 |
| Sea Farer, by Jacques Cartier; Saint Malo |
We are seafarers. The ship in this
metaphor is the philosophical state of mind, an attitude toward life and living
that one can cultivate once one has correctly understood the nature of human reality.
And the sea upon which the ship navigates is the true, Heraclitan nature of
World—a shifting, eternally flowing reality. Terra firma, in the form of a temporary landfall in Epictetus’
fable, is a lost, very occasional, and impermanent harbor layover—an idea that
should have a much smaller place in our philosophical imagination, because it
holds no ground of permanence for us, either literal or metaphorical.
Because this narrative is in essence a teaching
parable, we must be attentive to the fact that there are actually two levels of
interpretation: the basic or literal story line, which obviously serves as the vehicle
for the second level of meaning: the intended ‘lesson’ or moral-of-the-story.
Epictetus’ Enchiridion Expanded_§1.7.1.1. [Phrontisterion translation]. Imagine that you are on a sea voyage and
that your ship has put in at harbor for a layover; [imagine, further,] that you
left the ship (2) to go on shore to refresh yourself. Now, all the while you happened
to be collecting (3) sea-snail shells and cuttlebones for yourself during the stopover,
you also needed (4) to keep your attention riveted on the ship, to be constantly
on your guard (5) for when the captain summons to re-embark. Because whenever he
calls to board, (6) you need to drop all the things you picked up along the way.
It is in this way that, although your arms were full with all the things you
had collected, by getting rid of it all, you will not be thrown into distress about
the possibility of being left behind by the ship, (7) and become agitated like
sheep, which then start bleating and carrying on.
It is just like that in life, as well—nothing shall prevent
us from substituting, instead of (8) sea-snail shells and cuttlebones, a bride
and young child (9). And when the captain summons us to re-board ship? (10) Return
to the ship, having returned all the things you gathered up along the way— not (11) having always been constantly
on your guard; and not being too far
away from the (12) ship, especially if you happen to be an old man. This way, whenever
you receive the summons, you will avoid being found wanting.
2 “Ench”, 1.7.1.1
Kaqa¿per e˙n plw◊ø touv
ploi÷ou kaqormisqe÷ntoß ei˙ e˙xe÷lqoiß uJqreu/sasqai, oJdouv me«n pa¿rergon
kai« 3
kocli÷dion aÓnale÷xhØ
kai« bolba¿rion, teta¿sqai de« dei√ 4 th\n dia¿noian e˙pi« to\ ploi√on kai« sunecw◊ß e˙pistre÷fesqai,
mh/ pote oJ kubernh/thß kale÷shØ, ka·n kale÷shØ, 6 pa¿nta e˙kei√na aÓfie÷nai, iºna mh\
dedeme÷noß e˙mblhqhvøß 7 wJß ta» pro/bata: ou¢tw kai« e˙n tw◊ø bi÷wˆ, e˙a»n
didw◊tai aÓnti« 8 bolbari÷ou kai« koclidi÷ou gunaika¿rion
kai« paidi÷on, 9 oujde«n
kwlu/sei: e˙a»n de« oJ kubernh/thß kale÷shØ, tre÷ce 10 e˙pi« to\ ploi√on aÓfei«ß e˙kei√na a‚panta
mhde« e˙pistrefo/menoß. e˙a»n de« ge÷rwn h™øß, mhde« aÓpallaghvøß pote touv 12 ploi÷ou makra¿n, mh/
pote kalouvntoß e˙lli÷phØß.
§ Internet Translations of 2 “Ench”,
1.7.1.1. There dwells little or no trace of
Epictetus and his Stoic thinking in the various internet translations of this
seventh chapter of the Manual, either
in meaning or in philosophical sensibility. Each of the readily available English
translations of Ch. 7, including that of Carter (1750), Higginson (1865),
Matheson (1916), Walton (1997) [resource link], Long (1888), is a non-text. Print editions intended
for scholarly and student audiences are scarcely better, with the same language
errors occurring in Nicholas White’s translation for Hackett Publishing (1983), and Hard and
Gill’s 2014 translation for
Oxford World’s Classics. In addition to creating nothing more than assembled-grammatical
associations that entirely miss Epictetus’ imaginative, as well as
philosophical meaning and teaching intent, there are also important inaccuracies
in language comprehension. The most significant translation bloopers occur in
lines 6-7, and concern how our assembled translators under- or (mis-under)stood
and rendered the ‘sheep’ simile.
