Aristotle · a new plain-English translation from the original language
1| That there are means among the virtues, and that these are matters of choice, and that the vices are the contrary extremes, and what these are, has been stated in general terms. Taking them one by one, let us now speak of them in order, and let us speak first about courage. It is held by nearly everyone that the courageous person is concerned with fears, and that courage is one of the virtues. We earlier distinguished, in our outline, both rashness and fear as contraries: for they are in a way opposed to each other. It is clear, then, that those spoken of in terms of these states will likewise be opposed to one another — for instance the cowardly person (for he is so called in respect of fearing more than he ought and being confident less than he ought) and the rash person: for he too is so called in respect of being the sort of person who fears less than he ought and is confident more than he ought. This is also why he gets his name from it: the rash person is called this, by a cognate word, from rashness. So then, since courage is the best state concerning fears and confidence, and one must be neither like the rash (for in some respects they fall short, in others they exceed) nor like the cowardly (for these too do the same thing, though not about the same things but from the opposite direction —
2| [1228b] for in respect of confidence they fall short, while in respect of fear they exceed) — it is clear that the middle disposition between rashness and cowardice is courage: for this is the best. The courageous person is held, for the most part, to be free of fear, while the cowardly person is prone to fear, and the one fears many things and few, great and small, and does so intensely and quickly, while the other does the opposite, either not fearing or fearing gently and with difficulty and rarely and only great things; and the one endures things that are intensely fearful, the other does not even endure things that are mildly so. What sort of things, then, does the courageous person endure? First, is it things fearful to himself, or things fearful to another? If things fearful to another, no one would say this was anything impressive; but if things fearful to himself, then he would have great and many fearful things for himself. Things productive of fear are so for each person to whom they are fearful — for instance, if they are intensely fearful, the fear would be strong, but if only mildly so, the fear would be weak. So it follows that the courageous person makes for himself great and many fears. But it was held, on the contrary, that courage renders one free of fear, and that this consists in fearing either nothing or few things, and gently and with difficulty. But perhaps the fearful, like the pleasant and the good, is spoken of in two ways.
3| For some things are so without qualification, while other things are pleasant and good to someone but not without qualification — rather, on the contrary, they are base and not pleasant — namely, whatever is beneficial to the wicked, and whatever is pleasant to children insofar as they are children. Likewise too, of fearful things, some are fearful without qualification, others fearful to someone. The things a coward fears, insofar as he is a coward, are in some cases fearful to no one, in others only mildly fearful; but the things that are fearful to most people, and whatever is fearful to human nature, these we call fearful without qualification. The courageous person is without fear in the face of these, and endures such fearful things — things which are in one way fearful to him, in another way not: fearful insofar as he is a human being, but not fearful, or only mildly so or not at all, insofar as he is courageous. Yet these things are indeed fearful, since they are fearful to most people. This is why the state is praised: for it is like being strong and healthy. For these too are not such by being unaffected by anything — the one by no toil, the other by no excess whatsoever — but by being unaffected by these, either wholly or nearly so, by the very things that affect the many and most people. So the sickly and the weak and the cowardly are affected in some way even by the common affections, only more quickly and more severely than most people; and further, by the things that affect most people, these too are unaffected, either wholly or nearly so.
4| A puzzle is raised: if nothing is frightening to the courageous man, then he would not be afraid either. [1229a] Or does nothing prevent this, in the way stated? For courage is a following of reason, and reason bids us choose the fine. Hence anyone who endures these things not for this reason is either out of his mind or rash; only the one who is fearless for the sake of the fine is courageous. So the coward fears even what he ought not, and the rash man is confident even about what he ought not; but the courageous man does both as he ought, and in this respect he is a mean. For whatever reason bids, these are the things he is both confident about and afraid of. And reason does not bid us endure things that are greatly painful and destructive, unless they are fine. So the rash man is confident about these things even when reason does not bid it, while the coward is not even when it does; only the courageous man is confident when reason bids it. There are five kinds of courage spoken of by resemblance; for people endure the same things, but not for the same reasons. One is political courage; this is the courage that comes from shame. Second is military courage; this comes from experience and knowledge — not, as Socrates said, knowledge of the dangerous things themselves, but knowledge of the means of help against dangers. Third is the courage that comes from inexperience and ignorance, on account of which children and madmen — some endure things hurled at them, others pick up snakes.
