Dostoyevsky and Plato: The Power of Storytelling

Spoiler warning for Crime and Punishment

Story is a powerful tool in the dissemination of ideas, and few understood this principle better than the Greeks. In Classical Greece, traveling poets called rhapsodes dedicated their lives to memorizing the works of the poet Homer, the Iliad, and the Odyssey. Lines from both of these epic poems were also readily available to most Greeks from merchants on the street to lofty academics. The Greeks understood that by encapsulating their ideas within the context of a story, they brought those ideas to life and enabled people to empathize with them on a more personal level. Perhaps the best Greek thinker to understand this was Plato, who organized many of his philosophical works as dialogues, coming from the Greek roots “duo” (δύο) meaning two, and “logos” (λόγος) meaning thought or principle. A Platonic dialogue sets two opposing ideas against one another by pitting two characters against one another. Socrates is often the protagonist of these dialogues, arguing in favor of the beliefs that many scholars believe were Plato’s. Plato chose Socrates for this role because he had a reputation among Athenian philosophers for being truthful and straightforward. Plato also wrote a bevy of antagonists who challenged Socrates and Plato’s views. Among these antagonists, the sophist Gorgias stands out as one of the most famous, advocating that rhetoric should be prioritized over truth as the ultimate goal.

One might rightfully ask, “why would Plato go through the trouble of writing antagonists whose main goal is to unravel Plato’s ideas? Would it not be more effective to write more defenses of one’s own arguments instead?” Contrary to being perceived as a weakness, this strategy is one of the main reasons why Plato's dialogues continue to be widely read and enjoyed today. Plato does not simply create strawmen to attack, loading his antagonists with weak arguments and celebrating his victory over them. Instead, he subjects his thoughts to a great crucible of ideas to sort out the wheat from the chaff, as it were. In doing this, Plato puts his ideas under the stress of an intelligent and motivated opponent. The heat of this method forges Plato’s arguments into a stronger and more defensible version of what might have been written had Plato merely written treatises or essays on the various issues he dealt with. It also allowed everyday Athenians to digest and empathize with his works in a way that gave his ideas much more influence on society.

2,200 miles north and 2,300 years after Plato wrote his dialogues, another thinker interested in understanding human nature began writing novels: Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Dostoyevsky’s novels are all incredible reads, and they employ a bevy of different stylistic and philosophical tools to make the writing more effective at conveying Dostoevsky’s underlying ethical philosophy. In his book on Dostoyevsky, The Sinner and the Saint, Kevin Birmingham writes that Dostoyevsky’s works were the first polyphonic novels to attract a large readership. This means that Dostoyevsky’s novels offer a wide range of positions on various issues, and the reader is trusted with discerning which position is the most veracious.

Whereas Plato casts a strong and virtuous protagonist to spout his ideas, Dostoyevsky often makes those with whom he most disagrees his protagonists. The best example of this is the character of Raskolnikov from his 1866 novel Crime and Punishment. Raskolnikov is a poor law student and a utilitarian rationalist who justifies the murder of an old pawnbroker as being the morally upright thing to do. As we follow our protagonist around the dingy and labyrinthine streets of 19th-century St. Petersburg, we get to see him interact with others who represent various philosophical perspectives. We meet Luzhin, a rich businessman and a suitor to Raskolnikov’s sister Avdotya, who represents that upper-class materialist utilitarianism that makes Raskolnikov wince but which also reflects back a bit of himself. Razumikhin is a poor student and a charming raconteur who often acts as the voice of reason for Raskolnikov (razum meaning reason in Russian). Finally, Svidrigailov is an enigmatic benefactor with amorous designs on Avdotya and a shady past. He represents that which Raskolnikov purports to want to be: the “ubermensch” or the extraordinary man who does what he can while those around him suffer what they must. These characters and many more all come to life in vivid color through Dostoyevsky’s arresting prose, and the effect of their collective escapades creates an interesting commentary on poverty, morality, guilt, and madness. Raskolnikov is ultimately made to come to terms with reality; he cannot continue living with the guilt he bears for murdering two innocent women and must confess to his crimes. All of the rational thought in the world about how killing the pawnbroker is a moral act goes out the window the second the axe comes crashing down on her head. It is at that moment that crime turns to punishment.

The novel is effective at conveying the underlying meaning of Dostoyevsky’s philosophy because it turns Plato’s style on its head. Instead of the protagonist aligning with the author's beliefs, the opposite occurs, leaving us to follow a protagonist whom the author vigorously disagrees with. This structure is counterintuitive but is nonetheless effective because it forces the reader to empathize with the protagonist and to experience the pitfalls of his ethical philosophy from a first-person perspective. In this way, Dostoyevsky is able to embed his philosophy in a medium that is more broadly understandable. Anyone can pick up Crime and Punishment and learn a lesson about human nature, that is not the case for dusty, verbose academic works like Kant’s Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals or Aquinas’ Summa Theologica. Those works are prescriptive in nature and seek to understand ethics as a philosophical theory; Dostoyevsky forces readers to see every possible utility and malady of the philosophical theories being examined by his novels, an emulation of a Greek storytelling device 2,500 years in the making.

