CITY OF GOD PART II.

Book XI of Augustine’s Confessions contains first-rate philosophy, particularly valuable in view of the fact that it goes against conventional assertions of Greek philosophy, and Augustine is, perhaps, the first among all philosophers who gives to these ideas forms, in which they are acceptable to the modern philosophical mind. Concerning the creatio ex nihilo, this idea would have seemed incredible to the great philosophers of antiquity, who all thought that prior to creation there had existed certain primordial hylos, out of which God made the universe and all things in it. But to Saint Augustine, there is no such thing as pre-existent matter:

“But how didst Thou make the heaven and the earth and what the engine of Thy mighty fabric? For, it was not as a human artificer forming one body from another according to the discretion of his mind, which can, in some way, invest with such a form as it sees in itself by its inward eye… How, O God, didst Thou make heaven and earth? Verily, neither in the heaven, nor in the earth, didst Thou make heaven and earth; nor in the air, or the waters, seeing these also belong to the heaven and the earth; nor in the whole world didst Thou make the whole world; because there was no place where to make it, before it was made, so that it might be. Nor didst Thou hold any thing in Thy hand, whereof to make heaven and earth. For where from shouldst Thou have this, which Thou hadst not made, thereof to make any thing? For what is, but because Thou art? Therefore, Thou spokest, and they were made, and in Thy Word Thou madest them.” (V:XI.)

Augustine’s theory of time is a superb advancement in Christian philosophy, and a much better exposition of the concept of time than the great Kant would venture some fourteen hundred years later. It also coincides with my understanding of why Creation occurred at the particular point in God’s Design: not “later” and not “earlier” than it did. In this explanation I will be following Russell’s account reproduced here, for the next few paragraphs, in a selective and condensed retelling:

 

Why was the world not created sooner? Because there was no “sooner.” Time was created when the world was created. God is eternal in the sense of being timeless; in God there is no ‘before’ or ‘after,’ but only an eternal present. God’s eternity is exempt from the relation of time.-- All time is present to Him at once. He did not ‘precede’ His own creation of time, for that would imply that He was in “time,” whereas He stands eternally outside the stream of time… This leads Saint Augustine to a very admirable relativistic theory of time. “What then is time,” he asks. “If no one asks of me, I know; if I wish to explain to him who asks, I do not know.” Neither past nor future, he says, but only the present, really is; the present is only one moment, and time can only be measured while it is passing. Nevertheless, there really is a time past, identified with memory, and a time future, identified with expectation. Thus, there are three times, he says: “a present of things past, a present of things present, and a present of things future.” To say that there are three times: past, present, and future, is a loose way of speaking.

The gist of his solution is that time is subjective. It is all in the human mind, which remembers, considers, and expects. The theory that time is only an aspect of our thoughts is an extreme form of subjectivism that St. Augustine exhibits, anticipating not only Kant’s theory of time, but also Dèscartes’ famous cogito ergo sum. In his Soliloquia, Augustine says: “You, who wish to know, do you know you are?--I know it. Whence are you?--I know not. Do you feel yourself single or multiple?--I know not. Do you feel yourself moved?--I know not. Do you know that you think?--I do.” This discussion is superior philosophy, and thus, even on the basis of this alone, St. Augustine merits being called a great philosopher.

Augustine’s De Civitatis Dei is remarkable in many aspects, of which we shall focus on just a couple. Here brilliantly explained is the concept of balance between freewill and predestination. It is true that God has a foreknowledge of our sins, but we do not sin because of His foreknowledge. Predestination is a concept that transcends time, while man exercises his free will within the framework of time, thus rendering these two concepts incommensurate.

The book also provides us with Augustine’s detailed opinion of Greek philosophy. He is obviously biased against all pre-Socratics, which is a pity, but, on the other hand, quite understandable. “Let Thales depart with his water, Anaximenes with the air, the Stoics with their fire, Epicurus with his atoms,” he writes, and there is too little room here for a discussion. The interesting part starts with a very sympathetic account of Plato, whom he values above all philosophers. Aristotle to him is inferior to Plato, but he is still second in philosophical value. “It is said that Plotinus, that lived but lately, understood Plato the best,” he says, and in this assessment places Plotinus high, but only as Plato’s distinguished interpreter.

Plato is right about God, he says, seeing that He is not a bodily thing, but that all things owe their being to Him. He is also right in understanding that perception is not the source of truth. The Platonists are the best in logic and in ethics, and in all respects nearest to Christianity.

Augustine also speaks, at first sight surprisingly, but on closer look very understandably, against the Stoics, because of their wholesale condemnation of human passions. Christian passion can well be a virtue. Even such emotions as anger and pity are not to be condemned without a hearing as to their causes, and if these causes are commendable, there should be nothing wrong with them.

(Concludes tomorrow…)

CITY OF GOD PART I.

(This is a three-part entry, posted on my blog today and during the next two days. (See also my entry Saint Augustine And Christian Fundamentalism in the Religion Section. It was posted on my blog on October 11^th, 2011.)

This is my entry on St. Augustine the Blessed (354-430), and the first question that arises is why this title? In my small but helpful library of today, I have a nice leather-bound edition of St. Augustine’s best-known work Confessions, which pleasantly ends with Book X, and I imagine that a large majority of the relatively few people who keep this book in their library today are convinced that this is all there is to St. Augustine, and his Confessions, in so far as his literary output is concerned. But the fact remains that he was a prolific writer with many more titles to his name, and as for his Confessions, what I and most other people have at home is the most familiar, but also the least significant and philosophically inconsequential portion of that work and of all his other writings, as it deals predominantly with biography, while the “missing” Books XI-XIII, and Book XI most particularly, are all devoted to philosophy. For this reason, my Confessions file in the Sources &Comments:-Augustine Folder contains only these missing Books, and none of the first ten. And finally, concerning the title of this entry, it is not that I value De Civitatis Dei above all other Augustinian works, but its title is truly symbolic of all Augustinian philosophy, which firmly puts the City of God above the City of Man.

In an earlier entry I used the word philosopher in relation to Apostle Paul, but in the same breath I observed that he cannot be treated as a philosopher, because all his writings have been sacred texts and, as such, are off limits to a normal philosophical discussion, which means that they can only be treated in the context of Christian faith, but not in any other way. For this reason, the title of the first Christian philosopher goes to the earliest Church Father who has demonstrated not only a theological acumen, but a philosophical one as well, and in this capacity, the first incontestable name that comes up is that of the Blessed Augustine. (I am purposely using the Russian appellation of him, which, in this case, is equivalent of Saint.) Being a Saint is not a reason for anybody’s exclusion from consideration, as long as his texts are not sacred texts, and thus exempt from critical analysis. (On the other hand, it is easy to see why the preceding Church Fathers from St. Justin Martyr to St. Ambrose, even though sometimes referred to as philosophers, are rather apologists of early Christianity, but do not qualify as philosophers the way Saint Augustine does.) Ironically, even the Christian Church herself, although completely forthcoming in granting his person Sainthood, has held his numerous writings under a certain cloud, as rather suspect of possible whiffs of unintentional heresy, which is however virtually impossible to pinpoint. This attitude obviously demonstrates that Saint Augustine is a bona fide philosopher, as the existing doubt about the essence of his theories is exactly what distinguishes genuine philosophy from homily and apologetics.

Leaving aside Augustine’s biography, I have a great respect for him as a virtually independent thinker at a time when independent thinking was not counted among persons’ admirable virtues. In my Religion section entry Saint Augustine And Christian Fundamentalism I noted two aspects of Augustine’s thinking that were extremely brave, controversial, and so modern that they might be easily mistaken for a vile, secularist, anti-Christian subversion in most Evangelical churches of today’s America. While referring the reader to the cited entry, I will only say that one of these points ridicules literal interpretations of the Bible, and the other suggests that non-Christian thinking need not necessarily be stupid or Satanic. (Having said these positive things about him, I must say here, and I will elaborate on it later in this entry, that St. Augustine to me is by no means a sympathetic figure, and I consider some of his most definitive views nothing short of reprehensible.)

