Plutarch · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
What account of reason, Sossius Senecio, will preserve for a man who is improving in virtue an awareness of his own improvement, if the advances he makes bring no relief from folly, but vice, like a lead weight fastened with equal measure on all alike, drags down the net just the same? For no one making progress in music or grammar would recognize any lessening of his ignorance about these subjects while he is still learning, if his lack of skill remained equally present to him throughout,
nor would a sick man, whose treatment produced no ease or relief as the disease somehow yielded and relaxed, get any sense of a difference before the opposite condition had come about, entirely pure, once his body had been fully restored to health. But just as in these cases people do not, while making progress, perceive the change if they are being lifted, as it were, out from under a burden on a balance-scale moving toward the opposite state without their realizing it, so too in philosophy
one must suppose there is neither progress nor any awareness of progress, if the soul lets go of nothing and is not in the least purged of its folly, but instead continues to make use of unmixed evil until it has grasped the good in its pure and perfect form. For it is not in a mere fleeting moment of time that the wise man shifts to the disposition of virtue, of which no small part is removed even over a long span, and then suddenly escapes the whole of vice at once. And yet, you surely know that those who make this argument again cause themselves great trouble and great perplexities about the moment that escapes notice, in which a man has not yet grasped that he himself has become wise, but is ignorant of it and remains in doubt, given that the increase comes about little by little over a long time, now taking something away
and now adding something, so that the advance toward virtue, like a journey, has crept up on him imperceptibly and gently. But if the speed and magnitude of the change were so great that the man who was worst in the morning had become best by evening, or if it should happen to someone in such a way that, having fallen asleep base, he woke up wise and could say, releasing from his soul yesterday's follies and false deceptions,
"farewell, you were nothing after all" — who could fail to recognize so great a difference occurring within himself, and a sudden blaze of understanding? For it seems to me that a man could more easily fail to notice his transformation if he became, like Caeneus, a man from a woman in answer to a prayer, than if a man who has become moderate, prudent, and courageous instead of cowardly, foolish, and unrestrained, and has changed from a beast-like life into a divine one,
should remain unaware of himself even for a moment. It is rightly said that one ought to set the stone against the level, not the level against the stone; but those who do not set their doctrines against the facts, but rather force the facts to agree with their own hypotheses when they are not naturally disposed to do so, have filled philosophy with many perplexities — and the greatest of these perplexities arises from placing all mankind, except for the one perfect man, in a single category of vice,
a doctrine under which so-called progress has become a riddle, falling only a little short of utter folly, since it makes those who are not yet freed all at once from every passion and disease appear no less wretched than those who have been released from none of the worst vices at all. These people, then, refute themselves: in their lecture-halls they hold that the injustice of Aristides is equal to that of Phalaris, and the cowardice of Brasidas equal
to that of Dolon, and, by Zeus, that Meletus's malice differs not one bit from Plato's ill-judgment; yet in life and in practical affairs they avoid and flee the one sort of men as merciless, while they trust and make use of the other sort in the greatest matters, as men worthy of much confidence. We, however, since we observe that every kind of evil, and especially the disorder and indefiniteness attending the soul, admits of more and less,
and that the stages of progress differ accordingly — just as when a shadow lightens as the wickedness recedes and reason gradually illuminates and purifies the soul — do not think it unreasonable to suppose that an awareness of the change exists, as though for men being brought up from some depth, but that this awareness involves calculations of its own. Consider the first of these straightaway. Just as men sailing with their sails set toward a vast expanse of sea measure their course, as time goes on, against the strength of the wind,
reckoning how far they are likely to have traveled in such a time under so great a force, so too in philosophy a man might make for himself a proof of progress out of the steadiness and continuity of his journey, if he makes not many pauses along the way, and then again sudden dashes and leaps, but instead smoothly and evenly keeps hold of what lies ahead and passes through it without stumbling by means of reason.
