At this point, the selfas wi and as eedom coincides with the will of
universal
Reason and of the logos dispersed throughout all things.
Hadot - The Inner Citadel The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius
All these aspects are, in ct, the necessary but accessory consequences of the original impulse which Nature once gave to the origin ofthings (VI, 36, 3):
The gaping jaws of a lion, poison, and everything unpleasant mud, thorns, and so rth-are accessory consequences of these sacred and venerable things on high. Don't imagine, then, that these things are reign to the principle which you venerate, but rather rise up by your rational power to the source ofall things.
Mud, dust, and dirty bath-water-all phenomena which we judge to be repugnant-are in ct intimately linked to the processes, course, and development ofthe world, which in turn can be traced back to universal Reason. Marcus goes rther still (III, 2):
We must also bear in mind things like the llowing: even the accessory consequences of natural phenomena have something grace l and attractive about them. For instance: when bread is baked, some parts of it develop cracks in their sur ce. Now, it is precisely these small openings which, although they seem somehow to have escaped the intentions which presided over the making of the bread, somehow please us and stimulate our appetite in a quite particular way. Or take gs as an example: when they are perfectly ripe, they split open. In the case of ripe olives, it is precisely the proximity of rot which adds a unique beauty to the uit. Ears of corn which bend toward the earth; the lion's wrinkled brow; the am trailing om the mouth of boars: these things, and many others like them, would be r om beauti l to look at, if we considered them only in themselves. And yet, because these secon dary aspects accompany natural processes, they add a new adorn ment to the beauty of these processes, and they make our hearts glad. Thus, if one possesses experience and a thorough knowledge of the workings of the universe, there will be scarcely a single one ofthose phenomena which accompany natural processes as a conse quence which will not appear to him, under some aspect at least, as
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pleasant. Such a person derive no less pleasure om contem plating the actual gaping jaws of wild beasts than he does om the imitations which painters and sculptors provide thereo His pure eyes will be able to see a kind of ourishing maturity in aged men and women, as well as a kind of amiable charm in children. Many such cases will occur, and it is notjust anyone who can derive pleasure om them. Rather, only that person who has become truly miliar with Nature and her works do so.
It is worthwhile to compare these lines with Aristotle's pre ce to his Parts Animals (644b3r ):
In ct, some of the creatures in this world do not have a pleasant appearance. Nature, however, who has created them, provides whoever contemplates her with marvelous enjoyments, as long as one is able to recognize the principles ofnatural phenomena, and is of a philosophical nature. It would, moreover, be illogical and ab surd if we took pleasure in contemplating reproductions of such creatures-since, as we contemplate them, we simultaneously ad mire the talent of the artist, be he painter or sculptor-and yet did not feel still more joy while contemplating the very beings which Nature has created-at least when we are able to discern their principles. This is why we must not yield to any kind of childish repugnance when we are examining some ofthe less noble animals, r there is something wonderful in all that is natural.
It is the creatures themselves, as produced by Nature, which interest Aristotle. According to the Stagirite, even ifthese creatures have a terri ing or repulsive appearance, the philosopher, inso r as he recognizes the creative power ofNature within them, can discover their beauty. For Marcus, by contrast, as we have seen, such creatures are to be explained as the consequences, both necessary and accessory, of the natural phe nomena which result om the initial decision, yet seem to humankind to be contrary to Nature's intentions-snake venom, r instance, or the thorns on roses. In the nal analysis, however, Marcus also recognizes in these consequences the creative power of Nature. Even though such consequences do not within the classical canon ofbeauty, they never theless, inso r precisely as they are the consequences ofnatural phenom ena, "have something charming and attractive about them. "
Our baker would like to have given his bread a perfectly regular rm.
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When it is baked, however, the bread takes on un rseeable rms, and cracks in unexpected ways. Likewise, the general movement ofthe uni verse should be completely rational, and yet, when this movement oc curs, there also occur concomitant, accessory phenomena which go above and beyond Nature's intentions, and the impulse which she gave at the beginning. Just as in the case of the bread, however, it is precisely such anomalies and irregularities-these cracks in the crust, if you will which make us sense that the bread is crusty, and stimulate our appetite.
For Aristotle, only the philosopher could perceive the beauty of the products of Nature, r it was he who could discover Nature's plan: a rce which ensured the growth of beings om within. Marcus, too, holds that only the philosopher or the sage-someone who possesses experience and a deep understanding of the processes of the universe can el the beauty and grace of the phenomena which accompany natural processes. This is because only he can perceive the link between these natural processes and their necessary accompaniments.
In the place ofan idealistic aesthetics, which considered beauti l only that which mani sted the ideal rm and the canons of proportion, Aristotle, Marcus, and the entire Hellenistic period substituted a realistic aesthetics. For them, living reality, in its nudity and even in its horror, is more beauti l than beauti l imitations. "An ugly man," as Plotinus57 was to say, "ifhe is alive, is more beauti l than a man represented in a statue, however beauti l he may be. "
Here the perspective has been utterly trans rmed. Things which used to appear repulsive, disgusting, or terri ing now become beauti l to the eyes of the person miliar with Nature, precisely because they exist, are natural, and are part of the natural processes which ow indirectly om Nature's intentions.