Furthermore, the non-English language internet
translations of Chapter 7 of the Enchiridion,
e.g., in French, Italian, and German, rival their English counterparts only in circumlocution
and philosophical vacuousness, and reflect the exact same translation errors. They
are equally non-texts. One may therefore well assume that, generally speaking, none
of the various versions of Epictetus’ Enchiridion
that are readily available online, are actual and thoughtful translations from
Epictetus’ Greek, but are rather superficial re-workings grounded in other European-language
translations.
The model for this might be something like
the Baynes 1950 rendering of the Chinese classic I Ching: Or, Book of Changes, which
is really a translation of Richard Wilhelm’s original, early 20th
century German translation. It is entirely conceivable, therefore, that at
least some of Epictetus’ original Greek thinking, such as this parable from Enchiridion § 7, has never been truly
available for reflection to any, or to very few indeed, Western audiences.
Ms.
Carter, whose translation can be found on the MIT Classics site, renders this seventh segment of The Enchiridion in the following way:
7. Consider when, on a voyage, your ship is anchored; if you
go on shore to get water you may along the way amuse yourself with picking
up a shellish, or an onion. However, your thoughts and continual attention
ought to be bent towards the ship, waiting for the captain to call
on board; you must then immediately leave all these things, otherwise you will be thrown into the ship, bound neck and feet like a sheep.
So it is with life. If, instead of an onion or a shellfish, you
are given a wife or child, that is fine. But if the captain
calls, you must run to the ship, leaving them, and regarding
none of them. But if you are old, never go far from the ship:
lest, when you are called, you should be unable to come in
time.
The
Thomas Wentworth Higginson translation of this segment at Project Gutenberg remains consistently
approximative:
As in a voyage, when
the ship is at anchor, if you go on shore to get water, you may amuse yourself
with picking up a shellfish or a truffle in your way, but your thoughts ought
[20] to be bent toward the ship, and perpetually attentive, lest the captain
should call, and then you must leave all these things, that you may not have to
be carried on board the vessel, bound like a sheep; thus likewise in life, if,
instead of a truffle or shellfish, such a thing as a wife or a child be granted
you, there is no objection; but if the captain calls, run to the ship, leave
all these things, and never look behind. But if you are old, never go far from
the ship, lest you should be missing when called for.
§ Some Comments on Vagaries of Language.
Following the order of Epictetus’ words is
relatively straightforward in this passage, whence the general consensus in sentence
structuring among the various “translations.” This, notwithstanding several
noticeable translating whoppers on the part of both Ms. Carter and Mr.
Higginson around lines 6-7. On the level of simple language, however, the parallelisms
at the heart of Epictetus’ narrative remain mostly implicit and never quite
make it into the realm of the explicit, either in the Greek text or in the
translations. Yet these parallelisms are of fundamental importance to the sense
and purpose of the narrative. But because they remain structurally inchoate, it
seems to suggest that our once and former slave had been dipping rather heavily
into the rum punch prior to orating on this particular occasion. Either that,
or the modestly motivated student note-taker, traditionally thought to be Arrian, was sitting in the far back of the class checking
his primeval version of Facebook, and lending only half an ear to this lecture.
To palliate the unfocused ‘suggestiveness’ of this 7th chapter of
Epictetus’ text, Phrontisterion departed
from a literal rendering strategy, and instead, with the purpose of clarifying
both the culture and story-line of this section, amplified more aggressively its
translation.
§ Parables, Similes and Metaphors
Chapter 7 of Epictetus’ Manuel is a didactic story, or parable. A Greek word meaning a comparison or analogy,
here in this simple narrative Epictetus uses parable to illustrate a general
philosophical principle. According to the wiki-definition of parable,
The defining characteristic of
the parable is the presence of a subtext suggesting how a person should behave
or what he should believe. Aside from providing guidance and suggestions for
proper conduct in one's life, parables frequently use metaphorical language
which allows people to more easily discuss difficult or complex ideas. Parables
express an abstract argument by means of using a concrete narrative which is
easily understood.
As our wiki-source states, parables often use
other figures of speech, such as simile and metaphor, as image-vehicles to make
their point. Simile is a simple comparison that uses as or like; and for
Epictetus this occurs specifically in line 7, where he tells us to avoid
becoming agitated like sheep, which then start bleating and carrying on. ‘Like’ identifies
the simile.
