c. 125 AD 2026
This is an AI modernization of The Enchiridion into contemporary English. The original is available from Project Gutenberg. Also available as an epub.
Epictetus was born enslaved in Phrygia, in what is now Turkey, around the middle of the first century. He was owned in Rome by Epaphroditus, a freedman of Nero's, was lame in one leg, and was allowed or sent to study philosophy while still a slave. He was freed, taught in Rome, and left when Domitian expelled the philosophers from the city; he spent the rest of his life running a school at Nicopolis in western Greece, and died around 135. He wrote nothing at all. Everything under his name was taken down by a pupil, Arrian, who later wrote the standard history of Alexander the Great.
This little book is what Arrian made by cutting the lectures down: fifty-one short sections, no arguments, no system, just the drills. Enchiridion means something you keep to hand. The full lectures are in this collection as the Discourses, and almost every line here can be found in them with the reasoning still attached — so the handbook is the thing to carry and the Discourses are where to go when you want to know why.
One warning before starting. Stoicism is not stoicism. The word in ordinary English means clamping down on what you feel and saying nothing, which is close to the opposite of the doctrine. The Stoic claim is that distress comes from a judgment you have made about an event rather than from the event, and that judgments can be examined and changed. The aim is to stop wanting what was never yours to have, not to grit your teeth while still wanting it. Section one states the division the whole book runs on: some things are up to us, and some things are not.
The drills are homely and blunt and several of them are hard to read. If you are fond of a cup, say that it is a cup you are fond of, so that you can bear it breaking; when you kiss your child, say that you are kissing a mortal. That is not cruelty and it is not resignation, it is rehearsal, and Epictetus puts it first because he thinks the small cases are how anybody learns the large ones. Other sections state ancient assumptions about women and about conduct without arguing for them; they are given here as he gave them.
The last section collects the four passages he wanted kept ready: Cleanthes' prayer to Zeus and Destiny, two lines of Euripides, and Socrates twice, once in the Crito and once at his trial. The same prayer turns up five times in the Discourses, and it is set here in the same words, so that a reader who owns both books meets the same lines each time.
Some things are up to us, and some things are not. Up to us are our opinions, our aims, our desires, our avoidances — in a word, everything that is our own doing. Not up to us are our bodies, our property, our reputations, our positions — in a word, everything that is not our own doing.
The things that are up to us are by nature free, unblocked, unhindered. The things that are not up to us are weak, dependent, easily blocked, and belong to someone else. So remember: if you treat what is naturally dependent as if it were free, and claim what belongs to others as your own, you will be blocked at every turn. You will grieve, you will be shaken, you will find fault with gods and men alike. But if you claim as yours only what is actually yours, and see what belongs to others for exactly what it is, then no one will ever force you and no one will stop you. You will blame no one, accuse no one, do nothing against your will. No one will hurt you. You will have no enemy, and nothing will harm you.
Since you are aiming at something this big, remember that you cannot be halfhearted about it. Some things you must give up entirely; others you must set aside for now. If you want all this and power and wealth besides, you may miss the power and wealth because you were reaching for the higher goal — and you will certainly miss the one thing that actually brings happiness and freedom.
So practice, starting now, saying to every harsh impression: "You are just an impression, and not at all the thing you appear to be." Then examine it and test it by the rules you have — first and foremost by this one: does it concern the things that are up to us, or the things that are not? And if it concerns anything not up to us, be ready to say: this is nothing to me.
Remember: desire promises you the getting of what you desire, and avoidance promises you the escaping of what you avoid. The person who fails to get what he desires is disappointed; the person who lands in what he was avoiding is miserable. So if you avoid only the undesirable things within your control, you will never land in anything you are avoiding. But if you try to avoid sickness, or death, or poverty, you are signing up for misery. Pull your avoidance off everything that is not up to us, then, and aim it at the undesirable things that are up to us. As for desire — for now, switch it off completely. If you desire anything not up to us, disappointment is guaranteed; and you do not yet have a firm grip even on the things that are up to us, the ones actually worth desiring. Where you genuinely must pursue or avoid something, do even that with a light touch — gently, with moderation.
With everything that delights your mind, or is useful to you, or that you tenderly love, remind yourself what kind of thing it is. Start with the smallest cases. If you have a favorite cup, say, "It is a cup that I am fond of." Then if it breaks, you can bear it. When you embrace your child or your wife, say, "I am embracing a mortal." Then if either of them dies, you can bear it.
