The Limits of Principle II: Nietzsche and the Stoic Exception in Marcus Aurelius

Introduction

This article serves as a follow-up to The Limits of Principle: Nietzsche and the Stoic Exception, where we examined Nietzsche’s complex relationship with Epictetus. In that discussion, we saw how Nietzsche both admired and criticized Stoicism, appreciating Epictetus' emphasis on self-mastery while rejecting Stoicism as a rigid system that attempts to impose order on an inherently chaotic world.

Now, we turn to Marcus Aurelius, another Stoic figure whose thought provides a different challenge for Nietzsche. Unlike Epictetus, who came from a background of literal slavery, Marcus was an emperor—a "master" in Nietzschean terms. How would Nietzsche have interpreted Marcus’ reflections on humility, mortality, and the stripping away of illusions?

This article explores Marcus Aurelius’ famous passage from Meditations, Book 6.13, where he deconstructs the grandeur of life into its base material components, and the anecdote of his assistant reminding him, “You are just a man.” Would Nietzsche see this humility as an act of strength, or as another instance of Stoic self-denial? And does Marcus’ imperial position make his Stoicism fundamentally different from that of Epictetus? By engaging with these questions, we continue our exploration of Nietzsche’s nuanced stance on Stoicism.

Marcus Aurelius’ Deconstruction of Illusions and Nietzsche’s Response

In Meditations, Book 6.13, Marcus Aurelius urges himself to see things as they truly are, stripping them of embellishment. Fine wine is nothing more than fermented grape juice, luxurious garments are mere wool dyed with shellfish extract, and sexual pleasure reduces to bodily friction followed by a fleeting physiological reaction:

 “Like seeing roasted meat and other dishes in front of you and suddenly realizing: This is a dead fish. A dead bird. A dead pig. Or that this noble vintage is grape juice, and the purple robes are sheep wool dyed with shellfish blood. Or making love—something rubbing against your penis, a brief seizure and a little cloudy liquid. Perceptions like that—latching onto things and piercing through them, so we see what they really are. That’s what we need to do all the time—all through our lives when things lay claim to our trust—to lay them bare and see how pointless they are, to strip away the legend that encrusts them”.

By repeatedly practicing this mental exercise, the Stoic emperor sought to cultivate detachment from superficial allure and remind himself of the impermanence of all things.

Nietzsche, however, might have viewed this approach as symptomatic of Stoicism’s deeper flaw: a rejection of life’s richness. To reduce beauty and pleasure to their material composition is, in Nietzsche’s eyes, to deny their significance. In contrast, his philosophy of amor fati calls for embracing existence in its entirety—its grandeur and its squalor, its joys and its suffering. Where Stoicism seeks to cultivate inner peace by rendering experiences neutral and stripping them of their emotional weight, amor fati demands an unflinching embrace of life in all its chaos and intensity. Nietzsche writes in "The Gay Science":

"I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who makes things beautiful. Amor fati: let that be my love henceforth!"

By deconstructing human experiences into their base components, Marcus risks diminishing their value, much like ascetic traditions that strip life of its vitality in pursuit of detachment. Yet, Marcus’ exercise is not merely an act of negation. He does not condemn indulgence outright but seeks to cultivate perspective. This raises an important question: does his practice represent strength—the ability to see through illusion—or does it reflect an unwillingness to affirm life’s fullness? Nietzsche’s answer likely hinges on whether Marcus’ detachment is a tool for mastery or an escape from engagement with the world.

“You Are Just a Man”: Stoic Humility vs. Nietzschean Power

According to an often-repeated anecdote, Marcus Aurelius instructed a subordinate to constantly remind him, “You are just a man.” This practice, echoing Stoic ideals, was intended to prevent arrogance and keep his mortality at the forefront of his mind. For Marcus, self-restraint and humility were not signs of weakness but of control. By internalizing this reminder, he aimed to govern himself as rigorously as he governed his empire.

For Nietzsche, though, this gesture could carry varying implications depending on the situation. If Marcus, as the most powerful man in Rome, voluntarily chose to temper his ego, Nietzsche might recognize this as an act of self-mastery. Unlike the humility of the downtrodden, which often stems from necessity, Marcus’ discipline was an assertion of will—he imposed limits on himself rather than having them forced upon him.

Yet, the broader Stoic notion of suppressing personal importance could still fall into what Nietzsche saw as a denial of individuality. While Marcus’ act of self-reminder came from a position of control, it echoed the Christian idea of self-abasement, which Nietzsche rejected. The key question is whether Marcus’ practice was an affirmation of strength—a deliberate act of discipline—or a subtle negation of his own significance. Nietzsche’s view might depend on whether this humility served as a means of fortifying himself or an unconscious concession to moral asceticism.

The Master’s Humility vs. the Slave’s Submission

Nietzsche’s distinction between master and slave morality is crucial in assessing Marcus Aurelius’ brand of Stoicism. When a ruler like Marcus says, “I am just a man,” it carries a different weight than if a powerless individual were to say the same. In the emperor’s case, this acknowledgment stems from choice, not resignation. His humility does not signal submission but an awareness of limits freely accepted. Unlike those who embrace self-effacement because they lack power, Marcus’ self-restraint was a conscious decision, not a necessity.

By contrast, when the weak adopt a similar posture, Nietzsche would argue that their humility arises from ressentiment. A person who has no power and declares “I am just a man” may be expressing resignation rather than genuine self-discipline. In this case, the phrase serves as an excuse for passivity, a way to justify inaction rather than a means of cultivating inner strength. The difference is in agency: Marcus chose his perspective, while the powerless adopt it as a psychological defense.

Thus, Nietzsche’s assessment of Marcus’ humility would likely be more nuanced than a simple rejection. If it was an act of sovereign control, it might align with the will to power—a ruler imposing order on himself. But if it reflected an unconscious denial of vitality, then even an emperor’s humility could be seen as another form of life-denial disguised as virtue.

Conclusion

Nietzsche’s relationship with Stoicism remains deeply contextual. In our previous discussion on Epictetus, we saw how Nietzsche recognized the value of Stoic self-mastery but criticized its tendency to stifle natural instincts. With Marcus Aurelius, the debate shifts: here is a Stoic who ruled the Roman Empire, whose humility was a choice rather than a necessity.

This distinction is critical. If humility is embraced as a sovereign decision, does it align with Nietzsche’s idea of will to power? Or does Marcus’ insistence on stripping life of its grandeur betray an underlying asceticism that Nietzsche rejects?

Ultimately, Marcus Aurelius presents a more complex Stoic figure for Nietzsche’s critique. While Epictetus symbolized Stoic endurance from a position of necessity, Marcus exemplifies Stoic detachment from a position of dominance. This raises an important question: can Stoicism be reinterpreted, not as a doctrine of submission, but as a philosophy of self-imposed discipline—one that, when practiced by a blond beast, reflects mastery rather than denial?

By examining these nuances, we move closer to understanding Nietzsche’s shifting stance on Stoicism. His critique is not a simple rejection but an inquiry into the conditions under which self-restraint is an act of power rather than weakness.

Related Post

The Limits of Principle: Nietzsche and the Stoic Exception

https://nietzscheanlinguistics.blogspot.com/2025/03/blog-post.html

Bibliography

Why Nietzsche Didn't HATE the Stoics (It's Complicated) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e7Y1sXEmcJw&t=28s

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