Whenever a raven croaks ominously, don’t let the impression carry you away, but straightaway discriminate within yourself, and say: “None of this is a warning to me; it only concerns my feeble body or my tiny estate or my paltry reputation or my children or my wife. But to myself all predictions are favorable if I wish them to be, since it is up to me to benefit from the outcome, whatever it may be.” (Ench 18)
In ancient Greece and Rome, a raven was thought to be a messenger of the God Apollo, and the croaking of a raven was typically considered a sign of future bad luck. We moderns are likely to dismiss this kind of divination without further consideration. However, the Stoic’s conception of the cosmos inspired them to give serious consideration to the connection between signs and events. As professor Dorothea Frede wrote in The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics:
The uniform nature of the active and passive powers within the cosmic order also explains why there is, in contradistinction to Plato and Aristotle, no separation in Stoicism of the super- and the sub-lunary world. The heavenly motions are ruled by the same principles that operate on earth: All of nature is administered by the supreme divine reason, and hence there is a global teleological determinism that the Stoics identified with fate. The omnipotence of the active principle explains the Stoic conception of an overall sumpatheia within nature, an inner connection between seemingly quite disparate events. Divination, the study of divine signs and portents, is therefore treated as a science in Stoicism rather than as superstition. Careful observation leads to the discovery of certain signs of those interconnections, even if human knowledge does not fully comprehend the rationale behind the observable order of all things. This explains why the Stoics not only supported the traditional practices of divination, but also helped establish astrology as a respectable science in the Greek and Roman world.[1]
I’m not going to spend much time on divination in this episode because that is not the point of this lesson. Nevertheless, it’s important to understand the role it played in the founding of Stoicism. In the opening chapter of their book Being Better: Stoicism for a World Worth Living In, Kai Whiting and Leonidas Konstantakos do a wonderful job telling the story of Zeno’s calling to the life of a philosopher. They note that after being shipwrecked, Zeno was destitute and wondered what would become of his life. They continue:
so he set off on a two-hundred-mile round trip to seek guidance from the Oracle of Delphi — the priestess of the Greek god Apollo — who was respected and revered all over Greece for her divinations. Even kings would travel for days to seek her counsel, and while today it might seem ridiculous to heed the utterings of a young woman in a trancelike state, a trip to Delphi was taken very seriously indeed. Every meeting was an involved process that had more in common with South American ayahuasca rituals than, say, visiting a clairvoyant. The Oracle required visitors to prepare in both body and mind, and as with ayahuasca ceremonies, those seeking answers at the Temple at Delphi had to adhere to strict rules in order to approach the ritual with reverence, respect, and sincerity. You couldn’t just rock up to the Oracle, hand over some coins, and demand that she saw you. Nobody could sit in the Oracle’s presence until they had properly considered the dangers of misinterpreting her advice and also understood and pledged to abide by the three maxims of self-discovery: “know yourself,” “nothing to excess,” and “surety brings ruin.” Wisdom seekers were told to listen carefully to what she said in relation to their strengths, weaknesses, personal quirks, and the specific roles they played in the wider world (as, say, a daughter, mother, Spartan queen).
Zeno kept all this in mind as he told the Oracle the story of his shipwreck, and she advised him to “take on the pallor of the dead.” On his return journey home, Zeno weighed her cryptic words carefully because it was imperative that he interpret them well. What could they possibly mean? As Zeno approached Athens’ city gate, it occurred to him that, above all, he must commit to pursuing the ancient wisdom that had been passed down by venerated, and now long-dead, philosophers. He promised himself that he would reexamine the kinds of philosophical texts his own father had read to him while still a boy. In particular, he was determined to get hold of the ones that spoke about the “good life”; that is to say, a life worth living, not just one that is (or will ever be) easy, comfortable, or pleasant.
In line with the Oracle’s prophecy, at the precise moment when Zeno was reading about Socrates, who Greek philosophers considered the wisest man to have ever lived, another well-known philosopher, Crates of Thebes, happened to stroll by. The two struck up a conversation, Crates agreed to mentor Zeno, and so began Zeno’s journey toward eudaimonia.[2]
Within this story, we see Zeno turn the tragedy of a shipwreck and financial poverty into a new life by seeking the wisdom of the cosmos and then paying attention to the signs Nature provided. What happened for Zeno in that bookseller’s store was a synchronicity—it was more than coincidence, and Zeno knew it. That is why he paid attention to the sign and followed Crates. By following Nature, he changed his life and the lives of many others since who have chosen to follow the Stoic path he blazed.
In Encheiridion 18, Epictetus tells his students why signs, no matter their source, cannot negatively affect them. Whether they appear good or bad, all signs concern externals that have no bearing on our moral character and well-being. Imagine being told to take on the pallor of the dead. Zeno certainly could have interpreted that as a foreboding message from the Oracle. Instead, he considered it thoroughly and waited until the cosmos made its meaning clear to him.
No Oracle has not been present at Delphi for more than fifteen hundred years, and no one listening to this podcast is likely to be disturbed by the croaking of a raven. However, what about the croaking of a modern weatherperson, financial analyst, news anchor, or political talk show host? If Epictetus were delivering this lesson today, he might dissuade us from being concerned about:
- The croaks of the weatherperson about the coming hurricane or blizzard.
