We’ve never met, and I don’t know you, but I’m going to hazard a guess that you think that at least some of what happens to you in your life is out of your control. Unless you have lived a particularly charmed existence, there are simply times when, despite your best efforts and your most meticulous planning, things don’t go exactly to plan. But this is normal: being unlucky is par for the course. To quote the Scottish poet Robert Burns, “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley” (which is, I believe, Scots for “pear-shaped”).
More recently, the singer Alanis Morissette hypothesised the existence of a sort of cosmic irony, citing examples such as the unpredicted rain that spoils the bride’s wedding day, the traffic jam that further delays the person already late for an appointment, and other similar misfortunes (but few of which – ironically – can strictly be considered ironic).
While agreeing with the general sentiments of Burns and Morissette as to this common experience, Stoicism – a philosophy originating in Ancient Greece – would have pointed out that none of this ill luck should come as a shock. In fact, the Stoics went further, for they argued that we have no control over almost everything that we do in our lives. Control is mostly a delusion. Why would they say this?
Stoicism and the illusion of control
In Stoicism, the world is entirely physical, consisting of an immutable chain of cause and effect. From the smallest atom upwards, every event and interaction is fixed and preordained by physical laws, the exact details of which we are ignorant of – but even if we weren’t, and we could predict their outcomes, we would be powerless to affect or change the course life takes. Apart from the “fixed” bit, modern science may not disagree with this picture of how the universe works, but even quantum weirdness does not give us any greater control than predestination; we may not know whether a photon is a particle or a wave, or if Schrödinger’s cat is alive or dead, but we are still left ultimately powerless in an impersonal universe.
The Stoic view therefore sounds a bit bleak, and not a little fatalistic – which it sort of is – were it not for two slightly more cheerful facts: nothing that happens in your life can harm you, and you possess the power to control how you react to what happens.
How can we possibly be impervious to harm?
On the face of it, the first point seems obviously wrong. How could we be impervious to harm? From the tiniest paper cut to the greatest life-changing tragedy, and all things in between, we daily experience things that, physically, mentally and emotionally, cause us some degree of what we would all agree is “harmful” to us. But, the Stoic would counter, this is really all a matter of perspective. What does “harm” mean here? Since pain, suffering and loss are inevitable facts of life, and will happen to us all eventually, why should we consider ourselves “unfortunate” to experience them? Rather, you should ask yourself whether it is wise to make your own happiness conditional upon things that are out of your control. In fact, we might argue that the greatest source of our unhappiness, depression, anxiety, and general mental suffering, is our tendency to look for self-fulfilment outside of ourselves. Instead, Stoicism argues, we should look to that part of ourselves which is unaffected by any upset: namely, our rational mind. Through an understanding of the inevitability of misfortune, and an acceptance that such things were never truly in our power to avoid, we may achieve a sort of mental equilibrium, which the Stoics termed ataraxia, but which we may broadly translate “serenity” or “happiness”.
How can we control how we react to what happens to us?
It is this second fact – that we have the power to gradually wean ourselves off our reliance upon the false, external sources of “happiness” – that gives us back the only form of control that is possible. To return to Ms Morissette’s examples, the rain-drenched bride may be disappointed, but through her acquaintance with Chaos theory, she knows better than to place her trust in meteorologists. The person running late simply accepts that they won’t reach their appointment on time, because traffic can be similarly unpredictable. It’s tempting to think that the lesson here is simply “things sometimes go wrong”, and that what we need to do is to be better prepared. But this would be a misinterpretation. Of course, there is nothing wrong in planning for mishaps, but remember, it is the best laid schemes that often go awry. The lesson then is not that the person running late should have gotten up earlier, or that the bride should have arranged an alternative indoor venue, but that whatever we do, our happiness is dependent upon how we react if things go wrong.
Parallels between Stoicism and Buddhism
There is an obvious parallel here with Buddhism. Contentment lies in letting go of those things – desires, expectations, emotional upsets – that disturb the mind’s natural tranquility. The Stoics would largely have agreed. But they were not proposing a monastic life of self-denial: they understood that for most of us such retirement from the hurly-burly is not an option. Nor did they propose a sort of pleasureless puritanism: our animal natures are a fundamental and unavoidable part of who we are, and we cannot simply switch off our inbuilt physical drives. Rather, they pointed out that the suffering we experience often stems from allowing such natural drives to overwhelm and consume us: sexual desire becomes lust or obsession, hunger becomes greed or gluttony, irritation becomes anger or wrath. But if we learn to recognise the trigger points, we can nip these tendencies in the bud, and stop them developing into full-blown passions that swamp our reason (at which point, we have no alternative but to wait until the storm has passed, and our reason is returned to us).
Having read all this, you might still conclude that Stoicism is not exactly a cheery, happy-go-lucky philosophy. And, if you’re looking for some sort of cosmic ordering system that promises you romantic happiness, fame and wealth, then this isn’t it. But I would argue that Stoicism gives us something deeper and more meaningful than that. Many of Stoicism’s great practitioners – Epictetus, Seneca, Marcus Aurelius – led positive, cheerful and productive lives. They understood that accepting misfortune as an inevitable part of life need not make us morose, but can in fact make us more appreciative of the fortunes that we do have. Even death, they argued, traditionally considered the greatest “misfortune” of all, is not really a curse, but a simple and inevitable fact, and acceptance of which can give us new clarity, purpose and peace – and even, perhaps, happiness.
