On being aware of moral progress

Is there any argument, Sosius Senecio, which will salvage one's sense that one is improving and approaching virtue, if in fact progress causes no relief from folly, but vice circumscribes every stage and exactly counterbalances the progress and 'drags it down as lead does a fishing-net'? Take, for example, music or literacy: there can be no recognition of improvement here either, if the lessons do nothing to whittle away one's ignorance of these subjects, and one's incompetence remains perpetually at a constant level. And if medical treatment fails to relieve a patient's discomfort or in some way alleviate the illness and cause its remission and decrease, then it cannot afford the patient any sense that his condition is changing for the better, until his body has completely recovered its strength and the treatment has engendered the opposite condition with no trace of illness at all.

In fact, however, people do not make progress in these domains unless they perceive the change, since the instrument of their progress is relief from what was weighing them down (as if they were on a balance, and were being carried upwards as opposed to their former downward movement). And likewise, in philosophy, no progress or awareness of progress can be assumed if the mind is not freeing and purifying itself of fallibility, but is involved in absolute vice right up to the moment when it secures absolute, perfect virtue. Of course, it takes only a moment, a split second, for the wise man to change from the worst possible iniquity to a state of consummate virtue! And in an instant he has totally and utterly escaped from the vice which he did not even partially eliminate over a lengthy period!

Still, I am sure you already know that the authors of these assertions turn out to find 'the wise man who is unaware' extremely awkward and problematic, thanks to their own assertions. Consider a person who has not yet grasped the fact that he has become wise, but is unaware and uncertain in this regard, because it has escaped his notice that, by a gradual and lengthy process of subtracting this and adding that, progress has taken place and has steadily led him, as if it were a road, to an appointment with virtue. But if the speed and size of the change were so great that someone who is the worst of sinners in the morning can become a perfect saint in the evening, or if change occurred in such a way that someone could go to bed worthless and wake up wise and, with his mind freed of yesterday's fallibility and liability to error, could say, 'Goodbye, false dreams; I now see that you were nothing - if all this were so, how could anyone not realize that a change of this magnitude had happened within himself and that wisdom had enlightened him all at once? I would sooner believe that someone like Caeneus, whose prayer to change sex from female to male is granted, could fail to notice the transformation, than that someone who had become controlled, wise and courageous instead of cowardly, stupid and weak-willed, and who has in an instant exchanged a life at a bestial level for one at the level of the gods, could be unaware of himself.

No, it is a correct saying that one should 'Fit the stone to the line, not the line to the stone.' But the people who refuse to fit their views to the facts, and instead force facts into unnatural conformity with their hypotheses, have infected philosophy with plenty of puzzles: the one which fits everyone, with the sole exception of the perfect man, into a single undifferentiated category of vice is only the greatest of these puzzles. This puzzle makes the term 'progress' opaque: what they call 'progress' is a state little short of sheer inanity, and a state which makes all those who have not rid themselves of every emotion and defect still just as miserably off as those who have not escaped even any of the very worst vices. Anyway, these thinkers refute themselves, because in their lectures they place Aristides on a par with Phalaris in respect of immorality, and Brasidas with Dolon in respect of cowardice, and even go so far as to claim that Plato and Meletus are utterly identical in respect of ignorance; but in their lives and actions they refrain and abstain from the behaviour of the latter set of people, which they acknowledge to be heartless, and attach themselves to and trust the former set, whose example, as they agree, is in the most important respects of great value.

We, on the other hand, can see that 'more and less' can be attributed to every kind of vice, and especially to mental vice, which is a genus comprising an indeterminate, limitless number of species; and we can see that this is also what makes different stages of progress different, as reason gradually illuminates and purifies the mind by pushing back imperfection as if it were darkness. Consequently, we do not find illogical the notion that people who are being carried upwards out of an abyss, so to speak, are aware of the change, and we think that this awareness has definite, describable principles.

Here, without further ado, is the first such principle to consider. Just as those who are running under sail in the open sea use the time along with the strength of the wind to calculate how much of their voyage they are likely to have accomplished, given that x amount of time has passed and they are being driven by y amount of power, so in philosophy one can, to satisfy oneself, take as evidence of progress the continuity and constancy of the journey, and the fact that it is rarely interrupted by pauses followed by fresh effort and impetus, but is perpetually pressing forward smoothly and evenly, and using reason to secure its passage without stumbling. The advice 'If you add even a small amount to a small amount and do this often' is valuable for more than just the accumulation of money: it is universally effective, and nowhere more so than in the development of virtue, when to reason is added plenty of habituation, which is what produces results.