Like Nature (IX, r, 9), we must not make any distinctions between indi erent things, which depend not upon us, but on universal Nature. Dirt, mud, thorns, and poison come om the same source and are just as natural as roses, the sea, or spring. In the eyes of Nature, and of people miliar with Nature, there is no di erence to be made between bath water and the rest oflife: everything is equally "natural. " We are irly close to Nietzsche here: "Everything which is necessary, when seen om above and om the point ofview ofthe vast economy ofthe whole, is in itself equally use l. We must not only put up with it, but love it. "58
Familiarity with Nature is one of the ndamental attitudes of one who practices the discipline of desire. Being miliar with Nature means recognizing things and events as miliar, and realizing that they belong
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to the same world, and come om the same source, as we do. It thus means " doing physics " in the sense of becoming aware of the unity of Nature and its accord with itself He who is miliar with Nature associ ates himselfwith Nature's self-accordance; in Marcus' words, he is "no longer a stranger in his homeland, " and is " a man worthy of the wo d which has engendered him" (XII, l, 5).
It is only when one considers the things in li om a cosmic perspec tive that they can appear both beauti l and valueless: beauti l, because they exist, and yet valueless because they cannot accede to the realm of eedom and morality. Instead, they vanish rapidly into the in nity of space and time, and the uninterrupted ux ofbecoming (VI, 15, 2):
In the midst ofthis river, in which one cannot stand still, who could attach any value to any of the things which ow past?
Marcus never tires of contemplating the great laws of Nature. He is particularly scinated by the perpetual metamorphoses ofall things, and this is what he is constantly trying to contemplate:
Acquire a method r contemplating how all things are trans rmed into each other: concentrate your attention on this ceaselessly and exercise yourselfon this point (X, l l).
When you regard each substance, imagine that it is already being dissolved, is in the midst oftrans rmation, in the process ofrotting and being destroyed (X, 1 8) .
Thus, Marcus tries to perceive the process of dissolution already at work in the people and objects which surround him. He would certainly have approved of Princess Bibesco, who, in order to meditate upon death, had only to contemplate a bouquet ofviolets. 59 Marcus recalls the imperial courts of the past-that of Augustus, r example-in order to realize that all these people who have, r an instant, come back to life in his memory are in ct long dead. This is no more a case of obsession with death or morbid complacency than when, in the lm The Dead Poets' Society, Robin Williams, who plays a teacher ofliterature, makes his students care lly study a picture of the school's old boys. In order that his students appreciate the value of life, the teacher wants them to become aware that all the boys in the picture-apparently so alive-are now dead. He hopes they will thereby discover life's preciousness, as he
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instills in them Horace's saying Carpe diem ("Seize the day! "). The only di erence in these two outlooks is that r Marcus the only value is not
just life itsel but moral li .
Marcus' vision of universal metamorphosis teaches us not to ar
death, which is only a particular instance ofsuch metamorphosis (II, 12, 3), and not to attribute any value to transitory things (IX, 28, 5). At the same time, however, it sweeps the soul along toward the contemplation of the grandiose spectacle of Nature, which constantly trans rms all things "so that the world may always be new" (VII, 25).
In the immensity of the universe, and the in nity of time and space, Marcus annihilates himself in a kind of intoxicated vertigo, as many others had done be re him.
Such a vision of the totality of substance and of time can be obtained by a view om above:60 that is, the soul's ight above all things, in the immensity of the universe (IX, 3 2) :
You will open up a vast eld r yourselfas you embrace the totality of the cosmos in your thought, conceive everlasting eternity, and consider the rapid metamorphosis ofeach individual thing.
Marcus allows himself to be swept along by the revolutions of the stars, and the torrential metamorphosis ofthe elements (VII, 47):
For such images puri us om the stains ofterrestrial li .
Marcus plunges in thought into a universe which con rms to the Stoic model: a universe, that is, which is nite within the immensity of the surrounding void, and which ceaselessly repeats itself within the in nity oftime (XI, l, 3):
The soul traverses the entire world and the void which surrounds it, as well as its rm; it extends itself throughout the in nity of eter nity, and it embraces and conceives the periodic rebirth of the univers e .
Human beings are made r in ni , and their true city and therland is the immensi of the whole world. In the words of Seneca:61
How natural it is r man to extend his spirit throughout all immen sity . . . The only limits which the human soul allows are those
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which it shares with God himself . . Its therland is everything which the sky and the world contain.
One ofthe things, says Marcus, which is peculiar to mankind, and which lls him with joy, is to contemplate the Nature of the , as well as everything which happens in con rmity with what Nature has willed (VIII, 26).
The rst result of this spiritual exercise of the view om above or cosmic ight of the soul is to reveal to people both the splendor of the universe and the splendor ofthe spirit. Another ofits e ects, however, is that it ishes power l instigations r practicing the discipline of desire. Human a airs, when seen om above, seem very tiny and puny; they are not worthy ofbeing desired, nor does death appear as something to be feared.
From such a perspective, Asia and Europe are nothing but a tiny comer ofthe world; the sea is a drop ofwater; Mt. Athos is a mound of earth; and the present moment nothing more than a point (VI, 36). Mankind's place and role are minuscule amidst such immensity (XII, 32). And what o f the minuscule swarms of human beings crawling all over the earth?
Crowds, armies, rmers; weddings, divorces, births, deaths; the hubbub of the courts; deserted places; the diversity of the customs ofbarbarous peoples; celebrations, lamentations; marketplaces: what a hodgepodge! And yet, there is the harmony of contraries (VII, 48) .
This e ort to look at things om above thus allows us to contemplate the entire panorama ofhuman reality in its aspects-social, geographi cal, and emotional-and to resituate them within the immensity of the cosmos and the human species, swarming anonymously over the earth. When we look at things om the perspective of universal Nature, those things which do not depend on us, and which the Stoics called "indi er ent"-health, glory, wealth, and death, r example-are brought back to their true proportions.