When you are about to do anything, remind yourself what kind of thing it is. Going to the baths? Picture what usually happens there — people splashing, people shoving, people cursing, people stealing. You will go about it more safely if you say to yourself, "I want to bathe — and to keep my will in line with nature." Do the same with every action. Then if something gets in your way at the baths, you will be ready to say: "I did not want only to bathe. I also wanted to keep my will in line with nature — and I will not keep it there if I lose my temper at what happens."
People are disturbed not by things, but by the views they take of them. Death, for instance, is nothing terrible — or it would have seemed terrible to Socrates. The terror is in our view of death, the view that it is terrible. So when we are blocked, or disturbed, or grieving, let us never blame anyone else. Let us blame ourselves — that is, our own views. Blaming others for your own misfortunes is the mark of someone with no training. Blaming yourself means your training has begun. Blaming neither others nor yourself — that is someone fully trained.
Don't get puffed up over an excellence that isn't yours. If a horse got puffed up and said, "I am handsome," that would be bearable. But when you get puffed up and say, "I have a handsome horse," understand that you are bragging about a good quality that belongs to the horse. What, then, is actually yours? The use you make of your impressions. Handle your impressions in line with nature, and then you may be proud — for then you will be proud of a good that is your own.
Think of a voyage. The ship drops anchor, and you go ashore for water. Along the way you may amuse yourself picking up a shellfish or a truffle — fine. But keep your thoughts fixed on the ship, and keep listening for the captain's call. When he calls, you must drop all of it and run, or you will be carried aboard tied up like a sheep. Life is the same. If, instead of a shellfish or a truffle, you are given a wife or a child, take them — nothing wrong with that. But if the captain calls, run to the ship. Leave everything. Don't look back. And if you are old, never wander far from the ship, or you may be missing when he calls.
Don't demand that things happen as you wish; wish them to happen as they do happen, and your life will go smoothly.
Sickness blocks the body, but not the will — unless the will chooses to be blocked. Lameness blocks the leg, but not the will. Say this to yourself about everything that happens, and you will find that it blocks something else — but never you.
Whenever anything hits you, remember to turn inward and ask what capacity you have for dealing with it. If you meet a beautiful person, you will find self-control is the capacity you need. If pain comes, you will find endurance. If insults come, you will find patience. Make this a habit, and your impressions will not sweep you away.
Never say about anything, "I have lost it." Say instead, "I have given it back." Has your child died? Given back. Has your wife died? Given back. Has your estate been taken from you? That too is given back. "But it was a bad man who took it." What is it to you through whose hands the one who gave it asks for it again? While he lets you keep it, hold it as something not your own — the way travelers hold a room at an inn.
If you want to make progress, drop this kind of thinking: "If I neglect my affairs, I will have nothing to live on." "If I don't punish my slave, he will be good for nothing." Better to die of hunger, free of grief and fear, than to live rich and shaken. Better your slave be bad than you be unhappy.
So begin with the little things. A little oil gets spilled, a little wine gets stolen. Say to yourself: "This is the price of peace and tranquility — and nothing comes free." When you call your slave, keep in mind that he may not answer, and if he does, he may not do what you want. But things are not so good for him, and not so bad for you, that your calm should ever be in his power.
If you want to make progress, be content to look foolish and dull about externals. Don't try to seem like someone who knows things. And if others treat you as somebody special, distrust yourself. Be sure of this: it is not easy to keep your will in line with nature and to hold on to externals at the same time. While you give yourself to the one, you must neglect the other.
If you wish your children and your wife and your friends to live forever, you are a fool — you are wishing for things not up to you to be up to you, for what belongs to others to be yours. Likewise, if you wish your slave to be without fault, you are a fool — you are wishing for vice to be not vice but something else. But if you wish not to be disappointed in your desires, that is in your power. So practice what is in your power. Your master is whoever can give you, or take from you, the things you seek or shun. If you want to be free, then, want nothing and refuse nothing that depends on others. Otherwise you must be a slave.
Remember to behave in life as you would at a banquet. A dish comes around to you? Reach out your hand and take a modest share. It passes you by? Don't grab at it. It hasn't reached you yet? Don't lean out in longing — wait until it comes to you. Act this way toward children, toward a wife, toward position, toward wealth, and one day you will be worthy to feast with the gods. And if you can go further — if you can pass up even the things set in front of you — then you will be worthy not only to feast with the gods but to rule with them. That is how Diogenes and Heraclitus and others like them became divine, and were rightly called so.