5| Another is the courage that comes from hope, by which those who have often been fortunate endure dangers, and so do drunkards; for wine makes people hopeful. Another comes from an irrational passion, such as erotic love or spirit. For if a man is in love, he is rash rather than cowardly, and he endures many dangers — like the man in Metapontum who killed the tyrant, and the man told of in the story from Crete. And likewise through anger and spirit; for spirit drives one out of one's senses. That is why wild boars are thought to be courageous, though they are not; for when they are driven out of their senses they behave this way, but otherwise they are erratic, like rash men. Still, the courage that comes from spirit is the most natural; for spirit is unconquerable, which is why children fight best of all. Political courage comes about through law. But in truth none of these is courage; rather, all of them are useful for exhortations amid dangers. About the things that are frightening we have so far spoken simply, but it is better to define the matter further. In general, then, the things called frightening are the things productive of fear. And such are whatever appear productive of destructive pain; for to those who expect some other kind of pain, some other pain and a different affection might perhaps arise, but it will not be fear — for instance if someone foresaw that he would feel the pain that the envious feel, or the kind felt by the emulous or the ashamed.
6| But fear arises only over pains of this kind that appear likely to occur, whose nature is destructive of life. [1229b] That is why some people, though very soft, are courageous about some things, while others, though tough and enduring, are cowardly. And indeed it seems to be more or less distinctive of courage to be somehow concerned with death and the pain connected with it. For if someone were the sort of person able to endure heat and cold and pains of that kind, on the ground that reason says they carry no danger, but were soft and thoroughly fearful in the face of death — not because of some other affection but because of destruction itself — while another were soft in the face of those pains but unaffected in the face of death, the former would seem to be a coward, the latter courageous. For indeed danger, among frightening things, is spoken of only in cases of this kind, when what is productive of destruction of this sort is near. And it appears as danger whenever it appears near. So we have said what the frightening things are, the ones we say the courageous man is concerned with: those that appear productive of destructive pain; yet these must appear near and not far off, and be, or appear, of such a magnitude as to be proportionate to a human being. For some things must necessarily appear frightening to every human being and throw him into confusion. For nothing prevents its being the case, as with hot and cold things, that some of the other powers too are beyond us and beyond the states of the human body —
7| and likewise with the affections of the soul. So cowards and rash men are deceived on account of their states; for to the coward, things that are not frightening seem frightening, and things mildly frightening seem intensely so; to the rash man the opposite — frightening things seem to inspire confidence, and intensely frightening things seem mild; while to the courageous man things appear most nearly as they truly are. Hence a person is not courageous if he endures frightening things through ignorance — for instance if someone endured thunderbolts hurtling at him because of madness — nor if, knowing how great the danger is, he endures it through spirit, as the Celts take up arms and go to meet the waves, and in general barbarian courage is accompanied by spirit. Some endure through other pleasures as well. For spirit too contains a certain pleasure; it comes with the hope of retaliation. But all the same, whether it is for this pleasure or for another that someone endures death, or flees greater pains, none of these people could rightly be called courageous. For if dying were pleasant, the licentious would often die through lack of self-control, just as now, although dying itself is not pleasant, many, through lack of self-control, fall knowingly into the things that produce it, none of whom would be thought courageous, even if they are quite ready to die.