For the saying "if you lay down even a little upon a little, and do this often" was well said not only with respect to the growth of money, but it applies to everything, and especially to the increase of virtue, since reason, once habit is added, brings great and completing power; whereas the unevenness and dullness of those who philosophize produce not only pauses in their progress, as on a road, but also relapses,
since vice always presses in at its leisure wherever it finds an opening, and pushes back in the opposite direction. For the astronomers say that the planets come to a standstill once their forward motion has ceased, but in philosophy there is no interval where progress simply stops, no standing still; rather, nature, always having some motion, wishes, as on a balance-scale, to incline either toward the better, or, under the opposite influences,
to be carried off toward the worse. If, then, in accordance with the oracle given by the god — "to war with the men of Cirrha all the days and all the nights" — you find that you are in this way perpetually at war with vice, day and night, and that you have not often relaxed your guard, nor repeatedly admitted from it, as it were, heralds in the form of certain pleasures or indulgences or preoccupations under a truce,
then you would reasonably walk forward with confidence and eagerness toward what remains. And yet, even if there do occur intervals in your philosophizing, if the later ones are steadier and longer than the earlier, that is no small sign that laziness is being squeezed out by toil and practice; but the opposite is a bad sign — many frequent setbacks occurring after only a short time, as though one's eagerness were withering away. For just as the shooting
of a reed, which has the greatest impulse from the start toward smooth and continuous growth in length, at first meets with only a few collisions and obstructions over long intervals, but then, as though gasping for breath, falters upward through weakness and becomes clogged with many close-set joints as the breath of growth takes blows and tremors, so too those who at first make great forward dashes toward philosophy, but then meet many
continuous collisions and rendings, without perceiving any real difference toward the better, end up worn out and give up. "But wings, in turn, grew upon him," for one who is borne along for his own benefit and who cuts through his excuses as though they were a crowd standing in the way of the strength and eagerness of his advance. Just as, then, the sign of love beginning is not delight in the presence of the beloved — for that is common to all — but rather the pain and
anguish of being torn away, so too many are led on by philosophy and seem to lay hold of learning with great ambition, but if they are drawn away by other business and preoccupations, that passion of theirs drains away, and they bear the separation easily. But the man who has the bite of a lover's passion for his beloved would seem to you moderate and gentle while he is present and sharing in philosophy together with you; but when he is torn away and separated,
watch him then — burning, distressed, and irritable toward all his business and occupations, and pursuing philosophy in memory as though driven by an irrational longing for it. For one ought not to take delight in reasoned discourse only while present with it, as with perfumes, and then, once separated, neither seek it nor be troubled — but rather, feeling something like hunger and thirst in these separations, cling to the man who is truly making progress, whether it be
marriage, or wealth, or some friendship, or a military campaign that has come along and caused the separation. For the greater the share a man has taken on from philosophy, the more the part left behind troubles him. And closely related to this, or nearly the same thing, is the oldest indication of progress given by Hesiod — that the road is no longer steep or overly uphill, but easy and smooth and traveled with facility,
as though it were being made level by practice, and produced light and brightness in one's philosophizing out of the perplexity, wandering, and regrets that beginners in philosophy encounter at first, like men who have left behind the land they know but do not yet see clearly the land toward which they are sailing. For having let go of the common and familiar things before learning and grasping the better ones, they are often carried about in the middle,
turning back. This is said to have happened to Sextius the Roman, who had given up honors and offices in the city for the sake of philosophy, but then, in turn, chafed against philosophizing itself and found the reasoning harsh to bear at first, so that he came close to throwing himself from some height. And they tell a similar story about Diogenes of Sinope when he was beginning to philosophize: that while the Athenians were holding a festival, with public feasts and theatrical performances,
and were spending time together in revelry and all-night celebrations, he curled up in some corner as though about to sleep, and fell into a train of reasoning that shook and troubled him no small amount — that he had come, under no compulsion at all, to a laborious and strange way of life, and now sat there, by his own doing, deprived of every good thing. Then, they say, a mouse crept up and busied itself among the crumbs near
him, and he, in turn, roused his resolve and said to himself, as though rebuking and reproaching himself, "What are you saying, Diogenes? This creature feasts on your leavings, and you, noble as you are, because you are not lying drunk over there on soft flowered coverlets, lament your own condition?" So then, when such downward pulls occur not often, and the pushbacks and rallies of one's resolve against them
