The Only Thing That Can Truly Conquer You

Discourse 1.29

Photo by Gillian Chatelain on Unsplash

This discourse is a meditation on the true seat of good and evil: not in external things, but in the will. Epictetus argues that our bodies, possessions, and reputations are merely raw materials; they cannot harm or improve us unless our own principles give them that power. Tyrants may chain limbs or take life, but they cannot touch the faculty of choice unless we surrender it ourselves.

True strength, then, lies in training the will to remain free from fear, habit, or misplaced value. The examples of Socrates and the athlete show that philosophy is not for show but for testing in the arena of life, where we must meet whatever role is given us with courage and integrity. At heart, the lesson is simple: nothing external makes us slaves; only our own consent does.

Note: The following is a ChatGPT Plain English rendering of the copyright-free Higginson translation offered here. My process involves reading the Higginson, prompting the plain English version, comparing the two to see what ChatGPT has missed or elided and reading my Robin Waterfield translation.

Of courage

( Or as Waterfild labels it -On Self Possesion, which is probably close to the themes contained)

What makes something truly good or evil is the state of the will — the disposition of the mind that chooses. Everything external — the body, possessions, reputation, friends — are simply materials the will uses to pursue its good or fall into its evil.

How does the will attain the good? By not being dazzled by those external materials. If you have the right principles about how to use them, your will stays good; if your principles are twisted or wrong, your will becomes bad. That’s the rule laid down by nature (or God): if you want true good, take it from yourself. You might say, “No — I get good from others.” No — ultimately, good must be taken from within.

So when a tyrant threatens and summons me, I ask, “What exactly are you threatening?” If he says, “I will chain you,” I answer, “You mean my hands and feet.” If he says, “I’ll cut off your head,” I answer, “You mean my head.” If he says, “I’ll throw you into prison,” I say, “You mean this puny body of mine.” Banishment is the same kind of threat.

“Does that mean he isn’t threatening you?” someone might ask. If I’m convinced these things don’t matter to me, then he isn’t. If I fear them, then it is I whom he threatens — because the thing he threatens is what I myself value. Who, then, do I fear? The master of what? Of things that are truly within my control? No one can master those. Of things outside my control? And what are they to me, if I don’t let them be?

“Are you telling us to despise kings?”

No. Who teaches anyone to fight kings over the things kings legitimately control — bodies, property, reputation, friends? If I told you to claim those things as ultimately your own, you could fairly accuse me.

“But can’t a tyrant command one’s principles too?” someone says.

Who gave him that power? How would he conquer another person’s principles? By terrifying him? But what conquers itself cannot be conquered by someone else. A will can only be conquered by itself. That’s why the law of nature/God is fair: the better should prevail over the worse.

Now, ten people can overpower one in physical force — to chain, beat, drag, or seize an estate. In those cases greater numbers or greater strength win. But where are they worse? When the one has right principles and the many do not. Can brute force change what is right? No. If you put the two on a scale, the thing that truly matters — the weight of right principle — outweighs brute advantage.

Consider Socrates. Some ask how he could suffer at the hands of the Athenians. Be clear about what happened: his body was seized, dragged to prison, and forced to drink hemlock. Is that surprising or a reason to accuse God? Did Socrates get no compensation? Where did his true good lie? He said, in effect, “Anytus and Meletus may kill my body, but they cannot hurt me.” Socrates’ worth lay where the others could not reach.

Show me one case where worse principles truly triumph over better ones, in the only ways that matter. You cannot — the natural rule is that what is better prevails in what it is better at. A stronger body can overpower a weaker one; more people can overpower one person physically; a skilled thief may take my lamp because he was better at staying awake. But the thief paid for that lamp by losing his virtue — he traded his integrity for an object. If he thought that exchange was worth it, let him keep his bargain.

When people shout at a philosopher being dragged to prison — “Philosopher, how have your principles helped you? See, you’re being led away!” — what philosophy could have prevented the stronger from grabbing the collar? What philosophy would stop ten men from throwing one into prison? Yet have I learned nothing? I have learned that what does not concern my will is nothing to me. Have my principles done no good? No. They have taught me that whatever happens outside my will is not what I measure myself by. As I sit in prison, I can say: those who made this disturbance neither understand guidance nor care for philosophical teaching. Leave them be.

“Come out of prison then,” someone says. If there is no further need for me there, I will come out; if there is, I will return. “For how long?” For as long as reason requires that I remain in this body; when my time is done, take it and farewell. But we must not act rashly or from cowardice, because that would be against the divine order — God needs a world like this, with beings to live in it. If God signals retreat, as he did for Socrates, we obey him like soldiers obey their general.

“Can you explain this to the masses?”

To what end? It’s enough to be convinced yourself. When children clap for a festival and shout that tomorrow is the feast, we do not tell them philosophy’s theory of good — we clap with them. If you cannot convince someone, treat them like a child: either join them, or at least keep quiet.

