Stoic Film: The Terminal

Sure, this is a Hollywood feel-good movie, a cleaned up fictional homage by Steven Spielberg to the very real experiences of Mehran Karimi Nasseri, a man who spent 18 years living in a Paris airport, stuck between countries.

I adore this scene, because it helps me to ask myself a few very Stoic questions about my own life:

When was the last time I helped a complete stranger, just for the sake of being kind?

When was the last time I broke the rules to assist someone, instead of breaking someone to follow the rules?

When was the last time I did something that was right, even though it resulted in a greater burden to my own circumstances? When did I show charity so another could get what he needed, at the cost of what I wanted?

"Why are you doing this? Huh? You don't know him. You don't know the rules. Look at me. I was going to help you."

I will hardly spoil the film for anyone, but when the film finally explains why Viktor has tried to visit New York, would I have acted with that same complete dedication to principle and promise?
 
If I answer these questions poorly, I need a moral tune-up.

"He love that goat."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xrTUmYxnNlo

Written in 2/2007

Seneca, On the Happy Life 10: Escaping into Freedom

. . . We must, therefore, escape from them into freedom.

This nothing will bestow upon us except contempt of Fortune. But if we attain to this, then there will dawn upon us those invaluable blessings, the repose of a mind that is at rest in a safe haven, its lofty imaginings, its great and steady delight at casting out errors and learning to know the truth, its courtesy, and its cheerfulness.

In all of these we shall take delight, not regarding them as good things in themselves, but as proceeding from the proper good of man.

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 4 (tr Stewart)

We often think of freedom in terms of being free from something, of having a limitation removed. We can also think of freedom in terms of being free in something, of embracing a responsibility or commitment. I find both of these aspects helpful in the practice of Stoicism, because each of these is only fully possible through the other.

I must learn not to depend upon Fortune, but I must cast aside what is unreliable and fleeting by also pursuing what is truly fulfilling and constant. I am not just defined by what is bad for me, by what I should avoid, but also by what is good for me, by what I should seek. It is only the complete embrace of Nature that allows me to escape from Fortune.

As a child, being told what I shouldn’t do sometimes frustrated me. A begrudging compliance could only be transformed into a willful commitment when I understood what I should do, and why it was worth doing. That I should not lie, cheat, or steal only completely made sense if I also knew that I needed to love. If I need to run away from one thing, I also need something else to be running toward. Don’t just tell me how not to be bad, but show me how to be good.

Learning to be accountable for my own thoughts and deeds brings with it many benefits. It brings with it a place of rest, a peace of mind, and a sense of profound contentment. The satisfaction of feeling good is, however, not itself the end, but a consequence of that purpose, of being good. The very reason a life virtue is satisfying is precisely because I am not seeking satisfaction alone, divorced from any right responsibility and action.

One of the greatest trials of my life was caring for someone who, it turned out, had developed only half of a conscience. Right or wrong were measured solely by pursuing praise and avoiding blame from others, and were determined entirely by external rewards and punishments. I was met with a blank stare if I suggested that doing right was its own reward.

The whole experience taught me that things in life are never good just because they are pleasant, but they are rightly pleasant because they are good. Once I have my own wires crossed regarding the good and the pleasant, I am caring only for a freedom from consequences, and not a freedom in character. 

Written in 6/2009

Image: Engelbert Ergo, The Escape of Lot from Sodom (early 17th c.)

Seneca, On the Happy Life 9: Beyond Fear and Desire

. . . If you choose to pursue this digression further, you can put this same idea into many other forms, without impairing or weakening the meaning.

For what prevents our saying that a happy life consists in a mind which is free, upright, undaunted, and steadfast, beyond the influence of fear or desire, which thinks nothing good except honor, and nothing bad except blame, and regards everything else as a mass of mean details which can neither add anything to nor take anything away from the happiness of life, but which come and go without either increasing or diminishing the highest good?

A man of these principles, whether he wills it or not, must be accompanied by a continual cheerfulness, a high happiness, which comes indeed from on high because he delights in what he has, and desires no greater pleasures than those which his home affords.

Is he not right in allowing these to turn the scale against petty, ridiculous and short-lived movements of his wretched body? On the day on which he becomes proof against pleasure he also becomes proof against pain.

See, on the other hand, how evil and guilty a slavery the man is forced to serve who is dominated in turn by pleasures and pains, those most untrustworthy and passionate of masters. . . .

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 4 (tr Stewart)

I need only reflect on how much of my life has been foolishly determined by fear and desire, in avoiding pain and in seeking pleasure, to recognize the root of my weakness. It is not the feelings of pleasure and pain that are flawed in themselves, but rather allowing myself to be ruled by them. The Stoic does not deny his passions, but he understands how to put them in their proper place. Being steadfast proceeds not from brute strength, or from any heartless indifference, but simply from learning to care more for what is superior, and less for what is inferior.

