Aristotle · a new plain-English translation from the original language
1| Since virtue has to do with feelings and actions, and since praise and blame attach to voluntary actions while forgiveness, and sometimes even pity, attaches to involuntary ones, it is presumably necessary for those inquiring into virtue to define the voluntary and the involuntary, and this is useful also for lawgivers with a view to honors and punishments. Now, things are thought to be involuntary when they occur by force or through ignorance. [1110a] What is done by force has its origin outside, and is of a kind in which the one acting - or rather the one having it done to him - contributes nothing, as when a wind carries someone somewhere, or people who have him in their power do so. But whatever is done through fear of greater evils, or for some fine end - as when a tyrant, having power over someone's parents and children, orders him to do something shameful, and if he does it they are saved but if he does not they die - such cases raise dispute over whether they are involuntary or voluntary. Something similar happens too with jettisoning cargo in storms: no one, without qualification, throws goods overboard willingly, but for the sake of his own safety and that of the rest, anyone with sense does. Such actions, then, are mixed, but they more closely resemble voluntary ones; for they are choiceworthy at the time they are done, and the end of the action is relative to the occasion. So whether an action counts as voluntary or involuntary must be judged with reference to the time it is performed. And a person performs it voluntarily; for the origin of moving the bodily parts that serve as instruments, in such actions, lies in him; and things whose origin lies in the agent are also up to him to do or not to do. Such acts, then, are voluntary, though in an unqualified sense they are perhaps involuntary; for no one would choose any such thing for its own sake.
2| For such actions people are sometimes even praised, when they endure something shameful or painful for the sake of great and fine ends; and if the reverse, they are blamed, since enduring the most shameful things for nothing fine, or for something trivial, marks a base person. In some cases there is no praise, but there is forgiveness, when a person does what he should not because of things that overstrain human nature and that no one could endure. Yet some things, perhaps, cannot be forced upon a person at all - rather he must die after suffering the most terrible things than do them; for the things that supposedly forced Euripides' Alcmaeon to kill his mother appear ridiculous. It is sometimes difficult to judge what should be chosen in place of what, and what endured in place of what; and it is still harder to abide by one's judgment once made, since for the most part what is expected is painful, while what one is forced to do is shameful, which is why praise and blame arise concerning those who were forced, or were not. [1110b] What sort of things, then, should be called done by force? Perhaps, without qualification, whenever the cause lies among external things and the agent contributes nothing. But things that are involuntary in themselves, yet now, in exchange for these consequences, are choiceworthy, and whose origin lies in the one acting - these are involuntary in themselves, yet now, in exchange for these consequences, voluntary. They more closely resemble voluntary actions, for actions lie among particulars, and these particulars are voluntary. What should be chosen in place of what is not easy to state, for there are many differences among particular cases. But if someone should say that pleasant and fine things are done by force - since, being outside us, they compel us - then everything would be for him a case of force, since it is for the sake of these that everyone does everything. Now those who act by force and unwillingly do so with pain, while those who act because of what is pleasant and fine do so with pleasure. It is ridiculous to blame external things rather than oneself for being easily caught by such lures, and to credit oneself with
3| fine actions while blaming pleasant things for shameful ones. The forced, then, appears to be that whose origin is external, with the person forced contributing nothing. What is done through ignorance is, in every case, non-voluntary, but it is involuntary only when it is followed by pain and regret; for one who has done something through ignorance, without any distress at what he did, has not acted voluntarily, since he did not know what he was doing, but neither has he acted involuntarily, since he feels no pain. So of those who act through ignorance, the one who feels regret seems to be involuntary, while the one who feels no regret - since he is a different case - let him be called, not voluntary. For since he differs from the other, it is better that he have a name of his own. Acting through ignorance also seems different from acting in ignorance; for a drunk person or an angry person is not thought to act through ignorance but through one of the causes mentioned, though not knowingly but in ignorance. Every wicked person, then, fails to know which acts are required and which must be shunned, and it is this very failure that turns people unjust and, broadly, bad; yet the word "involuntary" is not meant for someone merely unaware of his own advantage. For it is not ignorance in one's choice that is the cause of the involuntary, but rather of vice, nor is it ignorance of the universal - for that is blamed - but ignorance of particulars, the things and circumstances the action concerns; [1111a] for it is in connection with these that both pity and forgiveness arise, since a person who is ignorant of any of these acts involuntarily. Perhaps, then, it will not be out of place to distinguish what these particulars are and how many, namely: who is acting, what he is doing, and in regard to what or in what he is acting, and sometimes also
