Part I, Section II, Chapter I

Section II: On the Degrees of Different Passions Consistent with Propriety. Introduction. The proper pitch of every passion stirred by something especially connected with ourselves—the pitch the spectator can share—must plainly lie somewhere between extremes. If the passion runs too high or too low, the spectator cannot enter into it. Grief and resentment over our own misfortunes and injuries, for instance, may readily be too intense, and in most people they are. They may also, though less often, be too faint. We call the excess weakness and fury, and the deficiency dullness, insensibility, and lack of spirit. We can enter into neither extreme, but are amazed and bewildered at the sight of it. Yet the middle point at which propriety lies differs from passion to passion. It is high for some, low for others. There are passions whose intense expression is indecent even when we recognize that they must be felt with the greatest intensity. Others can be expressed in the strongest terms with extraordinary grace on many occasions, though the passions themselves are perhaps less inevitable. With the first group, for certain reasons, we feel little or no sympathy; with the second, for other reasons, we feel the most. Considering the whole range of human passions, we find that we call their expression decent or indecent in exact proportion to our willingness to sympathize with them.

On the Passions That Arise from the Body.

1 Strong expressions of passions arising from a particular bodily condition are indecent, because those around us, not sharing that condition, cannot be expected to sympathize. Violent hunger, for example, though often not merely natural but unavoidable, is always indecent to display; ravenous eating is universally considered bad manners. Yet we do feel some sympathy even with hunger. We enjoy seeing our companions eat heartily, while expressions of disgust offend us. The ordinary bodily condition of a healthy person allows his stomach, if I may use so coarse a phrase, to fall readily into rhythm with the first response, but not the second. We can sympathize with the distress caused by extreme hunger when we read of it in the account of a siege or sea voyage. Imagining ourselves among the sufferers, we readily understand the grief, fear, and dismay that must overwhelm them. We feel something of those emotions ourselves and therefore sympathize with them; but since reading the account does not make us hungry, we cannot properly be said, even here, to share their hunger.

The same is true of the passion by which nature joins the two sexes. Though it is by nature the fiercest of passions, any strong expression of it is indecent on every occasion, even between people whose full indulgence of it all human and divine laws acknowledge to be perfectly innocent. Yet some degree of sympathy seems possible even with this passion. It is improper to speak to a woman just as we would to a man: her company is expected to inspire greater cheerfulness, playfulness, and attentiveness in us; and a man wholly unresponsive to the fair sex earns some contempt even from other men.

Such is our aversion to all appetites originating in the body: their strong expression is repellent and disagreeable. According to some ancient philosophers, these passions we share with animals and, since they have no connection with the qualities distinctive of human nature, they are beneath its dignity. But we also share many other passions with animals—resentment, natural affection, even gratitude—without finding them equally brutish. The real reason for our peculiar disgust when we see other people's bodily appetites is that we cannot enter into them. Even for the person experiencing them, once they have been satisfied, the object that aroused them ceases to please. Its very presence often offends him; he looks in vain for the charm that transported him just a moment earlier, and can now enter into his own former passion no more than another person can. Once we have eaten, we have the table cleared. We would deal in the same way with the objects of our most ardent desires if they aroused no passions in us except those that originate in the body.

The virtue properly called temperance consists in mastery of these bodily appetites. Restraining them within the bounds prescribed by care for health and fortune is the work of prudence. Keeping them within the bounds demanded by grace, propriety, delicacy, and modesty is the work of temperance.

2 For the same reason, crying out in bodily pain, however unbearable it may be, always seems unmanly and unbecoming. Yet we do feel considerable sympathy even with bodily pain. As already noted, if I see a blow aimed at another person's leg or arm, about to land, I naturally shrink back and withdraw my own leg or arm. When it lands, I feel it in some measure and suffer along with the person struck. My suffering, however, is undoubtedly very slight; so if he cries out violently, I cannot share his response and invariably look down on him. Such is the case with all passions originating in the body: they awaken either no sympathy at all or an amount wholly out of proportion to the intensity of what the sufferer feels.

It is quite different with passions arising from the imagination. Changes in my companion's bodily condition can have little effect on the condition of my own body. But my imagination is more pliable and more readily takes on, so to speak, the shape and contours of the imaginations of those I know. Disappointment in love or ambition therefore arouses more sympathy than the greatest physical injury. These passions spring entirely from the imagination. A person who has lost his entire fortune but remains healthy feels nothing amiss in his body. His suffering arises solely from imagination, which shows him the loss of his standing, neglect by his friends, contempt from his enemies, dependence, want, and misery closing in. We sympathize with him more strongly for this reason: our imaginations can adapt themselves to his more readily than our bodies can adapt themselves to his body.

Losing a leg might generally be considered a more substantial misfortune than losing a lover. Yet a tragedy whose catastrophe turned on the loss of a leg would be ridiculous. The other kind of loss, frivolous as it may seem, has inspired many a fine tragedy.