Metaphor,
on the other hand, while quite similar to the simile, is trickier sometimes to
identify because it does not use as or like. In this section of the Manual, the metaphor is introduced in
lines 8-9 just following the simile in line 7: It is just like that
in life, as well—nothing shall prevent us from substituting, instead of (8)
sea-snail shells and cuttlebones, a bride and young child (9).
Homer
was perhaps the most famous metaphorist of the ancient Greek world; and, as
imitation has always been the sincerest form of flattery, it should not
surprise us to find Epictetus using this strategy to make his philosophical
points in the Enchiridion. This
entire parable, for example, is not to be understood literally, but rather on a
parallel plane—metaphorically. The sea is the shifting reality of Life and
World; the ship is the vessel of right thinking and philosophical-mindedness;
the stop-over for water and sea-shells, is the illusion of stability where
there is, in truth, only change and motion and transformation, which is also the
cause of our anxiety, advises Epictetus, if we are consumed by the fear of being
left behind in terms of the truth of World. The sea-faring traveler is the
individual cast loose on the waters of the Life-Journey, which is framed in by
Beginnings and Endings.
§ Caveat--of Captains and Gods in Epictetus’
Metaphor.
To the Western imagination, swollen with
the authoritarian father-figure motif of the Freudian imaginaire inseparably fused with the Christian all-knowing male deity,
the most obvious association one might be tempted to make with respect to
Epictetus’ ship captain, the kubernetes [oJ kubernh/thß] of our text, who appears first in lines
4-5 and then again in lines 9, is with a God figure.
(4) to keep your attention riveted on the ship, to be
constantly on your guard (5) for when the captain summons to re-embark. Because
whenever he calls to board, (6) you need to drop all the things you picked up
along the way; And when the captain summons us to re-board ship? (10) Return to
the ship. […] This way, whenever you receive the summons, you will avoid being
found wanting.
But,
heaven forfend! (mh ge÷noito; me
genoito), to
borrow from the Apostle Paul. Such an infelicitous association is predictable, however,
due to the pivotal power and
authority that the function of ‘captain’ embodies in the Western imagination; and
notwithstanding the hermeneutical anachronism, in translation emphases and
interpretations of Epictetus’ metaphor, one must anticipate this tendency.
Yet the role of the kubernetes in this parable is perfectly
extraneous to the intent of Epictetus’ philosophical life-lesson, which is
entirely unconcerned about W/who might be steering the ship, or whether the
ship is even being specifically guided. It is only the language of the metaphor
itself, of a sailing ship, that needed a ship’s ‘captain’; otherwise it would
have been a puzzling, if not completely lame and unbelievable comparison. Even
a child knows that ships have captains… otherwise, who does the calling back to
the ship? Who the sailing? Who oversees the loading and unloading? Who yells
out ‘ahoy there, matey’ or gives the order for the bad guys to ‘walk the
plank’? So, the captain has narrative necessity in order to round out the
metaphor of our text; but he is philosophically irrelevant to Epictetus’
‘moral-of-the-story’. That said, the language of ‘being summoned’ in
conjunction with the idea of ‘captain’, remains hermeneutically suggestive, and
is therefore misleading, to most classical Western thought.
The verb ‘to call or to summon’
someone, kaleo [κᾰλέω], first occurs in our parable in line 5, and
is traditional and straightforward. The aorist form of the verb here [kale÷shØ] invites the listener to understand the
summoning as a punctual event, and not a process. Other than that, one
naturally understands from the narrative sweep that the captain has shouted out
the ‘all aboard’ for all and sundry, and that the disembarked passengers are
expected to stop whatever they are doing and hightail it back to the ship.
Epictetus’ emphasis is not so much on the fact of the summons, but rather on
its unexpected timing (line 8; and the kalouvntoß, of line 12, as the penultimate idea of the story)—it
is predictable that there will be a summons, but because we are not Masters of
the Summons, we do not know, nor is it ever made clear to us, just when we will
be summoned to ‘take the low road’. Unlike the wayfaring shade of Loch Lomond, we are here tasked
to be philosophically prepared for the summoning; but of a ‘Scotland’ at
journey’s end, there is no word.