(To be continued tomorrow…)

TRINITARIAN HERESIES

In the previous entry about Origen, I talked about the uneasy relationship of neo-Platonic philosophy and early Christian theology. I also said that during the time of Origen the question of heresy was not a priority, as Christianity was in a desperate struggle for survival against Roman persecution, and internecine fighting was the last thing to be engaged in. Everything changed however after Constantine legitimized Christianity, and even presided over the 325 AD Council of Nicaea. Politics became an essential part of the picture, and what Origen had previously been able to get away with, without jeopardizing his posthumous honorific title of a Father of the Church, in these new times would bring about severe condemnation at the least and, excommunication to the unrepentant.

The philosophical, as opposed to strictly theological, question of the Trinity was very much on the minds of all Christian theologians, a truly fascinating intellectual challenge, indeed, only now it had become subject to severe Church discipline, and doctrinal uniformity was categorically imposed upon matters theological, to the great detriment of philosophical discussion.

St. Athanasius of Alexandria (297-373) was at that time the chief protagonist of religious orthodoxy which, he said, he derived strictly from the Scriptures. He was particularly instrumental in the development of the orthodox theological concept of the Trinity, seeing God the Son and God the Holy Ghost as consubstantial and coeternal with God the Father. His emphasis on the Trinity was particularly caused by his determined dispute with the so-called Arian heresy, in which the nature of the Trinity was the main issue.

Arius of Alexandria (256-336) was obviously a much older and much more distinguished Christian leader than the relative youngster Athanasius and for this reason alone his words carried a lot of weight among the Christians, and in fact swayed Emperor Constantine in his favor, causing Athanasius to be frequently exiled and otherwise persecuted. The Arian approach to the Trinity was logical and philosophical although not the only solution to the problem posed by the concept itself. The essence of Arianism was that the Son was not equal to the Father, and was not eternal, having been created by the Father. Although much of this heresy was logical and relatively inoffensive, the denial of eternity to the Son was unacceptable to most theologians, who however wished to find a compromise with Arius, and only Athanasius rejected compromises, for which same reason he was initially persecuted, but triumphed in the end.

By far the best philosophical interpretation of the Trinity, in my opinion, belongs to the 3^rd-century theologian Sabellius, of uncertain roots and unheralded biography, yet of no uncertain treatment of this most difficult subject of Christology. He said that there was only One God, revealing Himself in three manifestations as the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, the latter two by no means distinct from God the Father. This representation of the Trinity makes so much sense to me, that I used to hold the same philosophical view about the nature of Godhead, and philosophically I still do, except for recognizing the religious necessity of adherence to the Creed which I am culturally tied to.

It is unfortunate that the author of this supremely philosophical theory of the Trinity is virtually unknown to the world, unlike, say, Arius, whose own doctrine, although perhaps more logical than the accepted creed, is less consistent and convincing (sorry, Newton!) than that of Sabellius. Still, I am determined to raise high the name of Sabellius in this entry, declaratively at first, but elaborating on this subject in future revisions, eventually hoping to give him, as a religious philosopher, what is unquestionably his everlasting due.

ORIGEN: HALFWAY BETWEEN PHILOSOPHY AND THEOLOGY

Serious scholars of early Christianity (I mean those who are not excessively driven by the religious agenda) have rightly pointed out that, despite an explicit aversion to, and repudiation of, philosophy, so prominently exhibited already in Apostle Paul,-- the Gospel of St. John, as contrasted to the three earlier Gospels, is clearly a philosophical effort to represent Christian theology, bearing unmistakable links to Platonic philosophy, even to the point of borrowing its language and basic concepts. Although the connection of St. John to philosophy is thus firmly established, I shall not treat him as a figure of a specific philosophical interest, due to his religious eminence and sacredness to Christianity. The non-sacred person of Origen, however, imposes no such inhibitions, and he may well serve us as an example of how, for better or for worse, theology has been philosophized over the ages in an ostensible effort to make the two compatible, and ipse facto proving that all theological attacks on philosophy have been inconsistent and often disingenuous. Thus Christianity was opening itself to a religion-dominated Christian philosophy, and repudiated all those philosophers who would not allow themselves to be dominated, preferring to keep an open mind on matters religious. Which is of course understandable, but counterproductive, as philosophy is indeed incompatible with faith-based creed. In other words, no matter how fascinating it is to look at religion through the unquestionably secular prism of philosophy, the strict line separating the two must always be kept in mind, although, as I’ve pointed out in several places already, it is possible to treat religion philosophically, on deliberate cross-cultural journeys.

Origen (185-254 AD) shows us how shaky is the ground on which Christian theology and philosophy meet, even under the best intentions of everybody concerned. He did indeed venture far into the sea of philosophy on his ship of well-intentioned Christianity, even earning for himself the honorific title of a Church Father. Yet had he lived later, after Christianity was officially recognized as the religion of Rome, his views would undoubtedly have been denounced as heretical and inimical to the Christian Dogma. As a matter of fact, his views were indeed denounced as such by none other than St. Jerome who, however, prudently stopped short of denouncing the man, treating him, according to the already established tradition as a… venerable Church Father! If ever there was a meaning to the term “double-truth,” here is a most revealing example.

The four major heresies of Origen, as stated by Bertrand Russell in his History of Western Philosophy, are as follows:

1.      The pre-existence of souls, as taught by Plato.

2.      That the human nature of Christ, and not only His divine nature, existed before the Incarnation.

3.      That, after the resurrection, our bodies shall be transformed into absolutely ethereal bodies.

4.      That all men, and even devils, shall be saved at the last.

Origen’s most curious statement supposed to bridge the gap between Greek and Christian philosophy, and ever since becoming the principal argument of the Christians, was made in Contra Celsum, Book I, Chapter II, in response to Celsus’ argument to the effect that Christianity coming from the “barbarian” Jews cannot be made sense of without the necessary application of, and reinterpretation by, the pristine Classical Greek intellect. So, here it is what Origen says, first asserting that any person coming to Christianity from Greek philosophy must conclude by the rational method alone that the Gospel is true. But there is more to it than that:

“...The Gospel has a demonstration of its own, more divine than any established by Grecian dialectics. And this diviner method is called by the apostle the ‘manifestation of the Spirit and of power’; of ‘the Spirit,’ on account of the prophesies, which are sufficient to produce faith in anyone who reads them, especially in those things which relate to Christ; and ‘of power,’ because of the signs and wonders which we must believe to have been performed, both on many other grounds, and on this, that traces of them are still preserved among those who regulate their lives by the precepts of the Gospel.”

Thus, Origen not only insists on a full compatibility of Greek philosophy and Christian theology, but also on their complementarity in approaching the Christian phenomenon, with theology naturally given the upper hand.

However, there is a serious inconsistency in Origen’s approach. On the one hand, he seems to allow a connection between secular philosophy and divine theology. On the other hand, he categorically separates the affairs of the Church from the affairs of the State, advising Christians to attend to the affairs of the Church, but to remove themselves from matters secular. This unhealthy attitude may not have survived intact in the life and practice of the Roman Catholic Church, but the prejudice has become ingrained, and it persists up to the present day, not just in Roman Catholicism, but, even more pronouncedly, among today’s American Evangelicals, who, dangerously, look at the world not in objective secular terms, but through the heavily biased prism of their heavily biased interpretation of the Christian religious dogma.

THE LAST ROSE OF THE GREEK SUMMER

The title alludes to the classic 1805 poem by the Irish poet Thomas Moore The Last Rose of Summer, that became an exceptionally popular song, spawning multiple important musical adaptations. Its relevance to my entry on Plotinus is in its metaphorical use.