8| Nor, if people are fleeing toil, as many do, is any of these courageous either — as Agathon too says: [1230a] "For base mortals, worsted by toil, are enamored of death." (Agathon, fr. 7) Just as the poets tell the story of Chiron, that because of the pain from his wound he prayed to die, though he was immortal. Similar to these are also those who endure dangers through experience, in the way that most military men endure them. For the truth is the very opposite of what Socrates thought, when he supposed courage to be a kind of knowledge. For those who know how to climb the ship's masts are not confident because they know the frightening things, but because they know the means of help against dangers; nor is that on account of which people fight more confidently, courage. For in that case strength and wealth would be courage too, according to Theognis: "For every man is mastered by poverty..." (Theognis 177) Clearly, some who are cowards nonetheless endure through experience; and this is because they do not think there is danger, for they know the means of help. A sign of this: whenever they think they have no help, and the danger is already near, they do not hold their ground. But of all such courageous people, those who endure because of shame would most appear to be courageous, just as Homer too says that Hector endured the danger from Achilles: "But shame seized Hector" (source unknown) "Polydamas will be the first to heap reproach on me."
9| (Homer, Iliad 22.100) And this is political courage. But true courage is neither this nor any of the others, though it resembles them — just as the courage of wild beasts does, which charge to meet the blow because of spirit. For one ought not to stand one's ground out of fear of disgrace, nor through anger, nor because one does not think one will die, nor because one has protective powers; for on that basis a person would not think anything frightening at all. But since every virtue involves choice — and how we mean this has been said before, namely that it makes one choose everything for the sake of something, and that this, the for-the-sake-of-which, is the fine — it is clear that courage too, being a virtue, will make one endure frightening things for the sake of something, so that it is neither through ignorance (for it rather makes one judge correctly) nor for pleasure, but because it is fine, since, if it is not fine but mad, one does not endure it, for that would be shameful. So we have now said, more or less adequately for the present approach, what courage is a mean about, between which extremes, and why, and what force the frightening things have. After this we must try to give an account of temperance and self-indulgence. The self-indulgent person is spoken of in many ways. For there is the person who has not in some way been chastised or cured, just as the uncut is what has not been cut; and of these, one is capable of it, the other incapable.
10| [1230b] For what is uncut is both what is unable to be cut and what is able to be cut but has not been cut. And the same holds for the undisciplined. For that name applies both to what is not naturally receptive of discipline, and to what is naturally receptive of it but has not been disciplined with regard to the errors concerning which the temperate person acts rightly—as with children: it is with respect to this lack of discipline that they are called undisciplined. And there is yet another way, in which those who are hard to cure or altogether incurable by discipline are called this. Since undisciplined is said in several ways, it is clear that these people are concerned with certain pleasures and pains, and that they differ from one another and from other people in how they are disposed with respect to these; we described earlier how, in naming the condition undisciplined, we transfer the term. Those who are unmoved, through lack of perception, toward these same pleasures—some call insensible, others use other names for such people. This affection is not very well recognized, nor superficial to grasp, because everyone errs more toward the other extreme, and the deficiency and perception of such pleasures is not natural to anyone. Such people are found chiefly among those the writers of comedy bring on stage as rustics, who do not go near pleasures even to the moderate and necessary degree. Since the temperate person is concerned with pleasures, he must also be concerned with certain appetites.
11| We must grasp, then, which ones. For it is not with respect to all pleasures, nor all pleasant things, that the temperate person is temperate, but in common opinion he is concerned with two of the objects of perception—the objects of taste and of touch—while in truth he is concerned with touch. For with regard to the pleasure through sight in fine things, apart from sexual appetite, or pain in shameful things, and with regard to the pleasure through hearing in things well-harmonized or ill-harmonized, and further with regard to the pleasures through smell, both from good odors and from bad ones, the temperate person is not concerned. For no one is called undisciplined for undergoing or not undergoing these. At any rate, if someone, looking at a fine statue or horse or person, or listening to someone singing, should have no wish to eat or drink or have sex, but wish only to look at the fine things and listen to the singers, he would not seem to be undisciplined—no more than those charmed by the Sirens. But it is with respect to these two objects of perception—the ones with respect to which the other animals too happen to have perception, and to feel pleasure and pain—namely the objects of taste and touch, that undisciplined applies. With respect to the pleasant things of the other senses, nearly all animals appear to be alike insensible,
12| [1231a] for instance with regard to harmony or beauty. For nothing worth mentioning appears to happen to them from the mere viewing of fine things or the hearing of well-harmonized sounds, unless some monstrous exception occurs; nor again with regard to good or bad smells, and yet they have all their senses sharper than we do. But even of smells, they enjoy those which give pleasure incidentally, not those which give pleasure in their own right. By not in their own right I mean those we enjoy because we are hoping for or remembering something—for instance the smells of relishes and drinks (for it is on account of a different pleasure that we enjoy these, namely that of eating or drinking); but in their own right, for instance, are the smells of flowers. That is why Stratonicus put it well when he said that the one kind smells fine, the other pleasant. Likewise even with respect to taste, animals are not excited over every pleasure, nor over those whose perception is at the tip of the tongue, but over those perceived at the throat, and the affection resembles touch more than taste. That is why gluttons pray to have not a long tongue but the throat of a crane, as Philoxenus son of Eryxis did. So that undisciplined must be taken, to put it simply, as concerned with the objects of touch. And likewise the undisciplined person is concerned with things of this kind.
