How to Be a Stoic: Using Ancient Philosophy to Live a Modern Life

by Massimo Pigliucci

Epictetus was telling me that a fundamental aspect of being human is that we are social, not just in the sense that we like the company of others, but in the deeper sense that we couldn’t really exist without the help of others; the implication is that when we do things for the good of the polity, we are actually (perhaps indirectly) benefiting ourselves.

The Stoics perfected this idea of ethical development and called it oikeiôsis, which is often translated as “familiarization with” or “appropriation of” other people’s concerns as if they were our own.

cosmopolitanism, which literally means “being a citizen of the world.” Or as Socrates—arguably the most important influence on all Hellenistic schools of philosophy—put it: “Never… reply to one who asks [your] country, ‘I am an Athenian,’ or ‘I am a Corinthian,’ but ‘I am a citizen of the universe.’”

Then again, to argue that we have a right to eat whatever we fancy, regardless of the demonstrably immense levels of suffering and environmental damage we inflict in the process, seems more than a bit callous. This dilemma is probably why a number of Stoics were in fact vegetarian.

Musonius Rufus, Epictetus’s teacher, was famous for being a particularly practical Stoic who gave his students advice on everything from the important things in life (such as the idea that women ought to get the same education as men) to somewhat trivial matters, like how to furnish your house (efficiently, with stuff that doesn’t break easily) or cut your hair (removing only what is useless). He had a lot to say about diet too. He argued that “although there are many pleasures which persuade human beings to do wrong and compel them to act against their own interests, the pleasure connected with food is undoubtedly the most difficult of all pleasures to combat,” adding: “To obtain those few moments of gastronomic pleasure, countless expensive foods must be prepared and brought overseas from distant lands.

Some people spend all their possessions to have their banquets prepared, but they are not made stronger by eating these expensive foods.… When it comes to food, responsible people favor what is easy to obtain over what is difficult, what involves no trouble over what does, and what is available over what isn’t.”

Will I feel uncomfortable during that evening of celebration? Probably, but as the emperor Marcus Aurelius said—and he wasn’t kidding or being sarcastic—“If [you] must live in a palace, then [you] can also live well in a palace.”

Better to endure pain in an honorable manner than to seek joy in a shameful one.

nothing can be traded if the price is the compromising of your character.

This identification of God with Nature has a long history, and it was developed particularly by the influential seventeenth-century Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza. It is sometimes referred to as “Einstein’s God,” because a similar sentiment was expressed by the famous physicist.

There are two related points to be noted about this conception of God: first, the divinity doesn’t engage in miracles; this God does not suspend the laws of nature in order to intervene here and there to right local wrongs. Second, and relatedly, there is very little practical difference between this God and a simple acknowledgment (made by the Stoics) that the universe works through a web of cause and effect; this very modern concept is entirely compatible with the scientific view of the world as we understand it.

The followers of Epicurus are often portrayed as “atheists,” but they were nothing of the kind. They were what we today would call deists, falling into the third group enumerated by Epictetus: according to them, God does exist, but He is immersed in the contemplation of divine things, paying no heed at all to earthly matters and human affairs. The world, for the Epicureans, is made of a chaos of atoms randomly bumping into each other, and while human beings are capable of using reason, their decisions and actions are still held hostage, not to a divine providence, but to the effects of physical forces.

Some Stoics conceded this possibility, and others went so far as to appropriate some of Epicurus’s thoughts and maintain—correctly—that philosophy isn’t religion, it has no sacred texts, and it does not follow unquestionable doctrines.

And if we are talking about mainstream religionists, as opposed to fundamentalists, our opinions on most crucial matters of ethics and politics are rarely that different—despite the fact that mine are allegedly informed by my atheism and theirs by their faith. To put it in philosophical terms, it appears that much of our diverging metaphysics makes little difference to what we think is important in life, or to how we behave toward others.

given the Stoic ambiguity over how to interpret the Logos, Stoics can build a very large tent indeed, welcoming everyone from atheists to agnostics, from pantheists and panentheists to theists, as long as none of these guests impose their own metaphysical views on the others. Are you a Christian, or Muslim, or practicing Jew? Fine, you can treat the Logos as a central attribute of a personal God who created the universe. Does your metaphysical preference lean more toward the idea that God is everywhere, to be identified with Nature itself? Then you will feel at home with many of the original Stoics and their conception of the rational principle of the universe. Are you instead an agnostic or atheist? If so, the Logos represents the indisputable fact that the cosmos really is organized rationally, even though we still do not know how such organization came about, whether by design or as a result of brute cause and effect. If this were not the case, then logic, mathematics, and science itself would go out the window, and you do believe in them, right?

what is important in life is to live it well, and that such an objective—the eudaimonic existence sought by the ancients—depends very little on whether there is a God or not, and if there is one, on what its specific attributes may or may not be.