come quickly, as after a rout, and easily dissolve the distress and disquiet, one must consider one's progress to be secure in some way. But since it is not only from within themselves that the things which shake and turn men who philosophize toward the opposite arise out of weakness, but also the earnest advice of friends and the objections of rivals, offered in laughter and jest,
bend and soften some, and have even shaken others entirely out of philosophy altogether, it would be no small sign of progress if each man shows gentleness toward these things, and is not disturbed or stung by those who speak of and name certain age-mates flourishing at the courts of kings, or receiving dowries in marriage, or coming down to the marketplace attended by crowds for some office or
advocacy. For the man who is unshaken and unmoved by these things has already plainly taken hold of the grip that philosophy properly gives. For it is not possible to stop envying what the many admire, unless the admiration of virtue has taken root in someone. Against men, indeed, some have found the boldness to show contempt, whether out of anger or out of derangement; but of the things men admire, there is none
one can despise without a resolve that is truly firm and secure. That is why men set these things against those and take pride in themselves, as Solon did: "But we will not exchange our virtue for their wealth, since virtue is forever steadfast, while riches now belong to one man, now to another." And Diogenes compared his own move from Athens to Corinth and back again from Corinth to Athens to the Great King's residences — in spring
at Susa, in winter at Babylon, and in summer in Media. And Agesilaus said of the Great King, "How is he greater than I, unless he is also more just?" And Aristotle, writing to Antipater about Alexander, said that it belonged not to him alone to think highly of himself because he ruled over many, but no less to anyone who has correct understanding about the gods.
And Zeno, seeing Theophrastus admired for having many pupils, said, "His chorus is larger, but mine sings more in tune." So then, whenever you set the things of virtue against external things in this way and thereby pour out the envies and jealousies and the stinging, humbling feelings that trouble many who are beginning to philosophize, you make this too a great proof to yourself of your own progress. And the change in one's manner of speaking
is no small thing either. For nearly all who begin to philosophize pursue, above all, arguments aimed at reputation — some, like birds, swooping down for the brilliance and loftiness of natural philosophy out of vanity and ambition, others, as Plato says, "like puppies, delighting in pulling and tearing," rushing toward disputes and puzzles
and sophistries, while most, once they have put on dialectic, immediately provision themselves for sophistry, and some, gathering up useful facts and bits of history, go about it the way Anacharsis said the Greeks used coined money for nothing but counting — in just this way they tally up and measure out arguments, but hold nothing else to be of any benefit to themselves. And so what Antiphanes said comes to pass —
something he said of Plato's own companions. For Antiphanes used to joke that in a certain city, words spoken were instantly frozen by the cold, and only later, once they thawed, would people hear in summer what had been said in winter. He said the same held for the things spoken by Plato to young men: most people only barely came to perceive them, and late, once they had become old men. And they suffer the same thing with regard to the whole of philosophy,
until judgment, having reached a settled condition, begins to converge on and seek out the arguments that produce character and greatness of soul — arguments whose tracks, in Aesop's phrase, turn inward rather than outward. For just as Sophocles said that, having played with the grandeur of Aeschylus, and then with the bitter and artful quality of his own style, he arrived, third, at the kind of diction that is most true to character
and best — so too those who philosophize, when they pass from the showy, artful style to the kind of discourse that touches character and feeling, begin to make true and unpretentious progress. Watch, then, not only when going through the writings of philosophers and listening to their discourses, whether you attend more to words alone than to matters, and whether you leap more eagerly toward what is difficult and out of the ordinary rather than
toward what is useful, substantial, and beneficial — but also, in your engagement with poetry and history, keep watch on yourself to see whether nothing escapes you of what is aptly said toward the correction of character or the relief of passion. For just as Simonides says the bee busies itself among the flowers, seeking out golden honey, while other creatures care only for their color and scent and take nothing else, so too the philosopher
of the others who spend their time with poetry for pleasure and amusement, the man who himself finds and gathers something worth serious attention already seems, through familiarity and love of what is beautiful and akin to him, to have become discerning. As for those who resort to Plato and Xenophon for their diction alone, culling nothing else but their purity and Attic style as if it were dew or down, what else could you call them but people who love the fragrance and bloom of a drug while refusing to admit or even recognize the one that is painless and purgative? But those who are making still greater progress are able to profit not only from words but from spectacles and from everything that happens, and to gather from them what is proper and useful — as they say of Aeschylus and others like him.
