The three stages of philosophical therapy

An excellent answer to the perennial question: “what is philosophy good for?”

Temple at Segesta, western Sicily. Image from Wikimedia.

Philosophy, you very likely know, means “love of wisdom,” from philo, meaning loving, and Sophia, knowledge or wisdom. Of course things get immediately more complicated once we realize that the ancient Greeks had at least four words that could be translated with the English “love”:

Agápē, which means love that comes with an aspect of charity, in the sense of benevolence. This is the sort of love we have for our children, but also for our spouse or partner. Early Christians adopted the term to mean the unconditional love that God has for his children. As Thomas Aquinas put it, agápē means “to will the good of another” (in Summa Theologiae I-II, 26, 4).

Érōs, which in part means, as the modern word “erotic” indicates, sexual attraction for someone. However, Plato expanded the concept to indicate, after maturation and contemplation, love for beauty itself. This is the origin of the phrase “Platonic love,” which does not mean love without sex, necessarily, but rather love of the ideal Form of Beauty itself. This may begin with erotic attraction, but eventually transcends it, as Socrates explains in the Symposium.

Philía, which describes a sense of affection and regard among equals. Aristotle uses this word to characterize love between friends, for family members, or of community. It is a virtuous type of love, often cast as of a brotherly sort, but with a component of enjoyment.

Storgē, more rarely used in ancient texts, meaning affection, especially (but not only) of the kind one has toward parents and children, including a component of empathy of the type felt naturally toward one’s children. Storgē was also used to indicate love for a country, or even a sports team, and—interestingly—in situations when one has to put up with unpleasant things, as in the oxymoronic phrase “love for a tyrant.”

To complicate things further, the Greeks also distinguished between theoretical wisdom (theoretikes) and practical wisdom (phronesis). The first one is concerned with necessary truths, which means metaphysics, logic, and math. The second one is knowledge of contingent and appropriate actions, especially in the ethical realm.

So as you can see even something as apparently straightforward as “love of wisdom” can get pretty nuanced once we begin to unpack its meaning. Nevertheless, these days philosophy is largely an academic discipline, as technical and specialized as the sciences, history, literary criticism, and so forth. I am, in fact, an academic philosopher in that specialistic sense of the term, with a PhD, a tenured position at a university, and all the accompanying trimmings.

However, here I’m concerned with the other meaning of “philosophy,” the one that has to do with trying to live a life worth living, rooted in personal ethical betterment. In that sense, everyone may be a philosopher, and indeed—I would think—everyone ought to be a philosopher!

The French scholar Pierre Hadot is the modern author most responsible for articulating the notion of philosophy as a way of life, rooted in the ancient Greco-Roman way (though not different in kind from the ways of eastern philosophies like Buddhism, Confucianism, and Daoism). His three books, Philosophy as a Way of Life: Spiritual Exercises from Socrates to Foucault; The Inner Citadel: The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius; and What Is Ancient Philosophy? are must-read classics. (See my four-part commentary on the latter volume: parts I, II, III, and IV.)

In antiquity, though, one of the most important people who articulated the notion of practical philosophy was a guy you might not have heard of: Philo of Larissa. Tough you may have heard of his most famous student: Marcus Tullius Cicero.

Philo was born in 159 BCE in Larissa, the major city of the region of Thessaly, in northeastern Greece. He died in Rome in 84 BCE, aged 75. He had moved to Rome in 88 BCE, at the height of the Mithridatic wars that saw the sack of Athens in 86 BCE and the consequent diaspora of philosophers belonging to the various Hellenistic schools. Philo was the head of the Platonic Academy, which in that period was undergoing its skeptical phase.

Cicero went to see Philo lecturing in Rome, becoming an enthusiastic student and a ardent supporter of the Skeptical Academy. It is largely through Cicero, and in particular his famous Tusculan Disputations (see my take here), that we know of Philo’s thinking about philosophy as a way of life.

The later doxographer Stobaeus (5th century CE) wrote that Philo often drew an analogy between philosophy and medicine:

Just as it is the function of the doctor, then, first to persuade the sick person to accept his therapy, and secondly to undermine the arguments of those urging him against treatment, so it is also for the philosopher. (Anthology, 2.40.1–4)

The modern commentator John Sellars, however, in his Hellenistic Philosophy draws on Cicero to articulate three phrases of practical philosophy according to Philo:

I—Protreptic: here the job of the philosopher is to exhort people to adopt a philosophical life and series of practices, just like a good doctor will recommend you to follow a healthy diet and lifestyle while practicing preventive medicine.

II—Therapeutic: if you do get sick, a doctor will deploy her skills to help you get well. Analogously, a philosopher will attempt to “treat” the diseases of your soul, namely whatever false beliefs you may have adopted or fallen into. She will try to challenge such beliefs and help you replace them with true ones to restore your soul’s wellbeing.

III—Preservative: once your health is back your doctor will provide you with advice as to how to maintain it, which means not only reiterating stage I, but also adding whatever new suggestions may help you stay clear of the specific disease you have just recovered from. Similarly, the philosopher will make sure that you keep on the right track and continue to practice philosophy for life, not just in order to overcome a particular bout of ill health.

What might the three stages look like in practice, as far as philosophy is concerned? (Regarding your physical health, ask your doctor, I ain’t one!)

A good way to engage in the protreptic phase is to read the writings of practical philosophers, ranging from, say, Seneca’s Letters to Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations, including perhaps modern authors, like Don Robertson or even yours truly. Technically, this doesn’t require interacting directly with a philosopher, though that may help, and it may be done by participating to public discussion forums, online or offline.

The therapeutic phase is probably more efficacious if one is in a position to interact directly with a philosopher, just like curing yourself from a physical disease typically will require an actual doctor. Group discussion forums that are specifically dedicated to practice, philosophy retreats, or even one-on-one philosophical counseling are viable options.

The preservative phase can then be a combination of the previous two: perhaps you will need the direction of a philosopher, or at least the support of a working group, but you may also benefit from readings, videos, podcasts, and so forth.

As I mentioned above, Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations is an excellent example of Philo’s thinking put into practice. The author writes about a meeting with some close friends during which they discuss five fundamental questions:

What should our attitude be toward death?
How do we bear pain?
How do we deal with grief?
How do we handle emotions more generally?
What is the source of a happy life?

Give it a try, articulate your own answers, preferably in writing, and see if these prompts help you in your own pursuit of philosophy as a way of life.