It is my own estimation that will make all the difference. We are surely all familiar with that liberating sense, when we hardly desire something that we know is bad for us, and we hardly fear something that we know can never hurt us. I am not drawn to accumulating many possessions, or seeking the company of untrustworthy people, because I know there is nothing good in them. I have learned not to fear being alone, because I know I always have myself.

I must apply that same standard to anything and everything that is part of my circumstances. I have no power over them, and should therefore hardly worry about their coming and going. I do have power over my own judgments, values, and choices, and I can remember that my own good rests only in the exercise of my character. Pleasure and pain will be as they will be, but the effect they may have depends only upon how much I care for them.

Becoming upright in my own principles is the source of my freedom from hurt and want, which in turn yields the fruits of joy and cheerfulness. I have known many people who struggle to be good, and who are sometimes angry or dissatisfied with their failures; I have often counted myself as such a man. I have, however, yet to meet someone who has rightly made the Stoic Turn who does not also display the deepest contentment under all types of conditions. This is not because he is oblivious to pleasure and pain, but because he has learned to gauge their meaning and importance.

The slavery that follows from being mastered by our passions is only a servitude of our own choices, and we are, in turn, the only sources of our own emancipation. 

Written in 6/2009

Image: Leonardo da Vinci, Allegory of Pleasure and Pain (c. 1480) 

Seneca, On the Happy Life 8: Discerning the Highest Good

Our highest good may also be defined otherwise, that is to say, the same idea may be expressed in different language. Just as the same army may at one time be extended more widely, at another contracted into a smaller compass, and may either be curved towards the wings by a depression in the line of the center, or drawn up in a straight line, while, in whatever figure it be arrayed, its strength and loyalty remain unchanged; so also our definition of the highest good may in some cases be expressed diffusely and at great length, while in others it is put into a short and concise form.

Thus, it will come to the same thing, if I say "The highest good is a mind which despises the accidents of fortune, and takes pleasure in virtue.” Or "It is an unconquerable strength of mind, knowing the world well, gentle in its dealings, showing great courtesy and consideration for those with whom it is brought into contact."

Or we may choose to define it by calling that man happy who knows good and bad only in the form of good or bad minds, who worships honor, and is satisfied with his own virtue, who is neither puffed up by good fortune nor cast down by evil fortune, who knows no other good than that which he is able to bestow upon himself, whose real pleasure lies in despising pleasures. . . .

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 4 (tr Stewart)

The ignorant man cares neither for words nor for meaning. The scholar often cares for words at the expense of meaning. The true philosopher loves words because they indicate meaning.

There isn’t always one right wording, since varying forms of definitions will express different aspects and strengths, and different degrees of breadth and depth. Arrange your army in whatever formation you wish, but it is still the same army.

I would always enjoy reading Aristotle on happiness with students, and though his philosophy is from a different tradition than that of the Stoics, I was pleased to see how some students would have that moment of insight, where however we ordered the words, it became clear to them that happiness was essentially measured by what we did, and not by what happened to us.

Aristotle, for example, offers a very precise definition:

Happiness is the activity of a rational soul, according to complete virtue, and determined over a complete life.

Now all of that is quite a mouthful, and can certainly seem confusing and obscure. More academically inclined students may take this apart, and relate all the pieces to the overall argument of the chapter, that happiness is always an end and never a means, and that it must therefore be something complete and self-sufficient, or that we can come to know what is good for a human being by considering the function of human nature. Such discussions are the sorts of things that inspire us bookish teachers, especially if we can dabble in the subtleties of the original Greek.

Every so often I would have the pleasure of such an involved and lively discussion, though one of my favorite moments came when I noticed a quiet and reserved student staring out the window and smiling. I wanted to pull her into the conversation. I asked her if any of the definition was helpful.

“Yes, because it sounds like he’s really just saying two things. Happiness is about living, and it’s about living well.” The budding Greek scholars were suddenly silent, because the unassuming student had it all in a nutshell.

Notice also, of course, how this is hardly much different from a Stoic view, or from the different wordings that Seneca suggests. Happiness proceeds from the excellence of my actions, and not from my circumstances. This is why the happy man is strong from within. He expresses love and concern for his neighbors, out of the very conviction that his character will define him. We might consider many different parts and aspects of a happy life, but it remains one and the same thing throughout.

I was once part of a similar sort of discussion, this one not even in the formal context of a class, where we were trying to come to an agreeable definition of honor. Seneca uses it, for example, in one of his possible definitions. Now honor seems quite a noble word, but it can be used in very different ways.

The conversation was quickly unraveling, because some people thought seeking honor was an expression of good moral character, and others thought it was the pursuit of vanity. It took someone only a moment to clarify what was shared, and where there was divergence: “Honor is about respect or credit. Now a good man is honorable if he acts out of respect for his own conscience. A bad man is honorable if he lets his life be determined only by the respect other people give him.”

I don’t think Seneca, or any Stoic, or any philosopher, could have put it any better. Let what is good in life proceed from yourself, and not what you receive from the world. 

