Interstate 60: The Final Frontier Is the Universe

Interstate 60: The Final Frontier Is the Universe (Interstate 60: Episodes of the Road, 2002)
There are movies you remember for a single scene, and others you remember for a question. Interstate 60 belongs to the second category, and the question it leaves hovering—long after the credits roll—isn't "what did Neal do with his life?" but something far more uncomfortable: what kind of reality do we believe we inhabit?
To get there, however, you have to travel the whole way. And the road, as suits a road movie that takes itself seriously, has its distinct stages.

The Border as a Narrative Excuse

It all starts with Turner, the first character to offer Neal a way out: if you don't fit into the place you were given, you can always leave. It is the oldest and most literal border in existence: the physical territory. You cross a line on a map and the problem, in theory, is left behind.
But the movie isn't satisfied with such a simple solution, which is where Cody comes in. With him, the idea of the border begins to shed its skin. There is no longer any new territory left to discover—the map is complete—so the border shifts inward: it becomes a mental border. It's no longer about finding a different place, but about learning to distrust the place you're already in.
That shift is the hinge of the entire film, and it interests me particularly because it's precisely the movement I tend to make when reading Taleb: the problem is never the map, but the mindset with which one reads the map.

Advertising, Museums, and Skepticism as a Method

Cody teaches Neal to distrust in increasing doses, almost like someone training a muscle.
First, something small: an advertisement. Is what it promises true? Advertising, after all, is the most domesticated form of lying: it sells the possibility of escape by purchasing a representation of another life, without having to change anything real.
Then, a step higher: the Museum of Fraudulent Art. There, the deception is no longer an exaggerated promise, but a forgery posing as an original. The viewer—any viewer, not just Neal—might be looking at a copy convinced they are looking at the source.
From there, Cody begins to aim even higher: is this life you are living the one you actually want, or is it merely the one you accepted by default? The question stops being about objects and becomes about biographies.
The complete progression, if laid out in order, is this: lie → forgery → identity → reality → universe
Each step repeats the same gesture: do not accept the explanation just because someone gave it to you. It is, at its core, a thoroughly Feyerabendians attitude—"anything goes" not as comfortable relativism, but as a systematic suspicion of any method that presents itself as the only valid one—applied first to advertising, then to art, then to one's own life, and finally to the very structure of the real. The film applies Cody's method to all of reality, and that is precisely the leap that turns it, toward the end, less into a fable about finding your calling and more into a skeptical fable in the classical sense—the kind Montaigne practiced when he asked himself que sais-je? regarding any received certainty.

Broken Causality: When the Future Writes Letters

There is a detail in the movie that often goes somewhat unnoticed, yet strikes me as central: the envelopes, the messages arriving from impossible places, the things appearing without a tidy causal explanation. They deliberately produce a sense of broken causality.
We are used to thinking in sequence: A causes B, B causes C. But in the narrative universe of Interstate 60, the opposite sometimes occurs: something that shouldn't exist yet is already exerting effects on the present. Cody knows things Neal doesn't know yet. Events seem to be prepared before Neal makes the decisions that, in theory, should have generated them.
It is a narrative trick, of course—nobody sends letters from the future—but it isn't an empty trick: it builds the sensation of a self-consistent world, where past, present, and future dialogue with one another instead of lining up in a row.
And that trick has a serious relative in physics, though it is best handled with care.

The Ending: Universes, Decisions, and a Problem Physics Has Yet to Close

When the film reaches its climax and begins showing infinite universes, alternative possibilities, and versions of Neal who took a different path, it is tempting to say that the movie "anticipated" contemporary physics. That phrasing is overly generous. The correct approach is to state something more modest: the movie takes an idea related to one of the most debated interpretations of quantum mechanics and turns it into an existential metaphor.
It is worth fully understanding which interpretation this is, because the technical detail is what gives weight to the metaphor.
Quantum mechanics describes microscopic systems as a superposition of possibilities—an electron, for example, can be described as a combination of possibility A and possibility B. The problem arises when we measure: we get a single result, A or B, never both. The traditional explanation says that measurement produces a "collapse" of that superposition. But immediately, an uncomfortable question emerges: what exactly is measuring? Why would measurement, and not any other physical interaction, produce that collapse? That is the so-called measurement problem, and it isn't about quantum mechanics functioning poorly—it works extraordinarily well, with enviable predictive precision—but rather that there is no consensus on what is physically happening when it works.
In 1957, Hugh Everett proposed a radical way out: eliminate the collapse directly from the theory. In his framework, you don't say that reality "had" both A and B and that upon observing it, one of the two options magically vanished. Instead, quantum evolution continues its course, and the observer becomes correlated with the different outcomes: in one branch, they see A; in another, they see B. This is what was later popularized as "many-worlds"—though historical accuracy requires noting that Everett spoke of "relative states," not the image of multiplying universes later inherited by science fiction.
The important point for our purposes is that this remains a disputed interpretation, not an established fact. Coexisting alongside it are the Copenhagen interpretation (measurement does produce a real collapse), Bohmian mechanics (there are additional variables with non-local dynamics), objective collapse theories (collapse would be a real physical process, not a simple update of our knowledge), and several others. Papers published even through 2026 continue to treat the measurement problem as an open question, and recent reviews on "many-worlds" point out that not even its own proponents agree on what the word "world" exactly means.
That is where it pays to be precise about the movie: it isn't proving anything; it is borrowing a question. And the question, stripped of equations, is precisely the one that permeates Neal from start to finish: what happens to the possibilities we don't live? Do they cease to exist the moment we choose, or do they remain real in some way, even if we no longer have access to them?
It is worth noting, in passing, not to confuse two things that look similar but aren't the same. Relativity does give us a picture of time that is far stranger than our everyday experience: there is no single universal "now" shared across the cosmos, which gave rise to the philosophical idea of the block universe, where past, present, and future can be thought of as parts of an already complete structure rather than a future written moment by moment. But from that picture to an envelope traveling from the future to the past, there is a massive distance—and that distance is precisely where the movie leaves physics behind and begins writing literature.

Why This Fits Neal (and Us)

The entire film is constructed around the pressures pushing Neal in different directions: what his parents want him to be, what his girlfriend expects, what his father offers him, what he himself desires without daring to say it out loud, what he could have done, and what he can still do. Cody doesn't solve that conflict for him by telling him which is "the right life"—that would betray his entire preceding skeptical method. He tells him, essentially, a single word: choose.
And there, the ending takes the idea to its metaphysical limit: what if all those possibilities, in some way, actually exist? The question works as a fable even if one knows that the physics behind it is a contested interpretation rather than a verdict. It works because it doesn't depend on Everett being right: it depends on the fact that anyone who has ever made a choice knows, in their gut, that the discarded option doesn't completely disappear. It stays there, like a branch you didn't take but that—at least in imagination, if not in physics—remains available.

The True Frontier

If you trace the complete arc of the movie, the pattern is clean: first there is a geographical border (Turner), then a mental border (Cody), followed by a series of increasingly intimate borders—advertising, the museum, one's own identity—until finally the border becomes cosmic: the universe itself.
It is an almost methodical progression, which is why Interstate 60 ends up feeling less like a conventional science fiction movie and more like a skeptical fable: it starts by asking what you want to do with your life and ends by asking what kind of reality you believe you are inhabiting. The answer, as in any good skeptical fable, is not provided. All the film leaves behind, in the end, is the habit of distrusting—advertising, the copy, the inherited life, and why not, the entire universe as we think we know it.
 

Sources consulted on the many-worlds interpretation and the measurement problem: Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (entries on many-worlds and Everett's relative-state formulation) and recent publications in ScienceDirect and Oxford Academic regarding the open status of the measurement problem.

Links:
•    https://plato.sydney.edu.au/entries/qm-manyworlds/
•    https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2666032626000311
•    https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2022/entries/qm-everett/
•    https://academic.oup.com/edited-volume/61879/chapter/547555640

Prepared with AI assistance for greater clarity and precision.

