Wisdom from the Early Cynics, Diogenes 39

Being reproached for eating in the marketplace, "Well, it was in the marketplace," Diogenes said, "that I felt hungry." 

Some authors affirm that the following also belongs to him: that Plato saw him washing lettuces, came up to him and quietly said to him, "Had you paid court to Dionysius, you wouldn't now be washing lettuces," and that he with equal calmness made answer, "If you had washed lettuces, you wouldn't have paid court to Dionysius." 

When some one said, "Most people laugh at you," his reply was, "And so very likely do the asses at them; but as they don't care for the asses, so neither do I care for them." 

One day observing a youth studying philosophy, he said, "Well done, Philosophy, that you divert admirers of bodily charms to the real beauty of the soul." 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 6.58 

IMAGE: Alison Friend, Pizza Lover (2023) 

Wisdom from the Early Stoics, Zeno of Citium 79

It is a tenet of the Stoics that between virtue and vice there is nothing intermediate, whereas according to the Peripatetics there is, namely, the state of moral improvement. 

For, say the Stoics, just as a stick must be either straight or crooked, so a man must be either just or unjust. 

Nor again are there degrees of justice and injustice; and the same rule applies to the other virtues. 

Further, while Chrysippus holds that virtue can be lost, Cleanthes maintains that it cannot. According to the former it may be lost in consequence of drunkenness or melancholy; the latter takes it to be inalienable owing to the certainty of our mental apprehension. 

And virtue in itself they hold to be worthy of choice for its own sake. At all events, we are ashamed of bad conduct as if we knew that nothing is really good but the morally beautiful. 

Moreover, they hold that it is in itself sufficient to ensure well-being: thus Zeno, and Chrysippus in the first book of his treatise On Virtues, and Hecato in the second book of his treatise On Goods: 

“For if magnanimity by itself alone can raise us far above everything, and if magnanimity is but a part of virtue, then too virtue as a whole will be sufficient in itself for well-being—despising all things that seem troublesome.” 

Panaetius, however, and Posidonius deny that virtue is self-sufficing: on the contrary, health is necessary, and some means of living and strength. 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 7.127-128 

Dhammapada 412

Him I call indeed a Brahmana who in this world is above good and evil, above the bondage of both, free from grief from sin, and from impurity. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 83.6

But let us admit, indeed, that he meant what Posidonius says; even so, the conclusion is false—that secrets are not entrusted to a habitual drunkard. Think how many soldiers who are not always sober have been entrusted by a general or a captain or a centurion with messages which might not be divulged! 
 
With regard to the notorious plot to murder Gaius Caesar—I mean the Caesar who conquered Pompey and got control of the state—Tillius Cimber was trusted with it no less than Gaius Cassius. Now Cassius throughout his life drank water; while Tillius Cimber was a sot as well as a brawler. Cimber himself alluded to this fact, saying: “I carry a master? I cannot carry my liquor!” 
 
So let each one call to mind those who, to his knowledge, can be ill trusted with wine, but well trusted with the spoken word; and yet one case occurs to my mind, which I shall relate, lest it fall into oblivion. For life should be provided with conspicuous illustrations. Let us not always be harking back to the dim past. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 83 
 
I do understand why the Stoic ideal of the sage means that the virtues must operate together as a whole, so we either possess them or we don’t, but for those of us who are still striving to achieve this noble goal, it is quite possible to be diligently approaching one form of excellence ahead of the other. I know I was making some progress toward prudence long before I made any attempts at fortitude, and I certainly had more practice at being just than I did at being temperate. 
 
Quite contrary to the superficial stereotype of the useless drunk, I have known a good number of sots who were reliable and solid in other aspects of their lives, sometimes remarkably so. I suspect this has something to do with a particular personality trait expressing itself in a healthy manner at one end, yet in a sickly manner at another, and such extremes will only resolve themselves when the whole person is brought into balance. 
 
