How to Think Like a Roman Emperor: The Stoic Philosophy of Marcus Aurelius

by Donald J. Robertson

If someone hates you, Marcus says, that’s their problem. Your only concern is to avoid doing anything to deserve being hated.

NATURE GAVE US THE VIRTUES TO DEAL WITH ANGER

The main antidote to anger for Marcus is the Stoic virtue of kindness, which along with fairness makes up the cardinal social virtue of justice.

However, what other people do is not strictly up to us, so we should exercise kindness and goodwill toward others with the reserve clause in mind, by adding the caveat “Fate permitting.”

He views this as another dichotomy: either we can educate the other person and change their opinions or we can’t. If we can teach them a better way, then we should do so; if not, we should accept that fact, without anger. Marcus therefore shows great consideration for the person with whom he’s angry, and he thinks about tactful ways in which they might be reconciled.

IT’S MADNESS TO EXPECT OTHERS TO BE PERFECT

to expect bad people not to do bad things is madness because that is wishing for the impossible. Moreover, to accept their wrongdoing toward others while expecting them never to wrong you is both inconsiderate and foolish.

Marcus, by contrast, responded calmly and confidently, as if he expected these things to happen in life.

Looking back, it seems more obvious to me now than ever before that the lives of most men are tragedies of their own making. Men let themselves either get puffed up with pride or tormented by grievances. Everything they concern themselves with is fragile, trivial, and fleeting. We’re left with nowhere to stand firm. Amid the torrent of things rushing past, there’s nothing secure in which we can invest our hopes.

Later, gentle Apollonius would remind me of a saying from Epictetus: “Only a madman seeks figs in winter.” Such is one who pines for his child when his loan has been returned to Nature. I loved them, by all means, but learned also to accept that they were mortal.

I wanted to keep them forever, although I always knew that they were mortal. Yet the heart that cries “Oh let my child be safe!” is like an eye wanting only to gaze on pleasant sights, refusing to accept that all things change, whether we like it or not.

The wise man sees life and death as two sides of the same coin. When Xenophon, one of Socrates’s noblest students, received word that his son had fallen in battle, what did he say? “I knew my son was mortal.” He grasped so firmly the precept that what is born must surely also perish.

Fear of death does us more harm than death itself because it turns us into cowards, whereas death merely returns us to Nature. The wise and good enjoy life, without a doubt, but nevertheless are unafraid of dying.

For it’s not death that upsets us but our judgments about it. Socrates did not fear death; he saw that it was neither good nor bad. On the morning of his execution, he casually informed his friends that philosophy is a lifelong meditation on our own mortality. True philosophers, he said, fear their own demise least of all men. For those who love wisdom above everything else are continually in training for the end. To practice death in advance is to practice freedom and to prepare oneself to let go of life gracefully.

Things external to our own character such as health, wealth, and reputation are neither good nor bad. They present us with opportunities, which the wise man uses well and the fool badly. Though men desire wealth and other such things, these no more improve a man’s soul than a golden bridle improves a horse.

It must be nearing dawn outside but I can no longer tell. My eyes have grown so feeble, surrounded by darkness on every side. I won’t live to see another sunrise. It doesn’t matter.