The Frontier That Is Not a Place

 
From the Safety Valve to the Question of What Is True

There is a historical theory, formulated by Frederick Jackson Turner, that argues something quite simple and powerful at the same time: the frontier—the West not yet organized, not yet tamed by civilization—served as a safety valve for much of American history. When established society became too rigid, too crowded, or too demanding for those who didn't fit in, there was a concrete way out: leaving. The misfits, the discontented, those who couldn't tolerate hierarchies, those who needed a fresh start, had a physical place to go to. Turner wasn't exactly saying that the frontier was the natural destination for crazy people—that's a freer, more narrative reading of his idea—but he did hold something close to it: that the westward expansion operated as a relief mechanism, a way of decompressing the tensions that civilization kept accumulating.
What is interesting is not so much the thesis itself—which can be read in any American history textbook—but what happens when someone takes it out of its academic context and uses it to ask a much more uncomfortable question: what happens when there is no frontier left? That is precisely what Interstate 60: Episodes of the Road (2002) does in the scene where Bob Cody explains Turner's theory to Neal Oliver, as their car passes a sign that reads "Frontier." Cody tells the story with irony: those who didn't fit in the East packed their bags and headed West, and the punchline—predictable yet effective—is that a good portion of those misfits ended up in California.
That's where the first plot twist appears, and it's the one I find most interesting: California is not merely the end point of that exodus of the discontented. It is also the largest entertainment factory in the country and one of the wealthiest states in the entire United States. The frontier that once served as an escape from society ended up turning into one of the most intense expressions of that very same society. You don't have to stretch the interpretation to see the irony: the place you went to leave civilization behind ended up being the place where civilization learned to mass-produce its own dreams. This isn't something Turner predicted—attributing that intention to him would be absurd—but it is precisely the kind of twist a film can afford: taking a serious historical thesis and using it as a springboard for a philosophical question.

False Frontiers

Cody doesn't stop at geography. He says something that completely shifts the register of the conversation: Turner died in 1932, before the world ran out of frontiers to offer. And then he lists the substitutes that civilization kept inventing to continue promising an escape route when the actual way out—the territory—no longer existed. Alcohol and drugs, as a chemical frontier: altering consciousness to believe you've gone somewhere else without ever leaving the spot. Computers, as a virtual frontier: the illusion of having escaped without having escaped. Space, as the "final frontier," which Neal suggests almost by reflex and Cody dismisses because it isn't a realistic possibility for almost anyone. And finally the mind, which is the only frontier that remains, in some sense, genuinely unexplored territory.
Cody's conclusion—"the frontier is right here"—is the hinge of the entire film. It turns a theory about a country's territorial expansion into a much more personal and uncomfortable question: what does a person do when they don't fit into the world they were born into, but have nowhere left to go?

 
Advertising as a Fake Frontier

That is where the film takes the decisive step, and where the truly interesting part begins for me. Cody doesn't stop at an abstract meditation on psychological frontiers: he starts listening to radio commercials and breaking them down, ad by ad. A car marketed as American even though the engine is Japanese. A movie that "everyone is talking about," when in reality no one is talking about it. A service that claims to care about people. Every time, Cody's reaction is the same: "that's a lie." Not because all advertising is necessarily false in an absolute sense, but because he is attuned to the gap between what is claimed and what is actually delivered.
And then he drops the detail that retroactively reorganizes the entire scene: he used to work in advertising himself, he was paid to lie, and one of those lies contributed to a boy's death. As if that weren't enough, his own lung cancer is, in his words, a death sentence by nicotine. The very industry he helped build ended up collecting its tab. The equation the film sets up is almost brutal in its economy: advertising →  lie →  real harm →  death →  decision to spend the rest of his life dismantling lies.
Here we can see why advertising can be read as a false frontier, in exact parallel to Turner's geographical frontier. The historical frontier said: if you don't like this society, leave. Modern advertising says something else, cheaper and more effective: if you don't like your life, buy another one. You don't need to move anywhere. It's enough to buy the car, smoke the cigarette, watch the movie "everyone is watching," to feel that you have accessed, for a moment, a different life. Drugs and computers operate on the same logic: they offer the sensation of escape without the cost—nor the risk, nor the work—of actually escaping.
What separates Cody from a simple cynic laughing at commercials is precisely the dead boy. That's where the film stops treating the subject as a series of jokes about marketing and starts treating it for what it truly is: a matter of consequences. It's not enough to distrust an advertising claim. You have to ask what happens when someone believes it. Who benefits if I believe this? What are they hiding from me by telling it to me this way? Who pays the price if the claim turns out to be false? Cody is not just a skeptic of words; he is a skeptic of consequences, which is a much more demanding and uncomfortable position to hold.

The Museum That Displays Fraud as Fraud

The movie applies this exact logic to an even more literal setting in the scene at The Museum of Art Fraud, located in the fictional city of Renburg, presented as "the greatest art museum in the world, disguised as a cheap roadside attraction." The curator tells Neal that her husband, a collector and technical expert, had developed a method to duplicate paintings at an almost molecular level. He would borrow a masterpiece from a major museum, craft a perfect copy, return the copy, and keep the original. The result is a total inversion: the prestigious New York museum unknowingly displays a fake, while the ridiculous, decaying museum in a lost town houses the originals. According to the curator, even The Starry Night in New York and the Monet believed to be in Paris are copies.
However, the most interesting part isn't the joke about the ownership of the works, but the experiment the scene conducts on the viewer. Visitors first walk through the room of originals—without knowing they are originals—and criticize them: "it's a copy," they say, pointing out flaws and commenting on how inferior the technique is compared to the "real" painting. Then they move into the room of copies—believing them to be the originals—and praise them. The same work, the exact same potential physical object, changes in value depending on the label attached to it. It isn't the object that dictates the judgment: it's the narrative accompanying it.
There, the museum becomes a sort of staging area for everything Cody has been pointing out since the car ride. What makes something original? The object itself? The signature? The provenance? The authority of the museum displaying it? What the catalog says? What the expert claims? Or simply what we believe we are seeing at the moment we look at it? The scene doesn't stop at discussing art fraud: it turns the viewer—the film's audience, and in a way, us as well—into the victim of a real-time epistemological fraud. We know the museum visitors are wrong. But during those minutes, we too passively accept the narrative the film feeds us.

The Fälschermuseum and the Preservation of Deception

There is, in reality and not in fiction, a museum remarkably similar in spirit: the Museum of Art Fakes in Vienna (Fälschermuseum), operating since 2005 and dedicated exclusively to art forgeries and frauds, featuring works by notorious counterfeiters like Han van Meegeren, Tom Keating, Eric Hebborn, Elmyr de Hory, or Konrad Kujau. The film doesn't mention it—it's a real museum, not a script reference—but examining it alongside the fictional Museum of Art Fraud helps complete the argument.
What makes the Fälschermuseum special is that it does not destroy a fake once it is uncovered: it preserves and displays it as precisely what it is. A painting that once succeeded in fooling someone now says, "look at how they were fooled." The fraud ceases to be merely a completed trick and becomes an object of study into the mechanics of deception. It is no longer enough to know that something is fake: we need to understand how it managed, for a time, to appear real. And in many of these cases, what is forged isn't just the physical object—the painting, the signature—but its history: where it came from, who owned it before, how it was discovered. Object plus history produces the feeling of authenticity. It is the exact same formula, barely disguised, that advertising uses: product plus narrative produces desire. "This car is American." "This cigarette makes you free." "This movie is the one everyone is watching." The object may be completely real and functional. The fraud lies in the story wrapped around it.

Closing the Loop: From Turner to Epistemology

When laid out end to end, the trajectory becomes clear. Turner describes a territorial frontier: when society squeezes too hard, there is a physical place you can escape to. Cody notes that this frontier has disappeared and that civilization, to avoid leaving anyone without a safety valve, invented substitutes: drugs, screens, space as an unattainable fantasy, the mind as the last genuine territory. Advertising offers an even more efficient variation: you don't even need to escape your own life, it's enough to buy the symbol of another. Art forgery takes the same logic to the extreme of the object: you don't need to produce the original, it's enough to produce something similar enough for the story of authenticity to hold up. And the museum—both the fictional one and the real one in Vienna—takes that exposed forgery and turns it into a tool for studying deception itself, rather than simply discarding it.
There is a progression here worth naming: frontier, escape, representation, deception, detection, skepticism. And at some point along that path, the frontier stops being a place and becomes a distance: the distance between what a thing is said to be and what it actually is. Turner's question—"Where does civilization end?"—first transforms into "Where can I escape from it?", and finally ends up, guided by Cody, as something much closer to Montaigne or Taleb than to the history of American territorial expansion: "What part of what I am seeing is real?"
That final question is, at its core, the only frontier still standing when there is no new territory left to move to. It is neither geographical, chemical, nor virtual: it is the uncomfortable, unprofitable, and almost always counter-cultural habit of refusing to accept a claim simply because it arrives backed by authority, prestige, a well-written catalog, or a convincing story—and choosing instead to ask where the deception might be hidden, and what happens to someone if they end up believing it.

Generated with AI assistance and human-verified to ensure accuracy.