It is hard to be unequivocal about our next subject of interest, namely, Plotinus (204-270) who is named in all histories of philosophy as an eminent Neo-Platonist. On the one hand, being called a Platonist does not confer on one a badge of originality, suggesting a strong derivative quality. Besides, he might be described as a poor man’s Plato, in the sense that one can learn only so much of Plato from reading Plotinus. He is a lover of Plato, who does not do his love justice by concentrating only on several aspects of Plato’s theories, while completely ignoring the rest. On the same side of the pro/contra argument is the fact that Nietzsche, a great connoisseur of ancient Greek philosophy, does not mention him by name even once, anywhere I looked.

But on the other side of the argument is the earlier mentioned fact that no history of philosophy can forgo him, and our friend Bertrand Russell (who is a formidable authority in philosophy and on philosophers) is quite generous to Plotinus, allotting him a lengthy fourteen-page Plotinus chapter, the very last chapter of the First Book of his History of Western Philosophy (Ancient Philosophy), and calling him “the last of the great philosophers of antiquity,” and rather than stressing his derivative quality, as a mere follower of Plato, emphasizes his originality by calling him “the founder of Neo-Platonism.”

With regard to the very last point, before we talk further about Plotinus himself, we may find it interesting to ascertain that Neo-Platonism can indeed be considered as an original school of philosophy, rather than a wholly derivative spin-off of Plato’s Platonism. W. T. Jones gives his explanation why Neo-Platonism is so important by raising two key points. One, that its particular emphasis on religiosity, far more pronounced than in Plato, reflected the specific mood of the times (Plotinus’ Third Century AD). The other, that, had it not been for Plotinus and his new school of Neo-Platonic thinking, Plato’s virtual defeat by the philosophy of Aristotle would have been complete. While attempting to solve the technical philosophical problems on which Platonism broke, and to which Aristotle had provided at best only a partial answer, Neo-Platonism developed a philosophy of religion that was to become a major influence on the future course of Western thought. Indeed, Neo-Platonism proved to be one of the chief modes of Plato’s endurance.

The main difference-- and hence the new philosophy’s originality-- between Platonism and Neo-Platonism was that the former was focused on ethics, while the latter was focused on religion. Plato’s anti-rationalism was embraced, but his belief in the possibility of acquiring real knowledge rationally was ignored, not like the Skeptics ignored it, to prove their Ignoramus et Ignorabimus, but in order to insist that real knowledge could only be acquired irrationally through religious mysticism and revelation. Thus, Neo-Platonism was a deliberate effort to adapt Plato, that is, to enlist him into the service of a new philosophy, which sprang out of a non-Platonic pool, but so much liked what Plato had to say, when he was not in contradiction with its own doctrinal tenets, that it effectively appropriated Plato’s name and clout, not unlike Fritz Kreisler using hallowed names in classical music to promote his own compositions, written in the old style, but not quite the same…

The Neo-Platonic school of thinking was therefore a brand new line of thinking, or perhaps, a philosophical agenda, which pushed itself so vigorously, and found for itself such fertile soil in the new age, that it found it possible to alter classical Platonism in its new image so that the tables were turned and on the surface it may even seem that Plato had become a Plotinus derivative!

A few words now about Plotinus proper. He was by no means a Christian thinker (Christianity at that time was still under persecution), otherwise we would not have called him the last of the Greeks. But he had an enormous influence on Christianity, particularly on Eastern orthodox Christianity, which relies on him far more than Western Catholicism (which has received its “Aristotelian component” not via Plotinus, but via Thomas Aquinas, who, curiously, had less of an influence on the Eastern Branch of Christianity!).

Someone familiar with Jewish Kabbalah would instantly recognize a strong connection between Plotinus’s theory of The One (Ein Sof) and of the Emanations from the unknowable and perfect into less perfect and more knowable and the Kabbalistic theories of the same. It must be borne in mind, however, that Plotinus had come before any Kabbalah existed, and thus there has been no influence of Jewish thinkers on the last Greek, but exactly the other way round. It was the Kabbalah that developed these mystical theological and philosophical conceptions in the wake of Plotinus’s metaphysical explorations!

And finally, Plotinus was perhaps at his least Greek and at his most Christian-like in his attitude toward the physical body. According to his Neo-Platonic disciple Porphyry he hated his body and resolutely refused to discuss the circumstances of his early physical life. (He was born in Egypt but everything else about him or his family is completely obscure, including the year of his birth, which is counted back with approximation from the known date of his death.) He insisted that the philosophical objective of human existence was to ignore the minutia of everything pertaining to this world, concentrating instead on the contemplation of the goodness and beauty embodied by The One. Not that The One could suddenly become accessible, through such contemplation, but whatever coming to us from the other world via the emanations reached in these contemplations constituted the highest aim of philosophy and of human existence as such.

…My friend Nietzsche would surely make an extra-sour grimace here… But philosophical tastes vary and differ, and, whether he liked it or not, we are all the richer for it!

This is the end of the Graeco-Roman, “pagan” subsection, and next we shall continue with early Christian philosophy, as opposed to theology, and our first name on this list is not Saint Augustine, as expected, but … Origen.

SKEPTICS AND DOUBTERS

(An important preambular note: The “Sextus” in Marcus Aurelius’ Thoughts (Meditations) is often confused with Sextus Empiricus, which is a ridiculous anachronism. He is Sextus of Chaeronea, a Stoic philosopher and Marcus Aurelius’s erstwhile teacher.)

This entry is on Sextus Empiricus (160-210 AD), the great Skeptic philosopher, whose greatness has been determined not so much by the originality of his ideas, which is doubtful, as by the fact that he left behind him a magnificent body of work, outlining the principles and basic ideas of Pyrrhonism, or Skepticism. It is impossible for us today to distinguish the origin of some (not of all!) ideas of Pyrrho from those of Timon, or Carneades, or other Skeptics, including Sextus himself, in his writings, but this is not as important as the fact itself that it is through Sextus that the world has become familiar with these basic ideas and principles, influencing such great philosophers of the later times as Montaigne, Hume, and Hegel.

Before we proceed with Sextus, a curious question is in order. How do we distinguish scepsis from doubt in the first place? We know that doubt is at the heart of scepsis as doubt is at the heart of the Cartesian method and yet David Hume is famously known as a skeptic, while nobody uses the same name for Dèscartes! How do we, then, tell the difference?

It can be argued that Dèscartes’ doubt is a philosophical method for obtaining truth, whereas for the Skeptic it is the reason for denying induction and sometimes even going so far as to deny knowledge as such. But in the works of Sextus Empiricus there is no indication of such intellectual extremism. On the contrary he is in explicit disagreement with the view of Carneades that nothing is knowable, calling it a definitive judgment, which as such must be doubted. He calls only for a suspension of judgment in all matters of belief.

How does this affect the social behavior of a Skeptic, according to Sextus? “We skeptics follow in practice the way of the world” he writes, “but without holding any opinion about it; we speak of the gods as existing and offer worship to the gods and say that they exercise providence, but in saying this we express no belief, and avoid the rashness of the dogmatizers.”

The question of faith and knowledge thus comes to the fore, and Sextus makes the fallacious argument that makes belief somehow dependent on proof. In this confusion, I see the main weakness of skepticism in all ages, ancient and modern. For, with regard to religion, proof must not be required, whereas by the Skeptic’s own logic, the proof to the contrary is equally non-existent.