Aeschylus, watching a boxing match at the Isthmus, when the theater cried out at a blow one of the boxers took, nudged Ion of Chios and said, "Do you see what training is? The man who was struck says nothing, but the spectators shout." Brasidas, having caught a mouse among some dried figs and been bitten, let it go, then said to himself, "By Heracles, how nothing is so small or weak that it will not fight back if it dares." Diogenes, seeing a man drinking from cupped hands, threw the cup out of his beggar's pouch. So it is that attentiveness and a mind kept taut make training sensitive and receptive to whatever leads toward virtue, from every direction. And this happens all the more when men mix their reasoning with their actions — not only, as Thucydides said, "making their exercises amid dangers," but also amid pleasures and rivalries, in judgments and advocacies and offices, giving themselves as it were proof of their principles, or rather making their principles real by putting them to use. Those who are still learning and working through their studies and considering what they have taken from philosophy, but then straightaway wheel it out into the marketplace or the company of young men or a royal banquet, should be thought no more to be philosophizing than those who sell drugs are practicing medicine.
Indeed such a sophist differs not at all from Homer's bird, which brings to its unfledged nestlings through its mouth whatever it has caught; and it goes badly for him, since he gains nothing of benefit for himself, and digests nothing of what he takes in. Hence it is necessary to examine whether we use reason toward ourselves usefully, and toward others not for the sake of vain reputation or out of ambition, but because we wish rather to learn something and to teach it — and especially whether the contentiousness and combativeness in our inquiries has relaxed, and whether we have stopped binding up our arguments like straps or balls to fling at one another, delighting more in striking down an opponent than in learning or teaching something. For the fairness and gentleness in such exchanges, and not contending as if in a match, nor breaking off in anger, nor mocking after refuting someone or growing bitter when refuted oneself, belong to one who is making sufficient progress.
Aristippus showed this in a certain discussion, when he had been outwitted by a man who had boldness but was otherwise foolish and half-mad. Seeing the man delighted and puffed up, he said, "For my part, I who was refuted will go away to sleep more pleasantly than you who refuted me." One should also take a test of oneself when speaking: whether, when a crowd gathers beyond expectation, we do not shrink back out of cowardice, nor lose heart when contending before few, nor, when it is necessary to speak before the people or before some magistracy, let the occasion slip through lack of preparation in expression — as they say happened with Demosthenes and Alcibiades. For Alcibiades too, though most formidable at grasping the substance of things, was less bold in expression and would hold himself back.