The Uncomfortable Mirror: Montaigne and Selfishness as a Natural Law of Existence

“Let each person search within themselves, and they will find that our most intimate desires are born and grow, for the most part, to the detriment of others.”
— Michel de Montaigne

Introduction: A Quote That Isn't a Quote (but Seems Like One)

The phrase that opens this essay, attributed to Michel de Montaigne, is one of those maxims that circulate on social media, in self-help books, and in philosophical reflections as if they were absolute truths. However, as often happens with great ideas, its exact formulation does not appear verbatim in the French philosopher’s Essays. What does exist—and with even more compelling force—is the spirit of that statement, scattered across Book I, Chapter XXII (or XXI, depending on the edition), titled "Le profit de l'un est dommage de l'autre" ("The Profit of One Is the Loss of Another").

This brief chapter, spanning barely three paragraphs, is a gem of Renaissance thought. The author is one of the most prominent figures of Renaissance humanist skepticism. Unlike other thinkers who judge humanity from a religious moral standard, Montaigne prefers to use direct observation, psychology, and brutal honesty to analyze the human condition. With his direct style and no concessions to moral hypocrisy, he lays bare an uncomfortable truth: human society operates as a zero-sum game. What one person gains, another loses. And worse still: by probing into our deepest desires, we discover that many of them feed, consciously or unconsciously, on the detriment of others.

The Original Text: An Observation Without Moral Judgments

The key passage from Montaigne reads as follows:

"And what is worse, let every man search within himself, and he shall find that his inward desires are for the most part born and nourished at the expense of another."

But here lies the crucial nuance: Montaigne is not issuing a moral judgment. He is not saying that human beings are evil by nature, but rather observing a mechanism. For him, this dynamic is not a condemnation, but a natural law—as inevitable as the cycle of life and death. The merchant prospers through the extravagance of others; the physician, through illness; the soldier, through war; the lawyer, through human conflict and disputes. Even ministers of religion derive their purpose from human vices and mortality.

There is no call to repentance here, but rather an invitation to lucidity. Montaigne, as a true skeptic, does not seek to change human nature, but to understand it in order to coexist with it without self-deception.

The complete text of Montaigne in that chapter is extremely brief—barely three paragraphs—and reads as follows in its literal translation:

"Demades the Athenian condemned a man of his city whose trade was selling necessities for burials, under the pretext that he demanded too much profit, and that this profit could only come to him by the death of many people. This judgment seems to me ill-conceived, because no profit is made except to the detriment of another, and by that standard, all kinds of gain would have to be condemned.

The merchant only succeeds in business through the extravagant spending of youth; the farmer through the scarcity of corn; the architect through the ruin of houses; officers of justice through the lawsuits and disputes of men; the very honor and practice of the ministers of religion are derived from our death and vices. No physician takes pleasure in the health even of his own friends, said the ancient Greek comedian, nor any soldier in the peace of his city; and so of the rest.

And what is worse, let every man search within himself, and he shall find that his inward desires are for the most part born and nourished at the expense of another. Considering which, it comes to my mind how nature does not belie herself in this regarding her general condition; for physicists hold that the birth, increase, and growth of each thing is the alteration and corruption of another."

In this short essay, Montaigne argues that human society functions in such a way that the success, gain, or satisfaction of an individual inevitably depends on the misfortune or loss of someone else.

The Modern Misunderstanding: From Observation to Moral Sentence

The popular version of the quote—“Let each person search within themselves, and they will find that our most intimate desires are born and grow, for the most part, to the detriment of others”—is an interpretive paraphrase that heightens the pessimistic tone. While Montaigne limits himself to describing a phenomenon (desire as part of an exchange system where something must yield for another to grow), the modern version sounds like an ethical condemnation.

Why does this difference matter? Because Montaigne is not a moralist. He is not saying that we should feel guilty, but that this is how we are, and that denying it is living in ignorance. His approach is naturalistic: the corruption of one thing is the generation of another, as in an eternal cycle of transformation.

Montaigne in Dialogue: Hobbes, Schopenhauer, and Human Nature

The idea that human desire is linked to the harm of others resonates with other thinkers, though with different nuances:

•    Thomas Hobbes and his "man is a wolf to man" view selfishness as the justification for a strong State to contain violence. For Hobbes, the solution is external control. Montaigne starts from a much more intimate and everyday scale. He does not seek to theorize about the social contract or impose a political system; his method is self-observation. By looking inward, he invites us to recognize that societal dynamics are often a zero-sum game: a merchant's success often depends on another's scarcity, an heir's gain requires the death of a relative, and triumph in any realm requires a rival's defeat. While Hobbes uses human selfishness to justify an authoritarian State and social control, Montaigne uses it to invite us to introspection, reminding us that knowing ourselves is the only true path toward tolerance and peace.

•    Arthur Schopenhauer, on the other hand, takes pessimism to a metaphysical level: for the German philosopher, desire is the irrational engine of the "Will" that drives individuals to assert themselves at the expense of others. Montaigne anticipates this intuition by noting that desire is neither a neutral nor an innocent impulse; at its deepest root, it often harbors the need to deprive or displace the other to satisfy one's own craving.

Montaigne, however, proposes neither political nor metaphysical solutions. It is not about eliminating selfishness (which is impossible), but about recognizing it so as not to be its slave.

What is remarkable about Montaigne is that, despite holding such an uncomfortable mirror up to human nature, his conclusion is neither destructive cynicism nor radical misanthropy, but intellectual honesty and lucidity. Admitting that our desires are born in part from the detriment of others is the first step toward not deceiving ourselves with false sanctity and attempting, through reason and temperance, to cushion the impact of our natural selfishness.

Montaigne’s Solution: Acceptance, Self-Knowledge, and the Inner "Backroom"

Faced with this bleak diagnosis, how does Montaigne live? Not with bitterness, but with serene lucidity. His recipe has three ingredients:

1.    Acceptance of imperfection: There is no need to be outraged by the inevitable. Society is competitive; it is part of its essence. Montaigne is not scandalized; he simply assumes his place in the mechanism.

2.    The "backroom" (arrière-boutique): A key concept in his philosophy. Even if we participate in the social game (with its ambitions and rivalries), we must reserve an inner space that remains free and unshakable, where our peace does not depend on external fluctuations. It is a refuge of authenticity amidst chaos.

3.    Moderation: Self-knowledge allows us to see how our desires can harm others. Reason then invites us to curb excesses, seeking a simple and balanced life.

The Legacy: From Montaigne to Girard, via Nietzsche and Cioran

Montaigne’s intuition was taken up and deepened by other thinkers:

•    François de La Rochefoucauld (17th century) dismantles human virtues in his Maxims: what we call "love of neighbor" is often disguised selfishness.

"In the adversity of our best friends, we always find something that does not displease us."

•    Friedrich Nietzsche goes further in On the Genealogy of Morality: many "noble" desires (justice, equality) are born out of resentment—the secret desire to weaken, lower, or punish the powerful or the different.

•    Emil Cioran (20th century) takes up the spirit of the French moralists with an aphoristic and disillusioned style. For Cioran, action and desire are forms of aggression: desiring something in the world is already a way of asserting oneself over others and displacing their presence. He radicalizes this disillusionment.

•    René Girard (Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World, Violence and the Sacred) posits that human beings do not desire autonomously. He takes the theory to the extreme with mimetic desire: we do not desire objects, but rather what the other desires, because we take the other as a model, which turns us into natural rivals. Desire, for Girard, is intrinsically conflictual and generates violence; our most intimate desires are born from the attempt to deprive the other of their being or their object.

While these authors explore the psychological roots of conflict, Montaigne remains within phenomenological observation: the benefit of one is the detriment of another. There are no judgments, only raw reality.

Conclusion: The Mirror We Cannot Avoid Looking Into

Montaigne holds up a mirror to us: to look within ourselves is to discover that, at heart, many of our desires are built upon the detriment of others. However, unlike moralists or cynics, he does not leave us in despair. His message is twofold:

1.    Intellectual honesty: Recognizing our selfish nature is the first step toward not living a lie.

2.    Inner freedom: Even if the world operates as a zero-sum game, we do not have to be prisoners of that game. The "backroom"—that space of authenticity—is our sanctuary.

In a world where success is measured in likes, wealth accumulation, or victory over others, Montaigne’s reflection remains as relevant as ever. It is not about renouncing desires, but about knowing what we desire and at what price. Because in the end, as he himself would say, true wisdom lies not in changing the world, but in understanding it so as not to let it change us.
 

“The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.”
— Michel de Montaigne, Essays, Book I, Chapter XXXIX

This essay was prepared with the assistance of artificial intelligence tools (Gemini and Mistral AI).