Any unevenness and dullness, however, on the part of philosophers makes them not only wait and linger on the journey of progress, so to speak, but even turn back, because vice seizes every opportunity to ambush anyone who gives in and takes time off, and to carry him away in the opposite direction. Mathematicians tell us that when the planets stop moving forwards, they become stationary, but in philosophy, when progress ceases, there is no gap, no stationary mode. Since human nature is constantly in motion, it tends to tilt as if it were on a pair of scales: it is either fully extended by its better movements or, thanks to the opposite movements, it plummets towards its worse aspect. So if - as in the oracle uttered by the god which stated, 'Fight against the Cirrhaeans every day and every night' - if you are aware of having resisted vice day in and day out without stopping, or at least of having rarely let down your guard or of having only occasionally admitted into your presence certain pleasures or amusements or diversions with a view to making a deal with them, as if they were envoys from the army of vice, then you have every reason to proceed towards the future undaunted and in good heart.

Nevertheless, even if breaks occur in one's philosophical activity, if later there is more stability to it and longer stretches of time are spent on it than before, then this is a good indication that hard work and repeated effort are squeezing laziness out. The other alternative, however, is bad - when after a short while setbacks frequently and continually occur, with enthusiasm shrivelling, so to speak. A reed starts growing with a huge spurt whose result is a smooth, unbroken length, and at first it is rarely thwarted or retarded and only at long intervals; but then (as if it had difficulty breathing up there) it grows weak and consequently starts to fail and its growth is hampered by the formation of many protuberances, with little room between them, as its life-force encounters bumps and shocks. This is an analogy for what can happen in philosophy: anyone who starts with a series of energetic charges, and then continually encounters drawbacks and interruptions in large numbers, while seeing no improvement, gets fed up and gives in. 'On the other hand, he gains wings' applies to anyone who is motivated by the benefit of philosophy and who, with strength and enthusiasm generated by achievement, cuts through the excuses as if they were a crowd of nuisances.

When you are with someone you find attractive, it is not happiness that is a sign of falling in love (since this is not unique to love), but pain and distress when you are cut off from that person; and likewise, plenty of people are drawn to philosophy and apparently set about learning with a great deal of zeal, if nothing else, but if other matters or diversions drive them away, that emotion drains out of them and their mood becomes one of indifference. On the other hand, 'anyone smitten by love for his beloved' might strike you as placid and tame while you are together, sharing in philosophical discussion, but you should see him when he has been cut off and separated from philosophy: he is feverish, restless, dissatisfied with every matter and every diversion; his longing for philosophy impels him, as though he were a mindless beast, to forget his friends. The point is that what is required is not that people treat discussions as they do perfumes and enjoy them when they are there, but do not go out of their way for them, or even have a positive distaste for them, when they are not there; what is important is rather that, when one is cut off from philosophical discussions (whether it is getting married or a sea journey or forming a friendship or military service that causes the separation), one should feel something similar to hunger and thirst, and so stay in contact with the genuine cause of progress. For the greater the gain from philosophy has been, the greater the displeasure at separation.

What we have been saying is basically identical or very similar to the ancient description of progress in Hesiod - that the path ceases being steep or excessively sheer: it becomes easy, level and manageable. It is as if repeated effort levels the path, and as though the journey creates a light and a brightness in philosophy, to replace the perplexity, uncertainty and vacillation which students of philosophy come across at first, like sailors who have left the land they know, but cannot yet see the land which is their destination. For they are in the position of having left behind what is normal and familiar, but of having not yet become acquainted with and in possession of what is better: they are going round in circles in the intermediate area, and in the process often turn back towards where they have come from.

