In many ways, Aristotle's ethics provides the form for the adumbration
of the ethical teaching of the Hellenistic schools. One must first provide a
specification of the goal or end (telos) of living. This may have been thought
to provide something like the dust jacket blurb or course description for the
competing philosophical systems—which differed radically over how to give the required
specification.
A bit of reflection tells us that the goal that we all have is happiness
or flourishing (eudaimonia). But what is happiness? The Epicureans' answer was
deceptively straightforward: the happy life is the one which is most pleasant. (But
their account of what the highest pleasure consists in was not at all
straightforward.) Zeno's answer was “a good flow of life” (Arius Didymus, 63A)
or “living in agreement,” and Cleanthes clarified that with the formulation
that the end was “living in agreement with nature” (Arius Didymus, 63B).
Chrysippus amplified this to (among other formulations) “living in accordance
with experience of what happens by nature;” later Stoics inadvisably, in
response to Academic attacks, substituted such formulations as “the rational
selection of the primary things according to nature.” The Stoics' specification
of what happiness consists in cannot be adequately understood apart from their
views about value and human psychology.
The best way into the thicket of Stoic ethics is through the question of
what is good, for all parties agree that possession of what is genuinely good
secures a person's happiness. The Stoics claim that whatever is good must
benefit its possessor under all circumstances. But there are situations in
which it is not to my benefit to be healthy or wealthy. (We may imagine that if
I had money I would spend it on heroin which would not benefit me.) Thus,
things like money are simply not good, in spite of how nearly everyone speaks,
and the Stoics call them ‘indifferents’ (Diog. Laert., 58A)—i.e., neither good
nor bad. The only things that are good are the characteristic excellences or
virtues of human beings (or of human minds): prudence or wisdom, justice,
courage and moderation, and other related qualities. These are the first two of
the ‘Stoic paradoxes’ discussed by Cicero in his short work of that title: that
only what is noble or fine or morally good (kalon) is good at all, and that the
possession (and exercise) of the virtues is both necessary and sufficient for
happiness. But the Stoics are not such lovers of paradox that they are willing
to say that my preference for wealth over poverty in most circumstances is
utterly groundless. They draw a distinction between what is good and things
which have value (axia). Some indifferent things, like health or wealth, have
value and therefore are to be preferred, even if they are not good, because
they are typically appropriate, fitting or suitable (oikeion) for us.
Impulse, as noted above, is a movement of the soul toward an object.
Though these movements are subject to the capacity for assent in fully rational
creatures, impulse is present in all animate (self-moving) things from the
moment of birth. The Stoics argue that the original impulse of ensouled
creatures is toward what is appropriate for them, or aids in their
self-preservation, and not toward what is pleasurable, as the Epicureans
contend. Because the whole of the world is identical with the fully rational
creature which is God, each part of it is naturally constituted so that it
seeks what is appropriate or suitable to it, just as our own body parts are so
constituted as to preserve both themselves and the whole of which they are
parts. The Stoic doctrine of the natural attachment to what is appropriate
(oikeiôsis) thus provides a foundation in nature for an objective ordering of
preferences, at least on a prima facie basis. Other things being equal, it is
objectively preferable to have health rather than sickness. The Stoics call
things whose preferability is overridden only in very rare circumstances
“things according to nature.” As we mature, we discover new things which are
according to our natures. As infants perhaps we only recognised that food and
warmth are appropriate to us, but since humans are rational, more than these
basic necessities are appropriate to us. The Greek term ‘oikeion’ can mean not
only what is suitable, but also what is akin to oneself, standing in a natural
relation of affection. Thus, my blood relatives are—or least ought to
be—oikeioi. It is partly in this sense that we eventually come to the
recognition—or at least ought to—that other people, insofar as they are
rational, are appropriate to us. Cicero's quotation of Terence's line ‘nothing
human is alien to me’ in the context of On Duties I.30 echoes this thought. It
is not only other rational creatures that are appropriate to us, but also the
perfection of our own rational natures. Because the Stoics identify the moral
virtues with knowledge, and thus the perfection of our rational natures, that
which is genuinely good is also most appropriate to us. So, if our moral and
intellectual development goes as it should, we will progress from valuing food
and warmth, to valuing social relations, to valuing moral virtue. Ideally,
we'll have the recognition that the value that moral virtue has is of a
different order to those things that we were naturally attracted to earlier. We
then come to see that virtue is the only good.