Nothing is forgotten as quickly as pain. The moment it ends, all its agony ends with it, and remembering it can no longer disturb us. We ourselves can no longer enter into the distress and anguish we once felt. A thoughtless word from a friend causes a more lasting unease. The anguish it produces does not end when the word is spoken. What first disturbs us is not a sensation but an idea in the imagination. Since it is an idea that causes our unease, our imagination continues to chafe and rankle at the thought until time and other circumstances have partly erased it from memory.

Pain arouses no very lively sympathy unless it comes with danger. We sympathize with the sufferer's fear, not with the agony. Fear, however, is a passion springing entirely from the imagination: with an uncertainty and fluctuation that heighten our anxiety, it presents not what we actually feel but what we may possibly suffer later. Gout or toothache, exquisitely painful though they are, awaken little sympathy; more dangerous diseases, even when scarcely painful, awaken the greatest.

Some people faint or feel sick at the sight of a surgical operation. In them the bodily pain caused by cutting flesh seems to arouse the most extreme sympathy. We can picture pain caused from outside far more vividly and distinctly than pain arising from an internal disorder. I can barely imagine my neighbor's agony when he is tormented by gout or a stone; but I have a clear idea of what he must suffer from a cut, a wound, or a fracture. The main reason such sights affect us so strongly, however, is their novelty. Anyone who has witnessed a dozen dissections and as many amputations will thereafter watch such operations with great indifference, often with complete insensibility. We may have read or seen more than five hundred tragedies without ever suffering so thorough a loss of sensitivity to what they portray.

Some Greek tragedies try to awaken compassion by showing the agony of bodily pain. Philoctetes cries out and faints under the extremity of his suffering. Hippolytus and Hercules are both shown dying in the severest torment, which even Hercules' fortitude, it seems, could not withstand. In every case, however, something other than the pain engages us. It is not Philoctetes' wounded foot but his solitude that moves us and gives that enchanting tragedy its romantic wildness, so pleasing to the imagination. The agonies of Hercules and Hippolytus hold our interest only because we foresee that they will die. If these heroes were to recover, we would find the portrayal of their sufferings utterly ridiculous. What sort of tragedy would center on an attack of colic? Yet no pain is more acute. These attempts to elicit compassion by portraying bodily pain may be counted among the Greek theater's greatest violations of decorum.

Our slight sympathy with bodily pain is the foundation of the propriety of constancy and patience in enduring it. The person who, under the severest torture, betrays no weakness, utters no groan, and gives way to no passion we cannot fully share commands our highest admiration. His steadfastness enables him to keep pace with our indifference and insensibility. We admire, and fully enter into, the magnanimous effort by which he does so. We approve of his conduct and, knowing the ordinary weakness of human nature, are astonished that he can act in a way deserving approval. Approval heightened and animated by wonder and surprise makes up the feeling properly called admiration, whose natural expression, as already observed, is applause.

Section II: How strongly different passions can be expressed while remaining proper. INTRODUCTION. For a passion caused by something that particularly concerns us to be proper, its strength must fall within a certain middle range that a spectator can share. If it is too strong or too weak, the spectator cannot enter into it. Grief and resentment over our own misfortunes and injuries, for example, can easily be too strong. For most people they are. They can also be too weak, though that happens less often. We call the excess weakness or fury. We call the deficiency stupidity, lack of feeling, or lack of spirit. Neither makes sense to us; both astonish and confuse us. But the proper middle level differs from one passion to another. It is high for some and low for others. Some passions are indecent to express strongly, even when everyone recognizes that we cannot help feeling them intensely. Other passions can be expressed very strongly and still look graceful on many occasions, even though they may not be as inevitable. We sympathize little or not at all with the first group, for reasons of their own. We sympathize very strongly with the second group, for different reasons. Consider every passion in human nature, and you will find that how decent we think its expression is depends on how willing people are to sympathize with it.

On passions that originate in the body.

1 It is indecent to express strong passions caused by a particular state of the body. Other people are not in that state, so we cannot expect their sympathy. Intense hunger, for example, is often natural and unavoidable, but showing it strongly is always indecent. Eating greedily is universally regarded as bad manners. Still, we do sympathize with hunger to a degree. We enjoy seeing companions eat with a good appetite, while signs of disgust at food offend us. A healthy person’s usual physical condition lets their stomach respond easily, if I may put it so bluntly, to appetite but not to disgust. We can sympathize with the distress of extreme hunger when we read about it in an account of a siege or a sea voyage. We imagine being among those who suffer and readily understand their grief, fear, and alarm. We feel some of those emotions ourselves, so we sympathize with them. But reading does not make us hungry. Even in this case, we cannot properly say we share their hunger.

The same is true of the passion through which nature brings the sexes together. Though it is naturally the strongest passion of all, any strong expression of it is indecent on every occasion. That holds even for people whose full enjoyment of it is accepted as innocent under every human and divine law. Still, some sympathy with this passion seems possible. Speaking to a woman exactly as we would to a man is considered improper. Her company is expected to bring out more cheerfulness, playful talk, and attentiveness in us. A man entirely indifferent to women becomes somewhat contemptible even to other men.

