~by David Aiken~
§ From Part I. The Recap…
In the seventh chapter of the Enchiridion, Epictetus riddles for us a
parable about
navigating on the oceans of World & Life. The essential
metaphor is that we are itinerants who find ourselves on an ocean voyage. The sea represents the unstable and variable
nature of World, shifting and eternally in motion, always different, always
mysterious and unpredictable. The ship
in the metaphor is the philosophical life of the mind; because it is only when
we think rightly about our circumstantial situation, that we are at least able
to conduct ourselves well on our journey. Terra
firma, in the form of a landfall in the course of the voyage, happens occasionally;
but it is only a temporary layover in Epictetus’ metaphor. So, popular expressions
like standing on ‘solid ground’ or ‘having our feet firmly planted on the
ground’, are deceptive conceptualizations for the Human Animal. It may be true
to say that such sayings express an attitude toward the life of the mind that seems,
at first blush, to be desirable human psychology.
However, because the metaphor of ‘solid ground’, i.e., the harbor layover in
Epictetus’ parable, really just represents a temporary event, and does not
therefore invite us to develop longer term strategies about living that actually
correspond to the heaving and surging circumstances of our human experience of
the World, these populist expressions actually reflect an erroneous philosophical understanding and
conceptualization of Reality. The only ‘fixed’ reality about the Human
Condition is its fluidity, its fundamental capriciousness. This is the essence
of Epictetus’ Stoic metaphor of Life & World: we are not land-lubbing
wayfarers; we are seafarers.
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| An old seadog |
Because we are here in the world of
parable, we also need to recognize that there are two levels of interpretation
to this story. The lowest level is the literal storyline about journeys on
sailing ships and temporary layovers and walking and collecting shells on
beaches; but this conceit is to be jettisoned just as soon as we arrive at the second
level—the intended ‘lesson’ or moral-of-the-story, which is about correctly visualizing
the ebb and flow of a humanity that comes and goes in the course of living and
dying, and adopting an appropriate philosophical attitude toward that inescapable
and all-too-human condition.
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—and 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.
§ Philosophical Parallel: Buddhism
As the Bard has been so often quoted to
say: a “rose by any other name….”; so also, the call to philosophical Awareness, which one finds so plentifully articulated
in Epictetus, is not unique to our Stoic freedman. What we might call philosophical
Awareness in Epictetus, is called Right Mindfulness or Thorough Awareness (Samma-Sati) in Buddhism [link], and is the 7th
practice emphasized on Buddhism’s Noble Eightfold Path to enlightenment. It is
suggestive that the Buddha’s thinking about Right Mindfulness expresses both aspects of
Epictetus’ teaching in this parable from Ch. 7 of the Enchiridion: 1) that our metaphor for understanding human reality
should be accurate, i.e., that we are seafarers and not wayfarers, and 2) that
as a result, because all the various strands that weave us into the web of
World seem naturally to hinder us from ‘seeing’ accurately the ‘I-world’
relationship, it must also be understood that World itself is the source of
innumerable obstacles that impede us from ‘responding’ correctly,
philosophically, to the various events that punctuate the course of our transient
journey through the human condition.
never be absent minded, being conscious of
what one is doing; this […] encourages the mindfulness about impermanence of
body, feeling and mind, as well as to experience the five aggregates (skandhas), the five hindrances, the
four True Realities and seven factors of awakening.
Again,
it is suggestive to note the similarity in our two sages in their idea of
‘hindrance’. For the Buddha, hindrances represent an obstacle to concentration
or mental focus (jhana), and come in
the form of sensory desire, ill-will, sloth-and-torpor, restlessness-and-worry,
and doubt. Uniformly, these hindrances have mental or thinking consequences,
such as dullness of mind, inability to calm the mind, and lack of conviction
(i.e., confusion, or a divided mind). Similarly, some 600 years after the death
of Buddha Epictetus would conclude that, in our thinking and imagining, we get
all tangled up in the stuff of the world, which makes us lose our focus on the
ship, which, we remember, is the philosophical life of the mind. When we lose
that mental focus, he says, which captains us toward an awareness of our
seafaring reality, we get 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.
