Ancient Philosophy After Aristotle

The Epicureans

The two greatest new schools of the Hellenistic period—the Stoics and the Epicureans—were founded simultaneously. Their founders, Zeno and Epicurus, were born around the same time and settled in Athens, each leading their respective sects concurrently for several years. Thus, it is a matter of taste to determine which school came first. I shall begin with the Epicureans, for their doctrines were irrevocably established by their founder, whereas Stoicism underwent a prolonged evolution culminating in the teachings of Emperor Marcus Aurelius, who passed away in 180 CE.

The principal authority regarding the life of Epicurus is Diogenes Laërtius, who lived in the third century CE. However, there are two notable difficulties: first, Diogenes was inclined to embrace legends of little historical value or that are entirely fictitious; second, part of his work On the Lives, Teachings, and Sayings of Famous Philosophers is a recapitulation of scandalous accusations levied against Epicurus by the Stoics, and it is not always clear whether he himself endorses these claims or merely relays slander. The gossip fabricated by the Stoics serves as a counterpoint to their exalted morality—a consideration worth remembering when they are lauded. Yet these are not facts pertaining to Epicurus. For instance, there existed a legend that claimed his mother was a priestess of healing, about which Diogenes states: “They (presumably the Stoics) assert that he typically wandered from house to house with his mother, who recited purifying prayers and assisted his father in imparting rudimentary knowledge for a pittance.”

Bailey provides the following commentary: “If there is any truth in the tale of his walking alongside his mother as a guide, reciting the formula of her incantations, it is likely that he developed an aversion to the superstitions she represented at a very young age, an aversion that later became a prominent feature of his teachings.” This theory is appealing, but due to the remarkable shamelessness of the later ancient world in fabricating slander, I do not consider it well-founded.

Against this speaks the fact that he held an extraordinary love for his mother.

Nonetheless, the essential facts of Epicurus’s life seem to be known with considerable accuracy. His father was a poor Athenian settler on Samos; Epicurus was born in 342 or 341 BCE, although it remains unclear whether this was on Samos or in Attica. In any case, his youth was spent on Samos. He claimed to have developed a passion for the study of philosophy at the age of fourteen. At eighteen, shortly after Alexander's death, he traveled to Athens, presumably to establish his citizenship, but while he was there, the Athenian settlers were expelled from Samos (322 BCE). Epicurus's family sought refuge in Asia Minor, where he reunited with them. In Teos, either at this time or slightly earlier, he was taught philosophy by one Nausiphanes, who appears to have been a follower of Democritus. Though in his philosophy, as it took its final form, Epicurus owed more to Democritus than to any other philosopher, he expressed nothing but disdain for Nausiphanes, whom he referred to as a “slug.”

In 311 BCE, he founded a school, initially in Mytilene, then in Lampsacus, and from 307 BCE in Athens, where he died in 270—271 BCE.

After a difficult youth, his life in Athens was tranquil, interrupted only by illnesses. He owned a house and a garden (apparently located separately from the house), and it was in the garden that he taught. Three of his brothers and several others were part of his school from the beginning; however, in Athens, his community grew not only through those studying philosophy but also through friends and their children, slaves, and courtesans. This last circumstance served as a pretext for slander from his enemies, seemingly utterly unfounded. He possessed a remarkable capacity for genuine human friendship and wrote endearing letters to the young children of his community. He did not conduct himself with the gravity and restraint in expressing emotions that were expected of philosophers in antiquity: his letters are astonishingly natural and simple.

The life of the community was very simple and modest—partly out of principle and partly (no doubt) due to a lack of funds. Their food and drink primarily consisted of bread and water, which Epicurus considered entirely satisfactory. “I rejoice in the pleasures of the body, dining on bread and water; I scoff at extravagant pleasures—not for their own sake, but for the unpleasant consequences they bring.” Financially, the community was dependent, at least in part, on voluntary donations. “Send me some cheese to indulge myself when I wish,” he wrote to a friend. To another friend: “So send us the beginnings [of donations] for the care of our sacred body for your own sake and that of your children.” And again: “The pension that… I have designated, I demand that it be sent to me alone, even if it comes from the Hyperboreans. Specifically, I wish to receive only one hundred and twenty drachmas a year from each of the two…”