Few Things Are Impossible: Means, Perseverance, and the Condition of Achievement

 
"Few things are impossible in themselves; we usually lack not the perseverance to obtain them, but the means."
— François de La Rochefoucauld

 

Introduction

The debate regarding the boundaries of human achievement perpetually oscillates between the limitations of matter and the weakness of the spirit. Confronted with this dilemma, popular wisdom often resorts to polished adages that seek to settle the issue with elegance. However, upon dissecting these ideas, we discover that what appears to be a mere lexical dispute encapsulates a complex philosophical tension between structure and agency.
«Few things are impossible in themselves; we usually lack not the perseverance to obtain them, but the means.» This maxim, attributed to François de La Rochefoucauld, condenses one of the most persistent questions in moral reflection: what truly separates man from his undertakings? Is it the scarcity of resources or the weakness of the will?
The question is not trivial. Depending on how it is answered, the emphasis shifts toward structure or toward agency, toward the conditioning world or toward the deciding subject. This essay first examines what La Rochefoucauld actually said, then reconstructs the two positions elicited by the maxim, and finally confronts them with their critics, skeptics, and philosophical antipodes, proposing a reading in which means and perseverance are not rivals, but terms in a circular relationship.

I. What La Rochefoucauld Actually Said

It is fitting to begin with a philological clarification. The maxim indeed belongs to La Rochefoucauld and appears in his Maxims (1665), specifically number 243, the original text of which reads:

"Il y a peu de choses impossibles en elles-mêmes; et l'application pour les faire réussir nous manque plus que les moyens."
(“There are very few things impossible in themselves; and rather than the means, what we lack to execute them is application.”)

The nuance is decisive. The popular Spanish translation inverts the meaning of the original: while the version in common circulation claims that means are lacking and will is abundant, the French text asserts the exact opposite: what is lacking is l'application—application, sustained effort, disciplined attention—and not the means. La Rochefoucauld places himself, therefore, on the side that holds the individual responsible rather than scarcity.
This stance is consistent with his intellectual profile. La Rochefoucauld was not a systematic academic philosopher, but a 17th-century French moralist culturally close to Jansenism—an Augustinian movement within Catholicism that stressed human corruption after the Fall and the futility of purely human virtues without divine grace. His moral psychology revolves around amour-propre (self-love): human virtues—generosity, courage, fidelity—are almost always masks for selfishness, vanity, or self-interest. Hence his radical anthropological pessimism and disenchanted lucidity: human beings deceive themselves into believing they act out of noble ideals when they are driven by their passions.

II. The Two Stances: Structure vs. Agency

Read in its popular form, the maxim sets up two opposing interpretations.

The Lack of Means

This perspective holds that desire and will are present, but material reality imposes limits. No matter how much perseverance a person has, they cannot build a bridge without materials or pursue a degree without access to education. Socioeconomic status, geographical environment, or available time act as real barriers that mere intention cannot tear down. Success depends largely on the tools and opportunities available.

The Lack of Perseverance

The opposing stance—which, let us remember, is that of the original text—argues that means are built or found when perseverance is sufficient. True persistence involves searching for, creating, or adapting resources over time. Initial scarcity sharpens ingenuity; long-term focus compensates for a poor start. Those who abandon their goals often blame the means, when in reality they lacked the discipline to sustain the effort long enough.
Each stance hits the mark in its own way. The first demystifies the "where there's a will, there's a way" mentality: recognizing the weight of means prevents unjustified guilt when poverty, physical limitations, or a lack of access to education impose real ceilings. Without a minimum material foundation, perseverance becomes an exhausting effort against an immovable wall. The second, conversely, warns that treating means as a given leads to conformism: perseverance is not repeating an action under the same conditions, but a dynamic process of learning, negotiating, developing skills, and gradually building the resources one lacked.

III. Synthesis: A Circular Relationship

Rather than mutually exclusive positions, both represent complementary dimensions of achievement. The means establish the starting point and initial viability: they determine the speed, required effort, and objective probability of success. Perseverance determines the trajectory and sustainability: it transforms potential into reality and takes charge of seeking or maximizing the available means.
In practice, the relationship between the two is circular: perseverance allows for the accumulation or creation of means, and possessing means facilitates the continuity of effort. The key lies not in the absolute primacy of one over the other, but in the ability to realistically assess available means while maintaining the discipline to expand them.

IV. The Critics of La Rochefoucauld

The Maxims generated controversy from the moment of their publication due to their demystifying view of human nature.

Jean de La Bruyère and traditional moralists considered that reducing the entire complexity of virtue to self-interest was an excessive reductionism. Among Enlightenment thinkers, Voltaire admired the stylistic conciseness of La Rochefoucauld's sentences but criticized his radical pessimism for paralyzing social action and dismissing humanity's moral progress. Rousseau, for his part, rejected the idea that man's natural inclination was cold selfishness: society corrupts an underlying natural goodness. Nietzsche, admiring and critical at once, accepted the diagnosis regarding the falsity of traditional morality, but deemed it symptomatic of a "decadent" or resentful psychology, inherited from Judeo-Christian and Jansenist thought.

V. The Skeptics' Reservations

Confronted with the statement that "few things are impossible in themselves," the skeptical tradition—from ancient Pyrrhonism to the empiricism of David Hume—raises structural objections.
First, the illusion of omnipotence: asserting that almost nothing is impossible is an unfounded faith in human capacity; reality imposes physical, biological, and logical limits that neither will nor means can dissolve. Second, survivorship bias: we record exceptional cases where perseverance overcame adversity while ignoring the overwhelming majority who, with maximum application and means, failed due to chance or structural factors. Third, suspension of judgment (epoché): it is impossible to determine a priori whether the decisive factor was a lack of means, a lack of perseverance, or simply fortune (tyche); attributing success or failure to a single variable is an unfounded dogma.

VI. The Antipodes: Structure and Causality

Two major currents position themselves at the opposite extreme of the maxim.

Structural and Socioeconomic Determinism: Marx and Bourdieu

For the historical materialism of Karl Marx, the premise of The German Ideology summarizes it categorically: "It is not consciousness that determines life, but life that determines consciousness." Relations of production, resources, and social class condition and delimit laws, morality, and the very perception of merit. Without access to the means of production or capital, individual effort is reduced to selling labor power for subsistence. Marx would argue that the idea that "application or perseverance is lacking" is an ideological mechanism that holds the individual accountable for their fate, rendering underlying class inequality invisible.

Pierre Bourdieu deepens this critique in the sociological and cultural domain. His concept of habitus designates the system of durable dispositions that individuals internalize through primary socialization: the capacity to sustain effort, tolerance for frustration, or academic discipline are not magical attributes of the soul, but schemes ingrained by class experience. Added to this are forms of capital—economic (money and goods), cultural (embodied, objectified, and institutionalized), and social (networks and influence). Demanding the same "application" from two individuals with different initial capital is, for Bourdieu, a symbolic violence: whoever possesses adequate cultural capital has not only better means, but the habitus to use them in a way that appears to be natural talent or superior willpower.

Metaphysical Determinism: Spinoza and d'Holbach

On the metaphysical plane, fatalist philosophies maintain that free will is an illusion, which dissolves the maxim from its roots: the assertion that "we lack application" presupposes that the subject had the real alternative to apply more effort than they did.

Baruch Spinoza dismantles free will in his Ethics: everything happens necessarily by the nature of God or Nature (Deus sive Natura). His famous analogy of the conscious stone illustrates this: if a stone thrown into the air had consciousness, it would believe it was flying by its own will. Human beings believe they act out of "free will" simply because they are conscious of their desires, but ignorant of the causes that determine them. The exact amount of attention and persistence an individual displays is the necessary result of their constitution and external affects acting upon them.

Baron d'Holbach, in his System of Nature (1770), takes determinism to a radical mechanistic materialism: man is a physical entity subject to the laws of physics and biology, and his decisions and levels of motivation are nothing more than movements of the brain caused by internal and external stimuli. Under this view, reproaching someone for their "lack of perseverance" is equivalent to reproaching a flame for not burning brighter when it lacks sufficient oxygen: there is no independent "self" outside physical forces that can arbitrarily decide to "have more will."

Conclusion

La Rochefoucauld's maxim—read in its original sense or in its popularized version—has the merit of forcing us to name the two ingredients of all achievement: the means offered by the world and the application contributed by the subject. Its critics, skeptics, and philosophical antipodes fulfill a complementary function: they remind us that the will does not float in a vacuum, that structure does not explain everything, and that chance intervenes without asking for permission.

Perhaps the most honest lesson is this: before any concrete undertaking, it is wise to ask, without dogmatism, what is truly lacking. There are cases where the answer is "means," and honest effort consists of naming the structural injustice that denies them. There are cases where the answer is "application," and honest effort consists of sustaining the discipline that has not yet been deployed. Practical wisdom lies not in choosing once and for all between La Rochefoucauld and Bourdieu, or between Spinoza and the moralist of effort, but in the lucidity to distinguish, case by case, when the wall is outside and when it is inside.

