Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Epictetus’ Enchiridion Expanded_§ 1.7.1.1_SeaFaring Ways_Pt. I


~by David Aiken~

 The seventh chapter of Epictetus’ Enchiridion is a parable, a moral tale, about navigation on the waters of life. The central metaphor of this Stoic vision of human reality is that we are, one and all, seafaring souls, embarked on an ocean voyage. The perception of ourselves as wayfarers in life—as land-walkers, is not quite entirely accurate according to Epictetus, because that representation only seeks to embrace the traveler, but fails to give us any interesting and relevant insight into the traveler’s environment. Epictetus sketches out for us a fuller truth with his image of the seafaring life, which embodies both the traveler and the world of his journey.
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. Youneeded (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
Phrontisterion therefore translated the diminutive bolbarion in line 3 as cuttlebones. That said, because of the strangeness of the word to English-language ears, and for the sheer pleasure of the exercise, we can continue to learn from our wiki-source about the origins of ‘cuttle’ in English:
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:
·      Phrontisterion Reading: An Existential Moment.
·      Phrontisterion Reading: E=mc2 and Other Equivalencies.
·      Phrontisterion Reading: The Anhistorical Man in the Age of Aquarius.
·      Phrontisterion Reading: What can one learn about philosophy from a dog?


On another note and just for the pleasure of it: From Winston Churchill’sMy Early Life:Such Was My First Introduction to the Classics.”

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