Tenth installment:
Arrian, a student of Epictetus, wrote eight books, The Discourses of Epictetus, of which four survive. Selections from those eight books were also collected in the Enchiridion, or “Handbook.” The Discourses give us a quite vivid portrait of the man who inspired them, and also give us fascinating glimpses into his singular didactic style. We very quickly see how Epictetus ran his school, the nature of its curricula, and how he mentored his students. We see his earnestness, his zeal, and piety, but we also get a good dose of his sharp and often acerbic sense of humor. It is no wonder that Arrian felt he ‘had to get this down.’
It also can be quite a challenge to understand exactly what is being said in the chapters of the Discourses. The text is composed of lecture notes, we must recall.
So, with that genesis in mind, I’ve set out to read through the four books, a chapter at a time, while also breaking up the text with commentary, (essentially my best guesses as to how we might flesh out what can be very brief or truncated sketches of dialogue and argumentation), as it was no easy business for Arrian to get down what he had experienced in the lecture halls of Nicopolis!
Commentary is in italics! Also, please forgive any formatting issues (spacing between paragraphs) that you see. They stubbornly will not go away no matter what I do!
Book I Chapter 10
To Those Who Have Set Their Hearts on Preferment at Rome
This chapter not only gives us a glimpse into Epictetus’s interactions with non-students (in this case an older peer who had endured the contingencies of Roman public life) but gives a clear picture of how it is he conceptualizes the student/mentor relationship. For him it is similar to the relationships entered into via business contracts, and carries with it similar reciprocal obligations. He does not, here, denigrate business relationships, but uses them to illustrate the seriousness with which he believes his faculty and staff should approach their work; preparation for that shared administration of the world for which humanity had been designed, a shared administration to be carried out through the filter of our Moral Purpose.
If we philosophers had applied ourselves to our own work as zealously as the old men at Rome have applied themselves to the matters on which they have set their hearts, perhaps we too should be accomplishing something.
I know a man older than myself who is now in charge of the grain supply at Rome. When he passed this place on his way back from exile, I recall what a tale he told as he inveighed against his former life and announced for the future that, when he had returned to Rome, he would devote himself solely to spending the remainder of his life in peace and quiet, “for how little is yet left to me!”—And I told him, “You will not do it, but when once you have caught no more than a whiff of Rome you will forget all this.” And if also admission to court should be granted, I added that he would rejoice, thank God and push his way in.
“If you find me, Epictetus,” said he, “putting so much as one foot inside the court, think of me what you will.”
Well, now, what did he do? Before he reached Rome, letters from Caesar met him; and as soon as he received them, he forgot all those resolutions of his, and ever since he has been piling up one property after another. I wish I could stand by his side now and remind him of the words that he uttered as he passed by here, and remark,
“How much more clever a prophet I am than you!”
The man Epictetus presents us with here was someone who had been at the political game for most of his adult life, and well acquainted with its exigencies. He had been exiled for some unstated reason. We can assume there was a change in leadership at some level above him, and that he had not only been ousted from office, but had been perceived as dangerous enough to exile for a time. Having been distanced, literally and figuratively, from the life of the appointed office holder, he had perhaps seen, with a greater objectivity, the sorts of compromises and fawning behaviors he had felt necessary in order to hold the office, and become embarrassed, or perhaps disgusted, at it. Still, Epictetus knew this man, now being called back from exile, would lose that objectivity, and swoon when courted for office, quickly forgetting that he had sworn it off. He tells the man that he will in fact be more than willing to fetter himself to the whims of the politically powerful in order to reap several benefits.
Epictetus tells this story, and finds in it an object lesson for those in his tutelage, and all those, including himself, that profess to be Stoic about such matters. (These are clearly the people he refers to with the phrase ‘we philosophers.’) If ‘we philosophers’ would pursue our ends as doggedly as such men as this un-named office seeker, he says, we would perhaps accomplish great things. This naturally leads us to ask what those great things might be. Anticipating such questions, and also anticipating that some might presume these great things to include some sort of retreat from the world, a life of ‘inactivity in affairs,’ Epictetus next asks:
What then? Do I say that man is an animal made for inactivity? Far be it from me!