13| For drunkenness and gluttony and lechery and greed for delicacies and all things of this sort are concerned with the perceptions just mentioned, into which the parts of undisciplined conduct are divided. But with regard to the pleasures through sight or hearing or smell, no one is called undisciplined even if he exceeds; rather we blame these errors without reproach, and in general with regard to whatever people are not said to be self-controlled about, those who lack self-control in them are neither undisciplined nor temperate. Insensible, then, or whatever we ought to call him, is the one so disposed as actually to fall short even of what it is necessary for practically everyone to share in and enjoy; the one who exceeds is undisciplined. For everyone by nature enjoys these things and conceives appetites for them, and they are not, and are not called, undisciplined (for they do not exceed by enjoying more than they should when they get them, or by being pained more than they should when they do not); nor are they unfeeling (for they do not fall short in enjoyment or pain, but rather exceed). Since, then, there is excess and deficiency with regard to these things, it is clear there is also a mean, and this state is the best one, and is opposed to both extremes. So that if temperance is the best state with regard to the things the undisciplined person is concerned with, then the mean concerning the pleasant things of perception just mentioned would be temperance, being a mean between undisciplined conduct and insensibility.
14| The excess is undisciplined conduct; [1231b] the deficiency is either nameless or is addressed by the names already given. A more precise division of this genus of pleasures will be made later, in the discussion of self-control and lack of self-control. In the same way we must grasp the matter concerning gentleness and harshness. For we see that the gentle person too is concerned with the pain arising from spirit, in being disposed in a certain way toward it. We described earlier, and set in opposition to the irritable and harsh and savage person (for all these belong to the same disposition), the servile and the senseless person. For it is roughly these terms people use most for those whose spirit is not stirred even on the occasions it should be, but who let themselves be abused readily and are lowly in the face of slights. For opposed to quickly is slowly, and to mildly is violently, and to being pained for a long time is being pained for a short time by this pain which we call spirit. Since, then, as we said also concerning the other cases, here too there is excess and deficiency (for the harsh person is one who is affected in this way both more quickly and more intensely and for a longer time, and when he should not be and toward the wrong people and over many things, while the servile person is the opposite), it is clear that there is also a mean between this inequality.
15| Since, then, both those states are in error, it is clear that the mean state between them is the decent one: for it neither anticipates nor lags behind, nor is it angry at those it should not be, nor fails to be angry at those it should. So that since gentleness too is the best state with regard to these affections, gentleness would be a kind of mean, and the gentle person a mean between the harsh person and the servile one. Greatness of soul, too, and magnificence, and liberality are means. Liberality concerns the acquisition and the giving up of money. The one who takes more pleasure than he should in every acquisition, and is pained more than he should at every loss, is illiberal; the one who feels both less than he should is prodigal; the one who feels both as he should is liberal. And by as he should I mean, both in these cases and in the others, as correct reason prescribes. Since those two states are in excess and deficiency, and where there are extremes there is also a mean, and this is best, and for each thing there is one best in form: liberality must be a mean between prodigality and illiberality with regard to the acquisition and giving up of money. We speak of money and of the acquisition of money in two senses.