Sextius the Roman was a case in point: the story goes that on account of philosophy he had abandoned his offices and positions of authority in the political arena, but on the other hand was, while in the philosophical arena, in a bad way and was finding the subject difficult; he came very close to throwing himself off the top of a building. And there is a similar story about Diogenes of Sinope when he was embarking on his study of philosophy: it was an Athenian holiday, and they were having fun and staying awake all night, with meals laid on by the state, plays at the theatres, and parties with one another; Diogenes was curled up in a corner of the agora, trying to sleep, and he found himself thinking decidedly upsetting and self-destructive thoughts, trying to work out how, under no external compulsion, he had of his own free will taken on a gruelling and unnatural lifestyle, and was sitting there excluded from all those good things. Just then, however (as the story goes), a mouse crept up and occupied itself with the crumbs from his bread; Diogenes started to use his mind and reconsider, and said to himself, in a critical and disparaging tone, 'What are you getting at, Diogenes? Your leftovers are a feast for this mouse, yet you, a man of stature - are you complaining and moaning just because you're not lying over there on soft, gaudy blankets, getting drunk?' So when that sort of bad mood occurs only rarely, and the mind quickly steps in to cancel it out and repel it (changing defeat into victory, as it were), and has no difficulty in getting rid of the agitation and restlessness, then one ought to regard one's progress as being on a firm basis.

Their own weakness, however, is not the only factor which can make students of philosophy waver and double back. The earnest advice of friends and the mocking, bantering attacks of critics can also, on their occurrence, warp and sap resolve, and have been known to put some people off philosophy altogether. Therefore, a good indication of an individual's progress would be equanimity when faced with these factors, and not being upset or irritated by people who name his peers and tell him how they are prospering at some royal household, or are marrying into money or are going down to the agora as the people's choice for some political or forensic post. For anyone who is not dismayed or swayed in these circumstances has clearly been suitably and securely gripped by philosophy, since it is impossible to stop trying to conform to behaviour the majority of people admire unless one has become accustomed to admire virtue instead; even anger and insanity give some people the ability to stand up to others, but disdain for affairs commonly admired is impossible without a high purpose, truly and securely held.

This is also the context of the proud comparisonspeople make between the two concerns, as when Solon said, 'We will not exchange our virtue for their wealth, since the one is permanent and stable, but different people have money at different times.' And Diogenes used to compare his moves from Corinth to Athens and back again to the great king's residency at Susa in the spring, at Babylon in the winter and in Media in the summer. Then there is Agesilaus' remark about the great king: 'He is a greater man than me only if he is more moral.' And in a letter to Antipater about Alexander, Aristotle wrote that the fact that Alexander rules over a lot of people does not make him the only one who can legitimately feel proud: anyone whose thinking about the gods is correct has just as much right. And when Zeno saw that Theophrastus was admired for the number of his students, he said, 'Although his chorus is larger, mine is more harmonious.' Anyway, when the contrast between virtue and externals has enabled you to eliminate from yourself envy and jealousy of others, and all the things which commonly irritate and undermine beginners in philosophy, you can take this too as a clear indication of your progress.

Another not unimportant sign is a certain change where arguments are concerned. Almost without exception, beginners in philosophy tend to look for ways of speaking which will enhance their reputation. Some behave like birds: because they are lightweight and ambitious, they swoop down on to the brilliant heights of science. Others behave 'like puppies', as Plato says: 'they enjoy dragging things around and tearing them apart', so they head for controversies and puzzles and sophisms. A great many beginners immerse themselves in philosophical arguments and use them as ammunition in casuistry. Occasionally, beginners go around collecting quotable phrases and stories, but just as Anacharsis used to say that, in his experience, the only reason the Greeks have money is to count it, so these people - in respect of the arguments they employ - are short-changed and short-change others, and accumulate nothing else which might do them good.

The result of all this is illustrated by Antiphanes' saying, in its application to Plato's circle. Antiphanes used to tell an amusing story about a city where, as soon as anyone spoke, the sound of his voice was frozen solid, and then later, when it thawed out in the summer, they heard what had been said in the winter; likewise, he added, what Plato said to people when they were still young only just got through to most of them much later, when they were old. People also have this experience when faced with philosophy in any form, and it stops only when their discrimination becomes sound and steady, and begins to encounter the factors which instil moral character and stature, and starts to seek out arguments whose tracks (to borrow Aesop's image) tend inwards rather than outwards. Sophocles used to say that he first lightened Aeschylus' heaviness, then the austerity and affectedness of his own style, and only then did he, as a third step, try to change the actual nature of the language, which has the most bearing on morality and virtue; this is an analogy for the fact that it is only when students of philosophy stop using arguments for display and affectedness and turn to the kinds of argument which have an impact on the character and the emotions that they begin to make genuine, unassuming progress.