§ Equivalencies.
 |
| Collecting stuff... |
Sea-snail shells and cuttlebones of line 3 is
narratively equivalent to bride and young child of line 8; and Epictetus summarily refers to
both of these groups of ‘things’, and by extension, to all things in general, as
panta ekeina [pa¿nta e˙kei√na], “all
those things.” This expression in
Greek makes use of a remote demonstrative pronoun, which emphasizes that the
things in question are remote to us—not these
things, but those things. The use of
‘proximity’ language is strongly suggestive of an attitude of a wise, and philosophically
important detachment that should characterize our thinking about this world
full of things. This language does not seek to reduce any specific thing’s
value or interest—we are not being invited to be dismissive of seashells, or of
wife or child. Epictetus is, however, gently reminding us that none of our
relationships, to any- and every-[thing] around us, is permanent. We are just traveling
through this world as suppliants; and all the world’s things are on (very)
temporary loan to us.
§ Parallel Infinitives.
The
impersonal verbal construct, dei [dei]
in line 3, creates both the fundamental phrase as well as the entire argument
structure for the text. The radical phrase is, you also needed (4) to keep your attention riveted [teta¿sqai de« dei√
4 th\n dia¿noian]. Dei [dei] has the sense of ‘one needs/it is necessary’, and this
impersonal verb determines all the sequential or second verbs, i.e., the infinitival
structure, for the remainder of the first paragraph: line 3 (teta¿sqai dei) + line 4 ((dei)… e˙pistre÷fesqai) + line 6 ((dei)… pa¿nta e˙kei√na aÓfie÷nai).
Written
out long-hand, the entire infinitive sequence looks like this: “you also needed
(4) to keep your attention riveted on the ship, to be constantly on your guard
(5) for when the captain summons to re-embark. Because whenever he calls
to board, (6) you need to drop all the things you picked up along the way;”
§ Other Parallelisms in Structure.
Argument in any text is comprehensible when
the structure of the language is apparent. This normally becomes manifest in
the use and quality of the verbs, especially in ancient Greek. We saw this
already, for example, with the parallel infinitives (lines 4, 5, and 6), each
of which hangs off the ‘you need to’ or ‘it is necessary’, dei [dei], in line 3. “You … needed (4) to keep your attention riveted on the ship, to be … on your guard (5)
for when the captain summons to re-embark. Because whenever he calls to board,
(6) you need to drop all the things you picked up along the way.”
However, another way to structure a text easily is through negations, which is
important to note in the later development and application of Epictetus’ simile
in lines 10-12, with mede + mede + me [mhde + mhde + mh/ (pote)]. The text reads: (10) Return to the ship, having returned all the things you gathered up
along the way— not
(11) having always been constantly on your guard; and not being too far away from the (12) ship, especially if you happen to be
an old man. This way, whenever you receive the summons, you will avoid [mh/… e˙lli÷phØß] being found wanting.
§ Errors in Translation.
Now, given the metaphorical big-picture, we certainly
understand Epictetus’ philosophical point here, and that the precise nature of
the things our sea-wanderer collects is profoundly irrelevant to the general
idea of collecting ‘stuff’ in life. We also understand Epictetus’ focus on the
idea that the seafarer wants desperately to hang on to all the stuff he amasses
in the course of his life, and that this distracts the seafarer from an
appropriate philosophical frame-of-mind with respect to ‘stuff’ in general. That
said, from a language point of view, the ‘stop-over’ holds an additional interest
for the interpreter.
 |
| Conch |
On the question of what types of things our
metaphorical seafarer is collecting on-shore during the imaginary layover,
Epictetus speaks in lines 3 and 8 of koxlidion
and bolbarion [kocli÷dion … kai« bolba¿rion], which Ms. Carter renders as a shellfish, or an onion, and Mr.
Higginson as shellfish or a truffle.
There is general consensus on this translation, with Long providing the
additional nuance of some bulb; however, White goes the
extra mile to give us a small shellfish
and a vegetable.
According to the LSJ dictionary of the Thesaurus
Linguae Graecae, koxlidion [kocli÷dion], is a diminutive of koxlos [κόχλος], which is a shell-fish with a spiral shell. The
shell of the conch could be used as a trumpet, for example, and the fishy bit, apparently,
was used for making purple dye. Alternatively, the reference of koxlos as a land snail (escargot?) is
attested in Aristotle. Phrontisterion
therefore translated the diminutive koxlidion
as sea-snail shells.
 |
| Cuttlebones |
The term bolbarion [bolba¿rion] suffered a
similarly, and quasi unanimously, disfiguring fate at the hands of our internet
and print translators, who seem to think that it makes sense here to create
meaning etymologically—tracing through to the English the non-diminutive bolbos [bolboς], which means "plant with round swelling on underground stem," through the Latin bulbus, meaning bulb, bulbous root,
onion, and onward to its translational destiny as bulb, truffle, vegetable… and
non-sense. According to the TLG, Bolbarion [bolba¿rion] is a small cuttlefish that, apparently, has a strong
smell. According to our wiki-source:
Cuttlefish or cuttles are marine animals of the
order Sepiida. They belong to
the class Cephalopoda, which also includes squid, octopuses, and nautiluses.
