Zeno of Citium, the Greek philosopher who first formulated Stoicism in 300 B.C., said that as you advanced in your Stoic practice, you would be transformed in certain ways. He claimed, for example, that there would be a change in your dream life. For years after I started practicing Stoicism, though, I could detect no change in my dreams. And then, about a year ago, I had a dream that was indisputably Stoical.

In the previous essay in this series, I mentioned that I have been trying to withdraw from the "social hierarchy game" and that, as part of this effort, I have been trying to reduce the extent to which I engage in self-promotion in conversations and e-mails. In my Stoical dream, I was walking to meet a friend for lunch. While I walked, I thought about some good news I had just received: "It will be fun sharing this with my friend." But then I realized that my primary motive for sharing this news would be to make myself look good in the eyes of my friend. It amounted, in other words, to a fairly blatant form of self-promotion. "Better to keep the news to myself," I concluded.

That was when I awoke and realized, with some delight, that I had just had a dream in which I was putting my Stoic practice to work. In other words, my conscious practice of Stoicism had apparently succeeded in altering the subconscious portion of my mind that serves as screenwriter for my dreams. This phenomenon, although surprising, was only one of the surprising side-effects of my practice of Stoicism. Allow me to describe some of the others.

Life throws curveballs: your affairs are moving along splendidly when some obstacle is suddenly introduced. Maybe a windstorm strikes your home, and you are without power for a week. Maybe you are at the airport when it is announced that your flight is delayed for hours. Or maybe a routine medical examination reveals that you have a serious disease. Most people respond to such curveballs with disappointment and anger.

The practice of Stoicism, though, gives us tools for dealing with life's unpleasant surprises. It is important, say the Stoics, to keep in mind that however bad your situation is, it could almost certainly be worse. (In doing this, of course, we are engaging in negative visualization.) It is also important to keep in mind that, however difficult your life may be, there is almost certainly someone, somewhere who would love to be living your life. Along these lines, realize that a paraplegic is living the quadriplegic's dream.

But according to Stoic philosopher Seneca, the practice of Stoicism, besides preparing us for life's curveballs, can have the curious effect of making us wish that one of them would be thrown our way. To understand this phenomenon, we need to keep in mind that Stoics spend considerable time and energy developing their ability to respond to life's challenges. If life is kind to them, though, and never presents them with such challenges, Stoics can feel frustrated and might, as a result, find themselves wishing that a challenge would come their way.

Stoics resemble, in other words, a football player who has trained hard all season but has never been put in a game. This player and the unchallenged Stoic might both long for an opportunity to put their training to work.

As a result, if life does throw a curveball at a Stoic, instead of being disappointed and angry, he is likely to perk up: "Aha! A Stoic test! At last, Coach has put me in a game!" Meeting a predicament with this frame of mind changes everything. Consider again the situation in which people at an airport are waiting for an airplane that has been delayed. Many passengers will pout, complain, or engage in angry tirades, but the Stoic will instead devote his energy to figuring out how best to prevent this challenge from disrupting his tranquillity.

Life's curveballs also represent an opportunity for a Stoic to judge the extent to which he has succeeded in acquiring the character traits that he, as a Stoic, will have been trying to develop. Was he kind in a situation that called for kindness? Was he courageous in a situation that called for courage? If he ends up scoring well on a "Stoic test," he will be delighted, even though the test itself might have been quite unpleasant. Thus, a situation that for the other passengers will simply have been a bummer might for the Stoic be the occasion of a minor personal triumph.

In my own Stoic practice, I haven't found myself longing for life to bean me with a curveball -- not yet, at any rate. I have, however, experienced the phenomenon of perking up on being thrown one. I have also gone out of my way to experience challenges that, while not on a par with the sort of challenges life can present, nevertheless provide me with a chance to practice my Stoic techniques for dealing with life's curveballs.

Along these lines, I have taken up competitive rowing, a sport that presents me with interesting albeit "artificial" challenges. It tests, for example, my self-discipline and perseverance, my ability to withstand both mental and physical discomfort, and on rare occasion, my courage. Such athletic challenges pale in comparison to, say, the challenge of being informed that one has a serious illness; at the same time, successfully dealing with these lesser challenges is doubtless good training for the curveballs I might experience in the remainder of my life.

