On Emotions
By: Jackie Thornhill
Tags: Ideas, Life, Culture, Emotions, Philosophy

In the history of human thought, there is a central question that has been answered in different ways, approached from different perspectives, and discussed in different terms by students of all ages, philosophies, and disciplines.

This question is perhaps best summed up as, “what is the ideal life?” For a utilitarian, the ideal life is spent enjoying the most pleasure possible while experiencing the minimum amount of suffering possible.

Aristotle would disagree, remarking that adherents to this philosophy choose “a life for grazing animals.” (Ethics, 1:5) To him, the ideal life is spent in happy contemplation, moderating the deficiencies and excesses of our impulses and emotions to achieve a virtuous mean.

Stoics tend to agree with much of Aristotle’s philosophy, though they venture even further from his willingness to assign pleasures and emotions value. For Epictetus, enjoyable and negative emotions alike are devoid of value, and instead of seeking to manipulate the material world that we experience through our human embodiment, we should strive to become indifferent to the outcomes of events that are outside of our control.

In his book of condensed wisdom, Enchiridion, he writes, “don’t demand that things happen as you wish, but wish that they happen as they do happen, and you will go on well.” To understand the practical applicability of the differences between Stoic and Aristotelian perspectives on the ideal life, we must first examine both the similarities and distinctions between the two philosophies.

In both schools of thought, lessons are intended to be practically applied to reach what Aristotle would call eudaimonia, the good life. This best possible life can supposedly be experienced when we dedicate ourselves to exercising our natural capability of rational, logical thought and deliberation, the virtue that is an end in itself.

By sharpening our intellect, they argue, we can best equip ourselves to remain immune to the emotions, desires, and vices that would otherwise derail our focus and prevent us from perfecting our virtue.

Building off of this shared philosophical framework, Aristotle describes the value he sees as inherent in several different types of good. “Goods are divided, then, into three types, some called external, some goods of the soul, others goods of the body. We say that the goods of the soul are goods most fully, and more than the others, and we take actions and activities of the soul to be [goods] of the soul.” (Ethics, 1:8)

Aristotle’s valuation of what he calls “goods of the soul” here is crucial, as he clearly assigns these goods greater value than their counterparts — external goods, and goods of the body. It is also important to note that though he does not assign them the same value as goods of the soul, he also clearly assigns some value to both external and bodily goods.

Therefore, we can speak of what Aristotle defines to be good as existing in multiple tiers, the lowest of which come about only as a result of some primary good, and the highest of which exist purely within the deepest parts of our minds and souls.

The distinguishing factor of these secondary goods is that they only hold value because they are pursued for the sake of other goods, whereas primary goods such as virtue of intellect and morality, are pursued only for the sake of themselves.

Aristotle also makes the case that in order to obtain the greatest goods, we must first possess at least some of the lesser goods. He believes that one cannot become truly virtuous if fortune has dealt them a crushingly tragic and limiting hand in the form of circumstances outside of their control because they lack the prerequisites necessary to achieve eudaimonia.

The question of how to assign value to different goods is where Stoics begin to diverge from Aristotle’s ideas in their characterization of the preferable. A relevant aspect of Epictetus’ writing is his tendency to focus on the difference between that which is inside and outside of our control, the latter of which he sums up as, “body, property, reputation, command, and, in one word, whatever are not our own actions. (Enchiridion, I)

These are some of the aspects of life that Aristotle would categorize as secondary goods, not entirely devoid of value but also not virtuous pursuits in their own right. Stoics, however, take this distinction much farther, saying that not only are these things out of our control, they are entirely unworthy of our pursuit and without any value whatsoever.

A Stoic like Epictetus would take issue with Aristotle, and would not concede that anything other than virtue itself is worthy of being assigned value, and would find any focus placed on those things that are bodily or external to us to be both a significant distraction as well as a source of great suffering.

When we pursue or seek to avoid such things that relate to our body, reputation, and that which lies outside of our own decision making power, we set ourselves up for failure.

“Remember that following desire promises the attainment of that of which you are desirous; and aversion promises the avoiding that to which you are averse. However, he who fails to obtain the object of his desire is disappointed, and he who incurs the object of his aversion wretched.” (Enchiridion, II)

While Stoics are willing to acknowledge that which lies outside our sphere of influence as at least relevant enough to discuss, they often adopt a flippant tone when mentioning what they define as preferable.

