There's no doubt about it: when you look at your tormentor with contempt, you rise above the crowd and see them from a higher place. True greatness means not feeling the blows that come your way. Think of a huge wild animal that slowly turns to look at yapping dogs. Think of waves crashing uselessly against a great cliff. The person who doesn't get angry stays unshaken by injury. The person who gets angry has been moved by it. But the person I've described — the one who sits too high for any harm to reach him — holds the highest good in his arms. He can reply not just to any person, but to fortune herself: "Do what you want. You're too weak to disturb my peace. Reason forbids it, and I've put reason in charge of my life. Getting angry would hurt me more than your violence ever could." 'More harm?' you ask. Yes, absolutely. I know exactly how much damage you've done to me. But I have no idea what terrible things anger might make me do.
It canot be doubted that he who regards his tormentor with contempt raises himself above the common herd and looks down upon them from a loftier position: it is the property of true magnanimity not to feel the blows which it may receive. So does a huge wild beast turn slowly and gaze at yelping curs: so does the wave dash in vain against a great cliff. The man who is not angry remains unshaken by injury: he who is angry has been moved by it. He, however, whom I have described as being placed too high for any mischief to reach him, holds as it were the highest good in his arms: he can reply, not only to any man, but to fortune herself: “Do what you will, you are too feeble to disturb my serenity: this is forbidden by reason, to whom I have entrusted the guidance of my life: to become angry would do me more harm than your violence can do me. ‘More harm?’ say you. Yes, certainly: I know how much injury you have done me, but I cannot tell to what excesses anger might not carry me.”