are just as fussy if badly trained. Stains and dirt offend them, as do silver dishes that are not bright enough. So does a pool whose water is not clear all the way to the bottom. These same eyes can bear to see only richly patterned marble, freshly scrubbed until it shines. They refuse to look at any table unless its wood has a network of veins. At home, you are reluctant to step on anything less precious than gold. Yet outdoors, those same eyes look calmly at rough, muddy paths. They see without concern that most people they meet are shabbily dressed. Nor are they troubled by house walls that are crumbling, cracked, and uneven. Why, then, do sights outdoors cause no distress when the same sights would offend them at home? Can there be any reason except that your temper is calm and patient outdoors, but sulky and fault-finding at home?

XXXVI. All our senses should be educated into strength: they are naturally able to endure much, provided that the spirit forbears to spoil them. The spirit ought to be brought up for examination daily. It was the custom of Sextius when the day was over, and he had betaken himself to rest, to inquire of his spirit: “What bad habit of yours have you cured to-day? what vice have you checked? in what respect are you better?” Anger will cease, and become more gentle, if it knows that every day it will have to appear before the judgment seat. What can be more admirable than this fashion of discussing the whole of the day’s events? how sweet is the sleep which follows this self-examination? how calm, how sound, and careless is it when our spirit has either received praise or reprimand, and when our secret inquisitor and censor has made his report about our morals? I make use of this privilege, and daily plead my cause before myself: when the lamp is taken out of my sight, and my wife, who knows my habit, has ceased to talk, I pass the whole day in review before myself, and repeat all that I have said and done: I conceal nothing from myself, and omit nothing: for why should I be afraid of any of my shortcomings, when it is in my power to say, “I pardon you this time: see that you never do that any more? In that dispute you spoke too contentiously: do not for the future argue with ignorant people: those who have never been taught are unwilling to learn. You reprimanded that man with more freedom than you ought, and consequently you have offended him instead of amending his ways: in dealing with other cases of the kind, you should look carefully, not only to the truth of what you say, but also whether the person to whom you speak can bear to be told the truth.” A good man delights in receiving advice: all the worst men are the most impatient of guidance.

XXXVI. All our senses should be trained to grow strong. They can naturally endure much, provided that the spirit does not spoil them. The spirit should be trained to face examination every day. At the end of each day, when Sextius had gone to bed, he would question his spirit: “What bad habit have you cured today? What vice have you held in check? In what way are you better?” Anger will fade and grow gentler if it knows it must face judgment every day. What could be more admirable than reviewing everything that happened during the day? How sweet is the sleep that follows this self-examination! How peaceful, how sound, how free from care! Such sleep comes when our spirit has received either praise or criticism. Our inner investigator and judge has then reported on our conduct. I make use of this privilege and present my case before myself every day. The lamp is removed, and my wife, who knows my habit, stops talking. Then I review the whole day and go over everything I have said and done. I hide nothing from myself and leave nothing out. Why should I fear any of my failings when I can say: “I forgive you this time. Make sure you never do that again. In that dispute, you were too argumentative. In the future, do not argue with ignorant people. Those who have never been taught are unwilling to learn. You spoke too freely when you criticized that man. As a result, you offended him instead of helping him improve. In similar cases, consider carefully not only whether your words are true. Consider also whether the person you are speaking to can bear to hear the truth.” A good man welcomes advice. All the worst men are the least willing to accept guidance.

XXXVII. At the dinner-table some jokes and sayings intended to give you pain have been directed against you: avoid feasting with low people. Those who are not modest even when sober become much more recklessly impudent after drinking. You have seen your friend in a rage with the porter of some lawyer or rich man, because he has sent him back when about to enter, and you yourself on behalf of your friend have been in a rage with the meanest of slaves. Would you then be angry with a chained housedog? Why, even he, after a long bout of barking, becomes gentle if you offer him food. So draw back and smile; for the moment your porter fancies himself to be somebody, because he guards a door which is beset by a crowd of litigants; for the moment he who sits within is prosperous and happy, and thinks that a street-door through which it is hard to gain entrance is the mark of a rich and powerful man; he knows not that the hardest door of all to open is that of the prison. Be prepared to submit to much. Is any one surprised at being cold in winter? at being sick at sea? or at being jostled in the street? The mind is strong enough to bear those evils for which it is prepared. When you are not given a sufficiently distinguished place at table you have begun to be angry with your fellow-guests, with your host, and with him who is preferred above you. Idiot! What difference can it make what part of the couch you rest upon? Can a cushion give you honour or take it away? You have looked askance at somebody because he has spoken slightingly of your talents; will you apply this rule to yourself? If so, Ennius, whose poetry you do not care for, would have hated you. Hortensius, if you had found fault with his speeches, would have quarrelled with you, and Cicero, if you had laughed at his poetry, would have been your enemy. A candidate for office, will you resent men’s votes?

