Sunday, October 1, 2017

Epictetus’ Enchiridion Expanded_§ 1.7.1.1_SeaFaring Ways (Complete)


~by David Aiken~

They that go down to sea: Gloucester, MA
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.

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.
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.

§ 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 traveller 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.
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.
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.
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.

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 traveling 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. 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.
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.

§ Remembering Where We Have Come From.
Let us remember our journey so far: In the seventh chapter of the Enchiridion, Epictetus has riddled 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.
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.

§ 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.
In Buddhism, Right Mindfulness means:
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.

The Parable of the Unmerciful Servant
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.
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.
 So, Epictetus encourages us to an attitude of “conversion,” which is to say, to a long-term disposition of mental awareness, attentiveness, and forethought concerning the nature of our seafaring condition on the waters of Life & World. Then, when the odd layover or landfall eventually does come along, we are not surprised at an otherwise commonplace event of the seafaring life, and we should certainly be available and willing, both physically and psychologically (=philosophically), to disembark, to have a good look around, and to collect a shell or two for our own good pleasure. Philosophically, reasons Epictetus, we must not allow ourselves to be surprised by the World, to become distressed like sheep at events they have neither anticipated nor desired, but which yet follow from perfectly ordinary occurrences that belong to the ebb and flow of Life & World. There should be no surprise for us, because the philosophical imagination is precisely a training and a readiness for the eventualities of the seafaring existence. Which brings us to the question of sheep.

§ 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!

Earlier in our study of this parable, we already considered 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.

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.


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?
·      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.


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