A Stoic Breviary: Classical Wisdom in Daily Practice
Building upon many years of privately shared thoughts on the real benefits of Stoic Philosophy, Liam Milburn eventually published a selection of Stoic passages that had helped him to live well. They were accompanied by some of his own personal reflections. This blog hopes to continue his mission of encouraging the wisdom of Stoicism in the exercise of everyday life. All the reflections are taken from his notes, from late 1992 to early 2017.
The attempt to develop a sense of humor and to see things in a humorous light is some kind of a trick learned while mastering the art of living. Yet it is possible to practice the art of living even in a concentration camp, although suffering is omnipresent.
To draw an analogy: a man's suffering is similar to the behavior of gas. If a certain quantity of gas is pumped into an empty chamber, it will fill the chamber completely and evenly, no matter how big the chamber.
Thus suffering completely fills the human soul and conscious mind, no matter whether the suffering is great or little. Therefore the "size" of human suffering is absolutely relative.
It also follows that a very trifling thing can cause the greatest of joys.
Take as an example something that happened on our journey from Auschwitz to the camp affiliated with Dachau. We had all been afraid that our transport was heading for the Mauthausen camp.
We became more and more tense as we approached a certain bridge over the Danube, which the train would have to cross to reach Mauthausen, according to the statement of experienced traveling companions.
Those who have never seen anything similar cannot possibly imagine the dance of joy performed in the carriage by the prisoners when they saw that our transport was not crossing the bridge and was instead heading "only" for Dachau.
“That which is good makes men good. For example, that which is good in the art of music makes the musician. But chance events do not make agood man; therefore, chance events are not goods.” The Peripatetics reply to this by saying that the premise is false; that men do not in every case become good by means of that which is good; that in music there is something good, like a flute, a harp, or an organ suited to accompany singing; but that none of these instruments makes the musician. We shall then reply: “You do not understand in what sense we have used the phrase ’that which is good in music.’ For we do not mean that which equips the musician, but that which makes the musician; you, however, are referring to the instruments of the art, and not to the art itself. If, however, anything in the art of music is good, that will in every case make the musician.” And I should like to put this idea still more clearly. We define the good in the art of music in two ways: first, that by which the performance of the musician is assisted, and second, that by which his art is assisted. Now the musical instruments have to do with his performance—such as flutes and organs and harps; but they do not have to do with the musician’s art itself. For he is an artist even without them; he may perhaps be lacking in the ability to practice his art. But the good in man is not in the same way twofold; for the good of man and the good of life are the same.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 As much as it now offends people, I still catch myself repeating that old saying, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” It helps me to remember why the sophists are mistaken in reducing everything to a Catch-22, where tunnel vision makes it impossible to resolve any dilemma. I do not see the Trolley Problem and the Liar’s Paradox as anything more than amusing parlor tricks, because they have little bearing on the reality of daily living. At the other end of the spectrum, we are so terribly lazy when throwing around a word like “good”—one would expect that expert thinkers could do a much better job of defining their terms before engaging in mental gymnastics. Indeed, one of the reasons I was so drawn to Stoicism was the school’s total clarity on the true origin of any benefit. I understand how an expression can be used either narrowly or broadly, depending upon the context, but the Stoics did not mess around when it came to the nature of the human good. While the old Thomist in me still distinguishes between the univocal and the equivocal senses of a word, I insist that the latter must always be dependent upon the former. Should I describe pleasure, money, and fame as goods? Yes, relatively, if I am speaking of the way they might be employed for the sake of a worthy end. No, if I am trying to isolate the absolute source, which alone rests in the virtue of the act itself. Whatever the circumstances, no man is capable of any good deed, if he does not first possess the proper disposition of character. Just as merely picking up a fine instrument cannot bestow musical skill, so buying some fancy book will never produce an informed conscience. Perhaps it could help, or perhaps it could hurt, but that will all come down to an internal judgment, an estimation of meaning and value. Sometimes the tool serves as an inspiration, and sometimes the tool is an excuse to behave like a spoiled brat. In high school, I was not magically transformed into a Chris Squire or a Geddy Lee at the moment I picked up a Rickenbacker bass. In college, I did not acquire a noble soul once a copy of the Summa suddenly appeared on my bookshelf. Indeed, there were times when a hindrance ended up being far more useful to me than a convenience—and it was only my commitment that made the difference. The Peripatetics were inclined to confuse an occasion for the good with the essence of the good, which, in turn, tempted them to identify our merits with indifferent conditions, which are ultimately beyond our power. I would have respectfully reminded them of the contrast between a material cause and an efficient cause. If that sounds too bookish for you, think of the homeless fellow in the subway, who plays brilliant percussion on a pair of plastic buckets, as opposed to the rich kid at the prep school, who nagged his parents for a full DW Collector’s Series kit, and yet he will never master a basic backbeat.