Epicurus suffered throughout his life from poor health, yet he learned to endure this with great fortitude. It was he, not the Stoics, who first claimed that a person could be happy on the rack. Two letters—one written a few days before his death and the other on the very day of his passing—demonstrate that he was justified in holding such an opinion. In the first, he writes: “On the seventh day, as I write this, I am experiencing complete retention of urine and suffer pains leading to the final day. So, if anything should happen to me, take care of Metrodorus’s children for four or five years, but do not spend on them any more than you currently spend on me in a year.” In the second, he states: “On this fortunate and simultaneously final day of my life, I write you the following. The suffering from urination and bloody diarrhea proceeds in full force, leaving no excessive strength. Yet, in opposition to all this is the joy of the soul at the recollection of our past discussions. And you, deserving of the affection you have shown me since your youth towards me and philosophy, take care of Metrodorus’s children.” Metrodorus was one of his first disciples—he had died; Epicurus ensured his children’s welfare in his will.

Although Epicurus was gentle and kind towards most people, another side of his character is revealed in his relationships with philosophers, particularly those to whom he felt indebted. “I, for my part, believe,” he said, “that these ruffians will think that I am a student of the Slug and listened to his teachings alongside some boys who were hungover. Yet truly, he was a wretched man, engaged in pursuits through which wisdom cannot be attained.” He never acknowledged the extent of his indebtedness to Democritus, and concerning Leucippus, he asserted that such a philosopher had never existed, undoubtedly implying not that there was no such person but that this person was not a philosopher. Diogenes Laërtius provides an entire list of derogatory epithets that Epicurus is said to have applied to most of his most famous predecessors. This lack of generosity towards other philosophers coexists with another serious flaw—namely, dictatorial dogmatism. His followers were required to adopt something akin to a credo, which encompassed his doctrine, one that they were expected to accept unconditionally. None of them, until the very end of the Epicurean school’s existence, added or altered anything. When Lucretius, two hundred years later, translated the philosophy of Epicurus into poetry, he did not add—so far as we can judge—anything theoretical to the teachings of the school’s head. Wherever a comparison can be made, Lucretius’s exposition closely coincides with the original, and it is generally believed that he likely fills in gaps in our knowledge resulting from the loss of all three hundred of Epicurus’s works. From Epicurus's writings, nothing remains except for a few letters, some fragments, and an outline of the Fundamental Doctrines.

Epicurus's philosophical teaching, like those of other schools of his time (with partial exceptions for skepticism), was primarily intended to foster tranquility. He considers pleasure to be the good and adheres with remarkable consistency to all the consequences that arise from this view. “Pleasure,” he states, “is the beginning and the end of a happy life.” Diogenes Laërtius quotes his words from the work On the Purpose of Life: “As for me, I do not know what to understand by the good, if I exclude the pleasures obtained through taste, through the delights of love, through sound, and through the visual perception of beautiful forms.” And again: “The beginning and root of every good is the pleasure of the belly: even wisdom and other forms of culture are related to it.” The pleasure of the mind, we are told, is the contemplation of the pleasures of the body. Its only advantage over bodily pleasures is that we can learn to contemplate pleasure rather than pain more quickly, thereby establishing greater control over mental pleasures than over physical ones. Virtue, unless it signifies prudence in the pursuit of pleasure, is merely an empty name. Justice, for example, consists of actions that do not incite fear of the resentment of others—a perspective that leads to a doctrine of the origin of society somewhat reminiscent of the theory of the “Social Contract.”

Epicurus diverges from some of his hedonistic predecessors in his distinction between active and passive, or dynamic and static pleasures. Dynamic pleasures consist in the attainment of a desired goal, where the desire preceding this achievement is accompanied by suffering. Static pleasures, in contrast, encompass a state of equilibrium resulting from a condition that would be desirable were it absent. One might argue, in my view, that the satisfaction of hunger, the process of satiation, is a dynamic pleasure, whereas the state of tranquility that follows the complete alleviation of hunger is a static pleasure. Among these two kinds of pleasure, Epicurus considers it wiser to pursue the latter, as it is unclouded and independent of suffering as a stimulus for desire. When the body is in a state of balance, there is no suffering; thus, we ought to strive for equilibrium and quiet joys rather than more fervent pleasures. Epicurus seems to aspire, if possible, to always inhabit the condition of a person who has eaten moderately, never that of one who is intensely hungry.