XXXVII. At dinner, some jokes and remarks have been aimed at you to hurt you. Avoid dining with vulgar people. People who lack restraint even when sober become far more recklessly rude after drinking. You have seen your friend furious with a lawyer’s or rich man’s doorkeeper for turning him away as he approached. And you yourself, on your friend’s behalf, have been furious with the lowest of slaves. Would you get angry with a chained guard dog? Even the dog, after barking for a long time, becomes friendly if you offer him food. So step back and smile. For the moment, the doorkeeper imagines he is someone important because he guards a door crowded with people pursuing lawsuits. For the moment, the man inside is prosperous and happy. He thinks a front door that is hard to get through marks him as rich and powerful. He does not know that the hardest door of all to open is a prison door. Be prepared to put up with much. Is anyone surprised at being cold in winter? At being seasick? Or at being jostled in the street? The mind is strong enough to bear troubles it is prepared for. When you are not given a sufficiently honored place at dinner, you start getting angry. You blame your fellow guests, your host, and the person given a better place than you. Fool! What difference can it make where on the dining couch you lie? Can a cushion give you honor or take your honor away? You have given someone a hostile look because he spoke dismissively of your talents. Will you apply the same rule to yourself? If so, Ennius, whose poetry you dislike, would have hated you. Hortensius would have quarreled with you if you had criticized his speeches. And Cicero would have been your enemy if you had laughed at his poetry. As a candidate for office, will you resent how people vote?

XXXVIII. Some one has offered you an insult? Not a greater one, probably, than was offered to the Stoic philosopher Diogenes, in whose face an insolent young man spat just when he was lecturing upon anger. He bore it mildly and wisely. “I am not angry,” said he, “but I am not sure that I ought not to be angry.” Yet how much better did our Cato behave? When he was pleading, one Lentulus, whom our fathers remember as a demagogue and passionate man, spat all the phlegm he could muster upon his forehead. Cato wiped his face, and said, “Lentulus, I shall declare to all the world that men are mistaken when they say that you are wanting in cheek.”

XXXVIII. Has someone insulted you? Probably no worse than an insolent young man insulted the Stoic philosopher Diogenes. The young man spat in his face just as Diogenes was lecturing on anger. Diogenes took it calmly and wisely. “I am not angry,” he said, “but I am not sure I ought not to be angry.” Yet how much better did our Cato behave? Cato was arguing a case. Our fathers remember Lentulus as a demagogue and a hot-tempered man. Lentulus spat all the phlegm he could muster onto Cato’s forehead. Cato wiped his face and said, “Lentulus, I will tell the whole world that people are wrong to say you lack cheek.”

XXXIX. We have now succeeded, my Novatus, in properly regulating our own minds: they either do not feel anger or are above it: let us next see how we may soothe the wrath of others, for we do not only wish to be whole, but to heal.

XXXIX. My Novatus, we have now succeeded in bringing our own minds under control. Our minds either feel no anger or rise above it. Let us next see how we may calm the anger of others. For we want not only to be well ourselves, but also to heal others.

You should not attempt to allay the first burst of anger by words: it is deaf and frantic: we must give it scope; our remedies will only be effective when it slackens. We do not meddle with men’s eyes when they are swollen, because we should only irritate their hard stiffness by touching them, nor do we try to cure other diseases when at their height: the best treatment in the first stage of illness is rest. “Of how very little value,” say you, “is your remedy, if it appeases anger which is subsiding of its own accord?” In the first place, I answer, it makes it end quicker: in the next, it prevents a relapse. It can render harmless even the violent impulse which it dares not soothe: it will put out of the way all weapons which might be used for revenge: it will pretend to be angry, in order that its advice may have more weight as coming from an assistant and comrade in grief. It will invent delays, and postpone immediate punishment while a greater one is being sought for: it will use every artifice to give the man a respite from his frenzy. If his anger be unusually strong, it will inspire him with some irresistible feeling of shame or of fear: if weak, it will make use of conversation on amusing or novel subjects, and by playing upon his curiosity lead him to forget his passion. We are told that a physician, who was forced to cure the king’s daughter, and could not without using the knife, conveyed a lancet to her swollen breast concealed under the sponge with which he was fomenting it. The same girl, who would have shrunk from the remedy if he had applied it openly, bore the pain because she did not expect it. Some diseases can only be cured by deceit.