In the first place, then, you must make sure that when you are reading philosophical works and listening to philosophical lectures, you do not concentrate on the phraseology and exclude the subject-matter, and that you do not pounce on awkward, odd phrases rather than those which are useful, meaty and beneficial. Secondly, you must be careful, when you spend time on poetry and history, in case you overlook any well-expressed point which might improve your character or ease the weight of your emotions. For just as a bee spends time with flowers, as Simonides says, 'intent on yellow honey', whereas everyone else appreciates and takes in no more of the flower than its colour and scent, so, although everyone else's involvement with poetry has the limited aim of pleasure and fun, nevertheless if someone by his own resources discovers and gathers from it something worth taking seriously, then it is by this token plausible to suggest that his training and love for what is good and congruent with his nature have brought him to the point of recognizing what is good and congruent.

There are people, for example, whose concern with Plato and Xenophon is limited to their language, and who glean no more than their pure Attic diction (which is, as it were, the dew and down on the flower). The only comment one can make about such people is that they appreciate the nice, flowery smell of medicines, but fail to ingest, or even recognize, their analgesic and purgative properties. By contrast, those whose progress is ongoing are capable of benefiting, and of gathering what is congruent and useful, not just from the written or spoken word, but from any sight and any situation at all.

Anecdotes about Aeschylus and others of similar stature illustrate the point. For instance, Aeschylus was watching a boxing-match at the Isthmian games, and whenever either of the boxers was struck, the audience yelled out loud; Aeschylus nudged Ion of Chios and said, 'Do you see what practice can do? The man who has been struck remains quiet - it is the spectators who cry out!' Brasidas once picked up some dried figs which had a mouse among them; the mouse nipped him and he dropped it: 'Incredible!' he remarked. 'No matter how small or weak a creature is, it will live if it has the courage to defend itself.' When Diogenes saw someone using his hands to drink, he took his cup out of his bag and threw it away.

These stories illustrate how attention and repeated intense effort enable people to notice and absorb the implicit virtue in everything. This is more likely to happen if they supplement theory with practice - not just 'by studying in the school of danger', as Thucydides puts it, but also by giving themselves a practical demonstration of their views - or preferably, forming their views by experience - whenever they are faced with pleasure and argumentativeness, or involved in decision-making, advocacy in court and political authority. As for those who, even while they are still students, occupy themselves with considering what they can take from philosophy and recycle without delay in the political arena, or to entertain their young friends, or at a reception given by the king, they are no more entitled to be regarded as philosophers than sellers of medicines are entitled to be regarded as doctors; or perhaps a better description is to say that a sophist of this kind is basically altogether identical to Homer's bird, because he regurgitates for his pupils, as if they were his 'flightless chicks', anything he takes in, 'and fares badly himself', if he fails to consider his own advantage and to absorb or digest anything he takes in.

It is therefore essential for us to make sure, first, that we approach words in a way that is beneficial to ourselves, and second, where other people are concerned, that we do so not because we want empty glory or public recognition, but rather because we want to be taught and to teach. Above all, we must make sure that, when investigating issues, there is no trace of rivalry and contentiousness, and that we have stopped supplying ourselves with arguments as if they were boxing thongs or padded gloves to be used against one another, and no longer prefer bludgeoning others to the ground to learning and teaching. Reasonableness and civility during discussions, neither embarking on conversations competitively nor ending them in anger, neither crowing if an argument is won nor sulking if it is lost - all this is the behaviour of someone who is progressing nicely. Aristippus gives us an example: once he was outmanoeuvred in an argument by a man who did not lack self-confidence, only intelligence and sense; Aristippus saw that the man was delighted and had got big-headed, so he said, 'I am going home now: I may have been argued down by you, but I will sleep more peacefully tonight than you, for all your success.'

When we speak, we can also assess ourselves by seeing whether or not we get afraid and hold back if a large crowd unexpectedly gathers round us, whether or not we get depressed if there are only a few to hear us debate, and whether or not, if called upon to address the Assembly or a person in authority, we throw the opportunity away by being inadequately prepared with respect to what language to use. This latter point is illustrated by stories about Demosthenes and Alcibiades. Alcibiades was extremely adept at knowing what topics to address, but less confident about what language to use and, as a result, used to trip himself up while he was addressing topics; often, even in the middle of speaking, he used to search for and hunt after an elusive word or phrase, and so get booed. By contrast, Homer was not bothered about publishing an unmetrical first line: his talent gave him plenty of self-assurance about the rest of the poem. It is therefore fairly reasonable to suppose that those who are striving for virtue and goodness will make good use of the opportunity and the topic, by being completely indifferent to any tumultuous, noisy response to their language.