When this theme ofthe view om above assumes this speci c rm of observing people on earth, it seems particularly to belong to the Cynic tradition. We nd it used abundantly by the satirist Lucian, a contempo rary of Marcus Aurelius, who was strongly in uenced by Cynicism. In Lucian's dialogue Icaromenippus, or "The Man Who Rose Above the
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Clouds,"62 the Cynic Menippus tells a iend how, discouraged by the disagreement among philosophers about the ultimate principles of the universe, he decided to go up to the heavens himsel in order to see how things really were. In order to y, Menippus xed himselfup with wings: the right wing was that ofan eagle, and the le that ofa vulture. He then took o in the direction of the moon. Once there, he could see the entire earth om above, and just like Homer's Zeus, he says, he could observe now the land of the Thracians, now that of the Mysians-even, if he wished, the lands of Greece, Persia, and India. Such variety lls him with pleasure, but he also observes the people:
The whole of human li appeared to me; not only the nations and the cities, but every individual: some were sailing ships, others waging war, and others on trial.
Menippus observes not only what is going on out in the open, but also what is happening behind closed doors, where everyone thought they were per ctly well hidden. 63 After a lengthy enumeration of the crimes and adulteries which he sees being committed inside the houses, Menip pus resumes his remarks, calling everything a hodge-podge, a cacophony, and a ridiculous spectacle. In his view, the most ridiculous thing ofall is to see people quarreling over the borders of a nation, since the earth appears minuscule to him. The rich, says Menippus, have darned little to be proud about. Their lands are no bigger than one of Epicurus' atoms, and when people gather together they resemble a swarm ofants. Menip pus nally leaves the moon and travels among the stars until he reaches Zeus, where he is amused at the ridiculously contradicto nature of the prayers which human beings send up to this god.
In another of Lucian's dialogues, entitled Charon or The Overseers, we nd Charon, ferryman of the dead, asking r a day o in order to go up to the surface of the earth and see what life is like-this life which the dead miss so much when they arrive in He . With the help of Hermes, Charon piles several mountains on top of each other and climbs up on them in order to observe human li . We then have the same kind of description which we have already encountered in the Icaromenippus or in Marcus Aurelius: an enumeration of sailing ships, armies at war, trials, rmers working their elds-a wide variety ofactivities, but everywhere li is ll of torments. As Charon remarks, " If people realized om the beginning that they are mortal, and that, after a briefsojourn in li , they must leave it as they would a dream, and leave everything upon this
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earth, then they would live more wisely and die with wer regrets. " But, continues Charon, people are unaware oftheir condition, like the bubbles produced by a ra ng stream, which vanish as soon as they are rmed.
This look om above at man's earthly life takes on a rm peculiar to Cynicism. One sign of this is the ct that the dialogue Charon bears the Greek title Episkopountes, or "Those who watch. " The Cynic philoso pher, r his part, believes that his role is to watch over people's actions. He is a kind of spy, lying in wait r mankind's defects in order to denounce them, as Lucian himself says. 64 It is the Cynic's job to watch over other men; he is their censor, and he observes their behavior as if om the heights ofan observatory. The Greek words episkopos ("over seer") and kataskopos ("spy"), moreover, traditionally designate the Cyn ics in the ancient world. 65 For them, the view om above was meant to denounce the senseless way in which people led their lives. It is no accident that, in this dialogue, it is precisely Charon, rryman of the dead, who thus looks at human a airs om above; r looking at things om above means looking at human a airs om the point of view of death. Only this point ofview can give us the detachment, elevation, and distance which are indispensable in order r us to see things as they really are.
The Cynics denounced that rm of human madness which attaches itselfso passionately to things, such as luxury and power, which people wi inevitably have to abandon. This is why they urge them to reject super uous desires, social conventions, and arti cial civilization-all of which are the source oftheir worries, cares, and su erings-and encour age them to return to a simple, purely natural style oflife.
Thus, our philosopher-emperor coincides with Lucian, the ancient equivalent of Voltaire, in this imaginative exercise of the view om above, which is also a view ofthings om the point ofview ofdeath. It is, moreover, a merciless view, which strips false values naked.
Among these false values is me. Marcus came up with remarkable rmulas to denounce our desire to be known, either by our contempo raries or by posterity:
Short is the time which each of us lives; puny the little comer of earth on which we live; how puny, nally, is even the lengthiest posthumous glory. Even this glory, moreover, is transmitted by little men who'll soon be dead, without even having known themselves, much less him who has long since been dead (III, ro, 2).
Are you obsessed with a little bit of glory? Turn your eyes to the rapidity with which everything is rgotten. Think about the abyss of eternity, in nite in both directions; and about the vanity of the echo which reaches us. Think about how quickly those who now seem to be applauding change their minds, and have no judgment; think also about the narrowness ofthe space by which your me is circumscribed. The whole earth is no more than a point, and ofthis point only the tiniest part is inhabited. From such an origin, how many people will there be to sing your praises, and ofwhat charac ter? (IV, 3, 7-8).
Soon, you will have rgotten everything; soon, everyone will have rgotten you . . . (VII, 21).
In a short time, you will no longer be anything or anywhere . . (VI, 37).
While the view om above reveals that human a airs are only an in nitesimal point within the immensity of reality, it also allows us to discover what Marcus calls to homoeides, which we could render as both the identity and the homogeneity of all things. This is an ambiguous notion: it can mean, r example, that in the eyes of one who plunges his gaze into the cosmic immensity, everything is within everything else. Everything holds itselftogether, and the entire universe is present in each instant oftime, as well as in each part ofreality (VI, 37):
He who has seen the present has seen everything: all that has oc curred om all eternity, and all that will occur throughout in nity, r everything is homogeneous and identical in rm.
