Living for Pleasure: An Epicurean Guide to Life by Emily A. Austin
By Timothy Sandefur
New York: Oxford University Press, 2023
307 pp. $18.95 (hardcover)
The ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus is said to have written four hundred books on subjects ranging from physics to morality, but almost all his writings are lost today. Most probably were destroyed by medieval Christian monks who thought his views incompatible with their own. They were right about that. What little we know about him shows that Epicurus was among history’s greatest advocates of reason and happiness. He rejected mysticism in favor of an atomic theory of matter and urged people to jettison religious morality in favor of a secularism that focused on living a fulfilling life on Earth. That’s why it’s so fitting—and so welcome—that Oxford University Press’s new series of “Guides to the Good Life” would include Emily Austin’s volume exploring the ideas of this oft-neglected thinker.
The loss of Epicurus’s writings puts Austin at a disadvantage, though. All we have of his own words are four letters to friends and some collections of quotations. These, along with the unfinished, book-length poem De Rerum Natura by his Roman admirer Lucretius and the dialogue On Moral Ends by his Roman critic Cicero—both of whom lived three centuries after him—provide nearly all we know about Epicureanism. That’s not a lot compared to the plenty that remains of Plato and Aristotle, and scholars still disagree over such basic questions as whether Epicurus thought people should have children.
All the more impressive, then, that Living for Pleasure offers such a thorough presentation of Epicurean morality and in such a readable, entertaining style. This is not a book of technical scholarship—it is philosophy put to its proper use: counseling us on how to live better. That’s what Epicurus wanted: He thought the purpose of life is happiness and that happiness consists of a sort of serenity or steadiness he called ataraxia. This word is sometimes translated as “absence of anxiety,” but that phrase implies that Epicurus considered human beings essentially feeble creatures, which is not true. He meant instead to warn against intense passions on the grounds that they lead to disappointment and stress. He thought it was wiser to lead a tranquil life—one that includes savoring luxuries but not panting after them. “Epicureanism,” writes Austin, “is fundamentally about evaluating our desires to determine whether they benefit or harm us and whether they merit our energies” (256).
We accomplish this by separating desires into the categories of “corrosive,” “necessary,” and “extravagant.” Corrosive desires are self-destructive or tend to become addictive—they can overwhelm our self-control and even self-respect. Necessary desires stem from the ordinary and inescapable needs of life; these include not only food and shelter but also knowledge and curiosity about the world, which we need so we don’t get duped by frauds who take our money or adopt superstitions that cause us to live in fear. Extravagant desires are for things we can relish but also live without—luxuries that are fine to enjoy but aren’t essential. The wise person shuns corrosive desires, pursues necessary ones, and savors extravagant desires occasionally without losing perspective on their relative unimportance. . . .
Among the necessary desires is a wish for the fellowship of trusted friends, whose values we share and company we enjoy. But the wise person will not pursue the approval of others at the cost of his own integrity or sacrifice his values for wealth, fame, or power. This is not because of any duty toward other people—a notion wholly absent from Epicurus’s philosophy—but because lying, stealing, or betraying one’s beliefs inevitably causes anxiety, destabilizes relationships, and renders one less happy. “When dishonesty takes root in one’s heart,” says the Epicurean character in Cicero’s On Moral Ends, “its very presence is disturbing” (85). So is sacrificing self-respect in hopes of winning applause from others.
In her discussion of this last point, Austin’s writing is particularly skillful, wedded to an approachable sense of humor, which is a welcome relief given that much of the little written about Epicurus nowadays is in the dry prose of academia. For example, in chapters 11 and 12, she lays out the Epicurean answer to those who devote their energies to seeking popularity on social media or in politics. Such pursuits are often self-defeating, she says, because they distract us from the authentic enjoyment of the world. Living for the “like” can mislead us into “turng over the reins of our freedom and pride” or “sap the joy from our extravagances and time with friends by encouraging us to flatten our experiences for the edification and admiration of others” (132, 134).