Moving on from religion, where positive knowledge is irrelevant by definition, to science, where it seems necessary, we, however, find that there is not that much difference anyway, in so far as positive knowledge is concerned. The history of science tells us that what constitutes scientific progress is exactly the rejection of old “knowledge” in favor of the new, which itself will be rejected in the next spurt of progress. There is no such thing as solid knowledge anyway (Kant was wrong seeing it in mathematics, where everything is based on mere hypotheses!) and skeptics are perfectly right in this. They go wrong when they take it to extremes, like Carneades, but Sextus Empiricus appears fairly reasonable in that particular regard. His two mistakes, though, are confusing belief with knowledge, as I mentioned before, and then, ignoring the fact of practical presumption, which (rather than some chimera of absolute knowledge) commonsensically guides us through our everyday existence, exactly as he describes the social behavior of the Skeptic in the excerpt above.

In my view, the key to healthy epistemology is in opening up all channels of acquiring knowledge, practical and mystical alike, while realizing our limitations, and especially the scientific impossibility of acquiring an absolute scientific knowledge of anything, knowing in advance that one day our best practical knowledge is too, destined to be refuted.

THOUGHTS ON THOUGHTS

A Roman Emperor thinking like a Greek slave… I like Marcus Aurelius (121-180 AD), and working on his Thoughts was not a waste of time. But he is hardly an original thinker by any stretch of imagination. He is bright enough, however, to serve as a host, carrying the great thoughts and ideas of the Greek philosophers whom he admired and passing them on to future generations by the power of the “diplomatic immunity” of his Imperial pouch. (On the other hand, his heroes being Greek Stoics, such as Epictetus, first and foremost, their effective philosophical range is rather limited and there are many extra-philosophical things in Marcus Aurelius, much more interesting than his thoughts of specifically philosophical nature. Some of these extra-philosophical gems I was frequently referring to, in previous entries.)

And then of course, the identity of the host, whether he is the original source or a carrier, does not matter so much when we are dealing not with the history of philosophy per se, but with the analysis of specific ideas. The first concern does not matter, because all extant sources of antiquity-- direct and indirect-- have usually been corrupted anyway, en route to the attention of the modern reader. A classic example of how adequately my second concern has been resolved, is the case of Socrates, of whom we know only on the rebound, but, taking the person of Plato, what a magnificent rebound! So, let us concentrate on the ideas, and not on the persons of the ancients. (Not that these persons do not merit personal attention, far from it! But what I have in mind is separating these two different categories and treating each for its own sake, only occasionally allowing the mix, where appropriate.)

Incidentally, the same does not hold with any similar conviction for later thinkers. Particularly, this is not the case with Nietzsche. His personality is so much fused with his thinking that they are hard to separate, and I can only regret, with some bitterness, that in my young years I did not take up the German language to learn it with an adequate proficiency to be able to read Nietzsche in the original. I am missing a lot now, as a result!

Getting back to Marcus Aurelius, here is another demonstration of one sincere thinker’s futile attempt to prove the improvable. Ironically, it does not really matter if he is trying to convince the others, or himself only, that God does exist. I believe that this personal need to “prove” the subject of faith indicates that this faith has not been strong enough to sustain itself by belief only. In my case, God exists to me personally by the sufficiency of faith. (This is why I may often sound irreverent in my philosophical arguments about the need to establish God as a virtually fictional character, by mathematical axiom, which I usually refer to as God by Definition.) Anyway, Marcus Aurelius’s self-deceptive conviction of the existence of divine power and government by the argument from design was founded on his conception of the order of the universe. Like Socrates, he says that, though we cannot see the forms of divine powers, we know that they do exist, because we see their works. “But if all things are wisely ordered, how is the world so full of what we call evil?” he asks, and replies: “Generally, wickedness does no harm at all to the universe; and particularly, the wickedness of one man does no harm to another.-- It is only harmful to him who has it in his power to be released from it as soon as he should choose.” The first part of this is consistent with the doctrine that the whole can never sustain any harm (in other words, evil)… As opposed to what, I may ask? Apparently the answer is, ‘as opposed to a part of the whole.’ This sounds very much like a classic casuistic argument to me. It does not really prove anything, but clearly wants to produce the impression of doing so. I believe that my explanation of evil as a time-contained bad effect of a good thing is by far simpler and better! The second part is explained by the Stoic principle that there is no evil in anything, which is not in our power. What wrong we suffer from another is his evil, and not ours. This is not my kind of philosophy, but, rather, a nice case of make-feel-good psychology, which is, naturally, quite legitimate, but only as long as it stays where it belongs: on the shrink’s couch. But, as George Long points out, “Antoninus has no answer to the objections to the existence of God because of moral disorder and suffering, which are in the world.” --No wonder! What else can I say? This Socratic argument for the existence of divine power is inconclusive and fails to make its point, but only causes a wry condescending smile on the lips of its critic. As I said before, God’s existence is improvable, by God’s own design. The Stoic argument that there is no evil in anything, which is not in our power, seems rather egocentric, and disrespectful of God, because it is an argument of resignation to evil without even trying to explain its origins. This is of course my response, should we keep insisting on taking it seriously as a philosophical argument and not limiting ourselves to its place and role as “fodder” for the psychiatrist’s couch.

(The bottom line here is to see evil as a necessary bad alternative of the effect of human action proceeding from our freedom of choice, which freedom is in-itself a good thing, whereas its absence would only cause the elimination of the concept of good from our consideration. I must stress, however, that although evil is a necessary alternative, it doesn’t mean that evil is necessary. The critical purpose of ethics is winning the argument of alternatives within he choice of human action for the good option. On the other hand, natural disasters, as the Hurricane Katrina has shown, reveal not the evil ‘in-itself,’ but a glaring incompetence of man. Improve the man, this natural disaster may still be terrible, yet it will not be allowed to result in evil. I know that I will be passionately contradicted to the effect that there are many instances of “force majeure,” where man, even at the top of human competence, is powerless against the impending catastrophe, but here I will insist that we are dealing with a tragedy, but not with some case of evil, as evil is man-made or man-allowed, and, although many people do not see the difference between the two, it is ethically imperative to draw such a distinction.)

…Having read back this entry to myself, I realize that it is does not appear to be about Marcus Aurelius but is rather a personal reflection, veering off the subject rather significantly. But looking at its title, I see that it pretty well describes the final product; and being a meditation on Marcus Aurelius, let him get at least some credit for it.

THE SLAVE WHO WOULD POSSESS AN EMPEROR’S SOUL

The Stoic philosopher Epictetus (his years of life have not been credibly established, but according to some sources, they could be 55-135 AD) is well known from two extant works, ironically, neither written by him. The Discourses and The Enchiridion were both written by his student Flavius Arrian, claiming to represent the master’s authentic sayings. He is also the single most important factor in the philosophical development of the Roman “Philosopher-Emperor” Marcus Aurelius.

In a certain sense, we can use toward all Stoics the very unkind phrase to the effect that once you have read one, you have read them all. Indeed, where they are important, they are all very much alike, and where they are different, they are not all that important. Thus, philosophically speaking, there is no need to allot all of them more than a single entry, which though, as the reader must have noticed, is by no means the case here. The reason for such prominence of the Stoics lies therefore in their extra-philosophical, that is, in their historical and cultural value, and this point must also be clearly understood.

Among the names appearing in this section, many are new, but some are familiar from previous, thematic sections. Our present subject Epictetus belongs to the diversified group. We’ve met him already in my entry Definitions, Definitions, Definitions!--- (Talking about definitions, and our uncritical use of poorly, if at all defined terminology, which turns us into slaves of the powers that are shoving their calculated usage down our throat, here is another precious excavation, from Epictetus’s Enchiridion: “First learn the meaning of what you say, and then speak.” Bravo, Epictete!)

And then, from my entry Evil And The Nature Of Things.--- (Epictetus makes short shrift of the question of evil. He says, “As a mark is not set up for the purpose of missing it, so neither does the nature of evil exist in the universe.” Simplicius has a lengthy and curious discourse on this text of Epictetus, both amusing and very instructive: “Evil is not part of the nature of things,” he argues. “If there were a principle of evil in the constitution of things, evil would no longer be evil, but evil would be good.”