Ultimately, by contrasting the popular quote with La Rochefoucauld's authentic text and confronting his view with skepticism, sociological materialism, and metaphysical determinism, the question of success overflows the simple dichotomy between means and perseverance. It compels us to realistically assess the material conditions and causal forces that shape us, while examining the responsibility with which we manage the discipline possible within our own limits.

In the classical tradition of fable literature, there are three emblematic fables that embody, from complementary angles, the tension raised by La Rochefoucauld between the availability of means and the decisive factor of application, perseverance, and effort:
 

1.    The Tortoise and the Hare (Aesop)

The supreme representation of La Rochefoucauld's original assertion ("We lack the application to make them succeed rather than the means").

o    The Means: The hare possesses all physical means to win the race: speed, agility, and favorable biomechanics. The tortoise completely lacks adequate morphological resources to compete in speed.
o    The Lack of Application: The hare loses not due to a lack of capacity or means, but due to overconfidence, distraction, and a lack of perseverance (l'application). The tortoise, through uninterrupted discipline and absolute focus on execution, compensates for a structural inferiority of means and reaches the goal.
o    Connection: Fits perfectly with the authentic version of La Rochefoucauld's Maxim 243: an abundance of means is useless if one lacks the perseverance to execute them.

2.    The Fox and the Grapes (Aesop / Jean de La Fontaine)

This fable addresses the problem from the psychological bias produced by a lack of means.

o    The Conflict: A hungry fox sees a cluster of ripe grapes high up on a vine. It attempts to reach them repeatedly, but the height exceeds its physical capabilities and means of reach.
o    The Defense Mechanism: Realizing it lacks the means to achieve its goal, the fox gives up and rationalizes its failure by saying: "They don't matter, they're sour."
o    Connection: Illustrates the distortion described by the French moralist: when human beings lack the means or application to achieve an end, they prefer to declare the goal impossible, undesirable, or unworthy, rather than recognize their own limitation or lack of sustained effort to build the ladder to reach it.

3.    The Crow and the Pitcher (Aesop)

Represents the situation where perseverance sharpens ingenuity to supply or create means that are not given beforehand.

o    The Plot: A thirsty crow finds a pitcher with a little water at the bottom, but its beak cannot reach the liquid. Instead of giving up for lack of means (a longer beak), the crow begins dropping small pebbles into the pitcher, one by one.
o    The Result: Through sheer application and patience, the water level rises until the crow can drink.
o    Connection: Reinforces the idea that constant application not only utilizes existing means, but is capable of altering the physical conditions of the environment to generate the means that were missing.

Essay created with AI assistance (Gemini; Mistral) and edited by the user.

Pity and Compassion: The Misconception That Distorted Justice

 “Without mercy, justice degenerates into cruelty.”
—Attributed to Pietro Metastasio

Like almost every aphorism that circulates a bit too freely, this phrase has less to do with its supposed author than with the convenience of having a name to attach to it. Metastasio (1698–1782), the Italian librettist to whom it is most frequently credited, did indeed leave a close version in Italian—“La giustizia senza pietà è crudeltà; la pietà senza giustizia è debolezza” (“Justice without mercy is cruelty; mercy without justice is weakness”)—but the idea did not originate with him. It is a textbook case of conceptual cross-pouring: one person thinks an idea, another says it better, and the saying ends up bearing the signature of the second.

The original thought belongs to Saint Thomas Aquinas, who in the 13th century formulated the underlying theological distinction: justice without mercy is cruelty. Metastasio did not invent the doctrine; he set it to verse. As an expert in moral dramas about sovereignty and clemency—think of La clemenza di Tito or Temistocle—he took the Scholastic maxim and gave it the symmetrical, quotable cadence that circulates from mouth to mouth today. Thomas Aquinas laid down the theory; Metastasio converted it into a dramatic emblem on the exercise of power. For that reason, if you look for the maxim in a compendium of Italian aphorisms or an opera history book, the signature you will find is his.

The idea also saw famous variations over time. As early as patristic biblical commentaries—the Scholastic tradition of Saint John Chrysostom and the Glossa Ordinaria—it was cited early on to warn judges against the two possible extremes: inflexible rigor or arbitrary condescension. Pascal, in his Pensées, revisited it with his own architecture: “Justice without force is impotent; force without justice is tyrannical. Justice without mercy is cruelty.” And C. S. Lewis, in The Abolition of Man and his moral essays, pointed out how the virtues of justice, untethered from everything else, degenerate into mere punitive cruelty when they lose human empathy.

Now then: if mercy without justice degenerates into weakness, the symmetrical proposition is equally true. Justice without mercy empties itself and degenerates into tyranny or savagery—a blind, inhumane rigor—giving rise to the classic precept: summum ius, summa injuria. The supreme, inflexible application of the law ends up becoming the ultimate injustice; it reduces to a punitive automation, indifferent to human suffering. At the other extreme, mercy without justice is no better: it results in arbitrary indulgence, impunity, or favoritism, engendering chaos or tolerating greater harm to the innocent. It is, ultimately, a passive cruelty disguised as goodness. The two virtues require each other to stand: justice provides mercy with rigor and universality; mercy brings humanity and temperance to justice. Neither works alone.
Thus far, the historical journey of the phrase. Yet behind this philological anecdote lies a much deeper discussion touching upon a central point of philosophy, anthropology, and semantics: the confusion between piety (pietas) and compassion (karuṇā, empathy). It is a common conceptual error in everyday language, but one that becomes decisive as soon as one attempts to compare cultural traditions.

That confusion is not abstract: it is, in fact, the core of a genuine controversy. When someone contends that piety did not—or does not—exist in the East, and critics respond by listing examples of aid, charity, or commiseration in Eastern tradition, they are actually defending the existence of compassion, not refuting the argument regarding piety. They are two distinct things, and piety possesses a very specific socio-religious structure native to the Mediterranean and Western Indo-European matrix.

It is worthwhile, then, to separate them precisely.

Compassion, from the Latin cum passio (“to suffer with”), is the capacity to feel another’s pain and be moved to relieve it. It is an emotional and empathetic response of a universal nature, serving directly as the axis of major ethical systems in the East: in Buddhism, karuṇā is one of the supreme virtues for breaking the cycle of suffering (dukkha); in Jainism and Hinduism, the principle of ahiṃsā (non-violence) arises precisely from that compassionate reverence for every living being. Confucianism, for its part, relies on Ren, or benevolence. Demonstrating that there was mercy, almsgiving, or succor for the suffering in Asian antiquity proves nothing unusual: it proves that compassion is a human constant, not a Western monopoly. It is horizontal by definition—it requires no god, no civil mandate, and no blood tie; recognizing the other as an equal in suffering is enough.

Piety, on the other hand, from the Latin pietas, did not originate as a feeling toward the weak. It arose as a cosmic, legal, and ethical principle of fidelity to duty, hierarchy, and the sacred. Its paramount literary exponent is Aeneas in Virgil’s Aeneid, and the classical concept demands the devoted fulfillment of three vertical obligations: to the gods (devotion, ritual, recognition of the divine order), to the fatherland (civic loyalty, sacrifice for the political community), and to family and ancestors (respect for parents, ancestor worship—the pietas erga parentes). In ancient Rome, pietas was not an emotion of pity toward the weak: it was a civic virtue, a patriarchal duty, and a legal and moral obligation. The “pious” man—like Virgilian Aeneas—is the one who fulfills his hierarchical and social duties, not the one who is moved to tears.

When Christianity absorbed the term, it transformed it: devotion to God was extended, through divine filiation, to mercy toward one’s neighbor under the premise that all are children of God. However, the component of vertical duty and divine order did not disappear; it merely shifted form. Piety, in Western philosophical usage, continues to imply a normative bond and a recognition of transcendence, remaining inherently asymmetrical: someone in a superior position—God, a judge, a king, or simply someone fortunate—bestows or feels piety toward someone in a lower or vulnerable position. There lies the fundamental difference with compassion: one is horizontal; the other is vertical.

There remains a final twist, perhaps the most interesting: does piety, in this strict sense, exist outside the West? If defined in its Greco-Roman and Judeo-Christian sense—as an articulating axis between the individual, the city-state, God, and formalized moral law—the answer is that it is a construction unique to the Western tradition. Yet there is a genuine and notable counterpoint: the Confucian Xiào (孝) in China, usually translated as “filial piety,” which demands ritual devotion, respect, and obedience toward parents, ancestors, and the Emperor. Among Eastern traditions, it comes closest to the classical sense of pietas. The difference is that Confucian Xiào centers fundamentally on the familial and communal social order, whereas post-Christian Western pietas fused that vertical loyalty with something the East did not add: the redemption of the soul and transcendent charity.