There is, however, a serious risk in treating a fatal flaw as if were a lovable quirk, or even in assuming that a lesser vice is a necessary condition for a greater virtue. I spent too many years convinced that a lifestyle of drinking was meant to go along with being the tragic intellectual, when avoiding the sauce entirely would have done so much more to elevate my awareness. Better late than never, I suppose. 
 
Though it might not be the best parallel, reading about Tillius Cimber makes me think of Winston Churchill, who was renowned for an incredible ability to hold his liquor. His enemies whispered their stern disapproval, while his friends merely smiled, but here was a man whose voluminous consumption of scotch, champagne, and brandy did not make him any less trustworthy. 
 
If you think the example too remote, I remember one of my best professors, a fellow of immense integrity and kindness, who always had a tumbler of Bushmills and soda within reach, from morning until night. Should I have found this admirable? Not at all; I eventually realized how deeply I admired him despite this foible. There is no use in romanticizing any weakness of character, even as there is never any cause for a wholesale condemnation. 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

IMAGE: Hermann Ker, The Drunken Cavalier (c. 1880) 

Sayings of Publilius Syrus 188

Fortune has no more power over our destiny than our own actions.  

Songs of Innocence 9

The Little Boy Found (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

The little boy lost in the lonely fen, 
Led by the wand'ring light, 
Began to cry, but God ever nigh, 
Appeard like his father in white. 

He kissed the child & by the hand led 
And to his mother brought, 
Who in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale 
Her little boy weeping sought. 

Cosmos 22

Seneca, Moral Letters 83.5

Posidonius pleads the cause of our master Zeno in the only possible way; but it cannot, I hold, be pleaded even in this way. 
 
For Posidonius maintains that the word “drunken” is used in two ways—in the one case of a man who is loaded with wine and has no control over himself; in the other, of a man who is accustomed to get drunk, and is a slave to the habit. 
 
Zeno, he says, meant the latter—the man who is accustomed to get drunk, not the man who is drunk; and no one would entrust to this person any secret, for it might be blabbed out when the man was in his cups. 
 
This is a fallacy. For the first syllogism refers to him who is actually drunk and not to him who is about to get drunk. You will surely admit that there is a great difference between a man who is drunk and a drunkard. He who is actually drunk may be in this state for the first time and may not have the habit, while the drunkard is often free from drunkenness. 
 
I therefore interpret the word in its usual meaning, especially since the syllogism is set up by a man who makes a business of the careful use of words, and who weighs his language. 
 
Moreover, if this is what Zeno meant, and what he wished it to mean to us, he was trying to avail himself of an equivocal word in order to work in a fallacy; and no man ought to do this when truth is the object of inquiry. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 83 
 
Isn’t it just “common sense” to assume that a drunk can’t be trusted? Does it really matter if we aren’t actually able to define his condition, or if we can’t explain our standards of discretion? I fear such a path will only lead us to ever greater prejudices, which may well be popular, but are surely not reasonable. 
 
As Seneca says, when the truth itself is at stake, we can’t afford to be sloppy. To be suspicious of intellectual posturing does not mean that we should have to settle for ambiguity; acting with confidence requires knowing with conviction. 
 
The unfortunate fact is that Zeno’s argument, as it is worded, suffers from equivocation. Yes, in a casual conversation, we might take the meaning of certain terms for granted, or we are likely to skip over some steps of the demonstration, what the logicians call an enthymeme. When, however, there is a confusion about the question, or a decision will have serious consequences, it is best to take it slow; we will later be grateful for the discipline of patience. 
 
Is the drunk someone who is intoxicated at the moment, or is the drunk someone who has a habitual inclination to liquor? It matters a great deal, because we could be talking about two people with very different dispositions, under very different circumstances. Sometimes a fellow acts foolishly, and so he is temporarily impaired. Sometimes a fellow feels the constant urge to reach for a bottle, and yet he has stayed sober for a whole decade. In either case, are we sure that he is incapable of keeping his word? 
 