Death, then, will not deprive me ofanything, since I have already, within each instant, had everything. At any moment at which the limits ofits life cease, the soul attains its end. Within each present moment, I possess everything I can expect om life: the presence ofthe entire universe and presence of universal Reason, which is the presence of one and the same thing. At each moment, I possess all of Being, present in the least of things .
I however, we are a aid to die, because we would like to continue enjoying li , honors, pleasures, and all other false human values, then to homoeides, or homogeneity, takes on a di erent meaning. For one who
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The Discipline ofDesire 1 77
has discovered true value-that of Reason, which rules within us and within the entire universe-these elements oflife, which endlessly repeat their pettiness and banality, arejust as disgusting as the games in the arena (VI, 46).
When human a airs are viewed om above, we are able to ima ne the past as well as the ture, and this view reveals that even ifindividuals disappear, the same scenes are repeated throughout the centuries. The soul which extends itselfthroughout the immensity ofspace and time
sees that those who will come a er us will see nothing new, and that those who came be re us saw nothing more than we did. Rather, there is a sense in which a man offorty, ifhe has some slight measure of intelligence, has seen everything there has been, and everything that will be, because of the uni rmity of things (XI, I, 3).
Marcus returns to this idea equently and insistently (XII, 24, 3):
Each time you are elevated in this way, looking at human a airs om above, you would see the same things: uni rmity and brevity. And to think that this is what men brag about!
Marcus ima nes the imperial courts ofhis predecessors: Hadrian and Antoninus Pius, r example; or those of rmer times: Philip, Alexan der, or Croesus:
these uni rm scenes and dramas, whether you have come to know them through personal experience or through ancient his tory . . . these spectacles were the same, and only the actors were di erent (X, 27, r-2).
For the ancients, history always repeats itself. This, moreover, is the reason why historians of that time wrote history. As Thucydides declared in his Histo es (I, 22, 4) : " For all those who wish to have a clear idea both of past events and of those in the ture which, because of their human character, will bear similarities or analogies to them, this exposition will be use l, and shall su ce. " From this point ofview, it must be admitted that Thucydides' work was an extraordinary success, r his description of the hypocrisy of the victorious and the strong remains appallingly relevant.
Marcus, r his part, would no doubt have approved of Schopen hauer's views on history:
From beginning to end, it is the repetition ofthe same drama, with di erent costumes and names . . . This identical element, which persists throughout all changes, consists in the basic qualities of the human heart and head-many ofthem are bad; a w ofthem good. Histo 's overall motto ought to be Eadem, sed aliter. One who has read Herodotus has, om a philosophical point of view, already studied enough history, r his work already contains everything which constitutes the subsequent history ofthe world. 66
When Marcus mentions this uni rmity, by contrast, he has not the slightest intention of elaborating a philosophy of history. On the con trary, we ought rather to say that the view om above which he takes of human a airs leads him to evaluate them: in other words, to denounce their pseudo-value, especially when considered om the point ofview of death.
These spectacles which repeat themselves identically throughout one's life and throughout the ages are almost always scenes of human evil, hypocrisy, and tility. It makes no di erence whether one sees them r rty years, or r ten thousand (VII, 49, 2). Death will deliver us om this spectacle, as tiring as the games ofthe amphitheater (VI, 46); or at least it will not make us miss anything, since it is impossible r anything new to happen.
The Epicurean Lucretius had already placed a similar argument in the mouth of Nature, as she tried to console mankind with regard to the inevitability of his death: " I cannot think up some new invention to please you, r things are eternally the same . . . you must always expect the same things, even ifyou were never to die. "67
Once again, we can see that the declarations contained in the Medita tions, which modern historians have classi ed as pessimistic, do not cor respond to Marcus Aurelius' impressions or experiences. The only per sonal experience which seems to be expressed in his work is that of disappointment with regard to his entourage, but I shall return to this point later. When Marcus says that human a airs are as nothing within the immensity; that they are vile and petty; or that they repeat themselves until one is sick ofthem, he is not expressing some negative experience ofhis own. Instead, he is engaging in exercises, both spiritual and literary. Sometimes, we feel that some of his wonderfully striking rmulas are
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even a bit arti cial, since all they do is reproduce traditional themes of ancient philosophy. In the nal analysis, however, what inspires all this is the love and scination which Marcus els in the depths ofhis being r that unique Value, which is the only thing necessary. Does human life, he asks, contain "anything more valuable than Justice, Truth, Temper ance, and Bravery" (III, 6, r)? The good worth more than anything else is the eling of inner joy which occurs when the guiding principle or thought "is content with itself (in those things in which it is possible to act in accordance with right reason), and is content with Destiny (in those things which are allotted to us, independently of our will) . . . Choose this greatest ofall goods, and never let it go" (III, 6, 6).
This superior good is, in the last analysis, the inner God, which must be "pre rred to everything" (III, 7, 2), and revered, since it is of the same substance as the guiding principle which governs the world 0/, 2 I ) .
Your only joy, and your only rest: let it be to pass om one action performed in the service of the community to another action per rmed r the service ofthe community, together with the remem brance ofGod 0/I, 7).
It is this unique Value that brings joy, serenity, and rest to Marcus' soul. Compared to this unique, transcendent Value, human a airs are petty indeed; they are like a point within the immensity of the universe. In
ct, the only thing which is great compared to the latter is the purity of moral intent. As Pascal would agree, moral good is in nitely greater than physical size.