So the conclusion, if one is to be drawn, is roughly this: the fundamental error of much criticism lies in equating piety with compassion or pity. Compassion is shared pain in the face of another’s misfortune, existing across all human cultures since antiquity—there is no need to prove it, only to look. Piety is something else: a principle of ethical, religious, and filial order grounded in a debt of gratitude and a sacred duty toward the transcendent and traditional institutions. When someone uses “piety” as a structuring theological-political and institutional category of Western thought, and critics respond by citing passages of affective compassion, they are not arguing about the same thing. They are, without realizing it, speaking of two entirely different concepts—and that is almost always the most efficient way to be right without having said anything at all.

Sources consulted:
http://www.pensieriparole.it/aforismi/autori/pietro-metastasio-frasi-migliori/
https://www.frasicelebri.it/frasi-di/pietro-antonio-domenico-bonaventura-trapassi/
https://repositorio.amag.edu.pe/server/api/core/bitstreams/fe91d386-b57d-4d03-afeb-adb2cae80a07/content
https://www.significados.com/piedad
https://humanitas.uanl.mx/index.php/ah/article/download/301/243/596

Text produced with support from advanced language models and manually reviewed.

Bion of Borysthenes.

Bion of Borysthenes. I was unaware of the existence of this philosopher; I didn't even remember ever hearing or reading about him. And now that I am reading Montaigne's Essays, I felt like searching for something related to him. And why Montaigne? Because this author mentions the philosopher Bion on a few occasions. A particularity of Montaigne is that in his work he mentions many characters and events; there, Stoics, Epicureans, Cynics, Pyrrhonists, and humanists coexist—that is, a plurality of voices even though he was, or at least is recognized as, a skeptic. That mix is no coincidence, but a mosaic that reinforces his skepticism: if so many philosophies contradict each other, none can claim absolute truth.

Biography. Who was Bion of Borysthenes?

Entry with the biography in J. Ferrater Mora's Dictionary of Philosophy.
BION OF BORYSTHENES (fl. 230 BC), a student in Athens of the Academic Crates (whose doctrines he harshly criticized), of the Cyrenaic Theodorus, and of the Peripatetic Theophrastus, adhered to Cynicism, which he popularized, especially through the introduction of the literary form known as the diatribe. According to Diogenes Laërtius (IV, 53), Bion of Borysthenes—who had been the slave of a rhetoric master—was distinguished by his literary skill and especially by his brilliant parodies. Now, Bion's Cynicism was much more of a hedonistic type (perhaps influenced by the Cyrenaics) than an ascetic one. Consequently, Bion—like his imitator, Teles, and like Menippus of Gadara—almost completely abandoned the old Cynic idea of effort and the hardening of the wise man to give Cynic life that rhetorical, skeptical, and realistic tone that prevailed during the 3rd and 2nd centuries BC. Horace followed and imitated some of the literary forms developed by Bion.
J. P. Rossignol, Fragmenta Bionis Borysthenitae philosophi, Lutetiae, 1830 and F. W. A. Mullach, Fragmenta philosophorum Graecorum, II, 423 et seq. — On Bion: J. M. Hoogvliet, De vita, doctrina et scriptis Bionis, 1821. — Art. by H. von Arnim on Bion (Bion, 10) in Pauly-Wissowa.

The bronze head of a philosopher was recovered in 1901 from the Antikythera shipwreck. It was part of a life-size statue of the man. Date of creation: between the 3rd century BC and 1st century BC. It is not certain that it represents the figure of the philosopher Bion, although it is the main hypothesis most cited by art historiography. The sculpture—formally known in the National Archaeological Museum of Athens as the Philosopher of Antikythera (3rd century BC)—does not retain any inscription confirming who it is. Therefore, the attribution to Bion of Borysthenes is a probable attribution, but not a definitive one.

•    The Bion of Borysthenes hypothesis: It is the most accepted identification by various archaeologists due to the features of the portrait: an expressive face of maturity, a thick combed beard, and unkempt hair that fit the stylistic profile of Cynic philosophers (the movement to which Bion belonged).
•    Other possible attributions: Over the decades, other specialists have proposed that the portrait could represent the Cynic Antisthenes or contemporary orators/philosophers of the Hellenistic period.

Links.
•    https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archivo:Antikythera_philosopher.JPG
•    The Bronze Head of Antikythera – A Late Classical or Very Early Hellenistic Masterpiece? https://www.researchgate.net/publication/349657262_The_Bronze_Head_of_Antikythera_-_A_Late_Classical_or_Very_Early_Hellenistic_Masterpiece
•    http://odysseus.culture.gr/h/4/eh430.jsp?obj_id=5564

Bion in Montaigne's Text. He mentions Bion. "And the philosopher Bion, speaking of that king who pulled out his hair in grief, was he not witty when he said: 'Does this man think that baldness relieves grief?' Who has not seen people chew and swallow playing cards, or gorge themselves on a bag of dice, to have something on which to avenge the loss of money?" Essays. Montaigne. Book I. Chapter IV. How the soul discharges its passions upon false objects when true ones fail it.
This passage belongs to Chapter IV of Book I of the Essays, and he quotes it just as he is building a broader argument: that the soul, when overwhelmed by passion, needs to discharge itself onto something, and if it does not find the true object (the real cause of grief or anger), it invents a false one just so as not to be left with an unreleased passion. The king pulling his hair out, the gambler biting cards: they are not reasoning; they are acting out emotion on whatever surface is available.
Why Montaigne quotes him. The entire chapter is an accumulation of examples—Caligula wanting to destroy the world over his sister's death, Xerxes lashing the sea, Cyrus taking revenge on a river—that all point to the same thing: passion does not obey reason; it seeks an object even if that object is absurd or non-existent as a real cause. Montaigne is not assembling a systematic thesis (that would be the Stoic approach); he is stacking concrete cases to undermine, through empirical accumulation, the claim that human beings govern their affections with reason.
The connection with skepticism. That is the Pyrrhonian nerve of the essay. The Stoics maintained that reason could—and should—master passion. Montaigne uses these examples as evidence to the contrary: if even kings and philosophers end up biting dice or tearing out their hair, reason does not have the control attributed to it. It is not a frontal attack with a deductive argument; it is the typical technique of the essai: testing the idea with cases, not syllogisms, and letting the accumulation of anecdotes generate doubt. Montaignian skepticism does not say "this is false"; it says "look how much evidence there is that we do not know what we think we know about ourselves." It is failed self-knowledge put on display, not refuted by logic, but by observation.
Bion's specific Cynicism. Bion of Borysthenes was an itinerant philosopher with Cynic training (and also touched by Academic skepticism), famous for his biting diatribes. The phrase about baldness is Cynicism in its purest state: it takes a conventional and "noble" gesture—mourning, tearing out hair as a sign of genuine grief—and reduces it to its absurd literalness. That is the Cynic method: deflating pretension through sharp irony, showing the gap between what the gesture claims to mean and what it actually does.
Why Montaigne turns to Bion and not another. Because Cynicism and skepticism, although starting from different places, function as rhetorical allies: neither builds a positive system; both are corrosive to self-complacency—the Cynic through direct mockery of convention, the skeptic through methodical suspension of judgment. Montaigne, who distrusts any discourse that claims to own the truth about the human soul, finds in Bion's joke a perfect tool: there is no need to refute the Stoic with another treatise; a single phrase exposing the ridiculousness of the gesture is enough. It is exactly his own method on a minimal scale—the Cynic aphorism as a miniature of the skeptical essay. The skeptical essay operates by dismantling absolute certainties through exploration, systematic doubt, and argumentative detours. When that same impulse toward suspicion undergoes maximum condensation, the result is the Cynic aphorism: not a dogmatic maxim seeking to establish a truth, but a quick thrust aimed at dismantling an illusion.