“Those who tell the stories rule society.” - Plato

How Stoics Remain Loyal to Their Principles in Polarized Times

The political landscape in the West has become increasingly polarized in recent years. Extremist activists, commentators, and governments portray a political landscape that many do not experience in their daily lives; one of intense division and rancor. Nowhere in the developed world is this trend made more lucid than in the United States where, according to a study from Pew Research, both sides of the political spectrum are becoming deeper enmeshed in their ideological convictions. The researchers at Pew wanted to compare political data collected from the early 1990s to that collected in the 2010s; their results were interesting. According to the results, “Today, 92% of Republicans are to the right of the median (middle) Democrat, compared with 64% twenty years ago. And 94% of Democrats are to the left of the median Republican, up from 70% in 1994.” This split means less communication, less dialogue, and less common ground.

Less communication leads to a positive feedback loop wherein people make a caricature of their opponent’s positions and believe them to be maliciously motivated. This effect only adds to the tribalism that defines the “culture war” era of American politics. This challenge is nothing to despair at, however. As the Roman poet Ovid said, “Let others praise ancient times; I am glad I was born in these.” Ovid is right. Tough times are challenging, but the alternative to standing against the maladies that plague our political discourse is to cower and acquiesce to them. This is an unacceptable alternative. This essay will explicate Stoic texts for their wisdom and examine how adherence to one’s principles in difficult times is the only way to restore a healthy public discourse.

The first principle is flexibility, not in one’s principles, but in the battles one chooses. In the opening book of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations, Marcus lists his various debts and lessons from those who have most influenced him. Of his philosophy teacher, Apollonius of Chalcedon, Marcus is grateful for the lesson that “a man can show both strength and flexibility.” This passage came to mind recently when I was walking outside during a heavy wind. I noticed the leaves rustling in the tree’s canopies and the branches swaying violently in the howling gale. This scene, when viewed through the lens of Marcus’ gratitude toward Apollonius, suggested a metaphor to me; that strength is like a tree in a storm; flexing its extremities to suit the situation but keeping its trunk and roots secure and unmoving. We do not need to run headfirst into every fight, nor do we need to cower and sacrifice our principles in the name of comfort. Temperance, that most subtle of Stoic virtues, is required here. As Aristotle says in his Nicomachean Ethics, “Temperance and courage, then, are destroyed by excess and defect, and preserved by the mean.” Remaining rigid and unmoving will break you when strong winds blow. Running blindly into every battle is not courageous, it is rash and foolhardy. So, in the modern political landscape, one must stick to the principles one has adopted, but one must also remember not to stumble into every trap along the way; you have more useful things to do with your time than that.

Practically, flexibility means remaining confident in your positions, but not so overly stiff that you become brittle and breakable. When, for example, a friend or peer is discussing some political issue with you, it is not necessary to intervene aggressively in defense of your position. Allow some leniency and let perceived slights pass. If, though, you are challenged directly on some political point, defend yourself in a respectful and thoughtful manner: let your leaves rustle in the breeze but keep your roots buried deep and unmoving.

The second principle is loyalty; remembering what we should revere and what we should not. One should never feel a sense of loyalty to a particular ideology, especially to the point of accepting willful blindness in its name. Today, it is all too common for people to form a tribal attachment to their political party, going as far as ignoring the truth to protect their insecure but firmly held beliefs. This is how so-called “echo chambers” are formed, by otherwise rational actors electing to ignore their better angels for the hollow comfort of ideology. This is not the path to a healthy political or social fabric; this is the path to tribal chaos and ruin. As President Abraham Lincoln said of America, “At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected? I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us. It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide.” Foreign armies have not harried America’s cities since the War of 1812 when our nation was much smaller and weaker. The times when we have come closest to destruction were when we chose hate over love, discord over order, and callousness over empathy. Only Americans can destroy America, that is why getting this right is important.

So if not ideology, what should we be loyal to? Again, Marcus Aurelius answers that question beautifully in Meditations, this time in Book 4. “Two kinds of readiness are constantly needed” he says, “(I) to do only what the logos (reason) of authority and law directs, with the good of human beings in mind; (II) to reconsider your position, when someone can set you straight or convert you to his. But your conversion should always rest on a conviction that it's right or benefits others — nothing else — not because it's more appealing or popular.” Our loyalties, in the Stoic view, should lie with reason alone, but not reason of the cold and utilitarian sort, reason oriented toward the good of our fellow man. In this way, the second principle is related to the first; it is imperative to remain flexible when presented with a new idea. Do not hold on to your preconceptions out of some loyalty to an ideology that does not merit such treatment. Examine your ideas harshly and remember to constantly ask yourself whether or not your worldview comports with reality. “Be tolerant with others and strict with yourself” as Marcus says. Doing this will allow you to speak in the face of adversity from political “opponents” because you will have nothing to fear; if the new idea is faulty, explain why it is so and if you cannot offer a rebuttal to the new idea, examine your beliefs and change. This will allow us to live honestly and forthrightly.

