On one end, you have the early Greek Stoics, who were proto-anarchists. On the other end, you’ve got a bunch of Romans who either classical republicans or monarchists, but all fiercely dedicated to Rome.

But then over here, you’ve got this Phrygian named Epictetus:

>If there is any truth in what the philosophers say about the kinship between God and humanity, what course is left for human beings than to follow the example of Socrates, and when one is asked where one is from, never to reply, “I’m an Athenian” or “I’m a Corinthian,” but rather, “I’m a citizen of the universe”? For why say, in fact, that you’re an Athenian rather than just a citizen of that corner in which your poor body was thrown down at the time of your birth? Isn’t it obvious that you choose the place that is more sovereign, and not merely that little corner, but also your whole household, and, in a word, the source that your entire race of ancestors has come down to you, and on that basis you call yourself an “Athenian” or a “Corinthian”?

Epictetus, Discourses 1.9.1–3

But then over here you’ve got this dude Hierocles, who was probably Greek:

>After speaking of the Gods, it is most reasonable to show, in the next place, how we should conduct ourselves towards our country. For, by Jupiter, our country is as it were a certain secondary God, and our first and greatest parent.

Hierocles, Ethical Fragments, "How We Ought to Conduct Ourselves towards our Country." Trans. Taylor.

Here’s how I think about it… and I offer this not as a professional scholar, but as someone who proudly wears the uniform of his country and tries to think seriously about this stuff. Just so my biases are on the table.  

First, we have to be clear what we mean by this word patriotism. Even without getting into cliched distinctions from nationalism, patriotism itself might mean several different things depending on who’s talking:

• an emotional love for one’s country
• a desire for what is best for one’s country
• a sense of belonging to one’s country
• a sense of duty toward one’s country
• a belief in the inherent superiority of one’s country

Each of these reflects a different moral posture, and each interacts differently with Stoic ethics. So if we want a serious answer, we have to take them one at a time.

Patriotism as love for my country. Like love for parents or children, under normal circumstances the Stoics would likely consider love of country eupatheia, a “rational emotion.” Whether that love is rational depends on the truth of the impression underlying it. A Stoic would say it is mistaken to say my country is a good thing, or that its welfare is a good thing. These are “preferred indifferents” in the Stoic view. Still, it is perfectly rational to feel joy in the presence of one’s beloved country, just as it is rational to feel joy in the presence of a beloved friend. What would not be rational is becoming so emotionally “carried away” that one loses self-command or begins desiring unjust or inappropriate things for its sake.

Patriotism as a wish for my country’s welfare. From a Stoic perspective, it would generally be virtuous to prefer the welfare of one’s country. Indifference or hostility toward it, as often appears in certain scholarly communities, would miss something important about our social nature. Virtue is largely expressed in how we correctly recognize and select what is preferred or dispreferred. A country’s welfare normally belongs among the preferred; Seneca, for example, includes it with joy, peace, victory, and well-behaved children (see Letters 66.5, 36–7). The analogy to family is useful here; just as I would not want my child to succeed through bribery or injustice (I would not bribe school administrators to unjustly prefer my child), I should not want my country to flourish unjustly. A genuine wish for one’s welfare is a wish for their moral welfare. As a member of the community circle that is my country, I should support the fulfillment of its natural purposes, which includes both moral progress and the preservation of its physical and moral constitution.

Patriotism as a sense of belonging to my country. Epictetus’ line about being a citizen of the universe is often taken as anti-patriotic, but I think that reading is too thin. Stoicism does not deny our local identities; it situates them within a larger framework. It is correct to claim membership in one’s family. It is correct to claim membership in one’s country. These roles are meaningful steps along the path of moral development. The mistake would be to treat that as the highest or final identity. The Stoic ultimately identifies with what is most comprehensive and sovereign, the rational universe itself.