4| with what, such as an instrument; for the sake of what, such as safety; and how, such as gently or violently. Now no one who is not mad could be ignorant of all these things at once, and clearly not of the agent either — for how could one be ignorant of oneself? But of what he is doing someone might be ignorant, as for instance people say they let it slip out in speaking, or that they did not know it was secret, as Aeschylus did with the mysteries, or that he let it go meaning only to show it, as with the catapult. And one might think one's son was an enemy, as Merope did, or that a spear with a head on it was blunted, or that a stone was pumice; or one might kill a man by giving him a drink meant to save him; or, meaning only to touch, as those do who spar with bare hands, one might strike a real blow. Since ignorance is possible with regard to all these things — the elements in which the action lies — the man who was ignorant of any one of them is held to have acted involuntarily, and above all if he was ignorant of the most important of them. And the most important seem to be the elements in which the action lies, and that for the sake of which it is done. But besides being called involuntary in respect of this sort of ignorance, the action must also be painful and something the agent regrets. Since what is involuntary is what is done by force or through ignorance, the voluntary would seem to be that whose origin lies in the agent himself, when he knows the particular circumstances in which the action lies. For presumably it is not correct to say that acts done because of spirit or appetite are involuntary. In the first place, on that view none of the other animals will ever act voluntarily, nor will children. Next, is it that none of the acts we do from appetite or spirit are voluntary, or that the fine ones are voluntary and the shameful ones involuntary? That is absurd, when it is one and the same cause. And it is surely strange
5| to call involuntary the things we ought to desire; for there are things at which we ought to feel anger, and things we ought to desire — health, for instance, and learning. Again, involuntary acts are held to be painful, while acts done in accordance with appetite are held to be pleasant. Further, what difference does it make, as regards their being involuntary, whether the errors are due to calculation or to spirit? Both are to be avoided, [1111b] but the irrational affections are held to be no less human than reason is, and so too are the actions that proceed from spirit and appetite, since they are the actions of a human being. It would be strange, then, to set these down as involuntary. Now that the voluntary and the involuntary have been distinguished, it remains to go through the subject of choice; for choice seems to be most proper to virtue, and to judge character even more than actions do. Choice, then, is clearly voluntary, but it is not the same as the voluntary — the voluntary extends more widely. Children and the other animals do have a part in the voluntary, but none in choice; and we speak of sudden acts as voluntary, though never as chosen. Those who say choice is appetite, or spirit, or wish, or a kind of opinion do not seem to speak correctly. For choice is not shared by irrational creatures, but appetite and spirit are. Again, the person who lacks self-control acts from appetite but not from choice, while the person with self-control, conversely, acts from choice but not from appetite. And appetite is opposed to choice, but appetite is not opposed to appetite. And appetite has to do with the pleasant and the painful, whereas choice is concerned neither with the painful nor with the pleasant. Spirit even less so; for acts done because of spirit are held to be least of all in accordance with choice. But surely choice is not wish either,
6| though it appears very close to it. Choice is not of impossible things, and if someone said he chose an impossible thing, he would seem to be a fool; but wish can be of impossible things too, such as immortality. And wish can be for things that could in no way come about through the agent himself — for instance, that a particular actor or athlete win; but no one chooses such things, but only whatever he thinks could come about through himself. Wish, moreover, is directed rather at the end, whereas choice concerns what conduces to it: health is something we wish for, yet what we choose are the means through which health will come about; and we wish to be happy, and say so, yet it is not fitting to speak of choosing happiness itself — for choice, taken generally, appears to bear upon whatever lies within our own power. Nor again could it be opinion; for opinion is held to concern all things alike, no less what is eternal and impossible than what is up to us, and it is distinguished by falsity and truth, not by badness and goodness, whereas choice is distinguished rather by these latter. [1112a] Now no one, presumably, says choice is simply the same as opinion in general. But it is not the same as any particular opinion either; for it is by choosing good or bad things that we become people of a certain quality, but not by holding opinions. And we choose to take or to avoid something, or something of that sort, but we hold opinions about what a thing is, or whom it benefits, or how; taking or avoiding is not really something we hold an opinion about. And choice is praised for being of the right object rather than for being correct, whereas opinion is praised for being true. And we choose the things we know best to be good, but we hold opinions about things we do not know very well; and it does not seem to be the same people who choose best and who hold the best opinions, but rather
7| some people hold better opinions yet, through vice, choose things they ought not. It makes no difference whether opinion comes before choice or accompanies it; that is not what we are examining, but whether choice is the same as some kind of opinion. What, then, or of what sort is it, since it is none of the things mentioned? It is evidently voluntary, but not everything voluntary is an object of choice. Is it, then, what has been deliberated on beforehand? For choice involves reason and thought. Even the name seems to hint at this — that it is something chosen before other things. Now do people deliberate about everything, and is everything an object of deliberation, or is there no deliberation about some things? We should say, presumably, that the object of deliberation is not whatever a fool or a madman might deliberate about, but what a person of sense would deliberate about. Now no one deliberates about the eternal things — for instance, about the universe, or about the incommensurability of the diagonal and the side. Nor again about things that are in motion but always come about in the same way, whether from necessity or by nature or through some other cause — for instance, about the solstices and the risings of the stars. Nor about things that happen differently at different times — droughts and rains, for instance. Nor about matters of chance — finding a treasure, for instance. Nor even about all human affairs — no Spartan, for instance, deliberates about how the Scythians might best be governed; for none of these things could come about through us. We deliberate about the things that are up to us and are matters for action, and these are what remain. For nature and necessity and chance are held to be causes, and so too are intellect and everything that acts through human agency. And each group of human beings deliberates about the things that can be done through themselves.