You should not try to calm the first burst of anger with words. Anger at that point is deaf and frantic. We must give it room. Our remedies will work only when anger begins to ease. We do not touch people’s eyes when they are swollen, because touching would only irritate the hard, swollen tissue. Nor do we try to cure other diseases at their worst. The best treatment in the first stage of illness is rest. “How little your remedy is worth,” you say, “if it calms anger that is already fading on its own!” First, I answer, the remedy makes anger end sooner. Second, it prevents anger from returning. The remedy can make even the violent impulse harmless, though it dares not try to soothe that impulse. It will remove all weapons that might be used for revenge. Whoever applies the remedy will pretend to be angry, so their advice carries more weight. They will speak as a helper and a companion in grief. They will invent delays and postpone immediate punishment while looking for a greater punishment. They will use every trick to give the angry man a break from his frenzy. If his anger is unusually strong, they will stir up a feeling of shame or fear he cannot resist. If his anger is weak, they will talk about amusing or unusual subjects. By drawing on his curiosity, they will lead him to forget his anger. We are told of a physician who was forced to cure the king’s daughter and could not avoid using a knife. He hid a lancet under the sponge he was using to bathe her swollen breast with warm water. In this way, he brought the blade to her breast. The girl would have recoiled from the treatment if he had performed it openly. Yet she bore the pain because she did not expect it. Some diseases can only be cured by deception.

XL. To one class of men you will say, “Beware, lest your anger give pleasure to your foes:” to the other, “Beware lest your greatness of mind and the reputation it bears among most people for strength become impaired. I myself, by Hercules, am scandalized at your treatment and am grieved beyond measure, but we must wait for a proper opportunity. He shall pay for what he has done; be well assured of that: when you are able you shall return it to him with interest.” To reprove a man when he is angry is to add to his anger by being angry oneself. You should approach him in different ways and in a compliant fashion, unless perchance you be so great a personage that you can quash his anger, as the Emperor Augustus did when he was dining with Vedius Pollio.¹⁵ One of the slaves had broken a crystal goblet of his: Vedius ordered him to be led away to die, and that too in no common fashion: he ordered him to be thrown to feed the muraenae, some of which fish, of great size, he kept in a tank. Who would not think that he did this out of luxury? but it was out of cruelty. The boy slipped through the hands of those who tried to seize him, and flung himself at Caesar’s feet in order to beg for nothing more than that he might die in some different way, and not be eaten. Caesar was shocked at this novel form of cruelty, and ordered him to be let go, and, in his place, all the crystal ware which he saw before him to be broken, and the tank to be filled up. This was the proper way for Caesar to reprove his friend: he made a good use of his power. What are you, that when at dinner you order men to be put to death, and mangled by an unheard-of form of torture? Are a man’s bowels to be torn asunder because your cup is broken? You must think a great deal of yourself, if even when the emperor is present you order men to be executed.

XL. To one kind of person you will say, “Be careful not to let your anger please your enemies.” To the other, “Be careful not to weaken your greatness of spirit, which most people see as strength. By Hercules, I am outraged at how you have been treated, and I am deeply distressed. But we must wait for the right opportunity. He will pay for what he has done. You can be sure of that. When you can, you will pay him back with interest.” Scolding an angry man means adding to his anger by becoming angry yourself. You should try different approaches and be accommodating. Unless, perhaps, your position gives you enough authority to put an end to his anger. The Emperor Augustus did so while dining with Vedius Pollio.¹⁵ One of the slaves had broken a crystal goblet belonging to Vedius. Vedius ordered the slave to be taken away and killed, and not in any ordinary way. He ordered him thrown to the muraenae, some very large fish he kept in a tank, to be eaten. Who would not think he kept these fish out of extravagance? But he kept them out of cruelty. The boy escaped the hands of those trying to seize him and threw himself at Caesar’s feet. He begged only to die some other way, rather than be eaten. Caesar was shocked at this new form of cruelty and ordered the boy released. Instead, he ordered all the crystal ware before him broken and the tank filled in. This was the right way for Caesar to rebuke his friend. He put his power to good use. Who do you think you are, ordering men killed at dinner and torn apart by an unheard-of form of torture? Must a man’s guts be torn apart because your cup is broken? You must think very highly of yourself if you order men executed even in the emperor’s presence.