Curiously, in one particularly important aspect, Epictetus sounds very much like a Pythagorean.--- Quoting Bertrand Russell on this, “On earth, says Epictetus, we are prisoners, and in an earthly body. According to Marcus Aurelius, he used to say ‘Thou art a little soul bearing about a corpse.’ Zeus could not make body free, but he gave us a portion of his divinity…” In another instance, now quoting from the Enchiridion, he sounds uncannily like a consummate Christian in the true Pauline mold: “If you desire to be good, begin by believing that you are wicked.” W. T. Jones notes that “there was a Christian community in his birthplace, and it has been assumed that Christianity exercised an influence on his thought.” He quickly adds though, that “the parallelism between some of Epictetus’ teachings and those of the Christians may however be the result of the contemporary climate of opinion, to which all thinking men,--- Christians and non-Christians alike,-- contributed and from which, in turn, they drew.” I am however unsure that the affinity of the phrase I quoted earlier can be explained away without acknowledging its close Christian ties.

Nietzsche has a few references to Epictetus, in one place (in Menschliches) calling him “a great moralist.” (But one must admit to himself that our age is poor in great moralists, that Pascal, Epictetus, Seneca, and Plutarch are now read but little.) In Morgenröte, he comments on Stoical selfishness, using Epictetus yet again as his example: The great men of antique morality, Epictetus for instance, knew nothing of the now normal glorification of thinking of others, of living for others; in the light of our moral fashion they would have to be called downright immoral, for they strove with all their might for their ego and against feeling with others (that is to say with the sufferings and moral frailties of others). Perhaps they would reply to us: “If you are so boring or ugly an object to yourself, by all means think of others more than of yourself! It is right you should!” (For the record, while Nietzsche mentions Epictetus in several other places, there is no mention of Marcus Aurelius anywhere in his writings, as far as I remember, which is Nietzsche’s way of saying that the Emperor’s philosophy is utterly derivative.)

 

Curiously, Nietzsche is silent on the ‘Christian’ side of Epictetus’ teachings, apparently finding it wiser to take on the real thing, than a proxy. But it is his affinity with the Christian spirit of the ages to come, which makes Epictetus particularly interesting to us. As Dr. W. T. Jones puts it, the whole of Epictetus’ teaching could be summed up, he said, in two words: bear and forbear. “If a man will only have these two words at heart, and heed them carefully, by ruling and watching over himself, he would for the most part fall into no sin, and his life will be tranquil and serene.”

I guess this last part should suit only the optimistic Christian hermit. Those who are bent on the sinfulness of human nature cannot reconcile themselves to the idea of tranquil and serene life in this world.

(The complementary entry on Marcus Aurelius, under the title Thoughts On Thoughts, follows next.)

APOSTLE PAUL AS A PHILOSOPHER?

The reader who expects a lengthy and momentous treatise, under this promising title, will be disappointed. What you are about to read is more like a brief note on the declared subject. As a Russian Christian, by my birth and upbringing, I am accustomed to seeing Apostle Paul (4-64 AD) as a bona fide Saint of the Church, approaching all his writings with proper religious reverence, which would be completely out-of-place in any philosophical discussion. Some writers of histories of philosophy represent Paul as a Platonic philosopher, but, as I have repeated on several occasions, going in that direction opens up Pauline teachings to criticism, generally healthy and commendable, but quite inappropriate under the circumstances of its direct connection to the professed religion.

The natural question, then, is why should Ihave such a provocative yet unfulfilled entry here, in the first place? The answer is this.

My old friend by now, W. T. Jones, makes the point that Paul is neither a philosopher nor a theologian, but a religious mystic. Why should one, I reply, exclude the others? Other sources pose this question: Who was Paul of Tarsus-- A Jewish theologian or a Greek philosopher? Our Bertrand Russell answers this question by suggesting that, had Paul been the one or the other, Christianity would have remained either an obscure Jewish sect, or some esoteric Eastern superstition. It was exactly because he happened to be both, that these two qualities of his had come together in a unique combination, reassuring the new religion of Christianity of a worldwide acceptance.

Indeed, I agree on this with Russell, and not with Jones, seeing Apostle Paul as all three of these: a mystic, a theologian and a philosopher. As a philosopher, his vision covers a broad spectrum of areas of traditional philosophical inquiry, and had someone had the ingenuity to separate Paul’s philosophy from his theology, to make its consideration and the inevitable criticism of it permissible for an extra-theological discussion, it could be great fun… Perhaps in a few years, if I have the time to bring all my other projects in this book to a satisfactory condition, I could do it myself? After all, there is no disrespect in criticizing Paul’s detached philosophy. Paraphrasing one of my old apte dictums, if his philosophy had been impeccable, his theology would have become superfluous, and with it, perhaps, all particularized religions?..

THE BAPTISM OF SENECA

Lucius Annaeus Seneca (3 BC-65 AD) was a famous Roman Stoic of Spanish origin, better known for his noble principles and a magnificent quasi-Socratic death, epitomizing the appropriation of the Greek Stoic virtues by Rome, than for his fabulous, uncharacteristically non-Stoic wealth (although some say that the allegations about his riches were spread by his detractors), or for his stern, unsympathetic persona, highly unlikely to have any real friends, but only admirers, preferring to admire from a certain emotional distance. (I suspect this to have been the deserved lot of all Stoics.) The following passage from his Moral Epistles bears testimony to that:

“I enclose a copy of the letter which I wrote to Marullus at the time when he had lost his little son and was reported to be womanish in his grief, a letter where I have not observed the usual form of condolence: for I did not believe that he should be handled gently, since, in my opinion, he deserved criticism, rather than consolation. When a man is stricken and is finding it most difficult to endure a grievous wound, one must humor him for a while; let him satisfy his grief or at any rate work off the first shock; but those who have assumed an indulgence in grief ought to be rebuked, and ought to learn that there are certain follies even in tears.”

Seneca was and is highly regarded as a Stoic philosopher, although he was by no means original, but rather a popularizer. It is probably due to the fact of learning many Stoic doctrines from Seneca’s epistles, and his other writings, that he has been so highly revered.

Returning to the question of his exorbitant wealth, there are several pieces of evidence which make unlikely that the charges have been concocted. According to Dio Cassius, much of this money was acquired through the practice of unscrupulous usury, his victim being Britain. He adds that Seneca’s horrendous interest rates had caused a massive revolt in Britain, led by the legendary Queen Boadicea.

Now, do not get me wrong, talking so much about Seneca’s negative sides, and so little about his admirable qualities. The latter can be ascertained from any of his biographies, whereas, his philosophy being entirely unoriginal, there is too little to say of it, either. The reason why I concentrate on Seneca’s flaws is because he would somehow become a poster boy righteous pagan for the early Christians. Somewhat surprisingly, Dante does not consider him a Christian, but places him, with Diogenes, in the pleasant First Circle. The reason for my surprise is that several Christian Fathers did insist on him being a Christian convert! Even St. Jerome honestly believes in the story how Seneca had a meeting with Apostle Paul and was baptized by the great Saint personally.

It is acceptable of course for the Christian Church to embrace certain principles of pagan Stoicism as their own, and there is no reason to protest too much against the story of Seneca’s Baptism, although it has to be false. But the choice of the interesting figure of Seneca as a heroic Christian convert tells something about the Church herself, by transferring Seneca’s obtruding traits on the character of his admirer.

CHRIST’S COMPETITOR IN ST. JEROME’S DREAM

It may well be that the title of this entry will eventually be replaced by something more appropriate, but for the moment I find it irresistible. I am talking about the person of Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BC.), one of the most fascinating, famous and momentous people in history. Everybody (which includes myself) who has ever studied Latin, academically or otherwise, knows the name of Cicero, and has read plenty of him in the original, because without him Latin textbooks would have been half their normal size.