Patriotism as a sense of duty or obligation toward my country. Stoicism is deeply communitarian in practice. Belonging generates obligations. Just as family membership entails duties, so does citizenship. In fulfilling my own natural purposes as a rational and social being, I am required to support the fulfillment of my country’s natural purposes. That does not mean everyone must assume the same civic role. Some will serve as teachers, some as parents, some as soldiers or public officials, depending on circumstance and aptitude. Perhaps some as political agitators. But the baseline obligations of citizenship alone are substantial, and they are real. Everyone has a role to play, everyone contributes.

Patriotism as a belief in my country’s superiority. It’s reasonable to believe my country is better than others at some things. I might justifiably claim it has the best national parks, or that it produces the best Olympic swimmers or the best pickup trucks, but such factors are plainly irrelevant to the question of what makes one country ‘better’ than another. Reaching for something determinative, I might claim its economic system, its form of government, or its intrinsic cultural values are better aligned to the achievement of humanity’s natural purposes than those of its fellow countries. I might even be able to substantiate and defend these claims.

But none of this would convince a Stoic philosopher. And although it might seem appropriate to clarify ‘better at what?’ in a ‘whose country is better’ contest, this is not the question a Stoic would ask. A Stoic would inquire, in binary formulation, whether the countries in question are virtuous or vicious. Stoics are moral perfectionists; individuals falling short of moral perfection are equally imperfect. I think (this is just me talking here) if we apply the same standard to countries, then we would have to conclude that all imperfect countries (that is, all countries) are equally deficient in virtue; that which is not ‘straight’ is properly ‘crooked,’ as Seneca says. While I might acknowledge my country has made more moral progress than others, these claims remain irrelevant to the country’s status as virtuous or vicious, in the puzzling way Stoics look at virtue.

So what do we do with that? The Stoics’ moral perfectionism is often taken as paradoxical; it seems to run against basic intuitions and a functional concept of progress. But there are some practical takeaways for this question. First, all countries are works in progress; none is entitled to win any contest. As with any prolonged endeavor, a constant-improvement effort is required just to maintain steady performance (if we’re not getting better, then we’re getting worse—anyone who's played a team sport has heard this one). Further, only the deficient measures him/herself against an obviously deficient neighbor; those who are truly interested in virtue recognize all parties are flawed and success is earned through efforts that are sincere, consistent, and relentless.

So—is or is not patriotism Stoic? I argue that a properly reasoned patriotism is. Like courage or generosity, it merits discipline and moderation. As a citizen, I should want what is best for my country, which necessarily includes what is just. I can (indeed must) acknowledge special obligations to my fellow citizens, much like the special obligations I have toward family, without denying my broader obligations to humanity. I perceive my country’s properly understood welfare as consistent with, not opposed to, the welfare of all rational beings. Properly reasoned, patriotism is not blind loyalty nor is it parochial advantage-seeking, but instead it is a commitment to the welfare of community. This implicitly involves its moral welfare, or what we might call national honor. That, to me, seems entirely consistent with Stoicism.

I often hear people who are marginally familiar with Stoicism suggest it essentially boils down to the Serenity Prayer. I've also recently noticed several posters here citing that prayer as if it were Stoic in origin. My problem with this isn't so much that the Serenity Prayer is wrong or unwise (it isn't), or that it is theistic (the Stoics were), but that it leaves most of what is distinctive about Stoicism on the table.

For those not familiar with it, the Serenity Prayer was written by a 19th-century Protestant theologian named Reinhold Niebuhr. The particular bit that people associate with Stoicism is this:

> God, grant me the serenity

>to accept the things I cannot change

>the courage to change the things I can

>and the wisdom to know the difference.

It is made famous, particularly in the United States, by addiction support groups like Alcoholics Anonymous, who treat it as a kind of therapeutic talisman. What does any of this have to do with Stoicism? Well, not much really, other than to show the conventional appeal of this idea. Niebuhr happened upon the same common sense suggested in an isolated first line of the Enchiridion: Some things are in our power, while others are not. That alone, the so-called Dichotomy of Control (a silly phrase no ancient Stoic ever uttered), is not exactly profound stuff, even if it might sound profound on first contact. Takedowns of "the DOC" are a regular enough occurrence here that I don't need to add my own; I'll just focus on the Serenity Prayer.

