The English words empathy, sympathy, and compassion are used inconsistently; a dictionary will not sort them out.* For this discussion, I will posit the following definitions:

• Empathy: An imaginative identification with someone else’s emotion. This is not just a belief that another person’s feels a certain way, but a kind of mirroring of the feeling. For example, if you are angry, and I empathize with you, then I “feel” your anger in some respect and to some degree. My feeling is embodied, affecting things like my heart rate and my involuntary facial expressions as well as any beliefs that I may express or privately think. Empathy can be positive if it mirrors a positive emotion. It is always partial and concrete. I can empathize with a person’s specific feeling or with the shared feeling of a group of people. I could empathize with many different people’s feelings, but only one by one, just as I can only hear one person’s story at a time.
• Sympathy: An emotion provoked by someone else’s emotion. It is not a mirroring but a different feeling that arises in response. For example, if you are angry, and I sympathize, then I am sad that you are angry. The phrase “sympathetic joy” makes sense in English and covers situations when your fortunate condition triggers a positive feeling in me. However, this phrase almost always translates the Sanskrit or Pali word mudita. Without a modifier, the English word sympathy connotes a negative feeling, something akin to sadness or even pity. Like empathy, it is concrete and partial. I can sympathize for you in your loss, but not for everyone at once.
• Compassion: an emotion that responds to someone else’s suffering, but it is not similar to the other person’s feeling, nor is it negative. It is calm and purposive. To be compassionate is to will that the other’s suffering ceases; and to will something seriously means being prepared to act accordingly. I don’t think it makes sense in English to be compassionate for someone else’s happiness, only for their suffering. We can use the English word for an emotion that is impartial and general, such as the attribute of God that is named in the first verse of the Quran or the Buddhist concept of karuna. Thus, if you are angry, I can compassionately desire that your anger cease along with the anger of your enemy and whatever is causing both. It is theoretically possible to feel compassion for all sentient beings, even though it would make no sense to empathize with all of them at once.

Against sympathy

Let’s say that I am angry or otherwise suffering. I may want you to empathize, sympathize, and feel compassion for me. I may want you to feel bad because I do. And I may want your feelings to be partial: Sympathize with me!

These desires are human frailties. Ethically, I should only want you to be compassionate. Asking you to feel my pain just expands the amount of suffering. Besides, you cannot really feel what I do, just a dim reflection of it or a different form of distress. Neither of us should fool ourselves that you can feel my pain, as if that were even desirable.

Empathy and sympathy are unreliable guides to good action. Perhaps you will wallow in your pity for me, or give yourself credit for feeling bad, or—worse—allow your partial feelings about me to negate other people’s valid interests. Politicians often stir up sympathy for favored groups to make us hate other people, and they succeed because sympathy is partial.

The Roman Stoic philosopher Seneca didn’t write about any of the three words that I defined earlier, because none of those were available in classical Latin. But he criticizes misericordia, and although that word is normally translated as “pity,” it sounds a lot like sympathy. He calls it “a sickness of the soul due to the sight of others’ suffering, or a sadness caused by someone else’s misfortunes which one believes to be undeserved.”

For Seneca, misericordia is a sickness, and “no sickness can affect a wise man, for his mind is serene and nothing can get through to it that he guards against.” Therefore, a wise person does not feel misericordia. For Seneca, “it is impossible to be both great and sad.” Even in a disaster, a wise one maintains “the same appearance—quiet, firm—which he couldn’t do if he were overcome with sadness.”

Seneca warns that pity prevents effective planning in the interests of the person whom we may want to help. “A wise person discerns the future and makes decisions without interference, yet nothing clear and lucid can flow from turbulence. Sadness is unfitted for discerning circumstances, planning useful tasks, evading dangers, weighing equities. Therefore, the [wise person] will not feel pity, because there cannot be pity without suffering of the soul [De Clementia (2.5.4-2.6.4, my trans.]

Compassion as a virtue

Seneca’s idea of disinterested benign sentiments that we exercise freely and with a tranquil mind [2.6.2, 2.6.3] could translate the Sanskrit word karuna, which is fundamental in Buddhism. Seneca also relates this virtue to a political idea: equal standing and a common claim on the public good. A great-souled person

will reach a hand to the drowning, welcome the exile, donate to the poor, not in the abusive way of most people who want to be seen as pitying—they toss something and flinch in disgust at those whom they aid, as if they feared to touch them—but as a man gives to a man from the common pool. He will return the child to the weeping mother, unfasten chains, save people from [gladiatorial] games, and even bury the stinking body, but he will do these things with a tranquil mind, of his own will. Thus the wise person will not pity but will assist and be of use, having been born to help all and for the public good, from which he will distribute shares to all.

