No More Learning

To anyone who has contemplated the immensity of the universe, human a airs-to which we attach so much importance-seem petty, unimportant child's play. As Marcus likes to repeat: "Everything is vile and petty. " Yet since human a airs are almost always alien to the moral good, dominated as they are by passions, hatred, and hypocrisy, they seem not only puny, vile, and petty, but also disgusting in their monoto­ nous baseness. The only greatness in earthly life-but also the only
joy-is there re the purity ofmoral intent.
The Levels of Cosmic Consciousness
Earlier I spoke of the stages of consciousness of the self as a culty of eedom and moral choice. We can now return to this theme, in order to
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see how the various levels of self-consciousness correspond to di erent levels ofcosmic consciousness.
As long as the self has not yet gained awareness of its potential ee­ dom, and has not yet carried out the delimitation or circumscription of this potential eedom in which the guiding principle consists, it believes itself to be autonomous and independent of the world. In ct it is, as Marcus says, a "stranger to the world" (IV, 29), and it is swept along against its will by Destiny. In the course of the movement by which it becomes aware of the ct that it is not identical with the body, the vital breath, or involuntary emotions, however, the self discovers that, up until then, it had been unconsciously and passively determined by Des­ tiny: it had been nothing but a tiny point in the immensity ofspace, or a little wave in the immense tide of time. The moment eedom becomes aware ofitsel however, it becomes aware ofthe ct that that selfwhich is determined by Destiny is only an in nitesimally tiny part ofthe wo d (XII, 32):
What a tiny part of the gaping abyss of in nite time is assigned to each one of us! For it disappears so quickly into the everlasting. What a tiny portion of universal substance, what a tiny part of the universal soul! On how tiny a part ofthe entire earth do you crawl!
Our perspective is changed once again when the sel as a principle of eedom, recognizes that there is nothing greater than the moral good, and there re accepts what has been willed by Destiny, that is to say, universal Reason. If the self accepts itself as a principle of eedom and of choice, it also accepts the portion which Destiny has allotted to it, as the ego which has been determined by Destiny. As the Stoics used to say, the self accepts the role which the divine director has reserved r it in the drama of the universe;68 in Marcus' case, r instance, this role was that of emperor. As the selfaccepts this role, however, it becomes trans gured: r what the ee selfwills is a ofDestiny, the entire histo ofthe world, and the entire world, as ifthe selfwere that universal Reason which is at the origin ofthe world, or universal Nature. At this point, the selfas wi and as eedom coincides with the will of universal Reason and of the logos dispersed throughout all things.
The realization ofone's selfas identical with universal Reason, then, as long as it is accompanied by consent to this will, does not isolate the self like some minuscule island in the universe. On the contrary, it can open the self to a cosmic becoming, inso r as the self raises itself om its
The Discipline ofDesire 1 8 1
limited situation and partial, restricted, and individualistic point ofview to a universal and cosmic perspective. At this point, self-consciousness becomes consciousness of the world, and consciousness of the divine Reason which guides the world. Finally, we may say that the sel by means of this process of realization, discovers both its limitation and its transcendence. It discovers the limitation of its individuality within the immensity of the universe-this is a theme which recurs equently in Pascal's Pensees: "I am nothing but an unimportant thing in the abyss of time and space"-and this is the limitation of the self as determined by Destiny. At the same time, however, it discovers the transcendence of the self as moral conscience, whose value is somehow in nite with regard to the merely physical domain.
We nd this opposition between the self caught up in the web of the universe and ofDestiny and the selfwhich identi es itselfwith universal Reason already in Epictetus (I, 12, 26):
Don't you know how tiny a part you are, compared to the All? With regard to your body, that is; r with regard to your reason, you are not worse nor lesser than the gods. The size of reason cannot be measured by length or height, but by the value ofjudg­ ments (dogma; or "ofprinciples ofaction").
Perhaps I may be allowed here to refer to a similar opposition, be­ tween the puniness ofthe empirical sel plunged in the immensity ofthe world, and the incommensurable grandeur ofthe moral selfas the legisla­ tive power ofreason, which we nd in the last pages ofKant's Critique Practical Reason:
Two things ll the soul with ever-new and ever-growing admira­ tion and awe, the more equently and constantly one applies one's re ection to them: the star sky above me and the mo l law within me. These are two things which I have neither to search r, nor simply to presuppose, as if they were shrouded in darkness or plunged within a transcendent region, beyond my horizon: I can see them in ont of me and I attach them immediately to the consciousness of my existence. The rmer begins at that place which I occupy within the sensible world, and extends my connection to that which is im­ mensely large, with its worlds upon worlds and its systems of sys­ tems, in addition to the unlimited times of their periodic move­ ment, their beginning and their duration. The latter begins at my
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invisible sel or personality, and it represents me within a world which possesses a genuine in nity, but which can be detected only by the understanding, and with which (and thereby also with all these visible worlds) I realize that I am in a relationship of . . . universal and necessary linkage. The rst spectacle, that ofan innu­ merable multitude of worlds, somehow annihilates my importance qua that of a bestial creature which must return to the planet-a mere point in the universe-the matter out ofwhich it was rmed, a er having been-one knows not how-provided with vital rce r a brief span of time. The second spectacle, by contrast, increases my value in nitely, qua that ofan intelligence, thanks to my personal­ ity within which the moral law displays to me a li independent with regard to animality, and even with regard to the entire sensible world. 69
Obviously, Marcus Aurelius would not have accepted this Kantian distinction between a sensible and an intelligible world. For him, as r all the Stoics, there is one single wo d, just as, he says, there is one single law which is that reason common to all intelligent beings (VII, 9). For Marcus and the Stoics, however, it is the self's awareness of itself which trans rms it, making it pass in succession om the domain ofnecessity to the domain of eedom, and om the domain of eedom to the domain ofmorality. The self-that in nitesimal point within the immensity-is thereby trans rmed, and made equal to universal Reason.
8
THE DISCIPLINE OF ACTION, OR ACTION IN THE SERVICE OF MANKIND
The discipline ofaction
The result ofthe discipline ofdesire, as we saw, was to bring people inner serenity and peace of mind, since it consisted in the joyful consent to everything that happens to us through the agency of universal Nature and Reason. AmorJati, or the love of te, thus led us to want that which the cosmos wants, to want what happens, and to want what happens to us.