8| [1112b] And about the exact and self-sufficient sciences there is no deliberation — about the letters of the alphabet, for instance (for we are not in doubt how they are to be written); but about whatever comes about through our own agency, and not always in the same way, about these we deliberate — about matters of medicine and of business, for instance, and about the art of navigation more than about gymnastics, in proportion as it has been less precisely worked out, and likewise again about the rest, and more about the crafts than about the sciences, for we are more in doubt about these. Deliberation has to do with things that hold for the most part, where it is unclear how they will turn out, and in matters that are undetermined. And we take on advisers for great matters, distrusting ourselves as not adequate to discern them. We deliberate not about ends but about the means to ends. For a doctor does not deliberate whether he will heal, nor an orator whether he will persuade, nor a statesman whether he will produce good order, nor does anyone else deliberate about the end; rather, having set down the end, they consider how and by what means it will be achieved. And if it appears that it can come about through several means, they examine through which it will come about most easily and most nobly; while if it is accomplished through one means only, they consider how it will come about through that, and that in turn through what, until they arrive at the first cause, which is last in the discovery. For the person deliberating seems to inquire and to analyze in the manner described, as one analyzes a geometrical figure (though it appears that not every inquiry is deliberation — mathematical inquiries, for example — while every deliberation is an inquiry), and what is last in the analysis is first in the process of coming to be. And if they meet with something impossible,
9| people give up on it, as when money is needed but cannot be procured; but if it appears possible, they set about doing it. And things are possible that could come about through us: for what comes about through friends is in a sense through us, since the starting point is in us. What is sought is sometimes the instruments, sometimes the use of them; and likewise in the rest of the cases, sometimes it is the means, sometimes the manner, or through whom. It seems, then, as has been said, that a human being is a starting point of actions; and deliberation is about what is achievable by him, and actions are for the sake of other things. For the end could not be an object of deliberation, but only the things that lead to the end; nor again particulars, [1113a] such as whether this is bread, or whether it has been baked as it should be — these are matters of perception. And if a person is always going to deliberate, he will go on to infinity. Now the object of deliberation and the object of choice are the same, except that the object of choice has already been marked off: for what has been judged as a result of deliberation is the object of choice. For each person stops inquiring how he will act once he has traced the starting point back to himself, and within himself to the ruling part; for this is what does the choosing. This is clear also from the ancient constitutions that Homer represented: for the kings would announce to the people what they had chosen beforehand. Since, then, the object of choice is what is deliberated about and desired among the things in our power, choice too would be a deliberative desire of things in our power; for it is from having judged as a result of deliberating that we desire in accordance with the deliberation. Let choice, then, be described in outline, both as to what it is concerned with and that it is concerned with things that lead to ends.
10| That wish is of the end has been stated; but some hold that it is of the good, others that it is of the apparent good. Now for those who say that the object of wish is the good, it follows that what a person who chooses incorrectly wishes for is not an object of wish (for if it is to be an object of wish, it will also be good; but it was, if it so happened, bad); while for those who say that the apparent good is the object of wish, it follows that there is nothing that is by nature an object of wish, but only what seems so to each person — and different things appear so to different people, and, if it so happens, contrary things. If, then, neither of these accounts is satisfactory, are we to say that without qualification, and in truth, the good is the object of wish, but that for each person it is the apparent good? For the good person, then, what is truly good is the object; for the base person, whatever it happens to be — just as with the body: to those in sound condition, what is genuinely healthful appears healthful, while to those in poor condition something else does — and the same holds for what tastes bitter or sweet, what feels hot or heavy, and every other such quality. For the good person judges each case correctly, and in each case what is true appears to him. For each state of character has its own things that appear fine and pleasant, and perhaps the good person differs most in this, that he sees what is true in each case, being as it were a standard and measure of them. In the case of the many, deception seems to come about on account of pleasure; [1113b] for it appears to be a good when it is not. They choose, then, the pleasant as a good, and avoid pain as an evil. Since, then, the end is an object of wish, and the things that lead to the end are objects of deliberation and choice, the actions concerning these
11| would be in accordance with choice, and voluntary. Now the activities of the virtues are concerned with these very things. So virtue too is in our power, and likewise vice. For where it is in our power to act, it is also in our power not to act, and where it is in our power to say no, it is also in our power to say yes; so that if acting, when it is a fine thing, is in our power, then not acting, when it is a shameful thing, will also be in our power, and if not acting, when it is a fine thing, is in our power, then acting, when it is a shameful thing, will also be in our power to us. Since acting well or acting shamefully lies within us, and so too does refraining from either, and since this was precisely what being good or bad people came down to, being decent or base likewise lies within us. As for saying that no one is willingly wicked nor unwillingly blessed, this seems to be partly false and partly true: for no one is blessed unwillingly, but villainy is voluntary. Or else we must dispute what has just been said, and deny that a human being is a starting point, or a begetter, of his actions as he is of his children. But if these things are evident, and we have no other starting points to trace our actions back to besides the ones in us, then the things whose starting points are in us are themselves also in our power and voluntary. This seems to be borne out both by individuals privately and by the lawgivers themselves: for they punish and take vengeance on those who do wicked things, provided they did not act under compulsion or through an ignorance for which they themselves were not responsible, while they honor those who do fine things, on the assumption that they will encourage the latter and restrain the former. Yet no one encourages people to do the things that are neither in our power nor voluntary, on the ground that it would be of no use to be persuaded not to feel heat, or pain, or hunger, or anything else of that sort — for we shall feel these things