Even better is Austin’s comparison of Epicureanism with Stoicism, a philosophy that has enjoyed a surprising degree of popularity in recent years. In just the past decade, books such as The Stoic Challenge, The Daily Stoic, and The Beginner’s Guide to Stoicism have encouraged readers to embrace a philosophy that, in the ancient world, was considered Epicureanism’s chief rival. Stoic writers could sometimes be eloquent and inspiring, yet their doctrine counseled people to lead lives of emotional numbness—what Stoics called _apatheia—_that constrained their emotional and even intellectual range to an inhuman narrowness. “s believe that the only good thing is virtue,” Austin explains, “and the only bad thing is vice. . . . Things like children, health, and a stable country are not good (only virtue is), so their presence or absence is of no consequence to our happiness” (160).
It’s hard to imagine anyone living by that principle—and such prominent Stoic philosophers as Seneca and Cicero abandoned it in moments of emotional strain. But even if one managed to comply, it’s hard to see why a life of such extreme detachment would be worth living. Epicureanism, by contrast, encourages emotional investment as part of a healthy life and counsels us to accept and handle the risks of disappointment and grief that come with friendship, love, political idealism, or other such values.
Austin’s book does have shortcomings, however. Most jarring is her bizarre and gratuitous swipe at Ayn Rand, whom she mischaracterizes as an advocate of “greed” who thinks that people “deserve everything they can grab” (104). This, of course, does not remotely resemble Rand’s ideas, and it’s ironic that Austin indulges in this smear only a few pages after complaining that Cicero misrepresented Epicurus in the same way. Far from advocating greed—that is, unconstrained desire for wealth—Rand shared Epicurus’s beliefs that one should not pursue riches by (in Austin’s words) becoming a “slave to the mob or those in power,” and that it’s better for people to “refuse to play the game [of popularity] on terms that require them to abandon their core values” (130, 121). The Fountainhead’s hero, Howard Roark, does just that: he closes his architecture firm and takes a job in a stone quarry rather than surrender the integrity of his art. Rand also agreed with Epicurus that (again quoting Austin) “the person who markets themselves for likes and followers conforms to the transient whims of other people, convincing themselves that they, somehow, are the ‘influencer’ _,” only to find that “someone else is . . . driving the car” (130). That’s precisely what happens to the novel’s tragic character, Gail Wynand. Most of all, Rand would have agreed with Epicurus that “it is impossible to live pleasantly without living prudently, honorably, and justly” (82). Had Austin been more objective, she would have recognized that the doctrines of Epicurus parallel those of Rand more than those of any other modern philosopher.
That’s not to say that they’re identical. Rand identified herself with Aristotle’s thought rather than Epicurus’s, and there are some intriguing differences between the two. Yet here, too, Living for Pleasure disappoints. After drawing the distinctions between Epicureanism and Stoicism so well, Austin offers no similar contrast between Epicureanism and Aristotelianism. True, that would be a challenge, because their ethical views were markedly similar, but the differences are thought-provoking, too—especially on the question of ambition.
Aristotle thought human beings have natural ends—moral goods that are given, established by human nature—and that virtue consists of developing the habits or dispositions necessary to achieve those ends. This “activity of the soul” is how we reach our potential, and this activity constitutes flourishing (or eudaemonia).1Pleasure—Epicurus’s guiding light—plays a lesser role in Aristotle’s philosophy; he held that developing the habits of virtue includes moderating and controlling our appetites for pleasure, not that we act for the sake of pleasure. Nor is ataraxia a goal for Aristotle. On the contrary, striving to reach one’s potential is an important part of his theory. In his Nicomachean Ethics he even recognized what he called the megalopsychos, often translated as the “great-souled” or “magnanimous” man, who pursues “large purposes,” not out of desire, but because “honor” impels him to accomplish what is grand.2 This passage appears to be the closest Aristotle comes to discussing ambition, and in it he seems to look at virtue, so to speak, from the outside in: The megalopsychos pictures the fine or apt result (kalos, in Greek) and aims his actions toward it, not because it’s pleasant or will bring him tranquility, but because it ought to be done.3
That thought suggests what we might call “romanticism”—a desire to bring about a great outcome, even if doing so involves a struggle that clashes with Epicurus’s notion of ataraxia. Something about this romanticism is undeniably alluring. The textbook illustration of it was provided by mountaineer George Mallory, who, when asked why he wanted to scale Mount Everest, memorably replied, “because it is there.” Some of mankind’s finest achievements have come about because of a person’s single-minded devotion to kalos achievements that might seem imprudent or even foolhardy.