16| For one use of a possession is in its own right, [1232a] as with a shoe or a cloak, while another is accidental, though not in the way one might use a shoe as a weight, but rather as in selling it or renting it out—for one is still using the shoe. Now the miser is the one who is serious about money, and money stands for possession in place of accidental use. The illiberal man and the prodigal, on the other hand, would be concerned with the accidental mode of moneymaking, and indeed with natural moneymaking too the illiberal man pursues increase; the prodigal falls short even in necessities, while the liberal man gives away his surplus. Species of these very types are spoken of, differing by more and less with respect to their parts: for instance the illiberal man is called stingy, tight-fisted, and shabby—stingy in not letting go of anything, sordidly greedy, in accepting gain from anything whatever, tight-fisted the one who strains hard over small things, while the swindler and the cheat is the man who is unjust in accordance with illiberality. And likewise for the prodigal: the squanderer is the one who spends in a disorderly way, the thoughtless one is the man who cannot bear the pain that comes from calculation. Concerning greatness of soul, we must mark out what is proper to it from what is attributed to great-souled people. For just as other things that lie close by and resemble one another go unnoticed up to a point as they proceed further apart, the same thing happens with greatness of soul.
17| Hence sometimes the opposite types lay claim to the same name, as the prodigal man does to the liberal, the self-willed man to the dignified, and the rash man to the courageous; for they do concern the same things and border on one another up to a point, just as the courageous man is one who holds firm against dangers, and so is the rash man, but the one in this way, the other in that—and these differ the most. Now we speak of the great-souled man in keeping with the very meaning of the name, as of someone who has a kind of greatness of soul and of power. Hence he also seems to resemble the dignified man and the magnificent man, since he seems to accompany all the virtues as well. For to judge correctly the great and small among goods is praiseworthy. And the things that seem great are those that the person with the best state of character pursues as being pleasant to him in such matters. And greatness of soul is the best state; and the virtue concerned with each thing judges correctly the greater and the lesser in it—whatever the practically wise man and virtue itself would prescribe—so that either all the virtues follow it, or it follows all of them. Further, it seems characteristic of the great-souled man to be disdainful. Now each virtue makes people disdainful of what is great contrary to reason,
18| [1232b] as courage disdains dangers (for it thinks that only what is shameful is great, and that not every abundance of dangers is fearsome), and the temperate man disdains great and numerous pleasures, and the liberal man disdains money. This seems to belong to the great-souled man too, because he is serious about few things, and these great ones, and not because some other person thinks so; and a great-souled man would care more what seems so to one serious person than to the many who happen along, just as Antiphon said to Agathon after he had been condemned, when Agathon praised his defense speech. And it seems that disregard is most of all the characteristic affection proper to the great-souled man. Again, concerning honor and life and wealth, about which people seem to be serious, he cares about none of the others except honor. And he would be pained at being dishonored and ruled by someone unworthy, and he rejoices most when he attains honor. So on this showing he would seem to be inconsistent: for being most of all concerned with honor and yet being disdainful of the many and of reputation do not sit together. So we must distinguish this and then speak to it. For honor is both small and great in two ways: either by being given by many people who happen along, or by being given by those worth taking account of; and again, honor differs by what it is bestowed for. For it is not great by the number of those honoring, nor by the quality alone, but also by being itself something honorable—
19| for in truth offices too and other goods are honorable, and worth being serious about, are those that are truly great, so that no virtue exists without greatness; hence each virtue seems to make people great-souled, in respect of that with which each of them is concerned, as we said. But nonetheless there is some one greatness of soul distinct from the other virtues, just as we must also call, in a special sense, great-souled the man who has this. Since, then, among goods some are honorable and some are as was distinguished before, and of such goods some are great in truth and some small, and of these some people are worthy of them and think themselves worthy, it is among these that the great-souled man must be sought. And there must be four ways in which people differ. For it is possible to be worthy of great things and to think oneself worthy of them; it is possible to be worthy of small things and to think oneself worthy of things of that size; and it is possible to be in the reverse condition with respect to each of these: for one sort of person might be such as, though worthy of small things, to think himself worthy of the great honorable goods, while another, though worthy of great things, might think himself worthy of small ones. Now the man who is worthy of small things but thinks himself worthy of great ones is blameworthy (for it is senseless and not fine to get things beyond one's worth); and blameworthy too is whoever, being worthy, does not think himself worthy to share in such things as belong to him—