Philosophically speaking, both Buddha and Epictetus could have meandered through
the following reflection, because
the disposition and thinking is identical in both of our thinkers;
historically, however, this text is attributed to the Buddha:
And what, monks, is right mindfulness? Herein, a monk dwells
contemplating the body in the body, ardent, clearly comprehending and mindful,
having put away covetousness and grief concerning the world. He dwells
contemplating feelings in feelings ... states of mind in states of mind ...
phenomena in phenomena, ardent, clearly comprehending and mindful, having put
away covetousness and grief concerning the world. (Word
of the Buddha,
p. 61.)
§ Philosophical Parallel: The Early Jesus
Movement
Although Epictetus
originally hailed from Rome, which places him historically in the epicenter of
the burgeoning Jesus revolution—the instigator of that movement, the Apostle
Paul, was executed just outside Rome (in Ostia) between 62-67 AD—there is no direct historical evidence that Epictetus had
knowledge of the teachings of Jesus or of Paul. Nor is it likely that he had
knowledge of any specific New Testament documents, although none of these conclusions
are absolutely to be excluded. Let us recall that Epictetus flourished around AD 50 – 135; Jesus from around c. 4 BC – c. 30/33 AD. Despite the limited
likelihood of an historical overlap between these different personalities, there
are certainly suggestive philosophical intersections one might consider. In the
Christian New Testament’s Gospel of
Matthew, for example, there are Kingdom
of Heaven parables, which represent an indisputable history of ideas interest to our search for parallels to Epictetus’
thinking in the Enchiridion.
In
all likelihood, the Gospel of Matthew
was composed prior to the fall of the second Jewish Temple in Jerusalem, which
occurred in AD 70 under the military leadership of the Roman commander and
future emperor, Titus [viz. Titus Flāvius Caesar Vespasiānus Augustus],
although scholarly opinion accepts dates for the Temple’s destruction ranging
from pre-70 AD to between AD 80-90. That said, even if one cannot necessarily demonstrate
a direct historical link between the Stoic Epictetus and the nascent Christian
thought tradition of the period, there are certainly some recurring thematic
elements that suggest, perhaps if nothing more, a certain zeitgeist or shared
ethos in the ethical-philosophical literature of the period. This ‘framing’ would
be entirely consistent with Stoicism’s approach to philosophy, which is not per se a doctrinally-framed system, such as Kantianism or
Utilitarianism or Pragmatism. F.C. Grant (271) is correct when he concludes
from his study that, “We find Stoicism to be (…) not a system, either ethical or theological
or metaphysical, speculatively; but a mood, an attitude, a spirit tending
religiously…(271).”
In Matthew’s gospel, for example, there is
a particular parable, which is traditionally called the Parable of the
Unforgiving or Unmerciful Servant. And one thematic that surfaces from the
history of ideas approach to our translating activity in Epictetus’ Enchiridion, is the philosophical notion
of returning… restoring… and remitting.
We
recall from Epictetus’ parable that the seafarer who dwells in the appropriate
philosophical frame of mind, is always prepared (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. Epictetus’
clear assumption in this parable is that Homo
Sapiens Analecta is a hunter-gatherer and hoarder, and that this amassing
and hoarding activity hinders HSA from perceiving, maybe, but certainly from comprehending
the truth and relevance of our fundamental reality as ocean-going migrants.
In
response to the ‘hoarder’ mentality, Epictetus expresses the idea of ‘dropping
everything’, using the verb aphienai
[ἀφιέναι], which is intended to give us the
general impression that we need to jettison post
haste whatever hot potato we have latched onto—from just dropping the damn
thing, to full-bore tossing, to returning something to its rightful owner (give
up or hand over to), to leaving something alone (in the first place)—just
passing it by. According to Epictetus, this is the appropriate philosophical
attitude to have for all those who are just passing through the World, whether
one is thinking of sea-snail shells and
cuttlebones, or a bride and young
child.
One
finds this same thematic of returning… restoring… and remitting [aphienai: ἀφίημι; ἀφιέναι], at the core
of the Parable of the Unforgiving or Unmerciful Servant in the Gospel of Matthew. Now, Phrontisterion will leave to others the work
of interpreting to and for religion, i.e., in terms of Christian morality, this
parable and laying out its various applications. We have to remember, however, that,
as with Epictetus’ parable, we are also reading Jesus’ parable on a second
level, seeking to discover its more complex, metaphorical, & philosophical
truth. Our parable is found in Matthew 18.21-34, and because it is lengthy, we
will consider it line-by-line.
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| Claude Vignon_WikimediaCommons |
21 Then Peter came to
Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive [ἀφίημι]
my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?”