The same applies to actions as well as to words: everyone should try to ensure that they contain more usefulness than showmanship, and are more concerned with truth than with display. If genuine love for a young man or for a woman does not seek witnesses, but reaps its harvest of pleasure even if it fulfils its desire in secret, then it is even more likely that someone who loves goodness and wisdom, who is intimate and involved with virtue because of his actions, will be quietly self-assured within himself, and will have no need of an admiring audience. There was a man who summoned his serving-woman at home and shouted out, 'Look at me, Dionysia: I have stopped being big-headed!' Analogous to this is the behaviour of someone who politely does a favour and then runs around telling everyone about it: it is obvious that he is still dependent on external appreciation and drawn towards public recognition, that he does not yet have virtue in his sights and that he is not awake, but is acting randomly among the illusory shadows of a dream and then presents his action for viewing, as if it were a painting.

It follows that giving something to a friend and doing a favour for an acquaintance, but not telling others about it, is a sign of progress. And voting honestly when surrounded by corruption, rejecting a dishonourable petition from an affluent or powerful person, spurning bribes and even not drinking when thirsty at night or resisting a kiss from a good-looking woman or man, as Agesilaus did - quietly keeping any of these to oneself is also a sign of progress. A man like this gains recognition from himself, and he feels not contempt, but pleasure and contentment at being self-sufficient as a witness, and spectator too, of his good deeds; this shows that reason is now being nourished within and is taking root inside him, and that he 'is getting used to being his own source of pleasure', as Democritus puts it.

Farmers prefer to see ears of corn bent over, nodding towards the ground; they regard as worthless impostors the light ones which stand up straight. Young would-be philosophers are just the same: it is those who are particularly insubstantial and lightweight who cut a dash, pose and strut, faces full of contempt and disdain which spare nothing and nobody; but when they start to fill out and gain in yield from the lectures, they shed their ostentatious pomposity. And just as the air inside empty vessels into which liquid is introduced is squeezed out and goes elsewhere, so when people are filled with genuinely good material, their pretensions are pushed aside and their self-esteem starts to crumble; they stop feeling proud of their beard and threadbare gown, and instead make their minds the object of their efforts; and they use the caustic, harsh side of their nature on themselves above all, and treat anyone else they come across with greater leniency. They put an end to their former habit of usurping and confiscating for themselves the name of philosophy and the reputation of studying philosophy; instead, if an innately good young man is even called 'philosopher' by someone else, he will be so dismayed that he will say with a smile, overcome by embarrassment, 'Look, I am no god. Why do you compare me to the gods?' As Aeschylus says, 'When a young woman has experienced a man, the heat in her eyes gives her away'; and when a young man has experienced genuine philosophical progress, these lines of Sappho's are relevant: 'I am tongue-tied, and delicate fire plays over my skin' - despite which, his gaze is unworried and his eye calm and you would want to hear him speak.

At the start of the initiation ceremony, as the candidates assemble, they are noisy, call out and jostle one another; but when the rituals are being performed and revealed, then they pay attention in awestruck silence. Likewise, you can see plenty of disturbance and chatter and self-assurance at the beginning of philosophy, on the threshold, with some people rudely and roughly jostling for acclamation; but anyone who finds himself inside and in the presence of a great light, with the sanctuary open, so to speak, changes his attitude and becomes quiet and transfixed, and 'with humility and restraint complies' with reason, as he would with a god. Menedemus' joke seems to apply rather neatly to such people. He said that the numerous people who sail to Athens to study go through the following progression: they start wise, then become philosophers, and as time goes on, they become normal people, by gradually laying aside their self-esteem and pretensions in proportion to the hold they have on reason.

