WORDS AND DEEDS

     The philosophy of the Stoics is not of especially great interest. This becomes particularly noticeable when we read the works of Seneca and Cicero. They are splendid writers, but their eloquent writings quickly tire us: we feel the artificiality and its pathos - the honos which, according to Cicero himself, alit artes [the gift which nourishes the arts]. Stoic philosophy separated from Stoic life loses all meaning. But it would be incorrect to say the opposite. One cannot say that the life of a Stoic, even if he should never try to justify himself through theoretical considerations, is devoid of a certain attractiveness and of a certain greatness. In this respect the reflections of Marcus Aurelius are particularly significant. We prize here not the art of the author, who cannot be compared either to Seneca or to Cicero in this regard, but the frankness of his confessions. Everyone has probably noticed that all of Marcus Aurelius' remarks are enveloped, as with a veil, in a certain sadness and anxiety. It is not the sadness of a spring evening or of a clear autumn day when one feels, despite everything, a certain joyous life. It is not even the melancholy of an abandoned country cemetery upon which the nearness of field and forest confer a gentle poetry. No, the sadness of Marcus Aurelius is that of a prisoner who knows that he will nevermore leave his prison or taste the joys of freedom. "Live according to nature, for everything in the world is transitory": such is the constant refrain of the royal philosopher. Submit, resign yourself, for all your most desperate efforts cannot restore your freedom to you. Virtue alone is eternal, everything else is condemned to perish. So Marcus Aurelius artlessly speaks about life. And it seems that he himself does not feel any joy in his words. Perhaps he suspects that, sub specie aeternitatis, virtue is not worth any more than all the other goods of our existence.

     Indeed, virtue is not eternal. To introduce eternity into our assumptions is the most risky kind of argumentation, for eternity, precisely because it is eternity, swallows everything up - the ordinary goods of life as well as vices and virtues. It seems that, despite everything, virtue was incapable of inspiring Marcus Aurelius. Because for virtue to transport us with enthusiasm, we must believe and feel that we have in ourselves the power required always victoriously to resist the seductions of life. In other words, to believe in virtue, it is necessary to be oneself virtuous to the end or at least to think that one can be virtuous to the end. Just as in order to be able to believe in truth, a man must think that he himself or the school to which he belongs possesses the truth. It is because of this that all the virtuous men and all the possessors of truth are ordinarily so intolerant and fanatical, so that the idea has even been established that fanaticism and intolerance are the principal predicates of truth and virtue. But this is obviously a grievous error. Fanaticism and intolerance are the fundamental characteristics of a human nature that is feeble, cowardly, and limited and, consequently, the characteristics of falsehood and evil. The true Stoic, who still lives entirely in the region of the human, all too human, needs a source whence he can draw the power necessary for a continuous struggle: he must be a fanatic. He cannot but feel himself superior to other men.

     But Marcus Aurelius did not have this feeling, and the Stoic Philosophy was therefore unsuitable to him. He accepted Stoicism because he had found nothing better in life, not because Stoicism answered the longings of his soul. This is probably the explanation of the melancholy spirit that his book breathes.

     The Stoic must be a warrior, a combatant by his very nature; that is, he must love battle and consider victory a goal in itself, even if it be a Pyrrhic victory. If you have lost your army, that is no misfortune, for if the victory were yours, you would have no more need of an army. Such were the true Stoics - not those who talked but those who fought. They did not regret anything; they sacrificed everything, only not to surrender. He who is incapable of letting himself become drunk with battle, to live for battle and victory, will not let himself be moved either by the brilliant discussions of Cicero and Seneca or the melancholy reflections of Marcus Aurelius. It is related that Epictetus, when his master broke his arm, said, "You have wronged yourself, for you have crippled your slave." Will you perhaps maintain that this is philosophy? Who can be certain that in pronouncing his proud words Epictetus was not inwardly in despair and ready to say, with the Psalmist, "My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?" In life, it is true, one often comes across moments when one envies Epictetus his power and courage. We must sometimes know how to answer the outrages of the rabble as Epictetus did. But philosophy has nothing to do with this. Philosophy begins when the powerful rabble departs and man remains alone with himself. Then his courage abandons him, and it is better so. Then despair seizes hold of him, and this is even better. Then... but the reader has already ceased to believe what I say. Ah well, he may be right. One must know how to stop in time.