in the midst of his subject matter, and often, while actually speaking, in searching for and pursuing some word or phrase that eluded him, he would fall short. Homer, by contrast, was not troubled at having produced his very first verse unmetrical — such was the confidence his power gave him for what followed. It is therefore all the more likely that those whose rivalry is for virtue and nobility should attend to the occasion and the matter at hand, caring least of all for the noise and applause that greet fine phrasing. And one ought to examine not only one's words but also one's actions, to see whether there is more in them of festival display, of showing off, than of truth. For if genuine love for a boy or a woman seeks no witnesses, but enjoys its pleasure and accomplishes its longing even in secret,
it is all the more likely that the man who loves what is noble and loves wisdom, keeping company with virtue through his actions and putting it to use within himself in silence, should think greatly of himself, needing no one to praise or listen to him — unlike that man who used to call his maidservant at home and shout, "Look, Dionysia, I have stopped being vain!" So too the man who has done something graceful and clever, and then goes about recounting and displaying it everywhere, plainly still looks outward and is still drawn toward reputation; he has not yet become a spectator of virtue, nor seen her waking but only in a dream, wandering among shadows and images, and then, like someone setting up a painting for display, exhibits what he has done. It belongs, then, to the one who is progressing not only to give to a friend or benefit an acquaintance without telling others of it,
but also, having cast the one just vote among many unjust ones, and having refused a shameful request from some rich man or ruler, and having spurned gifts, and — by Zeus — having thirsted in the night and not drunk, or having struggled against the kiss of a beautiful woman or a beautiful youth, as Agesilaus did, to hold this within himself and say nothing of it. For by thus being well pleased with himself — not out of contempt but out of joy
and affection, as being sufficient both witness and spectator of noble deeds — he shows that reason is already taking root and growing within him, and that, in Democritus's phrase, he is becoming accustomed "to draw his delights from himself." Farmers, then, are more pleased to see the ears of grain bending and nodding to the ground, while those that are lifted upward by their own lightness they consider empty and boastful. So too,
among young men who wish to philosophize, those who are most empty and lack any real weight have the boldness, the bearing, the gait, and the countenance of arrogance and disdain, sparing nothing; but as they begin to be filled and to gather fruit from their studies, they lay aside their pomposity and husk. And just as when empty vessels receive liquid the air within escapes, squeezed out, so with men who are being filled
with true goods, vanity gives way and self-conceit grows softer; and as they cease to think highly of themselves on account of a beard and a cloak, they transfer their discipline to the soul instead, and turn what is biting and harsh chiefly against themselves, while dealing more gently with everyone else. The name of philosophy, and the reputation of philosophizing, they no longer seize for themselves as before, nor
claim in writing; rather, if addressed by someone else with that title, a well-bred young man, blushing, would quickly say, "I am no god — why do you liken me to the immortals?" For "of a young woman," as Aeschylus says, the eye that has tasted a man does not fail to betray its blaze; and to a young man who has tasted true progress in philosophy, these words of Sappho apply: "my tongue is broken,"
"and at once a subtle fire has run beneath my skin; my eyes see nothing, and my ears hum" — his gaze appears untroubled and gentle, and hearing him speak you would long to listen. For just as those being initiated at the outset come together amid tumult and shouting, pushing against one another, but when the sacred rites are performed and displayed they attend now with fear and silence, so too at the beginning of philosophy, and around its threshold, one sees much tumult
and chatter and boldness, as some push their way toward reputation crudely and violently; but the one who has come inside and seen the great light, as when the inner shrine is thrown open, takes on another bearing, and follows the reasoning "humbled and composed," in silence and awe, as before a god. To such men applies well what was said in jest about Menedemus: he said that the many who sail to Athens for their studies
are wise at first, then become philosophers, then rhetoricians, and as time goes on, ordinary men — the more they take hold of reason, the more they lay aside their self-conceit and vanity. Now, among those who need medical treatment, those suffering from a toothache or an injured finger go at once, on their own, to those who treat such things, while those with a fever call the doctor to their house and beg for help; but those who have fallen into melancholy
or delirium or derangement cannot even bear, in some cases, to have such men visit them, but drive them away or flee from them, not even perceiving that they are sick, so far gone is their sickness. So too, among wrongdoers, those are incurable who are hostile and savage toward those who reprove and admonish them and grow angry at them, while those who submit to it and welcome it are in a gentler state. To present oneself, though at fault,
to one's reprovers, to speak of one's own failing and lay bare one's own corruption, and not to rejoice in going unnoticed nor be content to remain unrecognized, but to confess and to entreat the one who takes hold of the matter and admonishes — this would be no small sign of progress. As Diogenes somewhere said, one in need of safety ought to seek either a devoted friend or a fiercely hostile enemy, so that, whether refuted or cared for, he might escape vice. But as for the man who,
