1. Doth a man bathe himself quickly? Then, say not, Wrongly, but Quickly. Doth he drink much wine? Then say not, Wrongly, but Much. For whence do you know if it were ill done till you have understood his opinion?
1. Does a man bathe quickly? Then do not say, Wrongly, but Quickly. Does he drink much wine? Then do not say, Wrongly, but Much. For how can you know whether he acted wrongly before you understand his judgment?
2. Thus it shall not befall you to assent to any other things than those whereof you are truly and directly sensible.
2. This way, you will accept only what you truly and directly perceive.
This apparently means that judgment has no right to do more than accept what perception tells us. When someone makes a mistake, they believe it will somehow benefit or satisfy them. In other words, they believe it contains something of the Good. They may be mistaken about this. But until they know where Good and Evil really lie, they cannot act otherwise. The philosopher’s proper response is not to condemn their actions, but to show them the fundamental error behind them. The term “assent,” συγκατατίθεσθαι, is used by Epictetus in II. vi., etc. There he describes the mind as deceived or taken captive by the outward appearance of things.
3. What is the cause of assenting to anything? The appearance that it is so. But if it appear to be not so, it is impossible to assent to it. Wherefore? For that this is the nature of the mind, to receive the true with favor, the false with disfavor, and the uncertain with indifference. The proof of this? Be sure, if you can, at this moment, that it is night. You cannot. Cease to be sure that it is day. You cannot. Be sure that the stars are odd in number, or that they are even. You cannot. When, therefore, any man shall assent to what is false, know that he had no will to consent to falsehood; for, as saith Plato, no soul is willingly deprived of the truth, but the false appeared to it to be true. Come, then, what have we in actions corresponding to this true and false? The seemly and the unseemly, the profitable and the unprofitable, that which concerns me and that which doth not concern me, and such like. Can any man think that a certain thing is for his profit, and not elect to do it? He cannot. How, then, is it with her who saith—
3. What makes us agree that something is true? It seems to be true. But if it seems untrue, we cannot agree with it. Why? Because the mind naturally welcomes what is true, rejects what is false, and remains neutral about what is uncertain. What is the proof? Try, right now, to be certain that it is night. You cannot. Stop being certain that it is day. You cannot. Be certain that the number of stars is odd, or that it is even. You cannot. So when anyone accepts something false, know that they did not willingly accept a falsehood. For, as Plato says, no soul is willingly deprived of the truth. Rather, what was false seemed true to them. Now, in matters of action, what corresponds to true and false? What is proper and improper, beneficial and harmful, relevant to me and irrelevant to me, and so on. Can anyone think something benefits them and not choose to do it? They cannot. What, then, about the woman who says,
“And will I know the evils I shall do, But wrath is lord of all my purposes?” Medea, 1079.
“And will I know the evil I will do, while anger rules all my plans?” Medea, 1079.
For, did she hold this very thing, to gratify her wrath and avenge herself on her husband more profitable than to spare her children? Even so: but she was deceived. Show her clearly that she was deceived, and she will not do it; but so long as you show it not, what else hath she to follow than the thing as it appears to her? Nothing. Wherefore, then, have you indignation with her, that the unhappy wretch has gone astray concerning the greatest things, and has become a viper instead of a human being? If anything, will you not rather pity, as we pity the blind and the lame, those that are blinded and lamed in the chiefest of their faculties?
Did she think satisfying her anger and taking revenge on her husband mattered more than sparing her children? Yes, but she was mistaken. Show her clearly that she was mistaken, and she will not do it. But until you do, what else can she follow except what seems right to her? Nothing. Why, then, are you angry with her? This unhappy woman has gone wrong about the most important things, becoming a viper instead of a human being. Shouldn't you pity her instead? We pity the blind and those who cannot walk. Shouldn't we also pity those whose most important faculties are blinded and crippled?
4. ——“So that all these great and dreadful deeds have this same origin in the appearance of the thing?”
4. “So all these great and dreadful deeds have the same origin in how things appear to us?”
The same, and no other. The Iliad is nought but appearance, and the use of appearances. The thing that appeared to Paris was the carrying off of the wife of Menelaus; the thing that appeared to Helen was to accompany him. Had it, then, appeared to Menelaus to be sensible that it was a gain to be deprived of such a wife, what would have happened? Not only had there been no Iliad, but no Odyssey neither.
