Enchiridion 24 — On Obscurity and Being of Use

Do not let thoughts like these weigh you down: "I shall live without honor, a nobody everywhere." For if lack of honor is an evil, you can no more be made to suffer evil through another than to be put to shame through another. Is it your business to obtain public office, or to be invited to a banquet? Not at all. How, then, can this be dishonor? And how will you be "a nobody everywhere," when you need to be somebody only in the things that are up to you — in which it is open to you to be of the greatest worth?

But your friends will go unhelped. What do you mean by "unhelped"? They will not get small change from you, nor will you make them Roman citizens. Who told you that these are among the things up to us, and not the business of others? And who can give to another what he does not have himself? "Get money, then," someone says, "so that we may have some." If I can get it while remaining self-respecting, trustworthy, and high-minded, show me the way and I will get it. But if you demand that I lose my own goods so that you may acquire things that are not good, see how unfair and thoughtless you are. Which would you rather have — money, or a faithful and self-respecting friend? Then help me toward this, and do not require me to do the things through which I would lose these very qualities.

This longer chapter confronts the anxiety that the philosophical life will leave one obscure, powerless, and useless — "a nobody everywhere" (oudeis oudamou), as the gnawing inner voice puts it. Epictetus answers in two movements. First, on the fear of dishonor: he applies the dichotomy of control with rigorous logic. If dishonor were a genuine evil, then — by the principle established throughout the book — you could not be put into a state of evil by another's action, any more than another can make you morally base. Your good and evil are your own doing. But more directly: winning office, being invited to feasts, being celebrated — these are simply not your business (ouk eph' hēmin). They depend on others' choices. So their absence is not "dishonor" in any sense that touches you, and you can be a person of the "greatest worth" in the only arena that is yours: the things up to you, your own character and conduct.

The second and richer movement addresses the objection that troubles conscientious people most: "but my friends and country will go unhelped if I don't pursue wealth and position." Epictetus dismantles this with a series of sharp questions. What kind of help do they mean — money, citizenship, favors? These are externals, not in your power to guarantee, and "who can give to another what he does not have himself?" Then the crucial pivot: if you can acquire money while remaining self-respecting, trustworthy, and high-minded (aidēmona, piston, megalophrona), then by all means do so — "show me the way and I will get it." Epictetus is no enemy of helping or even of wealth honestly come by. But if the demand is that you sacrifice your character to acquire externals for others, the bargain is exposed as absurd: you would be losing genuine goods (your integrity) to gain non-goods (money, status). And he turns the question back: which would your friend and country rather have — a bit of cash, or a faithful and self-respecting friend and citizen? The deepest help you can give anyone is to remain a person of integrity, because a corrupted helper helps no one, and the contribution of a trustworthy character outlasts any handout.

The teaching that obscurity is no evil, and that one need only be "somebody" in the things that are up to oneself, resonates with the contemplative traditions' revaluation of worldly status. The hidden life — the unknown saint, the obscure sage, the monk in the desert — is honored across traditions precisely because true worth was never located in public recognition. The Gospel's "many who are first will be last" and the Taoist praise of the sage who "does not show himself, and so is illustrious" both invert the worldly scale on which obscurity counts as failure.

The insight that the greatest help one can offer others is one's own integrity, rather than the sacrifice of character to procure external goods for them, parallels the wisdom found across traditions that one cannot pour from an empty vessel — that a person who has lost their own center cannot truly benefit others. The Buddhist understanding that one must establish oneself in what is right before establishing others (Dhammapada 158) makes the same point: the corrupted helper, who has abandoned their own good to chase externals, has nothing of real value left to give.

The reframing of what it means to "be of use" to one's community echoes the broad wisdom-tradition distinction between material assistance and the deeper contribution of character. A community is genuinely served not merely by those who supply it with money or amenities but by those who embody trustworthiness, justice, and integrity — qualities that, once lost in the scramble for externals, cannot be supplied at all. Epictetus's question — would you rather have money or a faithful friend? — distills a value judgment the traditions broadly share: the gift of a sound character is worth more to those around us than any external good we might procure by sacrificing it.

The fear of being a "nobody" — obscure, unrecognized, without status — torments many lives. Epictetus answers that recognition, office, and invitations are not your business in the first place; they depend on others. You need to be "somebody" only in the one arena that is genuinely yours: your own character, where you can be of the very greatest worth regardless of whether anyone notices. Obscurity in the eyes of the world is no evil; it touches nothing that is actually you.

And the chapter offers a profound reframe of what it means to help those you love. You may feel you must chase money or position "for their sake." But ask honestly: would your family, friends, and community rather have a bit more cash and a person who sacrificed their integrity to get it — or a faithful, self-respecting, trustworthy human being in their midst? The deepest service you can render anyone is to remain a person of sound character, because that is the one gift that cannot be bought, cannot be procured by anyone else, and outlasts every handout. Pursue external goods honestly if you can; never trade your character for them, even in the name of love.

This chapter speaks to two pervasive modern anxieties. The first is the fear of insignificance — of living an obscure life in a culture that equates worth with visibility, achievement, and status. Epictetus's response is liberating: significance in the things that are actually up to you (your integrity, your conduct, your relationships) is fully available regardless of public recognition, and significance in externals (fame, office, being "somebody") was never yours to control in the first place. The person who relocates their sense of worth accordingly is freed from the exhausting and often futile chase for recognition.

The second is the rationalization of compromised behavior in the name of providing for others — "I have to cut this corner / take this ethically dubious job / sacrifice my values, for my family." Epictetus exposes the false accounting: you would be trading a genuine good (your character) for non-goods (money, status), and the people you claim to be helping would, if asked honestly, rather have your integrity intact. The practical test he offers is usable: "Can I do this while remaining trustworthy and self-respecting? Then yes. If it requires sacrificing those, then I'd be giving up the most valuable thing I have to offer the very people I'm doing it for." This is a clarifying question for any ethical compromise dressed up as sacrifice for loved ones — the deepest provision you make for them is the kind of person you remain.