Cicero’s influence on his and subsequent generations has been immense, as, through his Latin translations and comments, the Western non-Greek world originally learned the names of Plato, Euclid, the Stoics, and others. He was accepted as a righteous pagan by the Christian Church, and all eminent Christian thinkers and theologians were known to have read Cicero with great appreciation. The title of this entry reflects the story of St. Jerome’s unusual experience with the great Roman, interestingly related in one of his letters. In this letter to his own Christian convert Eustochium he writes about his difficult ascetic experience. Having cut off his ties to family and friends, “and, harder still, from the dainty food which I had been accustomed to,” he still could not bear to resist his last temptation: the library of books, which he treasured. Departing for the desert, where he was going to fast for Christ, he took certain books with him. “And so, miserable man that I was, I would fast only that I might afterwards read Cicero.” Apparently, St. Jerome’s biggest problem was not reading Cicero, but preferring him to the prophets of the Bible, as one night, in a feverish dream, he was encountered by Christ at the Last Judgment, who challenged his claim of being a Christian: “Though liest, thou art a follower of Cicero and not of Christ.” Needless to say that after this experience, St. Jerome considerably moderated his zeal for Cicero and other Latin classics, but, rather surprisingly, he would never burn their books or drop them for good.

By no means surprisingly, a very similar experience is recorded by St. Augustine in his Confessions. Note that he uses the name of Tully (as in Marcus Tullius), as well as Cicero, in his references to him.

“I studied books of eloquence, wherein I was eager to be eminent from a damnable and inflated purpose, even a delight in human vanity. In the course of study, I lighted upon a book of Cicero, whose language, though not his heart, almost all admire. This book of his contains an exhortation to philosophy, and it is called Hortensius. This book, in truth, changed my affections and turned my prayers to Thyself, O Lord, and made me have other hopes and desires. Worthless suddenly became every vain hope to me; and, with an incredible warmth of heart, I yearned for an immortality of wisdom,(1) and began now to arise (2) that I might return to Thee. Not to improve my language did I have recourse to that book; nor did it persuade me by its style, but its matter.” Like St. Jerome, Augustine compares Cicero to the Bible, only to find the Bible wanting. “I resolved, therefore, to direct my mind to the Holy Scriptures, that I might see what they were. And behold, I perceive something not comprehended by the proud, not disclosed to children, but lowly as you approach, sublime as you advance, and veiled in mysteries; and I was not of the number of those who could enter into it, or bend my neck to follow its steps. For not as now did I feel when I tuned towards those Scriptures, but they appeared to me to be unworthy, compared with the dignity of Tully.”

Our next question addresses Cicero proper, rather than through his countless readers:

Was Cicero a philosopher? (This could be an alternative title for this entry!)

In my view he can be called a philosopher no less than Marcus Aurelius was one, and with infinitely more justification than the whole class of professional philosophers call themselves, who are philosophers mostly by college education and by choosing to write philosophical comments on other people’s ideas. Perhaps, it is possible to call him a philosophical dilettante, because philosophy was not his main occupation, and he is neither a founder nor a follower of any particular school, although of them all, he is the closest to Stoicism. Throughout his life, he had a great love for philosophy. Superbly educated in Greek language and culture, he was fond of translating Greek philosophical works into Latin, and, finding the Latin language wanting in many abstract terms existing in Greek, he worked on enriching his native language by coining a parallel set of terms in Latin. This last accomplishment of his is, for some reason, the least known to non-linguists but, theoretically, it elevates him to a level of excellence that very few great men in history can boast of.

Having studied Roman law with greatest distinction, Cicero is also famous for elaborating a philosophy of jurisprudence, having articulated an abstract conceptualization of rights based on ancient law and custom. His legal background determined his later philosophical emphasis on public, rather than private good. For this reason he criticizes Epicureanism but praises the Stoics, in his philosophical opus De Finibus, where he advances the Stoic view that “the greatest good consists in applying to the conduct of life a knowledge of the workings of natural causes, choosing what is according to nature and rejecting what is contrary to it; in other words, the greatest good is to live in agreement and in harmony with nature.”

In 87 BC he became a student of Philo of Larissa, the head of Plato’s Academy in Athens, who had arrived in Rome at the time. Cicero declared his love for Plato, but nevertheless showed intellectual independence, by rejecting Plato’s key doctrine of Ideas. He continued his studies of philosophy and traveled to Athens to familiarize himself with different schools of thought, plus to learn rhetorical skills for his public office.

As I said earlier, Cicero being a good Roman citizen, his conception of virtue centered on public virtue. In his work De Officiis, written for the instruction of his son Marcus, he writes:

No phase of life, whether public or private, whether in business or in the home, whether one is working on what concerns oneself alone or dealing with another, can be without its own moral duty. On the discharge of such duties depends all which is morally right, and on their neglect all that is morally wrong in life. By the same token, the concept of justice centers on “the conservation of organized society, with rendering to each his due, and with faithful discharge of obligations assumed. The first office of justice is to keep each man from doing harm to another, unless provoked by a wrong; and the next is to lead men to use common possessions for their common interests, and private property for their own.

Very appropriately for a philosopher and a good man (if I am allowed to speak this shocking truth), Cicero ended his life as a martyr. Remembering him, the Emperor Augustus Caesar, according to Plutarch, called him “A learned man who loved his country.” Perhaps, for a Roman, this was not an understatement, but the highest compliment…

TIMON… OF ATHENS?

Timon of Phlius (320-235 BC) was a follower of Pyrrho the Skeptic, and he flourished long after Timon of Athens, who had lived during the Peloponnesian War, in the fifth century BC, and was mentioned both by Plutarch and Lucian as a separate historical figure. It is mainly the older Timon the misanthrope, who was made the central character of Shakespeare’s play Timon of Athens, although certain parts of Shakespeare’s hero’s persona have been casually appropriated from the Skeptic.

This little known, and even less cared about, case of occasionally confused identity, adds a certain spice to my choice of the subject of this entry, who is, of course, the Skeptic. Ironically, having been born in Phlius, and lived for some time in Elis, he eventually moved to Athens, where he died in very old age, making him, to some extent, and to promote further confusion, another Timon of Athens.

Unlike Stoicism, Greek Skepticism is a relatively minor philosophical event,  and, unlike Diogenes of Sinope and Epicurus, the founders of Skepticism Pyrrho and Timon are rather minor historical figures. There are a few nuances, however, justifying the writing of this short entry, one of them admittedly superficial,--- referring to the confusion between my subject and Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens, which, by itself, would have been demonstrably insufficient.

Among other nuances is the famous catchphrase, always rendered in Latin as Ignoramus et Ignorabimus. It catches the essence of philosophical skepticism, and, like a single mathematical hypothesis at the basis of a comprehensive theory, allows everything skeptical that has ever been uttered, to be logically and very easily reduced to it.

Unlike the somewhat skeptical Sophists, who had expressed their utter mistrust for sensory perception, but preferred to stop there, the Skeptics, starting with their founding father Pyrrho, pushed Skepticism beyond that limit, expressing complete mistrust for ethical and logical rules and norms of behavior. There was not a shred of evidence to put one norm above another, thus the guiding principle of morality was adhering to the customs of the country wherever one happened to reside at that particular time. Moving from one place to another, obligated the individual to reshape his behavior, sometimes quite radically, in order to conform to the new surroundings.

Another logical consequence of Skepticism, which was promoted by the Skeptics and was sure to generate some public appeal, was that one should never worry about the future, which was totally unpredictable, but live in the present, enjoying it as much as one could, while the moment lasted. This of course smacks of too much pandering to the lower affects, and too little philosophy, a dirty trick that effectively handicapped the competition.