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
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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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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.
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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.
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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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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.
The gaping jaws of a lion, poison, and everything unpleasant mud, thorns, and so rth-are accessory consequences of these sacred and venerable things on high. Don't imagine, then, that these things are reign to the principle which you venerate, but rather rise up by your rational power to the source ofall things.
Mud, dust, and dirty bath-water-all phenomena which we judge to be repugnant-are in ct intimately linked to the processes, course, and development ofthe world, which in turn can be traced back to universal Reason. Marcus goes rther still (III, 2):
We must also bear in mind things like the llowing: even the accessory consequences of natural phenomena have something grace l and attractive about them. For instance: when bread is baked, some parts of it develop cracks in their sur ce. Now, it is precisely these small openings which, although they seem somehow to have escaped the intentions which presided over the making of the bread, somehow please us and stimulate our appetite in a quite particular way. Or take gs as an example: when they are perfectly ripe, they split open. In the case of ripe olives, it is precisely the proximity of rot which adds a unique beauty to the uit. Ears of corn which bend toward the earth; the lion's wrinkled brow; the am trailing om the mouth of boars: these things, and many others like them, would be r om beauti l to look at, if we considered them only in themselves. And yet, because these secon dary aspects accompany natural processes, they add a new adorn ment to the beauty of these processes, and they make our hearts glad. Thus, if one possesses experience and a thorough knowledge of the workings of the universe, there will be scarcely a single one ofthose phenomena which accompany natural processes as a conse quence which will not appear to him, under some aspect at least, as
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pleasant. Such a person derive no less pleasure om contem plating the actual gaping jaws of wild beasts than he does om the imitations which painters and sculptors provide thereo His pure eyes will be able to see a kind of ourishing maturity in aged men and women, as well as a kind of amiable charm in children. Many such cases will occur, and it is notjust anyone who can derive pleasure om them. Rather, only that person who has become truly miliar with Nature and her works do so.
It is worthwhile to compare these lines with Aristotle's pre ce to his Parts Animals (644b3r ):
In ct, some of the creatures in this world do not have a pleasant appearance. Nature, however, who has created them, provides whoever contemplates her with marvelous enjoyments, as long as one is able to recognize the principles ofnatural phenomena, and is of a philosophical nature. It would, moreover, be illogical and ab surd if we took pleasure in contemplating reproductions of such creatures-since, as we contemplate them, we simultaneously ad mire the talent of the artist, be he painter or sculptor-and yet did not feel still more joy while contemplating the very beings which Nature has created-at least when we are able to discern their principles. This is why we must not yield to any kind of childish repugnance when we are examining some ofthe less noble animals, r there is something wonderful in all that is natural.
It is the creatures themselves, as produced by Nature, which interest Aristotle. According to the Stagirite, even ifthese creatures have a terri ing or repulsive appearance, the philosopher, inso r as he recognizes the creative power ofNature within them, can discover their beauty. For Marcus, by contrast, as we have seen, such creatures are to be explained as the consequences, both necessary and accessory, of the natural phe nomena which result om the initial decision, yet seem to humankind to be contrary to Nature's intentions-snake venom, r instance, or the thorns on roses. In the nal analysis, however, Marcus also recognizes in these consequences the creative power of Nature. Even though such consequences do not within the classical canon ofbeauty, they never theless, inso r precisely as they are the consequences ofnatural phenom ena, "have something charming and attractive about them. "
Our baker would like to have given his bread a perfectly regular rm.
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When it is baked, however, the bread takes on un rseeable rms, and cracks in unexpected ways. Likewise, the general movement ofthe uni verse should be completely rational, and yet, when this movement oc curs, there also occur concomitant, accessory phenomena which go above and beyond Nature's intentions, and the impulse which she gave at the beginning. Just as in the case of the bread, however, it is precisely such anomalies and irregularities-these cracks in the crust, if you will which make us sense that the bread is crusty, and stimulate our appetite.
For Aristotle, only the philosopher could perceive the beauty of the products of Nature, r it was he who could discover Nature's plan: a rce which ensured the growth of beings om within. Marcus, too, holds that only the philosopher or the sage-someone who possesses experience and a deep understanding of the processes of the universe can el the beauty and grace of the phenomena which accompany natural processes. This is because only he can perceive the link between these natural processes and their necessary accompaniments.
In the place ofan idealistic aesthetics, which considered beauti l only that which mani sted the ideal rm and the canons of proportion, Aristotle, Marcus, and the entire Hellenistic period substituted a realistic aesthetics. For them, living reality, in its nudity and even in its horror, is more beauti l than beauti l imitations. "An ugly man," as Plotinus57 was to say, "ifhe is alive, is more beauti l than a man represented in a statue, however beauti l he may be. "
Here the perspective has been utterly trans rmed. Things which used to appear repulsive, disgusting, or terri ing now become beauti l to the eyes of the person miliar with Nature, precisely because they exist, are natural, and are part of the natural processes which ow indirectly om Nature's intentions.