Is that all there is to Stoic ethics? Some writers, such as Annas
(1993), suppose that Stoic moral philosophy largely floats free of Stoic
metaphysics, and especially from Stoic theology. Other writers, such as Cooper
(1996, and 2012), suppose that Stoic moral philosophy is intimately intertwined
with Stoic metaphysics. The latter reading draws our attention to the fact that
the unfolding of God's providential plan is rational (and therefore beneficial)
through and through, so that in some sense what will in fact happen to me in
accordance with that plan must be appropriate to me, just like food, warmth,
and those with whom I have intimate social relations.
When we take the rationality of the world order into consideration, we
can begin to understand the Stoic formulations of the goal or end. “Living in
agreement with nature” is meant to work at a variety of levels. Since my nature
is such that health and wealth are appropriate to me (according to my nature),
other things being equal, I ought to choose them. Hence the formulations of the
end by later Stoics stress the idea that happiness consists in the rational
selection of the things according to nature. But, we must bear in mind an
important caveat here. Health and wealth are not the only things which are
appropriate to me. So are other rational beings and it would be irrational to
choose one thing which is appropriate to me without due consideration of the effect
of that choice on other things which are also appropriate to me. This is why
the later formulations stress that happiness consists in the rational selection
of the things according to nature. But if I am faced with a choice between
increasing my wealth (something which is prima facie appropriate to my nature)
and preserving someone else's health (which is something appropriate to
something which is appropriate to me, i.e. another rational being), which
course of action is the rational one? The Stoic response is that it is the one
which is ultimately both natural and rational: that is, the one that, so far as
I can tell from my experience with what happens in the course of nature (see
Chrysippus' formula for the end cited above, 63B), is most in agreement with
the unfolding of nature's rational and providential plan. Living in agreement
with nature in this sense can even demand that I select things which are not
typically appropriate to my nature at all—when that nature is considered in
isolation from these particular circumstances. Here Chrysippus' remark about
what his foot would will if it were conscious is apposite.
As long as the future is
uncertain to me I always hold to those things which are better adapted to
obtaining the things in accordance with nature; for God himself has made me
disposed to select these. But if I actually knew that I was fated now to be
ill, I would even have an impulse to be ill. For my foot too, if it had
intelligence, would have an impulse to get muddy. (Epictetus, 58J)
We too, as rational parts of rational nature, ought to choose in
accordance with what will in fact happen (provided we can know what that will
be, which we rarely can—we are not gods; outcomes are uncertain to us) since
this is wholly good and rational: when we cannot know the outcome, we ought to
choose in accordance with what is typically or usually nature's purpose, as we
can see from experience of what usually does happen in the course of nature. In
extreme circumstances, however, a choice, for example, to end our lives by
suicide can be in agreement with nature.
