Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Eminent Philosophers, X.119–121
Even if he is blinded, [the wise man] will go on living, as [Epicurus] says in the same book. And the wise man will feel grief, as Diogenes says in the fifth book of the Excerpts. He will bring legal cases and leave writings behind, but he will not deliver public speeches. He will take prudent care of his property and make provision for the future. He will love the country. He will stand firmly against fortune and never desert a friend. He will take care of his good reputation sufficiently to not be considered with contempt. He will enjoy himself more than other men at public spectacles.
He will set up statues of others, but he would be indifferent as to whether he had one himself. Only the wise man will speak rightly about music and poetry, but he will not actually write poems. One wise man is not more wise than another. He will make money when he is in need, but only from his wisdom. And he will pay court to a king, when circumstances require it. He will rejoice alongside one who is corrected. He will set up a school, but not so as to court the masses. He will read in public, but not eagerly.
He will dogmatize and not be inconclusive. In sleep he will be the same as he is awake, and sometimes he will die for a friend. It seems to them that not all failings are equally serious, that health is a good to some but to others it is indifferent, and that courage does not come about by nature but by calculation of advantage. They believe that friendship comes about because of our practical needs—for we must begin things, “just as we sow seeds in the ground”—but it is held together by the fellowship of men and women together enjoying the full pleasures of life.
They say that happiness can be conceived of in two ways: there is the highest happiness, such as is fitting to a god and which is incapable of being increased, and also that which is concerned with the addition and subtraction of pleasures. Now we must pass on to the letter.
Commentary
Two weeks ago, I presented the first section of a summary of Epicurean views on “the wise man” found in Diogenes Laertius’ Lives of the Eminent Philosophers. Today, I’ll conclude this particular section, while a third installment to come will cover some additional summary of Epicurean ethical views also included in Diogenes Laertius. As noted previously, there is very little structure to this account, with a hodgepodge of semi-random topics thrown together in rapid succession. I don’t think there’s really any more systematic way of reviewing this than to simply proceed through the whole of the above excerpt, giving additional commentary as appropriate.
Even if he is blinded, [the wise man] will go on living, as [Epicurus] says in the same book. And the wise man will feel grief, as Diogenes says in the fifth book of the Excerpts.
These comments, particularly the second, seem to have an underlying intention of contrast with the Stoics. While I won’t get into a full discussion of the nuances of the Stoic positions here, I think it is fair to say that the Stoics look more favorably on suicide and less favorably on the expression of grief than do the Epicureans. In Epicurus’ view, most suicide is simply stupid: as he says in the Letter to Menoeceus, people to whom death seems like the least painful path are probably ignoring the real pleasures of life and overrating the importance of unimportant things. While I can imagine Epicurus making some exceptions for truly constant and debilitating pain (suicide is not sinful), the fact that blinding injury does not qualify as a justification of suicide underlines Epicurus’ insistence that the good things of life truly are quite realistically attainable, even in circumstances most would consider very difficult.
As for the emotions, there is nothing in Epicurus to invalidate grief over, say, the loss of a friend. While wisdom will presumably help us to recover equanimity more quickly, this is indeed a case for sorrow. Events in the real world cause us real pain—they are not simply “indifferent.”
He will bring legal cases and leave writings behind, but he will not deliver public speeches. He will take prudent care of his property and make provision for the future. He will love the country. He will stand firmly against fortune and never desert a friend.1 He will take care of his good reputation sufficiently to not be considered with contempt. He will enjoy himself more than other men at public spectacles.2
Most of this can go down in the books as examples of “Epicureans will act like normal people.” Some people think our advocacy of “living unnoticed” means we will withdraw entirely from society—no, we are fine participating in the legal system, leaving writings behind, maintaining a basically respectable reputation in our community, and participating in civic festivals. (This includes ones with a nominal religious basis—I celebrate Christmas, even though I am not a Christian.) “Behave like normal people” also means “adhere to normal virtues”—although we are technically egoists, we believe strongly in friendship. For more on how a resolute principle of “never desert a friend” is compatible with consistently pursuing one’s own happiness, see Tim O’Keefe on “Is Epicurean Friendship Altruistic?”