Remember these points, and when trial comes, see it as the chance to show whether you have really learned your lesson. Studying philosophy and then failing in practice is like a student who learns syllogisms to show off but cannot handle a real case. Athletes who seek only the big opponent and refuse the small will cry when the real contest arrives; they delay practice and then fail. Why study if not to demonstrate it in life?

I expect some among you feel restless and think, “When will my trial come so I can win a crown? Must I wait in the corner while others fight?” That should be your disposition: be ready. Even Caesar’s gladiators grumble if they are not matched; some beg to be brought forward. Will none of you show yourselves? I would go anywhere to see how my champion meets his moment.

“You say you don’t choose the contest you face.”

True — you cannot choose your body, your parents, your country, your rank. But you can manage what is given. Don’t say, “Give me that test instead of this one.” Treat the materials you have as your stage props. Are you a tragedian or a buffoon? If someone removes your mask and buskins and puts you on stage in ordinary clothes, are you done? If you have a voice, you remain. “Here, take command now.” I take it; and I show a skillful person performing his part. “Now change costume and act the ragged role.” Then adapt your voice to the part.

“In what role do you appear now?” As one summoned by God to bear witness. “Come then and testify; you are fit to be called.” Is anything inevitable — like death — to be counted as good or bad? Do I injure anyone by standing by my principles? Have I made others’ goods rest on anything but themselves? What evidence do you bring for your complaints against God?

If your answer is “I am miserable: no one cares, everyone blames me,” that is a poor testimony. Will you disgrace the summons of the one who honored you by calling you to be his witness? When someone in power judges you impious and profane, what has actually happened? You were judged — nothing else. Suppose that person judged a logical proposition wrongly; who is condemned — the proposition or the ignorant judge? Would a musician respect someone who called bass treble? A mathematician would not respect someone who denied basic geometry. Why then should someone educated in truth respect an ignorant ruler’s verdict about piety and justice?

“Oh, the persecutions the wise endure!” — save such whining for idle fellows. Put your learning to use. We don’t need more bookish arguments; we need people who live by them. Be the living example we can point to instead of only quoting the ancients.

Who should contemplate abstract questions? Those with leisure for it. But it’s shameful to treat philosophy like a truant kid treats the theatre — drifting in and out, applauding but not attending. We should sit calmly and listen, whether to an actor or musician, and not be like those who admire the show but flee at the mention of their master. In the metaphor, the master is not another man but life’s pressures — death, life, pleasure, pain. Without these, even Caesar means nothing to me. If such things thunder at me and I fear them, I act like a truant slave acknowledging a master. If I free myself from those masters — the fears that make masters of externals — what master remains?

Should we press this on everyone?

No. Allow for the ignorant; excuse them. Socrates excused his jailer who wept at the poison: Socrates understood some people cannot take the full argument. He treated the jailer with kindness, like a child, while speaking plainly to those able to hear.

Analysis

At the heart of this passage is a simple but radical claim: good and evil don’t live out there in the world — in bodies, possessions, reputations, or even life and death itself. They live in the will, in the state of our choosing mind. Everything external is just raw material. Your house, your job, your health — they’re props on a stage. What makes them good or bad isn’t the things themselves, but the principles you bring to them.

That’s why no tyrant, no mob, no Caesar has real power over you. They can chain your hands, cut off your head, drag your body to prison. But they can’t touch your ruling faculty unless you hand it over yourself. Fear, after all, is consent — you make the threat real by valuing what’s being threatened. If you don’t give externals that power, then what exactly is the tyrant mastering? Nothing that matters.

Epictetus illustrates this with Socrates. His body was seized and killed, yes — but his good remained intact. Why? Because his principles were sound. He knew that no one can corrupt you unless you corrupt yourself. In fact, he left his jailer weeping, but not because he had lost anything. Rather, the jailer couldn’t bear what Socrates himself bore calmly: the separation of what is truly ours from what never was.

This is why brute force never really wins. Ten men can overpower one, sure. A thief can take your lamp. But if the price of that lamp is his integrity, who made the better bargain? The stronger body might win the scuffle, but right principle always outweighs raw advantage in the only scales that matter.

And here’s where the challenge comes home: philosophy isn’t for applause or clever words. It’s training for the contest. We don’t get to choose the role — rich or poor, healthy or sick, praised or condemned. But we do get to choose how we play it. Are we tragedians or buffoons? Do we stand as witnesses, summoned to testify to what we’ve learned, or do we fold at the first shout of pain or pleasure?

So Epictetus is pressing us hard: don’t just study the lines. Perform them when life puts you on stage. And when that trial comes, don’t complain or whine about persecution. Show us what you’ve learned. Be the living example instead of just the person quoting ancients.

Because if death, exile, or ridicule still master you, then you haven’t freed yourself. You’re still a slave, only now your master is not a tyrant but your own fear.

