Perpetual Emotion Machine

Michael Leunig 82

Cosmos 23

Xenophon, Memorabilia of Socrates 43

Being again asked by someone, could courage be taught, or did it come by nature? Socrates answered: 

"I imagine that just as one body is by nature stronger than another body to encounter toils, so one soul by nature grows more robust than another soul in face of dangers. Certainly I do note that people brought up under the same condition of laws and customs differ greatly in respect of daring. 

"Still, my belief is that by learning and practice the natural aptitude may always be strengthened towards courage. 

"It is clear, for instance, that Scythians or Thracians would not venture to take shield and spear and contend with Lacedaemonians; and it is equally evident that Lacedaemonians would demur to entering the lists of battle against Thracians if limited to their light shields and javelins, or against Scythians without some weapon more familiar than their bows and arrows. 

"And as far as I can see, this principle holds generally: the natural differences of one man from another may be compensated by artificial progress, the result of care and attention. All which proves clearly that whether nature has endowed us with keener or blunter sensibilities, the duty of all alike is to learn and practice those things in which we would fain achieve distinction."

Between wisdom and sobriety of soul, which is temperance, Socrates drew no distinction. Was a man able on the one hand to recognize things beautiful and good sufficiently to live in them? Had he, on the other hand, knowledge of the "base and foul" so as to beware of them? If so, Socrates judged him to be wise at once and sound of soul, or temperate. 

And being further questioned whether "he considered those who have the knowledge of right action, but do not apply it, to be wise and self-controlled?" 

"Not a whit more," Socrates answered, "than I consider them to be unwise and intemperate. Everyone, I conceive, deliberately chooses what, within the limits open to him, he considers most conducive to his interest, and acts accordingly. I must hold therefore that those who act against rule and crookedly are neither wise nor self-controlled." 

Socrates said that justice, moreover, and all other virtue is wisdom. That is to say, things just, and all things else that are done with virtue, are "beautiful and good"; and neither will those who know these things deliberately choose anything else in their stead, nor will he who lacks the special knowledge of them be able to do them, but even if he makes the attempt he will miss the mark and fail. 

So the wise alone can perform the things which are "beautiful and good"; they that are unwise cannot, but even if they try they fail. Therefore, since all things just, and generally all things "beautiful and good," are wrought with virtue, it is clear that justice and all other virtue is wisdom. 

On the other hand, madness, he maintained, was the opposite to wisdom; not that he regarded simple ignorance as madness, but he put it thus: for a man to be ignorant of himself, to imagine and suppose that he knows what he knows not, was, he argued, if not madness itself, yet something very like it. 

The mass of men no doubt hold a different language: if a man is all abroad on some matter of which the mass of mankind are ignorant, they do not pronounce him "mad"; but a like aberration of mind, if only it be about matters within the scope of ordinary knowledge, they call madness. 

For instance, anyone who imagined himself too tall to pass under a gateway of the Long Wall without stooping, or so strong as to try to lift a house, or to attempt any other obvious impossibility, is a madman according to them; but in the popular sense he is not mad, if his obliquity is confined to small matters. In fact, just as strong desire goes by the name of passion in popular parlance, so mental obliquity on a grand scale is entitled madness. 

In answer to the question: "what is envy?" he discovered it to be a certain kind of pain; not certainly the sorrow felt at the misfortunes of a friend or the good fortune of an enemy—that is not envy; but, as he said, "envy is felt by those alone who are annoyed at the successes of their friends." 

And when some one or other expressed astonishment that any one friendlily disposed to another should be pained at his well-doing, he reminded him of a common tendency in people: when any one is faring ill their sympathies are touched, they rush to the aid of the unfortunate; but when fortune smiles on others, they are somehow pained. 

"I do not say," Socrates added, "this could happen to a thoughtful person; but it is no uncommon condition of a silly mind." 

In answer to the question: "what is leisure?" Socrates said that most men do something: for instance, the dice player, the gambler, the buffoon, do something, but these have leisure; they can, if they like, turn and do something better; but nobody has leisure to turn from the better to the worse, and if he does so turn, when he has no leisure, he does but ill in that. 

To pass to another definition. They are not kings or rulers, Socrates said, who hold the scepter merely, or are chosen by fellows out of the street, or are appointed by lot, or have stepped into office by violence or by fraud; but those who have the special knowledge how to rule. 

Thus having won the admission that it is the function of a ruler to enjoin what ought to be done, and of those who are ruled to obey, Socrates proceeded to point out by instances that in a ship the ruler or captain is the man of special knowledge, to whom, as an expert, the shipowner himself and all the others on board obey. 