This ne serenity risks being disturbed by the discipline of active impulse and action, since in this case it is a matter of acting, not accept­ ing. We now must engage our responsibility, not just consent; and we must enter into relations with beings-our fellow creatures-who pro­ voke our passions precisely because they are our fellow creatures: beings whom we must love, although they are often hate l.
Here again, the norm will be und to be con rmity with Nature: not, this time, that universal Nature which we know in general to be rational, but one of the more speci c and determinate aspects of this universal Nature: human Nature, the Nature ofthe human race, or that Reason which all people have in common. This is a particular norm, which is the basis of precise obligations: inso r as we are parts of the human race, we must
(r) act in the service ofthe whole;
(2) in our actions, respect the hierarchy ofvalues which may exist be­ tween di erent types of action; and
(3) love all human beings, since we are all the members ofone single body.
Another way ofputting it would be to say that humankind is ruled by the laws of ur natures. In the rst place, people, as parts ofthe , are
ruled by universal Nature. They must consent to the great laws of this Nature-in other words, to Destiny and to the events willed by this universal Nature. For the Stoics, however, who had developed an entire theory of the lower levels of Nature, the Greek word physis which we translate as "nature" can also, when used without a quali er, mean the culty of growth which is peculiar to each organism. Plants possess nothing but this culty of growth, while human beings have it within them, alongside other culties. It is this culty, r instance, which rces people to feed themselves and to reproduce. We must, says Marcus (X, 2) also observe the demands ofthis law ofvegetative "nature. " For instance, we have the "duty"-1 shall return to the meaning of this term-to conserve ourselves by nourishing ourselves, as long as the satis ction ofthis demand has no negative e ects upon the other internal culties which we have within us. For human beings are not only a " culty of growth" hysis), but also a " culty of sensation": this is a higher level, which also goes into the constitution of humankind. Mar­ cus (X, 2) calls it a " rce" or "nature" of the animal. This law of animality also has its own demands with regard to humankind: in this case, self-conservation is achieved through the vigilance of the senses. Here again, we have the duty to car out our nctions as animals provided with sensation, as long as the higher inner culties are not thereby damaged. To exaggerate the role ofsensation would mean com­ promising the workings of Nature, that culty higher than sensation which is also called reason.
this, then, corresponds to the discipline ofaction, which implies the acts and movements which respond to the requirements of integral human nature. As we have seen, this nature is, at the same time, the culty of growth, of sensation, and of reason. Marcus is then quick to add (X, 2): "The rational culty is simultaneously the culty ofsocial li "; in other words, the law ofhuman and social reason demands that we place ourselves entirely in the service ofthe human community.
In many ofhis Meditations, Marcus emphasizes the symmetrical oppo­ sition which arises between the discipline of action and the discipline of desire. For example:
Act as your own nature commands you; put up with whatever common Nature brings to you (XII, 32, 3).
Am I really carrying out an action? I am carrying it out, when I relate it to the good ofhumankind. Is something happening to me? I greet
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The Discipline ofAction
it by relating what happens to me to the gods and to the source of things, whence the web ofall events has its origin (VIII, 23).
Impassivity (ataraxia) with regard to the events, brought about by the exterior cause. Justice (dikaiosyne) in the actions brought about by the cause that is within you. In other words, let your impulse to act and your action have as their goal the service ofthe human community, because that, r you, is in con rmity with your nature (IX, 3 1).
H e gave himself over entirely to justice, inso r a s the actions which he carried out are concerned, and to universal Nature with regard to everything which happens to him (X, 1 1 , 2) .
For Marcus Aurelius, then, as r Epictetus, the goal of our actions must be the good of the human community, and the discipline of action there re have as its domain our relations with other people. In tum, these relations will be ruled by laws and the duties imposed by human, rational nature and reason, which are ndamentally identical to universal Nature and Reason.
The seriousness ofaction
The discipline of action, like the other disciplines m the domains in which they are exercised, will there re begin by imposing the norms of reason and re ection upon human activity:
In the rst place: nothing at random, and nothing that is not related to some goal. Second: do not relate your actions to anything other than a goal which may serve the human community (XII, 20).
The human soul dishonors itself when it does not direct its actions and impulses, as much as possible, toward some goal, but instead, whatever it does, it does inconsiderately and without re ection, whereas the least of our actions ought to be accomplished by being related to its goal. And the goal of rational beings is to obey the Reason and the Law of the most venerable of Cities and Republics (II, 16, 6).
In all that you do, make sure that you do not act at random, or otherwise thanJustice herselfwould act (XII, 24, 1).
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The vice which is opposed to the discipline of action is thus frivolity (eikaiotes). It is the opposite to that seriousness or gravity with which all human actions should be accomplished. This human ivolity or lack of re ection does not know how to submit to the discipline of action; it is the agitation ofajumpingjack, a puppet, or a top:
Stop letting the guiding principle within you be tugged around like a marionette by the strings ofsel sh impulses (II, 2, 4).
Cease this puppet-like agitation (VII , 29, 2) .
Stop spinning around like a top; instead, on the occasion of every impulse to act, accomplish what is just, and whenever a repre­ sentation presents itsel con ne yourself to what corresponds ex­ actly to reality (IV, 22) .
Acting seriously means, in the rst instance, acting with all one's heart and soul (XII, 29, 2):
With all your soul, do what is just.
Marcus is here alluding to Epictetus, who reproached his apprentice philosophers with iling to engage themselves seriously in the philo­ sophical li ; like children, he says,
. . . one minute you are an athlete, then a gladiator; the next a philosopher, then a rhetor; but you are nothing with your soul . . . because you haven't undertaken anything a er having exam­ ined it, looked at the matter om all angles, and thoroughly tested it; instead, you've engaged yourself casually and with a desire that has no warmth in it (III, I 5, 6).
Marcus wanted to bring this warmth ofthe heart to his consent to the wi ofuniversal Nature (III, 4, 4) as well as to his love ofthe Good (III, 6, l), or his practice ofjustice (XII, 29, 2).
