Stoics Behaving Badly

The longer we spend in the movement that is the revival of Stoicism as a philosophy of life, the more likely it is that we will encounter fellow members acting in a way which seems contrary to Stoic principles. We may have thoroughly absorbed the reminders from Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, that such conduct is to be expected; yet when it occurs, there is an inevitable element of shock.

Another reason to expect such an event, is that if we carefully attend to the biographical record of prominent Stoics, we may be faced with conduct which seems positively anti-Stoic. The biographical mode, exemplified in Ryan Holiday and Stephen Hanselman, Lives of the Stoics (2020), has intended to present prominent Stoics from history as role models. But when we look closely, the results can be disconcerting. Of course, we need to treat the biographical tradition with care, but we should not discard data just because it represents an inconvenience.

This essay will explore some case studies, asking: What conclusions should we draw from the biographical evidence? If apparently negative, can we reframe the situation through another Stoic lens? Does this evidence make a difference to how we should regard the success of Stoicism – to use Hadot’s expression – in rectifying people’s characters?

Founding Fathers: Zeno and Chrysippus

We know that the early Stoa had been heavily influenced by the figure of Socrates, as an exemplar of virtuous living, sociability, and humility. Yet Zeno of Citium seems to have been the polar opposite, personally, of Socrates.

The translation of Diogenes Laertius by R.D. Hicks, from the 1920s, has evidently watered down the sense here, indicating only mild ill-humor on Zeno’s part. But the Greek is far stronger, to a degree difficult to convey in English; stugnos means “hated.” The father of Stoicism, then, was actually, at least to some, the object of visceral loathing. No doubt some of those people were reacting to his judgment of their rationality or their morality, and perhaps the feeling was mutual; but surely it is confronting to think of Zeno as cruel and harsh. The same, however, could undoubtedly be said about other Stoic role-models, such as the early Cynics, or Cato the Younger, whose uncompromising stances at times invited enemies. It is perhaps inevitable that people of stern virtue will antagonize many.

We are also told that Zeno disliked physical proximity to others:

This seems a long way from the spirit of Stoic oikeiōsis, the key principle of bringing others into our intentional circles of concern. And what about the good emotional states in Stoicism: joy, discretion, and intentional focus? There seems very little that is positive about this description of Zeno’s personal interactions; although we should note that from a strictly Stoic viewpoint, in any event, only the Sage would experience such positive states.

When we come to Chrysippus, once again we find a less than attractive picture.

This picture represents a direct contrast with Socrates, who always claimed that he was unable to teach, refusing to take payment for his discourse; Chrysippus must have been aware of this tradition. Yet, on the one hand, few Stoics could afford to teach for free; on the other, Socrates had invited criticism for neglecting his family – one of his key roles from a later Stoic point of view – in putting himself at risk (Crito 45d). The Socratic precedent, then, could reasonably have been replaced by more practical considerations.

R.D. Hicks may have watered down less pleasant biographical material, but at least he included it. Holiday and Hanselman, for their part, fail entirely to mention these less appealing features, leaning into the “endearingly quirky professor” image in their potted biographies of Zeno and Chrysippus. While reporting the quote from Chrysippus about being the best teacher (p. 47), Holiday and Hanselman omit Diogenes Laertius’s “very arrogant” description; in fact, they state the opposite: “Chrysippus [like Cleanthes] was humble” (p. 45).

Adviser to Caesar

One of our sources about ancient Stoicism is the material believed to have been prepared by Arius Didymus (first century BCE), a Stoic philosopher who was a personal adviser to Octavian (later Augustus). It was a period of bitter civil war, with campaigns throughout the Roman world. Shortly after defeating Mark Antony and Cleopatra VII of Egypt in 30 BCE, Octavian entered Alexandria in triumph. Octavian claimed to wish to spare the great city for the sake of Arius, an Alexandrian citizen.