Written in 10/1999

 

Seneca, On the Happy Life 7: Follow Nature

. . . Meanwhile I follow Nature, which is a point upon which every one of the Stoic philosophers are agreed: true wisdom consists in not departing from Nature and in molding our conduct according to her laws and model.

A happy life, therefore, is one which is in accordance with its own nature, and cannot be brought about unless in the first place the mind be sound and remain so without interruption, and next, be bold and vigorous, enduring all things with most admirable courage, suited to the times in which it lives, careful of the body and its accessories, yet not troublesomely careful.

It must also set due value upon all the things which adorn our lives, without over-estimating any one of them, and must be able to enjoy the bounty of Fortune without becoming her slave.

You understand without my mentioning it that an unbroken calm and freedom ensue, when we have driven away all those things which either excite us or alarm us: for in the place of sensual pleasures and those slight perishable matters which are connected with the basest crimes, we thus gain an immense, unchangeable, equable joy, together with peace, calmness and greatness of mind, and kindliness: for all savagery is a sign of weakness.

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 3 (tr Stewart)

Now surely this appeal to Nature seems to be the perfect cop-out. Whatever could that possibly mean? We live in a time where metaphysics is about crystals and past lives, where ethics is about the whims of social propriety, and where happiness is just about feeling good about ourselves. Nature becomes an all-inclusive term for whatever we happen to want at the moment.

The Ancients in general, and the Stoics in particular, were far more specific in this regard; they understood Nature not as a vague idea, but as a clearly defined principle. Aristotle was never the most poetic of philosophers, but he explained it as follows in Book II of the Physics:

Nature is a source or cause of being moved and of being at rest, in that to which it belongs primarily, in virtue of itself, and not in virtue of another.

The nature of anything is simply what it does according to its very identity. A heavy thing, by nature, will fall, and a light thing, by nature, will rise. A plant will grow, an animal will sense, and a man will think.

There is no deep mystery here, no obscurity, and no speaking in tongues. Ask yourself what it means to be a human being, and then consider what such a being does to complete itself. A man is composed of matter, as all sensible things are. He has a principle of nutrition, growth, and reproduction, as all living things do. Finally, he has a mind and the power of free choice, which allow him to understand his world and his own actions, and to determine his actions for himself. Now that which is more complete is greater than what which is less complete, and it is more complete for anything to rule itself than to be ruled.

No hemming and hawing is required. It is immediately clear that a man is not the sum of his accidents, but rather the fulfillment of his essence. I was never put on this Earth to be determined by what is outside of myself, but to determine, by my own judgment, how I will make something of myself.

However much I feel pleasure or pain, that is not the life of a man, but the life of a beast.

However much I possess or do not possess, that is not the life of a man, but the life of an accountant’s ledger.

However much I am loved or despised, that is not the life of a man, but the life of an opinion poll.

Yet once I possess a clear understanding of the good inherent in all things, and I have acted with that knowledge, I am now a man. My humanity is intact.

This requires a willingness to see things as they are in themselves, and not as I would want them to be. It requires a willingness to act for the sake of both myself and others, not for my sake at the expense of others. It requires seeing my own nature as part of all things, of all of Nature, and not seeing myself as being above all things.

The soundness of my mind is wisdom. The soundness of my choices is courage. The soundness of my passions is temperance. The soundness of my respect for others is justice.

Happiness is not the pleasure that comes from conquest or gratification, but the joy that proceeds from thinking and acting with Nature, and never acting against it. That is freedom, that is contentment, and that is peace.

I am not, by my own nature, a savage beast, but a person, one whose very nature tells him how he must live. I must choose to consider all of Fortune rightly, and never allow Fortune to rule me. 

Written in 10/1999

Image: Maarten van Heemskerck, Allegory of Nature (1567)

Seneca, On the Happy Life 6: What to Reach For?

Let us seek for some blessing, which does not merely look fine, but is sound and good throughout alike, and most beautiful in the parts which are least seen: let us unearth this. It is not far distant from us; it can be discovered.

All that is necessary is to know whether to stretch out your hand: but, as it is, we behave as though we were in the dark, and reach out beyond what is nearest to us, striking as we do so against the very things that we want.

However, that I may not draw you into digressions, I will pass over the opinions of other philosophers, because it would take a long time to state and confute them all: take ours.

When, however, I say "ours”, I do not bind myself to any one of the chiefs of the Stoic school, for I too have a right to form my own opinion. I shall, therefore, follow the authority of some of them, but shall ask some others to discriminate their meaning: perhaps, when after having reported all their opinions, I am asked for my own, I shall impugn none of my predecessors' decisions, and shall say, "I will also add somewhat to them.” . . . 

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 3 (tr Stewart)

I fondly remember my newborn son reaching out his hand, and, like every new father, I held out my own hand. He clenched onto my finger like a vise, and he would not let go. I was very happy to oblige, and I could not even conceive of pulling myself free.

I know, the experts tell me that a newborn can’t see, has no sense of self, most certainly can’t smile, and will grasp onto anything that comes his way. All of this, modern science explains, is just a biological reaction.