When he was asked in an interview who didn’t make it out of the Hanoi Hilton, Stockdale replied: Oh, that’s easy, the optimists. Oh, they were the ones who said, “We’re going to be out by Christmas.” And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go. Then they’d say, “We’re going to be out by Easter.” And Easter would come, and Easter would go. And then Thanksgiving, and then it would be Christmas again. And they died of a broken heart.… This is a very important lesson. You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end—which you can never afford to lose—with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.

Rhinelander picked up a copy of Epictetus’s Handbook and gave it to Stockdale, saying: “As a military man, I think you’ll have special interest in this. Frederick the Great never went on a campaign without a copy of this handbook in his kit.”

Stockdale understood an important truth about war that applies to life in general: holding the moral high ground and maintaining self-respect is more important than the facts on the ground, be they the weaponry on each side (in the case of war) or the circumstances of our ordinary lives.

The first real test for Stockdale came when he was shot down on that September 9. As he put it: “After ejection I had about 30 seconds to make my last statement in freedom before I landed on the main street of that little village right ahead. And so help me, I whispered to myself: ‘Five years down there at the least. I’m leaving the world of technology and entering the world of Epictetus.’”

Epictetus too had been crippled for life after his leg was broken by his first master, and that Epictetus’s assessment of that fact had been: “Lameness is an impediment to the leg, but not to the will; and say this to yourself with regard to everything that happens. For you will find it to be an impediment to something else, but not truly to yourself.”

By the time he was brought into the Hanoi Hilton, Stockdale had resolved to do precisely what Epictetus advised: to play whatever part Fate had allotted to him to the best of his abilities. He constantly kept in mind that his enemies would win only if he succumbed to two things: fear and loss of self-respect.

Epictetus arrived at the only possible response: “When a man who has set his will neither on dying nor upon living at any cost, comes into the presence of the tyrant, what is there to prevent him from being without fear? Nothing.”

those who had spent less than two years in confinement said that torture was the worst; those who had spent more than two years in isolation said that the latter experience trumped even torture. That’s because, after going that long without seeing anyone, a person desperately needs friends, quite regardless of who they are, their ideologies, or their politics. Stockdale interpreted Rutledge’s finding in the light of Epictetus’s teachings—that it is shame, not physical pain, that truly brings down a human being.

Aristotle, however, had different ideas. He made a crucial distinction between moral virtue and intellectual virtue, the former arising from both natural disposition and habit acquired while growing up and the latter resulting from reflection in a mature mind. It follows, then, that there are three sources of virtue: some comes from our natural endowment, some is obtained by habit, especially early in life, and some can be acquired intellectually and therefore can be taught.

The Stoics, as we have seen, held a developmental model of morality, thinking that we naturally come equipped with the ability to have regard not just for ourselves but also for our caretakers and other people with whom we come into regular contact early on in life. Once the age of reason arrives, however, when we are about seven or eight years old, we can begin to further build our virtuous character by two means: habit and (more so later in life) explicit philosophical reflection.

Here is how our Epictetus put it to me, as a friendly challenge: “Stand by a stone and slander it: what effect will you produce? If a man then listens like a stone, what advantage has the slanderer?… ‘I have done you an outrage.’ May it turn out to your good.”

Now, why would anyone, let alone someone who is depressed, want to imagine the worst on purpose? Well, for one thing there is the empirical observation that it actually works: visualizing negative happenings decreases our fear of them and mentally prepares us to deal with the crisis when and if it ensues. But there is a flip side to visualizing the negative: we gain a renewed sense of gratitude and appreciation for all the times when bad things do not happen to us, when we leisurely drive down the road on a beautiful day or enjoy the presence of our loved ones because they are very much alive and well.

The very first mention of a Stoic committing suicide concerns Zeno of Cyprus, the founder of Stoicism. Diogenes Laertius, in his Lives of the Eminent Philosophers, tells a number of different stories about how Zeno died (only one of which can be true, obviously). One says that, being old, frail, and in pain, he decided that he had nothing more to contribute to society, so he starved himself to death. This may or may not have happened, but the story is significant because it introduces the idea that it is acceptable for Stoics to walk through the open door under certain circumstances, given that it is possible that the very founder of the school did it.

I’ve brought up the examples of Zeno, Cato, and Seneca, with all the due historical caveats, because they illustrate five different reasons for walking through the open door. Zeno did so because he was in increasingly unbearable pain, and he also felt that he had become useless to society—not very different from the case of Betsy Davis. Cato walked through the open door for principled reasons in defense of a political cause. Seneca did so as a matter of personal dignity and to safeguard the people he was leaving behind. (To this list one can add the attempted suicide of James Stockdale.)

