The common good

The substance of the universe is obedient and pliable; and the reason that governs it has in itself no cause to do evil, for it has no malice, and it does evil to nothing, and nothing is harmed by it. All things come into being and are brought to completion according to this reason.

Let it make no difference to you whether you are cold or warm, if you are doing your duty; and whether you are drowsy or well rested; and whether spoken ill of or praised; and whether dying or doing something else. For the act by which we die is one of the acts of life: it is enough, then, in this act too, to do well what we have in hand (vi. 22, 28).

Look within. Let neither the particular quality of anything nor its value escape you.

All existing things soon change, and they will either be turned into vapor, if indeed all substance is one, or they will be scattered.

The reason that governs knows what its own disposition is, and what it does, and what material it works on.

The best way to avenge yourself is not to become like the wrongdoer.

Take delight in one thing and rest in it: passing from one act done for the community to another act done for the community, with God in mind.

The ruling principle is that which wakes itself and turns itself; and while it makes itself into whatever it wills to be, it also makes everything that happens appear to itself as it wills.

Every single thing is accomplished in conformity with the nature of the universe; certainly it is not in conformity with any other nature that each thing is accomplished—not a nature that encloses this one from outside, nor a nature enclosed within this one, nor a nature external to and independent of this one (XL 1; VI. 40; VIII. 50).

The universe is either a confusion and a mutual entangling of things and a scattering, or it is unity and order and providence. If then it is the former, why do I even wish to linger on in such a chance jumble and such disorder? And why do I care about anything except how I shall at last become earth? And why am I disturbed—for the scattering of my elements will happen whatever I do? But if the other supposition is true, I revere, and I stand firm, and I trust in the one who governs (IV. 27).

When circumstances have forced you into some disturbance, return quickly to yourself, and do not stay out of tune any longer than the compulsion lasts; for you will have more command over the harmony by returning to it again and again.

If you had a stepmother and a mother at the same time, you would be dutiful to your stepmother, but still you would constantly go back to your mother. Let the court and philosophy now be to you stepmother and mother: return to philosophy often and rest in her, through whom what you meet with at court seems bearable to you, and you seem bearable at court.

When we have meat before us and other food, we get the impression that this is the dead body of a fish, and this the dead body of a bird or a pig; and again, that this Falernian wine is only a little grape juice, and this purple robe some sheep's wool dyed with the blood of a shellfish. Such, then, are these impressions, and they reach the things themselves and go into them, so that we see what kind of things they really are. We ought to act this way all through life, and where things seem most worthy of our approval, we ought to lay them bare and look at how little they are worth, stripping away all the words that dress them up. For outward show is a wonderful corrupter of reason, and just when you are most certain that you're occupied with things worth your effort, that's when it cheats you most. Consider, then, what Crates says about Xenocrates himself.

Most of the things the crowd admires belong to the most general class of objects, those held together by mere cohesion or natural structure—stones, wood, fig trees, vines, olives. Those admired by somewhat more reasonable men belong to things held together by a living principle, such as flocks and herds. Those admired by men still more educated are the things held together by a rational soul—not, however, a universal soul, but rational only insofar as it is a soul skilled in some craft, or expert in some other way, or simply rational insofar as it owns a number of slaves. But the man who values a rational soul, a soul universal and fit for life among others, cares about nothing else; above all he keeps his soul in a state and activity in accord with reason and life in common with others, and toward this end he works together with those who are of the same kind as himself.

Some things are hurrying into existence, others hurrying out of it; and of what is coming into existence, part is already extinguished. Motions and changes are continually renewing the world, just as the unbroken course of time is always renewing the unending duration of ages. In this flowing stream, then, where there is no place to stand, which of the things rushing past would a man set a high price on? It would be like falling in love with one of the sparrows flying by, which has already passed out of sight. Something like this is the very life of every man—like the exhalation of the blood and the breathing in of air. For just as it is to have drawn in air once and given it back, which we do every moment, so it is with the whole power of breathing, which you received at your birth yesterday or the day before, to give it back to the element from which you first drew it.

Neither transpiration, as in plants, is a thing to be valued, nor respiration, as in domesticated animals and wild beasts, nor receiving impressions from the appearances of things, nor being pulled by desires like a puppet on strings, nor gathering in herds, nor being fed by food—for this last is just like the act of separating out and discarding the useless part of what we eat. What then is worth valuing? To be received with clapping of hands? No. Nor should we value the clapping of tongues either, for the praise of the many is a clapping of tongues. Suppose, then, you've given up this worthless thing called fame—what is left worth valuing? This, I think: to move yourself and to hold yourself back in accordance with your own constitution, the end toward which both all occupations and all arts lead. For every art aims at this—that the thing made should be fit for the work it was made for; the vine-dresser who tends the vine, and the horse-trainer, and the man who trains the dog, all seek this same end. And the upbringing and teaching of the young aim at something too. In this, then, lies the value of upbringing and teaching. And if this is sound, you won't go looking for anything else. Will you not stop valuing many other things too? Then you will be neither free, nor sufficient for your own happiness, nor free from passion. For you will necessarily be envious, jealous, and suspicious of those who can take those things from you, and will scheme against those who have what you value. A man who wants any of these things must, of necessity, be in a state of constant turmoil; and besides, he will often find fault with the gods. But to respect and honor your own mind will make you content with yourself, in harmony with the community, and in agreement with the gods—that is, praising everything they give and have ordained.

Above, below, all around, are the movements of the elements. But the motion of virtue is none of these: it is something more divine, and advancing along a path scarcely noticed, it goes happily on its way.

How strangely men behave! They won't praise those living at the same time as themselves and living alongside them; but to be praised themselves by posterity, by people they've never seen and never will see—this they set great store by. But this is very much as if you should grieve because those who lived before you did not praise you.