Zeno was probably referring to the latter instance, what we would now call an active alcoholic, where a continuous behavior can reflect a weakness of character: both intemperance and inconstancy are likely consequences of a failure to rule ourselves. Nevertheless, if there is a steadfast struggle to keep off the sauce, isn’t it likely to also go hand in hand with a commitment to integrity? The vice lies in the choice and the deed, not in the impulse and the temptation. 
 
My own painful experiences with boozing have warned me against making any hasty generalizations, not because I want to hide behind excuses, but because I know precisely how careless judgments can end in careless actions. To be sensitive about the causes is not to justify the effects. 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

IMAGE: Anthony van Dyck, Drunken Silenus (c. 1620) 

A Collection of Delights

Michael Leunig 81

Maxims of Goethe 80

Life seems so vulgar, so easily content with the commonplace things of every day, and yet it always nurses and cherishes certain higher claims in secret, and looks about for the means of satisfying them. 

IMAGE: Jacopo Bassano, The Good Samaritan (c. 1563) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 83.4

What is it, then, you ask, to which I have been giving my attention? I will tell you. A thought sticks in my mind, left over from yesterday—namely, what men of the greatest sagacity have meant when they have offered the most trifling and intricate proofs for problems of the greatest importance—proofs which may be true, but none the less resemble fallacies.
 
Zeno, that greatest of men, the revered founder of our brave and holy school of philosophy, wishes to discourage us from drunkenness. Listen, then, to his arguments proving that the good man will not get drunk: 
 
“No one entrusts a secret to a drunken man; but one will entrust a secret to a good man; therefore, the good man will not get drunk.” 
 
Mark how ridiculous Zeno is made when we set up a similar syllogism in contrast with his. There are many, but one will be enough: 

“No one entrusts a secret to a man when he is asleep; but one entrusts a secret to a good man; therefore, the good man does not go to sleep." 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 83 

 
As in the previous letter, Seneca remains critical of the scholar’s fixation on clever syllogisms. I am always headed for trouble when I begin with the conclusion I happen to prefer, and then I seek out some crafty wordplay to justify my smug presumption; it reminds me of a salesman I once knew who would adeptly hide scratches on used cars with a magic marker. 
 
While it is difficult for the disciple to challenge the orthodoxy of his creed, I don’t believe that Zeno expected us to blindly parrot the phrases of esteemed experts, just as constantly quoting Thomas Aquinas won’t make us any better as Christians. Logic ought to be precise, but language can get notoriously fuzzy, and I’m sure even Socrates fell back on a few vague arguments during his many debates. To question a proof is a very part of the progress, which no genuine philosopher could ever deny. 
 
To say that Zeno was right to condemn drunkenness does not mean that he was necessarily offering the best reasons as a defense. I am hardly an accomplished logician, yet I immediately pause at two aspects of this particular formulation: Shouldn’t we be clearer on how we define the term “drunk?” And is such a drunkenness, whatever we may mean by it, inevitably a source of being untrustworthy? 
 
Practically speaking, merely doubting a man’s reliability is no more likely to keep him on the wagon than it will teach him how to ride a bicycle. As my wife would say, “Is this really where you want to go with this?” Assuming we have even specified the nature of the vice, I can think of far more direct and compelling methods to get a fellow sober. 
 
We are fond of gossiping about anyone who raises a glass, and we apply the label of “alcoholic” almost as lazily as when we point our fingers at supposed “abusers” or “bigots”. There may well be something to it, and then it is a tragedy indeed, but far too often we are just grabbing for a convenient insult, a chance to look down our noses at someone. Casting so wide a net only numbs us to the truly crippling cases. 
 