Although the exact form
of the verb is obviously different from Epictetus’ aphienai [ἀφιέναι], the verb translated by the English ‘forgive’, is actually the
same dictionary form, or lemma—ἀφίημι. This use, however, would seem to give a
whole new sense to the mental images one can bring to ‘forgiveness’, perhaps as
the idea of ‘leaving something
alone’ (in the first place)—just passing it by. In this sense, to forgive might
be equivalent to ‘ignore’.
22 Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.
23 “Therefore,
the kingdom of heaven is like a king who wanted to settle accounts with his
servants.
24 As
he began the settlement, a man who owed him ten thousand bags of gold was
brought to him.
25 Since
he was not able to pay [ἀποδοῦναι], the master ordered that he and his wife and his children and all that
he had be sold to repay the debt [ἀποδοθῆναι].
26 “At
this the servant fell on his knees before him. ‘Be patient with me,’ he begged,
‘and I will pay back everything.’ [ἀποδώσω].
In terms of the
servant who ‘was not able to pay’ in lines 25-26, Jesus uses the verb apodidwmi [ἀποδίδωμι], in lieu of Epictetus’ aphiemi [ἀφίημι]. In Epictetus, we remember that aphienai [ἀφιέναι] means
everything from discharging bolts or arrows, to letting things fall from your grasp;
from the more legal language of acquitting of a charge or engagement, to
remitting a charge to someone; from disbanding an army or fleet of ships, to
granting a divorce; from releasing a
debtor; being released from duty; to getting rid of something; to giving up
the ghost; to leave alone, and, finally, to neglect. In this Jesus parable,
however, the entire significance of the conversation hinges
on the absolutely clear distinction between the two terms—apodidwmi [ἀποδίδωμι] versus aphiemi [ἀφίημι]. So, even though the two terms also seem to have some
relative proximity in meaning, apodidwmi
seems more usually to refer to a money-type exchange: to give up or back; to
restore; to return; in Homer, to render what is due; to pay, as debts,
penalties, submission, honor; to give him back his insult, i.e., to make
atonement for the insult. In Mt. 18.25, the meaning is obviously in the sense
of paying off debt equivalency: wife and children = 10,000 bags of gold.
27 The
servant’s master took pity on him, canceled [ἀφῆκεν]
the debt and let him go.
In line 27, Jesus says that the debt is dropped like
our proverbial hot potato, using again, as in line 21, a form of aphiemi [ἀφίημι].
28 “But
when that servant went out, he found one of his fellow servants who owed him a
hundred silver coins. He grabbed him and began to choke him. ‘Pay back what you
owe me!’ he demanded.
29 “His
fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, ‘Be patient with me, and I
will pay it back.’
30 “But
he refused. Instead, he went off and had the man thrown into prison until he
could pay the debt.
In lines 28-30, the
language reverts to ‘pay it back’ or reimburse the debt, apodidwmi [ἀποδίδωμι].
31 When
the other servants saw what had happened, they were outraged and went and told
their master everything that had happened.
32 “Then
the master called the servant in. ‘You wicked servant,’ he said, ‘I canceled [ἀφῆκά σοι]
all that debt of yours because you begged me to.
In line 32, Jesus says that the debt was dropped like
the proverbial hot potato, again reverting to a form of aphiemi [ἀφίημι].
33 Shouldn’t
you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?’
34 In
anger his master handed him over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should
pay back [ἀποδῷ] all he owed.
35 “This is how my heavenly
Father will treat each of you unless you forgive [ἀφῆτε] your brother or sister
from your heart.”
And, finally, in line
34, Jesus again comes back to a form of apodidwmi
[ἀποδίδωμι], and delivers up his rather striking
conclusion to this Kingdom of Heaven parable in line 35, using, this time, aphiemi [ἀφίημι].
§ Compulsion.
By being mindful—by keeping the true
nature of World right in the front of your mind, and by being psychologically
willing and prepared to ‘drop’ the trappings of World when we get our summons
in the mail, Epictetus suggests that during our layover in the labyrinth of
time we can avoid the feeling and pressure of knowing that one day, eventually,
we will be compelled ‘to drop’ everything
when the time comes for dropping: (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.
Now,
there are actually two contrasts evident here in Epictetus’ thinking. The first
is clearly between doing an action freely or doing that action under compulsion.