So likewise, in the matter of husbandry, the proprietor of an estate; in that of sickness, the patient; in that of physical training of the body, the youthful athlete going through a course; and, in general, everyone directly concerned in any matter needing attention and care will either attend to this matter personally, if he thinks he has the special knowledge; or, if he mistrusts his own science, will be eager to obey any expert on the spot, or will even send and fetch one from a distance. The guidance of this expert he will follow, and do what he has to do at his dictation. 

And thus, in the art of spinning wool, Socrates liked to point out that women are the rulers of men—and why? because they have the knowledge of the art, and men have not. 

And if anyone raised the objection that a tyrant has it in his power not to obey good and correct advice, Socrates would retort: 

"Pray, how has he the option not to obey, considering the penalty hanging over him who disobeys the words of wisdom? For whatever the matter be in which he disobeys the word of good advice, he will fall into error, I presume, and falling into error, be punished." 

And to the suggestion that the tyrant could, if he liked, cut off the head of the man of wisdom, his answer was: 

"Do you think that he who destroys his best ally will go scot free, or suffer a mere slight and passing loss? Is he more likely to secure his salvation that way, think you, or to compass his own swift destruction?" 

When someone asked him: "what he regarded as the best pursuit or business for a man?" Socrates answered: "Successful conduct"; and to a second question: "Did he then regard good fortune as an end to be pursued?"—"On the contrary," he answered, "for myself, I consider fortune and conduct to be diametrically opposed. 

"For instance, to succeed in some desirable course of action without seeking to do so, I hold to be good fortune; but to do a thing well by dint of learning and practice, that according to my creed is successful conduct, and those who make this the serious business of their life seem to me to do well." 

They are at once the best and the dearest in the sight of God, Socrates went on to say, who for instance in husbandry do well the things of farming, or in the art of healing all that belongs to healing, or in statecraft the affairs of state; whereas a man who does nothing well—nor well in anything—is, he added, neither good for anything nor dear to God. 

—from Xenophon, Memorabilia 3.9 

The Continence of Scipio 12

Sebastiano Ricci, The Continence of Scipio (c. 1706) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 85.3

They say, “The wise man is called unperturbed in the sense in which pomegranates are called mellow—not that there is no hardness at all in their seeds, but that the hardness is less than it was before.” 
 
That view is wrong; for I am not referring to the gradual weeding out of evils in a good man, but to the complete absence of evils; there should be in him no evils at all, not even any small ones. For if there are any, they will grow, and as they grow will hamper him. Just as a large and complete cataract wholly blinds the eyes, so a medium-sized cataract dulls their vision.
 
If by your definition the wise man has any passions whatever, his reason will be no match for them and will be carried swiftly along, as it were, on a rushing stream—particularly if you assign to him, not one passion with which he must wrestle, but all the passions. And a throng of such, even though they be moderate, can affect him more than the violence of one powerful passion.
 
He has a craving for money, although in a moderate degree. He has ambition, but it is not yet fully aroused. He has a hot temper, but it can be appeased. He has inconstancy, but not the kind that is very capricious or easily set in motion. He has lust, but not the violent kind. We could deal better with a person who possessed one full-fledged vice, than with one who possessed all the vices, but none of them in extreme form. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 85 
 
Those who will only focus on the degrees of less or more, lacking any reference to what is absolute, are paradoxically seeking an estimation without the standard of a measure. If everything is relative, then nothing is ever tied down. 
 
This is, of course, the preferred state of affairs whenever we wish to give ourselves handy excuses. The result, unfortunately, is that the indulgence of our trivial foibles becomes the breeding ground for our crippling vices. For the man of comfort this sounds like austere nonsense, while for the man of character it is the way to freedom. 
 
My attempts at becoming better will be, quite literally, pointless without always keeping in mind the noble end of what is best, a lesson I did not learn from some dusty old book, or dream up while my head was up in the clouds. No, I speak from hard experience when I say that an action divorced from the understanding of what is ideal will always leave me running around in circles, trapped within my own deficiencies. 
 
Given the powerful force of habit, the changes will not happen overnight, but each step forward, however pitiful it may at first appear, is a worthy achievement. If I overlook some vice, because it feels so insignificant in the bigger picture, I have forever denied myself a place in that bigger picture. 
 
