This blog has been on hiatus for about six months—and there’s a reason for that. I decided that I was spending too much time thinking and writing about Stoicism, and not enough time practicing it.
On 13 January, 2017, I wrote the following as a private journal entry to myself. Then I virtually stopped long-form writing entirely, began focusing more on memorizing key passages from Stoic texts, and started keeping a much shorter-form journal, more in the style of Marcus Aurelius. I think the effect on my practice has been quite positive! I’ll write again more in the future, most definitely, but taking a step back from writing this year has been a good exercise that has helped me keep my priorities in perspective!
Writing about one’s philosophy is like owning a house. You tend to it, you maintain it, and there is always something you can do to organize it better, something to dust off or polish, or a new addition to build or design idea to implement. All together, it is supposed to give you a solid, clean platform for living your life: you take care of it specifically so you don’t have to worry about it while you attend to the things that matter. In the end, however, a house can easily come to own you, rather than the other way around. At my age I still just rent an apartment—but how many times have I used various chores and organizational tasks as a pretense that draws me away from the duties and joys of living? House work is important, but it needs to support flourishing, not take away from it. So it is with reading and writing.
Alternatively, writing philosophy is like being a student. Acquiring a degree, a framework, a basis in your profession—this is imperative! But one shouldn’t cocoon oneself in academia as a “professional student.” Living well is our primary occupation, and sooner or later we must attend to it vigorously.
`Doesn’t reading help to prepare us for life?’
But life is full of many other things apart from books. It is as if an athlete, on entering the stadium, should burst into tears because he is no longer able to carry on training outside.
—Epictetus, Discourses, 4.4.11.
Theory is fun, useful, and profound. And just like it is difficult to learn a foreign language without some contemplation of grammar, we can’t begin to follow the “good life” in a dedicated and meaningful way without creating models of the many issues that living raises. The philosophical life is nothing if it isn’t constantly engaged in self-examination and re-examination, and in finding better ways of tackling the objections of critics.
When it comes to flesh-and-blood practice of excellence, however, the role of theory seems to be limited. Native speakers of a language have little to no use for grammatical theory: they simply do. As such, Socrates claims in the Symposium that the gods have no use for philosophy, for they are already wise. We humans will always need philosophy, of course, because wisdom is not our first language. But I’m beginning to realize first-hand that there comes a point in which we at least temporarily have succeeded in acquiring a satisfactory model of the Good that we wish to abide by. At that point, the real work that is left no longer consists in finding better, more eloquent, or more unassailable defenses of our chosen ethical system: the work that remains is to transform ourselves into the ideal that we have described.
What is this notebook? This series of journals that I’ve been keeping for so long? What is the goal or telos of my practice of writing? Obviously there are many answers—a place for catharsis, an aid to memory, and, especially, a sourcebook to refer to while writing future essays presenting or defending various positions. But above all of this, my personal writing ought to be directed toward one ultimate purpose: to give me the conceptual framework I need to practice living an ethically competent life.
In Volume I of my personal journal (c. 2014), I was still struggling to understand the value of ethical theory at all in a culture that has largely dismissed disciplined philosophies of life as superfluous. In Volume II (c. 2015) I was discovering Stoicism and virtue ethics, and diving into the modern literature I had finally found that captured the way I thought philosophy and life ought to relate to one another. Now, with Volume III, my identity as a blogger and active member of the online Stoic community is starting to take precedence—and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. It puts an awful lot of emphasis on discourse as the center of my philosophical identity.
Where our enthusiasm lies, there also lies the obstacle.
—Epictetus, Discourses, 4.4.15.
The ancients warned us time and time again about the dangers of confusing discourse with practice. It is not enough to feel affection for one’s ethical system or to discuss it daily. I resonate strongly with a Epictetus’ hypothetical student who says that not only does he believe in the principles of Stoic ethics, but that “in point of fact, there is nothing that I’ve so approved of from the beginning, or that I’ve liked better, and these are the matters that I now spend my time reading about, and hearing about, and writing about.” He goes on: “I’m not satisfied merely to learn, but I turn the arguments that are presented to me round and round in my mind, and I put together new ones, and equivocal arguments too” (Discourses, 4.6.13, 15). All this thinking and organizing serves a valuable purpose, but it’s only the precursor to genuine philosophical practice.
There are some theoretical tasks I still want to see to. I still want to finish reading the surviving Stoic canon from start to finish—though perhaps I can be satisfied to do less writing and organizing alongside my reading, and simply enjoy the wisdom as it is offered (like a student who is content to learn a foreign language by open-ended immersion, without stopping at each second to make more flash cards and grammar notes). I’d still really like to complete a topical index of Stoic passages, which I started doing in sections scattered throughout Volume II of my journal. And I’ll still continue trying to understand the ingredients that go into effective, kind, and ethically principled dialogue—something I’ll always be deeply interested in, and which I think I can do some good by writing about at some point. Even without all this, at a minimum we always need models of morality, conflict, and motivation in order to resolve conflicts, share advice, be pro-active about learning, explain ourselves to others, navigate our relationship with a tradition or community, form effective critiques of other ideas, and to form collaborations and build institutions. Socrates was overzealous when he said that the gods and the wise have no use at all for philosophy—sometimes action requires us to do theoretical work as a means to an end (what else is rhetoric, anyway?).
In general, however, I think it’s time that I acknowledge that theory has a cost, and that both my progress in virtue and my ability to effectively fulfill my duties would be furthered at this point if I invested less energy in writing about philosophical theory. As Cicero puts it, setting talk about philosophy aside requires “a restraint that it is not easy to practice. The study is one that when once taken up admits of no restriction or control” (De Finibus, 1.1). It would behoove me to make a conscious effort, then, to temperately move my writing habit away from attempts to articulate and grapple with ideas about living, and more toward a day-to-day process of character formation and spiritual discipline via a morning and evening meditation.
If we approached our reading in that spirit… we wouldn’t be reckoning things up as we’ve been accustomed to do up until now, `Today I’ve ready this many lines, and I’ve written this many,’ but would do so in this way instead, `Today I’ve formed my motives as the philosophers recommend, I haven’t exercised any desire, I’ve confined my aversions solely to things that lie within the sphere of choice, I haven’t allowed myself to be intimidated by So-and-so, or disconcerted by So-and-so, I’ve exercised my patience, my abstinence, my cooperativeness.’
—Epictetus, Discourses, 4.4.17–18.
I’ve built up quite a treasure trove of principles and guidelines for a life well-lived. It’s time that I put more focus on cashing out on them. Maybe it’s time to drop the long-form essay entirely, and to return to memory verses. For that matter, it’s a good time to construct my own mneme. There comes a point, after all, when Marcus’s famous conversation-stopper becomes the most valuable piece of wisdom one can take up:
Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.
To do this, I need to put some dampers on my enthusiasm for crafting arguments, and really discipline myself to believe that ethical practice is more important than discourse.