That is as it may well be, but such a biological reaction tells us most everything about how we will all continue to grow, in body, in mind, and in spirit. In the end, that same instinct defines everything about us. We all seek what is good, in whatever way we can. It was no accident that the only thing that dragged my son away from my finger was his mother’s milk.

He is now much older, and he reaches still. He no longer reaches for my hand when he feels fear, and he no longer reaches for his mother’s embrace when he desires comfort. He is becoming his own man; he reaches for purpose and meaning in everything that he does, but now he is learning to decide for himself. He can see, he can feel, he can understand, and perhaps most apparently, he can smile and he can frown.

I will refuse, to the bitter end, to define my children by the social, political, religious, and economic clubs they belong to. I will ask them to define themselves by their own reason, and certainly not by whether they have pleased me, or whether they have succeeded in the eyes of the world. I hope I can only help them to not reach out blindly into the dark, but to have a sense to see clearly what is really worth holding on to.

The truth about our lives isn’t distant or obscure; it’s right there in front if us, within us, if we only choose to see who we are. I was quite amazed to see the privilege given to some of my wealthy peers, many hundreds of thousands of dollars in entitlements, and the disadvantage suffered by some of my poorer peers, many hundreds of thousands of dollars in need. The very problem, from day one, was that we all assumed those many hundreds of thousands of dollars would make any difference whatsoever. I ask myself, most every day, whether the presence of wealth would have made me any better, or the presence of need actually made me any worse?

Those are not the things to reach for. Reach for what is near, reach for the truth clear within the mind, and the love clear within the heart. Do not reach for a career, or a ten year plan, or a twenty year plan, but reach for an immediate living plan. Reach for what is entirely within your power, to be a decent human being, who seeks the truth without bias, and who loves his neighbor without prejudice.

Through all of this, avoid “–isms”. Seneca considers himself a Stoic, but he will most certainly not define himself by this or that school, or movement, or fashionable trend. He will find the truth wherever it may be found, not at the expense of one, but for the fulfillment of all. 

Written in 1/2017

Seneca, On the Happy Life 5: To Take a Stoic Turn

. . . He will say, "Whatever I have hitherto done I wish were undone. When I think over what I have said, I envy dumb people. Whatever I have longed for seems to have been what my enemies would pray to befall me.

“Good heaven, how far more endurable what I have feared seems to be than what I have lusted after. I have been at enmity with many men, and have changed my dislike of them into friendship, if friendship can exist between bad men: yet I have not yet become reconciled to myself.

“I have striven with all my strength to raise myself above the common herd, and to make myself remarkable for some talent. What have I effected except to make myself a mark for the arrows of my enemies, and show those who hate me where to wound me?

“Do you see those who praise your eloquence, who covet your wealth, who court your favor, or who vaunt your power? All these either are, or, which comes to the same thing, may be your enemies. The number of those who envy you is as great as that of those who admire you; why do I not rather seek for some good thing that I can use and feel, not one that I can show?

“These good things which men gaze at in wonder, which they crowd to see, which one points out to another with speechless admiration, are outwardly brilliant, but within are miseries to those who possess them.”

— Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 2 (tr Stewart)

What begins to happen when I look past everything that is extraneous to only the things that are essential? I won’t just see myself and my world from a slightly different angle, but in many cases I will actually begin seeing it in a completely opposite manner.

Once I consider my happiness through my nature, and not from my circumstances, so many aspects of the good and the bad will be flipped in my judgment. The things I once desired become repugnant, and what I was once proud of is now a source of shame. The goal is no longer about providing more for myself, but rather making more of myself, not appearing good, but rather being good, and not ruling the world, but ruling my own attitude about the world. The shift is starting to think from the inside out, instead of from the outside in.

I have myself found no clearer instance of this than our estimation of friends. As soon as I acquire friends because of what they will do for me, such a relationship is entirely relative and changeable. The difference between a friend and an enemy will become as razor thin as the perception of convenience or inconvenience. I believe Seneca is quite right to question whether friendship can even exist between bad men, for in one sense, everyone is an enemy, someone waiting to be used or opposed, to be treated as a means and never as an end.

I once knew a fellow who had been married three times, and he was quite proud of the fact that the third was a charm. He was happy to explain that he had figured out, through the experience of the first two wives, how to speak and act in following the path of least resistance, and to receive what he expected. His proof of this was the first two wives hadn’t lasted very long, but the he was now approaching a major anniversary with the last one. “I won’t marry again if this one turns out not to work after all,” he said. “It just won’t be worth it for me.”

I was prudent enough to bite my tongue, but I understood his thinking entirely, as I had seen it so often before. The third wife had indeed lasted the longest, but this was proof of nothing other than that she had pleased him the longest. If she ceased to please him, then that relationship would also be over; she would become as mocked and ridiculed as her predecessors. For now, however, she and her children would be the perfect family on all the holiday cards and vacation photos.