Plutarch tells us that the fates of Antony and Cleopatra’s heirs hung in the balance. A son of Antony’s was brutally put to death. Cleopatra’s children were placed under armed guard. At this juncture, we are told, Arius gave a cryptic hint: “Too many Caesars is not good.” This was both a witty pun on a line of Homer about too many leaders, and a reference to Caesarion, Cleopatra’s son with Julius Caesar. Octavian took this as advice that he should eliminate Caesarion, which within weeks he did (Plutarch 80-2).

A court philosopher in such dangerous times must, no doubt, be realistic; part of his role must have been to provide cover for what his boss wanted or planned to do anyway. But to recommend – as a joke, no less – the coldblooded murder of a teenage potential rival (and notionally a relative, through Octavian’s adoption by Julius Caesar)? Once again, what would Socrates – who, at least in Plato’s account, maintained that the rulers who execute and exile and impoverish people, must be unhappy men – have said? 

In Arius’s defence, he may have been following the more pragmatic approaches outlined by Cicero, whose work on moral responsibility (drawing partly from works by the Stoic, Panaetius) had explored cases in which obligations seem opposed. With recent civil violence in mind, Cicero had written:

Cicero’s detailed treatment of the dilemmas facing statesmen indicates the difficulties which Octavian and his advisers faced. It was certainly no simple matter to navigate the outcomes of civil war, and Octavian – still young himself – would have been highly unusual among Roman leaders had he achieved a bloodless takeover in Alexandria.

For their part, Holiday and Hanselman do not attempt to extenuate the matter, admitting “It was [a] dirty business” (p. 171): surprisingly mild censure, but we should be thankful that they addressed it at all.

Stoic on Stoic

During the 60s CE, the emperor Nero’s increasingly erratic and violent rule erupted in one confrontation after another. A prominent Stoic philosopher, Publius Egnatius Celer, gave evidence against a Stoic senator, Barea Soranus, and his daughter Servilia, accused of having been friends with the Stoic-aligned senator Rubellius Plautus, and of stirring up a revolt in Asia.

Soranus had served as governor of the province of Asia in the early 60s. Nero had ordered one of his offsiders to plunder the renowned artworks of the great city of Pergamum. Soranus, as well as displaying energy in opening up the harbour at Ephesus, had disobeyed Nero’s order to punish Pergamum’s aggrieved citizens (Tacitus, Annals 16.23). This was the pretext for the charge of inciting a revolt.

The historian Tacitus describes Celer as a fake Stoic:

To compound the scandal, Celer had been the teacher of Soranus: “Celer had been his teacher in philosophy, then given evidence against Barea Soranus, thus betraying and profaning the friendship of which he claimed to be a teacher” (Tacitus, Histories 4.10). Public opinion was outraged, both by Celer’s trashing of the trust relationship with his student, and also as Soranus was highly respected in his own right. But informers and accusers had the upper hand in an environment of suspicion; in the end Soranus was condemned to death, and took his own life.

This injustice was, in due course, remedied, by none other than another Stoic philosopher, Musonius Rufus. As Tacitus tells it, it was during the tense period following the “year of the four emperors,” in early 70, when Musonius – only recently returned to Rome from exile – used his status alongside the successful contender, the Stoic-adjacent Vespasian, to bring an accusation in the senate against Celer (Evans).

For his part, Celer was defended by the respected Cynic philosopher, Demetrius, but Musonius proved the more persuasive:

Public opinion notwithstanding, it is a point considerably in Celer’s favor that Demetrius spoke in his defence. Our main source on Demetrius is none other than Seneca, who had fervently admired him:

Demetrius, the best of men, I carry about with me…I talk with him, half-naked as he is, and hold him in high esteem. Why should I not hold him in high esteem? I have found that he lacks nothing (Letters 62.3).

Does the justice brought about by one Stoic, compensate for the injustice committed by another? Musonius may have been motivated, as well as by the desire to vindicate Soranus personally, to uphold the reputation of the school: Stoicism itself, in a way, had been on trial during this most difficult of political times. Musonius’s own principles were never in question: his brief favour with Vespasian was soon over, and he was exiled yet again during the 70s.