XLI. If any one’s power is so great that he can treat anger with the tone of a superior let him crush it out of existence, but only if it be of the kind of which I have just spoken, fierce, inhuman, bloodthirsty, and incurable save by fear of something more powerful than itself . . . . . . . . let us give the mind that peace which is given by constant meditation upon wholesome maxims, by good actions, and by a mind directed to the pursuit of honour alone. Let us set our own conscience fully at rest, but make no efforts to gain credit for ourselves: so long as we deserve well, let us be satisfied, even if we should be ill spoken of. “But the common herd admires spirited actions, and bold men are held in honour, while quiet ones are thought to be indolent.” True, at first sight they may appear to be so: but as soon as the even tenor of their life proves that this quietude arises not from dullness but from peace of mind, then that same populace respects and reverences them. There is, then, nothing useful in that hideous and destructive passion of anger, but on the contrary, every kind of evil, fire and sword. Anger tramples self-restraint underfoot, steeps its hands in slaughter, scatters abroad the limbs of its children: it leaves no place unsoiled by crime, it has no thoughts of glory, no fears of disgrace, and when once anger has hardened into hatred, no amendment is possible.

XLI. If anyone has enough power to command anger as its master, let him crush it out of existence. But only if the anger is the kind I have just described: fierce, inhuman, and bloodthirsty. Such anger can be cured only by fear of something more powerful than itself . . . . . . . . Let us give the mind peace through constant reflection on sound principles, good actions, and the pursuit of honour alone. Let us put our own conscience fully at ease, but make no effort to win praise for ourselves. As long as we deserve praise, let us be satisfied, even if people speak badly of us. “But the masses admire spirited actions, and bold men are honoured, while quiet men are thought to be lazy.” True, quiet men may seem lazy at first. But their steady way of life soon proves that their quietness comes from peace of mind, not dullness. Then those same people respect and revere them. There is nothing useful, then, in the hideous and destructive passion of anger. On the contrary, anger brings every kind of evil, fire and sword. Anger tramples self-control underfoot, drenches its hands in blood, and scatters the limbs of its children. Anger leaves no place unstained by crime. It gives no thought to glory and has no fear of disgrace. And once anger has hardened into hatred, no change for the better is possible.

XLII. Let us be free from this evil, let us clear our minds of it, and extirpate root and branch a passion which grows again wherever the smallest particle of it finds a resting-place. Let us not moderate anger, but get rid of it altogether: what can moderation have to do with an evil habit? We shall succeed in doing this, if only we exert ourselves. Nothing will be of greater service than to bear in mind that we are mortal: let each man say to himself and to his neighbour, “Why should we, as though we were born to live for ever, waste our tiny span of life in declaring anger against any one? why should days, which we might spend in honourable enjoyment, be misapplied in grieving and torturing others? Life is a matter which does not admit of waste, and we have no spare time to throw away. Why do we rush into the fray? why do we go out of our way to seek disputes? why do we, forgetful of the weakness of our nature, undertake mighty feuds, and, frail though we be, summon up all our strength to cut down other men? Ere long, fever or some other bodily ailment will make us unable to carry on this warfare of hatred which we so implacably wage: death will soon part the most vigorous pair of combatants. Why do we make disturbances and spend our lives in rioting? fate hangs over our heads, scores up to our account the days as they pass, and is ever drawing nearer and nearer. The time which you have marked for the death of another perhaps includes your own.”

XLII. Let us free ourselves from this evil and clear anger from our minds. Let us tear this passion out by the roots. Anger grows back wherever even the smallest trace finds a place to settle. Let us not moderate anger, but get rid of it altogether. What place does moderation have in an evil habit? We will succeed if only we make the effort. Nothing will help us more than remembering that we must die. Let each man say to himself and his neighbor, “Why should we waste our brief lives being angry with anyone, as though we were born to live forever? Why spend our days hurting and tormenting others when we could enjoy those days honorably? We cannot afford to waste life, and we have no spare time to throw away. Why do we rush into fights? Why do we go out of our way to seek arguments? Why do we forget our human weakness and take on great feuds? Why, frail as we are, do we gather all our strength to strike others down? “Before long, fever or some other illness will leave us unable to continue this war of hatred we wage so relentlessly. Death will soon separate even the strongest pair of fighters. Why do we stir up trouble and spend our lives in turmoil? Fate hangs over our heads, counting off our days as they pass and drawing ever closer. The time you have set for someone else’s death may perhaps include your own.”