Even though Seneca addresses his book On Clemency to the Emperor Nero, I think that in this passage, he describes a republican virtue, appropriate for relations among equal citizens who co-own a commonwealth.

I can wish that you feel compassionate without wishing any harm on you, because compassion is a tranquil state that anyone can welcome. A compassionate person is not exposed to chance. If we feel worse as another person worsens, and better as he improves, then we demonstrate sympathy, which subjects us to fate. But compassion remains unchanged regardless of the state of the sufferer.

In fact, to the extent that a person is absorbed in compassion, that person’s own negative emotional states recede. While willing the end of other people’s suffering, we are not desiring concrete things for ourselves, and so we escape from the inevitable frustrations of a selfish will.

Quiet is his wisdom,
Calm his emotion,
Serene and firm his reasoning.
His will has departed. His self-consciousness has been abolished,
Making him serene.

(Lotus Sutra, translated by Reeves, 2014)

It is no accident that the Boddhisatva of Compassion is depicted with a serene expression.

One pitfall is to attach one’s happiness to accomplishing the relief of other people’s suffering. Most remedies fail. Even if they succeed, suffering recurs, and while you address one problem, suffering also afflicts everyone else. However, we can focus on the action, not the outcome, thus avoiding disappointment.

How do we know that compassion is a virtue?

In contemporary courses on moral philosophy or ethics, we usually present students with difficult moral choices about which reasonable people disagree, such whether punishment or war can be just, whether people have a right to health insurance, or whether abortion is acceptable. The overall message is that it is not easy to know what is right, but we should reason about justice, developing and assessing competing arguments. Students may also learn that the ultimate basis of ethical reasoning is hard to determine, a matter of controversy. Value claims may be objective or subjective, discovered or created. We often assign competing arguments about this question.

Until the late 1700s, moral philosophers in the European languages made a different assumption. They thought that all reasonable people knew what was right (Rosen 2022). The philosophical challenge was to develop a theory that matched all our moral intuitions so that we would understand the overall structure of ethics better. The practical challenge was to get people to do what they already knew they ought to do, whether through education, social pressure, rewards and penalties, or in some other way.

Emily McRae (2017) summarizes a similar tenet of Indo-Tibetan Buddhism that I think is widely shared in classical Asian thought:

Most of us understand that there is great and unbearable suffering in the world and that it would be better to alleviate that suffering than ignore or increase it. The moral problem, according to Buddhist ethics, is not that we do not understand what we should do, but we may not have the emotional and psychological resources to actually do it. … One of the basic assumptions—and, I would argue, insights—of Buddhist ethics is that most of us, most of the time, fail to adequately respond to suffering. This failure is not because we are especially bad people, or that human beings are inherently evil or selfish, but it is simply the result of the sheer amount of suffering that is part of the sentient condition (samsara) combined with the habits of thought, feeling, and action that make it difficult for most of us to respond to or sometimes even notice suffering. An appreciation of the myriad ways in which beings suffer and having an adequate response to that suffering is not a basic set of moral skills in Buddhist ethics; it is a rare moral accomplishment that requires a major transformation of our habitual ways of thinking, feeling, and acting. Empathy is one of the main ways by which this transformation can occur.

Thus empathy reemerges in Indo-Tibetan Buddhism not as a goal but as a step along the way. First, we can imaginatively project ourselves into the experience of a concrete person or animal who is suffering. We strive to feel its pain while retaining our own consciousness, so that we attain a dual perspective. This is a practice that requires attention and time. It is a continuum. We can never replicate another creature’s feelings, but we can work on it.

Next, we can shift our empathy to other creatures. One reason is to avoid partiality. We are trying to develop a general capacity. The goal is compassion, which includes empathy along with a lack of selfishness and a genuine desire to act to alleviate all suffering. A moral exemplar, a bodhisattva, demonstrates empathy plus “other skills and virtues such as wisdom, mindfulness, perceptiveness, and responsiveness” (p. 129)

The overall picture is of compassion as an ideal that does not need a foundation in beliefs but that does require cultivation.

Indeed, there is a path from skepticism to compassion. We can begin by applying skepticism to all beliefs that seem to justify suffering or explain it away, including the Aristotelian idea that people have a telos; theologies that attribute suffering to divine will; the Third Noble Truth (enlightenment frees us from suffering); and all political ideologies that make some people’s suffering seem necessary for a better future.