20| [1233a] what remains here, then, is the man opposite to both of these, who, being worthy of great things, thinks himself worthy of them, and is such as to think himself worthy. This man is praiseworthy and is the mean between the other two. Since, then, concerning the choice and use of honor and the other honorable goods the best disposition is greatness of soul, and this is what we attribute—and not concerning things useful—to the great-souled man, and at the same time this mean is the most praiseworthy: it is clear that greatness of soul too would be a mean, and of the opposite states—as we set out schematically—the one that tends toward thinking oneself worthy of great goods while being unworthy is vanity (for we call those people vain who think themselves worthy of great things without being so), while the one concerned with not thinking oneself worthy of great things while being worthy is smallness of soul (for it seems characteristic of the small-souled man that, although the things exist by which he could justly be thought worthy, he does not think himself worthy of anything great); so that greatness of soul must be a mean between vanity and smallness of soul. The fourth of the types distinguished is neither wholly blameworthy nor great-souled, being one who has no greatness in this respect at all: for he is neither worthy nor does he think himself worthy of great things, and so he is not opposite to anyone. And yet it might seem to be opposite to the man who, being worthy of great things, thinks himself worthy of great things, that a man who is worthy of small things should think himself worthy of small things.
21| But he is not opposite, either in not being blameworthy (for he has things as reason bids), and he is by nature the same as the great-souled man (for both think themselves worthy of the things of which they are worthy); and the one could become great-souled (for he will think himself worthy of what he is worthy of), while the small-souled man—who, though great goods in respect of honor belong to him, does not think himself worthy of them—what would he do if he were worthy only of small things? For if he would be vain in claiming great things, he would be still more so in claiming lesser ones. Hence no one would call a man small-souled if, being a resident alien, he does not think himself worthy to rule, but yields; but one would call him so if he were well-born and thought ruling something great and yet did not claim it. And the magnificent man too is not concerned with action and choice of just any kind, but with expenditure, unless we speak by way of metaphor somewhere; and without expenditure there is no magnificence. For what is fitting lies in adornment, and adornment does not come from expenditures that happen along, but consists in an excess over what is necessary. So the man who chooses to spend greatly in a manner of size that is fitting, and who desires such a mean and such a pleasure, is magnificent. But the man who goes to excess and out of tune is nameless.
22| Still, there is a certain kinship with those some people call tasteless and vulgar show-offs. [1233b] For example: if someone, being rich, spends on the wedding of his beloved child and thinks it fitting for himself to make such preparations as one who is hosting the members of a private religious dining-club, this man is petty; but the one who receives such guests in that same fashion, not for the sake of reputation nor out of ostentation, is like the vulgar show-off; while the one who does it according to worth and as reason dictates is magnificent. For what is fitting is in accordance with worth: nothing that goes beyond one's worth is fitting. What is fitting must be so (for the fitting corresponds to worth, and is itself fitting) both with respect to what it concerns (for example, a fitting wedding for a household servant is a different thing from a fitting wedding for a beloved) and with respect to the person himself, granting that it is on such a scale or of such a kind — for instance, he thought the public display which Themistocles made at Olympia was not fitting for Themistocles, because of his previously low station, but was fitting for Cimon. But the man who behaves haphazardly, with no regard to worth, is none of these. And it is the same with liberality: there is a person who is neither liberal nor illiberal. And in general nearly all the other praiseworthy and blameworthy traits of character are, some of them, excesses, others deficiencies, and others intermediate states involving feeling — for example the envious man and the man who gloats over others' misfortunes. For as the states from which they are named go: envy is being pained at people faring well in accordance with their worth, while the feeling of the man who gloats over misfortune has, on this same matter, no name — though the man who has it is plain to see — being pleasure at misfortunes that go beyond a person's worth.
