A person or a society must have also the last of the four pagan virtues, Prudence—last in heroic value, first in political and economic and bourgeois value. I mean by “prudence” all the words following on the ancient Greek phronēsis, translated as “good judgment” or “practical wisdom.” Oddly in modern Greek phronēsis has been specialized to good judgment in the upbringing of children. In the Latin of Cicero and Aquinas it is prudentia. In plain English it is “wisdom” in its practical aspect or “know how” or “common sense” or “savvy”—French savoir-faire and fancy-English “rationality” or “self-interest.”
“Prudence” seems a reasonable long-period average of such words. The Germanic languages less frenchified than English cannot translate exactly the English/ French/ Latin word “prudence,” lost in connotation among foresight [Dutch voorzichtigheid], caution [omzichtigheid], policy [beleid], good sense [verstandigheid], knowledge, saving, caretaking, management, calculating. In Dutch a possible translation of prudence is the neologisms berekendheid, “calculating-ity”; or, worse, berekenendheid, “be-reckoning-ness.” Neither is recorded in compendious Dutch dictionaries.
Prudence is not academic knowledge, sophia or scientia, praised by the philosophers from Socrates to the Great Books as a knowledge of ends. The claim that philosophers such as themselves gain a special knowledge of ends—phronēsis or prudentia means “practical knowledge of means,” the sense, writes Gadamer, “of what is possible, what is correct, here and now”—will seem optimistic to anyone who knows many philosophers, worldly or Academic.[1] As Aristotle observed, “if [the Platonic idea of The Good] were so potent an aid, it is improbable that all the professors of the arts and sciences should not know it,” as they appear not to.[2]
Prudence as practical know-how is a virtue. This was once a commonplace, in Aristotle, for example, the obligation to self-development, or in Aquinas the obligation to use God’s gifts. The Christian version is reformulated in 1673 by Joseph Pufendorf of Leipzig, Heidelberg, and Lund thus:
It seems superfluous to invent an obligation of self-love. Yet. . . . man is not born for himself alone; the end for which he has been endowed by his Creator with such excellent gifts is that he may celebrate His glory and be a fit member of human society. He is therefore bound so to conduct himself as not to permit the Creator’s gifts to perish for lack of use. . . .[3]
Thus Comus tempting the Lady in 1634 argues that from niggardliness in using God’s gifts “Th’All-giver would be unthanked, would be unpraised/ Not half his riches known . . ./ And we should . . . live like Nature’s bastards, not her sons.”
One can detect in Pufendorf’s “it seems superfluous” a hint of the modern substitution of prudence as mere behavior for prudence as an ethical obligation. We have been inclined for some centuries now in the West to relegate prudence to an amoral world of “mere” self-interest—especially so since around 1800, with the “separation of spheres” into a male market and a female home. “By allocating selflessness to women,” notes Joan Williams, “domesticity helped legitimate self-interest as the appropriate motivation for men.”[4] Or in Stephanie Coontz’ formulation, “Men learn their roles and values best in places women cannot go.”[5]
The inclination to demoralize Prudence is not simply stupid, though it has had some bad outcomes. Wise philosophers such as Michael Oakeshott have erected systems on the distinction between “prudential” (or “enterprise”) associations such as business firms on the one hand and “moral” associations on the other such as families. I am saying that in this matter Oakeshott was mistaken. It may be that such a distinction is the typically modern ethical mistake, the mistaken assumption that homely Gemeinschaft is the exclusive site of virtue and that businesslike Gesellschaft is an ethical nullity. It is certainly Machiavelli’s and Hobbes’ mistake.
“The virtues nowadays thought of [as] especially worthy to be called moral virtues,” writes Philippa Foot, “are often contrasted with prudence.” But she shows this is wrong. “A reasonable modicum of self-interest” is also an “Aristotelian [necessity] for human beings.”[6] It is not surprising to find women criticizing a separation of spheres that makes prudence into a masculine realm of action and the rest of the virtues into a cloistered virtue. The theologian Ellen Charry notes that “happiness” has come to mean “prudent utility,” what she calls “a state of mild euphoria.” The modern supporters of such a view, such as Peter Singer or Shalom Asch, “would say that the ‘things other than happiness’ “ are indeed more important, because “happiness, having been privatized, is thought to be self-serving.”