I know I am on the right path with the Stoic Turn when I understand that desiring everything praised and admired on the outside will be the death of me on the inside. It isn’t the many things in this world, all of them beautiful in themselves, or the many people I will meet, all of them worthy of love in themselves, that are the problem, but the manner in which I approach them that will make all the difference. As soon as I define myself by what I possess and control, I have enslaved my character to appearance and utility. 

Written in 4/2007

Image: Georges Rouget, Marriage of Napoleon I and Marie Louise (1810) 

Seneca, On the Happy Life 4: Rising Above the Vulgar

When we are considering a happy life, you cannot answer me as though after a division of the house, "this view has most supporters;" because for that very reason it is the worse of the two: matters do not stand so well with mankind that the majority should prefer the better course. The more people do a thing, the worse it is likely to be.

Let us therefore inquire, not what is most commonly done, but what is best for us to do, and what will establish us in the possession of undying happiness, not what is approved of by the vulgar, the worst possible exponents of truth.

By "the vulgar" I mean both those who wear woolen cloaks and those who wear crowns; for I do not regard the color of the clothes with which they are covered. I do not trust my eyes to tell me what a man is: I have a better and more trustworthy light by which I can distinguish what is true from what is false. Let the mind find out what is good for the mind.

If a man ever allows his mind some breathing space and has leisure for communing with himself, what truths he will confess to himself, after having been put to the torture by his own self! . . .

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 2 (tr Stewart)

It is too easy to confuse what is popular with what is right, because we are quickly carried away with impressions, because it requires far less effort to conform than to judge for oneself, and because there is a lazy comfort in in the security of the group.

I have observed that a faction will often define itself even more by a hatred of the opposition than a love of its own platform, and how much there can be a certain malicious and exclusive glee in being part of “us” rather than part of “them”.

I was fortunate enough to only spend a short time of my life tempted by the mentality of the herd, first in matters of politics, and then in matters of religion. The appeal quickly faded, because it all seemed more like acting in a play than about living a life. I learned quickly that herd loyalty is far more emotional than it is rational, and that the perspectives could change at a moment’s notice, with the whims of fashion and the empty promises of demagogues.

Standing back from the quarrels, one could see that the different sides were all selling much the same pabulum, masked in slightly different flavors. The obedience to the tribe had silenced a commitment to shared humanity.

The vulgarity Seneca describes can be seen anywhere and everywhere, and it is hardly defined by class or status. I have listened to oil workers in Oklahoma worship their flags and guns just as often as I have listened to suburban professionals in Boston exclude anyone who is not as properly diverse as they believe themselves to be. What makes such displays vulgar is the exercise of ignorance and vanity clothed in the appearance of enlightenment.

I am best served to remember that a man is not defined by how he would wish to appear to me, but by the merit of what he truly thinks and of what he actually does. If I can peel away all the images and trappings, if I can look beneath the manipulations and the hypocrisy, I will be left with nothing but the identity of my own human nature, of a being ruled by reflection and understanding, and how that is ordered to the Nature of all other things. Anything beyond this becomes a diversion.

If I do not allow myself to be distracted by the confusion of all the accidents, by status, possessions, or popularity, I can come to perceive the essence, the identity of a being that exists solely to live by the knowledge of what is true and the love of what is good. The rest must fall away, revealing only that purity, which is at the very root of our freedom and happiness. 

Written in 8/2012

Image: Robert Cruickshank, Whigs and Tories (1832)

Stoic Film: It's a Wonderful Life

Long ago, a fellow teacher far wiser than myself suggested a brilliant paper assignment. Picture the whole story from Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life, but now imagine that George Bailey comes home after his revelation, that his life is truly worth living, only to find no one there but his wife and children, and the bank examiner has him hauled off in handcuffs. You could even up the ante. Imagine he comes home, and Mary and the kids have had enough, and they have left him.

If George Bailey ended up in prison for bank fraud, abandoned by everyone, would he still have lived a wonderful life?

That question cuts straight to the bone.  We all expect the "happy" ending, of course, but is the happy ending just measured by the circumstances? What if George really didn't have any friends at that moment? Would that have made him a failure?

I feel a little dirty suggesting that Clarence's inscription in that book might not be true. Many of us don't have friends. Are we failures?

During my Wilderness Years, I would spend every Christmas Eve with a bottle of Irish whiskey and a pack of Dunhill cigarettes, and watch both the usual prime time network showing of It's a Wonderful Life, followed by the Christmas Papal Mass in Rome with John Paul II. I would pound my fists, curse the world, and I would cry. I would condemn myself, my condition, and everyone and everything I could possibly think of.

But somehow I lived, and I still got up that next morning, and it was precisely because Frank Capra and the Pope had reminded me of what mattered. A good life never had anything to do with what happened to me, but it had everything to do with what I did. I was already fighting to be a Stoic, though that was not always clear to me at the time.

George Bailey learned that he was a happy man just because he was a good man, and all the Potters in the world, all the crooks and abusers, could never change that about him. I know exactly how I would have written that paper assignment.

"You sit around here and you spin your little webs and you think the whole world revolves around you and your money! Well, it doesn't, Mr. Potter! In the in the whole vast configuration of things, I'd say you were nothing but a scurvy little spider!"

"Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

"Clarence! Clarence! Help me, Clarence! Get me back! Get me back, I don't care what happens to me! Get me back to my wife and kids! Help me, Clarence, please! Please! I wanna live again. I wanna live again. I want to live again. Please, God, let me live again."

I learned that the Stoics had always been right, and Clarence had always been right. George always had friends, because he had people he loved, cared for, and to whom he dedicated all he had. Friends are not friends because of what they do for us, but because of what we can do for them.

They did indeed show their friendship to him by saving his bacon, then and there, but that could easily have been otherwise. What mattered was that he had always shown his friendship to them by giving up everything else he wanted for the sake of his service, for his entire life.

It would have made no difference, I think, if George had come home to shame and punishment. He'd done what he needed to do, and he understood that completely.  He had learned that it was all about the giving, and never about demanding or receiving.

That was living. That is why George Bailey is the richest man in the world.

Most everyone remembers the final scene of the film, which is indeed powerful. This is, however, the scene that tells me all I need to know about the merit of the man, and the merit of the woman who was with him all the way.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iPkJH6BT7dM

Written in 12/2002

Seneca, On the Happy Life 3: The Lemmings Were Pushed

. . . Now nothing gets us into greater troubles than our subservience to common rumor, and our habit of thinking that those things are best which are most generally received as such, of taking many counterfeits for truly good things, and of living not by reason but by imitation of others.

This is the cause of those great heaps into which men rush till they are piled one upon another. In a great crush of people, when the crowd presses upon itself, no one can fall without drawing someone else down upon him, and those who go before cause the destruction of those who follow them.

You may observe the same thing in human life: no one can merely go wrong by himself, but he must become both the cause and adviser of another's wrong doing. It is harmful to follow the march of those who go before us, and since everyone had rather believe another than form his own opinion, we never pass a deliberate judgment upon life, but some traditional error always entangles us and brings us to ruin, and we perish because we follow other men's examples: we should be cured of this if we were to disengage ourselves from the herd; but as it is, the mob is ready to fight against reason in defense of its own mistake.

Consequently the same thing happens as at elections, where, when the fickle breeze of popular favor has veered round, those who have been chosen consuls and praetors are viewed with admiration by the very men who made them so. That we should all approve and disapprove of the same things is the end of every decision that is given according to the voice of the majority.  

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 1 (tr Stewart)

Seneca’s distrust of popular opinion may seem disturbing in our supposedly democratic age, but I have never seen his argument as being based upon any inherent superiority or inferiority of the few or the many. Rather, it rests upon a very concrete observation about the individual choices that each one of us makes, and why it is so much easier to conform than it is to think for oneself. The draw of comfort and security can be strong, and it sometimes seems that doing nothing, and blending in with the crowd, is safer and easier than doing something, and risking exclusion.

Now the inaction of avoiding a judgment will most often be far more dangerous than the action of making a judgment, but it may certainly not seem so at the time. The Stoic, of course, is quite aware of the danger of following impressions, and not reflecting upon their meaning, and the Stoic is also attuned to the power impressions have over us when we turn off our thinking.

What some people call “groupthink” is hardly the domain of the rich or the poor, the educated or the uneducated, the chattering classes or the unwashed masses. I have seen groups of all sizes and kinds, where the pull of conformity drowns out any critical voice, from the roar of the sports arena to the refined intimacy of a fancy cocktail party. Our actions never exist in isolation. We both allow ourselves to be easily influenced, and we also easily influence others in turn.

I was once taking a friend from out of town through a neighborhood of Boston called the North End, which is known for its many fine Italian restaurants. It came time to eat, and my friend seemed drawn to a place with a long line out front. It was fascinating to see how the appearance of demand seemed to breed even greater demand. His wife referred us to a restaurant guide, and insisted we follow the opinion of the best food critics.

I suggested a small place off the main road, for the simple reason that I had eaten there a dozen times over the years, and had always been impressed by the cooking. Until they took their first bite, they were deeply apprehensive of the humble interior and wobbly tables.

They still mention that meal to me many years later. “How did you know to go there? What was the secret?”

There was no secret wisdom at all, but I just knew what I liked, and I was not interested in what the mobs of tourists or the snobs in the media told me was best.

There is a surreal irony, both beautiful and ridiculous, in the way we consider lemmings as symbols of blind conformity. We have all heard, for example, that they will commit mass suicide to control their populations. Naturalists roll their eyes at this, and point out that while lemmings will indeed migrate in large groups, and that some may die during such travels, they are hardly taking their own lives.

Instead, the myth about suicidal lemming conformity is itself the result of our own foolish human conformity. Like so many other American children, I had seen an old Disney documentary called White Wilderness, which offered actual footage of the lemmings appearing to hurl themselves off of a cliff. The filmmakers, however, had actually imported the lemmings, herded them around, used some clever editing shots, and then apparently even thrown a few off the cliff themselves. The lemmings were pushed.