We are rightly shocked at one brutal murder or at a vast scheme of financial fraud, and yet just as harmful is the steady accumulation of those supposedly little sins, those bitter words or those white lies, making up in frequency for what they lack in scale. And it doesn’t stop there, since each tiny drop of wickedness will gradually erode the integrity of a whole conscience. 
 
I wonder if I should prefer to have many minor flaws, or one enormous flaw? The question is academic, for I am falling short in either case, and I am gifted with the ability to improve myself if I so wish. 
 
I am delusional when I say that I can tolerate myself being slightly ignorant, and a tad cowardly, and barely intemperate, and occasionally unfair, as if virtue could be divided into convenient parts. I either have it or I don’t. Some who strive with intense conviction are rewarded with the prize, and others who are still struggling at the task are making valiant headway—both are honorable, though only one has achieved the goal. 
 
The critic will claim that “nobody’s perfect”, which, like every aphorism, requires a distinction; I am grateful to the Thomists for teaching me that. While a man is a finite creature, and so cannot contain within himself the infinite perfection of the Creator, it remains within his power to fulfill his particular nature. We should righty discuss the limits of that nature, and how much he must rely upon what is above him, but it would be contradictory to say that a thing is designed to fail at its innate purpose. 
 
No, regardless of the circumstances beyond his control, if the virtuous man is doing it right, then he is simply doing it right. Even as he retains the option of suddenly abandoning his resolve for tomorrow, he has lived up to his duty for today. In this sense, as Aristotle said, no man is completely good or happy until his death, for the work is still ongoing, and must be continually renewed for every moment. 

—Reflection written in 1/2014 

IMAGE: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Proserpine (1874) 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 280

The Avadhûta saw a bridal procession passing through a meadow, with the beating of drums and the blowing of trumpets, and with great pomp. 

Hard by the road through which the procession was passing, he saw a hunter deeply absorbed in aiming at a bird, and perfectly inattentive to the noise and pomp of the procession, casting not even a passing look at it. 

The Avadhûta, saluting the hunter, said, "Sir, you are my Guru. When I sit in meditation, let my mind be concentrated on its object of meditation as yours has been on the bird." 

Man's Search for Meaning 19

Occasionally a scientific debate developed in camp. Once I witnessed something I had never seen, even in my normal life, although it lay somewhat near my own professional interests: a spiritualistic séance. 

I had been invited to attend by the camp's chief doctor (also a prisoner), who knew that I was a specialist in psychiatry. The meeting took place in his small, private room in the sick quarters. A small circle had gathered, among them, quite illegally, the warrant officer from the sanitation squad. 

One man began to invoke the spirits with a kind of prayer. The camp's clerk sat in front of a blank sheet of paper, without any conscious intention of writing. 

During the next ten minutes (after which time the séance was terminated because of the medium's failure to conjure the spirits to appear), his pencil slowly drew lines across the paper, forming quite legibly "VAE V."

 It was asserted that the clerk had never learned Latin and that he had never before heard the words "vae victis"—woe to the vanquished. 

In my opinion, he must have heard them once in his life, without recollecting them, and they must have been available to the "spirit" (the spirit of his subconscious mind) at that time, a few months before our liberation and the end of the war. 

—from Viktor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning 

Stobaeus on Stoic Ethics 19

Of good things, some are final, some are instrumental, and some are both. 

For the prudent man and one’s friend are only instrumental goods, but joy and good spirits and confidence and prudent walking are only final goods; all the virtues are both instrumental and final goods since they both produce happiness and fulfill it, becoming parts of it. 

Analogously, of bad things some are instrumental to unhappiness, some are final, and some are both. 

For the imprudent man and one’s enemy are only instrumental bad things, but pain and fear and theft and imprudent questioning and similar things are only final bad things; the vices are both instrumental and final bad things since they produce unhappiness and fulfill it, becoming parts of it. 

IMAGE: Rebecca Dulcibella Orpen, The Philosopher's Morning Walk (c. 1880) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 85.2

Certain of the Peripatetics reply to this syllogism by interpreting “unperturbed,” “unwavering,” and “free from sadness” in such a way as to make “unperturbed” mean one who is rarely perturbed and only to a moderate degree, and not one who is never perturbed. 
 
Likewise, they say that a person is called “free from sadness” who is not subject to sadness, one who falls into this objectionable state not often nor in too great a degree. It is not, they say, the way of human nature that a man’s spirit should be exempt from sadness, or that the wise man is not overcome by grief but is merely touched by it, and other arguments of this sort, all in accordance with the teachings of their school.
 
