Today, I want to share with you a text by Alain that has made me reflect deeply. This piece is titled “On Passions” 1.
In his analysis, the philosopher explores a dimension that unsettles our cherished Stoic truth. He delves into how our own supposedly rational thoughts, when used to free us from passion, can backfire and inadvertently become instruments of our own suffering.
I enjoy encountering new theories, especially those that sometimes complement or contradict the foundational ideas I hold dear. It forces me to expand my thinking, to avoid becoming trapped in any rigid dogma.
And that’s a good thing—I’m an advocate of contradiction. Because it pushes me to reflect more deeply, perhaps to uncover new truths or to recognize that multiple truths can coexist for a single issue. In this particular text by Alain, he raises an essential question: does reasoning truly free us from the chains of our passions (and our inner disturbances)?
Alain begins by referencing the classic Stoic approach we’re familiar with—the emphasis on controlling our judgments and training our minds to discern good from evil, rational from irrational. But he argues that this approach is incomplete and insufficient.
For Alain, thinking can indeed be a good thing, but the act of thinking itself often carries within it the very pain we unknowingly inflict upon ourselves.
To him, it’s straightforward: passion sustains itself because of our ability to reason, as this reasoning process is often biased. When a passion overtakes us—be it love, hatred, or shame—our mind fixates on the same object. And rather than soothing this inner turmoil, this fixation feeds it further. Our intelligence exacerbates the situation, our agitation grows stronger, and our thoughts become increasingly irrational as we seek to justify or understand what is happening to us.
The issue, as you know, is rumination. You reflect on what you could have said or done differently. Your intentions are good. As a Stoic at heart, you try to apply the reasoning skills you’ve worked so hard to develop. Yet, instead of gaining the clarity you’re striving for, you become entangled in the complex web of a system far too powerful to control completely. Rather than gaining distance from the situation, you replay the events over and over—blaming yourself, making excuses, or conjuring up imaginary scenarios where you triumph. The intellectual effort you make, instead of freeing you, deepens the wound.
Why? Because every new thought that arises provides yet another foothold for the cycle of passion to renew itself.
Intelligence becomes a double-edged sword.
This paradox is what Alain highlights in his text: intelligence, the tool of reflection and problem-solving, can amplify the problem when you fail to step outside its framework. If you keep centering your thoughts on yourself—“Why is this happening to me?”—instead of stepping away from them, your reasoning becomes biased. These thoughts feel entirely logical to you, and that’s the trap. You believe you’re seeing clearly, analyzing objectively, when in reality you’re locking yourself into an emotional sophism (a false reasoning that appears true).
What Alain denounces is this illusion of clarity, one of the most insidious aspects of passion. Our thoughts, which should be our allies in regaining control, become our enemies, turning their strength against us—like a sword forged for defense that ends up wounding its creator.
Stoicism tells us, after all, that it is not events themselves that disturb us, but our judgments about them. Therefore, we must think rationally. We must master these judgments. The seasoned Stoic knows, however, that this illusion of mastery is false. It’s more about identifying pre-cognitive emotions, analyzing them, applying dispassionate judgment, and letting them go.
But Alain’s perspective invites us to approach things differently. He goes further, explaining that even when we are aware of these judgments, we may still remain trapped. Why? Because the engine of passion is not purely intellectual; it is also deeply rooted in our body and imagination. This blend of mind and body creates a situation where every attempt at rationalization becomes an unconscious justification of the passion itself.
Let me give you an example: a jealous person might try to reason with themselves—“Maybe I’m imagining things; this is all unfounded.” But in attempting to reassure themselves, they revisit the same scenarios repeatedly, clinging to every detail that seems to confirm their jealousy. In doing so, they feed their passion instead of calming it.
Alain goes even further, noting that passion doesn’t even require the physical presence of the object that provoked it. It relies on your imagination. So, even if the source of your hatred or desire disappears, you continue to summon it mentally. Your mind recreates and amplifies the trigger, often distorting reality in the process. Your own thoughts become your tormentors. You no longer suffer because of the external event or person but because of the story you build internally.
We Stoics recommend returning to objective reality and dispelling the illusions of imagination. But Alain emphasizes how nearly insurmountable this task can be because our minds seem trapped by an inner magic, an “occult power,” as he calls it.