Thus, he pragmatically arrives at the understanding of the ultimate goal of the wise more in terms of the absence of pain than the presence of pleasure. The stomach may be the root of all things, but the pain of the stomach outweighs the pleasure of gluttony; hence, Epicurus sustains himself on bread with a small addition of cheese on festive occasions. Desires such as wealth or the thirst for honor are futile, as they compel a person to restlessly pursue what could otherwise bring contentment. "The highest good of all is prudence; it is more precious than even philosophy." Philosophy, as he understood it, was a practical system designed to ensure a happy life; it requires only common sense, not preparation in logic, mathematics, or any other intricate training prescribed by Plato. He urges his young student and friend, Pythocles, to avoid all forms of culture. A natural corollary of his principles was his counsel to abstain from public life, as the higher the power a person achieves, the proportionally greater the number of envious souls eager to bring harm. And even if one evades external misfortune, such a position precludes tranquility of mind. The wise man will endeavor to live unobtrusively, so as to have no enemies.

Sexual love, as one of the most "dynamic" pleasures, is naturally forbidden. "Sexual intercourse," the philosopher asserts, "never brought good to man, and he is fortunate if such unions have not harmed him." He loved children (those who were not his own), and in the name of satisfying this inclination, he seemingly hoped that others would not heed his advice. Indeed, he loved children, evidently in defiance of his highest judgment, for he deemed marriage and procreation a distraction from more serious pursuits. Lucretius, following him in the denial of love, sees no harm in sexual intercourse, provided it is devoid of passion.

According to Epicurus, the most prudent of social pleasures is friendship. Like Bentham, he believes that all people, at all times, are concerned solely with their own pleasure—sometimes wisely, sometimes unwisely; yet, again like Bentham, he is continually drawn by his own good and affectionate nature towards the very delightful conduct from which he should abstain according to his own theories. He clearly loved his friends regardless of what he could gain from them, yet he reassured himself that he was as much a self-lover, an egoist, as all people ought to be, according to his teachings. According to Cicero, he believed that "friendship cannot be separated from pleasure, and thus it must be cultivated, for without it we cannot live without fear or even with pleasure." Yet at times, he forgets his theories. "Every friendship is desirable in itself," he says, adding, "though it arises from a need for assistance."

Epicurus, despite his ethics seeming coarse and devoid of moral inspiration to others, was quite sincere. As we have seen, he speaks of the community in the garden as "our holy unity"; he writes a book "On Holiness"; he possesses all the zeal of a religious reformer. He must have felt a profound pity for the sufferings of humanity and an unwavering belief that they could be significantly alleviated if people embraced his philosophy. It was a philosophy of a troubled man, designed to align with a world in which risky happiness had become hardly attainable. Eat little—out of fear of indigestion; drink little—out of fear of hangovers; avoid politics and love, along with all actions tied to intense passions; do not gamble your fate by marrying and having children; in intellectual life, learn to contemplate pleasure more than suffering. Physical suffering is undoubtedly a great evil, but if it is acute, it is brief, and if prolonged, it can be endured through mental discipline and the habit of thinking about pleasant things, despite the pain. Above all, live in such a way as to avoid fear.

It was the endeavor to escape fear that led Epicurus to theoretical philosophy. He asserted that the two greatest sources of fear are religion and the fear of death, intertwined since religion maintained the view that the dead are miserable. Therefore, he sought a metaphysics that would prove that the gods do not interfere in human affairs and that the soul perishes with the body. Many people today regard religion as a consolation, but for Epicurus, it was the very opposite. Supernatural interference in the affairs of nature seemed to him a source of dread, and immortality was fatal to the hope of escaping pain. Accordingly, he constructed a complex doctrine aimed at liberating people from beliefs that breed fear.

Epicurus was a materialist, yet without determinism. He followed Democritus in believing that the world consists of atoms and void; however, unlike Democritus, he did not believe that atoms always obey the laws of nature. The concept of necessity in Greece was, as we have seen, of religious origin, and perhaps he was justified in thinking that the struggle against religion would be incomplete if necessity were permitted to exist. His atoms had weight and constantly fell—not towards the center of the earth, but downwards in some absolute sense. Yet at times, some atom, prompted by something akin to free will, would slightly deviate from its straight path downwards and thereby collide with another atom. From this point onward, the development of vortices and so forth was the same as in Democritus's account. The soul is material and composed of particles, akin to breath and warmth. (Epicurus believed that breath and wind were substantively distinct from air; they are not merely air in motion.) The atoms of the soul are dispersed throughout the body. Sensation occurs from fine threads projected by bodies that move until they touch the atoms of the soul. These threads may still persist even when the bodies from which they initially originated have already decomposed; this explains dreams. With death, the soul dissolves, and its atoms, which undoubtedly outlive it, lose their capacity for sensation, as they are no longer connected to the body. From this, it follows, in the words of Epicurus, that "death has no relation to us: for that which has decayed feels nothing, and that which feels nothing has no relation to us."