Let me describe some of the other ways in which I have been transformed by the practice of Stoicism. In the previous essay, I asserted that if we withdraw from the social hierarchy game, it will have a profound effect on our material desires. I am evidence for the truth of this assertion. I have substantially (but by no means entirely) withdrawn myself from this game, and it has had a profound impact on my desire for "stuff."

Indeed, I have become dysfunctional as a consumer. Drag me to a mall, and I am unlikely to buy anything. To the contrary, I will probably respond by standing there, staring in astonishment at all the things for sale that I not only don't need and not only don't want, but can't even imagine myself wanting.

Along similar lines, I have lost the desire I once had to own a "desirable" car. I currently drive a 1997 Honda Civic that I bought used. I not only don't mind driving this car but have reached the curious stage at which I am convinced that the acquisition of a "cool car" would have at best zero impact on my happiness -- meaning that it not only wouldn't make me happier but might even have the effect of making me less happy.

It is true, I realize, that some people will look down on me for being satisfied with such a car. Thanks to my withdrawal from the social hierarchy game, though, I no longer feel the need to win the approval of these individuals. In fact, if someone refuses to talk to me because of the car I drive, he is probably doing me a favor by shunning me: I suspect that I would have little to gain from conversation with such an individual.

My withdrawing from the social hierarchy game has also had another curious side-effect: besides changing how I relate to other people, it seems to have changed how they relate to me. Before becoming a Stoic, I assumed that the best way to befriend people was to do things calculated to win their admiration -- in other words, to play the social hierarchy game with great skill. My subsequent experience, though, has led me to wonder whether the opposite is the case.

It is difficult to befriend someone who insults you or who clearly thinks of himself as socially superior to you. If you withdraw from the social hierarchy game, though, you will suppress both your insulting tendencies and your self-promotional tendencies. People will therefore come to regard you as "socially safe" -- as an individual, that is, against whom they don't have to compete in the battle for position on the social hierarchy. Such social non-combatants will presumably be easier to talk to, easier to confide in, and even easier to befriend than an ardent social gamer would.

Practicing Stoicism is supposed to make our lives less irritating. I have found that it serves this function admirably, although I certainly wouldn't claim that it has eliminated the old sources of irritation from my life. In fact, it has introduced one entirely new source.

In the previous essay in this series, I explained how, by practicing insult pacifism, I was able to remove much of the sting from insults directed at me. I also discovered, though, that this defense wasn't perfect: on occasion, people's insults managed to pierce my Stoic defenses and get under my skin. On these occasions, I would find myself, hours later, still thinking about the event and what I should have said to my insulter. The cases in question even affected my sleep: at bedtime, I would succeed in pushing insult-related thoughts out of my mind, only to have them rush back in.

Then it dawned on me that, thanks to my practice of Stoicism, I was experiencing what might be called meta-irritation: besides being irritated by the insults, I was irritated that these insults had succeeded in irritating me! If I weren't a practicing Stoic, I would not have been plagued by meta-irritations; then again, I suspect that these irritations are insignificant in comparison to the additional irritation insults would cause me if I hadn't adopted Stoic insult-response strategies.

In connection with my discovery of meta-irritation, I should mention that practicing Stoicism has transformed me into an acute observer of myself. Thus, besides experiencing various emotions (such as feelings of irritation on being insulted), I observe the manner in which I experience those emotions (which observations may give rise to additional feelings of irritation). Besides having thoughts (about being insulted, for example), I pay attention to how I came to have those thoughts.

As a result of these last observations, I have become fully aware of how little control I have over what thoughts pop into my mind. (The mind that I own, like the cat I used to own, appears to have a mind of its own!) Unless I am careful, though, these seemingly random thoughts can end up determining how I spend my days and consequently how I spend my life.

This completes my nutshell description of Stoicism. It is, as I have explained, a philosophy of life that specifies what in life is most worth attaining and how best to pursue it. There are, to be sure, rival philosophies of life: Zen Buddhism is one of them, and turning to ancient philosophy, we find many others. Which philosophy works best for a person depends, I think, on his or her circumstances and personality.

If, as a result of reading the essays in this series, you end up choosing one of these other philosophies, I won't mind at all. I will instead feel that I have done my Stoic duty to make myself socially useful. It is far better, after all, that you live in accordance with some philosophy of life -- even if it isn't Stoicism -- than that you try to live, as most people do, with no philosophy of life at all.