while displaying a stain or spot on his tunic, or a torn shoe, preens himself before outsiders for an empty freedom from vanity, and, by Zeus, mocks himself as small or hunchbacked, thinking he is thereby playing the bold young man, while the inward shames of his soul — his life's deficiencies, his pettiness, his love of pleasure, his ill nature, his envies — he wraps up and hides like sores, allowing no one
to touch or even look upon them, out of fear of scrutiny — such a man has little share in progress, or rather none at all. But the one who meets these faults head-on, and above all pains and rebukes himself for his own errors, and, second best, presents himself to someone else who admonishes him, enduring it and being purified by such correction, both able and willing to be so — this man truly resembles someone scouring off and loathing his own depravity. For while it is necessary
to feel shame at and avoid even the appearance of wickedness, the man who is more troubled by the reality of vice than by his reputation does not shrink from being spoken ill of, or from speaking ill of himself, if it will make him better. There is a charming remark of Diogenes to a young man who was seen going into a tavern, and who then, to hide it, fled further into the tavern: "The further in you flee," he said, "the more you are in the
tavern." And so it is with the base: the more each of them denies his fault, the more he clothes himself in it and shuts himself up within his vice. Indeed, of the poor, those who pretend to be rich become poorer still because of their pretense; but the man who is truly making progress takes Hippocrates as his model, who confessed and wrote down his own error about the sutures of the skull, reckoning it a terrible thing
that that man, so that others might not suffer the same mistake, should denounce his own error, while he himself, on the way to being saved, should not dare to be corrected, nor to admit his own foolishness and ignorance. And indeed one would set down the sayings of Bias and of Pyrrho as signs not of mere progress but of a greater and more complete state of virtue. For the one thought his companions were making progress whenever, hearing those who reviled them,
they could take it as though the words were, "Stranger, since you seem neither base nor senseless — hail, and rejoice greatly, and may the gods grant you good fortune." And they say that Pyrrho, sailing once and in danger during a storm, pointed to a little pig on board that was calmly eating some scattered barley, and said to his companions that such freedom from disturbance is what one must secure for oneself, through reason and philosophy, if one does not wish to be shaken by whatever chance brings.
Consider too what Zeno used to say. He held that each man should judge his own progress from his dreams: whether he sees himself, in his sleep, neither taking pleasure in anything shameful nor consenting to nor doing any of the terrible and monstrous things that occur in dreams, but rather, as in the depths of an unrippled calm, the soul's imaginative and passionate part shines through clear, diffused by reason.
This too, it seems, Plato had already understood, and so he depicted and gave shape to the imaginative and irrational part of a soul that is by nature tyrannical, showing what it does in sleep: it "attempts to have intercourse with its mother," and rushes after food of every kind, transgressing every law and using its own desires as though they had been set loose — desires which, by day, law confines with shame and fear. Just as, then, well-trained
draft animals, even if their driver lets go the reins, do not attempt to turn aside and leave the road, but proceed in their accustomed order, keeping their course unstumbling, so too in those in whom the irrational part has already become obedient and gentle, tamed by reason, neither during sleep nor under the pressure of illness does it readily wish to run riot or transgress the law in following its desires,
but it keeps and remembers its training, which lends strength and firmness to its self-command. For if the body too, through training in freedom from passion, can naturally render itself and its parts obedient — as when the eyes are held back from tears at pitiful sights, and the heart from leaping in moments of fear, and the private parts are kept modestly still and cause no disturbance in the presence of beautiful men or women — how is it not
all the more likely that the soul's training of its passionate part, once it has taken hold, should, as it were, smooth over and reshape its images and impulses, pressing its effect even into sleep? Such is what is told of the philosopher Stilpo, who seemed in a dream to see Poseidon angry with him for not having sacrificed an ox, as was the custom among the Megarians; and Stilpo, not at all alarmed, said, "What are you saying, O
Poseidon? You come like a child complaining that I did not borrow money to fill the city with the smell of roasting meat, but sacrificed to you moderately, from what I actually had at home?" And indeed it seemed to him that Poseidon smiled, held out his right hand, and said that for his sake he would grant the Megarians a great catch of anchovies. To those, then, whose dreams are so auspicious and bright and untroubled, with nothing fearful or harsh or malicious or
crooked emerging from their sleep, these dreams, they say, are certain reflected gleams of their progress; whereas frenzies and terrors and ignoble flights and childish exultations, and lamentations over pitiful and strange dreams, they liken to a kind of surf and swell — the soul not yet possessing its own principle of order, but still being shaped by opinions and laws, from which, becoming most distant during sleep, it dissolves again and...