12| just the same. Indeed, people are punished for their very ignorance, if they seem responsible for the ignorance itself — for instance, drunks incur double penalties; for the starting point is in the man himself, since he was in control of not getting drunk, and this was the cause of his ignorance. And they punish people who are ignorant of any of the things in the laws that they ought to know and that are not difficult, [1114a] and likewise in other cases where people seem to be ignorant through carelessness, on the ground that it was in their power not to be ignorant, since they were in control of taking care. But perhaps he is the sort of person who will not take care. All the same, they are themselves responsible for having become that sort of person, by living carelessly, and for being unjust or self-indulgent, some by cheating, others by spending their time in drinking and things of that sort; for it is the activities exercised on particular things that make people the sort of people they are. This is clear from those who practice for any contest or performance whatever: for they spend their time exercising the activity. Now to be ignorant that states of character come about from exercising activities on particular things belongs to someone who is thoroughly lacking in perception. Further, it is absurd for someone who acts unjustly not to wish to be unjust, or for someone who behaves self-indulgently not to wish to be self-indulgent. But if a person, without being ignorant, does the things from which he will become unjust, he will be willingly unjust — not, however, that if he wishes it, he will stop being unjust and become just. For neither does the sick man become healthy just by wishing it. Yet, if it so happens, he is willingly sick, living incontinently and disobeying his doctors. At that time, then, it was open to him not to be sick, but once he has let it go, it no longer is, just as it is no longer possible to pick up a stone once it has been thrown; but nonetheless it was in his power to throw and hurl it, for the starting point was in him. So too with the unjust man
13| And in the case of the self-indulgent person too, it was possible at the start not to become such, which is why such people are voluntary; but once they have become so, it is no longer possible for them not to be so. And it is not only the vices of the soul that are voluntary, but for some people the vices of the body are too, and these we also blame: for no one blames those who are ugly by nature, but people do blame those who are so through lack of exercise and neglect. It is the same with weakness and disability: nobody would fault someone who cannot see because of nature, illness, or an injury, but would instead feel sorry for him; yet everyone would blame someone whose blindness came from drunkenness or some other form of self-indulgence. So among the bodily vices, those that are up to us are blamed, while those that are not up to us are not. And if this is so, then in the other cases too, the vices that are blamed would be up to us. But suppose someone says that everyone aims at the apparent good, but is not in control of the appearance, [1114b] and that whatever sort of person each one is, such does the end appear to him: then, if each person is somehow responsible for his own state of character, he will also be somehow responsible for the appearance; but if not, then no one is responsible for his own wrongdoing, but acts this way through ignorance of the end, supposing that through these actions he will get what is best for himself, and the striving for the end is not self-chosen, but one must be born with a kind of vision, as it were, by which one will judge well and choose the good that accords with truth, and the person of good natural endowment is the one who has this well by nature; for this is the greatest and finest thing, and what cannot be gotten or learned from another, but a person will have it in whatever way he was born with it, and to be well and finely endowed with this by nature would be perfect and true good natural endowment. If this is true, then, how will virtue be any more voluntary than vice? For alike in both cases, for the good person and the bad, the end appears by nature, or however it appears,
14| and is fixed, and people, in referring the rest to this, act however they act. So whether the end does not appear by nature to each person as whatever it happens to be, but something also depends on the person himself, or whether the end is natural, but virtue is voluntary because the excellent person does the rest voluntarily, vice would be no less voluntary; for the bad person likewise has what depends on himself in his actions, even if not in the end. If, then, as is said, the virtues are voluntary (for we are ourselves in a way jointly responsible for our states of character, and by being persons of a certain sort we posit the end as being of a certain sort), then the vices too would be voluntary; for it is the same in their case. We have then spoken in common terms about the virtues, sketching their genus in outline—that they are means, and that they are states of character, and by what they are produced, that they are productive of these same activities and are exercised for their own sake, and that they are up to us and voluntary, and act in the way that correct reason prescribes. But actions and states of character are not voluntary in the same way: for we are in control of our actions from beginning to end, knowing the particulars, but we are in control of states of character only at the start, [1115a] while the successive addition to them is not something we recognize in each instance, as with illnesses; but because it was up to us to use them in this way or not in this way, they are for that reason voluntary. Let us take each virtue up again and say what they are, and what they concern, and how; and at the same time it will become clear how many there are. And first about courage. That it is a mean concerning fears and confidence has already been made clear; and it is clear that we fear the things that are fearful, and these are, to speak simply, bad things; for this reason people define fear as expectation of something bad.
