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When a man prides himself on being able to understand and interpret the writings of Chrysippus, say to yourself:-- If Chrysippus had not written obscurely, this fellow would have had nothing to be proud of.
But what is it that I desire? To understand Nature, and to follow her! Accordingly I ask who is the Interpreter. On hearing that it is
Chrysippus, I go to him. But it seems I do not understand what he wrote. So I seek one to interpret that. So far there is nothing to pride myself on. But when I have found my interpreter, what remains is to put in practice his instructions. This itself is the only thing to be proud of.
But if I admire the interpretation and that alone, what else have I turned out but a mere commentator instead of a lover of wisdom?--except indeed that I happen to be interpreting Chrysippus instead of Homer. So when any one says to me, Please, read me Chrysippus, I am more inclined to blush, when I cannot show my deeds to be in harmony and accordance with his sayings.