How tightly should you hold your beliefs? You face the question several times a week without noticing. Hold them too loosely and you don’t stand for anything, hold them too tightly and you become the sort of person no argument can reach. Most of us swing between the two and have no vocabulary for the ground in between. A Roman lawyer worked one out, under pressure far worse than anything we are likely to face, and it is still the best answer available.
The time is early 45 BCE, the place a villa near Lucrine Lake, northwest of Naples, in southern Italy. One of the most fascinating and controversial figures in the entirety of Western history, Marcus Tullius Cicero, is finishing writing a book that will be known as the Academica, where he explains the nature of sceptical philosophy and why it is so crucial not just to the advancement of human knowledge, but to living a good life.
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Which is why he is worth your time now. What follows is partly the story of a man, but mostly a usable method: a way of holding beliefs that is neither the performed humility of the professional doubter nor the armoured certainty of the person who has ‘done their own research’. Cicero had a name for it – probabilia – and I think you will find it very useful any time you have to assess the validity of a notion and make a decision about it.
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The difference shows in practice: a genuine sceptic, confronted with compelling new evidence, updates – whereas the contrarian does not: they shift goalposts, raise new objections, or ignore what they cannot explain, all while citing studies selectively and appealing to the handful of dissenting experts cherrypicking the evidence. Their doubt is not the productive Socratic doubt that opens enquiry but a rhetorical shield that forecloses it. These self-styled sceptics are in fact dogmatists, having reached their conclusions in advance and thereafter simply engaging in rationalisations.
On the other side, a certain strand of scientism has overcorrected by demanding certainty as the price of admission for any belief worth holding, deploying ‘follow the science’ as a conversation-stopper rather than an invitation to enquiry. That is not how real science works either.
Both pathologies make the same mistake: they treat doubt and certainty as the only two options. Neither leaves room for what we actually need: calibrated confidence, the ability to say This is the best available account, I will act on it, and I remain open to being wrong. What is missing, then, is a philosophy of provisional but committed belief, a philosophy Cicero already worked out, in Latin, 2,000 years ago.
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Cicero’s own formulation is plain. In the Academica, he separates his school from the dogmatists in a single sentence: others declare that certain things are settled and fixed, whereas ‘we hold many things to be probabilia, which we can easily follow but can scarcely affirm.’ Follow easily, affirm rarely. The entire method is encapsulated by that asymmetry.
The term probabilia does not mean ‘probable’ in the modern, quantitative statistical sense, but something closer to ‘worthy of approval’: a claim that has withstood scrutiny, coheres with the available evidence, and a reasonable person would assent to while remaining open to revision. It is enough to act on.
Nor is ‘probabilia’ a single, undifferentiated category, and this is the important part usually left out. Carneades graded impressions (ie, preliminary judgments) by how much scrutiny they had survived. At the first level, an impression simply strikes you as a bit more likely to be true than not. At the second level, it rises to being persuasive. At the third, it is ‘undiverted’, meaning that nothing else you believe conflicts with it. At the fourth and highest level, it is also thoroughly examined, essentially the result of scientific investigation. Trivial matters need only the first or second grade; a medical decision or a criminal verdict demands the third or fourth. What Cicero inherited and deployed, then, was not a generic mood of open-mindedness but a graded, checkable procedure.
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Cicero is explicit in the Academica: the wise person acts on the best available view, not because they are certain it is true, but because suspending all judgment would make life impossible. We are not the kind of people who think nothing is true, say the Academics; we are the people who say that some falsehoods are mixed in with truths, so similar to them that we have no sure criterion for judging, so we can assess only provisionally.
Strip away the Latin and the toga, and the Academic method comes down to a handful of habits, all of which can be practised, starting today:
- Say how confident you are, not just what you think. ‘I believe X’ is nearly useless. ‘I believe X, at about 7 out of 10, and here is what is holding back the other 3’ gives your interlocutor something to work with and gives you somewhere to move in the light of new evidence or better arguments.
- Grade your beliefs by how hard they have been tested. Most of what any of us believes sits at Carneades’ second level: it merely struck us as persuasive. Reserve confident action for what has been through the third and fourth levels.
- Separate your values from your empirical beliefs. That children should not go hungry is a value and may be held firmly. That a particular school-meals programme reduces hunger is an empirical claim, to be held only as firmly as the evidence warrants. Conflating the two is what makes people defend failing policies as though their integrity depended on it.
- State in advance what would change your mind. If nothing would, you do not have a belief, you have an identity.
- Argue the other side properly. The Academy’s signature exercise was arguing in utramque partem, on both sides of a question. Carneades notoriously did it in Rome in 155 BCE, defending justice one day and demolishing it the next. The point was not cynicism but that you do not truly know what you believe until you have built the strongest case against it yourself.
- Act anyway. The sceptic who treats uncertainty as a reason to postpone action has missed the point entirely. Uncertainty is the permanent condition of humanity, deciding effectively within that is a skill we can all benefit from.
- Treat being wrong as data rather than disgrace. If you follow these sceptical rules of thumb, you will change your mind from time to time – or at least ought to. The question is whether you experience that as humiliation or as the method working.
None of this was merely theoretical for Cicero. It informed every major decision of his life, including the most contested one.
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The letters he exchanged with his friend Atticus in the months before his death are the most instructive documents Cicero left. Knowing that Mark Antony wanted him dead, he debated whether to flee, whether to return to Rome, whether to trust the young Octavian (the future emperor Augustus): reasoning under uncertainty, weighing probabilities, deciding anyway. When he returned and resumed attacking Antony in the discourses known as the Philippics, he knew he might be signing his death warrant, but the probable good outweighed the probable cost. He was murdered on 7 December 43 BCE. His last words, to the legionnaire sent to kill him, were: ‘I am stopping here. Come over, soldier. There is nothing right about what you are doing, but at least make sure you cut off my head properly.’
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Second, democracy requires the willingness to be persuaded. Deliberation is possible only if citizens hold their political views as probabilia rather than as dogma, and the current political crisis is partly an epistemological one.
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The well-examined life is one of continuous calibration and revision: strong-enough commitments to act with integrity, loose enough to update when the evidence changes.
This is countercultural in an age that prizes authenticity in the sense of having a fixed self, and urges us to own our identity. Cicero would have found that to be self-congratulatory. He changed his mind about friends, alliances and tactical judgments, and worried about it, as his letters make plain. But developing a crystallised self that never updates is not integrity: it is rigidity dressed up as character. The Ciceronian person is recognisable by a willingness to be embarrassed by earlier certainties, and by treating that embarrassment not as failure but as evidence that enquiry is working.
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The genuine sceptic is not the person who doubts everything, nor the person who demands proof before believing anything. It is the person who has learned to hold their best views with exactly the right strength of grip: firmly enough to act on them, loosely enough to let go when the evidence turns. That is what probabilia means. It is harder than dogmatism and harder than nihilistic doubt, but Cicero thought it the only honest stance available to a finite human being. He was probably right.
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