Cuttlefish have a unique internal shell, the cuttlebone. Despite their name,
cuttlefish are not fish but molluscs.
 |
| Cuttlefish is of the squid family |
The 'cuttle' in 'cuttlefish'
comes from the Old English name for the species, cudele, which may be cognate with the Old Norse koddi ('cushion') and the Middle Low
German Kudel ('rag'). The
Greco-Roman world valued the cuttlefish as a source of the unique brown pigment
the creature releases from its siphon when it is alarmed. The word for it in
both Greek and Latin, sepia,
now refers to a brown pigment in English.
§ Existential Tourism.
Like tourists, travelers tend to
accumulate stuff en route, e.g.,
maps, souvenirs, foreign coins, old tickets, and other keepsakes. It seems to
be the nature of the beast; and the only harm is, generally, stuff-overload;
not enough pockets; and baggage weight surcharge. Epictetus uses the image of
one who gets off the boat at the stop-over, and wanders off to go collect some
memorabilia like (3) sea-snail shells and
cuttlebones. The verb Epictetus uses for ‘collecting’ is analekxe [aÓnale÷xhØ], from which we get in English the plural noun ‘analects’,
as in The Analects of Confucius, which refers to the collection of the ideas and sayings of this mid-6th
century BC Chinese sage. Epictetus uses this verb in the middle voice—so,
gathering up stuff for myself, which has some interesting and fun imagery—from
collecting materials from books, like an old library rat, to the woodpecker who
goes around collecting worms, insects, and other critters, by drumming his head
against trees!
So,
the traveling life is one of amassing stuff over the course of time—clothes,
books, furniture, plates, scraps of paper, and all the stuff that fills our
drawers, closets, garages, and attics. Again, Epictetus has no opinion in this
fable about whether what we collect is interesting or not-interesting; his
basic assumption is only that it is a human fact that we are gatherers, and
that given enough travelling time we will manage to accumulate a lot of stuff.
So, he wishes to remind us of this fact: that we accumulate stuff, and that at
a certain point all that stuff will begin to weigh us down and hinder our
movements, both physically and psychologically.
 |
| Metaphores |
And he points out that, because
acquisitions and other forms of ‘stuff’—from seashells to wives and children—are
only on short-term loan from Life and World, and impossible to keep for the
long term, we must therefore remain alert to the fact that we are only borrowers
and that we must, at some point, return what we have borrowed. Epictetus
encourages us to adopt this as a voluntary frame of mind, rather than to deceive
ourselves and, at the last minute, to be coerced by the reality of World, at
which point we are forced to relinquish hold in fear and anger—bleatingly.
For
Epictetus, then, the appropriate philosophical disposition toward the foraging
& collecting habits of homo sapiens
analecta, is one of appreciation and remittance. He expects us psychologically
and, in due course, quite literally, to voluntarily ‘drop’ from our hands and
minds what we have so painstakingly collected during our short layover. Epictetus
encourages us to be constantly ready and willing to give back to the world
(Line 6, aÓfie÷nai and Line 10, aÓfei«ß) what the world has
so temporarily shared with us. When we are called back to the ship, the desirable
philosophical ‘action’ or state of mind is … (6) to drop all the things you picked up along the way; (10) Return to
the ship, having returned all the things you gathered up along the way.
Our
verb here translated as ‘drop everything’, is aphienai [ἀφιέναι], which also has
lots of fun images associated with it—from discharging missiles (which North
Korea seems to enjoy doing these days, although in Epictetus’ mind the
‘missiles’ were certainly bolts or arrows instead of launched ICBMs), to
letting things fall from your grasp; from the legalese usage of acquitting of a
charge or engagement, to remitting a charge to someone; from disbanding an army
or fleet, to granting a divorce. Other images in this panoply include:
releasing a debtor; being released from duty; to get rid of something; to give
up the ghost (a childhood favorite of mine); to leave alone, and to neglect.