[7] And now, O sons, listen to me, and do not depart from the words of my mouth. [8] Keep your way far from her, and do not go near the door of her house; [9] lest you give your honor to others and your years to the merciless; [10] lest strangers take their fill of your strength, and your labors go to the house of an alien; [11] and at the end of your life you groan, when your flesh and body are consumed, [12] and you say, "How I hated discipline, and my heart despised reproof! [13] I did not listen to the voice of my teachers or incline my ear to my instructors. [14] I was at the point of utter ruin in the assembled congregation."
Nostalgia is a difficult thing, because there can be both good and bad in it. I walk a fine line whenever I think back to the old days, because sometimes it refreshes the spirit, and yet sometimes it poisons the soul.
I do, however, have no qualms about revisiting one of the most sacred rituals of my youth—the blessed mix tape.
My son rolls his eyes when I mention this, saying, "Yes, old man, we now call them playlists."
No, young man, that is hardly the same thing. The mix tape was an act of love, which was far more than the sum of some tunes you lazily strung together. There was hard work involved. You had to dust off the vinyl, set the stylus just right, and constantly check the levels.
You chose your songs wisely, since it wasn't just a matter of clicking and dragging with your mouse. You looked deep inside, and you asked yourself how your picks reflected everything about who you were.
The mix tape was a total expression of all you held dear. To give someone a mix tape had almost the same weight as a marriage proposal. There was a profound art to it.
I made at least fifty of them for the lost love of my life in college, though I now suspect they were only played when I happened to be around.
I later fell for an artsy and bohemian girl, and I spent three whole days compiling her first tape.
I'm fairly sure all of those cassettes are now in some landfill, but the memory of creating them is far more vivid to me than any image of their faces.
During my Wilderness Years, I had no friends, so I compensated by making mix tapes for myself, including a set I planned to listen to on a final trip to my homeland of Austria, where I somehow intended to die on a mountaintop. While I never made that trip, those four tapes remain some of my most prized possessions.
One day, I finally met a nice girl, and I had one last opportunity to do a final mix tape. I knew it would be the last one, for the CD had by now replaced the cassette as the way we listened to music; there was absolutely no romance in burning a CD. The young lady, however, still strolled around with a Walkman, and that was my way to her heart.
Men are such pathetic creatures, right? Especially the sentimental ones.
I stayed up all night putting this one together. The trick was always to hand it over like it was no big deal, even as I was completely twitterpated.
I eventually married that woman, and who I am now would be impossible without her. The tape sits on our dresser, next to an ancient boom box I keep only for the purpose of playing that one darn tape.
To this day, the ideas and values expressed in my musical choices are a source of pride. If you want to figure out who I really am, this collection will give you a good clue.
• • • • •
Crowded House, "Weather with You", from Woodface (1991)
Julius Caesar, and the Roman Empire,
Couldn't conquer the blue sky.
Blur, "London Loves", from Parklife (1994)
And words are cheap when the mind is elastic.
Capercaillie, "Claire in Heaven", from To the Moon (1995)
Up here I see a new tomorrow.