(Image: detail from Hercules and the Hydra (1475), Antonio Pollaiolo)

This is the second in a series of three essays, written by a Stoic, about what it means to practice an ancient philosophy in the modern world. (Read the first essay.)

A colleague who had been reading some of my published work told me he was going to comment on it in a book he was writing. I told him that I was delighted that he would do such a thing. Then the axe fell: "I'm trying to decide," he said, "whether, in my response to what you have written, I should characterize you as being evil or merely misguided."

There was a time when being insulted in this manner would have upset me. I would have done my best to respond with a counter-insult, and whatever I said, I would subsequently have spent time fuming about the incident and thinking about other, more caustic things I could and should have said. I probably would even have spent time plotting revenge. In other words, I would have allowed the insult to ruin my day.

In the incident described, though, I did none of these things. This is because I had come under the influence of those ancient philosophers known as the Stoics and had, as a result, decided to follow their advice regarding insults. Consequently, I responded to the insult with a question: "Why can't you," I asked, "characterize me as being both evil and misguided?"

It may surprise readers that the Stoics would give advice on how best to deal with insults. Is this, one might reasonably ask, a proper activity for a philosopher?

Not for a philosopher whose interests were primarily theoretical and who therefore spent his days contemplating esoteric theories regarding, say, truth, beauty, and justice. The Stoics, though, were wonderfully practical in their philosophy: after determining what things in life were most worth having, they devoted themselves to developing specific strategies for attaining those things.

In the previous essay in this series, I characterized the Stoics as being the victims of a bum rap. Most people think of them as being anti-emotion, as being grim, wooden figures. As it so happens, the Stoics (and in particular, the Roman Stoics, whom I take to be my primary mentors) were not opposed to emotion in general but to negative emotions such as fear, anger, and grief -- what sensible person wouldn't be? They saw nothing at all wrong, though, with the experience of positive emotions. Indeed, they strove to put themselves into a state of mind in which they could take delight in the world around them.

Because they were opposed to negative emotions, the Stoics spent time investigating them. What sorts of events cause them to arise in us? What steps can we take to prevent them from arising? And what can we do to extinguish these emotions when our attempts at prevention fail? As a result of this investigation, the Stoics came to a profound realization: most of the negative emotions we experience are caused by other people. Yes, you can get angry because your car won't start or because your computer loses one of your files, but for every thing-caused negative emotion you experience, you probably experience twenty people-caused negative emotions.

The Stoics acknowledged that other people are the source of some of the greatest delights life has to offer, meaning that it is important for us, if we wish to have a good life, to interact with other people, to befriend them, and even to fall in love with them. The Stoics also realized, though, that such interactions will inevitably give rise to conflicts. Other people fail to keep their promises to us. They leave messes for us to clean up. They fail to reciprocate our love. They also fail to accelerate promptly when the traffic light turns green.

Not only that, but they periodically insult us. Sometimes the insults in question are blatant: your brother-in-law might refer to you as a fat weasel. More often, though, their insults are subtle. A friend, for example, might tell you that the dress you are wearing does a good job of hiding your bulges. Or your co-worker might greet you in the morning with the following comment: "I don't care what anyone says: you aren't incompetent."

It is also possible for people to insult you not by anything they say but by what they do. Someone might turn away from you in the middle of a conversation so she can answer a cellphone call from someone whose conversation she apparently values more than yours. And insults can get even more subtle than this: it is possible for people to insult you not by anything they say or do, but by what they fail to do. They might fail to invite you to a dinner party, for example; or if they do invite you, they might insult you by failing to try any of the tuna casserole you brought.

Let us turn our attention, though, back to blatant insults. If you are a normal person, you will likely attempt to respond to such insults with counter-insults. In other words, you will not only fight back, but you will fight fire with fire. The problem with this strategy for dealing with insults is that lots of people aren't any good at repartee. When insulted, they simply stand there, like a deer caught in the headlights. Or if they do succeed in coming up with a caustic reply, it will be hours later, when it is of no use at all.