15| We fear, then, all bad things—for example, disrepute, poverty, disease, friendlessness, death—but the courageous person is not thought to be concerned with all of these; for some things it is right and fine to fear, and shameful not to, for example disrepute: the person who fears it is decent and has a sense of shame, while the one who does not fear it is shameless. This latter is called courageous by some people by a kind of metaphor, for he has something similar to the courageous person: for the courageous person too is free from fear in a sense. But perhaps one should not fear poverty or disease, nor in general anything that does not come from vice or depend on oneself. Yet the person who is fearless about these things is not courageous either. We apply the term to him too only by similarity: for some people who are cowards in the dangers of war are generous and are confident in the face of losing money. Nor again is someone a coward if he fears outrage done to his children and wife, or envy, or something of that sort; nor is someone courageous if he is confident when about to be flogged. About which fearful things, then, is the courageous person concerned? Is it the greatest ones? For no one is more capable of enduring terrors. And the most fearful thing is death; for it is a limit, and nothing at all seems any longer to be either good or bad for the person who has died. But it would seem that the courageous person is not concerned even with death in every circumstance, for example death at sea or from disease. In what circumstances, then? Is it in the finest ones? Such are the circumstances of war; for that is the greatest and finest danger. And in agreement with this are the honors given in cities and by monarchs. Properly speaking, then, the courageous person would be called the one who is without fear in the face of a fine death, and of all the sudden dangers that bring death with them; and such dangers are especially
16| those that arise in war. Not that the courageous person is not also without fear at sea and in diseases, [1115b] but not in the same way as seafaring men: for they have given up hope of survival and are distressed at that kind of death, while the courageous are full of good hope, on the strength of their experience. At the same time, people also show manly courage in circumstances where there is an opportunity for defense, or where it is fine to die; but in destructions of that other sort neither of these is present. What is fearful is not the same for everyone; we do speak, too, of things that are beyond human strength. This, then, is fearful to everyone, at least to anyone with sense; but the things that are within human range differ in magnitude, and in being more or less fearful, and likewise the things that inspire confidence. The courageous person is undismayed as far as a human being can be. He will indeed fear such things, but he will endure them as he ought and as reason directs, for the sake of the fine; for this is the end aimed at by virtue. It is possible to fear these things more or less, and further to fear things that are not fearful as though they were. Error arises either because a person fears what he ought not, or because he does not fear as he ought, or because he does not fear when he ought, or in some other similar way; and likewise with the things that inspire confidence. The person, then, who endures and fears the right things, for the right reason, in the right way, and at the right time, and who is correspondingly confident, is courageous; for the courageous person feels and acts in accordance with what is worthy, and as reason directs. And the end of every activity is the action that accords with the state of character. And to the courageous person courage is fine. Such, then, is the end too; for each thing is defined by its end. It is for the sake of the fine, then, that the courageous person endures and acts in accordance with courage. Among those who go to excess, the one who exceeds in fearlessness
17| this has no name (we said earlier that many things have no name), but a person would have to be mad or incapable of pain to fear nothing, neither earthquakes nor waves, as they say of the Celts. The man who exceeds in confidence about frightening things is rash. The rash man also seems to be a boaster and a pretender to courage: at any rate, he wants to appear toward frightening things the way the courageous man actually is, and so he imitates him wherever he can. That is why most rash people are also cowardly-rash: they are bold in these matters, but they do not hold their ground against what is actually frightening. The man who exceeds in fearing is a coward: for he fears things he should not, and in the way he should not, and all the other things of that kind follow along with this. [1116a] He is also deficient in confidence, but he is more conspicuous for his excess in feeling pain. The coward, then, is a person of poor hope, for he fears everything. The courageous man is the opposite, for confidence belongs to a person of good hope. The coward, the rash man, and the courageous man are concerned with the same things, but they stand differently toward them: the first two exceed and fall short, while the courageous man is in the middle and as he should be. The rash are impetuous, and while they wish for danger before it comes, they hang back once they are in it, whereas the courageous are keen in action but calm beforehand. As already noted, courage occupies a middle position regarding what inspires confidence and what is frightening, in the respects specified, and it selects danger and endures it because that course is noble, or because failing to do so is disgraceful. But dying in order to escape poverty, or love, or something painful, is not the mark of a courageous man but rather of a coward: for it is softness to flee hardships, and