So far the emphasis has been on just one component of the Stoic
formulation of the goal or end of life: it is the “rational selection of the
things according to nature.” The other thing that needs to be stressed is that
it is rational selection—not the attainment of—these things which constitutes
happiness. (The Stoics mark the distinction between the way we ought to opt for
health as opposed to virtue by saying that I select (eklegomai) the preferred
indifferent but I choose (hairoûmai) the virtuous action.) Even though the
things according to nature have a kind of value (axia) which grounds the
rationality of preferring them (other things being equal), this kind of value
is still not goodness. From the point of view of happiness, the things
according to nature are still indifferent. What matters for our happiness is
whether we select them rationally and, as it turns out, this means selecting
them in accordance with the virtuous way of regarding them (and virtuous action
itself). Surely one motive for this is the rejection of even the limited role
that external goods and fortune play in Aristotelian ethics. According to the
Peripatetics, the happy life is one in which one exercises one's moral and
theoretical virtues. But one can't exercise a moral virtue like liberality
(Nic. Eth. IV.1) without having some, even considerable, money. The Stoics, by
contrast, claim that so long as I order (and express) my preferences in
accordance with my nature and universal nature, I will be virtuous and happy,
even if I do not actually get the things I prefer. Though these things are
typically appropriate to me, rational choice is even more appropriate or akin
to me, and so long as I have that, then I have perfected my nature. The
perfection of one's rational nature is the condition of being virtuous and it
is exercising this, and this alone, which is good. Since possession of that
which is good is sufficient for happiness, virtuous agents are happy even if they
do not attain the preferred indifferents they select.
One is tempted to think that this is simply a misuse of the word
‘happiness’ (or would be, if the Stoics had been speaking English). We are
inclined to think (and a Greek talking about eudaimonia would arguably be
similarly inclined) that happiness has something to do with getting what you
want and not merely ordering one's wants rationally regardless of whether they
are satisfied. People are also frequently tempted to assimilate the Stoics'
position to one (increasingly contested) interpretation of Kant's moral
philosophy. On this reading, acting with the right motive is the only thing
that is good—but being good in this sense has nothing whatsoever to do with
happiness.
With respect to the first point, the Stoic sage typically selects the
preferred indifferents and selects them in light of her knowledge of how the
world works. There will be times when the circumstances make it rational for
her to select something that is (generally speaking) contrary to her nature
(e.g., cutting off one's own hand in order to thwart a tyrant). But these
circumstances will be rare and the sage will not be oppressed by the additional
false beliefs that this act of self-mutilation is a genuinely bad thing: only
vice is genuinely bad. For the most part, her knowledge of nature and other
people will mean that she attains the things that she selects. Her conditional
positive attitude toward them will mean that when circumstances do conspire to
bring it about that the object of her selection is not secured, she doesn't
care. She only preferred to be wealthy if it was fated for her to be wealthy.
These reflections illustrate the way in which the virtuous person is
self-sufficient (autarkês) and this seems to be an important component of our
intuitive idea of happiness. The person who is genuinely happy lacks nothing
and enjoys a kind of independence from the vagaries of fortune. To this extent
at least, the Stoics are not just using the word ‘happiness’ for a condition
that has nothing at all to do with what we typically mean by it. With respect
to the second point, the Stoic sage will never find herself in a situation
where she acts contrary to what Kant calls inclination or desire. The only
thing she unconditionally wants is to live virtuously. Anything that she
conditionally prefers is always subordinate to her conception of the genuine
good. Thus, there is no room for a conflict between duty and happiness where
the latter is thought of solely in terms of the satisfaction of our desires.
Cicero provides an engaging, if not altogether rigorous, discussion of the
question of whether virtue is sufficient for happiness in Tusculan
Disputations, book V.
How do these general considerations about the goal of living translate
into an evaluation of actions? When I perform an action that accords with my
nature and for which a good reason can be given, then I perform what the Stoics
call (LS) a ‘proper function’ (kathêkon, Arius Didymus, 59B)—something that it
“falls to me” to do. It is important to note that non-rational animals and
plants perform proper functions as well (Diog. Laert., 59C). This shows how
much importance is placed upon the idea of what accords with one's nature or,
in another formulation, “activity which is consequential upon a thing's
nature.” It also shows the gap between proper functions and morally right
actions, for the Stoics, like most contemporary philosophers, think that
animals cannot act morally or immorally—let alone plants.