“You can’t count on him. He drinks.” Would the same be true if he was still groggy after waking up from a nap? Or if he was jittery from six cups of coffee before lunch? Please do not think I am quibbling or being flippant: I sadly know what can happen when we judge in haste, or when we treat an insinuation as if it proved a causation. If we are going to address the problem of addiction, we can do far better than throwing around cheap platitudes. 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

IMAGE: Giovanni Bellini, The Drunkenness of Noah (c. 1515) 

Delphic Maxims 89

Βίας μὴ ἔχου 

Do not depend on strength 

IMAGE: Osmar Schindler, David and Goliath (1888) 

Owls 12

Xenophon, Memorabilia of Socrates 42

Once when Aristippus set himself to subject Socrates to a cross-examination, such as he had himself undergone at the hands of Socrates on a former occasion, Socrates, being minded to benefit those who were with him, gave his answers less in the style of a debater guarding against perversions of his argument, than of a man persuaded of the supreme importance of right conduct. 

Aristippus asked him "if he knew of any thing good," intending in case he assented and named any particular good thing, like food or drink, or wealth, or health, or strength, or courage, to point out that the thing named was sometimes bad. 

But he, knowing that if a thing troubles us, we immediately want that which will put an end to our trouble, answered precisely as it was best to do. 

Socrates: "Do I understand you to ask me whether I know anything good for fever?" 

"No," he replied, "that is not my question." 

Socrates: "Then for inflammation of the eyes?" 

Aristippus: "No, nor yet that." 

Socrates: "Well then, for hunger?" 

Aristippus: "No, nor yet for hunger." 

"Well," answered Socrates, "but if you ask me whether I know of any good thing which is good for nothing, I neither know of it nor want to know." 

And when Aristippus, returning to the charge, asked him "if he knew of any thing beautiful."

He answered: "Yes, many things." 

Aristippus: "Are they all like each other?" 

Socrates: "On the contrary, they are often as unlike as possible." 

"How then", he asked, "can that be beautiful which is unlike the beautiful?" 

Socrates: "Bless me! For the simple reason that it is possible for a man who is a beautiful runner to be quite unlike another man who is a beautiful boxer, or for a shield, which is a beautiful weapon for the purpose of defense, to be absolutely unlike a javelin, which is a beautiful weapon of swift and sure discharge." 

Aristippus: "Your answers are no better now than when I asked you whether you knew any good thing. They are both of a pattern." 

Socrates: "And so they should be. Do you imagine that one thing is good and another beautiful? Do not you know that relatively to the same standard all things are at once beautiful and good? 

"In the first place, virtue is not a good thing relatively to one standard and a beautiful thing relatively to another standard; and in the next place, human beings, on the same principle and relatively to the same standard, are called "beautiful and good"; and so the bodily frames of men relatively to the same standards are seen to be "beautiful and good," and in general all things capable of being used by man are regarded as at once beautiful and good relatively to the same standard—the standing being in each case what the thing happens to be useful for." 

Aristippus: "Then I presume even a basket for carrying dung is a beautiful thing?" 

Socrates: "To be sure, and a spear of gold an ugly thing, if for their respective uses—the former is well and the latter ill adapted." 

Aristippus: "Do you mean to assert that the same things may be beautiful and ugly?" 

Socrates: "Yes, to be sure; and by the same showing things may be good and bad: as, for instance, what is good for hunger may be bad for fever, and what is good for fever bad for hunger; or again, what is beautiful for wrestling is often ugly for running; and in general everything is good and beautiful when well adapted for the end in view, bad and ugly when ill adapted for the same." 

Similarly when he spoke about houses, and argued that "the same house must be at once beautiful and useful"—I could not help feeling that he was giving a good lesson on the problem: "how a house ought to be built." He investigated the matter thus:

Socrates: "Do you admit that any one purposing to build a perfect house will plan to make it at once as pleasant and as useful to live in as possible?" and that point being admitted, the next question would be:

"It is pleasant to have one's house cool in summer and warm in winter, is it not?" and this proposition also having obtained assent, "Now, supposing a house to have a southern aspect, sunshine during winter will steal in under the veranda, but in summer, when the sun traverses a path right over our heads, the roof will afford an agreeable shade, will it not? 

