Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 3.2

We ought to observe also that even the things that follow after the things that are produced according to Nature contain something pleasing and attractive.

For instance, when bread is baked some parts are split at the surface, and these parts that thus open, and have a certain fashion contrary to the purpose of the baker's art, are beautiful in a manner, and in a peculiar way excite a desire for eating.

And again, figs, when they are quite ripe, gape open; and in the ripe olives the very circumstance of their being near to rottenness adds a peculiar beauty to the fruit.

 And the ears of corn bending down, and the lion's eyebrows, and the foam which flows from the mouth of wild boars, and many other things—though they are far from being beautiful, if a man should examine them severally—still, because they are consequent upon the things which are formed by Nature, help to adorn them, and they please the mind; so that if a man should have a feeling and deeper insight with respect to the things which are produced in the Universe, there is hardly one of those that follow by way of consequence which will not seem to him to be in a manner disposed so as to give pleasure.

And so he will see even the real gaping jaws of wild beasts with no less pleasure than those which painters and sculptors show by imitation; and in an old woman and an old man he will be able to see a certain maturity and comeliness; and the attractive loveliness of young persons he will be able to look on with chaste eyes; and many such things will present themselves, not pleasing to every man, but to him only who has become truly familiar with Nature and her works.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3 (tr Long)

Over the years, this has become not only one of my favorite Stoic passages, but one of my favorite bits of writing ever. There is something wonderful about the language here, and that descriptiveness helps to highlight what can truly make things pleasant, attractive, and beautiful.

What I may or may not find appealing will ultimately depend on what I find most valuable in life. If I make pleasure the standard of my life, then I will be drawn to what excites the passions. If I make wealth the standard of my life, then I will be drawn to the thrill of acquisition. If I make honor the standard of my life, then I will be drawn to display and ostentation.

Yet if I choose to order my life around Nature, I can admire something not because it satisfies my lust, my greed, or my arrogance. I can perceive it as attractive simply because I recognize the effects of it doing what it is made to do, of fulfilling its own distinct part in the order of all things joined together. The beauty is in the evidence of its function and purpose, however unappealing it may seem in other ways.

Old age need never be repulsive, and youth need never be titillating. Each reveals through its actions what makes it noble in its own way. An earthworm is no less glorious than a sunset, or a tall oak more precious than a patch of moss.

While others call them filthy creatures, rats with wings, and diseased vermin, I have always enjoyed pigeons in the way Marcus Aurelius describes. The pigeon is not a peacock or an eagle, and is hardly admirable for its vibrant colors or its fierce strength. They may be pesky, a bit dirty, and unassuming, but they get the job done. I enjoy the sounds they make, the flapping of their wings, how they find comfort in swirling groups, and the way they bob and tilt their heads.

I once followed a girl around like a puppy because everything about her physical appearance and her social charms seemed irresistible. It did not occur to me that the mere cultivation of image was hardly beauty, and that real appreciation for another person should came through the measure of Nature, through the cultivation of character. Show me the consequences of a kind and noble soul, and you’ve shown me real beauty. 

Written in 9/2004