There's nothing wrong with it. It is a fine bit of conventional wisdom. But it has nothing to do with testing impressions, a fundamental Stoic practice. It has nothing to do with the Stoics' keystone concept of virtue as the sole good, without which the entire philosophy collapses into motivational quotes and folk wisdom.

When Epictetus says "Some things are in my power" (or "up to me," if you prefer), he is referring to a psychological test that determines if a given impression is expressive, reflective, or impactful to my virtue. If it is not up to me, it has nothing to do with my virtue. If it does not impact my virtue, it is nothing to me.

>Practice, then, from the very beginning to say to every disagreeable impression, ‘you’re an impression and not at all what you appear to be.’ Then examine it and test it by these rules that you possess, and first and foremost by this one, whether the impression relates to those things that are within our power, or those that aren’t within our power and if it relates to anything that isn’t within our power, be ready to reply, ‘that’s nothing to me.

Epictetus, Enchiridion 1.5 trans. Hard

Implicit in this framework is recognition of what we are: not even our bodies, which are beyond our volition (just try not to age if you don't believe me). But if we're not that, then what are we? We are our own moral choice:  "For you yourself are neither flesh nor hair, but choice, and if you render that beautiful, then you yourself will be beautiful." (Epictetus, Discourses 3.1.40, trans. Hard).

When Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius after him, talk about things that are or are not up to us, they are integrating a number of weighty metaphysical claims into a simple and coherent psychological exercise; the processing of impressions, virtue as the sole good, moral choice or prohairesis as identity-- all represented. It is about separating nonmoral factors from moral factors, and reducing one's psychological identity to the latter. That is profound in ways the Serenity Prayer or the so-called Dichotomy of Control do not approach.

A buddy and I were texting back and forth about Ezra Klein’s podcast yesterday on GLP-1s, and he hit me with this: What would the Stoics think about this trend? It actually left me scratching my head. For anyone unfamiliar with this topic, GLP‑1 agonists are new drugs such as Ozempic, Wegovy, or Mounjaro. They were developed for type 2 diabetes and obesity. They regulate blood sugar and significantly blunt appetite. They are rapidly becoming mainstream for cosmetic use as much as a medical intervention; they just kill the craving for food, and people suddenly have the willpower to stop eating more than a human being should eat.

So trying to look at this through a Stoic lens… first principles. Health is a preferred indifferent. It is reasonable to pursue it so long as virtue is not compromised. If someone uses a GLP‑1 to treat diabetes or serious obesity, there is nothing un‑Stoic about that decision, and they apparently have tons of benefits beyond curbing appetite. The Stoics did not romanticize performative suffering and in fact warned against it. Someone misusing medicines to achieve cosmetic beauty based on arbitrary and unrealistic standards, on the other hand, would be pretty clearly foolish in the Stoic view. I don’t think any of that is especially controversial.

The more interesting question is temperance/moderation. If appetite is chemically reduced, is the resulting moderation not still virtuous? Or might the use of an appetite-curbing drug be no different than refusing to stock one’s pantry with cookies, such that the cravings go unsated anyway?

For the Stoics, virtue resides in the rational faculty of choice, not in the mere absence of desire. A person with naturally mild cravings is not therefore temperate. A person with strong cravings is not therefore vicious. What matters is how one assents to impressions. If someone deliberates and chooses to use a medication as part of a rational commitment to live in better accordance with nature, the drug remains an indifferent. The moral weight lies in the judgment behind its use.

Still, it seems it is newly possible to outsource what should be moral work to a chemical (Is it new? Are there preexisting analogues to this question? Castration to fix sexual impulsivity maybe?). I think if the attitude becomes “the drug makes me disciplined,” rather than “I choose discipline and use this tool in service of it,” then agency is undermined. Also, motive matters: Is this about restoring health, or about vanity and status? Does it strengthen rational self-command, or weaken it?