To act seriously is also to become aware of the in nite value of each instant, when one thinks ofthe possible imminence ofdeath (II, 5, 2):
Carry out each action of your li as if it were the last, and keep yourself r om all ivolity.
The Discipline ofAction
And again (VII, 69):
What brings perfection to one's way ofli is to spend each day as if it were the last; without agitation, without indolence, and without role-playing.
The idea of death strips actions of their banality, and uproots them om the routine of daily life. From this perspective, it is impossible to accomplish any action without re ection or attention, r one's being must be lly engaged in what may perhaps be the last opportunity it has to express itself One can no longer wait or postpone puri ing one's intentions, in order to act "with all one's soul. " Even ifthe action which we are carrying out were in ct interrupted by death, this would not make it incomplete; r what gives an action its completeness is precisely the moral intention by which it is inspired, not the subject matter on which it is exercised.
Acting seriously also means not dispersing oneselfin verish agitation. In Meditations, IV, 24, Marcus quotes an aphorism by Democritus: "Act little, ifyou want to maintain serenity. " But Marcus immediately corrects this statement, as llows:
Wouldn't it be better to say: Do what is indispensable, and do what you are ordered to do by the reason of a naturally political animal, and do it in the way you are ordered to do it? For that is what brings serenity: not only because one acts well, but because one acts little. For since the majority of our words and actions are not necessary, if we cut them o , we will have more leisure and peace of mind. Concerning each action, there re, we must remind ourselves of this question: Is this action not one ofthose which are not indispen­ sable? It is not only unnecessary actions which have to be elimi­ nated, however, but also unnecessary representations; if we elimi­ nate these, the actions to which they would give rise will not llow either.
It is not, as Democritus seems to say, the mere ct of reducing the number of one's actions which brings serenity, or the ct of not getting involved in many things, but the ct of limiting one's activities to that which serves the common good. This is the only thing necessary, and it alone brings joy, because everything else causes only troubles and wor­ nes.
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When he adds that this principle of action allows us to nd leisure, however, Marcus is not taking his own experience into account. Fronto, Marcus' friend and rhetoric teacher, when urging him to take a rest at Alsium on the seashore, speaks of the days and nights without interrup­ tion which Marcus used to spend at hisjudicial responsibilities, and ofthe scruples which tormented him: " If you condemn someone, you say: 'it looks as though he wasn't given enough guarantees. "'1
I will have more to say about the worries and uncertainties brought about by action. In any event, Marcus repeats throughout the Meditations that we can save a great deal oftime by eliminating useless activities, such as t ing to nd out what other people have done, said, or thought (IV, 18):
Do not spend any more time than 1s necessary on insigni cant matters (IV, 32, 5).
In a sense, becoming aware ofthe seriousness which we must bring to every action is precisely the same thing as becoming aware ofthe in nite value ofeach instant, om the perspective ofdeath (VIII, 2):
On the occasion ofeach action, ask yourselfthis question: What is it to me? Will I not regret it? In a short time, I will be dead, and everything will disappear! If I now act as an intelligent living being, who places himself in the service of the human community and who is equal to God, then what more can I ask?
If we become aware of the value of the slightest instant, and if we consider our present actions as the last ones of our life, how could we waste our time in useless and tile acts?
"Appropriate actions" (ta kathekonta)
Epictetus o en repeats that the exercise-theme whose object is active impulses and actions corresponds to the domain ofwhat the Stoics called the kathekonta, usually translated as "the duties. " Marcus Aurelius is not explicit on this point, but when, in the context ofthis exercise-theme, he speaks ofactions performed "in the service ofthe human community" (IX, 6; XI, 3 7) , he is using Epictetus' terminology, and thereby shows his miliarity with the latter's doctrine. Within the Stoic system, moreover, human actions necessarily belong to the domain ofthe kathekonta.
The Discipline ofAction
Let me brie y resituate this notion within the totality of Stoic teach­ ing. Its ndamental principle, as we have seen, is that there is no good but the moral good. What is it, however, that makes a good a moral good? In the rst place, the ct that it is located within humankind, and the things which depend on us: thought, active impulses, and desire. Second, our thought, active impulse, and desires must wish to con rm to the law ofReason. There must be an e ective will, wholly oriented toward doing the good. Everything else, there re, is indi erent, which means it is without intrinsic value. As examples ofindi erent things, the Stoics enumerated life, health, pleasure, beau , strength, renown, and noble birth-as well as their opposites: death, sickness, pain, ugliness, weakness, poverty, obscurity, and humble birth. these things do not, in the last analysis, depend on us, but on Destiny, and they do not provide us either with happiness or with unhappiness, since happiness is located only in our moral intentions. Here, however, a two ld problem arises: on the one hand, it is not enough to want to do good; we must also know what concrete acts to undertake. On the other hand, how should we live and orient ourselves in life, ifeverything that does not depend on us is neither good nor bad? This is where the theory of "duties" or "appropriate actions"2 (kathekonta), or of"suitable things,"3 comes in. It is intended to provide a eld r exercising our good will, and to provide us with a practical code of conduct which would, in the last analysis, allow us to make distinctions between indi erent things, and to accord a relative value to things which are, in principle, without any value.
Here, we can glimpse the "physical" roots ofStoic ethics. In order to determine what concrete actions must be performed, the Stoics take as their starting-point a ndamental animal instinct, which expresses the will of Nature. By virtue of a natural impulse which impels animals to love themselves and to accord pre rence to themselves, they tend to preserve themselves and to reject whatever threatens their integrity. It is in this way that what is "appropriate" to nature is revealed to natural instinct. With the appearance ofreason in human beings, natural instinct becomes re ective choice. 4 At this stage, we recognize rationally which things have "value," since they correspond to the innate tendencies which nature has placed within us. Thus, it is "natural" r us to love life, r parents to love their children, and that human beings, like ants and bees, should have an instinct of sociability: that is, that they should be prepared by nature to rm groups, assemblies, and cities. Getting mar­ ried, engaging in a political activity, serving one's country, are all "appro­ priate" to human nature and there re have a "value. " Nevertheless,
om the point of view of the ndamental principles of Stoicism, all these things are indi erent-nether good nor bad-since they do not depend entirely upon us.