I find one particular line here rather humane and charming: the Epicurean wise man “will love the country.” I don’t know if this was intended to point out a contrast with any particular school or philosopher, but the one that comes to mind now is Plato, who has Socrates say, “I am a lover of learning; landscapes and trees have nothing to teach me” (Phaedrus 230d). Personally, I love trees, so I am fully prepared to take Socrates’ disinterest in country rambles as a clear indicator of the inferior wisdom of the whole Platonic tradition. Simple pleasures are good!
He will set up statues of others, but he would be indifferent as to whether he had one himself. Only the wise man will speak rightly about music and poetry, but he will not actually write poems. One wise man is not more wise than another.
The ancient Epicureans were quite fond of statues. Images of Epicurus and other leaders of the school helped students to keep their spiritual guides in mind and remind themselves of their fellowship in a community of wisdom. But, as the scholion to Principal Doctrine 29 notes, a desire for there to be statues of oneself is a good example of the unnatural desire for fame.
On music and poetry, the reasoning is presumably similar to that given by Philodemus centuries later (in regards to music, specifically): it is good to enjoy whatever harmless pleasures are accessible to us, and the wise man will judge them well and without illusions, but to invest significant energy in high-skill aesthetic creation will usually not pay off. Of course, Philodemus himself, and Lucretius in a bigger way, did write poetry, so there does seem to have been some relaxing of this doctrine over time. Accordingly, I don’t hold to this dogmatically, but I do think it contains a good point: ultimately, wise people are the best judges of artistic value. Technically expert practitioners often lack perspective. Highly paid professionals write highly unwise film scripts. Extremely skilled visual artists may be quite foolish people. One shouldn’t mistake skill (or accompanying prestige) for wisdom.
“One wise man is not more wise than another” is sometimes interpreted as alluding to the completeness of Epicurean doctrine, with a sentiment along the lines of “once you attain wisdom according to these rules, there is no further gain in wisdom to be had.” According to this interpretation, then, this reflects an important Epicurean message: since there can be numerous people who achieve wisdom, wisdom is indeed achievable. This is another contrast with the Stoics, whose vision of sagehood was largely regarded as unattainable.
He will make money when he is in need, but only from his wisdom. And he will pay court to a king, when circumstances require it. He will rejoice alongside one who is corrected. He will set up a school, but not so as to court the masses. He will read in public, but not eagerly.
Four of these five statements emphasize the importance of practical flexibility in Epicureanism. Rather than simplistic, one-size-fits-all rules, we favor general guidelines that acknowledge exceptions and qualifications. (We saw this in several Principal Doctrines as well.) Note the recurrent pattern:
[The wise man] will make money… when he is in need… but only from his wisdom.
He will pay court to a king… when circumstances require it.
He will set up a school… but not so as to court the masses.
He will read in public… but not eagerly.
We don’t want to accumulate great wealth or engage in unscrupulous business practices, but it is sometimes necessary to earn money. Rigid refusal to acknowledge the power of kings is not always prudent. Seeking mass approval is generally unwise, but that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t teach willing students. Similarly, the prestige of public readings is not something to be eagerly sought, but if one is invited there isn’t a firm requirement to refuse the invitation. Context matters.
The other statement from this section (“He will rejoice alongside one who is corrected.”) has a somewhat disputed translation.3 My reading follows that of Long & Sedley and of Graziano Arrighetti: I think it is referring to the Epicurean practice of encouraging “frank speech” and accepting personal correction. The wise man doesn’t try to gloat over others or prove them wrong, but is warmly and earnestly supportive of their growth.
About half of the manuscripts read ἐπιχαρίσεσθαι (feel grateful for) instead of ἐπιχαρήσεσθαί (rejoice alongside someone). In that case, it could plausibly mean “he will be grateful to someone who corrects him.” This seems to be the reading of Inwood and Gerson, which does mirror the sentiment of Vatican Saying 74:
In a philosophical debate, the one who is defeated is the greater winner, because he learns more.
Overall, however, ἐπιχαρήσεσθαί (rejoice alongside someone) seems to be the slightly more likely manuscript reading, and the exemplary wise man probably doesn’t need correction very much, so I lean towards the first interpretation.