Anyway, I thought it was a super interesting question, and I’m still noodling on it.  

The Stoics' theory of oikeiōsis (moral maturation-- literally "taking into one's household") is derived from observations of animal behavior. Animals, which occupy a position between plants and humans in the hierarchy of life forms, are driven by an innate impulse that manifests as observable acts of self-preservation. This impulse, present from birth, represents the initial stage of oikeiōsis: an instinctual concern for one’s own well-being, expanding to encompass the well-being of ever-greater circles.

While we should take anything by Diogenes Laertius with a sizable dose of salt (basically, he's a rather sloppy commentator), I do rather like this passage because there's so much packed into it:

> They say that an animal’s first impulse is to preserve itself, because nature from the start makes the animal attached [oikeiōn] to itself … for in this way it repels what is harmful and pursues what is appropriate. What some people say, namely that the primary impulse of animals has pleasure as its object, the Stoics’ claim is false. For they say that pleasure, if it is actually felt, is a by-product that arises only after nature, by itself, has sought and found what is suitable to the animal’s constitution; it is in this way that animals frolic and plants bloom. They say that nature made no distinction between plants and animals, since she regulates the latter as well as the former without impulse and sensation; and even in us certain processes are plantlike. When, in the case of animals, impulse is added, by means of which they pursue what is appropriate for them, then for them what is natural is to be governed by impulse. And when reason, as a more perfect authority, has been bestowed on rational beings, then for them what is natural and proper is to be governed by reason. For reason, like a craftsman, overrides impulse.

-Diogenes Laertius 7.85-86 (trans. Mensch)

 I want to highlight three key points from this:

1. The hard Stoic rejection of pleasure as the primary aim. The reference to those who claim that pleasure is the primary impulse is almost certainly aimed at the Epicureans. The Stoics push back strongly here: pleasure is not the goal. It is a by-product. First comes nature’s drive toward what is fitting for the organism; pleasure follows incidentally, if at all.

2. “Living according to nature” ≠ living like an animal. For animals, what is natural is to be governed by impulse. For humans, what is natural and proper is to be governed by reason. Reason is described as a craftsman that overrides impulse. So to live naturally, as a human being, is to live rationally rather than impulsively.

3. The developmental arc: nature → impulse → reason. There’s a progression here. Plants (and even human embryos) have “nature.” Animals (and human infants) operate through "impulse": this is where oikeiōsis begins as self-preserving attachment. Mature humans uniquely develop reason. The critical turning point in human oikeiōsis is the transition from this pre-rational stage to the emergence of reason.

This developmental view helps clarify Stoic ethics. We begin life oriented toward self-preservation. Over time, that attachment expands and becomes informed by reason. The task of a Stoic isn’t to suppress nature, it is to fulfill our specific nature as rational beings, which naturally expands self-concern to encompass other-concern.

In other words: the work of Stoicism is to become more fully human rather than less human.

Folks,

The following is a short article previously published elsewhere for a professional (military) audience. It is longer than is typical for a Reddit post but I think is germane to many of the recurring conversations here, so sharing for the group in case anyone finds it useful or stimulating to conversation here. Note to mods: I've attempted to sanitize the article of anything that might be interpreted as self-promotion, but if I missed something on that score, I apologize in advance.

______________________________

The following continues a conversation about Stoic role ethics as framed by Epictetus: the idea that each of us occupies a constellation of roles which are essentially heuristics for duty.[1] As I write this, I am simultaneously a father, a husband, a son, a brother, a warfighter, and a citizen of my country. Each assignment presses its own moral claim. I do not get to select one and hope the rest sort themselves out; if I try, I will fail them all. My task is integration—to find the throughline harmonizing these responsibilities over the long term.