Thus, we can see what the Stoics meant by "appropriate actions"­ appropriate, that is, to Nature-and "duties" (kathekonta). They are ac­ tions, hence something which depends upon us; and they presuppose an intention, either good or evil. They cannot, there re, be accomplished indi erently. These actions are related to a subject matter which is, in theory, indi erent, since it does not depend exclusively upon us, but also on other people and on circumstances, external events, and, in the last analysis, on Destiny. This indi erent subject matter can, however, rea­ sonably and with some probability be judged to be in con rmity with the will of Nature, and thereby to acquire a certain value, either by virtue of its content, or by virtue of its circumstances.
Such "appropriate actions" are also "duties"; more precisely, they are social and political obligations linked to human life in a city. As we have seen, they include the duty not to do anything which is not in the service of human groups, be they one's city or mily; the duty to participate in political activity and in the responsibilities of a citizen; to defend one's country; to procreate and raise children; and to respect the bonds of marriage. Epictetus enumerates some ofthese "duties" when he reviews the actions which permit us to recognize the true philosopher (III, 2 1 , 4-6) :
A carpenter doesn't come to you and say, "Listen to me discourse on the art of carpentry"; but he draws up a contract to build a house, builds it, and thereby shows that he possesses the carpenter's art. Do as he does: eat like a human being, drink like a human being, get spruced up, get married, have children, lead the li ofa citizen, learn how to put up with insults, tolerate an unreasonable brother, ther, son, neighbor, or traveling companion. Show us these things, so that we can see ifyou really have learned anything om the philosophers.
Uncertainty and wo
In the context of the discipline of action, along with such "duties," "appropriate actions," and "suitable things," uncertainty and worry are liable to creep into the philosopher's soul. In the rst place, the result of such actions-the initiative r which depends on us, but the result of
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The Discipline ofAction 191
which does not-is r om being a sure thing. To the question, "Ought we to do good to someone who may be ungrate l? " Seneca5 replies as llows :
When it comes to action, we can never wait until we have an absolutely certain understanding of the entire situation. We only take the path down which we are led by probability. Every "duty" (e cium) must llow this path; r this is how we sow, sail, make war, get married, and have children. In all these things, the result is uncertain, but we nevertheless decide to undertake those actions which we think have some hope of succeeding. . . . We go where reason-and not the absolute truth-leads us.
According to Epictetus (II, 6, 9):
Chrysippus was quite right to say, so long as the consequences remain hidden om me, I remain attached to the things which are best able to permit me to obtain that which is in con rmity with nature, r God himselfhas made me able to choose between things ofthis kind. I however, I knew r a ct that Destiny had reserved sickness as my te, then I would head toward it; r ifthe ot had any intelligence, it would head toward the mud. "
Thus, the Stoics do not only say "I don't know whether my action will succeed. " Rather, they also say: "Since I don't know in advance what the results ofmy actions will be, and what Destiny has in store r me, I have to make such-and-such a decision in accordance with prob­ ability and a rational estimate, without any absolute certainty that I am making the right choice or doing the right thing. "
One ofthe most dramatic choices which a Stoic could ce was that of suicide. Stoicism considered that suicide-in speci c circumstances and r good reasons; in other words, according to rational probability-was a choice open to the philosopher. Thus, even though life would seem to be more in con rmity with nature, circumstances can bring us to choose death. Similarly, as we havejust seen, Chrysippus used to say that the sage would choose sickness rather than health, ifhe knew with certainty that such was the will ofDestiny.
In the area of rational and probabilistic choice, the Stoics tried to de ne what ought to be done in various possible situations. Their trea­ tises entitled On Duties were, at least in part, manuals of casuistry, and
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one can see om the di erences in the judgment of particular cases that existed between the leaders of the various schools that their "rationally justi ed" choices could only be based upon probability. Here are some examples, preserved by Cicero in his treatise On Duties,6 of the cases which were discussed in the schools, and of the divergent responses to them. Is a man who sells his house obligated to disclose all ofits defects to a potential buyer? Yes, said Antipater of Tarsus; no, said Diogenes of Babylon. During a od shortage, a businessman had bought wheat in Alexandria, and was transporting it by boat to Rhodes. He knew that other boats were llowing him, and that the price of grain would soon go down. Should he say so? Yes, said Antipater; no, said Diogenes of Babylon. Obviously, the position ofAntipater is closer to the ndamen­ tal principles ofStoicism, and the arguments he uses tojusti his position are the same ones used by Marcus Aurelius to und the discipline of
action:
You must care r the salvation of all human beings, and serve the human community. Nature has xed as a principle that your par­ ticular use lness should be the common use lness; and, recipro­ cally, that the common use lness should be your particular use l­ ness . . . You must remember that there is a community between human beings, which has been rmed by Nature herself7
It seems as though Epictetus-and there re, in all probability, Marcus Aurelius, who llows him-pictured himself as representing the more orthodox tradition which, starting with Chrysippus, went on through Antipater of Tarsus and Archedemus. Still, the ct that di erent Stoics, while remaining ith l to the ndamental principles of the school, could nevertheless propose completely di erent ethical choices in the cases we just observed is a good indicator of the ct that there existed some degree of uncertainty concerning the relationship between the moral end-which was unanimously agreed upon-and the " appropriate actions" which ought to be undertaken in order to attain it.
Stoicism is often regarded as a philosophy of certainty and intellectual self-con dence. In ct, however, it was only to the sage-that is, to an extremely rare being who represented more an inaccessible ideal than a concrete reality-that the Stoics attributed infallibility and perfect sound­ ness ofjudgment. Most people, including philosophers-who, in their own view, are precisely not sages-must pain lly orient themselves
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within the uncertainty of everyday life, making choices which seem to be justi ed reasonably-in other words, probabilistically. 8
Moral intent, or the re d by all matter
Action thus risks introducing worry and care into the Stoic's life, to the same extent to which he does good, and where he intends to do good. By means of a remarkable reversal, however, it is precisely by becoming aware of the transcendent value of doing good that the Stoic can regain peace of mind and serenity, which will enable him to act e ectively. There is nothing su rising about this, r it is precisely within the moral good-that is to say, the intention of doing good-that the good is situated r the Stoics.