The ‘action’ in question, in this case ‘dropping’ everything—i.e., the things
of our life, which hinder us whether we realize it or not—must and will be done
by us in any event. The second contrast concerns our proximity to the
spirit of philosophy, which is metaphorically embodied by the ship and the
ship’s captain in this text. It is important that, whatever the enticement, we should
never stray too far away from the philosophical mind/ship, because when we are
too far away from our psychological port of call, like sheep when they are
frightened, we become stressed and anxious about the possibility of being left behind, and so we begin bleating and
fussing and making a scene. The encouragement to tarry close-by to Lady
Philosophy, a Stoic lesson regained with great distress and anxiety by Boethius (480-524 AD) in his Consolation of Philosophy, becomes especially critical when we are
older and the entanglements in the skein of World have had such a long time to
work their hampering effects. So, whether or not, per the Bard, ‘parting is
such sweet sorrow’, a parting there will be.
Which
brings us to the interesting and very concise conclusion to Epictetus’
admonition in line 12— (10) Return to the
ship, having returned all the things you gathered up along the way—and 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 [pote kalountos + me…
ellipes [pote kalouvntoß + mh/… e˙lli÷phØß].
Imagine
that you are having the ‘oh-sheit’ moment of your life—stranded on the shore,
watching your ship leave without you, no way back. There will never be another
ship; you are cut off. Your departure has happened. In this sense, you have
well and truly been left behind, which is one of the meanings of Epictetus’
final verb: ellipse, which carries
with it the sense of being left behind in a race. So, this meaning obviously works very well when we
are talking on the first level, about departing ships and someone being left
behind. But at the second, metaphorical level, Epictetus is really talking
‘through’ the ship (hence meta-phor)
about the psychological ship of the not-so-philosophically minded seafarer.
Following out the implications of the metaphor, ellipse has the extended sense of, to
leave undone; to fail in duty; to fall short or short of; to be inferior to; to not have something; to be
surpassed, overwhelmed.
For Epictetus, this moral story is not about
the life of the body sailing upon the oceans of World. Rather, it is about
whether our body is being carried along, captained, as it were, by a
philosophically sound life of the mind. If not, how very superficial our life
will have been. And if there is no sound life of the mind, especially if you
happen to be an old man, insists Epictetus, how
terrible to be found wanting… bleating and complaining like an irretrievably
lost sheep, that has neither power over and nor understanding of what the world
wants from it.
§ Twistings, Turnings, and Other Conversions.
For
antiquity, the idea of ‘conversion’ is extremely rich in implications and
ramifications, both in terms of Stoic philosophy and, later, of the Christian
religion. The classic study of the question in antiquity is, of course, Arthur
Darby Nock’s Conversion (Oxford
University Press, reprint 1972). In “An Existential Moment,” Phrontisterion gave the following
description for the process of conversion:
The
individual Turns Away From one path, and Turns Toward (con + vertere) a new
path – there is a changing of the mind, which has application to my actions. So
in all its various contexts, conversion is an ordering of the mind around a
philosophical anchor, a very deliberate turning toward a different fundamental
and organizing idea or principle.
In the New Testament, the most common
occurrences of ‘conversion’ are attributed to Luke, the author of the Gospel of Luke and of the Acts of the Apostles, and are found primarily
in the latter text: Acts 3:19; 9:35; 11:21; 14:15; 15:19; 26:18, 20.
Predictably, Luke’s images are almost all referencing a turn to God or to the
Lord; the one interesting exception, for its metaphorical potential, is found
in Acts 26:18, which speaks about turning from the darkness to the light.
On this question of conversion, our passage of
interest from Chapter 7 of Epictetus’ Enchiridion
is from lines 4 and 11.
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. […] Return to
the ship, having returned all the things you gathered up along the way—and not (11) having
always been constantly on your guard;
In line 4 of Epictetus’ parable we learn
that being constantly on your guard during a temporary
stopover, listening for
the all-aboard to sound, is an inevitable psychological state-of-mind during
extended journeys, given the predictably transient nature of lay-overs. But in
line 11 we understand that a more desirable, indeed a philosophical disposition
of mind, is where we do not have to remind
ourselves that, for this special and very brief occurrence, we must be
constantly on our guard. The mind that is philosophically prepared does not
have to be constantly turning around, as does the seafarer who is unprepared
for the call to re-board ship, because our attention never strays too far from the
inevitability of the up-coming call to board, and we have been attentive to never
get too far away from our anchor, which is the philosophical awareness of our
seafaring situation.
