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

Sadly, none of his works survive to us, not even his most important work, Republic, which masterfully rebutted the arguments of Plato’s book of the same name. What we know of it comes via summaries from people who read it. From them, we learn that the early Stoics were remarkably utopian. Much of that would be discarded by later, more pragmatic Stoics, but still Zeno’s early thinking set a tone that rings true today, namely that we “should consider all men to be of one community and one polity, and that we should have a common life and an order common to us all, even as a herd that feeds together and shares the pasturage of a common field.”

Zeno also wrote well-known essays on education, on human nature, on duty, on emotions, on law, on the logos, and even one tantalizingly titled Homeric Problems. What could Of the Whole World be about? How wonderful would it be to read Zeno’s Recollections of Crates? Alas, all we have of these writings is the occasional fragment or quote.

Even these scraps are enough to teach plenty. “The goal of life is to live in harmony with nature,” we are told he wrote in On Human Nature, “which means to live according to virtue, because nature leads us to virtue.” Zeno is also credited with originating the expression that man was given two ears and only one mouth for a reason. He supposedly said that there was nothing more unbecoming for a person than to put on airs, and that doing so was even less tolerable for the young. “Better to trip with the feet,” he once said, “than with the tongue.”

He was also the first to express the four virtues of Stoicism: courage, temperance, justice, and wisdom. He held these traits “to be inseparable but yet distinct and different from one another.” We don’t know where or when Zeno first put this “Big Four” in writing, but we can feel its impact—for they appear in the works and the decisions of nearly every Stoic that came after him.

Unlike many prophets, Zeno was respected and admired in his own time. There was no persecution. No angering of the authorities. He was given the keys to the city walls of Athens, awarded a golden crown and a bronze statue in his own lifetime.

Yet for all the adoration Athens heaped on him and the adoration he gave in return, Zeno knew that home mattered. After donating money for the restoration of some important baths in Athens, he specifically requested that “of Kition” be inscribed on the building next to his name. He may have been a citizen of the world, an expat who loved his adopted Athens where he would live for half a century, but he didn’t want anyone to forget where he came from.

For all his clever quips, the only thing Zeno really cared about, what he tried to teach about, was truth. “Perception,” he said, stretching out his fingers, “is a thing like this,” meaning expansive and large. Closing his fingers together a bit, he would say, “Assent”—meaning to begin to form a conception about something—“is like this.” Now closing his hand into a fist, he called that “comprehension.” Finally, wrapping one hand around the other, he called this combination “knowledge.” This full combination, he said, was possessed only by the wise.

In his studies with living teachers like Crates, and his conversations with the dead—that chance encounter with Socrates’s teachings that the oracle had predicted—Zeno danced with wisdom. He explored it in the agora with his students; he had thought deeply about it on long walks and tested it in debates. His own journey toward wisdom was a long one, some fifty years from that shipwreck until his death. It was defined not by some single epiphany or discovery but instead by hard work. He inched his way there, through years of study and training, as we all must. “Well-being is realized by small steps,” he would say, looking back, “but is truly no small thing.”

As with many philosophers, accounts of Zeno’s death stretch our credulity but teach a lesson nonetheless. At age seventy-two, leaving the porch one day, he tripped and quite painfully broke his finger. Sprawled on the ground, he seems to have decided the incident was a sign and that his number was up. Punching the ground, he quoted a line from Timotheus, a musician and poet from the century before him:

I come of my own accord; why then call me?

Then Zeno held his breath until he passed from this life.

CLEANTHES THE APOSTLE (Clee-AN-theez)

Origin: Assos

B. 330 BC

D. 230 BC