This attitude is socially disastrous, because on its terms there is no reason for people to want to contribute to the common good, since they assume that it will not make them happy. . . . Seeking happiness, which ancient philosophy recognized to be a universal and proper desire, now opposes being good. Concern for the loss of civility, the triumph of “autonomous individualism” so bemoaned in recent sociology—as in the writings of Robert Bellah—is partly the result of an assumed enmity between goodness and happiness.[7]
This is the crucial difference between a virtue ethics that focuses on the good life and a neo-Kantian, academic ethical philosophy that focuses on good intentions towards other people—leaving mysterious the desire to do such good deeds in the first place. Virtue ethics, by contrast with neo-Kantian ethics, attends also to the self and the transcendent, giving a reason to seek goodness. Kant himself was in 1785 more to the point: “act to use humanity, both in your own person and in the person of every other, . . . as an end.”[8]
Among moderns before virtue ethics, in other words, only an habitual disposition to take care of others was construed as “virtue,” and then for its intentions rather than for its practical effect. Having such other-directed good intentions in one’s heart was said to be virtuous. This is pure Kant, not merely neo-Kantian, and evangelical Protestant, too. The intentions are virtuous even if when carried out, as in high-rise public housing along the Dan Ryan Expressway, or the war on drugs brought onto the streets of Watts and East LA, or the First and Second Iraq Wars, they do not quite deliver. And surely, we in European culture have been saying for a long while, knowing how to take care of oneself is hardly a virtue?
Yes, it is. And so is the correlated carefulness in “helping” others. The Love or Justice moving us to help others is a vice, not a virtue, when unalloyed with Prudence. The good Samaritan who ignorantly if unintentionally kills the person he is trying to help is properly held responsible in law. Knowing that one must put out a candle before leaving the room is a good thing, even if you didn’t mean to burn the place down, even if your intentions were pure, even if it was your own room to dispose of. The school of Plato defined prudence [phronēsis] as “the ability which by itself is productive of human happiness; the knowledge of what is good and bad; the knowledge that produces happiness; the disposition by which we judge what is to be done and what is not to be done.”[9]
Aquinas declares that “any virtue which causes good in reason’s consideration is called prudence,” and observes that Prudence “belongs to reason essentially whereas the other three virtues [viz., courage, temperance, and justice]. . . apply reason to passions.”[10] And elsewhere he says, “One needs to deal rightly with those things that are for the sake of the end [finis], and this can only come about through reason rightly deliberating, judging, and commanding, which is the function of prudence. . . . Hence there can be no moral virtue without prudence.”[11] Or still elsewhere, the job of such practical reason is “to ponder things which must be done. . . but it is through prudence that reason is able to command well.”[12]
It is the executive function. Executive, not technical. In his book urging an Aquinian ethic on economics, Andrew Yuengert points out that the adjusting of means to ultimate ends that is “prudence” is not merely the adjusting of means to intermediate ends of “technique.”[13] In Rosalind Hursthouse’s textbook of virtue ethics the word “prudence” is rare. But the equivalent phrase, “practical wisdom,” occurs repeatedly, because reason must rightly deliberate about any virtue if the intended act of justice or temperance or faith is to do the job.
Prudence is so to speak the grammar of the virtues. Robert Hariman writes that it “fulfills an executive function in respect to human flourishing.”[14] Some faithful Roman Catholic who believes imprudently—that is, unwisely in practical terms—that going to mass regularly suffices for resurrection at the Last Judgment is making a dreadful mistake. A Federal judge who believe himself a just man fails in his project if he is ignorant of the law, or if he entertains a theory of it that no one else regards as just.
Amélie Oksenberg Rorty neatly encapsulates the Aristotle behind Aquinas as requiring that “the virtuous person perform the right action in the right way at the right time on the right objects.” [15] Clearly, such a person must be a phrónimos, a person of practical reasoning, “really knowing what one is doing, being aware of the circumstances and consequences of one’s actions, with the right conception of the sort of action one is performing.”[16] He is, Aristotle said, “able to deliberate well about what is good and advantageous to himself”[17]
A person notably lacking in prudence is, we say, a loose cannon. Think of the nautical image, Jack-Aubrey style: an iron cannon weighing two tons gets loose from its lashings and hurtles with thirty feet of momentum towards the battened porthole on the other side of a man-o’-war lurching with every wave deep to port and then to starboard in a force 9 gale off Cherbourg. Of course prudence is a virtue. Try living in a ship or a family or a polis, or for that matter as a Crusoe on a desert island, without it.