"If, then, such an arrangement is desirable, the southern side of a house should be built higher to catch the rays of the winter sun, and the northern side lower to prevent the cold winds finding ingress; in a word, it is reasonable to suppose that the pleasantest and most beautiful dwelling place will be one in which the owner can at all seasons of the year find the pleasantest retreat, and stow away his goods with the greatest security." 

Paintings and ornamental moldings are apt, he said, to deprive one of more joy than they confer. 

The fittest place for a temple or an altar, he maintained, was some site visible from afar, and untrodden by foot of man: since it was a glad thing for the worshipper to lift up his eyes afar off and offer up his orison; glad also to wend his way peaceful to prayer unsullied. 

—from Xenophon, Memorabilia 3.8 

Seneca, Moral Letters 83.3

After tiring myself out in this way, for I cannot call it exercise, I took a cold bath; this, at my house, means just short of hot. 
 
I, the former cold-water enthusiast, who used to celebrate the new year by taking a plunge into the canal, who, just as naturally as I would set out to do some reading or writing, or to compose a speech, used to inaugurate the first of the year with a plunge into the Virgo aqueduct, have changed my allegiance, first to the Tiber, and then to my favorite tank, which is warmed only by the sun, at times when I am most robust and when there is not a flaw in my bodily processes. 
 
I have very little energy left for bathing. After the bath, some stale bread and breakfast without a table; no need to wash the hands after such a meal. Then comes a very short nap. You know my habit; I avail myself of a scanty bit of sleep—unharnessing, as it were. For I am satisfied if I can just stop staying awake. Sometimes I know that I have slept; at other times, I have a mere suspicion. 
 
Lo, now the din of the Races sounds about me! My ears are smitten with sudden and general cheering. But this does not upset my thoughts or even break their continuity. I can endure an uproar with complete resignation. The medley of voices blended in one note sounds to me like the dashing of waves, or like the wind that lashes the tree-tops, or like any other sound which conveys no meaning. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 83 
 
For all the wry jokes at his own expense, Seneca turns out to be describing the priceless details of an untroubled life that is free of all pretensions. Why should I care about this old man’s bath, or what he eats for breakfast, or when he takes his nap? Because happiness comes from being at peace with oneself, and thereby wanting very little. 
 
I can’t help but notice how most of my frustrations are the product of my many vain diversions, when the simple care of my own soul is all that I truly need. While my peers are consumed by the complications of their careers, or the excitement of their newest sexual conquests, or the endless scheming of social advancement, I always retain the option of finding my joy in the little things. This is because it is always about the integrity of the attitude, and it was never really about any of the things to begin with. 
 
I know some who swear by a cold shower, even as I prefer my water to be piping hot. The wife insists on a properly cooked breakfast, yet I am content with a cup of tea, no milk or sugar, thank you. My grandmother would lie down for a nap every afternoon, like clockwork, while it is only reading that ever makes me sleepy. Our particular preferences matter far less than a common principle: humble living is the best sort of living. 
 
If I want proof of this, I need look no further than the man who does not permit himself to be agitated by the noise of the world. Like Seneca, he is satisfied with the slightest of circumstances, adapting them to his benefit by focusing on his inner character. If I can manage this, I don’t have to be bothered by the neighbors screaming and cursing about their tribal sports match, for I have the power to rest in the comforts of my own thoughts. Modify the standard for a disturbance, and you have thus removed the disturbance. 
 
If you claim that such a life must be terribly boring, I will suggest that things are just as exciting as we are willing to make them. Hence one of my favorite lines from G.K. Chesterton: “There is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject; the only thing that can exist is an uninterested person." 
 
Once again, it is no accident that my urge to get roaring drunk will rear its ugly head at precisely those points when I have abandoned the glory of the ordinary. 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

That oddly makes sense . . .

Owls 11

Sayings of Ramakrishna 277

The parable of a Brahman and his low-caste servant:

As soon as Mâyâ is found out, she flies away. 

A priest was once going to the village of a disciple. He had no servant with him. 