Like Nature (IX, r, 9), we must not make any distinctions between indi erent things, which depend not upon us, but on universal Nature. Dirt, mud, thorns, and poison come om the same source and are just as natural as roses, the sea, or spring. In the eyes of Nature, and of people miliar with Nature, there is no di erence to be made between bath water and the rest oflife: everything is equally "natural. " We are irly close to Nietzsche here: "Everything which is necessary, when seen om above and om the point ofview ofthe vast economy ofthe whole, is in itself equally use l. We must not only put up with it, but love it. "58
Familiarity with Nature is one of the ndamental attitudes of one who practices the discipline of desire. Being miliar with Nature means recognizing things and events as miliar, and realizing that they belong
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to the same world, and come om the same source, as we do. It thus means " doing physics " in the sense of becoming aware of the unity of Nature and its accord with itself He who is miliar with Nature associ ates himselfwith Nature's self-accordance; in Marcus' words, he is "no longer a stranger in his homeland, " and is " a man worthy of the wo d which has engendered him" (XII, l, 5).
It is only when one considers the things in li om a cosmic perspec tive that they can appear both beauti l and valueless: beauti l, because they exist, and yet valueless because they cannot accede to the realm of eedom and morality. Instead, they vanish rapidly into the in nity of space and time, and the uninterrupted ux ofbecoming (VI, 15, 2):
In the midst ofthis river, in which one cannot stand still, who could attach any value to any of the things which ow past?
Marcus never tires of contemplating the great laws of Nature. He is particularly scinated by the perpetual metamorphoses ofall things, and this is what he is constantly trying to contemplate:
Acquire a method r contemplating how all things are trans rmed into each other: concentrate your attention on this ceaselessly and exercise yourselfon this point (X, l l).
When you regard each substance, imagine that it is already being dissolved, is in the midst oftrans rmation, in the process ofrotting and being destroyed (X, 1 8) .
Thus, Marcus tries to perceive the process of dissolution already at work in the people and objects which surround him. He would certainly have approved of Princess Bibesco, who, in order to meditate upon death, had only to contemplate a bouquet ofviolets. 59 Marcus recalls the imperial courts of the past-that of Augustus, r example-in order to realize that all these people who have, r an instant, come back to life in his memory are in ct long dead. This is no more a case of obsession with death or morbid complacency than when, in the lm The Dead Poets' Society, Robin Williams, who plays a teacher ofliterature, makes his students care lly study a picture of the school's old boys. In order that his students appreciate the value of life, the teacher wants them to become aware that all the boys in the picture-apparently so alive-are now dead. He hopes they will thereby discover life's preciousness, as he
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instills in them Horace's saying Carpe diem ("Seize the day! "). The only di erence in these two outlooks is that r Marcus the only value is not
just life itsel but moral li .
Marcus' vision of universal metamorphosis teaches us not to ar
death, which is only a particular instance ofsuch metamorphosis (II, 12, 3), and not to attribute any value to transitory things (IX, 28, 5). At the same time, however, it sweeps the soul along toward the contemplation of the grandiose spectacle of Nature, which constantly trans rms all things "so that the world may always be new" (VII, 25).
In the immensity of the universe, and the in nity of time and space, Marcus annihilates himself in a kind of intoxicated vertigo, as many others had done be re him.
Such a vision of the totality of substance and of time can be obtained by a view om above:60 that is, the soul's ight above all things, in the immensity of the universe (IX, 3 2) :
You will open up a vast eld r yourselfas you embrace the totality of the cosmos in your thought, conceive everlasting eternity, and consider the rapid metamorphosis ofeach individual thing.
Marcus allows himself to be swept along by the revolutions of the stars, and the torrential metamorphosis ofthe elements (VII, 47):
For such images puri us om the stains ofterrestrial li .
Marcus plunges in thought into a universe which con rms to the Stoic model: a universe, that is, which is nite within the immensity of the surrounding void, and which ceaselessly repeats itself within the in nity oftime (XI, l, 3):
The soul traverses the entire world and the void which surrounds it, as well as its rm; it extends itself throughout the in nity of eter nity, and it embraces and conceives the periodic rebirth of the univers e .
Human beings are made r in ni , and their true city and therland is the immensi of the whole world. In the words of Seneca:61
How natural it is r man to extend his spirit throughout all immen sity . . . The only limits which the human soul allows are those
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which it shares with God himself . . Its therland is everything which the sky and the world contain.
One ofthe things, says Marcus, which is peculiar to mankind, and which lls him with joy, is to contemplate the Nature of the , as well as everything which happens in con rmity with what Nature has willed (VIII, 26).
The rst result of this spiritual exercise of the view om above or cosmic ight of the soul is to reveal to people both the splendor of the universe and the splendor ofthe spirit. Another ofits e ects, however, is that it ishes power l instigations r practicing the discipline of desire. Human a airs, when seen om above, seem very tiny and puny; they are not worthy ofbeing desired, nor does death appear as something to be feared.
From such a perspective, Asia and Europe are nothing but a tiny comer ofthe world; the sea is a drop ofwater; Mt. Athos is a mound of earth; and the present moment nothing more than a point (VI, 36). Mankind's place and role are minuscule amidst such immensity (XII, 32). And what o f the minuscule swarms of human beings crawling all over the earth?
Crowds, armies, rmers; weddings, divorces, births, deaths; the hubbub of the courts; deserted places; the diversity of the customs ofbarbarous peoples; celebrations, lamentations; marketplaces: what a hodgepodge! And yet, there is the harmony of contraries (VII, 48) .
This e ort to look at things om above thus allows us to contemplate the entire panorama ofhuman reality in its aspects-social, geographi cal, and emotional-and to resituate them within the immensity of the cosmos and the human species, swarming anonymously over the earth. When we look at things om the perspective of universal Nature, those things which do not depend on us, and which the Stoics called "indi er ent"-health, glory, wealth, and death, r example-are brought back to their true proportions.