The Stoics, after investigating the manner in which insults are used as social weapons, devised a radical defensive strategy: they advocated what I call insult pacifism. In the same way as a pacifist in the ordinary sense of the word will refuse to respond to violence with violence, an insult pacifist will refuse to respond to an insult with an insult. Instead, he will respond with no response at all: he will simply carry on as if nothing had been said. Notice that whereas an effective response to an insult requires quick thinking, insult pacifism requires zero cleverness. It is therefore a strategy that anyone -- even someone in a coma! -- can easily employ.

Insult pacifism may be easy to practice, but is it effective? When I first read about Stoic advocacy of this strategy, I had my doubts. Wouldn't my failure to defend myself against an insult unleash a storm of additional insults from my insulter? Wouldn't she try to exploit my apparent defenselessness? I nevertheless decided to give insult pacifism a try. I have subsequently found it to be a remarkably effective strategy for dealing with insults.

Fail to respond to an insult, and your insulter will at first think you didn't hear the insult. This will throw her off her stride, and she will wonder what to do next. If she repeats the insult, you can say, "I heard you the first time," and once again carry on as if nothing had been said. Realize that the person who insulted you wanted to make you upset or even angry. By doing nothing at all, you foil her plans. Indeed, you will frustrate her, and even worse, you might make her look foolish in the eyes of anyone who witnessed the insult.

If you feel that you simply must say something in response to an insult, the Stoics recommend that you respond with self-deprecation or, if you are clever, with self-deprecating humor. In other words, you should respond to an insult by insulting yourself even worse than the insulter did.

Thus, suppose someone points out what she takes to be a character flaw of mine, and points it out not as part of a sincere attempt to help me overcome it but in order to upset me. I am likely to respond as follows: "Thanks for pointing that out, but to tell the truth, that particular flaw wouldn't even make my own top-five list of the personal shortcomings I need to work on." Or, if I am in a particularly clever mood, I might say something like this: "If that is the worst thing you have to say about me, it raises serious questions about whether you know me well enough to competently criticize me."

To respond to an insult with self-deprecating humor can be devastating to the insulter. She hit us with her best shot, verbally speaking, and we responded not by crying or even wincing, but by chuckling. We turned her attack not only into a joke, but a joke at our own expense! She is likely to feel both frustrated and foolish.

Insult pacifism, though, is only one component of the Stoics' strategy for dealing with insults. It is concerned with our external response to them and is designed to prevent people from insulting us again in the future. The other, more important component of the Stoic insult strategy is concerned with our internal response to insults. For the Stoics, it isn't enough that we look like an insult doesn't upset us; what is important is that it in fact doesn't upset us. It was for this reason that the Stoics advise us, besides practicing insult pacifism, to take steps to remove ourselves from the "social hierarchy game." Allow me to explain.

If we are normal human beings, we devote much time and energy doing things calculated to improve our position on the social hierarchy. Thus, the insults we inflict on others are, whether we realize it or not, inflicted primarily because we want to diminish our rivals' social standing relative to our own.

Likewise, in many of the consumer purchases we make, what motivates us is not a desire for the thing we buy but a desire for the social prestige we will gain by acquiring it. People buy expensive watches, for example, not because they have an unusually pressing need to know the time; they buy them because it increases the chance that other people will admire them or, better still, envy them. The same can be said regarding our purchases of new cars, big houses, and fancy clothes. Indeed, if we lost our interest in our social standing -- if, that is, we stopped playing the social hierarchy game -- our material desires would change radically.

Another consequence of withdrawing from the social hierarchy game is that we will care less what other people think of us, and as a result, insults will lose much of their sting -- thus, the Stoics' recommendation that as part of our strategy for dealing with insults, we stop playing this game.

Having said this, I should add that in advocating that we withdraw from the social hierarchy game, the Stoics aren't advocating that we withdraw from society. If we want to be happy, it is important for us, say the Stoics, to form and maintain relationships with other people. Furthermore, although the Stoics think we should stop caring so much about what other people think of us, they don't advocate that we stop caring altogether. We should, for example, care very much what the people we have chosen to be our mentors think of us. We should also pay attention to what our enemies think of us. This is because our enemies will not only be on the lookout for our shortcomings but will unhesitatingly inform us of the discoveries they make. As a result, their criticism can be quite useful if we are interested, as any Stoic will be, in self-improvement.