That sort of ambition—assuming that’s even the right word—is not espoused by Epicureanism. On the contrary, Epicurus looked at virtue from the inside out: starting with the individual’s desires and recommending judicious actions to attain and maintain tranquility. “He who has learned the limits of life,” Epicurus declared, “knows that it is easy to provide that which removes the feeling of pain owing to want and make one’s whole life perfect. So there is no need for things that involve struggle” (47; emphasis added). Lucretius even starts Book II of De Rerum Natura literally looking out from inside a tower in a city and (apparently) disdaining the citizens’ ambitions:
There is nothing sweeter than to dwell in towers that rise
On high, serene and fortified with the teachings of the wise,
From which you may peer down upon the others . . .
Each striving harder than the next, and struggling day and night. . . .
Don’t n know it’s plain
That all our nature yelps for is a body free from pain,
And, to enjoy pleasure, a mind removed from fear and care?
And so we see the body’s needs are altogether spare—
Only the bare minimum to keep suffering at bay,
Yet which can furnish pleasures for us in a wide array.4
It’s hard to imagine someone with that attitude wanting to climb Mount Everest, let alone doing so just because it’s the kalos thing to do. Had Epicurus been around to advise Mallory, he probably would have encouraged him to start a small business instead.
Austin rejects the idea that Epicurus opposed ambition. Instead, she interprets him as advising us to choose carefully what we count as accomplishment. Epicureanism says “we achieve success by feeling satisfied with what we need,” which enables us to appreciate life better and to direct our efforts more precisely to paths where we can attain meaningful gains (143). And she makes a good point that, by that standard, many people who think themselves successful actually aren’t. A wealthy and famous person who remains dissatisfied is unhappy and, therefore, unsuccessful. Yet is there not something impoverished about a model of virtue that omits the pursuit of grand, kalos actions? When John F. Kennedy announced America’s moon mission at a 1962 speech in Houston, he quoted Mallory’s “because it is there” line, adding,
But why, some say, the moon . . . ? They may well ask why climb the highest mountain? Why, 35 years ago, fly the Atlantic . . . ? We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win.5
By those standards, Epicurus’s calmer approach to setting goals seems feeble. Yet at the same time, it’s also more likely to result in measurable and enjoyable achievement. After all—as Epicurus would have been the first to point out—Mallory died on Mount Everest, leaving behind a widow and three children under the age of ten.
This tension is not just the stuff of scholarly debate. It’s crucial to understanding how Epicurus and other ancient philosophers would have advised us to live well, and it’s unfortunate that Austin passes it by so swiftly. She’s certainly right that appreciating what we have and wisely setting our goals is crucial, and that there are those for whom “working constantly becomes a badge of honor, even as it crowds out more desirable goods like time with friends and family” (142). Such workaholism is, indeed, a recipe for unhappiness. But it’s also true that dreaming big dreams and taking big risks—choosing the kalos over ataraxia—is a vital part of the human spirit and deserves a full consideration in any “Guide to the Good Life.”
These shortcomings aside, Living for Pleasure is a fun and much-needed introduction to the ideas of one of the world’s greatest philosophers—a man who was enormously influential in his day, only to be nearly purged from the historical record because his doctrines so directly clashed with the dogma and oppression that descended on the West with the fall of Rome. As a philosopher of worldly happiness, Epicurus’s teachings about reason, desire, and tranquility are as important now as they were twenty-three hundred years ago. “One must philosophize and at the same time laugh,” he declared, and Emily Austin has given us a helpful handbook for doing just that (7).