By its nature, philosophy endows its followers, perhaps more than anything else, with the ability to rise above others in debate, to distinguish falsehood from truth, to refute one thing and confirm another. In any case, professional orators, whenever they enter into discussion with philosophers, become perplexed and appear bewildered, involuntarily contradicting themselves. But if orators, whose lives revolve around debate, are outmatched by philosophers in argument, what must happen to other people?

One vice never leaves us: conforming to the example of the majority, looking at what is customary rather than what is right. We depart from nature and surrender to the crowd, from which nothing good can come, a crowd that is itself fickle. If it sees a man brave in his grief—it calls him godless and wild; sees another clinging weakly to a dead body—it calls him feeble and powerless.

Since fearlessness, courage, and boldness are derivatives of bravery, how else can a man acquire them than by firmly believing that death and deprivation are not evils? For it is precisely these things—death and misfortunes—that unbalance and frighten people when they believe them to be evil. Only philosophy can teach that they are not evil. Therefore, if kings must possess bravery, and they must possess it more than anyone else, they must study philosophy, for by no other means can they become brave.

Public grief requires more than mere sorrow: how many grieve for themselves alone? People moan more clearly when heard, and calm and silent in private, erupt again in tears at the mere sight of someone else. Then they tear at their hair, though they could do so more freely when unobserved; then they call out death, then roll on the bed. Without an audience, grief quiets.

It is important for a king to maintain self-control and demand it from his subjects, so that under his sober rule and proper obedience there is no moral laxity from either party. No pursuit other than philosophy develops self-control. It teaches one to rise above pleasures and greed, to admire frugality and avoid waste; it teaches a sense of shame and care over one’s words; it trains in discipline, order, politeness, and generally in what is proper in action and behavior.

Do I then call you to insensitivity, demand that at a funeral [of your son] your expression remain unchanged, forbid your heart from contracting? No, of course not! For that is not virtue but inhumanity—viewing the funeral of a loved one with the same gaze as at their living self, feeling nothing when they are first taken from you. But even if I were to forbid all this; there are things beyond our control—sometimes tears flow no matter how we restrain them, and when shed, they ease the soul. Let them flow, but do not command them; let them flow as feeling demands, not as imitation.

It is fitting, or rather absolutely necessary, for a king to administer justice among his subjects, so that no one may have more or less than he deserves, but may receive honor or punishment as he merits. But how can one achieve this if he is unjust? And how can one be just who does not understand the nature of justice? This is yet another reason why a king must study philosophy, for without it he cannot know what justice and the just are.

Life is neither good nor evil, but merely a vessel for good and evil.

Only a philosopher can distinguish good from evil, the advantageous from the harmful, the useful from the harmful, for he is constantly occupied with these questions and strives not to be ignorant in these matters, making it his business to understand what leads a person to happiness or misfortune.