So, what does Alain advise?
What is his solution?
Compassion and humility toward ourselves.
We are not perfectly rational machines capable of mastering everything, and it is precisely this awareness that can paradoxically free us. Instead of battling against ourselves or blaming ourselves, we can recognize the necessity of what is happening within us as a process that goes beyond sheer willpower. And in this process, Alain speaks to us, through Descartes, of our bodies—of the biological mechanisms in our physiology that often operate beneath the surface of our consciousness. These are the results of the complex interaction between mind and body. It is not always our reason that fails us, but sometimes simply a bodily imbalance, an “external necessity” against which it is futile to fight directly. By ceasing to judge ourselves and integrating this Cartesian truth, I see a key to approaching our passions with less severity and perhaps a little more kindness, opening the door to a different kind of mastery—a gentler, deeper mastery of our inner states.
Is this fundamentally opposed to Stoicism? I don’t believe so. On the contrary, it sheds light on and enriches our teachings by demystifying the overly simplistic idea of “master your thoughts.” Alain’s theory first invites us to recognize the subtle traps along this path. Then, it brings us closer to a true acceptance of the course of things—not only of what happens externally but also of what arises within your body and soul: nature itself in action.
I leave this to your judgment, my friend.
And now, I leave you with the original text:
"One bears passion less easily than illness, likely because passion seems to arise entirely from our character and ideas, while still carrying the signs of an invincible necessity. When physical pain causes us to suffer, we recognize in it the mark of the external necessity that surrounds us; and all is well within us, except for the suffering itself. When a present object, through its appearance, its sound, or its smell, provokes in us vivid movements of fear or desire, we can still blame external things and avoid them in order to regain our balance.
But with passion, there is no such hope; for if I love or hate, it is not necessary for the object to be in front of my eyes. I imagine it—and even transform it—through an inner work akin to poetry. Everything brings me back to it. My reasoning becomes sophistic and appears sound to me; and often, it is the clarity of intelligence itself that strikes me at my most vulnerable point.
It is not emotions themselves that cause as much suffering. A sudden fright throws you into flight, and in such moments, you scarcely think of yourself. But the shame of having been afraid, if someone shames you for it, will turn into anger or endless discourse. Above all, it is the shame you feel in your own eyes when you are alone—especially at night, in the forced stillness of rest—that becomes unbearable. At such times, you experience it, so to speak, at your leisure and without hope. Every arrow is launched by you and returns to wound you. You are your own enemy.
When the passionate person has convinced themselves that they are not ill and that nothing currently prevents them from living well, they come to this realization: 'My passion is me, and it is stronger than me.'
There is always remorse and dread in passion, and rightly so, it seems to me; for one asks oneself, 'Should I govern myself so poorly? Should I dwell endlessly on the same things?' This leads to humiliation. But there is also dread, for one wonders, 'Is it my very mind that is poisoned? Are my own thoughts working against me? What is this magical power that drives my thinking?' Magic is indeed the right word here.
I believe it is the strength of passions and the inner enslavement they produce that led humans to the idea of an occult power or a curse inflicted by a word or a glance. Unable to regard themselves as physically ill, the passionate person sees themselves as cursed, and this belief provides endless material for self-torture.
Who can account for these vivid sufferings that have no tangible source? The prospect of unending torment, which worsens with every passing minute, drives such individuals to embrace death with joy.
Much has been written on this subject, and the Stoics have left us beautiful arguments against fear and anger. But it was Descartes who, for the first time—and he took pride in this—directly addressed the issue in his Treatise on the Passions. He demonstrated that passion, although entirely a state of our thoughts, nonetheless depends on movements within our bodies. It is through the flow of blood and the course of some unknown fluid traveling through the nerves and brain that the same ideas return to us so vividly in the silence of the night. This physical agitation escapes our awareness; we see only its effects. Or, conversely, we believe it results from the passion, when in fact it is the physical movement that sustains the passion.
If one truly understood this, one would spare oneself all reflective judgment—whether on dreams or on passions, which are merely more coherent dreams. One would recognize in them the external necessity to which we are all subject, instead of blaming and cursing oneself.
One would say to oneself: 'I am sad; I see everything in black. But events are not to blame, nor are my thoughts. It is my body that insists on reasoning; these are opinions of the stomach.'"