In a segment from a conversation with Florus, who is considering whether to participate in a play put on by Nero, Epictetus says “what are you asking me, then? ‘Is death or life to be regarded as preferable?’ I answer: Life. ‘Pain or pleasure?’ I answer: Pleasure. ‘But if I don’t agree to play a role in the tragedy, I’ll lose my head’ Go and play that role then, but I won’t play one.” (Discourses, 1:2)

In this brief exchange, Epictetus expresses a key tenet of Stoic philosophy. Considering that the desire to live instead of die, or to enjoy pleasure instead of suffer through pain, is an inherent characteristic of being human, Epictetus makes it clear that he acknowledges this reality by describing these desires as merely preferable.

Stoics are willing to concede that it is reasonable to prefer that which we desire, while stipulating that what we prefer both lacks inherent value on the ground that we prefer it alone and is irrelevant relative to the role we have been assigned to carry out in life.

This disagreement over how far we can extend our definition of good is the first major crack that begins to run through the otherwise largely cohesive philosophies put forward by Aristotle and the Stoics.

Moving beyond the discussion of how to define the good and the preferable and into an analysis of the role of our emotions, the crack grows into a chasm as the two schools of thought grapple with some irreconcilable disagreements and end up coming to dramatically different conclusions.

A central notion to Aristotle’s moral philosophy is that moderation is the key to virtue. By moderating the deficiencies and excesses of certain desires and emotions that draw us toward them, we can strike a balance that he describes as “a mean because it aims at the intermediate condition in feelings and actions.” (Ethics, 2:9)

For example, when it comes to entertaining others, Aristotle describes a deficient man as having a disposition of “boorishness,” while a man with excess desire to entertain engages in “buffoonery,” and one who moderates these two conflicting extremes exhibits the virtue of “wit.”

Similarly, when it comes to pain and pleasure, the excess is “licentiousness,” the deficient is “insensible,” and the mean is “temperance.” In regards to generosity, the excess is “prodigality” and the deficiency is “illiberality,” while the mean is “liberality.” This formula holds for a number of other virtues that Aristotle identifies throughout his work.

As he continues to explain his method of moderating deficiencies and excesses to achieve means that he defines as virtuous, Aristotle concludes that “getting angry, or giving and spending money, is easy and everyone can do it; but doing it to the right person, in the right amount, at the right time, for the right end, and in the right way is no longer easy, nor can everyone do it.” (Ethics 2:9)

The relevant part of this passage for our purposes is not the specifics of how one is to determine when one is supposed to get angry or spend money, but rather the underlying assumption the statement is predicated upon, which assumes that there is a right circumstance under which one ought to be angry.

Aristotle’s idea that virtue is a mean state of excess and deficient emotions and desires, particularly anger, is so contrary to the Stoic conception of virtue that at one point, Seneca takes direct aim at him. “Aristotle says that some emotions, if well used, serve as arms.”

“That would be true if, like weapons of war, they could be picked up and put down at will. But these arms which Aristotle would give to virtue go to war by themselves, without awaiting the hand of the warrior. They possess us; they are not our possessions.” (Dialogues, 103)

In his refutation of Aristotle’s definition of virtue, Seneca highlights the strictness of the Stoic doctrine on emotions. Though Aristotle sees emotions as a natural part of life, to be incorporated into our habits and channeling toward productive ends, Stoics see emotions as an inhibition of our ability to practice reason.

Seneca is explicit in articulating his assertion here, clearly taking the position that it is not possible to be the master of our anger, when the nature of anger means that it becomes our master if we allow it in.

Ultimately, the debate between the two schools centers on the question of whether our emotions are fundamentally incompatible with our ability to exercise reason. Aristotle argues that these two forces are not incompatible, and that our exercise of reason goes hand in hand with our management and moderation of our emotions, comprising the ideal formula to reach a state of balanced happiness.

Stoics, on the other hand, argue that emotions are best left out of the equation entirely, and call for us to prevent them from taking hold in the first place. They draw the distinction that, “emotion is not a matter of being moved by impressions received, but of surrendering oneself to them and following up the chance movement.” (Seneca, 105)

This distinction is important, because it allows Stoics to concede that we will have natural gut reactions to bad things that happen, without conceding that we must allow our initial reaction to evolve into a full-fledged emotion.

This means the disagreement is not about whether one method of striving for virtue is more or less effective than the other, but whether each is even feasible to begin with. Stoics would probably argue something along the lines of Seneca’s remark that, “it is easier to excuse the forces of ruin than to govern them.” (100)

Aristotle would likely find the Stoic method as unrealistic as they find his, considering his fundamental premise that obtaining secondary goods is a necessary part of the journey to eudaimonia, the hallmark of which is a temperate, moderate existence.

Continuing to focus on these divergent notions of virtue, we return to Aristotle’s claim that some secondary goods — all that are not virtues of the soul — are necessary prerequisites to achieving the ultimate good, virtue of intellect and eudaimonia.