When you see someone weeping in grief — his son has gone abroad, or he's lost his property — be careful not to get swept up in the apparent disaster. Make the distinction, and be ready to say to yourself, "What hurts this man is not the thing that happened — another man could meet the same thing and not be hurt — but the view he chooses to take of it." As far as talk goes, though, don't be too proud to sympathize with him, and even, if it comes to that, to groan along with him. Just take care not to groan inwardly, too.
Remember that you are an actor in a play, and the Author chooses what kind: short if he wants it short, long if he wants it long. If he wants you to play a poor man, or a cripple, or a ruler, or a private citizen, then play that part well. This is your business — to act the given role well. Choosing it belongs to someone else.
When a raven croaks an ill omen at you, don't be carried away by the impression. Make the distinction and say, "None of this is a sign for me — not for my poor body, my property, my reputation, my children, or my wife. For me, every omen is a lucky one, if I want it to be. Whatever happens, it's up to me to get some advantage out of it."
You can be unbeatable — if you never enter a contest that isn't yours to win. So when you see someone loaded with honors or power, or admired for anything else, watch that you aren't dazzled by the impression and pronounce him happy. If the essence of good lies in what is up to us, there's no room left for envy or jealous rivalry. And you — don't wish to be a general, or a senator, or a consul. Wish to be free. And there is only one road to freedom: caring nothing for what is not up to us.
Remember: it isn't the man who insults you or hits you who does you harm — it's your view that these things are insulting. So when someone provokes you, know this: it's your own opinion that has provoked you. Try, first of all, not to be swept away by the impression. Once you've bought yourself a little time and delay, you'll find it much easier to command yourself.
Keep death and exile and everything else that looks terrible before your eyes every day — death above all — and you will never think a low thought or want anything too badly.
If you seriously want philosophy, prepare yourself from day one for the crowd to laugh and sneer: "Look who's come back to us a philosopher, all of a sudden!" and "Where did that superior look come from?" Now, for your part, don't wear a superior look. Just hold steadily to what seems best to you, like a soldier God has posted to this particular station. And remember: if you stay at it, the very people who ridiculed you at first will admire you later. But if you let them beat you, you'll be laughed at twice.
If you ever catch yourself turning toward externals to please somebody, know this: you have ruined your plan for your life. Be content, in everything, with being a philosopher. And if you want to seem like one too — seem like one to yourself. That is enough.
Don't let thoughts like this distress you: "I'll live without honor, a nobody, nowhere." If dishonor is an evil, then no one else can put you into evil, any more than they can put you into disgrace. Is it really your business to gain power, or to get invited to dinner parties? Not at all. Then how is missing them a dishonor? And how will you be "nobody, nowhere," when you only need to be somebody in the things that are up to you — where you can be of the greatest consequence?
"But my friends will go without my help." What do you mean, "without help"? They won't get money from you; you won't make them Roman citizens. Who told you those things are up to us, rather than other people's business? And who can give another what he doesn't have himself?
"Then get money, so we can all have a share." If I can get it while keeping my honor, my loyalty, and my self-respect, show me the way and I'll get it. But if you demand that I throw away my own good so you can gain what is no good at all, look how unfair and thoughtless you're being. Besides, which would you rather have — money, or a loyal and honorable friend? Then help me build that character, instead of demanding I do the things that would destroy it.
"But my country, as far as it depends on me, will go without help." Again — what help do you mean? It won't get colonnades or bathhouses from you. So what? It doesn't get shoes from the blacksmith or weapons from the shoemaker, either. It's enough if everyone fully does his own proper work. If you supplied your country with one more loyal and honorable citizen, would that be useless to it? No. Then you are not useless to it either.
"So what place will I hold in the state?" Whatever place you can hold while keeping your loyalty and honor. But if, in trying to be useful, you throw those away — what use will you be to your country once you've turned faithless and shameless?
Was someone ranked ahead of you at a dinner, or in a greeting, or in being asked for advice? If those things are good, you should be glad he got them. If they're evil, don't grieve that you didn't. And remember: you can't compete with others for externals without using the same means they use to get them. How can a man who won't hang around another man's door, won't escort him, won't flatter him, expect an equal share with the man who does all that? You're being unjust and greedy if you refuse to pay the price these things sell for and want them for free.