Level 42, "Play Me", from Forever Now (1994)
All the women of my dreams, Were the kind who lived beyond my means.
Kevin Gilbert, "Goodness Gracious", from Thud (1995) \
Goodness Gracious not many people care, Concern is getting scarcer, true compassion really rare.
Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, "Sunset Road", from Bela Fleck and the Flecktones (1990)
October Project, "Something More than This", from Falling Farther In (1995)
Whatever you fear, Whatever you hide, Whatever you carry deep inside, There's something more than this.
Donald Fagen, "Countermoon", from Kamakiriad (1993)
At every pay phone There's somebody cryin'.
Thomas Dolby, "Close but No Cigar", from Astronauts & Heretics (1992)
I remember, I remember, I remember The promise in your eyes, As black as the night I drove you to the airport.
Echolyn, "One for the Show", from As the World (1995)
As the world shakes it on down, Some learn to dance and others just drown.
Marillion, "Dry Land", from Holidays in Eden (1991)
In all the tine that I've known you,
You've been so edgy and nervous.
Swing Out Sister, "Don't Let Yourself Down", from The Living Return (1994)
Trust in love and you'll have no regrets.
King's X, "The Train", from Ear Candy (1996)
Don't try to take the ride, sit back and let it rain.
Paul Weller, "Round and Round", from Paul Weller (1992)
Movin' up to collect our prizes, Sinkin' fast into life's surprises.
Clannad, "From Your Heart", from Lore (1996)
Wise beyond your years, Made my life more worthy now.
Spock's Beard, "Waste Away", from Beware of Darkness (1996)
Some people are like gravy Spilled on God's Sunday shirt.
Jamiroquai, "Virtual Insanity", from Traveling Without Moving (1996)
And it's a wonder men can eat at all, When things are big that should be small.
Phish, "Down with Disease", from Hoist (1994)
Waiting for the time when I can finally say: This has all been wonderful, but now I'm on my way.
Peter Gabriel, "Steam", from Us (1992)
You know your culture from your trash, You know your plastic from your cash.
Iona, "Irish Day", from Journey Into the Morn (1996)
It is here that time has granted, That the light should still burn on.
And just for a lark, here's a YouTube mix of the entire bloody thing:
Marcus Cato the Censor, whose existence helped the state as much as did Scipio’s—for while Scipio fought against our enemies, Cato fought against our bad morals—used to ride a donkey, and a donkey, at that, which carried saddlebags containing the master’s necessaries. O how I should love to see him meet today on the road one of our coxcombs, with his outriders and Numidians, and a great cloud of dust before him! Your dandy would no doubt seem refined and well-attended in comparison with Marcus Cato—your dandy, who, in the midst of all his luxurious paraphernalia, is chiefly concerned whether to turn his hand to the sword or to the hunting knife. O what a glory to the times in which he lived, for a general who had celebrated a triumph, a censor, and what is most noteworthy of all, a Cato, to be content with a single nag, and with less than a whole nag at that! For part of the animal was preempted by the baggage that hung down on either flank. Would you not therefore prefer Cato’s steed, that single steed, saddle-worn by Cato himself, to the coxcomb’s whole retinue of plump ponies, Spanish cobs, and trotters? I see that there will be no end in dealing with such a theme unless I make an end myself. So I shall now become silent, at least with reference to superfluous things like these; doubtless the man who first called them “hindrances” had a prophetic inkling that they would be the very sort of thing they now are. At present I should like to deliver to you the syllogisms, as yet very few, belonging to our school and bearing upon the question of virtue, which, in our opinion, is sufficient for the happy life.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 It’s nice to see a Stoic praising Cato the Elder, and not just his great-grandson, Cato the Younger, who became a bit of a poster child for the school. While some found the Censor to be severe and self-righteous, there is something to be said for the way he promoted a life of uncompromising integrity and austerity. However stuffy it may sound, I would maintain that the Romans were at their best when they kept things brutally simple. Nowadays, it is the car, and not the horse, that helps us to distinguish between the codgers and the dandies. You can learn a lot from what a fellow drives. For the whole decade I knew him, my music teacher drove a dilapidated 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass, in a nauseating shade of green, which was already at 60,000 miles when his roommate gave it to him, in place of back rent. I, for one, found it quite