“It is impossible to live a pleasant life without living wisely and well and justly…” — Epicurus
I first met Epicurus not in a togaed lecture hall of antiquity but on a cracked sidewalk in my early twenties, clutching a second-hand paperback called The Art of Happiness like a survival manual. I was broke, heart-bruised, and wandering the alleyways of philosophy looking for something—anything—that didn’t reek of performance or piety.
Most of what I’d found up to that point offered either stoic resignation (endure!) or cosmic grandeur (transcend!). Epicurus was different. He didn’t sell me on virtue for virtue’s sake or promise escape through enlightenment. Instead, he invited me into his garden, poured me a simple cup of wine, and said: “Let’s talk about pleasure.”
Not the fast-burning pleasure of dopamine culture. Not the hollow promises of late-night ads or the cloying sweetness of “treat yo’ self” consumerism. No, Epicurus meant something quieter. More durable. Something like peace.
The Garden, Not the Marketplace
Epicurus opened his school in a humble Athenian garden around 306 BCE—a move that wasn’t just logistical, but symbolic. Unlike Plato’s Academy or Aristotle’s Lyceum, which attracted the elite and the ambitious, the Garden welcomed everyone—women, freed slaves, and outcasts. It was a philosophical commons for those hungry not just for knowledge but for a way of life.
That already makes him a kindred spirit to us Rogue Learners and Guerrilla Bloggers. Epicurus saw learning not as ladder-climbing but as life-crafting. His teachings were meant to be used, lived, and sipped like wine at sunset, not hoarded in scrolls or filtered through a tenured gatekeeper.
If Soulcruzer had a sister school in ancient Athens, it might just be the Garden.
Pleasure as Compass, Not Destination
To understand Epicurus is to rescue the word pleasure from the wreckage of marketing and misunderstanding. He’s been miscast for centuries as a hedonist in the modern sense—greedy for indulgence and blind to consequence. But Epicurus was a minimalist of desire. A connoisseur of enough.
He divided desires into three categories:
- Natural and necessary – food, shelter, friendship, peace of mind.
- Natural but unnecessary – luxury, fine wine, sensual excess.
- Neither natural nor necessary – fame, power, wealth.
His advice? Satisfy the first, enjoy the second in moderation, and dismiss the third as distractions that lead to anxiety, not happiness.
Epicurus believed that ataraxia—a state of serene contentment—was the truest pleasure. Not a climax, but a quieting. Not a conquest, but a clarity. He saw unnecessary desire as noise. And in a world like ours—drenched in alerts, notifications, and algorithmically optimised cravings—that feels more radical than ever.
Friendship Over Fame
Here’s a detail I always return to: Epicurus believed friendship was one of the greatest sources of pleasure. Not influence. Not success. Just connection.
The Garden wasn’t just a school. It was a micro-society built on companionship, dialogue, and mutual support. Epicurus wrote to friends often, and even in his final days—racked with illness—he reportedly found solace in the thought of his companions.
In a hyper-networked world where we’re told to chase followers and impressions, Epicurus reminds us that the truest metric is not reach, but resonance. Not how many people read your words, but how deeply they echo in the life of another.
That’s the kind of philosophy I want crackling around this digital campfire.
Death, Demystified
Let’s not tiptoe around it—Epicurus had a lot to say about death. And perhaps no idea of his is more liberating than this: “Death is nothing to us.”
Why? Because where death is, we are not—and where we are, death is not. To fear death, he argued, is to suffer twice: once in dread, and once in dying.
This wasn’t denial. It was clarity. Epicurus didn’t believe in an afterlife. For him, life was the main stage. And the purpose of philosophy wasn’t to prepare for something beyond, but to teach us how to live fully here and now.
There’s something in that worth remixing for our post-digital, burnout-prone age. We who scroll through crisis after crisis, numbing ourselves with distraction or doom—what if we took death seriously enough to stop fearing it, and instead used it as a reminder to really live?
A Rogue Learner’s Takeaway
Epicurus doesn’t offer flashy mantras or self-help hacks. His wisdom unfolds more like a well-brewed tea than an energy drink. But for the curious mind willing to slow down and listen, he offers something deeply countercultural—and deeply needed.
- Question your desires. Are they yours, or inherited? Are they freeing you or binding you?
- Curate your pleasures. Let simple joys and deep friendships anchor your days.
- Cultivate serenity. Not as escape, but as the ground from which real life grows.
- Live lightly. Remember death, not to fear it, but to focus your attention on what matters.
In an age of excess, Epicurus is a minimalist sage.
In a culture of noise, he is a whisper.
In a world obsessed with more, he dares us to ask: What is enough?
So here’s to Epicurus. May his garden flourish again in our blogs, our minds, and our everyday rebellions. And may we all find a little more ataraxia as we wander.
Further Reading + Rabbit Holes:
- Letter to Menoeceus – Epicurus’ guide to life and death
- The Art of Happiness by Epicurus, trans. George K. Strodach
- How to Be an Epicurean by Catherine Wilson (a modern spin on his philosophy)
- The School of Life on Epicurus – video essay
- Explore: What is ataraxia?
Let me know in the comments: Where do you find your simplest, most soul-satisfying pleasures? What unnecessary desires are you ready to release?
The campfire’s open. Let’s talk.
—Clay 🔥