All of this is well and good, one might say, so long as our roles truly harmonize. But what if I fulfill a specific role that requires something morally abhorrent? Suppose, instead of my current job, I were an illicit drug dealer, or a burglar or con man? What if this were my only income, with which I provide for my family?

To answer this question, we must return to the ground level of Stoic role ethics.

First Things First: Two Categories of Role

The central passage of this article is the following from Epictetus:

>Consider who you are. First of all, a human being, that is to say, one who has no faculty more authoritative than choice, but subordinates everything else to that, keeping choice itself free from enslavement and subjection. Consider, then, what you’re distinguished from through possession of reason: you’re distinguished from wild beasts; you’re distinguished from sheep. What is more, you’re a citizen of the world and a part of it, and moreover no subordinate part, but one of the leading parts in so far as you’re capable of understanding the divine governing order of the world, and of reflecting about all that follows from it.[2]

There is much happening in this passage, but we should begin where Epictetus begins—with priority. “First of all, a human being.” Epictetus is deliberate; throughout the Discourses, we often see him begin a lecture with this clarification. Before naming any office, rank, or relationship, he establishes a fundamental order: humanity, as moral obligation, exists on a separate tier. All specific responsibilities are secondary and must be subordinated to it—or more correctly, they must cohere with it. Wherever the obligations of a particular role conflict with the obligations of a human, the latter must take precedence.

HUMAN

-----------------------------------

HUSBAND - FATHER - BROTHER - SON - WARRIOR - CITIZEN

Epictetus repeats this point as pedagogical slate‑clearing. “There is,” he says, “a particular end and a general end. First of all, I must act as a human being.”[3] The claim is like the orientation marker on an airport map—except instead of “You are here,” it reads, “You are human,” with all this implies. Yet although Epictetus presses this issue more incessantly than the other surviving Stoics, the framework itself is not his invention. Cicero, writing over a century before the Discourses were recorded, articulates the same idea:

>We must also grasp that nature has endowed us with what we may call a dual role in life. The first is that which all of us share by virtue of our participation in that reason and superiority by which we rise above the brute beasts; from this the honorable and fitting elements wholly derive, and from it too the way in which we assess our obligation. The other is that which is assigned uniquely to each individual, for just as there are great variations in physical attributes (for we see that some can run faster and others wrestle more strongly, or again, one has an imposing appearance, while another’s features are graceful), so our mental make-up likewise displays variations greater still.[4]

Cicero was neither formally a Stoic nor a professional philosopher. He was a statesman—more “doer” than scholar—who critically engaged the Stoics and incorporated what he judged their best ideas into an independent worldview (one reason I regard him as a compelling philosophical exemplar for warriors). Book I of On Duties, he tells us, is his adaptation of the Middle Stoics’ now‑lost treatise of the same name. Epictetus, who trained under Musonius Rufus, was almost certainly reared upon this work. His role ethics, then, is not entirely a personal innovation but rather an expression of deeply rooted Stoic inheritance.

Applications for the military profession are straightforward. Early in my career, I was told that if I ever felt torn between being a good officer and being a good man, I should be a good man and trust that the rest would work itself out. At the very least, I would still be able to look myself in the mirror.

I will spare the reader self‑serving anecdotes about applying this rule—especially since intellectual honesty would require recounting the times I was neither a good officer nor a good man. I will say only this: when confronted with that conflict, I have never regretted acting as a good man does. And I learned quickly that’s what the best officers do.

What it Means to be Human

We know roles are signposts for duty. If we must frame humanity as a role, then, we effectively imply the existence of “natural duties,” an arrangement nobody asked for and to which nobody consented. Is this a justifiable burden to impose? Can I really say you have got a job to do, simply for having the audacity to be born human?

Here we must say something about the Stoic concept of “appropriate action,” which we loosely render as duty, although it is not a perfect translation. In English, “duty” usually means moral obligation, but for the Stoics, appropriate action does not necessarily imply moral agency. Rather, it expresses a thing’s *telos—*the “purpose” or “mission” for which it exists. An action is appropriate when it supports that mission. An infant’s first job is to preserve itself.[5] A plant’s is to seek sunlight and water.