At present, in my own Stoic practice, my primary focus is on withdrawing, to the extent possible, from the social hierarchy game. I am working to overcome my insulting tendencies. I am also working -- struggling, actually -- to overcome my self-promotional tendencies. Along these lines, I have lately made a practice of pausing, before sending e-mails, to look for and delete material that has no function in the message other than to let the reader know what a wonderful person I am. In many cases, I end up deleting so much material that there is no longer a message worth sending.

Before becoming a Stoic, I spent much time and effort trying to make other people think I was a good person; since becoming a Stoic, I have focused by energy on trying to be a good person. I am striving, in other words, to acquire traits that ancient philosophers would have regarded as virtuous -- traits such as loyalty, courageousness, kindness, and most important, self-control, the trait that makes the other traits possible.

This program of self-improvement, I hasten to add, is still in the early stages: there remains abundant room for improvement! Fortunately for me, it is an area in which rapid improvement is possible. Thus, Stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius commented that although you may not have it in your power to become a great scholar or great athlete, you have it in your power, at this very moment, to become, say, sincere or industrious; you need only make up your mind that this is how you are going to behave. ©2010, William B. Irvine

In my next "Twenty-first Century Stoic" essay, I will describe some of the curious side-effects of my practice of Stoicism. An example: it used to be that when I found myself in a difficult situation, I would respond with disappointment. Now I find myself looking forward to episodes in which life tests me. Such predicaments, after all, give me an opportunity to put my Stoic practice to work. And this, as I shall explain, is only one of the surprises that lay in store for me when I adopted Stoicism.

I never intended to become a Stoic. Who, after all, were the Stoics? They were those grim, wooden figures of ancient Greece and Rome whose goal it was to stand mutely and take whatever the world could throw at them. Right?

About a decade ago, though, I began a research project on human desire. The goal of the project was to write a book on the subject, but I also had a hidden agenda in conducting my research: I was contemplating becoming a Zen Buddhist and wanted to learn more about it before taking the leap. But the more I learned about Zen, the less it attracted me.

Practicing Zen would require me to suppress my analytical abilities, something I found it quite difficult to do. Another off-putting aspect of Zen was that the moment of enlightenment it dangled before its practitioners was by no means guaranteed. Practice Zen for decades and you might achieve enlightenment -- or you might not. It would be tragic, I thought, to spend the remaining decades of my life pursuing a moment of enlightenment that never came. Zen doubtless works for some people, but for me, the fit wasn't good.

Then something quite unexpected happened. As part of my research, I investigated what ancient philosophers had to say about desire. Among them were the Stoic philosophers -- people like Marcus Aurelius, Seneca, and Epictetus -- about whom I knew little. As I read them, I discovered that they were quite unlike I imagined they would be. Indeed, it soon became apparent that everything I "knew" about the Stoics was wrong. They were neither grim nor wooden. If anything, the adjective that I thought described them best was "buoyant" or maybe even "cheerful." And without consciously intending to do so, I found myself experimenting with Stoic strategies for daily living.

Thus, when I found myself in a predicament -- being stuck in traffic, for example -- I followed the advice of Epictetus and asked myself what aspects of the situation I could and couldn't control. I couldn't control what the other cars did, so it was pointless -- was in fact counterproductive -- for me to get angry at them. My energy was much better spent focusing on things I could control, with the most important being how I responded to the situation. In particular, I could employ Stoic strategies to prevent the incident from spoiling my day.

I also started making use of the Stoic technique known as negative visualization: I would periodically contemplate the loss of the things and people that mean the most to me. Thus, when parting from a friend, I might make a mental note that this could conceivably be the last time I would see the friend in question. Friendships do end, after all, and people die suddenly. Doing this sort of thing may seem morbid, but the practice of negative visualization is a powerful antidote to a phenomenon that will otherwise deprive us of much of the happiness we could be enjoying: negative visualization prevents us from taking for granted the world around us and the people in it.

When they hear about negative visualization, people often get the wrong idea. They think the Stoics advocate that we spend our days dwelling on all the bad things that can happen to us. This, of course, would be a recipe for a miserable existence. What the Stoics in fact advocate is not that we dwell on bad things but that we contemplate them, a subtle but important difference. They also recommend that we engage in negative visualization not constantly but only a few times each day and for only a few seconds each time. Our negative visualizations, then, will take the form of fleeting thoughts.