Prudence fits for example all of Alasdair MacIntyre’s requirements for a virtue: “an acquired human quality the possession and exercise of which tends to enable us to achieve those goods which are internal to practices [such as statecraft].” A virtue is acquirable in part only, since people are admitted as having from early childhood varying gifts for common sense, as for lovingness or even justice-giving. MacIntyre himself accords “practical reasoning” (that is, prudence) the status of a virtue when it is understood as a “capacity for judgment . . . in knowing how to select among the relevant stack of maxims and how to apply them in particular situations. Cardinal Pole possessed it [in statecraft]; Mary Tudor did not.”[18] Sir Thomas More said that Pole, a 16th-century Englishman loyal to the Pope, was as learned as he was noble and as virtuous as he was learned.
Imagine a community filled with imprudent people, Mary Tudors in bulk, and you’ll see the social virtuousness of prudence. The imagining is not hard. A community of school children would fit the bill, as in The Lord of the Flies, or a community of adolescents such as the Latin Lords. Or indeed—and this is a crucial point—a community of moral saints would fit, too, if “moral” is taken to mean “improving the welfare of others or of society as a whole” without considering one’s own flourishing. There is a private virtue in prudence, too.
The exclusively public, social, altruistic definition of “virtue” is implicitly adopted by Susan Wolf in her essay mentioned, “Moral Saints.”[19] The implicit definition introduces a flaw into her case. In the style of many Anglophone philosophers she leaves out privately self-interested Prudence as a virtue, and so lets her moral saints behave badly towards themselves.
This is not good. And indeed showing its badness is Wolf’s point, by a reductio. It’s the Jewish-mother version of goodness: “Oh, don’t bother to replace the bulb. I’ll just sit here in the dark.” But the mother, after all, is God’s creature, too, and benevolence therefore should include a just benevolence towards herself. Being wholly altruistic, and disregarding the claims of that person also in the room called Self, about whose needs the very Self is ordinarily best informed, is making the same mistake as being wholly selfish, disregarding the claims of that person called Other. In both cases the mistake is to ignore someone.
Oddly, selflessness—note the word—is unjust, inegalitarian. “There is a manifest negligence in men of their real happiness or interest in the present world,” said Bishop Butler in 1725. People are “as often unjust to themselves as to others.”[20] The more optimistic Earl of Shaftesbury took in 1713 an evolutionary line to arrive at praise for Prudence:
the affection toward private or self-good, however selfish it may be esteemed, is in reality not only consistent with public good but in some measure contributing to it. . . [It is] for the good of the species in general. . . . So far as being blamable in any sense, . . it must be acknowledged absolutely necessary to constitute a creature good. . . . No one would doubt to pronounce so if he saw a man who minded not any precipices which lay in his way, nor made any distinction of food, diet, clothing or whatever else related to his health and being.[21]
Just as humility is not self-abnegation, prudence is not self-centeredness.
As Michael Stocker puts it, “modern ethical theories would prevent each of us from loving, caring for, and valuing ourself.”[22] Max U does not value Max the man. He values himself and others and ice cream only for its utility-producing capacity. Not for his sweet, or his not-so-sweet, self. Such an ethical universe is not merely imperfect. It is, Stocker concludes, “devoid of all people.”
No wonder we agree so readily with Wolf in finding her sort of moral saint obnoxious. They are unjust towards themselves, monsters of altruism. No wonder actual monks and nuns watch carefully for prideful and imprudent excesses in their mortifications of the flesh. No wonder Gandhi makes us more than uncomfortable. George Orwell noted that Gandhi was literally, and on three occasions, willing for his wife and children to die rather than eat animal food. He exhibited an inability to love friends and family in particular, exclusively, as against the for-all-we-know-perfectly-sincere Universal Love he exhibited to an unusual degree. Thus too Erasmus complains about saintly Socrates that he was “a man completely deaf to all human sentiment“ and Gregory Vlastos notes Socrates’ “frigidity.”[23] The average moderately good human being,” writes Orwell, is not “a failed saint.” To be like Gandhi or Socrates, as admirable as they are in some dimensions, is to miss part of humanity, the caring for oneself and for one’s best beloved. Sainthood, too, like tobacco and alcohol, Orwell affirms, “is also a thing that human beings must avoid.”[24]
We labor to teach our children and adolescents and our dogs and, yes, ourselves the practical wisdom that keeps them and us from injuring or impoverishing or failing to develop themselves and others and ourselves. In the selling of retirement homes the salespeople speak of the “Benjamin-Franklin close.”[25] The salesperson lists with the older person the costs and benefits, or the balance sheet, of buying into the Scottsdale Royale Retirement Community. It has been found that people now old, who have lived through the Great Depression or the War or are just old and well off, are focused, not unreasonably, on Prudence. Provide, provide. To close the deal the salesperson has to acknowledge in the style of an imagined Franklin—it is not the real Ben, by the way—that life is a calculation.