When people need healing, if it is a tooth or a finger that is hurting, they go straight to the doctor; if they have a fever, they summon the doctor to their house and ask him to help; but if they are suffering from an extreme case - melancholy or brain fever or delirium - they sometimes cannot even stand the doctor coming to visit them, but chase him away or avoid him, because the severity of their illness prevents them even being aware that they are ill. The same goes for people with faults: it is the incurable ones who get angry and behave aggressively and fiercely towards anyone who tries to rebuke and reprimand them, whereas those who put up with rebuke and do not resist are in a more composed state. And when someone with faults puts himself in the hands of critics, talks about his defects, does not hide his iniquity and does not relish getting away with it or enjoy being unrecognized for what he is, but admits it and begs for someone to take him and reprimand him, this must be a significant sign of progress. This is surely why Diogenes used to say that anyone concerned about safety ought to try to find either a proper friend or a fervent enemy, so that one way or another - either by being rebuked or by being treated - he might steer clear of badness.

Imagine someone with an obvious stain or mark on his clothes or a torn shoe affecting self-deprecation as a pretence to the outside world, or someone thinking that by making fun of his own short stature or slumped posture he is showing a carefree spirit: as long as he does all this, but disguises the internal blemishes of his mind, the defects of his life, the pettiness, hedonism, malice and spite, and hides them away as if they were boils, without letting anyone touch them or see them because he is afraid of being rebuked, then his involvement in progress is minimal, or rather non-existent. On the other hand, anyone who comes to grips with these defects, and primarily anyone who has the ability and the desire to supply his own distress at and censure for his faults, but secondly anyone who has the ability and the desire to put himself in someone else's hands for castigation, and sticks with it, and is purified by the criticism, is precisely the person who seems to have a genuine loathing for iniquity, and to be really trying to eradicate it.

It is, of course, important to feel embarrassed at, and to avoid, even a reputation for badness; but someone who dislikes actual iniquity more than he dislikes an adverse reputation does not avoid being reproached, and reproaching others himself, if the object is moral improvement. For instance, there is Diogenes' nice remark to a young man he saw in a pub, who ran away - but into the pub: 'The further inside you run,' he said, 'the more you are going to be in the pub!' And the more a person denies any defect, the more he immerses and imprisons himself in the vice. It is obvious that anyone who is poor, but who pretends to be rich, increases his poverty by his masquerade; but Hippocrates, who wrote down and published the fact that he did not understand the skull's sutures, is a model for anyone who is genuinely progressing, because he thinks it quite wrong for Hippocrates to help others avoid the situation he found himself in by publicizing his own failing, while he - a person who is committed to immunity from error - does not dare to be castigated or to admit his fallibility and ignorance.

In fact, it is arguable that Bion's and Pyrrho's assertions refer not to progress, but to a better, more perfect state. Bion told his friends that they deserved to think they were progressing when they could listen to abuse and be affected as if what was being said was 'My friend, you don't seem bad or foolish, so I wish you health and great joy, and may the gods grant you prosperity.' And there is a story about Pyrrho that once when he was endangered by a storm at sea, he pointed to a piglet which was happily tucking into some barley that had been spilled, and told his companions that anyone who did not want to be disturbed by events should use the rational mind and philosophy to develop a similar detachment.

You should also notice what Zeno said - that a person's dreams ought to make him aware that he is progressing, if when asleep he sees himself neither enjoying anything discreditable, nor conniving at or doing anything awful or outrageous, but if instead he feels as though he were in translucent depths of tranquil stillness and it dawns upon him that the imaginative and emotional part of his mind has been dispersed by reason. Plato also apparently realized this point, before Zeno, and he described in outline the imaginative, irrational aspect of an innately tyrannical mind and the sorts of things it does when asleep: 'He tries to have sex with his mother', feels compulsions for all kinds of foods, transgresses convention and acts as though his desires, which by day are shamed and cowed into restraint by convention, had been set free.

Draught-animals which have been well trained do not attempt to stray and deviate, even if their master lets the reins go slack: they press forward in an orderly fashion, obedient to their conditioning, and unfailingly keep to their course. In the same way, people whose irrational aspect has been tamed and civilized and checked by reason find that it loses its readiness to use its desires to act outrageously and unconventionally even when dreaming or when under the influence of illness; instead, it watches protectively over its conditioning and remains aware of it, since it is conditioning which gives our attention strength and energy. If, as a result of training, detachment can gain control over even the body - over the whole body and any of its parts - so that eyes faced with a harrowing sight resist weeping and a heart surrounded by horrors resists lurching, and genitals modestly keep still and cause no trouble at all in the company of attractive men or women, then naturally this increases the plausibility of suggesting that training can take hold of the emotional part of the mind and, so to speak, smooth it and regularize it by suppressing its illusions and impressions at all levels, including dreaming.