He will dogmatize and not be inconclusive. In sleep he will be the same as he is awake, and sometimes he will die for a friend.
This first sentence is clearly a response to Skeptics (most likely early Pyrrhonists). “Dogmatize” is here meant here in the relatively technical sense that is opposed to skepticism; more colloquially, we could say “declare clear principles” or “profess certain things to be true.” To not “be inconclusive” is a rendering of ἀπορήσειν (aporesein, which some snobby philosophers mind render as “to be aporetic” or “remain in aporia”). Aporia is a state of argumentative impasse that precedes the Skeptical goal of epoche, or suspension of judgment. While Skeptics consider it to be wiser to reserve judgment regarding non-evident matters and avoid dogmatism, Epicurus decidedly does not: he thinks a wise man will be able to correctly perceive the truth and will not hesitate to declare it as such.
It seems to them that not all failings are equally serious, that health is a good to some but to others it is indifferent, and that courage does not come about by nature but by calculation of advantage. They believe that friendship comes about because of our practical needs—for we must begin things, “just as we sow seeds in the ground”—but it is held together by the fellowship of men and women together enjoying the full pleasures of life.
The idea that “not all failings are equally serious “ is thought to be a response to the opposite claim by the Stoics. The most famous iteration of their position is attributed to Chrysippus, who described the process of attaining wisdom by saying that it made no difference whether one drowned deep in the ocean or a few inches from the surface. This kind of firm line between the (unattainable) sage and everyone else was not one that the Epicureans echoed. Real, incremental progress is open to everyone.
The Epicureans considered practical advantage to be the origin of friendship, a claim which was a bone of contention with other moralists who didn’t like attributing such low motives to a putatively virtuous activity. But I think evolutionary biologists would fundamentally agree: presumably human sociability evolved because it provided us with practical, fitness-enhancing benefits, with the long-term result that we derive positive psychological feelings directly from associating with friends. Such an account is quite similar to the Epicurean one: we acknowledge (and embrace) the fact that friends are helpful, but frequently, as here, note that association is itself enjoyable.
They say that happiness can be conceived of in two ways: there is the highest happiness, such as is fitting to a god and which is incapable of being increased, and also that which is concerned with the addition and subtraction of pleasures. Now we must pass on to the letter.
Here we have a preliminary mention of the Epicurean doctrines on pleasure, which will be elaborated upon in the final segment. Contra Cyril Bailey, I think the two kinds of happiness here are both considered “real” by the Epicureans. While the godlike maximum of happiness is only attained by a sage, even those who have not achieved full Epicurean wisdom can still experience varying levels of a more human happiness based on “the addition and subtraction of pleasures.” If you add pleasure and remove pain from your life, that really does increase your happiness and is worth doing.
After this, Diogenes Laertius presents the Letter to Menoeceus, which I have previously translated. Next Tuesday we’ll alternate back to the ongoing tour through the Principal Doctrines, but in two weeks we’ll return once more to Diogenes, because he has a few more things to tell us. That concluding installment has one overriding topic: the nature of pleasure. What kinds of pleasure are there? Which pleasures are best? How do we know pleasure is the end?
These are all important questions. To learn the important answers, make sure you’ve signed up for a free subscription to Untroubled.
Original Text
ἀλλὰ καὶ πηρωθέντα τὰς ὄψεις μεθέξειν αὑτὸν τοῦ βίου, [120] ὡς ἐν τῇ αὐτῇ φησι. καὶ λυπηθήσεσθαι δὲ τὸν σοφόν, ὡς ὁ Διογένης ἐν τῇ πέμπτῃ τῶν Ἐπιλέκτων: καὶ δικάσεσθαι: καὶ συγγράμματα καταλείψειν: οὐ πανηγυριεῖν δέ: καὶ κτήσεως προνοήσεσθαι καὶ τοῦ μέλλοντος. φιλαγρήσειν. τύχῃ τ᾽ ἀντιτάξεσθαι, φίλον τε οὐδένα προήσεσθαι. εὐδοξίας ἐπὶ τοσοῦτον προνοήσεσθαι, ἐφ᾽ ὅσον μὴ καταφρονήσεσθαι: μᾶλλόν τε εὐφρανθήσεσθαι τῶν ἄλλων ἐν ταῖς θεωρίαις.