The selling technique here is not some improper trick. An imprudent person, someone who doesn’t know the value of money and how to keep accounts, is a menace to his friends and family, and to his own developed self. And certainly he is a menace to his need in old age to provide, provide. He may be chivalrous in some sense, courageous and temperate and just, even great-souled, as Aristotle wished, or loving, as did St. Paul. Yet without prudence he is a particular kind of fool, not virtuous as a whole. He is tragically or comically flawed, as most of us are, more or less, short of King Arthur or Cardinal Pole.
* * * *
Catalunya, around Barcelona, politically in Spain but culturally autonomous, and having its own language and literature distinct from Castillian, is in its own view a nation of sensible businesspeople enchained by fate these many centuries to a government of aristocratic madmen in Madrid. Catalunya praises above all the virtues seny [“SEHN-yuh”], the local version of prudence. The great Catalan historian Jaume Vicens Vives (1910-1960) declared famously that his region evinced seny, prudence or common sense, combined with rauxa [”RAU-shah”], passion or madness, the two “punts cardinals del temperament català.”[26]
In medieval times, when Barcelona was the chief port of the Western Mediterranean and Catalan was the lingua franca of the Christian fleets, a Catalan poet could think of no higher praise of his beloved than that she was “plena de seny,” full of common sense. Robert Hughes tells of a Catalan country priest anxious to get to dinner rushing out another wooden Jesus whose feet could be kissed when the line of worshippers in front of the first one, brought in earlier with all slow solemnity, looked to the priest inefficiently long. “Perhaps only in Catalunya,” Hughes observes, “the first industrial region of Spain, could time-and-motion study be so quickly and instinctively applied to piety.”[27] It’s seny, as against the Castillian lack of it.
Consider, for example, that noble Castillian, Don Quixote de la Mancha. His Courage is unquestionable, though exercised against phantasms, as when he meets a cart filled with actors and takes it to be Death and company. “The knight’s spirit mounted with the belief there was some new and perilous adventure presenting itself.” And he is of course exacting in Justice, too—his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, in sober fact a milkmaid, must always receive her just due, as surely will by way of just revenge any foul giant or contemptuous knight who balks at acknowledging her excellence. Thus in a gesture to knightly manners in the cowboy myth the Walter Brennan/Judge Roy Bean character in The Westerner (1940) extracts obeisance to posters of Lillie Langtry put up behind his bar. And the Don is disciplined by Temperance, his cowboy-like willingness to live a hard life: “labor, unease, and arms alone were designed and made for those the world calls knights errant,” he declares, willing with the other Shanes of the world to bed down rough in the barn, weapon at the ready.
Sancho Panza is a peasant or a bourgeois (one imagines that he must have had Catalan blood)—anyway, a practical man, pleno de seny, a man of prudence, ready with proverbial wisdom, ever articulating profane value: “I renounce the governorship of the promised isle [which glory the Don supposes throughout is Sancho’s true goal], and all I want in payment . . . is . . . the recipe for that marvelous liquor. . . . worth more than two reals an ounce”; or, lovingly, “the well-being of a single [self-appointed] knight errant is worth more than all the enchantments . . . on earth.” Don Quixote, whose mind is on higher things, hushes him, as he does always when prudence breaks in—though even a knight errant feels practical wisdom somehow necessary, as he shows by offering crack-pot rationalizations for his adventures, prudence within a world of madness.
No seny.[28]
* * * *
Because aristocratic and slave-owning members of city states first discussed the pagan virtues systematically, the pagan four of Courage, Temperance, Justice, and Prudence are often supposed to be especially suited to the ancient polis, and irrelevant therefore to the sick hurry of modern life. But the supposition cuts economics off from virtue, which is a mistake.
