"On Not Being a Philosopher" by Robert Lynd: Text & Analysis
"On Not Being a Philosopher"
By
Robert Lynd
Image: Robert Lynd
Introduction
Irish author and essayist Robert Lynd was famous for his insightful views on a variety of themes. In his essay "On Not Being a Philosopher," Lynd explores the applicability of philosophical ideas of Epictetus, the ancient Greek Stoic philosopher. The author explains that while he enjoys reading philosophical works and agrees with them in theory, he cannot apply their teachings to his own life because the realities of the world, such as misfortune and petty annoyances, make it difficult to live by their principles. He appreciates philosophy as an intellectual exercise but he himself cannot practice it in everyday life. He alludes to philosophers like Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius and says that he agrees with their teachings but cannot live according to their wisdom when faced with real-world problems like theft or loss.
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Analysis
Robert Lynd's essay, "On Not Being a Philosopher,"
provides an introspective examination of his approach to life and the realm of
philosophy. He is of the opinion that teachings of philosophers like Epictetus
is difficult to follow in everyday life, though he agrees with them in theory.
Epictetus was a Stoic philosopher who believed in living in
accordance with nature, practicing self-discipline, and focusing on the things
within our control. He emphasized the importance of distinguishing between what
is under our control (internal) and what is not (external) to achieve
tranquility and peace of mind.
Lynd appreciates the essence of Stoicism,
which encourages one to face life's challenges with a calm and composed
mindset. He finds the Stoic philosophy valuable in navigating the ups and downs
of life without being overwhelmed by emotions. Epictetus promoted Stoicism as a
means to achieve emotional tranquility and contentment by detaching oneself
from external circumstances. The author agrees with the following important
aspects of Stoicism as propounded by Epictetus:
Embracing Adversity
Lynd agrees with the Stoic notion of embracing adversity as a
means of personal growth. He acknowledges that challenges and difficulties are
inevitable, and one must face them with courage and resilience. Epictetus believed that embracing adversity
and accepting it as a natural part of life is essential for cultivating wisdom
and virtue.
Pursuit of Virtue
Epictetus emphasized the pursuit of moral virtues and the
development of character as the key to living a meaningful life. Lynd
recognizes the significance of virtue in one's life and agrees with Epictetus
on the importance of pursuing virtuous actions.
Material Possessions and Detachment
Epictetus advocated for detachment from material desires and
worldly pleasures. He believes that material possessions do not define one's
happiness. Lynd agrees with the Stoic idea of detachment from material
possessions and the understanding that true happiness comes from within, not
from external acquisitions.
Role of Reason and Rationality
Epictetus emphasized the role of reason as the guiding principle
for making sound decisions and achieving inner peace. Lynd acknowledges the
importance of reason and rationality in understanding and navigating life's
complexities.
Freedom of the Will
Epictetus argued that although external events are beyond our
control, we have the freedom to choose our attitudes and responses. Lynd shares
Epictetus' belief in the freedom of the will and the ability to make choices
based on personal values and principles.
Humility and Ego
Epictetus advocated for humility as a means of recognizing our
limitations and fostering a deeper connection with others. Lynd agrees with
Epictetus on the importance of humility and the need to overcome excessive ego
and self-centeredness.
Nature and Its Influence
Epictetus believed that aligning with nature and accepting its
laws would lead to a more harmonious and fulfilling life. Lynd acknowledges the
influence of nature on human life and behavior and agrees with Epictetus on
aligning oneself with the natural order.
The Role of Philosophy
Epictetus believed that philosophy serves as a transformative
force, shaping individuals into virtuous and wise beings. Lynd expresses
admiration for the role of philosophy in guiding individuals towards a more
purposeful existence. Epictetus focused on making Stoicism accessible and
applicable to real-life situations, promoting its practicality. Lynd
appreciates the practicality of Stoicism and its relevance to daily life.
Conclusion
In "On Not Being a Philosopher," Robert
Lynd explores the effectiveness and practicality of Epictetus' philosophy.
He encourages the readers to contemplate and follow the philosophical ideas as
propounded by philosophers like Epictetus. Many aspects of Epictetus'
philosophy, such as the importance of virtue, rationality, and resilience
remain relevant and applicable in today's world. The teachings of Stoicism
continue to inspire individuals to lead more meaningful and fulfilling lives.