When this theme ofthe view om above assumes this speci c rm of observing people on earth, it seems particularly to belong to the Cynic tradition. We nd it used abundantly by the satirist Lucian, a contempo rary of Marcus Aurelius, who was strongly in uenced by Cynicism. In Lucian's dialogue Icaromenippus, or "The Man Who Rose Above the
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Clouds,"62 the Cynic Menippus tells a iend how, discouraged by the disagreement among philosophers about the ultimate principles of the universe, he decided to go up to the heavens himsel in order to see how things really were. In order to y, Menippus xed himselfup with wings: the right wing was that ofan eagle, and the le that ofa vulture. He then took o in the direction of the moon. Once there, he could see the entire earth om above, and just like Homer's Zeus, he says, he could observe now the land of the Thracians, now that of the Mysians-even, if he wished, the lands of Greece, Persia, and India. Such variety lls him with pleasure, but he also observes the people:
The whole of human li appeared to me; not only the nations and the cities, but every individual: some were sailing ships, others waging war, and others on trial.
Menippus observes not only what is going on out in the open, but also what is happening behind closed doors, where everyone thought they were per ctly well hidden. 63 After a lengthy enumeration of the crimes and adulteries which he sees being committed inside the houses, Menip pus resumes his remarks, calling everything a hodge-podge, a cacophony, and a ridiculous spectacle. In his view, the most ridiculous thing ofall is to see people quarreling over the borders of a nation, since the earth appears minuscule to him. The rich, says Menippus, have darned little to be proud about. Their lands are no bigger than one of Epicurus' atoms, and when people gather together they resemble a swarm ofants. Menip pus nally leaves the moon and travels among the stars until he reaches Zeus, where he is amused at the ridiculously contradicto nature of the prayers which human beings send up to this god.
In another of Lucian's dialogues, entitled Charon or The Overseers, we nd Charon, ferryman of the dead, asking r a day o in order to go up to the surface of the earth and see what life is like-this life which the dead miss so much when they arrive in He . With the help of Hermes, Charon piles several mountains on top of each other and climbs up on them in order to observe human li . We then have the same kind of description which we have already encountered in the Icaromenippus or in Marcus Aurelius: an enumeration of sailing ships, armies at war, trials, rmers working their elds-a wide variety ofactivities, but everywhere li is ll of torments. As Charon remarks, " If people realized om the beginning that they are mortal, and that, after a briefsojourn in li , they must leave it as they would a dream, and leave everything upon this
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earth, then they would live more wisely and die with wer regrets. " But, continues Charon, people are unaware oftheir condition, like the bubbles produced by a ra ng stream, which vanish as soon as they are rmed.
This look om above at man's earthly life takes on a rm peculiar to Cynicism. One sign of this is the ct that the dialogue Charon bears the Greek title Episkopountes, or "Those who watch. " The Cynic philoso pher, r his part, believes that his role is to watch over people's actions. He is a kind of spy, lying in wait r mankind's defects in order to denounce them, as Lucian himself says. 64 It is the Cynic's job to watch over other men; he is their censor, and he observes their behavior as if om the heights ofan observatory. The Greek words episkopos ("over seer") and kataskopos ("spy"), moreover, traditionally designate the Cyn ics in the ancient world. 65 For them, the view om above was meant to denounce the senseless way in which people led their lives. It is no accident that, in this dialogue, it is precisely Charon, rryman of the dead, who thus looks at human a airs om above; r looking at things om above means looking at human a airs om the point of view of death. Only this point ofview can give us the detachment, elevation, and distance which are indispensable in order r us to see things as they really are.
The Cynics denounced that rm of human madness which attaches itselfso passionately to things, such as luxury and power, which people wi inevitably have to abandon. This is why they urge them to reject super uous desires, social conventions, and arti cial civilization-all of which are the source oftheir worries, cares, and su erings-and encour age them to return to a simple, purely natural style oflife.
Thus, our philosopher-emperor coincides with Lucian, the ancient equivalent of Voltaire, in this imaginative exercise of the view om above, which is also a view ofthings om the point ofview ofdeath. It is, moreover, a merciless view, which strips false values naked.
Among these false values is me. Marcus came up with remarkable rmulas to denounce our desire to be known, either by our contempo raries or by posterity:
Short is the time which each of us lives; puny the little comer of earth on which we live; how puny, nally, is even the lengthiest posthumous glory. Even this glory, moreover, is transmitted by little men who'll soon be dead, without even having known themselves, much less him who has long since been dead (III, ro, 2).
Are you obsessed with a little bit of glory? Turn your eyes to the rapidity with which everything is rgotten. Think about the abyss of eternity, in nite in both directions; and about the vanity of the echo which reaches us. Think about how quickly those who now seem to be applauding change their minds, and have no judgment; think also about the narrowness ofthe space by which your me is circumscribed. The whole earth is no more than a point, and ofthis point only the tiniest part is inhabited. From such an origin, how many people will there be to sing your praises, and ofwhat charac ter? (IV, 3, 7-8).
Soon, you will have rgotten everything; soon, everyone will have rgotten you . . . (VII, 21).
In a short time, you will no longer be anything or anywhere . . (VI, 37).
While the view om above reveals that human a airs are only an in nitesimal point within the immensity of reality, it also allows us to discover what Marcus calls to homoeides, which we could render as both the identity and the homogeneity of all things. This is an ambiguous notion: it can mean, r example, that in the eyes of one who plunges his gaze into the cosmic immensity, everything is within everything else. Everything holds itselftogether, and the entire universe is present in each instant oftime, as well as in each part ofreality (VI, 37):
He who has seen the present has seen everything: all that has oc curred om all eternity, and all that will occur throughout in nity, r everything is homogeneous and identical in rm.