In the real world, this looks like standing up for your beliefs, even when you know you will be shouted down. If, for example, someone is yelling at you because you believe that the 2020 election was free and fair, and they do not, unless they provide sufficient evidence to shift your position, then stay the course. If you find that someone on the political left smears you with some epithet, calling you phobic of something you know yourself not to fear; let that roll off you like rainwater off an umbrella. So long as you examine your positions deeply and critically, you have nothing to fear from making those positions known, and then standing by them in the heat of an argument.

Marcus Porcius Cato the Younger

Many of the most famous Stoics lived hard lives. Marcus Aurelius spent his adult life away from home, lost his father as a young child, lost his wife Faustina while suppressing a rebellion, and ultimately lost nine of his children. Seneca was chronically ill and was repeatedly exiled from Rome. Epictetus was born into the brutal system of Mediterranean slavery that would break his limbs, but not his spirit. These maladies struck when and where they did because of fate. Cato the Younger, on the other hand, was dealt a comfortable hand by fate. He was born into a rich and storied Roman family with political connections and plentiful resources. Cato chose the difficult path and chose to stand by his principles, but not in a way that was rash or ineffective. A famous story about Cato as a young boy tells us that he visited a man named Sulla, a Dictator who forcibly seized power and prescribed “hit lists” of his political rivals to be killed and stripped of their land and titles. Cato asked why this man was so important, and why so many felt the need to offer favors to him. He was told that, rather than being loved, it was because Romans feared Sulla’s power. To this, Cato supposedly said, “Why then didn’t you give me a sword so I could free my country from slavery?”

Cato earnestly and forthrightly climbed his way through the rungs of mos maiorum, the obligatory step-latter of Roman political life. He abstained from a vice that was all too common in his time: bribery. Cato simply felt that saying and doing the right thing would be enough to win him the necessary votes. The Greek historian Plutarch says of Cato that “the harshness of his sentiments, and the mingling of his character with them, gave their austerity a smiling graciousness that won men’s hearts.” At thirty, Cato was elected to the position of quaestor and thus was granted access to the senate, a body from which he would deliver his most cutting speeches against the degradation of the republic he loved. He gave speeches denouncing the triumvirate of Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus and denounced Caesar’s campaign in Gaul as an elongated war crime (as the opening scene of HBO’s Rome depicts). He never compromised where it mattered, but he was willing to work within the bounds of the system and alongside those with whom he disagreed to achieve his ends. As Ryan Holiday records in his book Lives of the Stoics, “It would be a mistake, however, to think that Cato was incapable of compromise or collaboration…within him there was an equal blend…of severity and kindness, of caution and bravery, of solicitude for others and fearlessness for themselves, of the careful avoidance of baseness and, in like degree, the eager pursuit of justice.”

Cato would ultimately fail to beat his political opponents, namely Gaius Julius Caesar. Caesar took over as dictator in Rome, defeated Pompey, and killed the republic which Cato spent his last and greatest measure of devotion in defense of. Cato, however, was never conquered by Caesar. He may have been unable to accomplish his goals, but he was never truly beaten. Instead, though offered amnesty by a victorious tyrant, Cato chose to take his own life. As the great Stoic philosopher Seneca said of Cato,

“In an age when the old credulity had long been thrown aside, and knowledge had by time attained its highest development, Cato came into conflict with ambition, a monster of many shapes, with the boundless greed for power which the division of the whole world among three men could not satisfy. He stood against the vices of a degenerate state that was sinking to destruction beneath its very weight, and he stayed the fall of the republic to the utmost that one man’s hand could do to draw it back.”

In that way, Cato was the victor, for he lived according to his principles and left the rest to fate.

Cato’s final day was like many others in his life. He ate a full meal, laughed, talked philosophy with friends and family, and then fell on his sword. Gone but never conquered.

Cato’s example should inspire us all to consider our positions deeply and, once done, to speak honestly and without restraint. Today, there are few violent battles between political opponents and there are even fewer politically motivated killings. Yet paradoxically it seems that we are more afraid than ever to speak our thoughts openly. What are we afraid of? Something so empty as the jeers of the utopian naysayers and those who do not know good from evil? Why should we allow them to dictate terms to us? This is the cardinal political problem of the so-called “culture war” era, perhaps best summed up by Dr. Jordan Peterson who said, “If you think tough men are dangerous, wait until you see what weak men are capable of.” So, live your life honestly and with reason aimed at the maximal human good. Do not fear speaking your mind, instead accept that you will encounter sneers and jeers from those who do not know all that you do. Listen to them and if they are then right adopt their position, however, if they are wrong then stand by your principles or die doing so. The light of the Roman Republic was extinguished by a series of weak men refusing to say what needed to be said for so long that even one man of an iron constitution could not right their collective wrongs. America will be no different. Let us not repeat this calamitous error.

“Let us not seek the Republican answer or the Democratic answer, but the right answer. Let us not seek to fix the blame for the past. Let us accept our own responsibility for the future” — John F. Kennedy