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| Philosophical Multi-tasking |
Our
verb, which translates the idea of conversion, and which Phrontisterion translates as ‘to be on guard’, is epistrephesthai [e˙pistre÷fesqai, in the middle-passive voice], actually means to turn
about or around. And among the various images associated with this verb in the
classical literature, there is (in the active voice): to wheel about; of ships,
to put about; of a wild boar who turns on the hunter; of a recurring illness. Equally,
epistrephesthai has the sense of
turning or converting from an error, to correct, or to cause to repent. In the
middle-passive voice, this verb has the sense of
constantly turning around, as if to look behind yourself, as the lion does when
retreating to assure its withdrawal; to go back- and forwards (as if
undecided?); to wander over the earth, with the collateral sense of observing,
studying it (so, in Hesiod); of the revolving sun; to turn the mind towards, to
pay attention to, to regard; and, finally, of conduct, to behave.
 |
| Alertness |
§ About Sheep, Anxiety, and Repentance.
It is comforting when folks are able and
willing to work toward some kind of consensus; in fact, Western democracies are
built upon such a bedrock idea. With this in mind, while it might normally
bring us comfort to know that the various internet translations are unanimous
in their rendering of lines 6-7 of Epictetus’ sheep simile in, unfortunately, in
this instance the consensus is absolute nonsense. Ms. Carter renders the
consensus for the sheep simile in Ch. 7 as follows: you must then immediately leave all these things [you have collected],
otherwise you will be thrown into the ship, bound neck and feet like a sheep (6 pa¿nta e˙kei√na
aÓfie÷nai, iºna mh\ dedeme÷noß e˙mblhqhvøß 7 wJß ta» pro/bata:).
Now, according to those in the know [link], sheep are very social animals, which is also quite possibly what makes
them such wonderful metaphorical illustrations for vulnerability, stress and
anguish. Apparently, they must,
always have visual
contact with other sheep [, which] will prevent excess stress when moving or
handling them. According to animal behaviorists, a group of five sheep is
usually necessary for sheep to display their normal flocking behavior. A sheep
will become highly agitated if it is separated from the rest of the flock.
So, in
addition to being extremely social in nature, sheep are also quite anxious,
individually timid, and prone to distress when isolated. This contemporary,
animal behaviorist viewpoint is supported of course by the very best in ancient
epic poetry. As the metaphorical embodiment of timidity and anxiety, for
example, sheep have pride of place in Homeric literature. We have only to
recall the return of Odysseus to his home after such a long foreign absence,
who discovers that his house and home has been squandered by a large number of
suitors. These suitors, thinking Odysseus long dead, seek to force-win
Penelope’s hand by consumption and attrition of the family’s wealth. Athena has
disguised Odysseus as an old, feeble man, and in Odyssey 19 he instructs his
son, Telemachus, in the ersatz-sheep attitude he must have and the words he
must say in order to deceive the suitors:
[1] So goodly Odysseus was left behind in the hall, planning with
Athena's aid the slaying of the wooers, and he straightway spoke winged words
to Telemachus: “Telemachus, the weapons of war thou must needs lay away within
[5] one and all, and when the wooers miss them and question thee, thou must
beguile them with gentle words, saying: ‘Out of the smoke have I laid them,
since they are no longer like those which of old Odysseus left behind him, when
he went forth to Troy, but are all befouled, so far as the breath of fire
has reached them. [10] And furthermore
this greater fear has a god put in my heart, lest haply, when heated with
wine, you may set a quarrel afoot among you, and wound one another, and so
bring shame on your feast and on your wooing. For of itself does the iron draw
a man to it.’” So he spoke, and Telemachus hearkened to his dear father, [15]
The
specific bit that interests us is from Odyssey
19 is line 10: And furthermore this greater fear has a god put in my heart [πρὸς δ᾽ ἔτι καὶ τόδε μεῖζον ἐνὶ φρεσὶν ἔβαλε δαίμων], because it is precisely here that one finds an intersection between
Homer and Epictetus 7, 6-7.