It took the manipulation of an image on a screen to convince a generation of young people that lemmings killed themselves, and those people told others, who told others, and before we know it, the crush of conformity, the power of the herd, is now about us, and not about those little animals. This is why Seneca warns us that we risk deluding ourselves when we blindly follow every example. 

Written in 9/2010

Seneca, On the Happy Life 2: The Beaten Path

. . . Let us not therefore decide whether we must tend, and by what path, without the advice of some experienced person who has explored the region which we are about to enter, because this journey is not subject to the same conditions as others; for in some the distinctly understood track and inquiries made of the natives make it impossible for us to go wrong, but here the most beaten and frequented tracks are those which lead us most astray.

Nothing, therefore, is more important than that we should not, like sheep, follow the flock that has gone before us, and thus proceed not where we ought, but where the rest are going. . . .

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy Life, Chapter 1 (tr Stewart)

When in Rome, they say, do as the Romans do. It is an almost immediate instinct for us to conform to the socially approved standard. I think this has less to do with our own conscious judgment than it does with a basic instinct to just be accepted.

This is quite reasonable when it comes to matters of custom and culture. I once deeply offended an Indian host by eating with wrong hand, and at another time I was criticized by a Russian for not finishing my entire glass of vodka. I adapted fairly quickly, though the second experience was quite painful on the next day.

There are beaten paths for many things. It is only reasonable to learn skills by example, and to travel with the flow. I cannot count the number of practices I’ve learned just by watching other people do them first. Observing a maniacal friend playing the mandolin, at a lightning speed I thought would set the instrument on fire, was far more helpful than all those instructional books or chord charts, and it was only the fine model of my own teachers, over many years, that ever made me an even barely competent teacher. We usually become better by being the best of mimics.

Seneca suggests that this is not so true when it comes to the path toward happiness. What we see around us might not be so exemplary, and what others do might not provide the best guidance. These are no longer matters of custom and culture, but matters of right and wrong.

I suspect the many will often be led astray because the most visible and outspoken folks will lure us down a false path. The herd then follows. Consider how often you have thought of a charming and respected person as a role model, and then asked yourself if that was the best move you could have made. Allure and position do not make the man.

Unlike custom and culture, where we may humbly show our respect by following, the act of living in happiness, and of living well, requires our own independent thinking, and the act of our own deliberate choice. No one can ever do this job for us, or command us to do it, because we have to take that first completely autonomous step: we are our own masters, and responsible for ourselves. We must each make that first plunge entirely on our own.

I distinctly recall being ensnared, time and time again, by the appearance of character, and being convinced that someone or something was worth following, simply because so many other people were standing in line to get approval. 

I was once entranced by a professor who told me all about how academics was a dedication to service, but then he suddenly left for a far better paying job, abandoning all of his graduate students in mid-stream.

I was once convinced that a very popular parish priest could do no harm, and I was deeply moved by his appeals to marital fidelity, until I found he’d been sleeping with women in his parish.

Human nature can be a fickle thing, and we get it wrong more often than we get it right. That professor was just a man, and that priest was just a man, and I cannot claim to be any better. What surprised me about myself was how easily I fell for an image, and for the popularity that came with it. I wasn’t judging for myself, but I was letting other people do the judging for me.

Whatever is popular gives me an easy excuse, to shut of my own conscience and depend upon another. I think there is a real difference between someone who serves, because he knows what he does, and someone who merely follows, because he is led by the nose.

The beaten path, the one all of the self-important people draw attention to, should immediately be suspect. This is not out of any elitism, but out of the recognition that weakness loves company. Users and abusers know that we are struggling, so they will give us easy answers to difficult problems. They are selling us a product, and they think that we will buy it because we are uncertain and afraid.

The problem with following the herd in matters of ethics isn’t about dismissing the opinions of others. It’s all about choosing not to think for ourselves. Submitting without judgment will be our doom. Embracing liberty with a sincere conscience will be our redemption.

The right teacher, the right role model, will never tell you what you must do. He will point you toward what you must decide for yourself. You will recognize him right away, because he is not selling you anything. He gives you himself, and asks only that you humbly and sincerely be yourself. 

Written in 9/2010

Stoic Film: Casablanca

I have too many great films I consider Stoic favorites, though you will never get me to make a list in any particular order. Lawrence of Arabia always has a place in my heart, and most anything by Frank Capra, from Meet John Doe to It's a Wonderful Life, will always move my soul. In modern times, Scent of a Woman, The Green Mile, or Mystic River will knock me on my rear. Yet I return to Casablanca time and time again.

People will sometimes describe Casablanca as the triumph of virtue over love, based on a line in the film by Captain Renault. That is, I believe, misguided. That line is still about the old Rick. It is all about the triumph of love and virtue over thoughtless passion.

Of course Rick loves Ilsa with his whole being, and losing her has turned him into a depressed wreck. What he learns is not that he does not love her, but that this love means doing what is right for her and for Victor, and for all of the rest of the world. It's about the triumph of love and virtue, and true friendship, over selfishness.