“On not Being a Philosopher” by Robert Lynd
Complete Text
‘HAVE YOU READ EPICTETUS LATELY?' 'No, not lately.' 'Oh, you
ought to read him. Tommy's been reading him for the first time, and is
fearfully excited.' I caught this scrap of dialogue from the next table in the
lounge of a hotel. Like Tommy, I, too, felt 'fearfully excited,' for I had
never really read Epictetus, though I had often looked at him on the
shelf—perhaps even quoted him—and I wondered if here at last was the book of
wisdom that I had been looking for at intervals ever since I was at
school. Never have I lost my early faith
that wisdom is to be found somewhere in a book—to be picked up as easily as a
shell from the sand. I desire wisdom as eagerly as Solomon, but it must be
wisdom that can be obtained with very little effort—wisdom, as it were, that is
caught by infection. I have no time or energy for the laborious quest of
philosophy. I wish the philosophers to perform the laborious quest and, at the
end of it, to feed me with the fruits of their labors; just as I get eggs from
the farmer, apples from the fruit grower, medicines from the chemist, so do I
expect the philosopher to provide me with wisdom at the cost of a few
shillings. That is why at one time I read Emerson and, at another, Marcus
Aurelius. To read them, I hoped, was to
become wise by reading. But I did not become wise. I agreed with them while I
read them, but, when I had finished reading, I was still much the same man as I
had been before, incapable of concentrating on the things on which they said I
should concentrate or of being indifferent to the things to which they said I
should be indifferent. Even so, I have
never lost faith in books, believing that somewhere one exists from which one
can absorb philosophy and strength of character while sitting smoking in an
armchair. It was in this mood that I took down Epictetus after hearing the
conversation in the hotel lounge. 1 I
read him, I confess, with considerable excitement. He is the kind of
philosopher I like, not treating life as if at its finest it were an argument
conducted in jargon, but discussing, among other things, how men should behave
in the affairs of ordinary life. Also, I
agreed with nearly everything he said. Indifference to pain, death,
poverty—yes, that is eminently desirable. Not to be troubled about anything
over which one has no control, whether the oppression of tyrants or the peril
of earthquakes—on the necessity of this, Epictetus and I are at one. Yet, close as is the resemblance between our
opinions, I could not help feeling, as I read, that Epictetus was wise in
holding his opinions, and that I, though holding the same opinions, was far
from wise. For, indeed, though I held the same opinions for purposes of theory,
I could not entertain them for a moment for purposes of conduct. Death, pain, and poverty are to me very real
evils, except when I am in an armchair reading a book by a philosopher. If an
earthquake happened while I was reading a book of philosophy, I should forget
the book of philosophy and think only of the earthquake and how to avoid
tumbling walls and chimneys. This,
though I am the stanchest possible admirer of Socrates, Pliny, and people of
that sort. Sound though I am as an armchair philosopher, at a crisis I find
that both the spirit and the flesh are weak.
EVEN in the small things of life I cannot comport myself like a I
philosopher of the school of Epictetus. Thus, when he advises us how to 'eat
acceptably to the gods' and bids us to this end to be patient even under the
most atrocious service at our meals, he commends a spiritual attitude of which
my nature is incapable. 'When you have asked for warm water,' he says, 'and the
slave does not heed you; or if he does heed you but brings tepid water; or if
he is not even to be found in the house, then to refrain from anger and not to
explode, is not this acceptable to the gods? ‘Do you not remember over whom you
rule—that they are kinsmen, that they are brothers by nature, and they are the
offspring of Zeus?' That is all
perfectly true, and I should love to be able to sit in a restaurant, smiling
patiently and philosophically while the waiter brought all the wrong things or
forgot to bring anything at all. But in point of fact bad waiting irritates me.
I dislike having to ask three times for the wine list. I am annoyed when, after
a quarter of an hour's delay, I am told that there is no celery. It is true
that I do not make a scene on such occasions. I have not enough courage for
that. I am as sparing of objurgations as a philosopher, but I suspect that the
scowling spirit within me must 2 somehow show itself in my features. Certainly,
I do not think of telling myself: 'This waiter is my kinsman; he is the
offspring of Zeus.' Besides, even if he were, why should the offspring of Zeus wait
so badly? Epictetus, I am sure, never
dined at the Restaurant. And yet his patience might have served him even then.
