“But now,” said she, “is the time for
the physician's art, rather than for complaining.”
Then fixing her eyes wholly on me, she
said, “Are you the man who was nourished upon the milk of my learning, brought
up with my food until you had won your way to the power of a manly soul? Surely
I had given you such weapons as would keep you safe, and your strength unconquered,
if you had not thrown them away.
“Do you know me? Why do you keep
silence? Are you dumb from shame or from dull amazement? I would it were from
shame, but I see that amazement has overwhelmed you.”
When she saw that I was not only
silent, but utterly tongue-tied and dumb, she put her hand gently upon my
breast, and said, “There is no danger. He is suffering from drowsiness, that
disease which attacks so many minds that have been deceived. He has forgotten
himself for a moment and will quickly remember, as soon as he recognizes me.
That he may do so, let me brush away from his eyes the darkening cloud of
thoughts of matters perishable.”
So saying, she gathered her robe into a
fold and dried my swimming eyes.
—from
Book 1, Prose 2
Complaining
about anything, bemoaning my circumstances, has never made my circumstances any
better, and it certainly has never made me any better. There is a certain stubborn
satisfaction in feeling wronged, itself a form of vanity, but it will only feed
upon itself when there is nothing else to make it right.
I have
sometimes admired people who seemed to be so tough, who never seemed affected
by the ups and downs of life. It took me some time to recognize that this appearance
of toughness was very often just heartlessness, only possible by a rejection of
conscience, and it often worked only when conditions were still largely convenient.
Remove one aspect of my success, and I can still grasp for the others. Remove
them all, and my fall will be all the harder.
If I were,
for example, to make the value of my life contingent upon my money, my power, my
pleasure, or my position, I might lose one or the other, but I could try to use
what remains to get it all back. But now imagine that none of these remain.
What do I have left? I have been using all of the wrong means for all of the
wrong ends.
Boethius
has lost all of the trappings of success. This will end up being a blessing for
him, and not a curse, because it will allow him to look behind that veil of
shallow values.
All of
this seems so odd, since I surely had learned what made life worth living. They
told me it was about character, about conviction, about integrity, about
dedication. If I worked hard according to these principles, I would get
everything I wanted. It was that American Dream, after all.
Distinguish.
What was I dreaming about? The success I craved was about making more for myself, not making more of myself. If the American Dream is
about moral growth, you’ve already got me right there. You had me at “Hello”.
If the American Dream is about a growth of finance or influence, you have now
lost me.
I
constantly forget what I already know. This also seems odd, because I may
forget an impression or an image in the memory, but how do I forget principles?
Perhaps
I never really knew them to begin with, or I loved them only when they were a
good fit for my gratification, or they were passed by when they suddenly stood
in conflict with my selfishness.
I was
originally very confused by Plato’s doctrine of Recollection, that learning is
really just remembering what we have forgotten. I leave all of the epistemology
and metaphysics aside for a moment, and I simply observe that what I always
needed was always there to begin with. I have forgotten it, and I must remember.
I have
grown drowsy with distractions. I pay attention to tempting and shiny things,
and I neglect true and beautiful things. I now ask Philosophy to help me recollect.
There is
no greater cure for sadness than Wisdom. Perhaps her robes are also old and
worn because they have helped wipe away so many tears.
Written in 4/2015
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