The same, and nothing else. The Iliad is nothing but appearances and how people act on them. To Paris, carrying off Menelaus’s wife seemed right. To Helen, going with Paris seemed right. What if Menelaus had thought it sensible to see losing such a wife as a gain? There would have been no Iliad and no Odyssey either.
——“On such a little thing do such great ones hang?”
“Do such great things depend on something so small?”
But what talk is this of great things? Wars and seditions and destructions of many men, and overthrow of cities? And what is there of great in these? Nothing. For what is there of greatness in the deaths of many oxen and sheep, and the burning or overthrow of many nests of swallows or storks?
But what is this talk of great events? Wars and rebellions, the deaths of many people, and the destruction of cities? What is great about these things? Nothing. For what is great about the deaths of many oxen and sheep? Or about burning or destroying many nests of swallows or storks?
——“But are these things like unto those?”
“But are these things like those?”
They are most like. The bodies of men are destroyed, and the bodies of oxen and of sheep. The dwellings of men are burned, and the nests of storks. What is there great, what is there awful in this? Or show me wherein differeth the dwelling of a man, as a dwelling, from the nest of a stork, save that the one buildeth his little houses of planks and tiles and bricks, and the other of sticks and mud?
They are very much alike. Human bodies are destroyed, and so are the bodies of oxen and sheep. Human homes are burned, and so are storks’ nests. What is so great or terrible about this? Or show me how a human home, simply as a shelter, differs from a stork’s nest. The only difference is that humans build their little houses from planks, tiles, and bricks, while storks use sticks and mud.
——“Are a stork and a man, then, alike?”
“So, are a stork and a man alike?”
What say you? In body they are most like.
What do you say? They are very similar in body.
——“Doth a man, then, differ in no respect from a stork?”
“So, is a man no different from a stork?”
God forbid; but in these matters there is no difference.
God forbid. But in these matters, there is no difference.
——“Wherein, then, doth he differ?”
“How, then, is he different?”
Seek, and you shall find that in another thing there is a difference. Look if it be not in the observing and studying of what he doth; look if it be not in his social instinct, in his faith, his reverence, his steadfastness, his understanding. Where, then, is the great Good or Evil for man? There, where the difference is. If this be saved, and abide, as it were, in a fortress, and reverence be not depraved, nor faith, nor understanding, then is the man also saved. But if one of these things perish, or be taken by storm, then doth the man also perish. And in this it is that great actions are done. It was a mighty downfall, they say, for Paris, when the Greeks came, and when they sacked Troy, and when his brothers perished. Not so: for through another’s act can no man fall—that was the sacking of the storks’ nests. But the downfall was then when he lost reverence and faith, when he betrayed hospitality and violated decorum. When was the fall of Achilles? When Patroclus died? God forbid; but when he was wrathful, when he bewept the loss of his girl, when he forgot that he was there not to win mistresses but to make war. These, for men, are downfall and storming and overthrow, when right opinions are demolished or depraved.
Look closely, and you will find that the difference lies elsewhere. See whether it lies in how he observes and studies his own actions. See whether it lies in his social instincts, trustworthiness, sense of honor, steadiness, and understanding. Where, then, does the greatest good or evil for a person lie? Wherever that difference lies. If these qualities remain safe, as though in a fortress, the person is safe too. This holds as long as his sense of honor, trustworthiness, and understanding remain uncorrupted. But if any of these qualities is destroyed or overrun, the person is destroyed too. This is where actions of great consequence take place. People say Paris suffered a terrible downfall when the Greeks came and sacked Troy, and his brothers died. Not so. No one can be brought down by another person's actions. That was merely the destruction of storks' nests. His downfall came when he lost his sense of honor and trustworthiness. It came when he betrayed the duties of hospitality and violated proper conduct. When did Achilles fall? When Patroclus died? Certainly not. He fell when he gave in to anger and wept over the loss of his girl. He forgot that he was there to fight a war, not to win mistresses. These are the true downfalls, defeats, and overthrows for human beings, when sound judgments are destroyed or corrupted.