How much does a head of lettuce cost? One obol, say. So if another man pays his obol and takes the lettuce, and you don't pay and go without, don't imagine he's come out ahead of you. He has the lettuce; you have the obol you didn't spend. It's exactly the same here. You weren't invited to some man's dinner party? Because you didn't pay the price a dinner sells for. It's sold for praise; it's sold for attention. Pay the price, then, if it's worth it to you. But if you want to skip the payment and still collect the goods, you're being greedy and foolish. So do you have nothing in place of the dinner? You certainly do: you didn't have to praise a man you didn't want to praise, and you didn't have to put up with the insolence of his doormen.
You can learn the will of nature from the things we all agree about. When your neighbor's slave boy breaks a cup, or something like it, you're ready at once to say, "These things happen." Then know this: when your own cup gets broken, you should react exactly as you did when it was someone else's. Now carry the same rule up to greater things. Someone else's child or wife has died? There's no one who wouldn't say, "That's the human lot." But when a man's own child dies, suddenly it's "Oh, poor me!" We should always remember how we feel when we hear the same news about somebody else.
A target is not set up in order to be missed. In the same way, nothing in the world exists by nature evil.
If somebody handed your body over to any passer-by, you'd be furious. Yet you hand your own mind over to anyone who insults you, so it ends up rattled and confused — and you feel no shame in that?
In every undertaking, look at what comes before it and what comes after it — then begin. Otherwise you'll start out full of enthusiasm, careless of the consequences, and later, when the consequences show up, you'll quit in disgrace.
"I want to win at the Olympic Games." Fine — but look at what comes before and what comes after, and then, if it's still worth it to you, get to work. You have to follow the rules, keep a strict diet, give up desserts; train on schedule whether you feel like it or not, in heat and in cold; drink no cold water, and sometimes no wine. In short, you have to hand yourself over to your trainer the way you'd hand yourself over to a doctor. Then, in the match itself, you may get thrown into a ditch, dislocate your arm, twist your ankle, swallow mouthfuls of dust, get whipped for breaking the rules — and after all that, still lose. Add it all up, and if you still want it, then go compete. Otherwise, understand this: you'll be behaving like children, who play at wrestling one hour, gladiators the next, then blow a trumpet, then act out a tragedy — whatever show they've just seen and admired. That's you: one moment a wrestler, the next a gladiator; now a philosopher, now an orator; and nothing with your whole heart. Like an ape, you mimic everything you see, and one thing after another catches your fancy — until it becomes familiar, and then you drop it. You never entered into anything with real thought, never after examining and testing the whole matter — just carelessly, with a lukewarm sort of wanting.
That's how some people, after watching a philosopher and hearing a man speak the way Euphrates speaks — though really, who can speak like him? — decide they'll be philosophers too. Man, consider first what the thing actually is — and then what your own nature can carry. If you want to be a wrestler, look at your shoulders, your back, your thighs. Different people are built for different things. Do you think you can live as you live now and be a philosopher? Eat the same way, drink the same way, get angry and irritated the same way? You'll have to stay up late, work hard, master certain appetites, leave your circle of friends, be looked down on by your own slave, be laughed at by everyone you meet, come out behind in everything — in offices, in honors, in the courts. Weigh all of that fully, and then approach, if you please — that is, if you're willing to trade all of it for serenity, freedom, and tranquility. If not, stay away. Don't be like the children — now a philosopher, then a tax collector, then an orator, then one of Caesar's officials. These don't fit together. You have to be one person, good or bad. You have to cultivate either your own reason or externals — work on what's inside you, or on what's outside. That is: be a philosopher, or be one of the mob.
Your duties are measured by your relationships. Is this man your father? Then the duties come with the tie: take care of him, defer to him, put up with his scolding and his discipline. "But he's a bad father." Did nature bind you to a good father? No — to a father. Is your brother unjust? Then keep your own side of the relationship just. Don't watch what he does; watch what you have to do to keep your will in line with nature. Another person cannot hurt you unless you let them. You are hurt at the moment you consent to be hurt. So get in the habit of looking at each relationship this way — neighbor, citizen, commander — and you can read off from each one the duties that belong to it.