He mentions Bion: "My spirit was always on that side. All things considered, it takes more effort to guard money than to earn it. If I did not do quite as much as I say, at least it cost me an effort to avoid doing it. I derived little or no profit from it. Having more spending capacity did not make it weigh any less heavily on me. For, as Bion used to say, the hairy man gets just as angry as the bald man if his hair is pulled; and once you have accustomed yourself and fixed your fantasy upon a certain pile, it ceases to be at your service. You would not dare diminish it. It is a building that, so it seems to you, will completely collapse if you touch anything. Necessity will have to grab you by the throat for you to reduce it. And previously, I used to pawn my rags and sell a horse far less forcibly and reluctantly than what then made a dent in this favorite purse, which I kept aside. But the danger lay in the fact that one can hardly establish safe limits to this desire—they are hard to find in things believed to be good—and fix a boundary to saving. One continues to enlarge the pile, increasing it from one number to another, until vilely depriving oneself of the enjoyment of one's own goods, basing everything on custody, and not using them. According to this form of use, the richest people in the world are those in charge of guarding the gates and walls of a fine city. Every wealthy man is, in my judgment, avaricious. Plato thus ranks bodily or human goods: health, beauty, strength, wealth. And wealth, he says, is not blind, but very clear-sighted when illuminated by prudence." Essays. Montaigne. Book I. Chapter XL. That the taste of goods and evils depends in large part on our opinion.
This passage is central to Chapter XL because Montaigne is not talking about money in general, but illustrating his thesis: that pleasure and pain do not reside in things themselves, but in the opinion and habit we project onto them. Bion's anecdote is the argumentative hinge of the whole fragment.
Who Bion is and why he quotes him. Bion of Borysthenes is a curious figure: he passed through the Academy, through hedonistic Cyrenaicism, and ended up fixed in the Cynic orbit through Crates (a pupil of Diogenes). He left no system of his own; he left a style—the diatribe, the sharp aphorism, the maxim that strikes without constructing doctrine. Montaigne almost certainly takes him via Plutarch (who collects the same image in On the Love of Wealth), and it serves him perfectly because Montaigne himself proceeds in this way: he does not cite authorities to ground a system, but to "essay" a personal intuition using borrowed material.
The logic of the aphorism (bald/hairy). Bion's point is of almost behavioral precision: the pain of loss is not proportional to the amount one possesses, but to the mental fixation (the "fantasy," as Montaigne says) placed upon it. It hurts the bald man just as much to have his only lock of hair pulled as it does the hairy man to lose one out of a thousand. This is what Montaigne finds in himself: he loses a horse with less anguish or pawns clothes—things he never "accumulated" with attachment—than touching his "favorite purse," precisely because that purse became a symbolic building, not an objective sum.
The skeptical link. There lies the Pyrrhonian heart of the chapter. The title itself—that the taste of goods and evils depends on our opinion—is a classic skeptical thesis: nothing is by nature (physei) good or bad, pleasant or painful; it becomes so by custom and judgment (nomos, doxa). The Pyrrhonists (Sextus Empiricus being the underlying source) held that opposing appearances have equal force (isosthenia) and that suffering arises from dogmatically adhering to the belief that a certain thing "is" valuable. Bion's example is almost a skeptical thought experiment in miniature: it shows that pain does not follow the real magnitude of the loss, but the fixed belief about the object. Montaigne does not say "saving is bad"; he suspends judgment on the objective value of money and demonstrates that suffering is an artifact of the mind, not a property of the thing.
The Cynic link. But the passage does not remain solely within epistemic relativity: it has a moral edge that is purely Cynic. The final paradox—that the richest people in the world are, strictly in terms of use, the guards who watch over the gates and walls of a city—is an inversion in the style of Diogenes: the person who "possesses" actually serves what is possessed; ownership does not liberate, it enslaves in perpetual vigilance. It is the same gesture Diogenes makes by living in a tub and mocking Alexander: real wealth is the reduction of need (autarkeia), not accumulation. When Montaigne says "every wealthy man is, in my judgment, avaricious," he is applying that Cynic diagnosis of pleonexia (the desire that has no natural limit, "safe limits are hard to find… in things believed to be good").
How they connect. Skepticism provides the epistemology (why pain/pleasure has no objective foundation, only opinion); Cynicism provides the ethics (what to do about it: do not fix your fantasy on the pile, because to possess is to begin serving). Montaigne merges them without declaring allegiance to any school—which is exactly his method: he uses Bion as one uses another's tool to carve out an observation about oneself, not to prove a system. Cynic ethics answers the question of what to do after discovering that nothing has intrinsic value. Cynic ethics is active and provocative; skeptical ethics is passive and adaptive. An echo that might resonate: the quote from Plato at the end (wealth as blind except when illuminated by prudence) is almost an anti-Cynic closure within the same paragraph—it tempers the radicalism of Bion and Diogenes with the idea that wealth is not bad in itself, but in the blind relationship one maintains with it. Here Montaigne returns to his usual tone: he does not advocate for asceticism, but for clarity regarding one's own attachment.

He mentions Bion. "They affirm, he says, by virtue of the reason of their judgment, that whatever is told about hell and future punishments is fiction. But when the opportunity to experience it arises, when old age or illness brings them close to death, the terror of it infuses them with a new belief out of horror for their future condition. And since such impressions make minds fearful, he forbids in his laws any instruction regarding such threats, as well as the belief that any evil can come to man from the gods except with a view to a greater good, when appropriate and with a medicinal effect. They tell of Bion that, infected by the atheisms of Theodorus, he had long mocked religious men; but that, when death caught him by surprise, he surrendered to the most extreme superstitions, as if the gods vanished and re-emerged according to Bion's need." Essays. Montaigne. Book II. Chapter XII. An Apology for Raymond Sebond.
This passage belongs to one of the sharpest moments of the Apology for Raymond Sebond, the longest and most radical chapter of the Essays, where Montaigne develops his Pyrrhonian skepticism against the presumption of human reason.
The argument Montaigne is building. Just before mentioning Bion, Montaigne is discussing an idea he takes from Plato (The Laws): that although hell and future punishments may be "fictions"—useful constructs, not rationally proven truths—those same fictions re-emerge with full force the moment death approaches. Old age or illness causes terror to reactivate a belief that reason had discarded. For this reason, he says, the prudent lawmaker forbids teaching that the gods can do harm to man except for a "medicinal" purpose (a kind of therapeutic, non-dogmatic theology).
Bion as concrete proof of that thesis. Bion of Borysthenes is the historical example Montaigne uses so as not to remain in abstraction. Bion was a curious figure: he passed through several schools (including the Cyrenaic, hence the "contagion" with the atheism of Theodorus, a follower of that movement) and ended up adopting the Cynic style—a wandering life, biting satire, provocative contempt for conventions, including religious ones. He became famous for openly mocking pious people.
But according to the anecdote (which comes from Diogenes Laërtius, and which Montaigne probably knew through Plutarch), when death came upon him, Bion abandoned that posture and fell into the most extreme superstition. Montaigne concludes with a devastating phrase: "as if the gods vanished and re-emerged according to Bion's need"—that is, Bion's gods were not the object of a stable conviction (neither in atheism nor in faith), but a reflection of his own mood and fear.
How it connects to Montaigne's skepticism. Here is the core: Montaigne does not use this example to mock Bion or to defend official religion. He uses it to demonstrate the radical inconstancy of human reason in the face of passions, which is the engine of the entire Apology. His point is: Bion's religious "Cynicism" or skepticism was not a solid rational conclusion, but an intellectual posture, almost a rhetorical fashion (Bion was famous precisely for his biting wit, for dressing philosophy "in courtezan robes," according to Eratosthenes' famous phrase about him). It was surface skepticism, maintained as long as there was nothing at stake. When a real existential threat appears (death), that position collapses instantly, revealing that underneath there was no deep rational conviction, but pure fear disguised as philosophical certainty.
This is exactly the type of argument Montaigne repeats time and again in the Apology: reason does not govern man; it is governed by him—by his humors, his fear, his vanity. Neither the defiant atheism of Bion alive nor his desperate superstition dying were the result of a stable judgment; they are two sides of the same weakness. That is why Montaigne, later in the same chapter, will extend this distrust to all human claims of knowing ultimate truths through reason alone, which forms the basis of his fideism: if not even the sharpest philosopher can maintain a firm stance in the face of death, what authority does reason have to rule on the divine?
In summary: Bion is mentioned neither as a villain nor as a buffoon, but as a mirror of man in general—living proof that "rational" convictions regarding gods and death are, for Montaigne, more an effect of circumstances and passions than a stable achievement of the understanding.
Connection with modern skepticism. I will take a phrase to relate it to a more modern and current reading of skepticism. The phrase "maintained as long as there was nothing at stake" is the perfect gateway to connect Montaigne with Nassim Nicholas Taleb's contemporary concept of "skin in the game," as well as his critique of superficial and bookish skepticism. Fake skepticism vs. flesh-and-blood skepticism. For Taleb (and for Montaigne), there is a vast difference between opining from the comfort of an ivory tower and suffering the real consequences of your actions or beliefs.