18| such a person holds his ground not because it is fine but because he is fleeing something bad. Courage, then, is something of this kind, but there are also other things called courage in five ways. First, the courage of the citizen, for this most resembles true courage. Citizens seem to hold their ground against dangers because of the penalties imposed by the laws, and the reproaches, and the honors; and for this reason the most courageous seem to be found among peoples where cowards are dishonored and the courageous are honored. Homer represents men of this kind, for instance Diomedes and Hector: 'Polydamas will be the first to reproach me,' and Diomedes: 'For Hector will one day say, speaking among the Trojans, that the son of Tydeus fled before me.' This kind resembles most closely the courage spoken of before, because it comes about through virtue: through shame, and through desire for what is fine (that is, honor), and through avoidance of reproach, which is shameful. One might also class in the same group those who are compelled by their commanders: but they are inferior, insofar as they do this not through shame but through fear, and they avoid not what is shameful but what is painful. For their masters compel them, as Hector says: 'Whomever I see cowering apart from the battle, there will be no safety for him from the dogs.' And those who give the orders, and who beat men back into the ranks when they retreat, do the same thing, [1116b] as do those who station troops in front of trenches and the like: all of these compel. But one ought to be courageous not because of compulsion but because it is fine. Experience about particular dangers also seems to be a kind of courage; this is why Socrates thought courage was a form of knowledge. This is found in different people in different fields, but in warfare it is found in soldiers, since there seem to be many empty alarms in war, which soldiers have observed best of all; so they appear courageous, because the others do not know what these things really are. Further, because of their experience they are most able to do harm and avoid suffering it,
19| since they are able to use their weapons and possess whatever kind of equipment would be best both for inflicting harm and for avoiding it. So they fight as armed men against unarmed ones, or as trained athletes against amateurs: for in contests of this kind too it is not the most courageous who are the best fighters, but those who are strongest and have their bodies in the best condition. But soldiers become cowards when the danger exceeds their strength and they are left behind in numbers and equipment: for they are the first to flee, while citizen-soldiers stand their ground and die, as happened at the sanctuary of Hermes. For to citizens, fleeing is shameful, and death is more choiceworthy than that kind of survival; whereas the others faced danger from the start on the assumption that they were stronger, but once they learn the truth they flee, fearing death more than shame. But the courageous man is not like this. People also attribute courage to spirit: for those who act through spirit seem to be courageous too, like wild animals charging at those who have wounded them, because the courageous are also spirited; for spirit is most eager to rush at dangers, which is why Homer speaks of 'putting strength into spirit' and 'rousing might and spirit,' and 'sharp fury rose up through the nostrils' and 'the blood boiled': for all such expressions seem to signify the arousal and impulse of spirit. Now the courageous act because it is fine, and spirit assists them in this; but wild animals act through pain, that is, because they have been struck, or through fear, since if they are in a forest or a marsh they do not approach. So it is not courage for creatures to be driven toward danger
20| by pain and spirit while foreseeing none of the dangers, since on that reckoning even hungry donkeys would be courageous, for when they are beaten they do not give up grazing; [1117a] and adulterers too do many daring things because of their desire. So it is not courage for things to be driven toward danger by pain or spirit. The courage that comes from spirit does seem to be the most natural, and when it acquires choice and the end for the sake of which it acts, it seems to be courage proper. Human beings, too, feel pain when angry, but pleasure when they take revenge; but those who fight for these reasons are combative rather than courageous, for they do not act because it is fine, nor as reason directs, but out of passion; yet they have something akin to courage. Nor, again, are those who are full of confidence courageous, for it is because they have often defeated many that they feel confident in dangers; they resemble the courageous in that both are confident, but the courageous are confident for the reasons stated earlier, whereas these are confident because they think themselves the strongest and unable to suffer anything. Drunk men do something similar: they become full of hope. But when things do not turn out that way for them, they flee; whereas it is characteristic of the courageous man to hold his ground against things that are frightening, and appear frightening, to a human being, because it is fine to do so and shameful not to. That is why it seems the mark of a more courageous man to be fearless and unshaken in sudden alarms than in dangers foreseen in advance; for this comes more from a settled state of character, since it depends less on preparation: what is foreseen a person might choose to face even by calculation and reasoning, but sudden dangers are met according to one's state of character. Those who are ignorant also appear courageous, and they are not far from the overconfident, but they are inferior insofar as they possess no worthy standing, while the overconfident do. That is why they hold their ground for
