Another’s soul is not yours

These are the properties of the rational soul. It sees and examines itself, and makes itself into whatever it chooses. It enjoys its own fruit, while the fruits of plants and the corresponding products of animals are enjoyed by others. It attains its own end wherever the limit of its life is set. A dance, a play, or a similar performance is incomplete if something cuts it short. The rational soul is different: in every part and wherever it is stopped, it makes what was set before it full and complete, so that it can say, I have what is my own. It travels through the whole universe and the surrounding void, surveys their shape, reaches into infinite time, and grasps the periodic renewal of everything. It understands that those who come after us will see nothing new and those before us saw nothing more. A person of forty, if he has any understanding, has in effect seen everything that has been and everything that will be, because the pattern is the same. The rational soul's properties also include love of one's neighbor, truth, modesty, and valuing nothing above itself—a property of Law as well. So right reason and the reason of justice are one and the same.

You will think little of pleasant singing and dancing and the pancratium if you break the melody of the voice down into its separate notes and ask yourself, as to each one, whether you are mastered by this—for shame will keep you from admitting it—and if with dancing you do the same with each movement and posture, and likewise with the pancratium. In everything, then, except virtue and the acts of virtue, remember to break things down into their parts, and by this division come to think little of them—and apply this same method to your whole life.

What a soul that is which is ready, if it must be separated from the body at any moment, ready either to be extinguished or scattered or to go on existing—but a readiness that comes from one's own judgment, not from bare defiance, as with the Christians, but thoughtfully and with dignity and in a way that might persuade someone else, without theatrics.

Have I done something for the common good? Then I have had my reward. Keep this always before your mind, and never stop doing such good.

What is your art? To be good. And how is this brought about well except through general principles—some about the nature of the universe, others about the proper constitution of man?

At first tragedies were staged as reminders of what happens to people, and that it is according to nature for things to happen this way, and that if you are moved by what is shown on the stage, you should not be troubled by the same kind of thing happening on the larger stage. For you see that these things must play out this way, and that even those who cry out "O Cithaeron" bear them. And indeed some things are said well by the tragic writers, of which this is especially true:— "If the gods neglect me and my children, this too has its reason." And again:— "We must not chafe and fret at what happens." And:— "Reap life's harvest like the wheat's ripe ear." And other things of the same kind. After tragedy the old comedy was brought in, with its magisterial frankness of speech, and by its very bluntness it was useful for reminding people to guard against insolence—Diogenes, in fact, borrowed from these writers for that same purpose. But as for the middle comedy that came next, consider what it was, and again, for what purpose the new comedy was introduced, which gradually sank into mere technical mimicry. That some good things are said even by these writers, everyone knows—but to what end does the whole design of such poetry and stagecraft look?

How plain it is that there is no other condition of life so well suited to philosophizing as the one you happen to be in right now.

A branch cut off from the branch next to it must necessarily be cut off from the whole tree as well. In the same way, a man separated from another man has fallen away from the whole community. But whereas a branch is cut off by someone else, a man cuts himself off from his neighbor by his own act, when he hates him and turns away from him, not realizing that he has at the same time severed himself from the whole social system. Yet he has this privilege from Zeus, who framed society: it is in our power to grow back together with what is near to us, and again become a part that helps make up the whole. Still, if this kind of separation happens often, it becomes harder for the part that has detached itself to be brought back to unity and restored to its former condition. Finally, the branch that grew together with the tree from the start, and has shared one life with it all along, is not the same as one that is grafted back on after being cut off—however much the gardeners may say it grows along with the rest of the tree, it no longer shares its mind.

Just as those who try to block your path when you are proceeding according to right reason will not be able to turn you aside from right action, so don't let them drive you from your goodwill toward them either—guard yourself equally on both counts, not only in steadiness of judgment and action, but also in gentleness toward those who try to hinder or otherwise trouble you. For it is a weakness to be irritated at them, just as much as to be diverted from your course of action and to give way through fear; both are equally desertions from one's post—the man who deserts through fear, and the man who is estranged from someone who is by nature his kin and friend.

There is no nature inferior to art, since the arts imitate the natures of things. But if that is so, then the nature that is most perfect and most comprehensive of all cannot fall short of the skill found in art. Now all the arts do the lesser things for the sake of the greater; so the universal nature does the same. And indeed this is the origin of justice, and in justice the other virtues have their foundation—for justice will not be kept if we care about indifferent things, or are easily deceived and careless and unstable.

If the things whose pursuit or avoidance disturbs you don't come to you, still, in a sense, you go to them. Let your judgment about them be at rest, then, and they will remain quiet, and you will not be seen either pursuing or avoiding.

The spherical form of the soul keeps its shape when it is neither stretched out toward any object nor drawn inward, neither scattered nor sunk down, but is lit by a light by which it sees the truth—the truth of all things and the truth within itself.

Suppose someone despises me. Let him see to that himself. But I will see to it that I am not caught doing or saying anything deserving of contempt. Suppose someone hates me. Let him see to that. But I will be mild and well-disposed toward everyone, and ready to show even him his mistake—not reproachfully, nor as a display of my endurance, but nobly and honestly, like the great Phocion, unless indeed he was only pretending. For a man's inner parts ought to be like this, and he ought to be seen by the gods as dissatisfied with nothing and complaining of nothing. For what harm is it to you if you are now doing what is agreeable to your own nature, and are satisfied with what is, at this moment, fitting to the nature of the universe, since you are a human being stationed at your post so that what serves the common good may somehow be done?

People despise one another and flatter one another; and people wish to raise themselves above one another, and crouch before one another.

How unsound and insincere is the man who says, "I have decided to deal with you fairly!" What are you doing, man? There's no need to announce this. It will show itself soon enough by your actions. The message ought to be written plainly on your forehead. A man's character shows itself at once in his eyes, just as someone who is loved reads everything immediately in the eyes of those who love him. The honest and good man ought to be exactly like someone who has a strong smell, so that whoever comes near him notices it whether he wants to or not. But affected simplicity is like a crooked stick. Nothing is more disgraceful than a wolfish friendship—a false friendship. Avoid this above all. The good, simple, and well-meaning man shows all this in his eyes, and there is no mistaking it.

The power to live in the best way lies in the soul, if it remains indifferent to things that are themselves indifferent. It will remain indifferent if it looks at these things both separately and together. Remember that none of them produces an opinion about itself in us or comes to us on its own. The things stay put, unmoving. We produce the judgments about them and, so to speak, write those judgments into ourselves. It is in our power not to write them. If they slip in unnoticed, it is in our power to wipe them out. Remember too that this attentiveness will last only a short time, and then life will be over. What trouble is there in doing this? If these things accord with nature, rejoice in them and they will be easy for you. If they are contrary to nature, seek what accords with your own nature and strive toward it, even if it brings no reputation. Everyone is permitted to seek his own good.

Consider where each thing has come from, what it is made of, what it is changing into, and what kind of thing it will be once it has changed—and that it will suffer no harm.