•    Bion (the case Montaigne refers to): Played at being a skeptic or a Cynic when everything was going well. He had an elegant "opinion" about death and the gods, but it was a theoretical stance.
•    The acid test: When the Grim Reaper arrives (the real threat), that intellectual conviction evaporates because it was never anchored in the reality of "skin in the game." It was merely rhetoric to impress at banquets. Skin in the Game. In Taleb's philosophy, no one can consider themselves the owner of a true belief or knowledge if they have nothing to lose by it. If you say you do not fear death or that you despise religion, but you enter into absolute panic and recant everything at the first symptom of a serious illness, it proves that your stance lacked skin in the game. Montaigne, being a great precursor of this existential empiricism (bringing philosophy down from its metaphysical pedestal and placing it directly on the terrain of everyday experience), detested armchair philosophy. For him, ideas are worth as much as a man's behavior when life gets difficult. Montaigne's true skepticism is not an abstract mental game; it is a humble acceptance of our bodily weakness and our passions. Superficial skepticism vs. deep skepticism. Taleb frequently distinguishes between intellectuals who theorize about the world ("intellectual yet idiots" or IYI) and those who operate in the real world under risk.
•    Bion's superficial skepticism survives only in the absence of risk.
•    Montaigne's radical skepticism, by contrast, is profoundly honest: it recognizes that reason is weak before passions and fear because both share the same mortal flesh.

Why do some authors label Bion as a "hedonistic philosopher"?
A biography defines him as: "Bion of Borysthenes (c. 325–250 BC) was a Cynic philosopher known for his provocative style and his hedonistic approach within Cynicism."
They call him a hedonistic philosopher (or, more precisely, a hedonistic Cynic) due to his blend of Cynicism with Cyrenaic influences.
Diogenes Laërtius places him among the Academics due to his initial training, but modern scholars consider him an atypical Cynic.
He studied under several schools: the Academy (Xenocrates and Crates of Athens), Cynics, Theodorus the Atheist (a Cyrenaic philosopher), and Theophrastus (Peripatetic). The influence of Theodorus and the Cyrenaics is key: they advocated pleasure (especially physical and immediate pleasure) as the supreme good.
His Cynicism was not the ascetic and rigorous style of Diogenes of Sinope. According to sources like Ferrater Mora's dictionary, "Bion's Cynicism was much more of a hedonistic type (perhaps influenced by the Cyrenaics) than an ascetic one." He largely abandoned the idea of the extreme hardening of the wise man and adopted a more rhetorical, skeptical, realistic, and accommodating tone.
He accepted, in the Cyrenaic style, making use of present circumstances (wealth or poverty) and diverse social roles, including relationships with kings (such as his connection with Antigonus Gonatas). Diogenes Laërtius describes him as someone who sometimes lived in a degree of luxury, moved from city to city, adopted young men, and was a "lover of himself," though these accounts stem partly from hostile sources.
In summary: he was not a pure hedonist in the style of Aristippus of Cyrene, but an eclectic Cynic who softened classic Cynic rigor with hedonistic/Cyrenaic elements. That is why Spanish Wikipedia presents him directly as a "hedonistic Cynic and skeptical philosopher," and he is known for popularizing a more flexible and satirical version of Cynicism that influenced the diatribe and Latin authors such as Horace.
The label reflects that philosophical hybridization rather than a systematic defense of pleasure as the sole end. He is difficult to fit into a single neat box, which is why labels often appear together or with nuances: atypical Cynic, hedonistic Cynic, eclectic, etc. He is difficult to fit because he did not allow himself to be boxed in. That very difficulty is what makes him interesting. That combination makes him a hybrid figure of the early Hellenistic period: Cynicism was transforming, moving away from harsher rigorism and drawing closer to more rhetorical, skeptical, and "realistic" forms. Bion precisely represents that transitional moment. That is why modern scholars usually say "Cynic with strong hedonistic/Cyrenaic inclinations" or "atypical Cynic" instead of forcing him into a single label.

Links:
•    https://www.ferratermora.org/ency_filosofo_ad_bion.html
•    https://symploke.trujaman.org/Bion_de_Bor%EDstenes
•    https://www.informacion.es/sociedad/2026/05/13/bion-boristenes-filosofo-cinico-hedonista-130091097.html
•    https://concepto.de/hedonismo/
•    https://e-torredebabel.com/compendio-de-las-vidas-de-los-filosofos-antiguos-bion/
 

Something interesting to me, given my interest in chance, randomness, luck, and fortune, are these two fragments: "Far from considering her a deity properly speaking, the early Cynics despised Fortune, refused to take her seriously, and interpreted her blows as a stimulus for moral effort. However, starting with Bion of Borysthenes (c. 335–245 BC), their attitude changed significantly. They sought to accept whatever she sent them, regarding her as the khorēgos of the great human comedy, the director who assigns each person their role on the stage of life, and whom, therefore, we must obey." "Only one of his ideas cannot be attributed to the first generation of Cynic thought. It arises when Bion expresses himself regarding the idea of Tychē, Fortune. In fragment 16 Kindstrand, preserved in Teles' diatribe On Self-Sufficiency, Bion compares Fortune to a poet. The poet distributes roles to actors, and good actors know how to perform well in their roles. Similarly, Fortune distributes roles to men, and good men know how to accept the roles assigned to them: one is a king and another a beggar; one commands and the other is commanded. Consequently, Bion advises every man to accept the role assigned to him. This attitude is markedly different from that maintained by earlier Cynics, who criticized Fortune and laughed at her attacks. But this is the only aspect, I believe, that does not agree with Diogenes. Thus Bion could very well have found the content of his critiques in Cynicism, even if he expressed them in his own particular style." The Cynics. R. Bracht Branham; M.-O. Goulet-Cazé (Eds). Seix Barral Manuales de la Cultura. 2000.

The fragment highlights one of the most interesting philosophical evolutions of Cynicism: the transition from frontal combat to strategic acceptance of life. Early Cynicism (Diogenes, Crates): Provocation and combat. Initially, Tychē (Fortune/Chance) was not seen as a sacred destiny, but as a rival to be challenged. For the early Cynics, setbacks of luck were not misfortunes, but a "moral gymnastics" (askēsis). Poverty or exile were not suffered: they were actively used to demonstrate the wise man's autarky (self-sufficiency) and apathy (imperturbability). The shift with Bion of Borysthenes: The theater metaphor. Bion introduces a crucial nuance that would enormously influence later Stoicism (especially Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius): life as a theatrical play.
Fortune is no longer an enemy to fight against, but the khorēgos (the producer/director of the play). You do not choose whether you play the role of king, beggar, or servant; your sole moral duty is to flawlessly act the role assigned to you by the director, without wishing for another.

The diatribe. *"Quite simply, the map of Greek literature was never the same after the Cynics. Nor were their innovations limited to prose: the Cynics wrote in iambics, elegiacs, and hexameters, and Cercidas invented a new meter, the meliamb, for a political poem from a Cynic perspective.
The diatribe, frequently associated with Bion of Borysthenes, constitutes another fine example of a form that was certainly extra-literary or oral in the Classical period, and which the Cynics established as a characteristic part of their own literary repertoire."* The Cynics. R. Bracht Branham; M.-O. Goulet-Cazé (Eds). Seix Barral Manuales de la Cultura. 2000.

 The concept of the diatribe as a written work arose in the 3rd century BC, attributed to Bion of Borysthenes, the Greek Cynic philosopher. Just as some authors credit him with inventing it as a genre, others argue that he brought it from the oral world into the written world, and others hold that he was the one who popularized it.
A diatribe (from Classical Greek: διατριβή, diatribē, "spoken discourse," "lecture") is a violent, sometimes abusive text directed against individuals or social groups. As a written work, its purpose was to reach a broader audience, although at that time it did not carry the somewhat offensive connotation the word has today; rather, it consisted of Bion's humorous yet sharp attacks against human flaws and weaknesses.
In its original meaning, this term named brief ethical speeches delivered by Cynic and Stoic philosophers. However, due to the polemical tone that typically characterized these popular moral lectures, the concept quickly shifted toward its modern sense of invective.
 

Core sources:
•    The Essays. Michel de Montaigne. (According to the 1595 edition by Marie de Gournay). Prologue by Antoine Compagnon. Edited and translated by J. Bayod Brau. Digital edition. Epublibre 2014. https://archive.org/details/montaigne-michel-de.-los-ensayos-epl-fs-1580-2014/mode/2up
•    https://www.cervantesvirtual.com/obra-visor/ensayos-de-montaigne--0/html/
•    Montaigne. Essays (I)(II)(III). Complete edition. Ediciones Orbis. 1984. Translation by Juan G. de Luaces.

Transparency note: This article was drafted with the assistance of Claude, Gemini, and Grok for text analysis and structuring. The illustrations, informative graphics, and visual infographics were generated with the support of Gemini, Copilot, and ChatGPT.