The question will be here, whether anger takes its rise from impulse or judgment; that is, whether it be moved of its own accord, or, as many other things are, from within us, that arise we know not how? The clearing of this point will lead us to greater matters.
The question here is whether anger comes from impulse or judgment. Does it move on its own, or does it arise from within us like many other things we don't understand? Clearing up this point will lead us to greater matters.
The first motion of anger is in truth involuntary, and only a kind of menacing preparation towards it. The second deliberates; as who should say, “This injury should not pass without a revenge,” and there it stops. The third is impotent; and, right or wrong, resolves upon vengeance. The first motion is not to be avoided, nor indeed the second, any more than yawning for company; custom and care may lessen it, but reason itself cannot overcome it. The third, as it rises upon consideration, it must fall so too, for that motion which proceeds with judgment may be taken away with judgment. A man thinks himself injured, and hath a mind to be revenged, but for some reason lets it rest. This is not properly anger, but an affection overruled by reason; a kind of proposal disapproved—and what are reason and affection, but only changes of the mind for the better or for the worse? Reason deliberates before it judges; but anger passes sentence without deliberation. Reason only attends the matter in hand; but anger is startled at every accident; it passes the bounds of reason, and carries it away with it. In short, “anger is an agitation of the mind that proceeds to the resolution of a revenge, the mind assenting to it.”
The first surge of anger happens without our control. It's just a threatening preparation for what might come. The second stage involves deliberation. We think, "This wrong shouldn't go unpunished," and then we pause. The third stage is reckless. Right or wrong, it decides on revenge. We can't avoid the first surge, or even the second one. It's like yawning when others yawn. Habit and careful attention might reduce it, but reason alone can't overcome it. The third stage, however, rises from consideration, so it can fall the same way. Any impulse that comes from judgment can be removed by judgment. A person feels wronged and wants revenge, but for some reason lets it go. This isn't really anger. It's an emotion controlled by reason, a proposal that gets rejected. After all, what are reason and emotion but changes in the mind for better or worse? Reason thinks things through before making judgments. Anger passes sentence without any deliberation. Reason focuses only on the matter at hand. Anger gets startled by every little thing. It crosses the boundaries of reason and drags reason along with it. In short, "anger is mental agitation that leads to the decision for revenge, with the mind's full agreement."
There is no doubt but anger is moved by the species of an injury; but whether that motion be voluntary or involuntary is the point in debate; though it seems manifest to me that anger does nothing but where the mind goes along with it, for, first, to take an offence, and then to meditate a revenge, and after that to lay both propositions together, and say to myself, “This injury ought not to have been done; but as the case stands, I must do myself right.” This discourse can never proceed without the concurrence of the will.
There is no doubt that anger is stirred by the appearance of an injury. But whether that stirring is voluntary or involuntary is the point in debate. Still, it seems clear to me that anger does nothing unless the mind goes along with it. First we take offense. Then we think about revenge. After that we put both thoughts together and say to ourselves, “This injury ought not to have been done. But as things stand, I must avenge myself.” This reasoning can never go forward without the consent of the will.
The first motion indeed is single; but all the rest is deliberation and superstructure—there is something understood and condemned—an indignation conceived and a revenge propounded. This can never be without the agreement of the mind to the matter in deliberation. The end of this question is to know the nature and quality of anger. If it be bred in us it will never yield to reason, for all involuntary motions are inevitable and invincible; as a kind of horror and shrugging upon the sprinkling of cold water; the hair standing on end at ill news; giddiness at the sight of a precipice; blushing at lewd discourse. In these cases reason can do no good, but anger may undoubtedly be overcome by caution and good counsel, for it is a voluntary vice, and not of the condition of those accidents that befall us as frailties of our humanity, amongst which must be reckoned the first motions of the mind after the opinion of an injury received, which it is not in the power of human nature to avoid, and this is it that affects us upon the stage, or in a story.
The first impulse, indeed, is single. But all the rest is deliberation and building on it. Something is understood and condemned, an indignation is formed, and a revenge is proposed. This can never happen without the mind’s assent to the matter it is weighing. The aim of this question is to know the nature and quality of anger. If anger is born in us, it will never yield to reason. For all involuntary impulses are unavoidable and cannot be overcome. Examples are a kind of shudder and shrugging when cold water is sprinkled on us, and the hair standing on end at bad news. Others are dizziness at the sight of a cliff and blushing at lewd talk. In these cases reason can do no good. But anger can certainly be overcome by caution and good counsel, for it is a voluntary vice. It is not one of those accidents that befall us as frailties of our human nature. Among those frailties we must count the first stirrings of the mind once we believe we have received an injury. Human nature has no power to avoid them. And this is what affects us at a play or in a story.
Can any man read the death of Pompey, and not be touched with an indignation? The sound of a trumpet rouses the spirits and provokes courage. It makes a man sad to see the shipwreck even of an enemy; and we are much surprised by fear in other cases—all these motions are not so much affections as preludes to them. The clashing of arms or the beating of a drum excites a war-horse: nay, a song from Xenophantes would make Alexander take his sword in his hand.
Can anyone read about Pompey's death without feeling outraged? The sound of a trumpet stirs the spirit and awakens courage. It makes us sad to see even an enemy's ship sink. We feel sudden fear in many situations. All these reactions aren't true emotions, but hints of what's coming. The clash of weapons or the beat of a drum excites a war-horse. Even a song from Xenophantes could make Alexander grab his sword.
In all these cases the mind rather suffers than acts, and therefore it is not an affection to be moved, but to give way to that motion, and to follow willingly what was started by chance—these are not affections, but impulses of the body. The bravest man in the world may look pale when he puts on his armor, his knees knock, and his heart work before the battle is joined: but these are only motions; whereas anger is an excursion, and proposes revenge or punishment, which cannot be without the mind. As fear flies, so anger assaults; and it is not possible to resolve, either upon violence or caution, without the concurrence of the will.
In all these cases the mind is acted on rather than acting. Being moved is not a passion. A passion is giving way to that movement, and willingly following what was started by chance. So these are not passions but impulses of the body. The bravest man in the world may turn pale when he puts on his armor. His knees may knock and his heart pound before the battle begins. But these are only movements. Anger, by contrast, is a sally outward. It proposes revenge or punishment, which cannot happen without the mind. As fear flees, so anger attacks. And it is not possible to decide on either violence or caution without the consent of the will.