and unwound by the emotions. Examine these things yourself as well, whether they belong to progress or to some settled state that already possesses firmness and mastery, unshaken in the face of arguments. Since complete freedom from passion is a great and divine thing, while progress, as they say, resembles a certain relaxation of the passions and a gentleness, we must judge the differences by looking both at the passions themselves and at them in relation to one another.
In relation to themselves: whether we now feel desires, fears, and angers that are gentler than before, quickly removing, by reason, whatever in them is inflamed and burning. In relation to one another: whether we are now more ashamed than afraid, more given to emulation than to envy, and more fond of honor than of money, and in general whether, like singers who err by excess in the Dorian mode rather than the Lydian, we err by being too harsh rather than too soft in our way of living, too slow in our actions rather than too rash, and admirers, beyond what is fitting, of words and of men rather than despisers of them.
For just as the diversion of diseases into the less vital parts of the body is no small sign of improvement, so too the vice of those making progress seems, little by little, to be effaced as it shifts into milder passions.
For the ephors, when Phrynis had added two strings beyond the seven, asked him which he wished to give them leave to cut out, the upper or the lower; and in our case both the upper and the lower parts need some pruning, if we are to settle into the middle and the moderate. Progress relaxes first the excesses and the sharp extremities of the passions, toward which those who rage most fiercely are, in the words of Sophocles, most tightly strung.
Moreover, it has already been said that turning one's judgments toward deeds, and not leaving words as mere words but making them into actions, is especially characteristic of progress. A proof of this is, first, zeal for what is praised, and readiness to do what we admire, while being unwilling even to tolerate what we blame. For while it was natural for all Athenians to praise the daring and courage of Miltiades, Themistocles, by saying that the trophy of Miltiades did not let him sleep but roused him from his slumbers, showed himself at once not merely praising or admiring, but also emulating and imitating. One should therefore think one is making little progress so long as our admiration for those who succeed remains idle and produces no motion of its own toward imitation.
For neither is bodily desire active unless jealousy accompanies it, nor is praise of virtue fervent and effective unless it goads and stings, and instead of envy produces emulation, a longing to be filled with what is noble. For it is not right that only the heart of the philosopher's hearer should be turned, and tears fall, as Alcibiades used to say happens with him under the influence of words; rather, the one who is truly making progress, comparing himself more with the deeds and actions of a good and perfect man, is stung at the same time by the awareness of his own deficiency, yet rejoices because of hope and longing, and is full of a restless impulse, able, in the words of Simonides, "like a foal running beside its dam," to run alongside the good man, longing almost to grow together with him.
For this too is a peculiar mark of true progress: to love and cherish the character of those whose deeds we emulate, and always, with goodwill that renders honor and good report, to be assimilated to it. But whoever has rivalry and envy instilled toward his betters should know that he is stung by jealousy for some reputation or power, not honoring or admiring virtue itself. When, then, we begin to love the good in such a way that we not only, following Plato, consider blessed the self-controlled man himself, "and blessed too the one who hears the words that come from the self-controlled man's mouth," but also, admiring and cherishing even his bearing, his walk, his look, and his smile, are eager to fit and weld ourselves to him, then we must believe we are truly making progress.
