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On Taking 50-60 credit hours each Semester (adjusting)

Last edited time
2025/04/09 07:46
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In writing this, I think I made a decent account for the Stoics, less so the Epicureans—I am sure Judah, an avid Epicurean, is pleased by this (this is sarcasm). That is alright as I’ll have a featured section specifically for referencing Ancient Philosophy Ethics at some point in time in this website, haha. I’ll blame this on my friend Joshua, who is making his way through Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations, and my other friend David, who I am actively trying to convert to Stoicism. This is all part of a ploy to have a Virtue Ethicist (me), an Epicurean (Judah), and a couple of Stoics (David and Josh) in my philosophical arsenal so to say.
Cover Art
Edgar Degas; 1874. The Dance Class.
By
Hojae Kirkpatrick
1 more property
Sections
To those that question its plausibility—especially to my friend, David, who checked if this page was up everyday in class at 9:00 AM.

Introduction:

What’s up! This will be my first real blog post, or at least an equivalent of one? Not sure, though people always ask how it is even possible to juggle six majors and an insane number of credit hours. Thus, I wanted to take a moment to write about my experience navigating through different degree plans and schools, and hopefully, it will help you do the same or at least become more comfortable with college. Even if it risks sounding arrogant, I genuinely believe anyone could or has the capacity to do this. I’ve never really cared much for showing off about it—but at this point, it’s honestly become kind of this running joke. When it is brought up, the conversation usually goes something like this,
Friend: “Hey Hojae, what are you studying?”
Hojae: “I’m studying [insert majors].”
Friend: “Wait, how are you even doing that?”
Hojae: “I take around 50 credit hours.”
Friend: “You do this per year?”
Hojae: “No, a semester.”
Maybe it is a bit like the Epicureans—where their pleasant, often minimalist lifestyle helps them appreciate more by needing less. For instance, Epicurus once stated, “If you wish to be rich, do not add to your money, but subtract from your desires.” However, is it not ironic how the word Epicurean, or even calling someone an epicure, now suggests a deep love for food and indulgent pleasures. Even one of the top food websites is called Epicurious. We can discuss the full reasons why this is so some other time, since I am mainly trying to draw an analogy here, but this is a mis- reading or labeling of their philosophy. Yes, running around saying, “I’ll enjoy this food more than you” is off-putting and risks sounding arrogant, and Lucretius’ grand poetic flair in his writing that bordered on a superiority complex did not help, but Epicureanism is not outright Aristippus’ classical hedonism, certainty not in terms of food consumption. One might view it as a form of psychological hedonism, where the want is to reduce anxiety and stress. In this view, the psychological issue with overeating, or with indulging in ever more greed, is that it contradicts the Epicurean understanding of hedonism, which prioritizes lasting tranquility over fleeting indulgence. The Epicureans regard certain things as excessive and corrosive, whether it brings you immediate physical pleasure or not. By having what is necessary, claimed to be easy to obtain with the right community and mindset, they learned to appreciate the other absences and presences. They would also likely find it strange, perhaps unsettling, that so many Americans eat alone and without the company of friends or family.
Or take the Stoics, who’ve gained mainstream attention to “managing” emotions. I regret to say, emotional numbness or forcing mental toughness by suppressing feelings is not what Stoicism is about. Rather, it’s about detaching from attachments and personal preferences, transmuting negativity to righteous conduct, and cultivating discipline through recognizing the absence of control over external things. You must examine what really belongs to you, and for the most part, that is your mind, not your material possessions. In strict Stoic philosophy, even your closest relationships are not exempt—virtue is the highest value, everything else may be nice to have, but not necessary for the good life—they become indifferent. If your children, for instance, became an obstacle to your pursuit of virtue, you would be expected to let go of your attachment to them. As Epictetus wrote, “If you kiss your child, say to yourself, ‘I am kissing a mortal.’” At first, this may sound cold, but the intent is to train the mind to focus on what we can influence—since relying on what lies outside our control only leads to suffering. This doesn't mean you can’t love your parents or your child. Of course you can. After all, they gave you life, or you to them. But Stoicism calls for love based in virtue, where it must be rational and productive not a clinging indulgence or dependence. That is what is meant by a preferred indifference: something you can appreciate, even cherish, but must be willing to part with if virtue demands it. Notice, the standard for virtue is also cutthroat: you either live in accordance with virtue, or you do not. There is no halfway. So if you are afraid and that fear holds you back, a Stoic won’t try to calm or comfort you down in the usual sense. Instead, they’ll challenge or question the very belief that what you fear is actually bad. The problem, they’d say, is not the fear itself, but the judgment behind it. Once that mistaken belief is corrected, the emotion either fades or aligns with reason—what they consider a rational mental state, complimented by virtue. The state of mind, then, is not the result of anything external, by contrast all is from an individuals’ respective perceptions. This is why you have Seneca in his letter titled Consolation to Helvia, telling his grieving mother, Helvia, to not wallow or cry over his exile, but to simply “go learn philosophy.” The most loving advice was an invitation.
Yes, I know I said I was just “trying to draw an analogy,” and then went off the rails a bit. I was highly considering putting Aristotle in here, but I like him too much, and I know I’d end up spending hours writing about him.
Likewise, it is not that I particularly enjoy school or that I am naturally drawn to do any of this. To me, it is simply a challenge worth facing—even if it means enduring the “torture” of endless assignments and “miseries” of sleep deprivation. Nor that I am entirely that smart by any means, which is an easy assumption people tend to make, but it oversimplifies everything. I could list countless examples, take my mention in The Village of the Fish for instance, where even Robert Frost’s poem is misunderstood. There is always more to the picture, sacrifices and thoughts that go hidden. You have to wonder—why does a scholar spend years studying a philosophy when its message can be caught in a glance?

On Logistics:

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On Reason:

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Closing Thoughts:

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