Death, then, will not deprive me ofanything, since I have already, within each instant, had everything. At any moment at which the limits ofits life cease, the soul attains its end. Within each present moment, I possess everything I can expect om life: the presence ofthe entire universe and presence of universal Reason, which is the presence of one and the same thing. At each moment, I possess all of Being, present in the least of things .
I however, we are a aid to die, because we would like to continue enjoying li , honors, pleasures, and all other false human values, then to homoeides, or homogeneity, takes on a di erent meaning. For one who
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has discovered true value-that of Reason, which rules within us and within the entire universe-these elements oflife, which endlessly repeat their pettiness and banality, arejust as disgusting as the games in the arena (VI, 46).
When human a airs are viewed om above, we are able to ima ne the past as well as the ture, and this view reveals that even ifindividuals disappear, the same scenes are repeated throughout the centuries. The soul which extends itselfthroughout the immensity ofspace and time
sees that those who will come a er us will see nothing new, and that those who came be re us saw nothing more than we did. Rather, there is a sense in which a man offorty, ifhe has some slight measure of intelligence, has seen everything there has been, and everything that will be, because of the uni rmity of things (XI, I, 3).
Marcus returns to this idea equently and insistently (XII, 24, 3):
Each time you are elevated in this way, looking at human a airs om above, you would see the same things: uni rmity and brevity. And to think that this is what men brag about!
Marcus ima nes the imperial courts ofhis predecessors: Hadrian and Antoninus Pius, r example; or those of rmer times: Philip, Alexan der, or Croesus:
these uni rm scenes and dramas, whether you have come to know them through personal experience or through ancient his tory . . . these spectacles were the same, and only the actors were di erent (X, 27, r-2).
For the ancients, history always repeats itself. This, moreover, is the reason why historians of that time wrote history. As Thucydides declared in his Histo es (I, 22, 4) : " For all those who wish to have a clear idea both of past events and of those in the ture which, because of their human character, will bear similarities or analogies to them, this exposition will be use l, and shall su ce. " From this point ofview, it must be admitted that Thucydides' work was an extraordinary success, r his description of the hypocrisy of the victorious and the strong remains appallingly relevant.
Marcus, r his part, would no doubt have approved of Schopen hauer's views on history:
From beginning to end, it is the repetition ofthe same drama, with di erent costumes and names . . . This identical element, which persists throughout all changes, consists in the basic qualities of the human heart and head-many ofthem are bad; a w ofthem good. Histo 's overall motto ought to be Eadem, sed aliter. One who has read Herodotus has, om a philosophical point of view, already studied enough history, r his work already contains everything which constitutes the subsequent history ofthe world. 66
When Marcus mentions this uni rmity, by contrast, he has not the slightest intention of elaborating a philosophy of history. On the con trary, we ought rather to say that the view om above which he takes of human a airs leads him to evaluate them: in other words, to denounce their pseudo-value, especially when considered om the point ofview of death.
These spectacles which repeat themselves identically throughout one's life and throughout the ages are almost always scenes of human evil, hypocrisy, and tility. It makes no di erence whether one sees them r rty years, or r ten thousand (VII, 49, 2). Death will deliver us om this spectacle, as tiring as the games ofthe amphitheater (VI, 46); or at least it will not make us miss anything, since it is impossible r anything new to happen.
The Epicurean Lucretius had already placed a similar argument in the mouth of Nature, as she tried to console mankind with regard to the inevitability of his death: " I cannot think up some new invention to please you, r things are eternally the same . . . you must always expect the same things, even ifyou were never to die. "67
Once again, we can see that the declarations contained in the Medita tions, which modern historians have classi ed as pessimistic, do not cor respond to Marcus Aurelius' impressions or experiences. The only per sonal experience which seems to be expressed in his work is that of disappointment with regard to his entourage, but I shall return to this point later. When Marcus says that human a airs are as nothing within the immensity; that they are vile and petty; or that they repeat themselves until one is sick ofthem, he is not expressing some negative experience ofhis own. Instead, he is engaging in exercises, both spiritual and literary. Sometimes, we feel that some of his wonderfully striking rmulas are
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even a bit arti cial, since all they do is reproduce traditional themes of ancient philosophy. In the nal analysis, however, what inspires all this is the love and scination which Marcus els in the depths ofhis being r that unique Value, which is the only thing necessary. Does human life, he asks, contain "anything more valuable than Justice, Truth, Temper ance, and Bravery" (III, 6, r)? The good worth more than anything else is the eling of inner joy which occurs when the guiding principle or thought "is content with itself (in those things in which it is possible to act in accordance with right reason), and is content with Destiny (in those things which are allotted to us, independently of our will) . . . Choose this greatest ofall goods, and never let it go" (III, 6, 6).
This superior good is, in the last analysis, the inner God, which must be "pre rred to everything" (III, 7, 2), and revered, since it is of the same substance as the guiding principle which governs the world 0/, 2 I ) .
Your only joy, and your only rest: let it be to pass om one action performed in the service of the community to another action per rmed r the service ofthe community, together with the remem brance ofGod 0/I, 7).
It is this unique Value that brings joy, serenity, and rest to Marcus' soul. Compared to this unique, transcendent Value, human a airs are petty indeed; they are like a point within the immensity of the universe. In
ct, the only thing which is great compared to the latter is the purity of moral intent. As Pascal would agree, moral good is in nitely greater than physical size.
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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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.