Most proper functions are directed toward securing things which are
appropriate to nature. Thus, if I take good care of my body, then this is a
proper function. The Stoics divide proper functions into those which do not
depend upon circumstances and those that do. Taking care of one's health is
among the former, while mutilating oneself is among the latter (Diog. Laert.,
59E). It appears that this is an attempt to work out a set of prima facie
duties based upon our natures. Other things being equal, looking after one's
health is a course of action which accords with one's nature and thus is one
for which a good reason can be given. However, there are circumstances in which
a better reason can be given for mutilating oneself—for instance, if this is
the only way you can prevent Fagin from compelling you to steal for him.
Since both ordinary people and Stoic wise men look after their health
except in very extraordinary circumstances, both the sage and the ordinary
person perform proper functions. A proper function becomes a fully correct action
(katorthôma) only when it is perfected as an action of the specific kind to
which it belongs, and so is done virtuously. In the tradition of Socratic moral
theory, the Stoics regard virtues like courage and justice, and so on, as
knowledge or science within the soul about how to live. Thus a specific virtue
like moderation is defined as “the science (epistêmê) of what is to be chosen
and what is to be avoided and what is neither of these” (Arius Didymus, 61H).
More broadly, virtue is “an expertise (technê) concerned with the whole of
life” (Arius Didymus, 61G). Like other forms of knowledge, virtues are
characters of the soul's commanding faculty which are firm and unchangeable.
The other similarity with Socratic ethics is that the Stoics think that the
virtues are really just one state of soul (Plutarch , 61B, C; Arius Didymus,
61D). No one can be moderate without also being just, courageous and prudent as
well—moreover, “anyone who does any action in accordance with one does so in
accordance with them all” (Plutarch, 61F).
When someone who has any virtue, and
therefore all the virtues, performs any proper function, he performs it in
accordance with virtue or virtuously (i.e. with all the virtues) and this
transforms it into a right action or a perfect function. The connection here
between a perfect function and a virtuous one is almost analytic in Greek
ethical theorizing. Virtues just are those features which make a thing a good
thing of its kind or allow it to perform its function well. So, actions done in
accordance with virtue are actions which are done well. The Stoics draw the
conclusion from this that the wise (and therefore virtuous) person does
everything within the scope of moral action well (Arius Didymus, 61G). This
makes it seem far less strange than it might at first appear to say that virtue
is sufficient for happiness. Furthermore, because virtue is a kind of knowledge
and there is no cognitive state between knowledge and ignorance, those who are
not wise do everything equally badly. Strictly speaking, there is no such thing
as moral progress for the Stoics (if that means progress within morality), and
they give the charming illustration of drowning to make their point: a person
an arm's length from the surface is drowning every bit as surely as one who is
five hundred fathoms down (Plutarch, 61T). Of course, as the analogy also
suggests, it is possible to be closer or farther from finally being able to
perform proper functions in this perfected way. In that sense, progress
is possible.
We are finally in a position to understand and evaluate the Stoic view
on emotions, since it is a consequence of their views on the soul and the good.
It is perhaps more accurate to call it the Stoic view of the passions, though
this is a somewhat dated term. The passions or pathê are literally ‘things
which one undergoes’ and are to be contrasted with actions or things that one
does. Thus, the view that one should be ‘apathetic,’ in its original
Hellenistic sense, is not the view that you shouldn't care about anything, but
rather the view that you should not be psychologically subject to
anything—manipulated and moved by it, rather than yourself being actively and
positively in command of your reactions and responses to things as they occur
or are in prospect. It connotes a kind of complete self-sufficiency. The Stoics
distinguish two primary passions: appetite and fear. These arise in relation to
what appears to us to be good or bad. They are associated with two other
passions: pleasure and distress. These result when we get or fail to avoid the
objects of the first two passions. What distinguishes these states of soul from
normal impulses is that they are “excessive impulses which are disobedient to
reason” (Arius Didymus, 65A). Part of what this means is that one's fear of
dogs may not go away with the rational recognition that this blind, 16 year
old, 3 legged Yorkshire terrier poses no threat to you. But this is not all.