But we can ask him: ‘It sure looks like you are advising against taking part in public affairs. Isn’t this the point of the story you told us?’ His answer:
But how can you say that we philosophers are not active in affairs? For example, to take myself first: as soon as day breaks I call to mind briefly what author I must read over. Then forthwith I say to myself: “And yet what difference does it really make to me how so-and-so reads? The first thing is that I get my sleep.”
Apparently, Epictetus here wants to remind us that he is as human as the rest of us. He fully admits that his business is different than most, but he does wake up considering the day’s work, and does find himself wishing he could simply ignore the daylight and sleep some more. He tells us he cannot, in good conscience, do this, for he has business to attend to. He has to lesson plan, choose texts for his classes to pour over, and select individual students for each day’s exercise, (presumably they will read, comment upon and moderate discussion sessions focused upon each day’s text). He’s being honest here in saying that this can sometimes be drudgery, just like any other business. But, still, he realizes its importance, chooses to get his body up, and get to work.
Even so, in what are the occupations of those other men comparable to ours? If you observe what they do, you will see. For what else do they do but all day long cast up accounts, dispute, consult about a bit of grain, a bit of land, or similar matters of profit?
Working with others, entering into transactions, possible disputes, all of this is common to the life of man in society. Why should it be any different in the case of the philosopher? The end for which he indulges in such activities may be a different sort of benefit or profit from the economic profit that most businesses attend to, but, still, it is worth pursuing.
Is it, then, much the same thing to receive a little petition from someone and read: “I beseech you to allow me to export a small quantity of grain,” and this one: “I beseech you to learn from Chrysippus what is the administration of the universe, and what place therein the rational animal has; and consider also who you are, and what is the nature of your good and evil?”
The student is a bit like the business partner or client in the world of commerce and exchange. He receives bills, stating what sort of transactions he and the teacher enter into, what is expected of each, and how it is to be delivered. Yet, as we can see from the ‘text’ of this particular transaction, the philosophy student’s bill of lading demands things of a different nature, (knowledge of the world, and its ‘administration’) acquisition of which is not only important, but arduous. A very tall order indeed.
Epictetus continues in something like this fashion, using that first-person plural way of putting things, saying, in effect, something like this:
‘We may be tempted to cite that difficulty as grounds for our taking a pass on following through on our side of the given bill, but we should no more give in to that temptation than we would in the face of difficulties in carrying out other sorts of business agreement.’
‘In each case, we have entered into contracts, and have taken on obligations to carry them out. The fact of this commitment is even more strongly in force if we take it that not only the teacher, but the divine ‘administrator’ is expecting us to carry out that contract to learn.’
‘Still, we do need to encourage each other, student and teacher, as the laziness temptation is always lurking!’
Is this like that? And does it demand the like kind of study? And is it in the same way shameful to neglect the one and the other? What then? Is it we philosophers alone who take things easily and drowse? No, it is you young men far sooner. For, look you, we old men, when we see young men playing, are eager to join in the play ourselves. And much more, if I saw them wide-awake and eager to share in our studies, should I be eager to join, myself, in their serious pursuits.
What exactly does this study entail? We are to study ‘the administration of the universe,’ and the subsidiary roles rational creatures, (obviously he is referencing human beings) have in that administration. How are we to go about doing all this? Keeping in mind that rationality is tied up both with the logical notion of internal consistency between propositions, and, when exercised practically, with determining suitedness to task or purpose, we can begin to glean an answer, even if in the broadest of outline. We are to study nature and society teleologically, for, if the design argument has the force Epictetus claims for it, then, in light of the consequent admission that we and the universe have been created with the ‘administrative’ relationship in mind, we must use our faculties as best we can, to understand the cosmos and our intended managerial role, that is; its scope and limits.
The next chapter gives us a very good example of how we can go about finding these more finely granulated answers to the teleological question. What we must do is examine our own nature, the local ‘administrative’ ends for which we and others in society exist, and how best these ends are satisfied, when all things are considered. We can do this in particular exercises focused on the day-to-day lives we all lead, and the moral obligations that are central to the various roles we play. The example role Epictetus will focus upon is that of parenthood, and the proper function of affection in parenting and rearing of children. Let us now move to that example: