So tell me — can anyone call this person sane? He's like someone caught in a hurricane. He doesn't walk; he gets dragged along. He's enslaved by mindless fury. He won't let anyone else handle his revenge. He has to do it himself, raging in both thought and action. He butchers the people he loves most — the same people he'll soon be crying over. Would anyone want this passion as virtue's helper and companion? It destroys calm reasoning, and virtue can't do anything without that.
What, then? can any one call this man sane, who, as though caught up by a hurricane, does not go but is driven, and is the slave of a senseless disorder? He does not commit to another the duty of revenging him, but himself exacts it, raging alike in thought and deed, butchering those who are dearest to him, and for whose loss he himself will ere long weep. Will any one give this passion as an assistant and companion to virtue, although it disturbs calm reason, without which virtue can do nothing?