Epictetus, ever the wise man, was aware of this danger, and made it clear to me that a light attitude toward taking one’s own life was not the Stoic way: “Let me describe another state of mind to be found in those who hear these precepts amiss. A friend of mine, for instance, determined for no reason to starve himself. I learnt of it when he was in the third day of his fasting, and went and asked him what had happened.

that what he lost was easily replaceable (tomorrow I will find another lamp), and that if he wishes to avoid another theft, perhaps he should opt for a cheaper but equally effective item (a lamp of earthenware, rather than iron), because it just isn’t worthwhile trying to beat a thief at the vigilance game. Then comes the analysis of the deeper meaning of the incident: Epictetus acknowledges that the thief must have yielded to some plausible feeling—he must have reckoned that what he was doing was worth the price.

This is very similar to the modern Stoic idea, proposed by Bill Irvine, of learning to internalize goals: I desire (not want or need) a promotion, so I’m going to do my best to deserve it. Whether I actually get it or not is not under my control, because it depends on a number of factors external to my will.

The APA also counsels humor as an antidote to anger, and we have seen this deployed both by ancient Stoics like Epictetus (If I have to die now, then I die now; but if later, then now I’m going to dine, because it’s dinnertime) and by modern ones like Irvine (Oh, you think that essay I wrote was fundamentally misguided? That’s because you haven’t read all my other essays!).

there is a difference between what is natural and what is right, and we ought to arrive at correct judgments that will sometimes make us override what is natural in favor of what is right.

Virtue is the highest good, and everything else is indifferent.

Follow nature. That is, apply reason to social life.

Dichotomy of control. Some things are under our control, and others are not (though we may be able to influence them).

four Stoic virtues: (Practical) wisdom: Navigating complex situations in the best available fashion Courage: Doing the right thing, both physically and morally, under all circumstances Justice: Treating every human being—regardless of his or her stature in life—with fairness and kindness Temperance: Exercising moderation and self-control in all spheres of life

1. Examine your impressions. “So make a practice at once of saying to every strong impression: ‘An impression is all you are, not the source of the impression.’ Then test and assess it with your criteria, but one primarily: ask, ‘Is this something that is, or is not, in my control?’ And if it’s not one of the things that you control, be ready with the reaction, ‘Then it’s none of my concern.’”

2. Remind yourself of the impermanence of things. “In the case of particular things that delight you, or benefit you, or to which you have grown attached, remind yourself of what they are. Start with things of little value. If it is china you like, for instance, say, ‘I am fond of a piece of china.’ When it breaks, then you won’t be as disconcerted. When giving your wife or child a kiss, repeat to yourself, ‘I am kissing a mortal.’ Then you won’t be so distraught if they are taken from you.”

First off, let’s remind ourselves of the historical context: Epictetus was writing at a time when even emperors (like Marcus Aurelius himself) lost most of their children and other loved ones at what we would consider a tender or premature age, to disease, random violence, or war. While most of us in the West and in a few other parts of the world are currently lucky in that respect (especially if we happen to be white and male), it remains true today that life is ephemeral, and people we deeply care about may be snatched from us suddenly and without warning. Second, and more crucially, what Epictetus is counseling here is not an inhuman indifference toward our beloved ones, but quite the opposite: we should constantly remind ourselves of just how precious our loved ones are precisely because they may soon be gone.

I always regretted the way I responded to my father’s illness—until Stoicism taught me that regret is about things we can no longer change and the right attitude is to learn from our experiences, not dwell on decisions that we are not in a position to alter.

3. The reserve clause. “Whenever planning an action, mentally rehearse what the plan entails.

4. How can I use virtue here and now? “For every challenge, remember the resources you have within you to cope with it. Provoked by the sight of a handsome man or a beautiful woman, you will discover within you the contrary power of self-restraint. Faced with pain, you will discover the power of endurance. If you are insulted, you will discover patience. In time, you will grow to be confident that there is not a single impression that you will not have the moral means to tolerate.”

5. Pause and take a deep breath. “Remember, it is not enough to be hit or insulted to be harmed, you must believe that you are being harmed. If someone succeeds in provoking you, realize that your mind is complicit in the provocation. Which is why it is essential that we not respond impulsively to impressions; take a moment before reacting, and you will find it is easier to maintain control.”

As we have seen, Stoics handled insults very well, ideally like rocks. (Have you ever tried to insult a rock? How did it go?) Those who felt so inclined also responded with a sense of humor.

You know the famous Nike commercial slogan, “Just Do It”? Well no, the Stoics disagree. If it is important, you really ought to stop and think about it before you decide whether to do it.

6. Other-ize. “We can familiarize ourselves with the will of nature by calling to mind our common experiences. When a friend breaks a glass, we are quick to say, ‘Oh, bad luck.’ It’s only reasonable, then, that when a glass of your own breaks, you accept it in the same patient spirit.

7. Speak little and well. “Let silence be your goal for the most part; say only what is necessary, and be brief about it. On the rare occasions when you’re called upon to speak, then speak, but never about banalities like gladiators, horses, sports, food and drink—common-place stuff. Above all don’t gossip about people, praising, blaming or comparing them.”