On the way, seeing a cobbler, he addressed him, saying, "Hallo! good man, will you accompany me as a servant? You shall dine well and will be cared for; come along." 

The cobbler replied, "Reverend Sir, I am of the lowest caste, how can I represent your servant?" 

The priest said, "Never mind that. Do not tell anybody what you are, nor speak to or make acquaintance with anyone." The cobbler agreed. 

At twilight, while the priest was sitting at prayers in the house of his disciple, another Brahman came and addressed the priest's servant, "Fellow, go and bring my shoes from there." 

The servant, true to the words of his master, made no response. 

The Brahman repeated the order a second time, but the servant remained silent. The Brahman repeated it again and again, but the cobbler moved not an inch. 

At last, getting annoyed, the Brahman angrily said, "Hallo Sirrah! How dare you not obey a Brahman's command! What is your caste? Are you not a cobbler?" 

The cobbler hearing this began to tremble with fear, and piteously looking at the priest said, "O venerable Sir, O venerable Sir! I am found out. I cannot stay here any longer, let me flee." 

So saying, he took to his heels. 

IMAGE: Rosalba Carriera, Portrait of a Woman with Mask (c. 1730) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 83.2

Today has been unbroken; no one has filched the slightest part of it from me. The whole time has been divided between rest and reading. 
 
A brief space has been given over to bodily exercise, and on this ground I can thank old age—my exercise costs very little effort; as soon as I stir, I am tired. And weariness is the aim and end of exercise, no matter how strong one is.
 
Do you ask who are my pacemakers? One is enough for me—the slave Pharius, a pleasant fellow, as you know; but I shall exchange him for another. At my time of life I need one who is of still more tender years. 
 
Pharius, at any rate, says that he and I are at the same period of life; for we are both losing our teeth. Yet even now I can scarcely follow his pace as he runs, and within a very short time I shall not be able to follow him at all; so you see what profit we get from daily exercise. 
 
Very soon does a wide interval open between two persons who travel different ways. My slave is climbing up at the very moment when I am coming down, and you surely know how much quicker the latter is. 
 
Nay, I was wrong; for now my life is not coming down; it is falling outright. Do you ask, for all that, how our race resulted today? We raced to a tie—something which rarely happens in a running contest. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 83 
 
I recall a classmate’s father once observing how the young folks wanted to drink so we could feel older, while the old folks wanted to drink to so they could feel younger. Though it seemed silly to me at the time, I now perceive a bit more about how the urge to become somebody else reveals the deepest confusion about the merits of simply being oneself. Everyone has his own peculiar way of playing at make-believe. 
 
If, like Seneca, I can find the opportunity both to broaden my mind and to exercise my body, why am I still grasping for more? If I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, or my aching bones are slowing me down, it remains within my power to do my best with whatever has been given to me, and no amount of griping about the circumstances will change that. 
 
It is one thing to joke about the frailty of old age, but quite another to despair of it. I am nowhere near Seneca’s seniority, and yet I have already noticed how the things we take for granted can so easily fade away. I probably reached my physical prime just before thirty, and I was mentally at my peak by forty; I am now at a point where various little bits are beginning to fail me, which I suspect will be followed, before too long, by various bigger bits. 
 
Seneca and Pharius must have made for an interesting pair! I do not subscribe to the view that the old and the young can never understand one another, due to a supposedly insurmountable divide of generational perspectives. Where good will is present, the common bond of humanity will always shine through, that natural inclinations to know the true, to love the good, and to be at peace with the beautiful. 
 
Whatever the reasons we might be losing our teeth, whether for the first time or for the last time, it is always possible to smile together in solidarity. 
 
So this man is richer, and that man is stronger, and another happens to be swifter—and all of us are on one and the same journey, and that journey will wind down for all of us, whether sooner or later. In the meantime, we are called to making the trip more rewarding for one another. Stay sharp, because time’s a-wastin’! 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

IMAGE: Tintoretto, Old Man and a Boy (c. 1565)