In view of the highly commercial character of Greek culture from at the latest the 7th century on, the anti-commercial construal of the Greek-labeled virtues seems strange. After all, the urns from which we learn so many details of Greekness contained olive oil bound in profit for a startling array of places, from Phoenicia’s strand to where the Atlantic raves outside the western straits. The old idea that the aristocracy of Greece and the senatorial class of Rome was nobly landholding, and wouldn’t think of lending money at interest or investing in a scheme of apartment building for profit, is of course nonsense.[29] Athens and Rome were great commercial empires. When Aristotle is struggling to make justice fit his formula for virtue as a mean between deficiency and excess he turns with enthusiasm to the marketplace for examples.[30] As Thomas Carney observes, “The history of antiquity resounds with the sanguinary achievements of Aryan warrior elites. But it was the despised Levantines, Arameans [for example Jesus of Nazareth], Syrians, and Greeklings who constituted the economic heroes of antiquity.”[31]
The aristocracy, however entangled in the economy, affected to disdain it. Plato’s Socrates declares in The Republic that “the more men value money-making, the less they value virtue.”[32] Aristotle says of retail trade that it is “justly to be censured, because the gain in which is results is not natural made, but is made at the expense of other men.”[33] By “natural made” he means grown from plants and animals. Aristotle is exhibiting here a hardy physiocracy that views only agriculture as “productive.” Late in the Politics he says that that, of course, “the life of mechanics and shopkeepers . . . is ignoble and inimical to goodness.”[34] In 44 BC Cicero declares to his son Marcus that “trade, if petty, is to be considered vulgar; but if wholesale and on a large scale. . . it is not to be greatly criticized. . . . But of all the gainful occupations none is better than cultivation of the soil, none more fruitful, none more sweet, none more appropriate to a free man.”[35]
It was such aristocratic, or wannabe-aristocratic, snobbishness about urban production in the ancient world, rehearsed in the Hellenic revival of 19th-century divines and schoolmasters, that made the three non-Prudence pagan virtues of Justice, Temperance, and Courage seem non-bourgeois virtues, thankfully not seared with trade, bleared, smeared with toil. After all, toil was for slaves and women, and trade for ill-bred shopkeepers. Free men of landed wealth, the leisured citizens of the polis, or the boys at Eton and Rugby, were to do the great-souled stuff.
For all their actual immersion in a market economy the two founts of virtue-talk in Athens—Plato the literal aristocrat and his graduate student Aristotle, the son of a physician in the Macedonian court and himself tutor to royal Alexander—did not view businesspeople as capable of true virtue. Julius Caesar likewise attributes the bravery of the Belgians to their distance from cultivation and refinement and to their lack of commerce with merchants whose goods tend to the effeminization of the spirit (ad animos effeminandos). Seneca the stoic in a commercial Rome was contemptuous of the idea that businessmen could have honor, though it is among his many self-contradictions that he was born into an extremely rich family and himself lent money at interest.
Businesspeople in this aristocratic view, I have noted, did not have the moral luck to be in a position to show their mettle. The Homeric, the Political, and even the Stoic versions of pagan virtue were explicitly anti-bourgeois. A hero or a landed gentleman or a philosopher unmoved (apathes) by earthly desires should be hostile towards any suggestion of pleonexia (excess, greed). The founder of stoicism, Zeno of Citium [335-263 BC ], was it appears the son of a Phoenician businessman, which is perhaps why he took a little broader view, though nonetheless anti-bourgeois. The dual heroes of Roman stoicism were a Greek slave and a Roman emperor, in their luck as differing as could be. Aristotle did not even admit that the citizen-soldier’s feats were real courage. The hoplite “seems to face dangers because of the penalties imposed by the laws and the reproaches they would otherwise incur”—so unlike, one might retort sarcastically, the Homeric Hero obsessing about his reputation.[36]
The exclusion of commercial prudence from the highest virtues becomes absurd in the late Roman Republic and early Empire, and caused endless theological difficulties in the Christian Empire, especially in the West, and in medieval Europe. It still haunts our talk of virtue.
The text above is an excerpt from The Bourgeois Virtues: Ethics for an Age of Commerce, the first volume of Deirdre McCloskey’s trilogy on the ethical and historical origins of modern prosperity.