Once we have made ourselves appropriately skeptical about such beliefs, all that is left is the realization that other creatures suffer for no ultimately good reason. And this realization comes close to compassion.

One might ask: Why care about the others’ suffering? What reason compels concern instead of indifference? This question is the mistake that Stanley Cavell analyzes in his famous interpretation of King Lear—thinking that we need a reason to love (Cavell 1969). Skeptics do not believe in the kind of truth that could serve as a foundation for caring in the face of prevalent suffering. Nor do they believe in the negation of such truths: in moral nihilism. Rather, they teach that seeking beliefs as the basis for happiness and ethics is a habit that we can train ourselves to drop.

We can simply care. And as we do so, we may experience some of the benefits recommended by proponents of compassion, such as diminished self-clinging and increased serenity. We will not escape from our own suffering, but we can find a measure of relief.

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*Indeed, sympathy and compassion come from words that mean exactly the same thing—“feeling-with”—in Greek and Latin. The Greek word sympatheia originally meant harmony within nature more than a human emotion, and our modern sense of sympathy as well as the Latin translation compassio come well after the classical period. Empathy was coined on p. 21 of Edward Bradford Titchener’s Lectures on the Experimental Psychology of the Thought-Processes (Macmillan, 1909) as a translation of the German word Einfühlung, which goes back at least to Herder.

Sources: McRae, Emily. “Empathy, compassion, and “exchanging self and other” in indo-Tibetan Buddhism.” The Routledge handbook of philosophy of empathy. Routledge, 2017. 123-133; Rosen, Michael (2022) The Shadow of God: Kant, Hegel, and the Passage from Heaven to History (Harvard University Press); Stanley Cavell, “The avoidance of love: A reading of King Lear,” in Must We Mean What We Say? A Book of Essays (Cambridge University Press, 1969, updated ed., 2002), pp. 246 – 325.

This post is an amalgam and revision of several previous ones, so apologies for the repetition.

Ancient Greek members of the Skeptical School taught methods or habits that helped people to live better. One method involved pondering how different the world might seem to different animals, considering that other species have diverse types of eyes, ears, and tongues; preferences and aversions; and perhaps whole senses unknown to us.

Skeptics said that we are animals and not fundamentally different from the “so-called irrational animals.” Meditating on examples of animal psychology would prevent people from believing that their own experience was true or that the pursuit of truth was possible. In turn, suspending judgment was a path to inner peace and good treatment of others.

In this spirit, consider the octopus, as described in detail by the philosopher Peter Godfrey-Smith. People who study this animal almost universally conclude that it is curious, intelligent, and interactive and that each octopus has a personality that persists over time. Yet the species is so remote from us on the evolutionary tree that it is like an alien visitor to our planet. Or we could be the aliens on theirs.

For one thing, an octopus has quite different senses from ours, such as suckers that each have 10,000 sensors and eyes of a fundamentally different design. Since an octopus lives underwater and has a soft and flexible body, its whole relationship with its environment must be profoundly different from ours.

I gradually became who I am over many years–the first period now barely a memory for me–and I was deeply connected to other people from the start. I have persisted for almost six decades, building up (and losing) memories. An octopus emerges from an egg and for lives for two years, if it’s lucky, before it dies of old age. Its combination of substantial intelligence and a brief lifespan is unusual on earth and would presumably give it a different sense of time from mine.

An octopus doesn’t have a brain, because its complex nervous system is distributed through its body, and its arms have considerable autonomy. “Octopuses [may] not even track where their own arms might be” (p. 67). Nevertheless, each octopus functions as a coherent organism with an individual personality.

I think of myself as one thing, my body parts as something a bit different (because I control them imperfectly), and the external world as something distinct from both my self and my body. This experience deeply influences my assumptions about fundamentals like self and other, thought and matter, cause-and-effect, intention, and the objective world. It is hard to believe that an octopus feels the same way, yet my experience is no more valid or true.

If you doubt that an octopus has enough mental capacity to have a model of its own world, fine—just imagine an extraterrestrial creature with a similar design as an octopus and 10 times as many neurons. It doesn’t matter whether an alien like that exists on other planets, only that it is plausible. The thought-experiment is enough to tell us that we experience just one of many possible worlds.

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Sources: Sextus, Outlines of Pyrhhonism (see 1.13:61 on humans as animals); Peter Godfrey-Smith, Other Minds: The Octopus, the Sea, and the Deep Origins of Consciousness (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2017). See also: thinking both sides of the limits of human cognition; ‘every thing that lives is holy’: Blake’s radical relativism;