This perspective on virtue has potentially troubling implications for those who, due to external circumstances outside of their control, are not capable of acquiring any secondary goods. It seems that Aristotle leaves no room for those whose fate has left them without the opportunity to secure any external or bodily goods to eventually achieve the highest good. To him, there is a limit to how much hardship you can endure while still remaining capable of virtue.

Epictetus appears to take the opposite position on this issue, advising his followers to “remember that you are an actor in a drama, of such a kind as the author pleases to make it. If short, of a short one; if long, of a long one. If it is his pleasure you should act a poor man, a cripple, a governor, or a private person, see that you act it naturally. For this is your business, to act well the character assigned you; to choose it is another’s.” (Enchiridion, XVII)

Through this metaphor, it is clear that rather than focusing on the circumstantial, bodily measures of our existence as a means of determining potential for virtue, the Stoics instead value the way in which we respond to our embodiment and the role we find ourselves playing.

In fact, Epictetus appears to take almost the polar opposite position to Aristotle here, as he argues that our responsibility is to act out the role we were assigned to the best of our ability as our nature dictates.

Therefore, the misfortune that might disqualify one for eudaimonia to Aristotle could be crucial to qualifying that same person by Epictetus’ measure, depending on how they handled their misfortune. This is a result of the two schools differing perspectives regarding the value of secondary goods, and the preferable.

Additionally, if one is to follow Aristotle’s logic through to its conclusion, many who have been dealt a tragic hand in life and were robbed of the opportunity to obtain virtue would likely find themselves wishing that things are different than they are.

Stoics are explicitly clear on the issue, with Epictetus advising not to “demand that things happen as you wish, but wish that they happen as they do happen, and you will go on well.” (Enchiridion, VIII)

Whereas Aristotle would not allow for the possibility that a person who is the subject of such misfortune could achieve eudaimonia simply by changing their perspective, Epictetus would likely not even concede that what is seen as misfortune is in fact so, and he would make the case that perspective is everything when it comes to virtue.

Marcus Aurelius touches on this idea as well, writing “the human soul violates itself most of all when it becomes, as far as it can, a separate tumor or growth upon the universe; for to be discontented with anything that happens is to rebel against that Nature which embraces, in some part of itself, all other natures.” (Meditations, 2.16)

Comparing a wayward soul to a “growth upon the universe,” Aurelius perfectly expresses the Stoic principle of indifference to that which happens by illustrating the ugliness of a lack of indifference. If everything happens according to nature, as the Stoics hold, there is no reason for our souls to ever be discontent with our external circumstances.

A recurring theme throughout Epictetus’ writing is our tendency to have our perspective altered by sensory input and external constructs through which we interact with the world. “When the water is disturbed, the ray of light gives the appearance of being disturbed, but that isn’t really the case.” (Discourses, 151)

Touching on a similar theme, Buddhist monk Pema Chodron writes, “it isn’t the content of our movie that needs our attention, it’s the projector.” This concept lies at the heart of the Stoic worldview, which holds that the only thing over which we have ultimate control during our time in this world is our perspective.

Therefore, regardless of how horrific, upsetting, distracting, or depressing any given circumstances might seem, the circumstances are out our control, but our ability to change how we view them remains within our control.

When it comes to my own analysis, I tend to have more sympathy for the the Stoic position on emotions, though I am also sympathetic to the Aristotelian position and can see why many find it more attractive. It seems that we tend to base our preconceptions about what ideas we are or are not willing to honestly consider on our lived experience, of which emotions are often a large part.

The issue, however, isn’t that most people believe we have no control over our emotions, it’s the semantics of the Stoic distinction that make it so difficult to accept. After sharing the two perspectives with a few trusted individuals, they all came to roughly the same conclusion: we can’t control whether we experience emotions or not, but we can control how they affect our actions.

Because we experience emotions so often, and as a result of so many different circumstances, it’s easiest to believe that their onset is outside of our control. However, we are also naturally inclined to believe in free will and self-determination, so we tend to reject the extreme conclusion that emotions are entirely outside of our control.

The people I spoke to seemed to moderate these two conflicting intuitions by putting forward the argument that we can’t control whether we have emotions, but we can control how they affect our actions, a proposition that Stoics would take issue with.

Overall, people refused to concede that emotions are actually a process spurred by impressions, instead asserting that emotions themselves are the impressions. They essentially rejected the Stoic position, and when presented with the alternative Aristotelian perspective, argued that Stoics were merely drawing a distinction without a difference and that Aristotle put things more clearly.

In doing so, they were generally unwilling to concede that we have control over whether we experience certain emotions or not. I found this to be the most crucial distinction in intuition between myself and those I discussed the topic with.