For the Stoics, intentions bear within themselves a value which in nitely transcends all the objects and "matters" to which they are applied, r these objects and matters are in themselves indi erent, and only assume a value to the extent that they provide an opportunity r intentions to be applied and become concrete. In sum, there is only one will, pro und, constant, and unshakable, and it mani sts itself in the most diverse actions, on the most diverse occasions and objects, all the while remaining ee and transcendent with regard to the subject matters upon which it is exercised.
In Marcus Aurelius, but also in Epictetus and in Seneca,9 the vocabu­ lary of the discipline of action includes a technical term meaning " to act 'with a reserve clause"' (Greek hypexairesis; Latin exceptio), which implies the transcendence of intention with regard to its objects. The idea of a "reserve clause" reminds us that, r the Stoics, act and intention to act are sed into an inner discourse which enunciates, as it were, the plans of the agent. According to Seneca,10 the sage undertakes eve thing
"with a reserve clause," inso r as he says to himself
"I want to do thus and so, as long as nothing happens which may present an obstacle to my action. "
"I will sail the across the ocean, ifnothing prevents me. "
Putting matters this way may seem banal and useless; om the Stoic point ofview, however, it is ll ofmeaning. In the rst place, it reveals to us the seriousness of Stoic "intention. " To be sure, Seneca's rmula could be reduced to the llowing: "I want to do x, if I can"; and it
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would be easy to joke about such a "good intention, " which quickly gives up its goal at the rst di culty that arises.
In ct, however, the contrary is true. Stoic intentions are not "good intentions" but "inten­ tions that are good"-in other words, rm, determined, and resolved to overcome all obstacles. It is precisely because the Stoic re ses to give up easily on his decision that he rmulates a reserve clause, in quasi-judici­ ary terms. In the words ofSeneca:11
The sage does not change his decision, ifeverything remains en­ tirely what it was when he took it. . . . Elsewhere, however, he undertakes everything "with a reserve clause" . . . in his most stead­ st decisions, he allows r uncertain events.
Our intention to per rm a certain action, there re, a er we have weighed and pondered it at length, is rm and stable. This is one ofthe examples that Marcus Aurelius had retained om his adoptive ther, Antoninus Pius (I, 16, l): "Firm perseverance in decisions which are taken a er mature re ection. " The " reserve clause " means that this rm decision and intention always remain integral, even if an obstacle should arise which prevents their realization. Such an obstacle is a part ofwhat the sage has reseen, and it does not prevent him om willing what he wants to do. In the words ofSeneca:12
Everything succeeds r him, and nothing unexpected happens to him, r he resees that something may intervene which prevents that which he has planned to carry out.
This Stoic attitude reminds one of the saying embedded in popular wisdom: "Do what you must; let happen what may. " We must under­ take what we think is good, even if we resee the ilure of our under­ taking, because we must do what we must do. Stoicism, however, also contains the idea that carrying out a certain action is not an end in itself
Here we see the emergence of an extremely important distinction: that which opposes goal (skopos) and end (telos). Whoever has the rm, xed moral intention to carry out a given action is like an archer aiming at a target (skopos). It does not depend entirely on him whether he hits the target or not; likewise, he can only wish r the "goal" (skopos) with a "reserve clause": namely, on the condition than Destiny also wills it. In the words ofCicero:13
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The shooter must do everything he can to hit the target (skopos), and yet it is this act ofdoing everything in order to hit the target and realize his plan, which is, ifI may say, the end (telos) that the shooter is seeking. It is this that corresponds to what we call the sovereign good in life, whereas hitting the target is only something that can be wished r, but is not something worthy ofbeing sought after r its own sake.
We encounter the same ndamental principle again and again: the only absolute value is moral intention, and it alone depends entirely upon us. It is not the result that counts- r this does not depend on us, but on Destiny-but rather the intention one has when seeking this result. We nd this theme in Epictetus (II, 16, 5):
Show me a man who is anxious to know how he does something, and is not worried about getting something, but about his act itself . . . who, when he deliberates, worries about the deliberation itsel and not about obtaining what the deliberation was about.
If our activity is animated by the perfectly pure intention of wishing only r the good, it attains its goal at every instant, and has no need to wait r its achievement and result to come om the ture. Inso r as the very exercise ofaction is an end in itsel one could compare moral action to dance. In dance, however, the action remains incomplete if it is interrupted. Moral action, by contrast, is perfect and complete at every instant, as Marcus Aurelius remarks (XI, r , r-2) :
The rational soul achieves its proper end, wherever the limit of its life may be. It is not as in dance or the theater or other such arts, in which, if something comes along to interrupt them, the entire action is incomplete. The action ofthe rational soul, by contrast­ in all of its parts, and wherever it is considered-carries out its projects lly and without il, so that it can say: "I have achieved my completion. "
Elsewhere, Marcus writes (VIII, 32):
You must set your life in order by accomplishing your actions one by one; and if each of them achieves its completion, inso r as is
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possible, then that is enough r you. What is more, no one can prevent you om achieving its completion.
Here we can grasp-in the esh, as it were-the ndamental Stoic attitude. In the rst place, the Stoic "composes" his life, by accomplish­ ing his actions one by one. In other words, he concentrates upon the present instant and the action he is accomplishing right now, without allowing himselfto be troubled by the past or the ture. As Marcus says (VII, 68, 3):
For me, the present is constantly the matter on which rational and social virtue exercises itself
Second, this concentration on the present introduces order into one's life, allowing problems to be arranged in a series, so that "one is not troubled by the representations of an entire life " and by the di culties which one may encounter (VIII, 36, 1). It gives a harmonious rm to li , just as, as in a dance movement, one passes om one grace l movement to another (VI, 7):
Your only joy, and your only rest, is to pass om one action per­ rmed in the service of the human community to another action performed in the service of the human community, together with the remembrance of God.
Third, each action upon which good intentions and good will are cused nds its completion and its plenitude within itsel and no one can prevent us om completing it and succeeding in it. This is the paradox mentioned by Seneca, to the e ect that even ifthe sage ils, he succeeds. Marcus takes up this theme, by saying that no one can prevent him om giving his own actions their completion and plenitude (VIII, 32):
No one can stop you om having it attain its completion.
-But surely something external will prevent it om being com­
pleted!
-Be that as it may, no one can stop you om acting withjustice,
temperance, and prudence.