Some modern modern applications:

Here are some modern examples that bring Epictetus’s argument into focus:

Workplace Integrity

Imagine you’re pressured at work to fudge numbers, cut ethical corners, or keep silent about something you know is wrong. If your paycheck, promotion, or reputation is threatened, it’s tempting to bend. But Epictetus would remind us: those externals aren’t what define you. The real danger isn’t losing a job; it’s losing your integrity. The will remains free so long as you refuse to sell it.

This one I have personal experience of - I had the choice of speaking up and objecting to an injustice, risking being fired. I spoke up, got fired. It was anxiety-inducing at the time but ultimately I walked away with my integrity intact. And got another job within a week.

Public Shaming and Social Media

Today, “tyrants” don’t always look like emperors. They can be online mobs, employers who fire to protect their brand, or friends who turn on you because of an unpopular opinion. The fear of being “canceled” can lead people to censor themselves. Epictetus’s point? No one can shame you without your assent. If you hold to principle, ridicule cannot touch your true good.

Chronic Illness or Disability

For someone living with chronic pain or physical limitation, the external reality can feel crushing. But Epictetus separates body from will. You may not control the pain, but you can control your response. Your body might be constrained, but your mind remains sovereign. This doesn’t deny suffering — it reframes where freedom lies. I admit this area still challenges me, as long time readers will attest. Illness and disability is an “ allways on” situation and is a far greater hill to climb.

Authoritarian Regimes

Think of dissidents under oppressive governments: Václav Havel in Czechoslovakia, Nelson Mandela in South Africa, Alexei Navalny in Russia. Their bodies were imprisoned, their lives threatened. Yet their refusal to surrender principle made them freer than their captors. The stronger body may win, but right principle always outweighs brute advantage.

Everyday Annoyances

Even in small, daily frictions; being cut off in traffic, losing Wi-Fi, someone insulting you, the same principle applies. The external event doesn’t disturb you; your judgment that it’s a disaster does. If you treat provocations as “just noise,” they lose their sting.

So how do we train the will or our ruling faculty?

Starting with the little things usually, like the everyday annoyances. Though I will say that none of the exercises that follow really prepared me totally for my illness and disability. I think I may have fared better than if I hadn't trained but they didn't make me invulnerable. Conversely, though I am here still and my rehabilitation has been excellent.

Daily distinction between what’s “up to us” and what isn’t.

Every annoyance is a chance to practice. Traffic? Not up to you. Your reaction? Entirely yours. The exercise is to pause and remind yourself: “This isn’t mine to govern.” It’s simple, but over time it rewires your reflexes. In my experience this is easy to do ( speaking as someone who was clinically anxious) and begins to work almost immediately if you keep it front of mind.

Voluntary hardship.

Epictetus suggests training the will by practicing loss. Skip a meal, sleep on the floor, walk in the cold without complaint. Not to punish yourself, but to prove: “I can go without.” The point isn’t asceticism, but freedom — you no longer fear losing what you’ve rehearsed living without.

This one is interesting, my caveat is don't overdo it and only practice it to the point that you are confident in your ability.

Some examples I practised were training my body to hike 12km on 35°c days on 500 mls of water, hiking during a hailstorm in summer clothing and then performing a mock rescue( I also had a heavily sprained ankle- no need to repeat this one).

Pre-meditation of events.

The Stoics call it premeditatio malorum: imagine insults, losses, sickness, and failures before they arrive. When they come, you’re less shaken. You’ve already rehearsed your answer: “This can’t touch my will.”

Another caveat here is to be wary If you suffer from anxiety, and don't practice immediately before an anxiety-inducing event. Practice when you are not anxious.

Testing impressions.

When a thought flashes up — “I can’t stand this,” “This will ruin me” — don’t assent immediately. Test it. Ask: “Is this really so? Is it in my control?” Epictetus insists the first step in training is slowing down the reflex to believe every thought.

I have found it beneficial to write this process down if you have the time. To pick the thought apart rationally. Doing so in my head I was often tempted to just dismiss the thought( and tempt suppression) whereas spending 20 minutes picking apart the thought and writing my observations down resulted in that thought never occurring again.

Role models and reminders.

Just as athletes have coaches, the will needs guides. Reading Marcus Aurelius or watching modern figures who endure with dignity (Mandela, Malala, Navalny, or even a quiet neighbor with resilience) strengthens your sense of what’s possible. Keeping maxims close — short reminders like “Bear and forbear” — keeps the training constant.

Start small, build up.

Epictetus never asked his students to leap straight into martyrdom. He had them begin with spilled oil, broken cups, or harsh words. If you can remain steady when the little things go wrong, you’re preparing yourself for the greater trials.

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Reader Question:

When pressure comes — whether from fear, loss, or threat — do you give your will away to externals, or do you hold the line and remain

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