Εἰκόνας τε ἀναθήσειν. εἰ ἔχοι, ἀδιαφόρως ἂν σχοίη. μόνον τε τὸν σοφὸν ὀρθῶς ἂν περί τε μουσικῆς καὶ ποιητικῆς διαλέξεσθαι: ποιήματά τε ἐνεργείᾳ οὐκ ἂν ποιῆσαι. οὐκ εῖναι τε ἕτερον ἑτέρου σοφώτερον. χρηματιεῖσθαί τε, ἀλλ᾽ ἀπὸ μόνης σοφίας, ἀπορήσαντα. καὶ μόναρχον ἐν καιρῷ θεραπεύσειν. καὶ ἐπιχαρήσεσθαί τινι ἐπὶ τῷ διορθώματι: καὶ σχολὴν κατασκευάσειν, ἀλλ᾽ οὐχ ὥστ᾽ ὀχλαγωγῆσαι: καὶ ἀναγνώσεσθαι ἐν πλήθει, ἀλλ᾽ οὐχ ἑκόντα:
δογματιεῖν τε καὶ οὐκ ἀπορήσειν: καὶ καθ᾽ ὕπνους δὲ ὅμοιον ἔσεσθαι, καὶ ὑπὲρ φίλου ποτὲ τεθνήξεσθαι. Δοκεῖ δ᾽ αὐτοῖς ἁμαρτήματα ἄνισα εἶναι. καὶ τὴν ὑγίειαν τισὶ μὲν ἀγαθόν, τισὶ δ᾽ ἀδιάφορον. τὴν δὲ ἀνδρείαν φύσει μὴ γίνεσθαι, λογισμῷ δὲ τοῦ συμφέροντος: καὶ τὴν φιλίαν διὰ τὰς χρείας: δεῖν μέντοι προκατάρχεσθαι ῾καὶ γὰρ τὴν γῆν σπείρομεν̓, συνίστασθαι δὲ αὐτὴν κατὰ κοινωνίαν τοῖς ταῖς ἡδοναῖς ἐκπεπληρωμ<ένοις>.
[121] Τὴν εὐδαιμονίαν διχῆ νοεῖσθαι, τήν τε ἀκροτάτην, οἵα ἐστὶ περὶ τὸν θεόν, ἐπίτασιν οὐκ ἔχουσαν: καὶ τὴν <κατὰ τὴν> προσθήκην καὶ ἀφαίρεσιν ἡδονῶν. Μετιτέον δ᾽ ἐπὶ τὴν ἐπιστολήν.
Technically, “never desert a friend” is Bignone’s emendation προήσεσθαι, accepted by Bailey, Inwood and Gerson, and Long and Sedley. The manuscripts actually read κτήσεσθαι (procure for oneself). Some editors have tried more creative ways to make something closer to the MS text make sense, but not with much luck. Everyone agrees on the basic sense of the sentence.
The popular translation of Inwood and Gerson translates θεωρίαις as “contemplation,” rather than “public spectacles.” Basically every other editor and translator thinks the latter is intended, so I’ll side with the majority.
There is also a third reading which I find implausible. Bailey and Strodach think that the verb ἐπιχαρήσεσθαί is inherently negative, along the lines of “will rejoice at another’s misfortunes.” This seems unlikely to me:
Above all, this seems like a strange attitude for a wise person to adopt, even if it is understood as being “for his correction.”
To make it make sense, we would have to understand ἐπὶ τῷ διορθώματι as “for the purpose of correction,” but it is more natural to understand ἐπὶ + dative as describing the cause or grounds for the emotion. This is normal, while “rejoicing for the purpose of correcting” someone else is strange.
While the negative sense was more prevalent in Attic Greek, the LSJ notes that the word is sometimes used without this negative connotation, perhaps increasingly so in the Hellenistic era.
It is also possible that it isn’t the right word at all—about half the manuscripts actually say ἐπιχαρίσεσθαι, as discussed above.