At
the conclusion of his parable, after the reader has been encouraged in lines 6
& 10 to have a ‘drop everything’ (aphienai
; ἀφιέναι) state-of-mind toward the World and
things of the World, Epictetus gives us, in lines 11 and 12, the two reasons
why we should cultivate this seafaring frame-of-mind—in order that, no matter
your age, (1) you should never be too far
away from the ship; and so that (2) whenever
you receive the summons (to weigh anchor), you will avoid being found wanting.
And when the captain
summons us to re-board ship? (10) Return to the ship, having returned all the
things you gathered up along the way—not
(11) having always been constantly on your guard; and not being too far away from the (12) ship, especially if you happen
to be an old man. This way, whenever you receive the summons, you will avoid
being found wanting.
e˙a»n de« oJ kubernh/thß
kale÷shØ, tre÷ce 10 e˙pi«
to\ ploi√on aÓfei«ß e˙kei√na a‚panta mhde« e˙pistrefo/menoß. e˙a»n de« ge÷rwn
h™øß, mhde« aÓpallaghvøß pote touv 12 ploi÷ou makra¿n, mh/ pote kalouvntoß e˙lli÷phØß.
To
be found wanting (line 12, and the
very last idea of this text) is the aorist passive subjunctive, 2nd
singular verb, apallages (ἀπαλλαγῇς), which has the various senses of setting free;
releasing; getting rid of; being delivered or removed from; and discharging.
Textually, this verb is intentionally juxtaposed with the preceding uses of aphienai (ἀφιέναι)
in lines 6 & 10. Obviously, because Epictetus puts this verb in the passive
voice, and because it is describing the fellow being left behind on the shore
instead of the seashells that the fellow had been collecting but needed to drop
when the boarding call was announced, we are given to understand that when it
comes time to count heads on the ship and the count comes up short, in this
sense we are found to be too far away from the ship. We are well and truly left
behind—we are “dropped.” Interestingly, in the passive voice this verb also has
the sense of departing from life or dying; to be divorced; to be acquitted; to
escape; giving up the pursuit of. All of these meanings tend to confirm the
metaphorical level of interpretation and translation.
Additionally,
however, we also discover that apallages
(ἀπαλλαγῇς) compliments the final verb in Epictetus’ text, which
is in the phrase that immediately follows—
you will avoid being found wanting (ellipes;
ἐλλίπῃς = aor subj act 2nd sg). The use of ellipes
provides a certain ambiguity to our understanding of being forgotten, stranded,
left behind, by also having among its usages the sense of falling short;
leaving undone; or failing, failing in duty. Epictetus wants us to remember
that the ship is not just a vessel of planks and that we are not just chatting
about sailing protocols and best practices for ship passengers—e.g., deck
shoes, sun glasses, sailing cap, wind-breaker. Rather, the ship represents the
philosophical frame of mind; and when we are found wanting, both in the sense
of being absent from that attitude or mentality, and in the sense of having
failed in our lives generally to board the ship of the philosophical life of
the mind, and thus failing in a human duty to be mindful about the sea of Life
and World, then we have also missed what it means to be fully, thoughtfully, intelligently
human.
So, homo sapiens analecta ‘gathers up’ lots of stuff on his journey
through the world, and he gets himself all tangled up [dedeme÷noß] in the great skein of World and its networks of things.
This is only natural; it is, in effect, the nature of reality and our
experience of it. But Epictetus wants to encourage us to remain aware that, one
fine day—sooner or later—we will be summoned to remit every-(thing) back to the
world; this is the only price we must pay for the use of the world’s things.
 |
| Wheel of Fortune |
Similarly, along with all of the World’s other
things, we are also gathered up in nets
as well, and we, also, must be eventually
remitted back to whence we come. The Stoic captain in the metaphor is the rota fortunae, or the ever-turning Wheel of life and
chance.
END OF
PART I.
To be continued in September: Epictetus’ Enchiridion Expanded_§ 1.7.1.1_SeaFaring
Ways_Pt. II.
References
and Further Readings:
Comparative
internet translations: https://www.reddit.com/r/Stoicism/comments/33pm1d/enchiridion_translations_comparison/
On
another note and just for the pleasure of it: From Winston
Churchill’s, My Early Life: “Such Was My First Introduction to the Classics.”
