Lives of the Stoics: The Art of Living From Zeno to Marcus Aurelius

We don’t know exactly when he arrived in the shining city of learning and commerce, but by the time he did, the legacy of Zeno and Cleanthes had been firmly established. Their philosophy and fame had spread throughout the Greek world, and whether Zeno himself was still alive by the time the seventeen- or eighteen-year-old Chrysippus arrived in Athens, students would have felt their presence in every conversation, every book and idea they studied.

It is clear that Chrysippus—his name literally means “Golden Horse”—brought with him the energy and attitude of a fresh generation. This energy was packed in a tight package, for we also know that he was of slight stature, based on a statue of him erected by his nephew Aristocreon that once stood just northwest of the Athenian agora near the Stoa Poikilē. Diogenes reports that the statue was small enough to be completely obscured by a horse statue next to it, which led to one later philosopher to make the pun that Chrysippus was “horse-hidden.”

The statue, which stood long enough for Plutarch to write about it in 100 AD, tells us about more than his size. Its inscription read: “Aristocreon dedicates this to his uncle Chrysippus, the cleaver to the Academy’s knots.”

What knots? The criticism that Cleanthes had received from poets and satirists was not because he was not well liked. Stoicism, with its growing popularity, had become a target for critics and skeptics. We can imagine the philosophical schools of Athens at this time—Epicureans, Platonists, and Aristotelians—battling it out like religions, each one claiming to have access to the true god.

Cleanthes had been content to respond with quips or stone-faced silence. When Stoicism was merely the thoughts of Zeno or the teachings of Cleanthes, perhaps this was sufficient. But at some point the school would need to be defended. Its theories would need to be shored up, its doctrines defined and codified. Contradictions—even within the writings of those two first thinkers—would need to be clarified.

And there were also Aristo’s challenges—and the challengers he encouraged—which loomed heavily over the future of Stoicism. There was Dionysius the Renegade, who began as a Stoic and joined a rival school that said life should be about pleasure. There was Herillus, who had studied under Zeno but believed, in opposition to Zeno, that knowledge was more important than virtue. There were all these voices, fighting, questioning, contradicting.

What was Stoicism to be? What kind of instruction and guidance would it offer? Who would its leaders be?

Thus fell to Chrysippus the thankless but essential role of fighting to protect this ascendant but still fledgling school. When Aristo published his book Against Cleanthes, it was Chrysippus who felt compelled to write a reply. When a philosopher attempted to debate Cleanthes on some minor logical point, it was Chrysippus who jumped in to shout at the man to stop distracting his teacher and that if he wanted to take up the quibble, Chrysippus was ready for it. Not just ready, but ready to win, it seems.

Let no one think that ideas that change the world do so on their own. They must, as a wise scientist would later say, be shoved down people’s throats. Or at least defended and fought for.

Cicero would render a verdict years later of one such conflict, involving the lesser-known but controversial Stoic Herillus. He “has been dismissed for a long time,” Cicero wrote. “No one has directly disputed him since Chrysippus.”

The fighter had settled the matter and sent another early challenger to the dustbin of history.

Seneca would later speak of the importance of reading and studying other philosophies like a spy in the enemy camp. Indeed, we find that the early years of Chrysippus’s career were spent not at the elbow of the living Stoic masters but at the side of Arcesilaus and Lacydes, both of whom headed Plato’s Academy. It’s not that he had conflicting loyalties; it’s that he knew that if Stoicism was to survive, it would have to learn from its more established rivals.

We can picture Chrysippus—the competitor, the racer—wanting desperately to win. He studied the arguments of rival schools, even taking classes in the Platonists’ school so that he could identify weak points in their arguments. He studied the weaknesses of his own arguments to see where Stoicism had to improve.

There is sometimes no better way to strengthen your defense than to learn your opponent’s offense, and this is precisely what a good philosopher does. Today we called this “steel-manning”—you don’t need to cheat by assuming the worst about the ideas you’re arguing against. Instead, you can engage with them seriously and earnestly, winning by merit, not by mischaracterization. And as a fighter, Chrysippus enjoyed the challenge.