XLIII. Instead of acting thus, why do you not rather draw together what there is of your short life, and keep it peaceful for others and for yourself? why do you not rather make yourself beloved by every one while you live, and regretted by every one when you die? Why do you wish to tame that man’s pride, because he takes too lofty a tone with you? why do you try with all your might to crush that other who snaps and snarls at you, a low and contemptible wretch, but spiteful and offensive to his betters? Master, why are you angry with your slave? Slave, why are you angry with your master? Client, why are you angry with your patron? Patron, why are you angry with your client? Wait but a little while. See, here comes death, who will make you all equals. We often see at a morning performance in the arena a battle between a bull and a bear, fastened together, in which the victor, after he has torn the other to pieces, is himself slain. We do just the same thing: we worry some one who is connected with us, although the end of both victor and vanquished is at hand, and that soon. Let us rather pass the little remnant of our lives in peace and quiet: may no one loathe us when we lie dead. A quarrel is often brought to an end by a cry of “Fire!” in the neighbourhood, and the appearance of a wild beast parts the highwayman from the traveller: men have no leisure to battle with minor evils when menaced by some overpowering terror. What have we to do with fighting and ambuscades? do you want anything more than death to befall him with whom you are angry? well, even though you sit quiet, he will be sure to die. You waste your pains: you want to do what is certain to be done. You say, “I do not wish necessarily to kill him, but to punish him by exile, or public disgrace, or loss of property.” I can more easily pardon one who wishes to give his enemy a wound than one who wishes to give him a blister: for the latter is not only bad, but petty-minded. Whether you are thinking of extreme or slighter punishments, how very short is the time during which either your victim is tortured or you enjoy an evil pleasure in another’s pain? This breath that we hold so dear will soon leave us: in the meantime, while we draw it, while we live among human beings, let us practise humanity: let us not be a terror or a danger to any one. Let us keep our tempers in spite of losses, wrongs, abuse or sarcasm, and let us endure with magnanimity our shortlived troubles: while we are considering what is due to ourselves, as the saying is, and worrying ourselves, death will be upon us.

XLIII. Instead of behaving this way, why not gather up what remains of your short life? Why not keep it peaceful for others and yourself? Why not make everyone love you while you live and miss you when you die? Why do you want to humble that man’s pride because he speaks so arrogantly to you? Why try so hard to crush that other man who snaps and snarls at you? He is a low, contemptible wretch, but spiteful and insulting to those above him. Master, why are you angry with your slave? Slave, why are you angry with your master? Client, why are you angry with your patron? Patron, why are you angry with your client? Just wait a little while. Look, death is coming to make you all equal. At morning shows in the arena, we often see a bull and a bear fighting while tied together. After the winner tears the other animal apart, the winner is killed too. We do exactly the same thing. We torment someone tied to us, although death is close at hand for both winner and loser. Instead, let us spend what little remains of our lives in peace and quiet. May no one hate us when we lie dead. A shout of “Fire!” nearby often ends a quarrel. The appearance of a wild beast separates the highway robber from the traveler. People have no time to fight lesser evils when some overwhelming terror threatens them. Why concern ourselves with fighting and ambushes? Do you want anything worse than death to happen to the person you are angry with? Well, even if you sit quietly, he is certain to die. You are wasting your effort. You want to bring about something certain to happen. You say, “I do not necessarily want to kill him. I want to punish him with exile, public disgrace, or loss of property.” I can more easily forgive someone who wants to wound his enemy than someone who wants to give him a blister. The second person is not only bad but petty. Whether you are considering severe or lighter punishments, how little time either punishment lasts! How briefly your victim suffers, or you take wicked pleasure in another person’s pain! The breath we value so dearly will soon leave us. Meanwhile, while we breathe and live among human beings, let us act humanely. Let us not be a terror or a danger to anyone. Let us keep our tempers despite losses, wrongs, insults, or sarcasm. Let us face our short-lived troubles with generosity of spirit. While we worry about what we are owed, as the saying goes, and torment ourselves, death will be upon us.