NATURE AND MEN

     It is said that nature, like Pushkin's official copyist who grew old in office, contemplates good and evil with indifference and is insensible to all the horrible sufferings that strike man. And it is also said that it is absolutely impossible to move nature or to make it forsake its stony impassivity through any means whatsoever. Earthquakes, wars, epidemics, famines, floods - men have known all these; but nature has never allowed the least sign of comprehension or pity to escape it. The clear sky shone impassively above the battlefield at Borodino as well as in the days of the Flood. From this people conclude with assurance that nature will never leave its dismal impassivity, no matter what happens on earth.

     Is this conclusion correct? May it not be that in this case also generalizations are illegitimate and only mislead men? Yes, epidemics, floods, wars have had no effect on nature. But what if man found the means of destroying it to the last living being, to the last atom even? Would nature still maintain its placidity? Would it not be moved by the prospect of the total destruction of all its creatures? Would it not deign to pay attention to man, speak to him as its equal, and agree to certain concessions?

     Can one raise such questions? It seems to me that John Stuart Mill, with his conscientiousness and honesty, would have admitted the legitimacy of my questions. Now, for the moment this is enough. For once it is admitted that such questions might be raised, everyone must confess that it is probable that nature would be afraid and agree to acquaint man with its mysteries.

CAVEANT CONSULES

     To contradict oneself is considered completely inadmissible. It is enough to convict someone of contradicting himself for his statements immediately to lose all authority. But it is quite natural and legitimate for men to contradict each other; this disturbs and irritates no one. Why? Why, if I affirm at one and the same moment that the universe has existed through all eternity and that there was a time when it did not exist, is this considered impudence on my part or a sign of madness, while if I declare that the world has always existed and my neighbor says that the world was born in time, does this appear quite natural, provoke no distress in anyone and seem not at all puzzling?

     Yet, neither my neighbor nor I judge in the capacity of empirical subjects. The theory of knowledge has already definitely established that the subject which expresses judgments has nothing in common with the empirical subject, and that generally it is not even the psychological subject but objective reason itself. Insofar as we judge, we are all one. Consequently, there is no difference between contradicting oneself and contradicting others. I must be as much concerned with being consistent with my neighbor as with being consistent with myself, if I do not wish to arrive at that result which has always so frightened philosophic minds - namely, that it no longer be this or that empirical subject that is constrained to silence (this certainly has nothing distressing about it; most of the time one could even only rejoice in it) but super-empirical reason itself. The philosophers and theorists of knowledge have not thought of this; they have probably overlooked it. But it must be thought about, it is absolutely necessary that it be thought about. Carelessness in this case can have terrible consequences. For it may well be that suddenly one fine day reason, discovering the contradictions it contains, will find itself "forced to silence" and, obedient to the honesty and conscientiousness that are proper to it, forever and finally hold its peace. It is necessary, before it is too late, to fend off this threatening danger, and I am the first to cry the alarm.

THE MAGIC CAP

     Philosophy has often raised and resolved the so-called final questions: Does God exist? Is there a soul, and if there is, is it immortal or not? Is the will free?, etc. These questions appear perfectly legitimate, and the answers that are given to them, affirmative or negative, seem completely acceptable. One might believe that it is impossible, or at least senseless, to abstain from raising these questions. Is this really so?

     It seems to me that it is enough to ask a man "Does God exist?" immediately to make it impossible for him to give any answer whatever to this question. And I believe that all those who have answered it, affirmatively or negatively, spoke of something quite other than that about which they were asked. There are truths that one can see but cannot show. And these are not only the truths concerning God or the immortality of the soul. There are many other truths of the same kind. I do not mean that one cannot speak of them; one can speak of them, and even very well - but precisely when they are not asked about. Strange as this may seem, they are afraid of questions. That is why one cannot show or explain them, i.e., make them self-evident. They always have with them the magic cap of Russian legendry which renders one invisible; as soon as one steals near them to seize them, they put on their cap and become invisible. And their cap is even more extraordinary than that of the legends. Not only do they vanish from our gaze but, at the same time, the very recollection of them disappears, as if they had never existed; and he who had seen them with his own eyes differs in no way from his neighbor who had never seen them.