If so, what a difference between Epictetus and me! And, if I cannot achieve his
imperturbability in such small affairs as that, what hope is there of being
able to play the philosopher in the presence of tyrants and earthquakes? Again, when Epictetus expresses his opinions
on material possessions and counsels us to be so indifferent to them that we
should not object to their being stolen, I agree with him in theory and yet in
practice I know I should be unable to obey him. There is nothing more certain
than that a man whose happiness depends on his possessions is not happy. I am
sure a wise man can be happy on a pittance.
Not that happiness should be the aim of life, according to Epictetus or
(in theory) to myself. But Epictetus at least holds up an ideal of
imperturbability, and he assures us that we shall achieve this if we care so
little for material things that it does not matter to us whether somebody
steals them or not. 'Stop admiring your
clothes,' he bids us, 'and you are not angry at the man who steals them.' And
he goes on persuasively: 'He does not know wherein the true good of man consists,
but fancies that it consists in having fine clothes, the very same fancy that
you also entertain. Shall he not come, then, and carry them off?' Yes, logically I suppose he should, and yet I
cannot feel so at the moment at which I find that a guest at a party has taken
my new hat and left his old one in its place. It gives me no comfort to say to
myself: 'He does not know wherein the true good of life consists, but fancies
that it consists in having my hat.' Nor
should I dream of attempting to console a guest at a party in my own house with
such philosophy in similar circumstances. It is very irritating to lose a new
hat. It is very irritating to lose anything at all, if one thinks it has been
taken on purpose. I feel that I could
imitate Epictetus if I lived in a world in which nothing happened. But in a
world in which things disappear through loss, theft, and 'pinching,' and in
which bad meals are served by bad waiters in not very good restaurants, and a
thousand other disagreeable things happen, an ordinary man might as well set
out to climb the Himalayas in walking shoes as attempt to live the life of a
philosopher at all hours. 3 IN SPITE of
this, however, most of us cannot help believing that the philosophers were
right—right when they proclaimed, amid all their differences, that most of the
things we bother about are not worth bothering about. It is easier to believe that oneself is a
fool than that Socrates was a fool, and yet, if he was not right, he must have
been the greatest fool who ever lived.
The truth is, nearly everybody is agreed that such men as Socrates and
Epictetus were right in their indifference to external things. Even men earning
£10,000 a year and working for more would admit this. Yet, even while admitting
it, most of us would be alarmed if one of our dearest friends began to put the
philosophy of Epictetus into practice too literally. What we regard as wisdom in Epictetus we
should look on as insanity in an acquaintance. Or, perhaps, not in an
acquaintance, but at least in a near relation.
I am sure that if I became as indifferent to money and comfort and all
external things as Epictetus, and reasoned like him with a happy smile over the
loss of a watch or a (fairly) expensive overcoat, my relations would become
more perturbed than if I became a successful company promoter with the most
materialistic philosophy conceivable.
Think, for example, of the reasoning of Epictetus over the thief who
stole his iron lamp:— He bought a lamp
for a very high price; for a lamp he became a thief, for a lamp he became
faithless, for a lamp he became bestial. This is what seemed to him to be
profitable! The reasoning is sound, yet
neither individually nor as a society do we live in that contempt of property
on which it is based. A few saints do,
but even they are at first a matter of great concern to their friends. When the world is at peace, we hold the
paradoxical belief that the philosophers were wise men, but that we should be
fools to imitate them. We believe that,
while philosophers are worth reading, material things are worth bothering
about. It is as though we enjoyed wisdom as a spectacle—a delightful spectacle
on a stage which it would be unseemly for the audience to attempt to
invade. Were the Greeks and the Romans
made differently? Did the audiences of Socrates and Epictetus really attempt to
become philosophers themselves, or were they like ourselves, hopeful of
achieving wisdom, not by practice but by a magic potion administered by a wiser
man than they? 4 To become wise without
effort—by listening to a voice, by reading a book—it is at once the most
exciting and the most soothing of dreams. In such a dream I took down
Epictetus. And, behold, it was only a dream.
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