What, then, is the purpose of a mature human being? The capability to reason is the separator: “Consider, then, what you’re distinguished from through possession of reason: you’re distinguished from wild beasts; you’re distinguished from sheep.” This is where moral agency comes enters the discussion, and with this distinction comes immense responsibility.

It is incumbent upon the individual, for example, to recognize their own significance, to respect it as a high office, and to perform the appropriate actions reason would recommend. What’s more, one is to perform them with the commitment and sincerity the role demands. It is no ‘bit part’ in the cosmic production, but “one of the leading parts in so far as you’re capable of understanding the divine governing order of the world, and of reflecting about all that follows from it.” In a universe vast beyond comprehension, and largely devoid of life—let alone reason—the human role is indeed a leading one.

This is what it means to “live in accordance with nature,” as the Stoics so often recommend. They are not saying we should go live in a cabin in the woods, and they certainly do not mean we should live like animals. Rather, they mean to fulfill human nature, which means to act as a reasoning human does, as distinguished from animals. This captures the impulse to improve oneself which every morally mature individual will recognize. “The goal,” as Stoics put it, “is to live in harmony with nature, which means to live according to virtue; for nature leads us to virtue.”[6]

HUMANITY -> REASON -> VIRTUE

A human being’s fundamental duty, therefore, is to manifest virtue—to become what one is meant to be. “Learn first to know who you are, and then adorn yourself accordingly. You’re a human being; that is to say, a mortal animal who has the capacity to make use of impressions in a rational manner.”[7] This eliminates the possibility of an inherently unvirtuous or “villain” role. Further, it shuts down innumerable excuses for unvirtuous behavior. Although I am obligated to remain a husband to my wife and a father to my children, this does not justify cowardice on my part when it comes time to perform a dangerous job.

Becoming Human: Epictetus vs Early Stoics

We cannot do justice to “what virtue is” within this article, but there are a few things we can say.

The Stoics’ concept of virtue is moral perfection, or “being what one is supposed to be.” They often frame it in terms of the four “cardinal virtues” describing an ideal human being. These are wisdom (sometimes prudence), courage (sometimes fortitude), temperance (sometimes moderation), and justice (although I think it should be called just-ness). These qualities work like the primary colors of red, blue, and yellow, in that all the shades and hues of a good human (generosity, industry, and the like) are derivatives of the irreducible four.

I am personally fond of the cardinal virtues because they’re universally portable. The Stoics inherited them from Plato, as did Christians and various moral traditions. I’m often asked if I teach my kids Stoicism, and the answer is no, not directly, but I do insist they can name the four qualities of an ideal human.

In one of the more conspicuous departures from his Stoic roots, Epictetus doesn’t really emphasize the cardinal virtues.[8] Insofar as his philosophy is unified by a discrete set of orienting imperatives, they are integrity, freedom, judgment, and choice.[9] When pressed to say what virtue looks like, or how to recognize when a human has “become educated” or “made moral progress,” he usually comes back to the following:

• acting as a citizen of the world
• treating externals as a matter of indifference
• eliminating passions
• demonstrating fidelity and a sense of shame (honor)
• prioritizing moral choice above all

Inhumanity

Returning to the idea of “villain roles,” we see they are categorically eliminated by the preeminence of virtue-as-humanity. Epictetus doesn’t even deal with them. Rather, he treats failure to live up to virtue as the forfeiture of reason, humankind’s highest capability and most distinctive feature. The result is a disgraceful regression to an animal state:

>Merely to fulfil the role of a human being is no simple matter. For what is a human being? ‘A rational and mortal creature,’ someone says. First of all what does the rational element serve to distinguish us from? ‘From wild beasts.’ And from what else? ‘From sheep and the like.’[10]