This is how we react to all appetites that originate in the body: strong displays of them are repellent and unpleasant. Some ancient philosophers said these passions are shared with animals. They claimed that because such passions have nothing to do with distinctly human qualities, they are beneath human dignity. Yet we share many other passions with animals, including resentment, natural affection, and even gratitude, without finding them equally animal-like. The real reason other people’s bodily appetites particularly disgust us is that we cannot share them. Once someone’s own appetite is satisfied, even they stop finding its object appealing; its presence may become offensive. They search in vain for the charm that delighted them a moment ago. Now they can no more share their former passion than anyone else can. After dinner, we have the dishes cleared away. We would treat the objects of our strongest desires the same way if they aroused nothing in us beyond bodily appetite.

The virtue properly called temperance consists in controlling bodily appetites. Prudence keeps them within limits set by health and financial circumstances. Temperance keeps them within the limits required by grace, propriety, sensitivity, and modesty.

2 For the same reason, crying out in physical pain always looks unmanly and improper, however unbearable the pain may be. We do have considerable sympathy even with physical pain. As I have observed, if I see a blow about to land on someone else’s arm or leg, I instinctively flinch and pull back my own arm or leg. When the blow lands, I feel it to some degree and am hurt along with the sufferer. But my pain is extremely slight. If that person cries out violently, I cannot share that reaction, and I cannot help looking down on them. This applies to all passions originating in the body. They stir no sympathy, or else our sympathy is far weaker than the sufferer’s actual feeling.

Passions originating in the imagination are quite different. Changes in another person’s body can have little effect on mine. But my imagination is more flexible. It more easily takes on, so to speak, the shape of the imagination of people I know. A disappointment in love or ambition therefore draws more sympathy than the worst physical harm. These passions come entirely from the imagination. Someone who loses their entire fortune but remains healthy feels no physical pain from the loss. Their suffering comes solely from imagining the rapid approach of lost standing, neglect by friends, contempt from enemies, dependence, poverty, and misery. We sympathize more strongly because our imaginations can adapt to theirs much more readily than our bodies can adapt to their body.

Losing a leg is generally a more serious misfortune than losing a lover. Yet a tragedy whose final disaster was the loss of a leg would be ridiculous. The other loss, however trivial it may seem, has supplied the subject of many fine tragedies.

Nothing is forgotten faster than pain. Once it stops, its entire agony is over, and remembering it can no longer disturb us. We ourselves can no longer share the anxiety and anguish we felt before. But one thoughtless remark from a friend can cause a longer-lasting uneasiness. The hurt it causes does not end when the remark ends. What first upsets us is not a physical object but an idea in the imagination. Since an idea is causing the distress, it keeps troubling us as we remember it, until time and other events partly erase it from memory.

Pain does not draw strong sympathy unless danger accompanies it. We sympathize with the sufferer’s fear, though not with their agony. Fear comes wholly from the imagination. It pictures, with a shifting uncertainty that heightens our anxiety, not what we feel now but what we might suffer later. Gout or toothache, though terribly painful, draws very little sympathy. Far more dangerous diseases draw the greatest sympathy even when they cause very little pain.

Some people faint or feel sick when they see a surgical operation. In them, the pain of cutting into flesh seems to arouse extraordinarily strong sympathy. We picture pain caused by an external injury far more vividly and clearly than pain caused by an internal condition. I can hardly imagine my neighbor’s agony from gout or a kidney stone. But I have a clear idea of what an incision, a wound, or a broken bone must feel like. The main reason these sights affect us so strongly, however, is that they are unfamiliar. Someone who has watched a dozen dissections and as many amputations afterward watches such operations with great indifference, sometimes without any feeling at all. We can read or watch more than five hundred tragedies without usually losing our sensitivity to what they portray nearly so completely.

Some Greek tragedies try to arouse compassion by showing the agony of physical pain. Philoctetes cries out and faints from extreme suffering. Hippolytus and Hercules appear dying in severe torment, which even Hercules, it seems, is not strong enough to endure. Yet in all these cases it is another circumstance, not pain, that interests us. What moves us about Philoctetes is not his injured foot but his solitude. It gives that delightful tragedy an imaginative sense of wild isolation. We care about the agony of Hercules and Hippolytus only because we expect them to die. If they recovered, we would find the portrayal of their suffering completely ridiculous. What kind of tragedy would be built around a stomach cramp, though few pains are worse? Such efforts to stir compassion through physical pain rank among the Greek theater’s worst breaches of good taste.

Because we sympathize so little with physical pain, we find it proper to endure it steadily and patiently. A person who undergoes the worst torture without showing weakness, groaning, or giving way to any feeling we cannot share earns our highest admiration. Their firmness keeps their response in step with our relative indifference. We admire and fully understand the great effort this takes. We approve of their conduct. Knowing how weak people usually are, we are surprised that someone can behave in a way that earns our approval under such conditions. Approval strengthened by surprise and wonder becomes the feeling properly called admiration, which naturally finds expression in applause, as I have already observed.