There is a story about the philosopher Stilpo which illustrates the point. Once he dreamed he saw Poseidon and that Poseidon was angry with him for having omitted to sacrifice an ox (which was a standard offering to Poseidon), but Stilpo was not perturbed in the slightest and said, 'What do you mean, Poseidon? Don't you think it's childish of you to come and complain that I didn't bankrupt myself and fill the city with the smell of burnt offerings, but instead sacrificed to you on a moderate scale at home, drawing on what I actually had?' And then he dreamed that Poseidon smiled, extended his right hand and said that, because of Stilpo, he would create for Megara a bumper crop of sardines.

So anyway, when people have dreams which are pleasant, clear and untroubled, and sleep which brings back no trace of anything frightening or horrible, or malicious or warped, they say that these features are beams of the light of progress; but they say that the features of distressing and bizarre dreams - frenzy, agitation, running from danger like a coward, experiencing childish delights and miseries - are like breakers and billows, and originate in a mind which does not yet have its own regulator, but is still being formed by opinions and rules, so that when it is asleep and as far from these formative influences as it can be, it is again dissolved and unravelled by the emotions. Now, you must join me in considering, by yourself, whether this phenomenon I have been talking about stems from progress or from a state which already has the steady, solid strength which comes of being based on reason.

Since absolute detachment is an exalted, divine state, and progress towards it is, as I say, like a kind of alleviation and taming of the emotions, then it is important for us to examine our emotions and to assess their differences, comparing them with themselves and with one another. We must compare them with themselves to see if the desires and fears and rages we now experience are less intense than they were before, given that we are using reason rapidly to extinguish their violence and heat; and we must compare them with one another to see if our sense of disgrace is now more acute than our fear, and whether we prefer to emulate people rather than envy them, and value a good reputation more than we value money. In short, we must compare them with one another to see if, to use a musical analogy, we err on the side of the Dorian rather than the Lydian mode, whether our lifestyle inclines towards asceticism rather than indulgence, whether our actions tend to be slow rather than hasty, and whether we are astounded by rather than contemptuous of arguments and people. Where ailments are concerned, it is a good sign when the disease is diverted into parts of the body where it will not prove fatal; and likewise where vice is concerned, it is plausible to suggest that when people who are making progress find that their vices now engage more respectable emotions, those vices are gradually being eliminated. When Phrynis strung two extra strings on the lyre, in addition to the usual seven, the ephors asked him whether he was prepared to let them cut off the top two or the bottom two; but the first point to make about ourselves is that what is required is, as it were, that the top ones and the bottom ones are cut out, if we are going to settle on an intermediate, moderate position; and the second point is that progress begins with the lessening of our emotions' extremity and intensity, 'lusting after which,' as Sophocles says, 'makes one overwrought'.

Now, we have said that translating decisions into actions and not allowing words to be just words without turning them into deeds is particularly typical of progress. What is significant in this context is modelling our behaviour on what we commend and being keen to do what we express admiration for, while being unwilling even to connive at what we find fault with. For example, although it was not surprising that Miltiades' courage and bravery were universally applauded in Athens, nevertheless, when Themistocles said that Miltiades' trophy stopped him sleeping and allowed him no rest, it was immediately obvious that he was doing more than just expressing approbation and admiration: he was also moved to emulate and imitate Miltiades. So we must regard our progress as minimal as long as our admiration of success lies fallow and remains inadequate in itself to spur us towards imitation.

The point is that physical love is not a force for change unless it is accompanied by the desire to emulate; and commendation of virtue is also tepid and ineffective unless it nudges us and goads us to stop being envious and instead to want - with a desire that demands satisfaction - to emulate good behaviour. Alcibiades stressed the importance of the heart being moved by a philosopher's words and of tears being shed, but that is not all that is important: anyone who is making genuine progress compares his own conduct with the deeds and actions of a man who is an exemplar of goodness, and is simultaneously aggravated by the awareness of his defects, happy because of his hopes and aspirations, and full of a restless compulsion. Consequently, he is liable to 'run like an unweaned foal close to a horse' (to use a line from Semonides), because he longs to be virtually grafted on to the good man. In fact, this experience is typical of genuine progress - dearly to love the character of those whose conduct we desire to imitate, and always to accompany our wanting to be like them with goodwill which awards them respect and honour. On the other hand, anyone feeling competitively envious of his betters must realize that it is jealousy of a certain reputation or ability that is provoking him, and that he is not respecting or admiring virtue.