As for the gods, Epicurus firmly believed in their existence, as he could find no other explanation for the widespread idea of a deity. However, he was convinced that the gods do not trouble themselves with the affairs of our human world. They are rational hedonists who follow their own commandments and avoid public activities; governing would be excessive labor, a task they do not desire to undertake in their lives of complete bliss. Certainly, prophecies and omens and all such matters are pure superstition, and so too is the belief in Providence.

Thus, there is no basis for the fear that we might incur the wrath of the gods or that we may suffer in hell after death. Being subject to the influences of natural forces that can be scientifically understood, we nonetheless possess free will and, to a certain extent, are masters of our own fate. We cannot evade death, but death, properly understood, is not an evil. If we live prudently, according to the principles of Epicurus, we are likely to achieve a certain degree of freedom from pain. This is a moderate sermon, but for a man tormented by human suffering, it is sufficient to inspire enthusiasm.

Epicurus took an interest in science not for its own sake; he valued it solely as a means to provide natural explanations for phenomena that superstition attributes to the actions of the gods. If there are many possible natural explanations, he believes there is no need to endeavor to choose among them. The phases of the moon, for instance, can be explained in many different ways; each explanation, as long as it does not invoke the gods, is as good as any other, and it would be idle curiosity to try to determine which is true. It is not surprising that the Epicureans contributed practically nothing to the advancement of the natural sciences. They played a useful role in their protest against the growing pagan commitment of later periods to magic, astrology, and divination, yet they remained, like their founder, dogmatic, limited, and devoid of any genuine interest in anything beyond personal, individual happiness. They memorized Epicurus's creed and added nothing to it for centuries while this school endured.

The only outstanding disciple of Epicurus was the poet Lucretius (99—55 BCE), a contemporary of Julius Caesar. In the waning days of the Roman Republic, free thought was in vogue, and the doctrines of Epicurus gained popularity among the educated elite. Emperor Augustus revived archaic virtues and ancient religions, resulting in Lucretius’s poem "On the Nature of Things" falling out of favor, a state of neglect that persisted until the Renaissance. Only one manuscript of this poem survived the Middle Ages, barely escaping destruction at the hands of zealots. It is unlikely that any other major poet had to wait so long for recognition, but in modern times, his contributions were nearly universally acknowledged. Thus, he and Benjamin Franklin became cherished authors of Shelley.

His poem articulates the philosophy of Epicurus in verse. Though they shared a common doctrine, their temperaments diverged significantly. Lucretius was passionate and required much more of a preaching of prudence than Epicurus. He ended his own life and, as some claimed, suffered from periodic madness, the cause of which might have been the torments of love or the unintended effects of a love potion. He regarded Epicurus as a savior, speaking with a tone of profound religious depth about a man whom he considered a destroyer of religion.

In those times, as the lives of men on earth were shamefully dragged along under the burdensome yoke of religion,
From the realms of heaven, with a fearsome visage, it gazed down upon mortals, laid low.
For the first time, a Greek dared to turn mortal eyes against it and bravely challenge its authority.
Neither the rumors of gods, nor the thunder, nor the rumblings of the fearsome sky could frighten him; rather, they strengthened
His spirit and compelled him to strive to break the sturdy
Barrier of nature’s gates.
By the power of spirit, he achieved victory, venturing
Far beyond the fiery confines of the world,
Traversing boundless spaces with his thought and spirit,
As a victor, he reveals to us from beyond what can
Occur, what cannot, what ultimate force
Is granted to each thing, and what limit is set upon it.
Thus, in turn, today religion is trampled beneath our feet,
And our very victory elevates us to the heavens.