21| a certain time; but those who have been deceived, if they learn the truth or come to suspect it, flee, which is what happened to the Argives when they ran into the Spartans and mistook them for Sicyonians. So we have said what kind of people the courageous are, and also those who merely appear courageous. Though courage is concerned with both confidence and fear, it is not concerned with both equally, but more with what is frightening: for the man who is unshaken in the face of these, and behaves toward them as he should, is more courageous than the one who behaves well toward what inspires confidence. It is by holding their ground against painful things, as has been said, that men are called courageous. That is why courage is also accompanied by pain, and is justly praised: for it is harder to hold one's ground against painful things than to abstain from pleasant ones. [1117b] All the same, the end in accordance with courage would seem to be pleasant, but obscured by the circumstances around it, as happens also in athletic contests: for boxers, the end for the sake of which they fight is pleasant — the crown and the honors — but being struck is painful, if they are made of flesh, and so is all the exertion; and because these are many, while the end for whose sake they act is small, the whole seems to have nothing pleasant in it. If the case of courage is like this, then death and wounds will be painful to the courageous man, and against his will; but he will hold his ground against them because it is fine to do so, or because it is shameful not to. And the more he possesses virtue entire, and the happier he is, the more he will be pained at the thought of death: for to a man of such a kind life is most worth living, and he is knowingly deprived of the greatest goods, and this is painful. But he is no less courageous for that, and perhaps even more so, because he chooses what is fine in war in exchange for
22| chooses those things instead. Now it is not the case that acting pleasantly belongs to all the virtues, except insofar as it also touches the end. And nothing perhaps prevents soldiers of that sort from not being the best, but rather those who are less courageous but have no other good in them; for these are ready for danger, and they exchange their lives for small gains. Let this much be said about courage, then; and what it is is not hard to grasp in outline from what has been said. Next let us speak about temperance, after courage; for these seem to be the virtues of the irrational parts. That temperance is a mean concerned with pleasures has been said by us; for it is concerned with pains less, and not in the same way — and self-indulgence appears to be concerned with the same things. Let us now mark off with what sort of pleasures it is concerned. Let pleasures be divided into those of the soul and those of the body — for example love of honor, love of learning; for each of these people takes pleasure in the thing he is fond of, with the body being affected in no way, but rather the mind. Now those concerned with such pleasures are called neither temperate nor self-indulgent. And likewise neither are those concerned with the other pleasures that are not bodily; for those who are fond of stories and given to narrating and who wear away their days over chance matters we call idle talkers, but we do not call them self-indulgent, [1118a] nor do we call those who grieve over money or friends self-indulgent. Temperance would be concerned with the bodily pleasures — but not with all of these either; for those who take pleasure in things through sight, such as colors and shapes and painting, are called neither temperate nor self-indulgent,
23| though it would seem there is a right way to take pleasure in these too, and an excess and a deficiency. Likewise also with things concerned with hearing; for no one calls those who take excessive pleasure in melodies or in acting self-indulgent, nor calls those who do so as they ought temperate. Nor those concerned with smell, except incidentally; for we do not call those who take pleasure in the smells of apples or roses or incense self-indulgent, but rather those who take pleasure in the smells of perfumes or cooked dishes; for the self-indulgent take pleasure in these because through them a recollection of their objects of appetite comes about for them. And one might see others too, when hungry, taking pleasure in the smells of foods; but to take pleasure in such things belongs to the self-indulgent person, for these are his objects of appetite. Nor is there pleasure in the other animals with respect to these senses except incidentally. For dogs do not take pleasure in the smells of hares but in eating them, and the smell merely produced the perception; nor does the lion take pleasure in the bellowing of the ox but in devouring it — though it perceived through the sound that the ox is near, and so it appears to take pleasure in the sound; and likewise it does not take pleasure in seeing or finding a deer or a wild goat, but in the fact that it will have food. Temperance and self-indulgence, then, are concerned with the sort of pleasures the other animals also share in, which is why they appear slavish and beastly; and these are touch and taste. And they appear to make little or no use of taste at all; for the judgment of flavors belongs to taste, which is what those do who test wines and season dishes — but people do not take much pleasure in these,
24| or at least the self-indulgent do not, but rather in the enjoyment, which comes about entirely through touch, both in food and drink and in what are called the pleasures of sex. This is why a certain glutton prayed that his throat might become longer than a crane's, since he took pleasure in the touch. [1118b] So the most common of the senses is the one with respect to which self-indulgence occurs; and it would seem justly to be a reproach, because it belongs to us not insofar as we are human but insofar as we are animals. To take pleasure in such things, then, and to love them most of all, is beastly. Indeed the noblest touch-pleasures — the sort produced in the gymnasium by massage and heat — are excluded from this altogether, since the self-indulgent person's sense of touch engages not the body as a whole but only a few particular parts of it. Of the appetites, some seem to be common, others peculiar to individuals and acquired; for example the appetite for food is natural, since everyone in need desires dry or liquid food, or sometimes both, and — as Homer says — the young man in his prime desires a bed also; but desire for this or that particular kind of food or bed is no longer universal, nor for the same things. Hence it appears to be something of our own. Not that it has nothing natural in it either; for different things are pleasant to different people, and some things are pleasanter to everyone than ordinary things. Now in the natural appetites few people go wrong, and in one direction only, that of excess; for to eat or drink whatever is available until one is overfull is to exceed what is according to nature in amount, since natural appetite is the filling up of a deficiency. This is why such people are called belly-mad, as filling their bellies beyond what is fitting. It is the excessively slavish who become like this. But concerning the pleasures peculiar to individuals, many people go wrong, and in many ways. For of those said to be fond of such-and-such things, some go wrong either by taking pleasure in things they should not, or by taking more pleasure than the many do, or by not taking pleasure as they should; and the self-indulgent exceed in all these respects,
25| for they take pleasure in some things they should not (things that are hateful), and if there are some such things one should take pleasure in, they take more pleasure than one should and than the many do. That the excess concerning pleasures is self-indulgence, then, and is blameworthy, is clear. But concerning pains, it is not as with courage, where a person is called temperate for enduring and self-indulgent for not enduring; rather, the self-indulgent person is so called for feeling pain more than he should because he does not get pleasant things (and pleasure produces the pain for him), while the temperate person is so called for not feeling pain at their absence and for abstaining from the pleasant thing. [1119a] The self-indulgent person, then, desires all pleasant things or the most pleasant ones, and is led by his appetite to choose these instead of other things; and this is why he also feels pain both when he fails to get them and when he desires them, for appetite involves pain — though it seems strange to feel pain on account of pleasure. Those who fall short with respect to pleasures and take less pleasure than they should are not common at all; for such insensibility is not human. Indeed even the other animals distinguish among foods, and take pleasure in some but not others; and if there is someone to whom nothing is pleasant and one thing does not differ from another, such a person would be far from being human. Such a person has not even been given a name, because he does not occur much. But the temperate person stands in a mean condition with respect to these things; for he does not take pleasure in the things the self-indulgent person most does — rather he is repelled by them — nor in general in things he should not, nor intensely in anything of that kind, nor does he feel pain at their absence or desire them, or only moderately, nor
26| more than he should, nor when he should not, nor at all in any such way; but whatever things are pleasant as conducive to health or to good condition, these he will desire moderately and as he should, and likewise the other pleasant things too, so long as they are not an impediment to these, or contrary to the fine, or beyond his means. For a person who is not so disposed cherishes such pleasures more than they are worth; but the temperate person is not like that — rather he is as right reason prescribes. Self-indulgence seems more voluntary than cowardice. For the one is due to pleasure, the other to pain, of which the one is choiceworthy and the other to be avoided; and pain drives a person out of himself and destroys the nature of the one who has it, while pleasure does nothing of the kind. Self-indulgence, then, is more voluntary. This is also why it is more reproachable; for it is also easier to become habituated to these things, since there are many such things in life, and the habituation involved carries no danger, whereas with things that are fearful the reverse is true. Cowardice, on the other hand, would not seem to be voluntary in the same way as its particular instances are; for cowardice itself is painless, but these particular acts drive a person out of himself through pain, so that he even throws away his weapons and behaves disgracefully in other ways — which is why they are even thought to be forced. But for the self-indulgent person it is the reverse: the particular acts are voluntary (for he acts with appetite and desire), but the whole is less so, for no one desires to be self-indulgent. And we also apply the name self-indulgence to the errors of children, [1119b] for these bear a certain resemblance to it. Which is named from which makes no difference to our present purposes, but it is clear that the later is named from the earlier. And the transfer of the name seems not to have been badly made; for what reaches after shameful things and grows to a great extent needs to be chastened, and of such
27| desire most of all, and the child. For children too live by desire, and it is in them above all that the craving for the pleasant is found. If, then, this craving is not going to be obedient and subject to the ruling element, it will go to great lengths; for in the senseless person the desire for pleasure is insatiable and comes from every side, and the activity of desire strengthens what is akin to it; once the appetites grow large and forceful, they drive rational calculation clean out. Hence they must be moderate and few, and must not oppose reason in any way—and this condition we call obedient and disciplined—and just as the child must live according to the direction of his attendant, so too the desiring element must live according to reason. Hence the temperate person's desiring element must be in harmony with reason: for the aim of both is the fine, and the temperate person desires what he should, as he should, and when he should; and this is how reason too prescribes. Let this, then, be said by us about temperance.