Logic (n.) studied by a man still prey to envy and fear is hoisting the topsails on a sinking ship.
Logic (n.) without something to secure is a cornice with no wall, a doorkeeper with no door, a measure kept measuring ashes.
Logic (n.) is philosophy's third and least necessary field, yet we live in it — so we lie while holding every argument for why we shouldn't.
Logic (n.) comes first for the same reason you check the measure before measuring the grain — “but the modius bears no fruit.” True, yet it measures it.
Logic (n.) proves its necessity the moment you ask for proof of it: without logic you could not even tell whether the proof was a sophism.
Logic (n.) is a measuring instrument, not the thing measured; studying it first is building a cornice with no wall, posting a doorkeeper with no door.
Logic (n.) proves its own necessity: you ask me to demonstrate it — how will you know if I impose upon you?
Logic (n.) is not why you came to philosophy: before you throw yourself into syllogisms, Epictetus tells his students, cure your wounds and calm your mind.
Logic (n.) is needed even to ask whether logic is needed: the only proof on offer is an argument, and you must be able to judge it.
Logic (n.) comes first for the same reason you check the measuring bowl before measuring the grain: the bowl is barren wood, but nothing gets weighed without it.
Logic (n.) is either read in a treatise or lived in the moment, and only the second kind talks back to the impressions that actually present themselves to us each day.
Logic (n.) at its finest is for the advanced: are you proof against deception over money, a pretty girl, a neighbour's inheritance? Only then study the Liar.
Logic (n.) belongs at both ends of a philosophical education — first to learn to criticize impressions, last to make dogmas unshakable — and turns harmful the moment it becomes a way of showing off.