-But perhaps some other one of the action's e ects will be
prevented?
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-Perhaps, but if you adopt an attitude of serenity with regard to such an obstacle, and ifyou know how to return prudently to that which you are able to do, then another action will instantly take the place of the rst one, and it will t in with the harmony we are talking about.
No one-that is, no power in the world-can prevent us om the llowing actions: in the rst place, om wishing to act withjustice and prudence, and there re om practicing the virtue which we intend to practice by making the decision to perform such an action. Yet Marcus objects: what if the result of the action which we wished to perform cannot be realized? Then the action will il. Reason then replies: but this willjust provide the opportunity to practice another virtue: that of the consent to Destiny, and perhaps also of choosing another action, more appropriate to the situation. In turn, this new action will insert itselfinto the ordered series ofactions which embellishes our life.
With the mention of serene consent to Destiny, we return to the discipline ofdesire. When we can no longer act as we wished, we must not allow ourselves to be troubled by vain desires to do the impossible. Instead, we must willingly accept the will ofDestiny. Then we shall have to return to action and the discipline of action, prudently taking all new in rmation into consideration. In the last analysis, then, a good person can always nd completion and plenitude, even if his action is inter­ rupted or impeded by some external cause, because it is perfect at each instant, and in the very act ofits exercise. Even ifan obstacle should arise, action makes ofit a new source ofexercises. This is what Marcus calls "turning an obstacle upside down" (V, 20, 2):
People can perfectly well prevent me om carrying out such-and­ such an action. Thanks, however, to action "with a reserve clause" and to "turning obstacles upside down," there can be no obstacle to my intention (ho e), nor to my disposition. For my thought (di­ anoia) can "turn upside down" everything that presents an obstacle to my action, and trans rm the obstacle into an object toward which my impulse to act ought pre rably to tend. That which impeded action thus becomes pro table to action, and that which blocked the road allows me to advance along the road.
When he speaks of "turning obstacles upside down," Marcus means that if something becomes an obstacle to what I was doing, and thereby
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to the exercise of a certain virtue that I was practicing, I can nd in that very obstacle the opportunity to practice another virtue. For example, if someone were to devote himself to the service of the human commu­ nity, and thereby devoted himselfto exercising the virtue ofjustice, then a sudden illness would constitute an obstacle to this virtue, but it would also provide the opportunity to exercise oneselfin consenting to the will ofDestiny. At each instant, the good person tries to do what seems to him in reasonable con rmity with that which Reason wants. If, how­ ever, Destiny reveals its will, then he accepts it wholeheartedly (VI, 50):
First try to persuade them, but act against their will, ifthe reasonable order �ogos) ofjustice leads you that way. If, however, someone violently stands in your way, then shi over to that disposition which greets that which does not depend on us serenely and with­ out regrets, and use this obstacle to practice another virtue. And remember that your impulse to act was always "with a reserve clause," r you did not desire the impossible. What, then, did you desire? Nothing other than to have such an impulse; and that you have achieved.
Thus, we always come back to the ndamental wi and intention to be in con rmity with reason. It is thanks to them that we have complete inner liberty with regard to the objects of our action. The ilure of a given action does not trouble our serenity, r such a ilure does not prevent the action om being perfect in its essence and intention, and it gives us the opportunity either to undertake a new action, better adapted to circumstances, or else to discipline our desire by accepting the will of Destiny. Thus, our basic intention and will nd new elds r exercise (IV, 1):
If the principle which commands within us is in con rmity with Nature, it is always ready, when anything happens, to adapt itself without di culty to what is possible and what has been granted to it. It does not like to restrict itselfto one subject matter. No doubt it directs its intention-"with a reserve clause"-toward objects wor­ thy of being preferred; but if something else is substituted r these objects, then it turns it into matter r itsel just like re, which triumphs over everything thrown upon it, by which a feeble ame could easily be extinguished. A quick and violent re, by contrast,
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quickly assimilates and consumes all that is brought to it, and it is thanks to these very objects that it rises to such great heights.
The paradox of re, which grows stronger the more things are brought to it which could smother it, or at least present an obstacle to it, is the same as the paradox ofthe good will. The latter is not content with one eld of exercise, but assimilates objects, including the most di­ verse goals, communicating its goodness and perfection to all the events to which it consents. Fire and the good will are thus utterly ee with regard to the matter they use; their matter is indi erent to them, and the obstacles which are set in their way do nothing but ed them. In other words, nothing is an obstacle r them (X, 3 I , 5 ) :
What kind ofmatter or exercise-theme are you eeing! What is all that, after , if not exercises r your reason, which has seen, with precision and an exact knowledge of Nature, the phenomena of li ? Hold st, then, until you have assimilated these things as well, as a robust stomach assimilates everything to itself, or as a bright re trans rms everything thrown into it into ames and light.
Seneca, using a di erent metaphor, had already said:
A good person dyes events with his own color . . . and turns what­ ever happens to his own bene t. 14
The paradox of re is also that of divine Reason or universal Nature, which the Stoics conceived as a spiritual re (VIII, 3 5) :
Just as universal Nature has communicated to each rational being its other powers, so we have received om her the llowing power: just as she takes everything which bars her route and resists her, and turns it around in her vor, reinserts it within the order ofNature, and trans rms it into a part of herself, in the same way rational beings can turn everything which presents an obstacle to them into their own matter, and use it, no matter what goal their intention
was rst directed toward.
Let us note one thing om this comparison between divine action and the sage's action: the idea of one unique intention, which transcends all the subj ect matters to which it is applied. The unique intention of God,
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which is at the ongm of the wo d, wants the good of the ; in particular, it wants the good of that summit of the All constituted by rational beings. With a view to this end, God's good intention makes everything-even obstacles and resistances-turn out r the best. The unique intention of the sage comes to identi itself with this divine intention, by wanting only what divine goodness wants: primarily, the good of other rational beings. It, too, trans rms every obstacle which opposes the realization of a ven action or a speci c goal into good, inso r as it utilizes such obstacles in order to consent to the will of God or ofuniversal Nature. Thus, r the good will, everything is good.