They do not abolish the passions in this way; they only moderate them. But how petty is the superiority which we attribute to the wise man, if he is merely braver than the most craven, happier than the most dejected, more self-controlled than the most unbridled, and greater than the lowliest! Would Ladas boast his swiftness in running by comparing himself with the halt and the weak? 
 
“For she could skim the topmost blades of corn 
And touch them not, nor bruise the tender ears; 
Or travel over seas, well-poised above 
The swollen floods, nor dip her flying feet 
In ocean’s waters.” 
 
This is speed estimated by its own standard, not the kind which wins praise by comparison with that which is slowest. Would you call a man well who has a light case of fever? No, for good health does not mean moderate illness. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 85 
 
In every step of the above argument, each term is intended as a direct connection to the next. This is only possible if we define such terms clearly, without the ambiguity that so commonly gets us wrapped up in pointless squabbling, all because we didn’t take the time to establish what we meant by our words to begin with. 
 
How often have you been forced to sit through some partisan debate, where the opponents were yelling about the trendy cause of the day, only to realize how they were throwing around concepts like “justice” or “freedom”, without any ability to explain their most basic values? 
 
When politicians do this, it is about buying your vote, and when lawyers do this, it is about taking your money, and when scholars do this, it is about stroking their own egos. 
 
Only a restoration of simplicity can restore us to sanity. When the Stoic says that someone is unwavering, or unperturbed, or free from sadness, he means this as specifically as possible, spared from any equivocations that would negate the original sense. Whatever degrees of more or less may be present, a thing is what it is, and it isn’t what it isn’t, and we can’t be sitting on the fence, wishing it to be both. 
 
I have an immense respect for the way a Peripatetic and a Thomist ask us to make the proper distinctions, but this becomes excessive and untenable when we nitpick away at the very identity in question. 
 
I also have an immense respect for the Stoic insistence on never hiding behind conditions and qualifications, such that, regardless of the particular nuances, we recognize a virtuous man as a virtuous man, and a happy man as a happy man. 
 
If we begin with the fact that human nature is specified by reason and will, it follows that the perfection of our nature is within the excellence of such powers, and not merely by the presence or absence of some other conditions. 
 
From this, it becomes clear why happiness, the end for which we are made, is achieved through a knowledge of what is true and a love for what is good; any further circumstance becomes beneficial to us when directed toward virtue, and harmful to us when directed toward vice. 
 
Socrates knew this, and Plato knew this, and Aristotle knew this. The Stoics were simply making sure that we didn’t forget the primacy of this principle, or modify it out of existence by adding any extraneous requirements. And this is why I cling so closely to the Stoics. 
 
A man is truly unwavering, unperturbed, and free from sadness when such excellence remains constant, not when it happens to be present more often than not, or in a slightly greater amount. Mediocrity does not qualify as distinction, as any good athlete should know. 
 
For the critics, who are willing to settle for second-best, what an old friend used to call being “good enough for government work”, the good man has not conquered his passions, but he is satisfied with keeping them at bay, succumbing to them as little as possible. For the Stoic, this is admirable progress, but it is not yet the possession of the virtues. “Close, but no cigar” won’t cut it. 
 
Does this perhaps sound too demanding? Look at it from the other side, such that we will only rise as high as the level of our chosen standards. Nor is the Stoic asking us to abandon our emotions, but rather to tame our disordered feelings, and thereby to be at peace with feelings that are ordered by sound thinking.
 
Remember how the Stoics spoke of apatheia as being freed from unhealthy “passions” (such as distress, fear, lust, and gratification), which allows us to embrace the healthy sentiments of eupatheia (such as caution, wish, and joy). 
 
Neither bodies nor souls become healthy by just scraping by. 

—Reflection written in 1/2014 

The Cloud's Turmoil, the Sun's Fierce Molten Fire

Edward Frederick Brewtnall, The Cloud's Turmoil, the Sun's Fierce Molten Fire (c. 1889) 

Proverbs 4:1-6

[1] Hear, O sons, a father's instruction,
and be attentive, that you may gain insight;
[2] for I give you good precepts:
do not forsake my teaching.
[3] When I was a son with my father,
tender, the only one in the sight of my mother,
[4] he taught me, and said to me,
"Let your heart hold fast my words;
keep my commandments, and live;
[5] do not forget, and do not turn away from the words of my mouth.
Get wisdom; get insight.
[6] Do not forsake her, and she will keep you;
love her, and she will guard you." 

IMAGE: Eugene Laermans, Father and Son (1920) 

Sayings of Heraclitus 91

Those who speak with understanding must hold fast to what is common to all, as a city holds fast to its law, and even more strongly. 