- The croaks of the financial analyst about the coming stock market crash
- The croaks of the political candidate about the foreboding social and economic implications of their opponent winning the election.
- The croaks of the news anchor about riots in the streets or the war abroad
- The croaks of the talk show host who tells us to fear those who disagree with us politically.
The raven takes a different form for us today, but the result is the same if we allow the croaks of these modern messengers to convince us something bad is coming. If we allow the croaks of messengers to inspire inappropriate action or to discourage us from appropriate action, we harm ourselves. Does that mean we should ignore the predictions of the weatherperson, financial analyst, news anchor, etc.? No! It does mean we must remember those predictions, whether they be optimistic or ominous, apply to externals—indifferents that cannot touch our soul.
Epictetus discouraged his students from misusing divination in Discourses 2.7:
Because we resort to divination on the wrong occasions, many of us fail to carry out many appropriate actions, for what is a diviner able to see that extends beyond death, danger, or illness, or, in general, things of that kind? If one should be obliged, then, to run a risk on behalf of a friend, or if it is appropriate for me even to die for him, what occasion is left for me to resort to divination? Don’t I have a diviner within me who has taught me the true nature of good and bad, and can interpret the signs that indicate the one and the other? So what further need do I have of entrails or birds? And if a diviner says to me, ‘That is what will be of benefit to you,’ will I put up with it? Why, does he know what is beneficial? Does he know what is good? In learning to read the signs in the entrails, has he also learned the signs that are indicative of good and bad? For if he has knowledge of those, he also knows those that indicate what is right or wrong, and what is just or unjust. Man, it is your part to tell me whether the signs point to life or death, riches or penury; but to know whether these would be beneficial or harmful, is it really you whom I should be consulting? Why is it that you don’t speak out on points of grammar? And yet you do speak out on those matters on which all of us go astray and can never reach agreement? It was thus an excellent reply that the woman made when she wanted to send a boatload of provisions to the exiled Gratilla; for when someone said to her, ‘Domitian will merely confiscate them,’ she replied, ‘Better that he should take them away than that I should fail to send them.’ (Discourses 2.7.1-8)
What is the lesson here? Appropriate actions are not guaranteed to succeed. The intention to act is the measure of appropriateness because the success of the action is not up to us. In his commentary, Simplicius offers a breakdown of Epictetus’ formula, and Keith Seddon makes it even more approachable.[3] The argument goes like this:
(1) It is in your power never to desire or seek to avoid external things;
(2) If you neither desire nor seek to avoid external things, you cannot be defeated (hêttaomai);
(3) If you are not defeated, you cannot be in a bad situation;
(4) If you are not in a bad situation, then nothing is a sign of something bad for you;
(5) Therefore it is in your power to bring it about that nothing is a sign of something bad for you.
This five-step argument, derived from the teaching of Epictetus, makes the case that no harm can come to the Stoic. However, Epictetus doesn’t stop there. He turned these signs of foreboding into opportunities.
But to myself all predictions are favorable if I wish them to be, since it is up to me to benefit from the outcome, whatever it may be. (Encheiridion 18)
Popular aphorism:
Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out.
That’s not from Epictetus or any other Stoic. It has been attributed to several people, including Roman historian Titus Livius, basketball coach John Wooden, and television personality Art Linkletter. Nevertheless, it delivers the same message as the last line of Enchiridion 18.
In the last episode of Stoicism on Fire, I highlighted the limitations placed on us by Nature and pointed out that life is not fair in the sense most people want it to be. As I noted, human talents are not distributed equally at birth, and the socio-economic and political environment people are born into differ significantly between nations, cities, communities, and families.
Some people might find that reality discouraging. However, it’s not so for a Stoic. Why? Because it is up to us to benefit from any outcome, whatever it may be. Again,
Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out.
How can we benefit from any outcome? By assenting to the order inherent in the cosmos and bringing our will into agreement with Universal reason, permeating and ordering all of Nature. We benefit when we intend to act appropriately, with a reserve clause in mind, and then assent to whatever happens as the best possible outcome at that time, under those circumstances. In other words, we wish for things to have happened the way they did (Encheiridion 8). We accept the limitations Nature places on us and focus our attention exclusively on what is up to us. Then, it will be up to us to benefit from whatever happens and will truly become the master of our fate and the captain of our soul.[4]
ENDNOTES:
[1] Frede, D. (2003). Stoic Determinism. In B. Inwood (Ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics (pp. 179–205). Cambridge University Press. p. 184
[2] Whiting, K., & Konstantakos, L. (2021). Being Better: Stoicism for a World Worth Living In. New World Library. pp. 7-8
[3] This argument is rewritten by Seddon, K. (2005). Epictetus’ Handbook and the Tablet of Cebes: Guides to Stoic Living. Routledge. p. 86; however, it’s original form is found in Brennan, T., & Brittain, C. (2002). Simplicius: On Epictetus’ Handbook 1-26. Cornell University Press. p. 136, n. 241
[4] Henley, W. (1875) Invictus