Inner eedom with regard to actions: the purity and simplicity ofintentions
Ancient philosophy had long re ected on how to do good to others, and in particular on the psychological problems caused by the relation be­ tween bene ctor and bene ciary. It was traditional to tell the story ofthe Academic philosopher Arcesilaus, who had a iend who was poor, but tried to conceal his poverty. One day when his iend was sick, Arcesilaus slipped a small purse, which would allow him to provide r his needs, under his pillow. 15 For the Stoics, benevolence was a part ofthe "duties" or actions which were "appropriate" to our human nature. Seneca used a work by the Stoic Hecaton to compose his treatise On Bene ts, in which he repeatedly a rmed that the bene ctor should not consider that the person receiving his bene ts was in his debt. 16
Marcus Aurelius also returns to this theme several times. For him, however, it represents the opportunity to insist rce lly upon the purity ofintention which must inspire our actions (VII, 73-74; XI, 4):
When you have done something good, and thus, om another point ofview, you have thus been bene ted, why do you look r a third thing besides these, as idiots do; I mean, besides appearing to have done good or getting paid back in return?
Nobody gets tired of being bene ted. It is bene cial to act in con rmity with nature. There re, do not tire ofbeing bene ted, by being bene cial to others.
I did something in the service ofthe human community; there re, I have been bene cial to myself
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The rst reason why we must do good unto others, without asking r anything in return, is that, by virtue ofthe principle "what is good r the whole is good r the part, " doing good unto others is the same as doing good to oneself To this we can add the ct that performing such an action bringsjoy: thejoy ofdoing one's duty, but also, and more impor­ tant, the joy of feeling that human beings are not only the parts of one single whole, but the limbs of one single body. If, as Marcus says, you have not yet understood that you are a member of the body made up of rational beings (VII, 13, 3),
. . . then you do not yet love human beings om the bottom of your heart; you do not yet rejoice purely and simply in doing good, and, moreover, you only do good r appearance's sake, not yet because you do good to yourselfin this way.
Up until this point, it might justi ably be thought that the motivation of actions performed in the service of the human community is not entirely pure, r one still expects some use lness out ofit r oneself In other words, one still hopes to gain om such actions some kind of happiness, however disinterested it may be. This is the noble Stoic prin­ ciple that "virtue is its own reward," which would later be taken up by Spinoza. 17 Nevertheless, one does still speak ofa "recompense," and one is conscious of doing good. There re, one runs the risk of watching oneselfdo good.
Marcus goes rther in his demands r purity, when, in order to provide a undation r the disinterested nature of good actions, he introduces the notion ofnatural nctions (IX, 42, 12):
What more do you want when you have bene ted some human being? Isn't it enough r you to have done something in con rm­ ity with your nature? Do you want to get paid r that? It's as if an eye were to ask r compensation because it sees, or the feet because they walk . . .
Elsewhere, Marcus tells us that there are three types ofbene ctor: he who openly considers the recipient ofhis bene ts as his debtor; he who only thinks this, and knows that, nevertheless, he did good r the other's sake; and nally, he who does not know what he has done (V, 6, 3):
He is like a vine which bears grapes and does not seek anything more, once it has given its own fruit; or like a horse which runs, a
202 THE INNER CITADEL
dog which hunts; or a bee which makes its honey. Thus, the person who does good does not know it, but he moves on to another action, as the vine will give its grapes again when the proper season comes. We must there re be like those who, in a way, do good unconsciously.
Here we can see the Stoic notion of "action in con rmity with nature" taking on a new meaning. Each species has an inbo instinct, given to it by nature, which impels it to act in accordance with its structure and its constitution: thus it impels the vine to produce grapes, the horse to run, and the bee to make honey. Thus, every species acts in accordance with its nature. That which corresponds to instinct within the human species is the impulse to act o e); that is, the will and intention to act in accordance with reason, which de nes the human constitution. Acting in accordance with reason means preferring the common interest-that ofhumanity-to one's own interests. Thus, act­ ing in accordance with reason means acting in con rmity with nature.
Just as bees and vines do the work which is proper to bees and vines, so human beings must do the work which is proper to human beings. Precisely because doing good is the same thing as acting naturally, how­ ever, good actions must be accomplished spontaneously, purely, and almost unconsciously. Animal instinct, like a rce which never exhausts itself in its mani stations, somehow transcends all the actions which it accomplishes, as it passes spontaneously om one action to another; it does not linger to take pleasure in any speci c action. In the same way, moral intention transcends all the actions which it inspires, and passes " om one action to the next,"18 without considering these actions as ends in themselves, without claiming ownership of them, and without wanting to derive any bene t om them. It there re remains com­ pletely ee with regard to its actions, and it accomplishes them natu­ rally-that is to say spontaneously, and in a way unconsciously. As Christ had said: "When you give alms, let your le hand not know what your right hand is doing. "19
Later, Plotinus20 would a rm that
it is not at all necessary r a brave person to be conscious ofthe ct that he is acting courageously and in con rmity with the virtue of courage . . . One could even say that consciousness seems to trouble and weaken the activities and acts of which it is conscious. If these
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acts are not accompanied by consciousness, it is then that they are pure, and that they are as intense and as alive as they can be.
Marcus Aurelius' re ections already point in this direction. A genu­ inely good action, he says, must be spontaneous and unconsidered, like animal instinct. It must come without e ort, and om one's very being, r consciousness disturbs the purity ofthe act. Being conscious ofdoing good means to assume an attitude-to take pleasure in such a ectation, and not to devote all one's energy to the act itself
There is a most pro und idea behind this criticism ofthe conscious­ ness of doing good: goodness cannot be anything other than complete generosity, without any return upon or complacency in itself It must be wholly directed toward others. It is perfectly disinterested, inwardly ee, and is not attached to what it is accomplishing.
Marcus, however, is quite aware that such an attitude seems to go against the Stoic's ndamental disposition of attention to oneself and acute consciousness ofwhat one is doing. Thus, he introduces an objec­ tor to remind him ofthis (y, 6, 6):
It is characteristic ofa person acting in the service ofthe community to be aware ofthe ct that he is acting in the service ofthe commu­ nity, and, by God, to want his neighbor to know it too.