So when our love for good men starts to be such that we not only, as Plato says, count as blessed both the responsible man himself and anyone who listens 'to the words emitted by a responsible mouth', but we also admire and cherish his posture, walk, look and smile, and long to attach and glue ourselves to him, so to speak, then we can legitimately consider ourselves to be making genuine progress. This is even more legitimate if we do not admire only the successful aspects of men of virtue, but behave like lovers who are not put off if those they find attractive have a speech defect or a pallid complexion: despite the tears and misery brought on by her grief and misfortune, Pantheia still thrilled Araspes, and in the same way we should not be repelled by Aristides' exile, Anaxagoras' imprisonment, Socrates' poverty or Phocion's condemnation, but because we regard virtue as desirable even under these circumstances, we should draw near to it, quoting Euripides' line whenever the occasion demands - 'It's incredible how high-minded people find nothing bad!' You see, someone who is inspired enough to admire and want to imitate even apparently awful things, rather than be put off by them, can certainly never be deterred from good things ever again. It has already become such a person's practice, when he is embarking on some course of action, or taking up office, or taking a risk, to picture truly good men of the past and to wonder, 'What would Plato have done in this situation? What would Epaminondas have said? How would Lycurgus or Agesilaus have come across?' He uses each of them as a kind of mirror, before which he puts himself in order, or adjusts his stance, or refrains from some relatively petty saying of his, or resists an emotion. Some people learn the names of the Dactyls of Mount Ida and steadily recite each one, as a spell to ward off fear; but if thoughts and memories of good men readily occur to people who are making progress and make them think again, then they keep them true and safe, whatever emotions and difficulties beset them. It follows that this is another mark by which you can tell someone who is morally improving.

Moreover, to have stopped getting all flustered, blushing and hiding or rearranging some idiosyncrasy when a person who is famous for his self-control unexpectedly appears, but instead to go up to such people confidently, can corroborate one's awareness. Alexander apparently once saw a messenger running towards him with his right hand extended and looking very pleased. 'What news, my friend?' said Alexander. 'Has Homer come back to life?' For he thought that the one thing his exploits lacked was a voice that would give him undying fame. But the love which fills the character of a young man who is improving is, above all else, love of showing off before truly good people and of displaying his home, board, wife, children, occupation and spoken and written compositions; and consequently it is a source of pain for him to remember that his father or his tutor is dead and cannot see him in his present condition, and the one thing in particular he would pray to the gods for would be that they might come back to life and so witness his lifestyle and conduct. On the other hand, people who have taken no responsibility for themselves and who have been spoiled are quite the opposite: they cannot even dream about their relatives calmly and without anxiety.

There is another mark, no minor one, for you to add, please, to the ones we have already discussed. It is to have stopped regarding any of one's faults as trivial, and instead to take thorough care about and to pay attention to all of them. People who do not expect to become affluent have no qualms about spending small amounts, because they think that adding to the small amount they already have will not produce a large amount, whereas anticipation joins with savings to increase love of affluence the closer it gets to its goal. It is the same with conduct which pertains to virtue: if someone scarcely gives in to 'What's the point?' and 'That's it for now - better next time', but applies himself on every occasion, and gets fed up and irritated if vice ever worms its way, with its excuses, into even the slightest of his faults, then he is obviously in the process of acquiring for himself a certain purity and wants to avoid being defiled in any way whatsoever. On the other hand, thinking that nothing is, or can be, especially discreditable makes people nonchalant and careless about the little things. In fact, when a wall of some kind or other is being built, it does not make any difference if the odd piece of wood or ordinary stone is used as infrastructure, or if a stele that has fallen off a tomb is put in the footings, which is analogous to the conduct of degenerates who jumble together into a single heap any old business and behaviour. But people who are progressing, and who have already 'fashioned a fine foundation' for their life (as if it were a home for gods and kings), do not admit things chosen at random, but use reason as a straight-edge by which to apply and fit every single part together. And this, in my opinion, is what Polyclitus was referring to when he said that those whose clay is at the stage when fingertips are required have the hardest task. wTIH4wfJg9gi2WXZfzu8GmIs1sfTgLuRDnSNB8hhCdyvuVbwT8mz4KoWKmIIVZiq