Of course, in my opinion all of these distinctions are secondary to their practical applicability. I would argue that many of the people with whom I debated the topic are far more in control of their impulses than I am. Therefore, even if they incorrectly believe that they’re controlling an emotion rather than preventing an impression from becoming an emotion, this doesn’t prevent them from moderating their impulses and acting rationally.

It may, however, limit their ability to achieve the stoic ideal of virtue as it creates a paradigm through which they are always complacent with experiencing some emotions. An ideal stoic would simply never experience negative emotions, as they would respond to bodily agitations by rationalizing their circumstances and remaining indifferent.

I believe that our ability to use reason is the most powerful force on Earth, and that the human mind is capable of maintaining its capacity for reason in even the direst circumstances. Reason, rather than impulse, is what has truly allowed us to survive in a world where we are physically inferior to many of our neighbors, but superior in our mind’s capacity to shape reality.

Reason, however, is also hard. It may come naturally to us, but we are not naturally inclined to cultivate it. In any given moment, it will always be easier to engage in the mind-numbing exercise of rationalizing impulses.

Our mind, seeking the easy way out, prefers to rationalize the flawed impressions our senses present us with rather than concede our own fallibility and search for greater truth. That is why it’s so tempting to believe that if something horrible happens, we lose our ability to reason.

There is at least a grain of truth in that assumption, as we can’t control the impression a situation will leave. We can, however, always control whether we allow our minds to become infected with emotion. We can endure bodily agitation after bodily agitation indefinitely, as many humans have, without losing our ability to reason.

That being said, while I do believe the Stoic ideal of indifference is achievable, I also don’t think that it is necessarily always the ideal way to go about dealing with things.

In my own life, there have been many circumstances in which I’ve found myself where it was obvious that the ideal course of action was to maintain my composure and prevent any impressions from evolving into emotions. Yet, there have also been times when it seemed ideal for me to allow myself to experience some degree of emotion.

To illustrate these ideas I will compare two individuals who both endured extreme circumstances, beginning with someone who was regularly overcome with emotion and accomplished a great deal. Without fail, Abraham Lincoln consistently dominates the top of historians’ Presidential rankings, and he is an enduring puzzle piece in the national narrative that our children learn growing up.

Yet, for all he did as President, one feature of Lincoln’s character that is easy to overlook in the process of myth making is the intense clinical depression from which he suffered his entire life. In an article exploring the topic, Joshua Shenk described Lincoln as a man who “often wept in public and recited maudlin poetry.”

At one point, Lincoln sent a letter to a law partner in which he wrote that, “I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would not be one cheerful face on the earth.”

Yet this man who appeared so overcome with negative emotion channeled these feelings into rhetoric that captured the hearts of Americans, with whom he suffered. Lincoln’s political career spanned the length of a bloody civil war, and saw the US military elevated to the status of a world power.

Though he hardly lived a life of eudaimonia, the relationship between Lincoln’s emotions and his accomplishments provide substantive food for thought when considering whether the Stoic position that emotions are useless and ought to be avoided is universally applicable or not. In this case, there would appear to be a somewhat significant exception to this position.

For an example of Stoic philosophy in action, I look to a more recent US war hero, Vice Admiral James Stockdale, who served in the Navy for over three decades from 1946–1979 and spent seven and a half years as a prisoner of war after being shot down over North Vietnam. Most of his time in custody was spent locked in a three-foot by nine-foot cell, where he was locked in leg irons every night and consistently tortured.

Despite enduring constant physical pain day in and day out, Stockdale managed to organize resistance within the prison, implementing a code of conduct that allowed the prisoners to communicate and organize themselves. At one point, he learned that his captors intended to use him for propaganda — to prevent this he slit his scalp and beat his own face so severely he disfigured himself beyond recognition.

At a speech delivered at the Great Hall at Kings College in London, Stockdale reflected on the role that Stoic philosophy has played in his life, crediting it with helping him endure his time as a POW. “Stoicism is a noble philosophy that proved more practicable than a modern cynic would expect.”

“The Stoic viewpoint is often misunderstood because the casual reader misses the point that all talk is in reference to the ‘inner life’ of man. Stoics belittle physical harm, but this is not braggadocio. They are speaking of it in comparison to the devastating agony of shame they fancied good men generating when they knew in their hearts that they had failed to do their duty vis-à-vis their fellow man or god.”

“In theory, a doctrine of pitiless perfection, it actually created men of courage, saintliness, and goodwill.” Describing his mindset throughout the experience, Stockdale said, “I had become a man detached — not aloof but detached — able to throw out the book without the slightest hesitation when it no longer matched the external circumstances.”