Marcus does not, moreover, attempt to resolve the contradiction. "That is true," he replies, "but you don't understand what I mean. " What Marcus "means" here, in all probability, is that moral li is the art of reconciling such opposing attitudes as, on the one hand, attention to oneself and the awareness of duty, and, on the other, spontaneity and complete disinterestedness.
The eedom of moral intention with regard to the actions it under­ takes is also manifested on the occasion of another problem which crops up in the discipline of action. We have seen that this discipline requires that decisions be care lly considered, so that, in theory, nothing could cause a person to change his mind once he has made his decision. Here too, however, the agent must not attach himselfblindly to his decision to undertake a given action: he must be able to change his mind, ifsomeone gives him valid reasons to do so (VIII, 16):
Remember that changing your mind and llowing one who can lead you back onto the right track is another sign ofinner eedom.
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For such an action is still yours, since it is accomplished in con rm­ ity with your will, yourjudgment, and, nally, with your intellect.
To reiterate: what matters is not the ct of performing a speci c action, and then to appropriate it as something belonging to us. Rather, what matters is to con rm our intentions to reason and to reasonable nature. This is equally true when we listen to the advice ofa counselor whose reasons seem to us to be well unded (IV, 12, 2). The same holds true ifwe are not able to accomplish an action by ourselves (VII, 5, 3):
Whatever I do, whether alone or with some other, I must aim at one single goal: that which is use l to the human community and is in accord with it.
The "reserve clause" and exercices to prepare oneselfto encounter di culties
As we have seen, when Marcus discusses the discipline ofaction, he often brings up the idea ofa "reserve clause. " This is particularly true when he quotes this text om Epictetus (XI, 37) which de nes the three exercise­ themes:
In the exercise-theme which deals with the impulses which lead us to action, we must never relax our attention, so that these impulses may be accompanied by a reserve clause, that they may have as their goal the service of the community, and that they may be propor­ tionate to value.
This "reserve clause" corresponds to the rmula "ifnothing prevents me. " That which can prevent an action om being carried out is Des­ tiny, and there re the will of universal Nature and Reason, and hence the will of God or of the gods. The exercise-theme which deals with impulses and intentions to act thus becomes con sed with the exercise­ theme which deals with the desires, since when an obstacle comes up which prevents an action, the only thing left r us to do is to wish-in vain- r the act to succeed in spite of everything. There re, we must desire nothing other than what is willed by the All, or universal Nature. This joy l consent which Marcus demands of us, however, is not easy.
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We must practice it and prepare ourselves r it; in particular, we must resee the di culties and the setbacks which we will have to con ont.
Acting "with a reserve clause" means precisely to prepare oneself r such setbacks. In the words of Seneca:21
Nothing happens to the sage contrary to his expectations, r he resees that something may intervene to prevent what he has planned om being carried out.
All things happen to him, not according to his wish, but according to what he has thought. What he thinks above all is that something can always oppose his plans. But the pain caused by an unsatis ed desire must be lighter r one who has not promised success to himself be rehand.
This last sentence shows us that we can distinguish two aspects in the exercise intended to prepare us r encountering hardships. In the rst place, there is a psychological aspect: blows that are not unexpected, but reseen, strike us less hard, and wound us less deeply, than those which strike unexpectedly. Greek wisdom had long since made this observa­ tion. 22 The Stoics had made it a part of their system, and we probably have an echo of this Stoic theme in the llowing passage om Philo of Alexandria:23
They do not bend under the blows of te, because they have calculated its attacks in advance. For of the things that happen against our will, even the most pain l are alleviated by resight. Then, thought no longer encounters anything unexpected in events, but the perception of them is dulled, as if it were dealing with old and worn-out things.
In his ninety- rst letter to Lucilius, Seneca imagines in a somewhat grandiloquent shion the wars, earthquakes, res, mud slides, tidal waves, volcanic eruptions-in a word, every catastrophe that could pos­ sibly occur. If we leave such rhetoric out of consideration, what Seneca means is essentially that we must always be ready r everything.
Marcus does not give us such lengthy descriptions of every possible calamity. He does, however, constantly remind himself of the great law of nature called universal metamorphosis, or the swift course of the movement ofthings. He practices seeing beings and things concretely, in
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their perpetual movement and trans rmation. Once, he evokes the van­ ished cities ofHelice, Pompeii, and Herculanum. Above all, he tries to place himself within the ndamental disposition of constant vigilance and readiness r anything that is characteristic of such Stoics as Epictetus (see III, 24, 86). Marcus sums up Epictetus' thought in the llowing terms (XI, 34):
When you kiss your child, you must say to yourself in your mind: "Perhaps you will be dead tomorrow. "
It must be admitted, however, that this kind of exercise is not easy to practice. Do we not run the risk ofbeing troubled, overwhelmed, and discouraged by imagining everything that might happen in this way? Is there not a criticism ofthis exercise in the llowing passage?
Don't let yourself be troubled by the representation of your entire li . Don't try to add up in your mind all the pain l dif culties that are likely to happen, in all their intensity and numbers (VIII, 36).
The way to avoid this, Marcus continues, is to concentrate on the pre­ sent and the present action, as well as on present di culties, which are easier to bear ifthey are isolated. Is there not a contradiction between the exercise of concentration on the present, which Marcus is talking about here, and the exercise which consists in imagining ture di culties?
In ct, what M rcus is criticizing here is the same thing that Seneca attacks in several of his letters: the "anguished imagination of the ­ ture";24 that is to say, imagination when it is not controlled by reason. As Seneca says, "A soul obsessed with the ture is miserable indeed; it is unhappy even be re any mishaps. "25
The exercise of preparing oneself r hardships is intended to help us avoid not only being unhappy during mishaps, but also being "unhappy be re any mishaps. " It does this in two ways: in the rst place, it makes us understand that ture mis rtunes-mis rtunes, that is, which are merely possibl are not mis rtunes for us . Second, it reminds us that, according to Stoic principles, mis rtune itself-which may perhaps oc­ cur-is not really a mis rtune.
Future mis rtunes are not mis rtunes. When Marcus writes, "Don't let yourselfbe troubled by the representation ofyour entire li ," he is practicing not only the exercise of concentration on the present, but also the exercise of reseeing mis rtunes, such as it ought to be practiced.
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He thinks about ture mis rtunes, but only in order to add right away that it does no good to worry about them in advance.