MAGNA CHARTA LIBERTATUM

     The principles of identity and contradiction, which lie at the foundation of our knowledge and without which knowledge is said to be impossible, finally limit our knowledge narrowly. A = A; A is always equal to A; A cannot be not A. Why is this? Why is A always equal to A? Why can it not become not A? Aristotle, as is known, greatly limits the scope of these "laws." He says: in one given place and time A is always equal to A and cannot be not A. But if this limitation is necessary, it follows that the laws of identity and contradiction can be of significance only in the domain of empirical reality, for the metaphysicians brush aside time and space. To put it differently, to pass from empirical philosophy to metaphysics one must be prepared to renounce the principles of identity and contradiction. And this is very understandable: metaphysics, with its immense tasks, does not admit the limitations which the empirical sciences accept and even cultivate. Hence it is a useless enterprise to exhibit the contradictions of metaphysical constructions. The validity of a metaphysical system does not by any means consist in the harmony and concordance of its theses, but in something quite different. Thus, if it be a question of prolegomena to all future metaphysics, it is not at all necessary to seek out new sources for Universal judgments; on the contrary, it is necessary to proclaim a freedom of judgment hitherto unknown. In metaphysics it is true that panti logôi logon antikeîsthai [in opposition to any and every reason another reason can be offered], and herein lies the source of its immense riches, hitherto hidden from view. "I am persuaded of this," as those who wished their judgments to obtain universal approval used to say. And I am convinced, further, that the metaphysicians who have always suffered from the impossibility of ridding themselves of contradictions will be very grateful to me for my discovery and for the great charter of freedom that I proclaim. Henceforth, indeed, he who will accuse the metaphysicians of contradictions will see himself immediately reproached for his dishonesty.

     But if someone wishes to draw from my words the conclusion that henceforth every man who decides panti logôi logon antikeîsthai [to offer a reason in opposition to any and every reason] will become a metaphysician, I will not contradict him either. Is this enough? I fear not. One who acquires only the name of metaphysician will be very dissatisfied and will prefer to return to the former state of things, to Aristotle's three laws. He wishes indeed, despite all his metaphysical aspirations, that I recognize him, that you recognize him, that all men and all rational beings recognize him.

     You see that freedom does not appear always and to everyone as something so ethereal, so weightless, or even so negative a quantity as is generally believed. For some it is harder to bear than the heaviest load.

     It is very possible that not only the would-be metaphysicians but also the genuine ones will renounce the Magna Charta. The greatest even of the philosophers need "recognition" and hold tenaciously to the principles of identity and contradiction. They are ready to admit all objections, provided they can maintain the hope of being recognized or of obtaining at least the illusion of recognition.

UNSELFISHNESS AND DIALECTIC

     In Plato's dialogue Protagoras we see an extremely significant encounter between Socrates and Protagoras. Socrates, according to his custom, poses questions and demands of Protagoras' brief answers, almost only a "yes" and "no." As soon as Protagoras refuses to answer in monosyllables and tries to present detailed explanations, Socrates protests. He has, he pretends, a very short memory and if one tells him many things at a time he will become entirely confused.

     Alcibiades, who is present at the conversation, does not take this excuse seriously: Socrates has an excellent memory and calls himself forgetful only in jest. Alcibiades is certainly right: Socrates does not have a short memory. Socrates is obviously also jesting when he humbly declares that he considers Protagoras a more skillful debater than himself. He is very well aware of his powers as a dialectician. Nevertheless, when Protagoras refuses to yield and insists on his right to conduct the discussion as seems to him more proper, Socrates gives him an ultimatum: if you do not agree to speak with me in my way, I shall leave and break off the discussion.

