A letter on personal growth and the possibility of self-actualization.

J.G.,

In Plato’s Meno, Socrates concludes that virtue, rather than being teachable, arises in us through some divine dispensation:

“From our reasoning, Meno, it appears that virtue comes about in us, in those whom it does, by a divine lot (moira) …”

Meno 100b2–3 (my translation)

As of recent, I’ve stumbled upon much the same conclusion, or am at the very least amenable to the claim, not for want of teachers of virtue, or for want of a moral framework (which, as I’ve said elsewhere, we in modernity seem bereft of, though we’ve inherited historical systems, religious or otherwise).

I’m perturbed, rather, by our own inefficacy.

There is no dearth of moral discourse, whether in common speech, or in the lecture hall, but what seems evident to me is that the injunctions or prohibitions that emerge from either, when they do emerge, only skirt the surface of our moral being — they do not take root in everyone, or in the same way, at the same time, and are subject to the context in which they are received. This, however, has nothing to do with the discourse itself (or, at least, almost nothing), but rather everything to do with ourselves.

The inability to digest theory and principles, and put them into practice might appear as the result of a particular disposition, and while this is true in part, I would posit a much more sympathetic, and quite frankly more interesting narrative — but whether what follows is true, I can’t be sure.

Our inability, our inefficacy is much less an intelligibility problem as it is a problem of disposition generally.

“Where is progress? If one of you, setting himself apart from those things external to him, is directed to his own will (proairesin), working upon this and laboring upon this, with the result that he brings it into accord with nature…”

Epictetus, Discourses 1.4.18, “Of Progress” (my translation)

The above from Epictetus and what follows in the unquoted text might serve as a satisfactory definition of moral progress for anyone sympathetic to his version of Stoicism, though I doubt many would find it, the definition, unappealing or controversial. Moral progress is the gradual reshaping of the self in accordance with a set of beliefs such that the self comes to reflect those beliefs in discourse, praxis, and temperament (a succinct way of describing its psychological states).

The focal point of progress here is the will (proairesis); though progress is not without the use of reason (confer Discourses 1.17, “That logical reasoning is necessary”), as reason interprets, defines, measures, delineates, etc., our growth, our change, our effort lies here. Why that is, I’ll posit as much:

Reason is sterile in the practical domain.

Reason can only inform me of what I am to do, say, if I desire X, and X is obtained through acquiring Y, then I must acquire Y, but it does not have the force, the impetus, to thrust me forward in pursuit of Y. This, I would argue, is properly the domain of the will, and as much can be gleaned from introspection: how many times have you, have we, been impotent in the face of judgments about what it would be prudent to do, or what we must do, in certain circumstances, with certain considerations in mind? How difficult is it to internalize oft-heard and well-meaning advice?

Even if you grant me as much, this is to say nothing of how we make progress — if reason is inert, the will the object of our inquiry, we must seek some means by which we can act on the will (assuming, as it seems, that reason has negligible effect).

Perhaps there are those of us who, pulling themselves up by their bootstraps, can develop themselves by practical reason alone, or by volition alone.

As for the rest, who find themselves stagnant, impotent, knowing that they must do something yet not being able to ground themselves enough to do so — what shall we do?

I’ve become much more amenable to some styling of the term grace, with or without its theological trappings, in so far as the impetus to action comes seemingly from nowhere, of a sudden — that there is the possibility of motion. Imagine this as the moral correlate of Zeno’s paradoxes concerned with physical motion.

This I’ve found realized in a kind of practical despair, or practical aporia, the acceptance of not knowing where to go or what to do, and its momentum sustained through seeking examples of moral goodness, or the aesthetic experience — realizing the aesthetic impulse.

We might conceive of the aesthetic impulse as a species of inspiration, and acceptance of inefficacy (which is optional) as a way of cultivating its reception. Grace, I would think, is the general possibility of there being this motion whatsoever, and its actualization is the spontaneous upheaval of the self, causing this motion.

“For, there isn’t an art in you which causes you to speak well about Homer, which I was just saying, but a divine power which moves you, just as in the stone there is a power which Euripides called a magnet, but most call a ‘Heraclean stone.’”

Plato, Ion 533d1–3 (my translation)

In Plato’s Ion, Socrates attributes inspiration to something divine. While he applies this to the art of poetry, or its appreciation, we also have reason to believe that this can be said elsewhere (e.g., love is said to be a divine madness in his Phaedrus) and of other things.

Socrates likens it (that which underlies poetry and its appreciation), to a magnet, in its attractive, spontaneous force. Ion, the primary interlocutor, is an entertainer — a travelling bard who earns his living by reciting the works of Homer before a crowd. His audience is in turn enthused by his performance (the tragic elements, the comic elements, the poetic meter), Ion himself is enthused by the work of Homer, and Homer himself was enthused by the muse Calliope. There is a distant causal connection between the spectator and the muse, in the same way as there is a causal connection between magnets and the objects they chain together.

I think we would do well to partly conceive of our moral characters as having a similar capacity — that we are capable of attraction and repulsion by external forces, and in so being our characters are shaped by them.

Our goal is to have a particular disposition of will, and so the will must be struck in a kind of mold: yet, if reason is inert, how are we to shape the will?

In so far as we find ourselves in stagnancy, or as being unable to make progress, one way in which we might gain or regain momentum is through the recognition of, placing our hope in, something greater than ourselves, whatever that might mean, be it in some notion of divinity or simply a personal ideal or project (the acceptance mentioned above).

This admission of inability, rather than absolving one of responsibility, can actually reinvigorate our efforts toward self-actualization. This, while perhaps less natural in our age, while perhaps more paradoxical, while perhaps less palatable, I think it nonetheless efficacious in producing real inner change.

Once we have laid the possibility for change, or begun the metamorphosis, how do we find its content? Perhaps we can condition the will through a spiritual exercise in seeking beauty and moral goodness.

Our efforts can both be inspired, and a source of inspiration, in so far as we are drawn to the moral goodness we find in others, and upon seeing it or finding it in them, we wish to duplicate in ourselves , and sometimes are successful, incorporating it into ourselves (one might confer Alcibiades’ speech in Plato’s Symposium (216c-end), where Alcibiades is inspired by Socrates’ austerity). In this regard, our inspiration to act is the desire to emulate, the impetus external to us, in the form of moral goodness as beauty perceived, and is just as natural and spontaneous as the magnetic pull of the Heraclean stone above.

We might do well to remember Cleanthes’ pious exclamation:

“Nothing on earth happens apart from you, O Zeus [lit., ‘divinity’].”

Cleanthes, Hymn to Zeus, l. 15 (my translation)

Farewell.

Sincerely,

George