Visualizing in this manner has the effect of resetting the baseline against which we measure our happiness, and it can have a profound and immediate effect on that happiness. As the result of negatively visualizing, we might find ourselves taking delight that we still possess the things that only moments before, we took for granted, including our job, our spouse, our health -- indeed, our very existence.

One of my favorite visualization exercises involves the sky. When I see it, I periodically remind myself that the sky didn't have to be blue. But on most days it is blue, and a gorgeous blue, the hue of which changes subtly from hour to hour. Then I reflect on how wonderful it is that we inhabit a universe that can, on a nearly daily basis, present us with such a spectacle. A simple exercise, to be sure, and some would say a silly one. But if you can learn to appreciate the sky -- something most people take utterly for granted -- there is a good chance that you can learn to appreciate your life as well and thereby enjoy a happier existence than would otherwise be the case.

I mentioned above that the benefits to be derived from practicing Zen are uncertain. Stoicism, by way of contrast, does not dangle before its adherents a moment -- maybe -- of life-transforming enlightenment. Instead, it provides a body of advice for them to follow and a set of strategies for them to employ in everyday life. The strategies in question are easy to use. (Indeed, I suspect that many of the readers of this essay have already, in the last few seconds, successfully attempted negative visualization.) That said, I should add that it takes rather longer to internalize Stoic advice and strategies so that one's response to the events of daily living becomes reflexively Stoical, at which point one can truly claim to be a Stoic.

My experiments with Stoicism were sufficiently encouraging that I abandoned my plans to become a Zen Buddhist and decided instead to follow in the footsteps of Zeno of Citium, the Greek who formulated Stoicism in about 300 B.C. I decided, in other words, to become a walking, talking anachronism: I would attempt to transform myself into a twenty-first century Stoic. My goal in the essays in this series is to describe some aspects of this transformation.

Most people, of course, would think of Zen Buddhism and Stoicism as being polar opposites, philosophically speaking, but that is because people tend to be, as I was, woefully ignorant of what Stoicism is. One of the most surprising things that came out of my research was how much Zen and Stoicism have in common.

They both advocate taking what Buddha referred to as "the middle path." Buddha lived a life of luxury in a palace but was not fulfilled by that life. He abandoned the palace to live a life of extreme asceticism but again did not find fulfillment. It was then that he experienced his moment of enlightenment. The wise person, Buddha concluded, will not shun pleasure; at the same time, he will keep firmly in mind how easy it is to become enslaved by it. He will therefore be guarded in his enjoyment of pleasure.

The Stoics likewise advocated taking the middle path. Zeno of Citium began his philosophical education by practicing Cynicism, the ancient philosophy that advocated an ascetic lifestyle. The ancient Cynics (including Diogenes of Sinope and Zeno's teacher Crates) lived on the street and owned only the clothing that they wore. Zeno abandoned Cynicism in part because he rejected its asceticism. In the Stoic philosophy he formulated, we are told that there is nothing wrong with enjoying life's pleasures, as long as we are careful not to allow ourselves to be enslaved by them and as long as, even while we are enjoying them, we take steps to prepare ourselves ultimately to be deprived of them.

Offer a Stoic a glass of fine champagne, and he probably won't refuse it; as he drinks it, though, he might reflect on the possibility that this will be the last time he drinks champagne, a reflection, by the way, that will dramatically enhance his enjoyment of the moment. Then again, offer a Stoic a glass of water, and he might go through the same thought processes with the same result.

In having "last time" thoughts (which, by the way, are a form of negative visualization), a Stoic is behaving rather like a Buddhist. Both Stoics and Buddhists think it important, if we are to have a good life, that we recognize the transient nature of human existence, and both advise us periodically to contemplate impermanence. This is what Stoics are doing when they reflect on the fact that since we are mortal, there will be a last time for each of the things we do in life. Thus, there will be a last time you drink champagne -- or water, for that matter. There will be a last time you touch the face of another human being. There will even be a last time you utter the word "forever."

Along similar lines, both Zen Buddhists and Stoics think it important for us to strive to stay "in the moment." People tend to spend their days and consequently their lives as well dwelling on things that happened in past moments and worrying about things that will happen in future moments. As a result, there is little time left for them to savor the moment they currently are living. If we are to have a good life, it is important, says Stoic Marcus Aurelius, for us to keep in mind that "man lives only in the present, in this fleeting instant."