charming, for the very reason that it had none of the usual charms. “It gets me wherever I need to go—no drama and no fuss. If it breaks down, I kick it and mess around under the hood. If I can’t fix it, my neighbor, who is a decent mechanic, looks it over, and I trade him a few cases of beer for the work.” Here was a man who had it together. He felt no need to impress anyone, because he knew exactly what he was about. Years later, our university got itself a new president, who paraded onto campus with a Tesla Model S, one of the first to be built. He immediately reserved a prime parking space for himself, and he had a charging station installed—at the school’s expense. He was fond of polishing it daily, while taking every opportunity to explain how he was now saving the planet. “You really should get one, you know. Your children will thank you.” He frowned when I reminded him how the price was twice my salary, and that most of our state’s electricity came from burning natural gas and coal. Here was a man who most certainly did not have it together. His entire identity was based on crafting an image. What does it say about me if I place my worth in my car, my house, my clothes, or my trendy politics? As Boethius said, by enslaving ourselves to worldly things, we make ourselves inferior to them, below even the status of a wild beast. For all of his surliness, I will take a Cato over a Caesar on any day. It won’t be enough, of course, to merely complain about the money grubbers and the glory seekers. Seneca rightly moves on to some of the Stoic arguments on why virtue matters more than swag.
I suppose you call a man rich just because his gold plate goes with him even on his travels, because he farms land in all the provinces, because he unrolls a large account-book, because he owns estates near the city so great that men would grudge his holding them in the waste lands of Apulia. But after you have mentioned all these facts, he is poor. And why? He is in debt. “To what extent?” you ask. For all that he has. Or perchance you think it matters whether one has borrowed from another man or from Fortune. What good is there in mules caparisoned in uniform livery? Or in decorated chariots and “Steeds decked with purple and with tapestry, With golden harness hanging from their necks, Champing their yellow bits, all clothed in gold?” Neither master nor mule is improved by such trappings.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 Whenever Seneca starts to go on about the vices of the covetous, I am tempted to pick up the pace of my reading, assured that I have heard all of this before. This is a mistake, however, since such a confirmation is exactly what I need to hear, again and again, as a remedy for the very moral wavering I described above. While I didn’t much enjoy it at the time, it was practicing my scales, over and over, that made me a passable musician, and it is now a regimen of frequent counsel that might help me to become a better man. My students sometimes complain when I repeatedly remind them to correct a certain mistake, yet I gently point out that if they had already fixed it, then I wouldn’t need to nag them. I am well-advised to follow my own advice. When I was in danger of becoming a maudlin drunk, it always helped me to recall the gory details of the last binge, so there could be no confusion about the outcome. Likewise, as I am enticed by the promises of trinkets and trophies, I deliberately consider the pitiful fate of those who define themselves by their riches. Even as the affluence can produce an exterior splendor, how does it reflect our interior merits? Wealth does not make a man righteous, just as poverty does not make a man wicked, and no amount of hemming and hawing can change this fundamental fact. If you reply that property may provide the means for countless good deeds, remember how the goodness must come from within the soul to begin with, and why the virtues can thrive both in prosperity and in privation.
To be rich is one thing, but to want to be rich is quite another.
The princes are in just as much debt as the paupers, though it is a bit easier for the pauper to walk away from it all with a clean conscience. On the proximate level, their big money is usually tied up in dicey investments, and on the ultimate level, their very comforts are always in the treacherous grips of Lady Fortune. The deficit is moral, and not merely financial. To keep it simple, I turn to the old phrase: “You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig.” The fixation on appearances is itself a fatal flaw, far worse than walking through the world with empty pockets.
—Reflection written in 2/2014
IMAGE: Heinrich Aldegrever, The Rich Man on His Deathbed (1554)
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