For all human laws are fed by the one divine law. 

It prevails as much as it will, and suffices for all things, with something to spare. 

IMAGE: Jacob Jordaens, Divine Law as the Basis for Human Justice (1665) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 85.1

Letter 85: On some vain syllogisms   
 
I had been inclined to spare you, and had omitted any knotty problems that still remained undiscussed; I was satisfied to give you a sort of taste of the views held by the men of our school, who desire to prove that virtue is of itself sufficiently capable of rounding out the happy life. 
 
But now you bid me include the entire bulk either of our own syllogisms or of those which have been devised by other schools for the purpose of belittling us. If I shall be willing to do this, the result will be a book, instead of a letter. And I declare again and again that I take no pleasure in such proofs. I am ashamed to enter the arena and undertake battle on behalf of gods and men armed only with an awl.
 
“He that possesses prudence is also self-restrained; he that possesses self-restraint is also unwavering; he that is unwavering is unperturbed; he that is unperturbed is free from sadness; he that is free from sadness is happy. Therefore, the prudent man is happy, and prudence is sufficient to constitute the happy life." 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 85 
 
I came to philosophy early, because I felt a desperate need for answers to the fundamental questions, and I then stayed in it for the long haul, because I was amazed at how we did not merely have to assume, but we could work to offer sound reasons for our convictions. I will still maintain that this exercise must come before any other human endeavor, for the what is meaningless without the why. 
 
I have no special gift for logic, so I take my sweet time when working through a chain of syllogisms, fully aware of how my conclusions will only be as good as the proofs that stand behind them. I have made it a lifelong effort not to confuse my preferences with my principles. 
 
I too often come across those who take an argument to be a form of quarreling, not a form of demonstration, much like those who treat a judgment as a condemnation of another person, not as an estimation of a shared truth. This sort of conflict, driven by pride instead of prudence, is what sadly gives philosophy such a bad name. 
 
So, while I do enjoy my syllogisms, I am, like Seneca, not so terribly fond of the endless haranguing and bickering that can easily go along with them. The example of the Stoics has taught me a little about walking away from a debate that is lacking in goodwill and common sense, though if the various factions insist on exhibiting their catalogs of disputes and grievances, I will do my best to find something of worth out of the contest. 
 
Indeed, a contrast between the views of the Stoics and their critics might help us to overcome some confusion about the relationship of the virtues and happiness, not to vindicate this or that school, but to clarify the very truth of the matter. Unclear terms will inevitably lead us to sloppy conclusions. 
 
If an ordered understanding can provide us with all that is necessary for a good life, then we do not need to rely on other conditions beyond our control; where self-mastery is present, all circumstances can become opportunities. If we take these definitions strictly and precisely, the Stoic train of thought establishes a sure connection between the veracity of our judgments and the quality of our happiness. 

—Reflection written in 1/2014 

Self-portrait

J.M.W. Turner, Self-portrait (c. 1799) 

From what I have read about the man, Turner was quite the eccentric, not easy to get along with, and ridden with profound thoughts that his peers could not fathom. He sounds exactly like my sort of fellow, which is why he is on my list of the "three Williams" I admire so much: Turner, Blake, and Hogarth. 

I am told he once rowed out into the middle of the Thames, so as to not be counted in the census. I heartily approve of his tiny act of rebellion. 

I often gaze at this painting for far too long, imagining how Turner was the sort of man I would have been proud to have as a friend. His expression speaks volumes to me. 

I do not have any of his talent, but he still seems to be a kindred spirit. If there is indeed a Heaven, where we retain anything of our former identities, I look forward to meeting him. If not, he has continued to live through me, during every day of my anonymous life. 

Bach 5, Mass in B minor

Johann Sebastian Bach, Mass in B minor, BWV 232, Netherlands Bach Society 

A Litany in Time of Plague

"A Litany in Time of Plague" 

Thomas Nashe (1567-1601) 

Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss;
This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys;
Death proves them all but toys;
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade.
All things to end are made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds open her gate.
"Come, come!" the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste, therefore, each degree,
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage;
Mount we unto the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us! 

On Pain

"On Pain" 

Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931) 

And a woman spoke, saying, Tell us of Pain. 
And he said:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears. 

Roll the Dice

"Roll the Dice" 

Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) 

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or
4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the
worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the
gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.

you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight
there is. 

The Mother Road 12

Old Route 66, Ash Fork AZ 

IMAGES by Lee Lundberg