Our verb of interest in both passages (Odyssey + Enchiridion) is emballw [ἐμβάλλω], which, as the
internet translation consensus has so consensually agreed, has the fundamental
sense of ‘throwing in’, with a superb illustration of ‘falling into Achilles’
hands (Il. 14.258). Things, as well as people, can be ‘thrown to or into’: food
can be thrown to someone or put into their hands; a petition can be handed in,
or submitted; as a pledge can be given. This verb has the sense of, to throw
upon or against; to inflict; to strike fear into someone; to impose. Or, to put
one’s back into it; to set a broken or dislocated limb; to graft onto a tree,
or simply to plant; to insert a word or letter; to pay, to contribute; to
invade or to attack; to strike a ship with the ram; to dash against them; to
lay oneself to the oars; to draw lot’s; to put on board ship; to be dashed
against (passive voice).
Given the variety of possible meanings and
usages, it is not difficult to see why the internet consensus consented in the
very literal direction of you will be thrown into the ship
(like sheep), especially as this passive verb is also intimately linked to the
preceding, and very physical image of being all tangled up [iºna mh\ dedeme÷noß e˙mblhqhvøß], which has the additional
virtue of also being perfectly passive. The wonderfully literal image for dedemenos [dedeme÷noß from δέω] is to be all bound
up and caught in nets, like Ares, when Hephaistos catches him in his wife’s
(Aphrodite’s) bed—the story is told by Homer in Odyssey 8 (and esp. line 352).
However, to transfer this passive sense to
the translation of Epictetus’ parable only yields a non-sensical text. Instead
of creating literal nonsense out of
this passive construction, both verbs also have potential metaphorical significance for Epictetus. For emballw
[ἐμβάλλω], the Greek dictionaries suggest, for example, another “frequent” usage
for this verb, which renders in the sense of metaphor: to be thrown into strife in terms of
thinking; to be confused. Likewise, we need not translate dedemenos [dedeme÷noß] as a passive, which throws interpreters
and readers upon the very literal horns of a dilemma of meaning, in addition to
producing meaningless internet translations; its form is (either) middle or
passive; and translated reflexively (middle), the sense would yield—to get all
tangled up in your stuff; your arms were full with
all the things you had collected. Hence Phrontisterion’s translation:
(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 [6 pa¿nta e˙kei√na
aÓfie÷nai, iºna mh\ dedeme÷noß e˙mblhqhvøß 7 wJß ta» pro/bata:].
Epictetus uses the fear and trembling of
sheep as a simile for the mind that is unprepared to accept and to act upon the
fleeting truth about human reality, a mind that is divided, that goes forward
and backward, because it is unsettled and undecided. And yet there is no
avoiding World forever. For Epictetus, better to accept philosophically and
coolly, rather than under compulsion and bleatingly. The English and
Elizabethan dramatist, Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593), gives us exactly the
same philosophical moral-of-the-story, but changes the décor to correspond to
his Christianized thought-world, and gives the bleating sheep a name—Doctor
Faustus. There must come the moment when the piper gets paid for playing his
tune:
Ah, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that
true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd
Unto some brutish beast! all beasts are happy,
For, when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements;
But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell.
Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me!
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer
That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven.
[The clock strikes twelve.]
O,
it strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn
to air,
Or
Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!
[Thunder and lightning.]
O
soul, be chang'd into little water-drops,
And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!
We have
already considered in Part I of our study of this parable, the case of homo sapiens analecta, the great collector who does not cease from accumulating stuff on
his seafaring roving through time & world, so much so that he gets himself
all tangled up [dedeme÷noß] in the boundless “skein
of World and its networks of things.” The thought that accumulating stuff is
burdensome, and that it hinders us from ‘seeing’ clearly the fluid nature of
our reality, is not unique to Epictetus; it is also shared by the Cynic
philosophers of antiquity, as well as by other thought traditions, both
philosophical and religious. The gist of the idea is relatively
straightforward: stuff is not the problem; but its accumulation tricks us into
thinking that we are wayfarers on dry land, that our reality is terra firma, when in truth we are
seafarers who can never really gather much or stay for long because the tide is
going out. Everything must be remitted, including the remitter.
References
and Further Readings:
· St. Paul and Stoicism, by Frederick
Clifton Grant. The Biblical World, Vol. 45, No. 5 (May, 1915), pp. 268-281.
· Education or Conversion: Epictetus and the Gospels, by J. N. Sevenster. Novum Testamentum, Vol. 8, Fasc. 2/4 (Apr. – Oct, 1966), pp.
247-262.
· Comparative internet
translations: https://www.reddit.com/r/Stoicism/comments/33pm1d/enchiridion_translations_comparison/