     True, it is difficult to know to what extent Plato's dialogues faithfully reproduce the character of Socrates' conversations. But I believe that in public discussions - and he would speak, it seems, only in public places - Socrates did obstinately seek to reduce the discussion to an exchange of as brief questions and answers as possible. Why? Does this form really give us the best guarantee for the discovery of the truth?

     When Socrates threatened to depart, those present intervened, among them Prodicus, who said: "I beg you, Protagoras and Socrates, to argue with one another and not wrangle (amphisbêteîn men, eriksein de mê); for friends argue with friends out of good will, but only adversaries and enemies wrangle" (Prot. 337b).

     Even before this, the following dialogue takes place between Socrates and Protagoras. Socrates asks if justice is something holy. Protagoras, who apparently feels that Socrates wishes to trap him, hesitates and tries to preserve a possibility of retreat. "If you wish," he says, "justice is holy and holiness is just." To this Socrates replies rather sharply, "Pardon me..., I do not want this 'if you wish' or 'if you will' sort of conclusion to be proven, but I want you and me to be proven; I mean to say that the conclusion will be best proven if there be no 'if'" (Ibid., 331c).

     I have quoted these sentences in an attempt to clarify the problems that Socrates raised (if Socrates acted and spoke as Plato shows us) or the problems of Plato himself (in case his dialogues were invented by him). Did Socrates really consider Protagoras his friend, as Prodicus supposed? Did Socrates really seek the same thing as Protagoras? Or did Socrates consider Protagoras an enemy and, as is proper for an enemy, seek to conquer Protagoras - that is, not to argue with him but rather, in debating with him, to force him at all costs to submission and make him wish the same thing that he, Socrates, wished?

     I am inclined to think the second assumption is the more probable one. It is no secret to anyone that Plato and Socrates considered the Sophists their enemies and were quite prepared to slander them. If even today we have still not been able to get a complete idea of the teaching of the Sophists, whose fault is this if not Plato's and his disciples? Plato tries to force his adversaries to fight with the arms that are most advantageous to himself. And he is not at all ashamed to have recourse, when he must (only I do not understand why he had to admit it so frankly), to ruses, pretences, traps, and even physical force, as happens in war. Here Socrates pretends to be "forgetful," though he has an excellent memory; there he flatters Protagoras by praising his oratorical talents; again he assures him that they both follow a common goal, though it is quite obvious that their goals are opposed; further on, he threatens him with scandal and says that he will withdraw and break off the conversation. It is as if Plato wished expressly to emphasize that the goal of dialectic is not the search for truth but the annihilation of the enemy. This is extremely important for us.

     Plato knew perfectly well that Protagoras did not wish the same thing as he himself wished. And he knew likewise that it was not possible to conquer Protagoras except by killing him, in a spiritual or intellectual sense. And ever since Plato all the philosophers up to our own day have continued to think the same. And not only to think: philosophers think of this as little as ordinary people think of their breathing or of the circulation of the blood in their bodies. All of us are persuaded that those who think otherwise than we must be treated as enemies with whom we must not discuss but wrangle. And if we continue to repeat, like Socrates, that we wish to obtain what all others likewise require, this is only a formula of politeness behind which always lies the ardent desire to conquer and annihilate our enemies. This is the heritage of the Greek wisdom which thinking mankind has assimilated.

     Can it be considered eternal? Should we rejoice over the fact that, thanks to the efforts of Plato's disciples and followers, we know almost nothing of the intellectual work accomplished by the Sophists and have been able to believe that the Sophists thought only of gold and honors while Socrates and his disciples pursued nothing but truth? Following the few rare traces that Plato and Aristotle have preserved for us, modern historians have concluded that the Sophists did not seek gold only, and one could add that it was not truth alone that Socrates required.

     In the Middle Ages Socrates found some faithful partisans: Catholicism showed the same ardor in destroying the heritage of pagan culture and it is a miracle, a matter of chance, or something else that I do not undertake to specify, that the works of Plato, Aristotle, and Plotinus were saved. And yet the visible vandalism of Plato and of Catholicism had a less destructive influence than their invisible theory of the sole truth. How many profound and daring thoughts have perished for the reason only that they could not be reconciled with the idea of the sole truth and could not breathe in the atmosphere saturated with this idea? Or did they, perhaps, not perish and only disappear from the sight of men and history? This may very well be assumed, for everything that does not exist for man and has not been included in history cannot, for this reason, be considered non-existent.