Understand this: the heart of reverence toward the gods is holding right judgments about them — that they exist, and that they govern the universe justly and well. And settle this in yourself: obey them, yield to them, and follow them willingly through everything that happens, because everything that happens is steered by the most perfect wisdom. Do this and you will never fault the gods or accuse them of neglecting you.
And there is only one way to get there: pull back from the things that are not up to us, and locate good and evil only in the things that are. Because if you count anything else as good or evil, then every time you miss what you want or run into what you avoid, you are bound to blame and resent whoever caused it. Every creature naturally runs from what looks harmful — and from whatever causes the harm — and chases and admires what looks beneficial, and whatever causes that. A man who believes he's being hurt cannot delight in the person he thinks is hurting him, any more than he can delight in the hurt itself. That is why a son curses his father when the father won't hand over the things that seem good. That is what made Polynices and Eteocles enemies: a throne seemed good to both of them. That is why the farmer curses the gods — and the sailor, and the merchant, and those who have lost a wife or a child. Where a man's interest lies, there his reverence lies too. So whoever takes care to manage desire and avoidance as he should is, by the same act, taking care of his piety.
And it is still fitting for everyone to pour libations, offer sacrifices, and give first fruits according to the customs of his country — with clean hands, not carelessly or sloppily; not stingily, and not lavishly either.
When you go to a diviner, remember what you're there for. You don't know how things will turn out — that's what you've come to learn. But what kind of thing the outcome is, you knew before you arrived, if you're any kind of philosopher. If it's among the things not up to us, then it can't possibly be good or evil. So don't bring desire or avoidance with you to the diviner — you'll stand there trembling if you do. Settle it first: whatever the outcome is, it is indifferent and nothing to you, because whatever it is, you will have the power to use it well, and no one can block that. Then walk in with confidence, treating the gods as your counselors. And afterward, when counsel has been given, remember whose counsel you took — and who you'll be disobeying if you ignore it.
Go to divination the way Socrates said to: only for questions where everything hangs on the outcome, and where neither reason nor any other skill gives you a way to see the answer. So when it is your duty to share a friend's danger, or your country's, do not consult the oracle about whether to share it. Even if the diviner warns you the omens are bad, that means nothing more than that death, or maiming, or exile lies ahead. But you carry reason within you, and reason says: even at that price, stand by your friend and your country. Listen to the greater diviner — the Pythian god, who once threw a man out of the temple for failing to save his friend.
Start by setting yourself a definite character and standard of conduct — one you can hold to both alone and in company.
Stay mostly silent, or say only what's needed, in few words. Now and then, when the occasion calls for it, you may join a conversation — but keep off the common topics: gladiators, horse races, star athletes, food, drink — the standard chatter — and above all keep off people: don't blame them, don't praise them, don't compare them. If you can, steer your company's talk toward worthwhile subjects by your own. If you find yourself among strangers, be silent.
Don't laugh loudly, or often, or long.
Refuse to swear oaths — entirely, if possible; if not, then as far as you can.
Avoid public banquets and vulgar entertainments. If some occasion obliges you to attend, keep your attention stretched tight, so you don't slide into vulgarity without noticing. Be sure of this: however clean a man is himself, if his companion is corrupted, then the one who keeps his company gets corrupted too.
For the body, provide only what bare need requires — food, drink, clothing, shelter, household help. Cut out everything that exists for show and luxury.
Before marriage, guard yourself with everything you have from unlawful relations with women. But don't be harsh or self-righteous toward those who fall into them, and don't keep bragging that you do otherwise.
If someone tells you that a certain person is speaking badly of you, don't defend yourself against the charges. Answer instead: "He didn't know my other faults — or he wouldn't have mentioned only these."
You don't need to show up often at the public spectacles. But if the occasion is right and you go, don't root for anyone but yourself — that is, wish things to happen exactly as they happen, and only the best man to win. Then nothing can go against you. Stay away entirely from the shouting, the jeering, the violent excitement. And when you leave, don't go on and on about what happened — none of that improves you, and all that talk shows is that you were dazzled by the show.
Don't be quick or eager to attend private readings. But if you do attend, keep your gravity and dignity — without making yourself unpleasant.
When you're about to meet with someone, especially someone who seems above you, ask yourself how Socrates or Zeno would handle it, and you won't be at a loss to meet whatever comes properly.