But there was also an interesting philosophical reasoning, apparently belonging to Timon, which denied the possibility of finding general principles for all deductive doctrines. This impossible to refute argument hit Aristotle’s doctrine of “aprioris” straight in the face, and was also one that the great old Kant was himself never able to overcome, but, rather disingenuously, tried to get around. This intellectual challenge is still very relevant in modern philosophical-scientific thinking, and, for being the first to bring it up, Timon objectively deserves to be awarded his own entry.

In summary of all of the above, neither Skepticism nor the Skeptics are interesting enough to devote much time to their study, but certain things about them surely merit our very brief attention.

 

HYMN TO ZEUS

Cleanthes of Assos (330-230 BC) was the successor to Zeno as the second scholarch of the Stoic school in Athens. Originally a boxer, he came to Athens, where he took up philosophy, listening to Zeno’s lectures. He supported himself by working as water-carrier at night. After the death of Zeno, he became the head of the school, which post he held for the next 32 years. Although not seen as a particularly original thinker, he successfully preserved and transmitted Zeno’s doctrines to his pupil Chrysippus, who would become one of the most important Stoic thinkers. Among the fragments of Cleanthes’ writings that have come down to us, the largest is a Hymn to Zeus.

I have cited Cleanthes on several occasions in the thematic body of this book, judging what I cited him for to be of some importance, and for this reason it is Cleanthes, and not his more distinguished Stoic successor Chrysippus, who appears as the subject of a separate entry in this section.

It is best to remind the reader what I have been citing Cleanthes for, even if this involves repetition.

Greek Stoics originally divided philosophy into three parts: Physics, Ethics, and Logic. Cleanthes saw fit to subdivide these three divisions, making six: Dialectic and Rhetoric, within Logic; Ethics and Politics, and finally, Physics and Theology. Mind you, such a division was made for practical use only, as all Philosophy was considered one single whole, yet the fact remains that it was made, and its implications are interesting: Grouping together Ethics and Politics, Cleanthes pointed to their distinction, whereas, say, Marcus Aurelius would not give Politics the honor of even being mentioned in his Thoughts, preferring to talk about ‘Ethics’ instead, even where he is clearly talking about things normally covered by Politics. (This is understandable, as, being a statesman himself, the distinction between moral and public duty seemed nonexistent to him.)

There is a peculiar significance to Cleanthes’ new distinction between Physics and Theology. In summary of what I have said about the Greeks, all polytheistic religions seem to have no connection to the philosophical concept of the Deity. When an occasional Greek poet/philosopher sings praise to Zeus as the Absolute God, it is an exception, a misnomer, a matter of sheer convenience. The Ode to Zeus, by Cleanthes in our case, is inherently monotheistic. None of such instances should ever be cited in defense of any kind of polytheistic Absolute, which would of course be a contradiction in terms. Praising Zeus, Cleanthes, therefore, uses this traditional proper name exactly in the same way that the Catholic missionaries among the American Indians used the name Gitche Manitou (Great Spirit) to refer to the Christian monotheistic: Deity God the Father.

Considering the special importance of Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus, we are quoting it here in full:

Most glorious of the immortals, invoked by many names, ever all-powerful,

Zeus, the First Cause of Nature, who rules all things with Law,

Hail! It is right for mortals to call upon you,

since from you we have our being, we whose lot it is to be God's image,

we alone of all mortal creatures that live and move upon the earth.

Accordingly, I will praise you with my hymn and ever sing of your might.

The whole universe, spinning around the earth,

goes wherever you lead it and is willingly guided by you.

So great is the servant which you hold in your invincible hands,

your eternal, two-edged, lightning-forked thunderbolt.

By its strokes all the works of nature came to be established,

and with it you guide the universal Word of Reason which moves through all creation,

mingling with the great sun and the small stars.

O God, without you nothing comes to be on earth,

neither in the region of the heavenly poles, nor in the sea,

except what evil men do in their folly.

But you know how to make extraordinary things suitable,

and how to bring order forth from chaos; and even that which is unlovely is lovely to you.

For thus you have joined all things, the good with the bad, into one,

so that the eternal Word of all came to be one.

This Word, however, evil mortals flee, poor wretches;

though they are desirous of good things for their possession,

they neither see nor listen to God's universal Law;

and yet, if they obey it intelligently, they would have the good life.

But they are senselessly driven to one evil after another:

some are eager for fame, no matter how godlessly it is acquired;

others are set on making money without any orderly principles in their lives;

and others are bent on ease and on the pleasures and delights of the body.

They do these foolish things, time and again,

and are swept along, eagerly defeating all they really wish for.

O Zeus, giver of all, shrouded in dark clouds and holding the vivid bright lightning,

rescue men from painful ignorance.

Scatter that ignorance far from their hearts.

and deign to rule all things in justice.

so that, honored in this way, we may render honor to you in return,

and sing your deeds unceasingly, as befits mortals;

for there is no greater glory for men

or for gods than to justly praise the universal Word of Reason.

Bertrand Russell comments on this hymn that much of it might have been written by (the poet) Pope, or by any educated Christian in the century after Newton. Even more Christian is the short prayer of Cleanthes:

Lead me, O Zeus, and thou, O Destiny,

Lead thou me on.

To whatsoever task thou sendest me,

Lead thou me on.

I follow fearless, or, if in mistrust

I lag and will not, follow still I must.

There is an additional point to be made here, aside from the general observation about Greek philosophical monotheism. Cleanthes the Stoic and Christian apologetics: once again the peculiar affinity of Stoicism and Christianity. This subject will be further explored later, in the entry The Baptism Of Seneca.

ZENO OF CITIUM, FATHER OF THE STOICS

The last two entries touched upon relatively minor philosophical movements (Cynicism and Epicureanism), but the two exceptional individuals representing them (Diogenes and Epicurus) amply justified my urge to include them both in this section. Ironically, the rationale for the existence of the present entry is quite the opposite. Zeno of Citium, Cyprus (336-264 BC), may not have earned his place here on his personal merit, but as the father of the extremely important, influential, and forever-since enduring doctrine of Stoicism, it would have been unforgivable not to devote at least one entry to his person.

Before embarking on the journey around him, however, we must also add that the chronological chain that includes other Stoics, more personally prominent than Zeno himself, and therefore included here on their own, not entirely philosophical, merit, will include Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius, which means that we shall be revisiting Stoicism again and again, eventually giving it some justice.

In Bertrand Russell’s summary:

“Stoicism is less Greek than any school of philosophy known hitherto. The early Stoics were mostly Syrian (Zeno was a Phoenician), the later ones mostly Roman. Unlike the earlier, purely Greek philosophies, Stoicism is emotionally narrow, and in a certain sense fanatical; but it also has religious elements, of which the world felt the need, and which the Greeks seemed unable to supply. It was particularly appealing to rulers: “nearly all the successors of Alexander, we may say all the principal kings in existence in the generations following Zeno, professed themselves Stoics,” says Prof. Gilbert Murray.” Metaphysical nuances were of no interest to the first Stoic. Zeno rather put his emphasis on ethics, and his main preoccupation was virtue. “In the life of an individual, virtue is the sole good; such things as health or happiness, or possessions are of no account. Since virtue resides in the will, everything really good or bad in a man’s life depends only upon himself. He may become poor,-- but what of it? He can still be virtuous! Or a tyrant may put him in prison, but he can still persevere in living in harmony with Nature. He may even be sentenced to death, but he can die nobly, like Socrates. Other men have power only over externals; virtue is entirely with the individual. Therefore, every man has perfect freedom, provided he is emancipated from all mundane desires. It is only through false judgments that such desires prevail; the sage, whose judgment is true, is master of his fate in all that he values, since no outside force can deprive him of virtue.”