Conclusions 

While it may be disconcerting to recognize that several of the ancient Stoics known to us fell short of the standards we might expect, we may find a partial answer within Stoic social theory.

The four Stoic roles encompass a large range of variation within the roles each of us occupy, according to Epictetus:

1. Humans (Discourses 2.10.1-2)
2. A citizen of the world (2.10.3)
3. ‘Professions’ (e.g. family relationships, 2.10.7-8)
4. Official and unofficial positions (2.10.10)

This must, from the start, have entailed the greatest possible diversity among those attracted to the ancient philosophical school. Some newcomers will have been cheery and easy-going; some shy and introverted; still others displaying a high opinion of themselves. Stoicism may have particularly attracted men, having experienced negative results from anger, who sought resources towards more productive interactions, a dynamic we see today in some Stoic settings. 

This tendency might have been particularly pronounced in the school’s pioneers who were attempting to shape an ambitious new worldview, coherently comprehending virtue, cognition, emotion, theology, and nature. For Zeno and Chrysippus, steering the boat while still building it, taking hits from rivals all the while, the challenges must have been intense. If, as seems likely, they were men of morose tendencies and a pronounced intellectual and combative bent, perhaps it was too much also to expect them to interact with the friendliness and humility of Socrates. “After all,” they might have said, “Socrates never started a school” – a reflection which might only have caused Socrates, by now buttonholing some unsuspecting interlocutor in the Elysian Fields, to smile.

It seems evident enough that Arius Didymus and Publius Egnatius Celer may, at some stage in their distinguished careers, have become distorted in their perceptions of their roles. We cannot imagine Musonius Rufus, Epictetus, or Marcus Aurelius counselling the murder, prosecution, or exile of blameless people. Yet part of the answer, as we have seen in considering Arius, is the tightrope to be walked by leaders attempting to end a bloody civil war. 

Another aspect must be that power and influence are very seductive, and that there are few people who saw this as clearly as Socrates had done. In the Apology, he explains that his guardian spirit, his daimon, advised him not to seek public office, correctly, as he knows he would have been killed if he had entered the public sphere (31c-d). The only occasion on which he had done so, Socrates had refused to go along with oligarchic vengeance against an innocent man, Leon of Salamis (32c-d).

After Socrates, only the Sage would in all particulars fulfil the Stoic template. And, after all, we ourselves are in the same position as all the other faulty Stoics: falling well short of perfect reasoning, perfect understanding, and perfect virtue.

As Marcus continued, following the section quoted early in this essay:

As so often, when we are ready to blame others, we should most carefully examine our own role in whatever the matter may have been. Such experiences are always opportunities to improve our own responses. 

This, after all, is the only recourse we have. We cannot change the other person, who, for whatever reason, did what seemed good to him; the only person we can transform is our self, through the “spiritual exercises” which Hadot insisted lay at the heart of ancient philosophy. These include the kind of regular reminders, which Marcus wrote to himself, about how the cosmos is, and how people – even in the Stoic community – are. 

Above all, they include the attitude which Marcus endeavoured to instil in himself: of radical gratitude for whatever the gods have provided. The problem of “Stoics behaving badly” is not with Stoicism, but with our own shortcomings in the art of living. We do not blame the art of painting for the unimpressive, if not downright poor, efforts sometimes produced by artists: nor, then, is philosophy at fault for the unsurprising fact that its adherents at times act amiss.

Finally, we may look elsewhere at times for our good examples in living. The most influential of Marcus Aurelius’s role models made no pretensions to being a Stoic, a philosopher, or any kind of intellectual: Antoninus Pius. Like Socrates, Antoninus – had it occurred to him – would have disclaimed any moral or personal authority; yet his perceptive Caesar could see how truly excellent a leader he was: a teacher through his attitudes and actions, rather than in lectures or books.