When you go to call on a powerful man, picture it in advance: he may not be home; you may be shut out; the doors may be slammed in your face; he may not notice you at all. If it's your duty to go anyway, then go, bear what happens, and never say to yourself, "It wasn't worth all that." That is vulgar — the voice of a man bewildered by externals.
In company, don't keep bringing up your own deeds and dangers. However pleasant it is for you to relive your adventures, it is not equally pleasant for others to hear them. Avoid playing for laughs, too — it can slide you straight into vulgarity, and it can lower you in your acquaintances' esteem besides. Edging toward indecent talk is dangerous the same way. When it starts, take the first fit opening to rebuke the man who started it — or at least, by your silence, your reddening face, and your serious look, make it plain that the talk displeases you.
When the impression of some promised pleasure dazzles you, guard yourself — don't let it sweep you away. Make the thing wait on you; get yourself some delay. Then hold both moments in your mind: the moment you'll be enjoying the pleasure, and the moment afterward, when you'll regret it and tear into yourself. Set against those how glad you'll be, and how you'll applaud yourself, if you abstain. And even if it seems the right occasion to indulge, watch out — don't let its charm, its allure, its seduction beat you. Set against it this: how much better to know you've won a victory that size.
When you do a thing because you have clearly judged it ought to be done, never hide from being seen doing it — even if the world will get it wrong. If the act is wrong, don't do it at all. If it's right, why fear people who are wrong to criticize you?
The proposition "it is either day or night" works perfectly well as an either-or; join the two halves with "and" and it collapses. In the same way, grabbing the biggest portion at a feast suits your bodily appetite perfectly well — and collapses the shared spirit of the meal. So when you eat with someone, remember not only the value of what's set in front of you to your body, but the value of proper courtesy to your host.
If you take on a role beyond your strength, you both disgrace yourself in that one and pass up the one you could have filled well.
When you walk, you watch where you step — you don't want to land on a nail or twist your ankle. Take the same care not to injure the ruling part of your mind. If we kept up that guard in everything we did, we'd go about our business far more safely.
Your body is the right measure for what you own, the way your foot is the measure of your shoe. Stop there and you'll keep the measure. Step past it, and you'll be carried along as if over a cliff. It's just like the shoe: once you go beyond what fits the foot, the shoe turns gilded, then purple, then studded with jewels. Once a thing passes its proper measure, there is no limit anywhere.
From the age of fourteen, girls hear men flatter them with the title of "lady." Seeing that they're valued for one thing — the pleasure they can give men — they begin to pour everything into their appearance, and to place all their hopes there. It's worth the effort, then, to help them see that real honor comes only from dignified conduct and modest virtue.
It's the mark of a small mind to spend too much time on the body — to overdo the workouts, the eating, the drinking, and the rest of the body's animal functions. Handle these things on the side. Your main strength should go to your reason.
When someone treats you badly or speaks badly of you, remember: he is acting on the impression that it's right for him to do so. He can't follow what seems right to you — only what seems right to him. So if he's judging by false impressions, he is the one who's hurt, because he is the one who's deceived. If a man takes a true statement to be false, the statement isn't damaged; only the man is fooled. Start from these principles, and you'll bear it calmly when someone insults you. Say it on every occasion: "That's how it seemed to him."
Everything has two handles: one that will bear the weight, and one that won't. If your brother wrongs you, don't grab the matter by the handle of his injustice — that handle won't carry it. Grab the opposite one: he is your brother; you were raised together. Take hold there, and you can carry it.
These arguments don't connect: "I'm richer than you, therefore I'm better than you." "I'm a better speaker than you, therefore I'm better than you." The connections that actually hold are these: "I'm richer than you, therefore my property is worth more than yours." "I'm a better speaker than you, therefore my style outdoes yours." But you are not property, and you are not style.
Someone bathes in a hurry? Don't say he bathes badly — say he bathes in a hurry. Someone drinks a lot of wine? Don't say he drinks badly — say he drinks a lot. Until you fully understand his reasons, how do you know he's acting badly? Practice this, and you won't find yourself assenting to any impression but the ones you fully grasp.
