Epictetus on Friendship 9

 

. . . "But," you may say, "such a one treated me with regard so long; and did he not love me?"

How do you know, slave, if he did not regard you in the same way as he wipes his shoes with a sponge, or as he takes care of his beast? How do you know, when you have ceased to be useful as a vessel, he will not throw you away like a broken platter?

"But this woman is my wife, and we have lived together so long." And how long did Eriphyle live with Amphiaraus, and was the mother of children and of many? But a necklace came between them.

"And what is this necklace?" It is the opinion about such things. That was the bestial principle, that was the thing which broke asunder the friendship between husband and wife, that which did not allow the woman to be a wife nor the mother to be a mother. . . .

—Epictetus, Discourses 2.22, tr Long

I still laugh out loud every single time I read this passage, because I recognize precisely what Epictetus means about people who use you to wipe their shoes.

I am hardly a clever man, and those who know me quickly recognize that I am reducible to a few catch phrases. One of them is this: “no one is disposable.” There may certainly be someone else who can do your job, just as well or even better than you can, but that is not about you, but only about how you are useful to someone else. There is really only one you, and that is never to be repeated. It is precious and priceless. Your friends are not just those who show you regard when you are useful to them, but still show you regard when you are completely useless to them.

Few things in this life are more tragic and painful than the betrayal of husband and wife, like that of Eriphyle and Amphiarus, precisely because of the very bond of unconditional love they had pledged to share.

In my Wilderness Years, I was once sitting in a jazz club, and a woman who was a complete stranger walked up to me to buy me a drink. This was memorable, because it has happened so rarely. She seemed quite overjoyed, so I asked what she was celebrating. “My divorce,” She answered.

Never one to let sleeping dogs lie, usually to my detriment, I couldn’t resist asking about the circumstances. I had nowhere else to take an awkward conversation.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, he was always a nice guy, but I needed to move on. I didn’t feel the same way about him anymore, and it all just got old and the same.”

I think she scuttled off when I asked how she would have felt if the roles had been reversed. You can see why I get myself in too much trouble in this life.

I can hardly be the one who judges others, because I still grimace in shame to think of the times I have treated people conditionally. Though it paid next to nothing, the best job I ever had was a run working in social services. It ended only because the outfit folded, and sadly with much animosity and resentment between everyone in charge.

I can still recall the moment, a late September night, when I walked out of those doors for the last time, knowing that all of the assurances that our clients would be cared for were lies.

A few years later, my old boss sent me a very brief, but very kind letter. This was still in the day when people wrote letters. He had nothing to gain from it, and I could offer nothing for his benefit, but he showed me friendship, as he had always done over the years.

What did I do? I didn’t answer the letter, because I was still angry about everything. I have never been able to make that right, because I have never been able to locate him again. I have now made that crucial mistake twice in my life.  

Whenever I get too high on my horse, I remind myself how someone once showed me friendship, and I turned it away, out of my own imaginings. That puts me right back where I belong.

Written on 2/2002

Image: Hermann Kern, "Good Friends" (1904)