For one last parallel between Buddhism and Stoicism, consider again the above-described blue-sky exercise. As a Stoic, I had practiced this exercise for years before I became aware of the work of Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh. It turns out that Buddhists, in their practice of mindfulness, employ a similar exercise: see this video.

On adopting Stoicism, I discovered how much the world has changed since the philosophy was first formulated. Back then, if you told someone you were a practicing Stoic, they would have understood what you meant. In ancient Greece and Rome, it was common for people in the upper classes to adopt a philosophy of life; indeed, parents sent their sons to schools of philosophy (prominent among which were the Stoic, the Epicurean, and the Academic schools) in part to acquire such a philosophy.

Tell modern individuals that you are a practicing Stoic, though, and they are likely to be puzzled. "Is it some kind of religion?" they will ask.

My standard response: "No. Religions generally concern themselves with the afterlife; philosophies of life such as Stoicism concern themselves with daily life. They teach us what things in life are most valuable and how best to attain them."

This response is likely to give rise to a new question: "And just what did the Stoics think was valuable?" My response: "Not what most people think is valuable -- namely, fame and fortune. To the contrary, the Stoics (and in particular the Roman Stoics) valued tranquillity, and by tranquillity they had in mind not the kind of numbness that can be attained by downing a third martini, but instead the absence of negative emotions, such as anger, anxiety, grief, and fear, from their life. They had nothing against positive emotions, though, including that most positive of emotions, joy. The Stoics were also confident that people who exchange their tranquillity for fame and fortune have made a foolish bargain."

This, by the way, is yet another point of agreement between Zen and Stoicism: both philosophies of life point to tranquillity as the thing in life most worth attaining. But wait a minute, if Zen and Stoicism share the same goal in living, namely, the attainment of tranquillity, won't they count as the same philosophy of life?

No, because although they share this goal, they offer different advice on how to attain it. Thus, a Zen Buddhist might advise those wishing to attain tranquillity to spend hours each day trying to empty their mind of all thought. And when they are not doing this, they should spend time trying to solve koans, those paradoxical questions, the most famous of which is "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"

The Stoics, by way of contrast, would recommend neither of these activities. Your time would be much better spent, they would suggest, analyzing what it is in your daily life that disrupts your tranquillity and thinking about what you can do to prevent such disruptions. And to aid you in your thinking, the Stoics would go on to suggest that you take a look at the writings of Seneca, Marcus Aurelius, and Epictetus. There you will find much advice on how to deal with insults, how to overcome grief, how to avoid getting angry, how to take delight in the world you inhabit, and so forth.

At this point, my introduction-to-Stoicism conversation sometimes turns ugly. The conversation can cause the other person to realize that he has never taken time to think about the "grand goal of living;" instead, his attention has been focused on the short-term goals of daily life, such as getting a promotion at work or acquiring an even-wider-screen television. Or, even worse, the conversation can put the person on the defensive. If he routinely spends his days exchanging his tranquillity for a (quite possibly unsuccessful) shot at the acquisition of fame and fortune, he will not take kindly to my "foolish bargain" comment.

In either case, he might resent what he will construe as an attempt by me to impose my values on him, and his resentment might be expressed indirectly, by ridiculing Stoicism. It is, to be sure, easy to avoid this ridicule: if you decide to give Stoicism a try as your philosophy of life, I suggest that you keep your plans to yourself and practice what I call stealth Stoicism. This is what I would have done had I not taken it on myself to become a twenty-first century Stoic teacher.

This, in a nutshell, is what Stoicism is and why I found myself drawn to it. I hope that if I have accomplished anything in this essay, I have persuaded readers that the ancient Stoics were not stoical in the modern sense of the word -- they were not, as the dictionary puts it, "seemingly indifferent to or unaffected by joy, grief, pleasure, or pain." Indeed, the phrase joyful Stoic is not the oxymoron it might seem to be.

©2010, William B. Irvine

In my next "Twenty-first Century Stoic" essay, I will expose readers to one specific piece of Stoic advice on daily living: how best to respond to insults. As we shall see, they advocated that we respond not with counter-insults but with silence -- or, if we must say something, by insulting ourselves even worse than our insulter did. Strange advice, I know, but in my practice of Stoicism I have tried it and found it to be remarkably effective.