[1] Gadamer, Truth and Method, 1965, p. xxxviii.
[2] Aristotle, Nic. Ethics, c. 330 BC, I. vi. 15 (1097a), Rackham trans.
[3] Pufendorf, On the Duty of Man, 1673, Bk. I, Chp. 5, “On duty to oneself,” p. 46.
[4] Williams, “Virtue,” 1995, p. 707.
[5] Coontz, Way We Never Were, 1992, p. 60.
[6] Foot, Natural Goodness, 2001, p. 17.
[7] Charry, “Happiness,” 2004, p. 21.
[8] Kant, Grounding, 1785, James Ellington translation.
[9] Plato, Definitions, c. 350 BC, Stephanus 411d, p. 1679.
[10] Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, c. 1270, Ia IIae, c. 1270, q. 61, art. 3 and a. 4. These are pages 112 and 113 in John Oesterle, trans., St. Thomas Aquinas: Treatise on the Virtues (which consists of Ia IIae, questions 49-67), under “Aquinas” in the works cited.
[11] Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, c. 1270, Ia IIae, c. 1270, q. 58, art. 4; Oesterle, p. 86. Also Ia IIae, q. 65, a. 2; Oesterle, trans., under “Aquinas,” p. 143.
[12] Aquinas, Disputed Questions, 1269-73, “The Cardinal Virtues” Art. 1, p. 109.
[13] Yuengert, Boundaries, 2004, p. 13.
[14] Hariman, “Preface,” 2003, p. viii.
[15] Amélie Rorty, “Contemplation in Aristotle’s Ethics,” 1980, p. 380.
[16] Aquinas, Treatise on the Virtues, c. 1270, q. LXI, art. 3, 4.
[17] Aristotle, Nic. Ethics, c. 330 BC, VI, 5.
[18] MacIntyre, After Virtue, 1981, pp. 178, 207-08.
[19] Wolf, “Moral Saints, 1982, p. 80, line 7, “improving the welfare of others or of society as a whole,” among many other places (four times on p. 80, for example; on p. 81; p. 85, middle; taken back on p. 93, top, but then, “This approach seems unlikely to succeed.”
[20] Butler, Fifteen Sermons, 1725, Sermon I, p. 371.
[21] Shaftesbury, Characteristics 1713 (1732), Vol. II, p. 13f. The evolutionary cast of the book is notable. For example, again, Vol. II, p. 18, “if the affection be . . . [an] advantage to the society. . . this must necessarily constitute what we call equity and right.”
[22] Stocker, “Schizophrenia,” 1976, p. 72.
[23] Quoted in Hariman, “Radical Sociality,” 1999, p. 10.
[24] Orwell, “Reflections on Gandhi,” 1949, p. 1353.
[25] I am indebted to Robin Rapp for this example.
[26] I am indebted to Eduard Bonet for this punt.
[27] Hughes, Barcelona, 1992, p. 26.
[28] Don Quixote. 1604/1614, trans. Cohen Part II, xi, p. 534; Part I, Chp. xiii, p. 96; Sancho: Part I, x, p. 81; Part II, xi, p. 533. Compare George Borrow in 1843 (The Bible in Spain, Preface): “you may draw the last cuarto from a Spaniard [or at any rate a Castillian], provided you will concede to him the title of cavalier, and rich man, for the old leaven still works as powerfully as in the time of the first Philip.”
[29] For example, Andreau, Banking and Business in the Roman World, 1987, p. 13: “Although it was fashionable to deplore moneylending for interest, the Greek and Latin elite members—in these periods at least—appear to have been at great pains to conceal their investments.”
[30] Aristotle, Nic. Ethics, c. 330 BC, V, v, passim; compare V, ii, 13.
[31] Carney, The Shape of the Past, 1975, p. 197, quoted in Crossan, Historical Jesus, 1991, p. 55.
[32] Plato, Republic, c. 360 BC, 550E.
[33] Aristotle, Politics, c. 330 BC, Barker trans., end of 1258a, p. 28.
[34] Aristotle, Politics, c. 330 BC, Barker trans., 1338b, p. 301.
[35] Cicero, On Duties, 44 BC, 1.150-151.
[36] Aristotle, Nic. Ethics, quoted in R. E. Houser, “The Virtue of Courage,” 2002, p. 305.