THE ENIGMAS OF LIFE

     In several of his dialogues (Gorgias 523, Phaedo 107, Republic 614) Plato speaks to us in detail about the fate of souls after death. We shall all have to pass in our new life the tribunal of the sons of Zeus - Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus. In order that their judgments not be mistaken and that the judges not allow themselves to be led astray by the position of the souls on earth, Zeus ordained that the souls should appear in the other world not only without clothing but also without bodies. According to Plato, the naked soul would not be able to dissemble its sins in any way. He who has lived virtuously will have preserved his soul clean of all blemish; the soul of him who has sinned much will be broken, battered, covered with repugnant marks and sores - just as a body which has borne many illnesses becomes ugly and deformed. So thought Plato, who, as far as is known, never saw any souls naked and deprived of their bodies but only guessed what they would look like when their fleshly envelope fell off.

     I believe that the sons of Zeus, who had to judge the dead and who saw the naked souls, would have smiled if they had somehow been able to hear Plato's conjecture. They saw the souls with their own eyes and did not need to have recourse to guesses or to judge by the analogy which holds that if sicknesses deform the body, sins likewise deform the soul. Indeed, from the very beginning, the analogy is far from flawless: certain persons become handsomer after sickness. Furthermore, it is very probable that wicked men and precisely those who have the most abominable vices, those who do not distinguish and do not wish to distinguish good from evil, possess souls that are very clean and very smooth, as if highly polished. Whatever they do, they always feel that they are in the right. The inward struggles that so painfully torment the souls of sensitive and anxious people by imposing upon them a constant tension - these are alien to them. Ideally pure souls are the property of ordinary, normal people who in their way know what is good and what bad, avoid the great evils, do good in small measure, and sleep with a tranquil conscience. The soul of a bourgeois or rentier is much cleaner and smoother than that of Socrates, Tolstoy, Pascal, Shakespeare, or Dostoevsky, just as a rentier's face is rounder and more placid, and his gaze more carefree. If Minos followed Plato's rules he would send Dostoevsky and Shakespeare to hell and populate the Field of Elysium with French rentiers and Dutch peasants. This is clear as day. Plato should not have spoken with such assurance of what he did not know.

     But there is still another extremely important thing: if someone had pointed out in time to Plato that he was wrong, that it is not evil and vices but rather good and inward struggles - which in any case cannot be considered "bad" - that render the soul ugly and deformed, what would he have replied to this? The careful readers of Plato will understand the importance such a question must have for him. Indeed, let us assume that Plato could have convinced himself with his own eyes that the good does not beautify the soul but rather deforms it, that it introduces into it not harmony but disharmony - would he have, for all this, renounced the good? To put it differently, would we have advised men to wrong their neighbors or, at least, to think the least possible about justice and injustice, like those women who avoid all work and cares and refuse even to bring their children into the world in order not to lose their beauty?

     But then he would have been obliged to renounce not only the logos but also his favorite idea of harmony: philosophias men ousês megistês mousikês, emoû de toûto prattontos (philosophy is the supreme music and I follow it). He would even perhaps have been obliged to become a misologos (hater of reason), though he considered this the greatest of dangers and warned his disciples against it. Only a misologos, indeed, would be capable of advising the soul to do that which deforms it. Not to fear either ugliness of the body or of the soul! Not to fear them - without such fearlessness being justifiable on any grounds whatsoever! Plato, the Greeks in general, and perhaps even all men will never agree to this; everyone wishes to have "sufficient reasons." And yet it must be agreed to. Tolstoy and Dostoevsky had souls that were deformed and completely broken: I saw this with my own eyes, I could not be deceived. In the case of Socrates, likewise, his soul was no more beautiful than his body; we have on this matter the authoritative testimony of Zopyrus who was much more perceptive than Alcibiades and perhaps even than Plato.

     It follows from this that all the enigmas of being are still not solved. I say this only because it seems to me that it is always forgotten.