Never call yourself a philosopher, and don't hold forth among ordinary people about your principles. Show your principles in action. At a dinner party, don't lecture on how people ought to eat — eat as you ought. Remember that this is how Socrates avoided all showing off: when people came and asked him for an introduction to philosophers, he simply took them and made the introduction. That's how well he bore being overlooked. So if talk of principles breaks out among people who don't study them, keep mostly silent. There's real danger in spitting up what you haven't digested. And when someone tells you that you know nothing, and it doesn't sting, you can be sure you've truly begun to make progress. Sheep don't throw up their grass to show the shepherd how much they've eaten. They digest their food inside, and produce it outside — as wool and milk. So don't put your principles on display for ordinary people. Digest them, and display the actions that digestion produces.
When you've trained your body to live on little, don't preen about it. If you drink water, don't announce at every opening, "I drink water." First consider how much more frugally the poor live than we do, and how much more hardship they endure. And if you ever want to toughen yourself with practice at labor and going without — for your own sake, not for an audience — skip the grand feats. When you're violently thirsty, just rinse your mouth with water, and tell nobody.
The stamp of an ordinary person: he never looks to himself for help or harm — only to things outside him. The stamp of a philosopher: he looks to himself for every help and every harm. And these are the marks of someone making progress: he criticizes no one, praises no one, blames no one, accuses no one. He says nothing about himself — that he is somebody, or that he knows anything. When he's blocked or restrained, he accuses himself. If he's praised, he quietly smiles at the one praising him; if he's criticized, he makes no defense. He moves like a convalescent — careful not to jostle what is mending well but isn't yet firm. He has reined in desire. He has shifted his avoidance onto those things only that thwart the proper use of his own will. He takes everything in moderation. If he comes across as stupid or ignorant, he doesn't care. In a word, he keeps watch on himself as on an enemy lying in ambush.
When someone brags that he can understand and interpret the works of Chrysippus, say to yourself: "If Chrysippus hadn't written obscurely, this man would have nothing to brag about. But what is it I want? To understand nature, and to follow her. So I ask who interprets her; I hear that Chrysippus does, and I go to him. But I don't understand his writings — so I look for someone to interpret them." So far there's nothing to be proud of. And when I find my interpreter, what remains is to put his instructions to use. That alone is the valuable thing. If I merely admire the interpreting, what have I become but a grammarian instead of a philosopher — except that I'm interpreting Chrysippus instead of Homer? So when someone asks me to read Chrysippus to him, I'd rather blush — because I can't show actions that match his teaching.
Whatever rules you've set for yourself, hold to them like laws — as if breaking them would be sacrilege. And pay no attention to what anyone says about you; that, in the end, is not up to you. How much longer will you put off demanding the best of yourself, and refusing ever to cross the judgments of your reason? You have received the principles you ought to live by, and you have engaged with them. So what teacher are you still waiting for, that you keep postponing your own reform until he shows up? You are not a boy anymore — you are a grown adult. If you stay careless and lazy now, always piling delay on delay and resolution on resolution, naming day after day when you'll finally attend to yourself, you will accomplish nothing without ever noticing it, and you will go on living and dying an ordinary person. This instant, then, count yourself worthy to live as an adult who is making progress. Let whatever seems best to you be a law you cannot break. And when anything painful or pleasant, glorious or disgraceful, is set before you, remember: now is the contest, the Olympics have arrived, they cannot be postponed — and one loss or one victory can decide your honor. This is how Socrates became who he was: by using everything that came his way to improve himself, following nothing but reason. And though you are not yet Socrates, you should live as someone seeking to be Socrates.
The first and most necessary area of philosophy is putting principles into practice — for example, do not lie. The second is proofs — for example, why we shouldn't lie. The third is what gives strength and logical connection to the other two — for example, why that counts as a proof. For what is a proof? What is a consequence? What is a contradiction? What is truth? What is falsehood? So the third area is necessary because of the second, and the second because of the first. But the most necessary of all — the one to rest on — is the first. And we do exactly the opposite. We spend all our time on the third area and pour all our diligence into it, while neglecting the first entirely. And so we lie — while standing ready to demonstrate exactly why lying is wrong.
On every occasion, keep these sayings ready at hand. First, from Cleanthes:
Lead me, Zeus, and you too, Destiny, wherever you have fixed my post. I will follow gladly — and if I turn wicked and refuse, I will have to follow anyway.
Second, from Euripides:
Whoever yields rightly to necessity is counted wise among us, and knows the ways of heaven.
And a third, from Socrates — in Plato's Crito:
"Crito, if this is what pleases the gods, so be it."
And in the Apology:
"Anytus and Meletus can kill me — but hurt me, they cannot."