I walk away from the film, every time, recognizing that love is virtue, and virtue is love. If I could be just one tiny bit as good a man as Rick at the end of it all, I could die perfectly content.

Rick: If that plane leaves the ground and you're not with him, you'll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.

 

Ilsa: But what about us?

 

Rick: We'll always have Paris. We didn't have it before...we'd...we'd lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.

 

Ilsa: When I said I would never leave you...

 

Rick: And you never will. But I've got a job to do too. Where I'm going, you can't follow. What I've got to do, you can't be any part of, Ilsa. I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that. Here's looking at you, kid.

Written in 7/2012

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7vThuwa5RZU&index=2&list=PLk_E8G8lky3rvshuT-nlJ8Tu8fRI7qkEt

Seneca, On the Happy Life 1: Where to Go, and How to Get There?

All men, brother Gallio, wish to live happily, but are dull at perceiving exactly what it is that makes life happy: and so far is it from being easy to attain the happiness that the more eagerly a man struggles to reach it the further he departs from it, if he takes the wrong road; for, since this leads in the opposite direction, his very swiftness carries him all the further away.

We must therefore first define clearly what it is at which we aim: next we must consider by what path we may most speedily reach it, for on our journey itself, provided it be made in the right direction, we shall learn how much progress we have made each day, and how much nearer we are to the goal towards which our natural desires urge us.

But as long as we wander at random, not following any guide except the shouts and discordant clamors of those who invite us to proceed in different directions, our short life will be wasted in useless roamings, even if we labor both day and night to get a good understanding. . . .

—Seneca, On the happy life, Chapter 1 (tr Stewart)

Nothing could be more important, yet nothing can seem so confusing. Everything depends upon it, so we will try anything to achieve it. It is so clear that I desire it above all else, and sometimes so obscure as to what it might be. I need to know where I wish to go, and how I should get there, and this reveals why philosophy is hardly just a luxury, but an absolute necessity.

We all know that happiness is the highest good we aim for, even as we might offer radically different accounts of its nature. I have found that we are often tempted to only provide what we think are a list of synonyms, each just another label that does not truly define what it means to be happy. Joy, contentment, peace of mind, well-being, bliss, success, security, being fulfilled, pleasure, enlightenment, purpose, meaning, ecstasy, salvation.

 Note, however, that each of these terms can have a different association, and can lead us down very different paths. If, for example, I consider happiness a function of pleasure, or if I consider happiness to be a function of wisdom, these will lead to quite distinct ways of living.

In a time when various forms of skepticism, subjectivism, and relativism are the fashion of the moment, when we insist that we can really never know anything for certain, that truth depends on my own beliefs, and that nothing is therefore really true or false in itself, it is tempting to give the answer that happiness is just different for everyone.

This sounds terribly deep, but is actually a desperate cop-out. It is telling me that something is defined by being nothing at all, and instead of isolating what is common to all instances of something, it separates all the ways the instances are dissimilar. We may well have many different definitions of happiness, but this does not tell me which of them is true. We may all experience happiness in ways particular to our own personality and circumstances, but this does not tell me what is universally shared by all these experiences.

I don’t, however, usually see people grappling with the different senses of what happiness could be at all, and instead I suggest that so many of us just ignore the question altogether. We know we want this most wonderful of things, but we are simply uncertain how to proceed in figuring out what it is, or how to pursue it. Perhaps we sometimes do this out of dismissive arrogance, but I think we do it just as often out of fear. I have often found myself not only afraid of an effort, but also terrified of what I may learn about myself if I were to follow through with that effort.

As soon as I perceive that some things seem to make me happy, I am also admitting that there are opposite things that will make me miserable. If I am wandering around blindly and without direction, with no sense of what I am doing or why I am doing it, all my choices and actions are in vain. Without a measure of meaning and a sense of purpose, my life will quite literally be directionless.

I have been lost in the woods, and I have been lost in the big city. I have even been lost in a single building. It took me a whole year to figure out how to navigate the rabbit warren of my high school. I have even felt lost in time looking at a schedule, where the question wasn’t just where I should be, but when I should be there. In each case, it was only finding a way to position myself that got me out the mess. Where was I now, where did I need to be going, and what was the best route to get there?

It will hardly make any difference if I just tell myself I need to try harder, if I don’t even know the right way to do something. Exerting more effort going in the wrong direction will only get me further from where I need to be than if I stood around feeling confused.

I have sometimes gotten out of being lost with my own wits, by using a compass, or looking at the sun, or making a mental image of my steps, or just finding a map with that comforting “you are here” dot. At other times I have swallowed my pride and asked for help. This isn’t as simple as it sounds, because ten different people may give me ten different answers. Which answer is the best one? Do I listen to the majority opinion, or do I consider which source seems to be the best informed? How can I tell?

I learned fairly quickly, not through the theory of the classroom, but through the obstacles of daily life, that I would need to find that essential but elusive purpose, and discover a way to point me in the right direction. 

Written in 12/1997

Image: M.C. Escher, Relativity (1953)