Love to the Stoic is not an emotion, but a principle. It is not surprising, on the sum total, that the Christian world loved the Stoics. Even the basically pagan definition of God (Zeno defined God as the fiery mind of the world, seeing Him as a bodily substance, with the whole Universe forming His substance) gets an easy pass from the Church Fathers. Tertullian famously said that, according to Zeno, God runs through matter, like honey runs through the honeycomb.

As to the origins of Zeno’s Stoicism, it is generally assumed that he took his cue from Diogenes’ Cynicism and was himself a Cynic in his younger age, until he essentially reworked that doctrine, getting rid of some unpalatable and perhaps unreasonable elements, until it would become consistent with reason and common sense.

My personal attitude towards Stoicism is that it is indeed a very reasonable, and even useful doctrine, but it can only be suitable for certain types of character, which, for better or for worse, I do not happen to belong to. It is entirely unemotional, in fact, it is inimical to all emotion, and in my book this makes it both inhuman and inhumane, as it leads to selfishness, and a complete loss of interest in human affairs. What is the virtue of such a life, I wonder? But that is me again. Judge not others, so that you shall not be judged by them, in turn. For, if they start enumerating to me the horrific downside of unselfishness, and compassion, and such, I shall have nothing to say, either in their defense, or in mine.

THE WORST CASE OF PHILOSOPHICAL MISCONSTRUCTION

(In the chronological sequence within the Significant Others section, this entry follows The Dogs Of Virtue,  devoted to the Greek Cynics, which was posted on this blog in two parts: on September 17/18, 2012.)

In all reputable histories of philosophy it is customary to place the Greek skeptics after the Greek cynics. I, however, am not writing another such history. My organizational principle for this section,-- as well as for the previous one-- is purely chronological, in the sense that if Epicurus’ date of birth precedes that of Zeno the Stoic and Timon the Skeptic, then Epicurus must come up first. Technical, but simple, and well suited for my particular purpose here. (For the formal record, Epicurus lived from 342 to 270 BC, and died, most probably of kidney stones, at the age of 72.)

Considering how badly the modern meaning of the word “cynic” has diverged from the Greek original, the linguistic incongruity in that case is horrible, but not as bad as in the case of the poor old sick philosopher Epicurus, which takes the cake as the worst case of philosophical misconstruction in history.

In the popular mind, Epicurus was a promoter of pleasure at all costs, a dissipate “epicure” (this word has entered all dictionaries to denote a discerning gourmet, a lover of sensual pleasures, and of luxury, hardly a man having anything to do with intellectual pursuits, and philosophy), and likewise. This is a sad injustice to his memory. Epicurus was, above all, a great philosopher. Our old friend W. T. Jones treats him as a pre-Socratic, adding him and Lucretius to Leucippus and Democritus in the long chapter on Atomism. Russell gives him a full long chapter in his History of Western Philosophy. Epicurus is one of the most interesting and profound philosophers to Schopenhauer, and, as for Nietzsche, the great genius chooses him as one of the eight great shadows he has descended into the underworld to communicate with… Nietzsche identifies him with great precision not as a hedonist, but an optimist, asking the following question: “Could it be that Epicurus was an optimist precisely because he suffered?”

He is, however, dissatisfied with Epicurus’ definition of happiness, that is the highest good, as “the absence of pain,” which for him is overly passive and philosophically negative (defined as the absence of evil). But this treatment of pain as the worst evil and an obstacle to all kinds of virtues, has attracted Schopenhauer the most to Epicurus’ teachings, and ipse facto proves both the great Greek’s philosophical originality and his considerable theoretical value.

Among other examples of Epicurus’ appreciation by all serious thinkers, is the fact that Karl Marx made a comparison of the Democritean and Epicurean philosophies of nature the subject of his doctoral thesis. As for Epicurus’ influence on John Locke and the founding fathers of the American Revolution, this is a well-known fact. Thomas Jefferson even considered himself an Epicurean, and wrote the following in his Letter to William Short, written in 1819: I am an Epicurean. I consider the genuine (not the imputed!) doctrines of Epicurus as containing everything rational in moral philosophy which Greece and Rome left us.

In summary of his views, the purpose of philosophy was to attain the happy, tranquil life, characterized by “ataraxia,” peace and freedom from fear, and “aponia,” the absence of pain, and by living a self-sufficient life, surrounded by friends. He taught that pleasure and pain are the measures of what is good and bad, that death is the end of the body and the soul, and should therefore not be feared, that the gods do not reward or punish humans, that the universe is infinite and eternal, and, being an Atomist and follower of Democritus, he proposed that all events are of necessity based on the motions and interactions of atoms moving in empty space.

As we look at the Greek words ataraxia and aponia, it is easy to see what Nietzsche had in mind: they both contain the negative prefix a-. With regard to his teaching on the importance of friendship, it will be easy to see how a prejudiced mind can deliberately and maliciously misinterpret the following line on friendship as a hedonistic advice on how to throw a boisterous party: “We should look for someone to eat and drink with before looking for something to eat and drink, for dining alone is leading the life of a lion or wolf.”

The present entry’s title’s question of gross misconstruction may have already been answered in part, that is without resorting to a lengthy discourse on philosophical Epicureanism which the reader may find in proper academic reference sources, but this is a relatively minor task. The bigger question is why such a deliberate misrepresentation has become possible in the first place.

One of the reasons for this historical travesty was competition from the Stoics, who saw Epicureanism as a threat to their own philosophy, and therefore tried (successfully, as we shall see) to misrepresent, and even foul-mouth Epicurus in any which way they could. The illustrious Epictetus, whom we shall talk about in a later entry, talks about Epicurus in his Discourses in the following, most unseemly manner: “This is the life of which you pronounce yourself worthy: eating, drinking, copulation, evacuation, and snoring.”

Epicurus was an unpretentious man living a simple life, and although he liked to dine in the company of his brothers, pupils, friends, women, and slaves (he was naturally egalitarian, and his relationships with women were always on a friendship basis), the meals usually consisted of bread and water. (Having cheese for dinner constituted an Epicurean feast!) As he wrote in an often cited letter, “I am thrilled with pleasure in the body when I live on bread and water, and I spit on luxurious pleasures not for their own sake, but because of the inconveniences that follow them… But send me some preserved cheese that when I like I may have a feast.”

The already incongruous prejudice against him, on the part of the Stoics, is further magnified in Christian literature. The Christian Church objected to Epicurus’ negative attitude toward religion and to his concept of death, plus, to his denial of the immortality of the soul. All of this is true, although Epicurus was not an atheist. But he saw religion and death as two major causes of fear, and wished to neutralize that fear in his teachings. There will be no punishment from the gods, either in this life (because the gods do not interfere in human lives) nor after death, because death means the end of all existence, and therefore the end of pain and suffering inherent in it.--- Death is nothing to us, he taught, for what is dissolved, is without sensation, and what lacks sensation is nothing to us. When his time to die had come, he called it this truly happy day of my life, as I am at the point of death.

From everything we know about him, Epicurus was a modest and honorable man. It is a pity that the great Dante, through no personal fault of his, but clearly influenced by the dominant opinion of the Church, put this noble-hearted poor sufferer in the flaming sixth circle of Hell reserved for unrepentant heretics. (If we can still remember, Diogenes was allotted a place in the harmless first circle!)

Epicurus’ most famous follower was the Roman poet Lucretius (99-55 BC), who, although not an original thinker himself, popularized Epicurus’ teachings in his poetic masterpiece De Rerum Natura. We will not have a special entry on Lucretius in this or any other section of the book, but he certainly deserves a highly honorable mention, both as a great poet and as the man thanks to whom we have learned much more about Epicurus and the philosophy of Atomism than we would have known otherwise, and such ignorance surely would have constituted a shameful gap in our historical memory of the sources of Western Civilization.