The Stoics call a passion like distress a fresh opinion that something bad is
present (Andronicus, 65B): you may have been excitedly delighted when you first
saw you'd won the race, but after a while, when the impression of the victory
is no longer fresh, you may calm down. Recall that opinion is assent to a false
impression. Given the Stoics' view about good and bad, as against merely
indifferent things, the only time that one should assent to the impression that
something bad is present is when there is something which might threaten one's
virtue, for this and this alone is good. Thus all passions involve an element
of false value-judgement. But these are false judgements which are inseparable
from physiological changes in the pneuma which constitutes one's commanding
faculty. The Stoics describe these changes as shrinkings (like fear) or swellings
(like delight), and part of the reason that they locate the commanding faculty
in the heart (rather than the head, as Plato in the Timaeus and many medical
writers did) is that this seems to be where the physical sensations which
accompany passions like fear are manifested. Taking note of this point of
physiology is surely necessary to give their theory any plausibility. From the
inside a value-judgement—even one like “this impending dog bite will be
bad”—might often just not feel like such an emotional state as fear. But when
the judgement is vivid and so the commanding faculty is undergoing such a
change, one can readily enough see that the characteristic sensations might
inexorably accompany the judgement.
Another obvious objection to the Stoic theory is that someone who fears,
say pigeons, may not think that they are dangerous. We say that she knows
rationally that pigeons are harmless but that she has an irrational fear. It
might be thought that in such a case, the judgement which the Stoics think is
essential to the passion is missing. Here they resort to the idea that a
passion is a fluttering of the commanding faculty. At one instant my commanding
faculty judges (rightly) that this pigeon is not dangerous, but an instant
later assents to the impression that it is and from this assent flows the
excessive impulse away from the pigeon which is my fear. This switch of assent
occurs repeatedly and rapidly so that it appears that one has the fear without
the requisite judgement but in fact you are making it and taking it back during
the time you undergo the passion (Plutarch, 65G).
It is important to bear in mind that the Stoics do not think that all
impulses are to be done away with. What distinguishes normal impulses or
desires from passions is the idea that the latter are excessive and irrational.
Galen provides a nice illustration of the difference (65J). Suppose I want to
run, or, in Stoic terminology, I have an impulse to run. If I go running down a
sharp incline I may be unable to stop or change direction in response to a new
impulse. My running is excessive in relation to my initial impulse. Passions
are distinguished from normal impulses in much the same way: they have a kind
of momentum which carries one beyond the dictates of reason. If, for instance,
you are consumed with lust (a passion falling under appetite), you might not do
what under other circumstances you yourself would judge to be the sensible
thing.
Even in antiquity the Stoics were ridiculed for their views on the
passions. Some critics called them the men of stone. But this is not entirely
fair, for the Stoics allow that the sage will experience what they call the
good feelings (eupatheiai, Diog. Laert. 65F). These include joy, watchfulness
and wishing and are distinguished from their negative counterparts (pleasure,
fear and appetite) in being well-reasoned and not excessive. Naturally there is
no positive counterpart to distress. The species under wishing include
kindness, generosity and warmth. A good feeling like kindness is a moderate and
reasonable stretching or expansion of the soul presumably prompted by the
correct judgement that other rational beings are appropriate to oneself.
Criticisms of the Stoic theory of the passions in antiquity focused on
two issues. The first was whether the passions were, in fact, activities of the
rational soul. The medical writer and philosopher Galen defended the Platonic
account of emotions as a product of an irrational part of the soul. Posidonius,
a 1st c. BCE Stoic, also criticised Chrysippus on the psychology of emotions,
and developed a position that recognized the influence in the mind of something
like Plato's irrational soul-parts. The other opposition to the Stoic doctrine
came from philosophers in the Aristotelian tradition. They, like the Stoics,
made judgement a component in emotions. But they argued that the happy life
required the moderation of the passions, not their complete extinction.
Cicero's Tusculan Disputations, books III and IV take up the question of
whether it is possible and desirable to rid oneself of the emotions.
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