And still more, if we admire good men not only when they are prospering, but, just as lovers embrace even the lisping speech and the pallor of those in their prime, and just as the tears and the downcast, grief-stricken, afflicted look of Panthea struck Araspes with amazement, so too we should not shrink in fear from the exile of Aristides, nor the imprisonment of Anaxagoras, nor the poverty of Socrates, nor the condemnation of Phocion, but, deeming virtue worthy of love even along with these things, go to meet it, uttering over each instance the line of Euripides: "Alas, for the noble, how all that is theirs is fair."
For anyone who, up to the point of not being distressed even by what appears dreadful, but rather admiring and emulating it, has reached this pitch of enthusiasm, no one could any longer turn away from noble things. And already, close upon such dispositions, follows the habit, when setting out upon certain actions, or taking up office, or meeting with fortune, of setting before one's eyes those who are or have been good men, and reflecting: "What would Plato have done in this case? What would Epaminondas have said? How would Lycurgus or Agesilaus have appeared?" — adorning and reshaping themselves as before mirrors, and correcting some ignoble tone of voice or resisting some passion. For just as those who have thoroughly learned the names of the Idaean Dactyls use them against their fears as apotropaic charms, calmly reciting each one in turn, so the thought and memory of good men, swiftly present and taking hold of those who are making progress amid every passion and every perplexity, keeps them upright and unfallen.
Let this too, then, be for you a sign of one advancing toward virtue. In addition to this, no longer being greatly disturbed, nor blushing, nor hiding or disguising anything about oneself when a man of reputation and self-control suddenly appears, but facing such situations boldly, carries with it a certain confirmation from one's own conscience. Alexander, for instance, so it seems, on seeing a messenger running up to him overjoyed and holding out his right hand, said, "What, my good fellow, are you about to announce to me — that Homer has come back to life?" — believing that nothing was lacking to his own achievements except a poet to celebrate them after his death. But in a young man improving in character, no love takes root more than the love of adorning himself before noble and good men, and of making his household, his table, his wife, his amusements and his earnest pursuits, and his words spoken or written, open to their view — so that he even feels a pang, remembering a dead father or teacher, that they were not given to see him in such a disposition, and he would pray for nothing from the gods so much as that they, brought back to life, should become witnesses of his life and his actions. Just the opposite, in turn, is true of those who have neglected and corrupted themselves: not even in sleep can they look calmly and fearlessly upon their own kin.
Take, then, in addition to what has been said, no small sign, if you wish: no longer regarding any of one's failings as trivial, but being cautious and attentive to all of them. For just as those who have despaired of becoming wealthy set no store by small expenditures, thinking that nothing great will come of adding a little to a little, while hope, as it draws nearer to its goal, increases along with the wealth one's love of wealth, so too in matters concerning virtue: the man who does not readily concede much to the excuse "what difference does this make?" or "this time it is so, but next time better," but pays attention to each particular, and if ever vice, even in the smallest of his faults, creeps in and wins pardon for itself, chafes and is vexed, shows plainly that he is already acquiring for himself something pure, and does not think it right to be sullied in any way whatsoever. Whereas thinking that nothing is important where shame is concerned makes people careless and heedless about small things.
For indeed, in building a rough stone wall or a coping, it makes no difference whether one throws in any chance piece of wood, or a common stone, or sets underneath some broken slab fallen from a tomb — which is what the base sort of people do, heaping together and piling up every piece of work and action as it happens to come. But those who are making progress, for whom already, as for some sacred and royal edifice of life, a golden foundation has been laid, admit nothing at random among what occurs, but bring and fit each thing into place, as it were, by the plumb-line of reason. It is of this, I think, that Polyclitus was speaking when he said that the work is hardest at the point where the clay comes to the fingernail.