When I see an attractive woman on the street, I do not imagine what she would look like undressed. I do not imagine myself climbing into bed with her. I do not imagine what would happen next. Instead I say “Wait a minute, impression, let me see what you are and what you represent. Let me test you.” In his Discourses (II.18), the Stoic philosopher Epictetus presents a cogent, yet also entertaining guide to living the virtuous life. Seneca, in an address to the Emperor Nero (De Clementia 2.5.2 ff.), deals with a common criticism of Stoic philosophy: that it is unlikely to give good advice to rulers. Yet it is a philosophy which is wonderfully rich in offering advice for daily living, irrespective of our station in life. Although the founder of Stoic philosophy was Zeno of Citium, the school claimed a Socratic pedigree via the Cynic Antisthenes, who was a senior follower of Socrates and the teacher of Zeno’s own mentor, Crates. The last significant Stoic philosopher was the Roman Emperor, Marcus Aurelius (120–180 AD). Despite its antiquity, Stoic philosophy can offer concrete help to us today. In the figures of Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, we have evidence for the application of this practical philosophy at both ends of the social scale, that of a former slave who was expelled (in a purge of philosophers) from Rome and the Roman Emperor himself.

Despite their conversational style and appearance of dealing with the problems of daily life, Epictetus’ Discourses are not actually addressed to us, but rather were intended as supplementary training, delivered in the afternoons to students at his philosophical school in Nicopolis, after they had already completed classes in more theoretical aspects of philosophy. These lectures were recorded by Epictetus’ student, Arrian, in eight books (four of which survive). Arrian later assembled, as a series of philosophical maxims in the Encheiridion (Handbook), invaluable precepts which should be “ready at hand”. The study of theoretical philosophy should help us to become morally better people — Epictetus sharply criticises a philosopher for committing adultery — yet the practical application is dependent upon theoretical study, for us just as much as for Epictetus’ original students. For example, Epictetus admonishes his students for viewing the study of logic as unnecessary: without knowledge of logic, it is impossible to prove whether one needs knowledge of logic or not (Diss. II. 25). That said, those who study (theoretical) philosophy for the sake of studying theoretical philosophy, rather than to become better people have confused means with ends. “At a banquet, do not say how one ought to eat, but eat as you ought . . . For sheep do not bring grass to their shepherds and show them how much they have eaten, but they digest their fodder and then produce it in the form of wool and milk” (Encheiridion 46, translations of Epictetus are by Matheson). The value of a philosophical education is exhibited by leading a more virtuous life, not by the ability to cite Stoic maxims. “Philosophy does not promise to secure to man anything outside him. If it did it would be admitting something beyond its subject-matter. For as wood is the material dealt with by the carpenter, bronze by the statuary, so the subject-matter of each man’s art of living is his own life” (Diss. I. 15). Philosophy should not even be pleasant; Epictetus admonishes students for coming to his lectures expecting to be entertained. The philosophy school is like the doctor’s clinic; one goes there in order to be healed and leaves it. not in pleasure, but in pain (Diss. III. 23).

What can the Stoics offer us, then, in terms of a guide to life? Epictetus assumes a cognitive model in which we make use of impressions in order to produce a lekton (or sayable) to which we then assent or dissent. This ability to choose is our prohairesis (capacity for choice of volition) with which we should identify ourselves. As Epictetus tells us, “you are neither hair nor flesh but prohairesis. Make that beautiful and you will be beautiful” (Diss. III. 1). This self-identification with our prohairesis involves taking stock of what is “up to us” (ta eph’ hēmîn). Happiness can be attained by focusing only on those things which are in our power. The early Stoics (such as Zeno/Chrysippus) explain this in terms of a dog tied to a wagon. The dog can be dragged along by the wagon against its will or run along freely of its own accord. In any case, it will follow the wagon, but its attitude lies under its control.

Epictetus presents a similar model. Using our prohairesis in an appropriate manner relies upon the correct use of impressions. Epictetus offers a type of cognitive therapy: If you have a favourite cup, think of it simply as an object, you will not be upset then if it gets broken. If you have a wife, think of her as a human. You won’t be upset, then, if she dies (Ench. 3). The sort of detachment that this involves means that Stoic philosophy can be perceived as cold. For example, Epictetus tells a student whose mother misses him that her feelings are not his responsibility: the emotions experienced by others do not fall into the realm of what is “up to us” (Diss. III. 24).

However, that conceals the manner in which Stoicism encourages us to strive for morality along two different poles: in an abstract sense extending communal obligations towards the wider human community and in an embedded sense, meaning that whether we act virtuously or not is dependent upon the relationships which we have; to be virtuous as a father, mother, son, daughter etc. The first sense involves accepting our responsibilities not merely as members of the community which we simply happen to be a part of, but to adopt the obligations of world-citizenship. The second sense is that we have specific obligations related to the role that we have been assigned: “a living thing must incline to that side where “I” and “mine” are, if they are in the flesh, the ruling power must be there; if in prohairesis, there, if in externals, there. If, then, I identify myself with my prohairesis, then and only then shall I be a friend and son and father in the truest sense” (Diss. II. 22, trans. Matheson, modified). Marcus Aurelius sums this up when he points out that his duty is to do both what is good for Rome and what is good for the universe (Mediations VI. 44).

Epictetus presents the case of a father who, overwhelmed by emotion, abandons his sick daughter and refuses to return home until he learns that she is well. Like Socrates, Epictetus denied the possibility of akrasia (intemperance). They deny that someone can decide that a particular course of action is the better course and then not pursue it through weakness of will. Instead those who pursue a morally undesirable course assume that it is the best course for them. For Epictetus this is because they make incorrect use of their impressions. What needs to be done is to convince them that their assessment of the situation is wrong. This is illustrated by the manner in which Epictetus counsels the father who has abandoned his child, until he realises that he chose the wrong course of action (Diss. I. 11). Epictetus is also fond of using examples from literature: Paris runs away with Helen, the wife of his host Menelaus. If Menelaus had made correct use of his impressions, instead of going to war with Troy, he would have decided that he was better off being rid of such a wife (Diss. I. 28). Epictetus claims that a similar process would have prevented Medea from murdering her own children in order to wreak vengeance upon her husband, Jason (Diss. I. 28).