23| Between these two is the man given to righteous indignation, which is what the ancients called nemesis: being pained at misfortunes and successes that go beyond a person's worth, but pleased at those that accord with worth — which is why they even think nemesis is a god. Shame is the mean between shamelessness and being overawed: the man who cares about no one's opinion at all is shameless, the man equally cowed by everyone's opinion is craven, while the man who is respectful of the opinion of people who appear decent is properly modest. Friendship is the mean between enmity and flattery: the man who readily falls in with everyone's desires is a flatterer, the man who opposes everyone is quarrelsome, while the man who neither follows nor resists every pleasure, but goes by what appears best, is a friend. Dignity is the mean between self-will and obsequiousness: the man who lives with no regard for anyone else is self-willed and contemptuous, the man who defers to everyone in everything, or rates himself below everyone, is obsequious, while the man who does so in some respects and not others, and behaves this way toward those who deserve it, is dignified. The truthful and straightforward man, whom they call plain-spoken, is the mean between the ironical dissembler and the boaster. For the man who understates and lies about himself in the worse direction, without being ignorant that he does so, is an ironical dissembler,
24| [1234a] while the man who overstates in the better direction is a boaster, and the man who presents himself as he actually is, is truthful and, in Homer's phrase, sound-minded; and in general one is a lover of truth, the other a lover of falsehood. Wit, too, is a mean, and the witty man is the mean between the boor — the man hard to get a rise out of — on the one side, and the buffoon on the other. Just as, in the matter of food, the fussy eater differs from the man who eats everything, in that the one accepts nothing or little, and only with difficulty, while the other accepts everything readily, so too the boor stands to the vulgar man and the buffoon: the one accepts nothing as funny, and only with difficulty, the other accepts everything readily and with pleasure. Neither is right; rather, one should accept some things and not others, and do so as reason dictates — and this is the witty man. The demonstration is the same as before: this kind of wit — not the kind we speak of by way of metaphor — is the most decent state, the mean is praiseworthy, and the extremes are blameworthy. Since wit is twofold (for one kind consists in enjoying what is funny, including what is said at one's own expense, if it is of a certain sort — mockery being one instance of this — while the other consists in being able to produce such things oneself), these two are different from each other, but both, all the same, are means.
25| For the man who is able to produce such things, extending to whatever a person of good judgment will be pleased by — even if the joke is at his own expense — will be the mean between the vulgar man and the humorless man. This standard, moreover, surpasses the one holding that a joke must not pain whatever sort of person happens to be its target: what matters more is winning the approval of someone holding the middle position, since it is such a person who judges soundly. Now all these means are praiseworthy, but they are not virtues, nor are their opposites vices, since they occur without choice. All of these belong among the divisions of the feelings, for each of them is a certain feeling. But because they are natural, they contribute toward the natural virtues: for, as will be said later, each virtue exists in some sense by nature, and again in another way, together with practical wisdom. Envy, then, contributes toward injustice (for the actions arising from it are directed against another person), and righteous indignation contributes toward justice, shame toward temperance — which is why people even define temperance within this genus — while the truthful man and the false man are, respectively, sound-minded and mindless. And the mean is more opposed to the extremes than the extremes are to each other,
26| [1234b] because the mean occurs together with neither of the extremes, while the extremes are often found together with one another: sometimes the same people are both rash and cowardly, and prodigal in some respects and illiberal in others — in general, badly uneven. For when people are unevenly disposed in a good way, they turn out to be men of the mean, since in a sense the mean contains the extremes within it. But the oppositions do not seem to hold between the extremes and the mean equally in both directions; rather, sometimes the opposition is one of excess, sometimes one of deficiency. The reasons are the first two stated earlier: scarcity — as with people insensible to pleasures, who are few — and the fact that whichever direction we more often err toward seems more opposed to the mean; and there is a third reason, namely that the more similar of two things appears less opposed, as is the case with rashness in relation to courage, and prodigality in relation to liberality. On the other praiseworthy virtues, then, more or less enough has been said; justice must now be discussed.