The hatred for religion expressed by Epicurus and Lucretius is not easy to comprehend if one accepts the conventional view of the cheerfulness of Greek religion and ritual. “Ode on a Grecian Urn” by Keats, for instance, celebrates a religious ceremony, but not one that could fill the minds of men with dark and gloomy terror. I believe that the commonly held beliefs were not always so joyous. The veneration of the Olympians exhibited less superstitious cruelty than other forms of Greek religion, yet even the Olympic gods periodically demanded human sacrifices until the 7th or 6th centuries BCE, a fact reflected in myths and drama. In barbaric lands, human sacrifices were known even in the days of Epicurus; before the Roman conquest, such sacrifices were offered during times of crisis, as seen during the Punic Wars, even by the most civilized segment of the barbarian population.

As Jane Harrison has convincingly demonstrated, the Greeks had, in addition to the official cult of Zeus and his family, other, more primitive beliefs linked to more or less barbaric customs. These were somewhat related to Orphism, which became the dominant belief among those of a religious temperament. It is sometimes thought that hell was an invention of Christianity, but this is a misconception. Christianity systematized earlier popular beliefs in this regard. From the very beginning of Plato’s “Republic,” it is clear that the fear of posthumous punishment was commonplace in 5th-century Athens, and it is unlikely that it diminished during the period between Socrates and Epicurus. (I refer not to the educated minority, but to the populace as a whole.) Of course, it was also customary to attribute epidemics, earthquakes, defeats in war, and similar disasters to the dissatisfaction of the gods or a lack of respect for omens. I suspect that Greek literature and art likely mislead us in understanding popular beliefs. What would we know of the Methodist sect of the late 18th century if no information had survived from that time except in books and paintings created by members of the aristocracy? The influence of Methodism, much like the influence of religiosity in the Hellenistic age, grew from below; it was already powerful in the time of Bozuel and Joshua Reynolds, though their accounts reveal its impact to be unclear. We should not judge the widespread religion in Greece by the portrayals in “Ode on a Grecian Urn” or in the works of poets and aristocratic philosophers. Epicurus was not an aristocrat—either by birth or by association; perhaps this accounts for his exceptional aversion to religion.

The philosophy of Epicurus became known to readers from the Renaissance onwards primarily through the poems of Lucretius. What influenced them the most—if they were not professional philosophers—was the contrast with Christian beliefs on matters such as materialism, the denial of providence, and the rejection of immortality. Particularly striking for the modern reader is that the adoption of such views—now generally regarded as grim and oppressive—was presented as a call for liberation from the shackles of fear. Lucretius, as firmly convinced as any Christian, believed in the significant importance of genuine faith concerning religion. Describing how people long for salvation from themselves when they fall prey to internal conflict and futilely seek relief in changing their surroundings, he asserts:

Thus, each one runs from himself, yet clearly cannot
Escape; he remains with himself in vexation,
For the causes of his affliction the sickly do not know.
Had he understood it, he would have set aside all else,
First and foremost striving to grasp the nature of things.
This matter does not concern some fleeting hour,
But the state in which all mortal men must,
Upon their death, forever remain for all eternity.

The age of Epicurus was one of weariness, and the waning of life could appear as a long-awaited rest from spiritual toil. The final century of the Republic, by contrast, was not one of disappointment for most Romans; people of titanic energy forged from chaos a new order that the Macedonians had failed to establish. Yet for the Roman aristocrat, who distanced himself from politics and sought neither power nor plunder, the unfolding of events must have seemed profoundly disheartening. When compounded by the distress of intermittent madness, it is no wonder that Lucretius perceived the hope of non-existence as liberation.

However, the fear of death is such a deeply rooted instinct that Epicurus’s call could never gain widespread popularity; it always remained the creed of an educated minority. Even among philosophers after the age of Augustus, Epicurus’s appeal was generally rejected in favor of Stoicism. Indeed, it persisted, albeit with diminishing strength, for six hundred years after Epicurus’s death; yet as people increasingly suffered from the misfortunes of earthly existence, they continually sought stronger remedies from philosophy or religion. Philosophers, with few exceptions, sought refuge in Neoplatonism. The uneducated turned to various Eastern superstitions and then, in ever-greater numbers, to Christianity, which, in its early form, placed all the blessings of life beyond the grave, thereby offering people a slogan directly opposed to that of Epicurus. Doctrines quite similar to Epicurus’s were revived by French philosophers in the late 18th century and brought to England by Bentham and his followers; this was done as a conscious opposition to Christianity, which they viewed as equally hostile as Epicurus regarded the religions of his time.