The reference to “sheep and wild beasts” is another recurring theme, capturing the types of character Epictetus most disdains. To be like sheep is to be harmless but lazy, passively adrift in service to bodily appetites.[11] Wild beasts, by contrast, are energetic but destructive—cruel, selfish, and predatory. Neither model is worthy. “It is shameful for a human being to begin and end where the irrational animals do,” says Epictetus. The rational animal, instead, ought to culminate “in contemplation, understanding, and a way of life in harmony with nature.”[12]

One especially salient question remains. If there is no such thing as a “villain” role, how could this “rational animal” accept the role of a warrior—at best, the most inherently conflicted of all possible moral assignments? How can this be consistent with humanity? The Stoic view of just war theory is well beyond the scope of this article, but there are some things we can say in the space available.

If I perceive that my role requires something unjust, there are a few possibilities:

• The role is not morally legitimate or binding (e.g. social parasite or predator).
• I misunderstand what the role truly requires (e.g. the best officers are good humans).
• The action is not truly unjust, when all contributing factors are considered.

It is within this third category that the morally legitimate warrior tenuously subsists. The classical strictures of just war theory, while indispensable as a heuristic, cannot exhaust the complexity of war decisions. No war is free of injustice—just ask the citizens of Dresden or Atlanta— as war is waged in the muck of tragedy, constraint, and irreducible moral remainder. That is the warrior’s province. Yet this does not confer existence to “justified evils;” an action is either justified, all things considered, or it is not.

What “all things considered” entails, however, is formidable. It must account for the defeat or prevention of greater evils; natural obligations to community and country; the trust and interdependence of comrades; the preservation of one’s capacity to influence events; the limits of time and access to information; the maintenance of deterrence and its benefits; the subordination of private preference to a polity chosen by the people; the tragedy of great‑power politics and the resulting necessity of standing militaries, the legitimacy of which rests upon that same subordination; and a thousand other factors that critics of the profession frequently decline to reckon with. The point is not that these considerations automatically justify the warrior, but that they properly belong within the moral calculus.

All of this remains beyond our present scope. We are driven back, then, to first principles. The profession of arms is not morally self‑justifying; its legitimacy derives entirely from its subordination to the prior role of a human being. When one is justified in exercising lethal or immiserating force, it cannot be simply because one fulfills the role of warrior well, but because one fulfills the role of human well. Put differently, it must be what a good human would do under the same conditions, all things considered.

[1] Articles in the Do Your Job series are indebted to Johnson, Brian E. The Role Ethics of Epictetus: Stoicism in Ordinary Life. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2014.

[2] Epictetus, Discourses 2.10.1–3. All Epictetus trans. Hard.

[3] Epictetus, Discourses 3.23.4.

[4] Cicero, On Duties 1.107, trans. Walsh.

[5] Cicero, On Ends 3.17, 20–2 = LS 59D; DL 7.85.

[6] DL 7.87.

[7] Epictetus, Discourses 3.1.25.

[8] Epictetus does discuss each of the cardinal virtues individually; e.g., wisdom in Discourses 1.20.6; courage in Discourses 1.6.28, 1.6.43, and 4.1.109; temperance in Discourses 3.1.8 and 4.9.17; and justice in Discourses 2.7.5, 2.22.30, and 3.1.8.

[9] See Long, Anthony A. Epictetus: A Stoic and Socratic Guide to Life. Repr. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2010, 27–31.

[10] Epictetus, Discourses 2.9.1-2.

[11] Cf. Epictetus to an Epicurean: “… you should lie down and go to sleep, and lead the worm’s life that you’ve judged yourself to be worthy of; eat and drink, and copulate, and defecate, and snore!” Discourses 2.20.9-10.

[12] Epictetus, Discourses 1.6.19–21; cf. Discourses 2.9.2–7; Seneca, Letters 76.9–10.

[I won't have my feelings hurt by criticism, but please be aware that I'll decline any conversation about current events. Publicly, I deal in principles, which are timeless.]