The Death of Marcus Aurelius

The Death of Marcus Aurelius

Thursday, July 26, 2018

Boethius, The Consolation 2.10


“When over the heaven Phoebus Apollo, from his rose-red car,
 begins to shed his light abroad,
his flames oppress the paling stars
and blunt their whitened rays.
When the grove grows bright in spring,
with roses beneath the west wind's warming breath,
let but the cloudy gale once wildly blow,
and their beauty is gone, the thorns alone remain.
Often the sea is calmly glistening bright,
with all untroubled waves,
but as often does the north wind stir them up,
making the troubling tempest boil.
If then the earth's own covering so seldom constant stays,
if its changes are so great,
shall you then trust the brittle fortunes of mankind,
have faith in fleeting good?
For this is sure, and this is fixed by everlasting law,
that nothing which is brought to birth
shall constant here abide.”

—from Book 2, Poem 3

The natural world around me will always throw me for a loop. Whether it is the scalding heat replaced by the numbing cold, or my precious garden parched on one day and flooded away the next. This is a life lesson on at least two levels. Always expect what is unexpected, and never rely on what is unreliable.

The human world is absolutely no different. The man you think you can trust implicitly may well betray you in a moment. The woman who said she loves you without condition may suddenly discover some new conditions. You may no longer, after all, be profitable or pleasant to them.

Now this can be a source of despair about what is valuable in life, or it can be a source for reconsideration about what is valuable in life. I might hate the changes of the seasons because they do me wrong, even as I could also learn to come to terms with the change of the seasons. I might also hate the thoughts and deeds of others because they do me wrong, even as I could also learn to come to terms with the thoughts and deeds of others.

What is my measure, and what is my standard?

It often helps me greatly to go through all of those things that I usually consider dependable, and then remind myself about how they are never dependable at all. This arises from a sense of hope, not from a sense of surrender. Hope for the certain things, and surrender the uncertain things.

My work. The most precarious of jobs can end up being quite secure, and the safest of jobs can end up being the most passing. I have little choice in the matter. Can I truly know the difference?

My possessions. I have spent time building up my collections of things, only to lose some I thought I needed, while keeping others I thought I didn’t need. I have little choice in the matter. Can I truly know the difference?

My standing. Reputation will come and it will go, regardless of what I might say or do. I have little choice in the matter. Can I truly know the difference?

My friends. How can I discern the difference between someone who loves me for my own sake, or loves me for his own sake? This is never as easy as it seems. I have little choice in the matter. Can I truly know the difference?

My amusements. I have passed from the most delightful of pleasures to the most agonizing of pains. My own efforts, however committed, are never guaranteed to go one way or the other. I have little choice in the matter. Can I truly know the difference?

My health. They tell me to live right, eat well, get my exercise, and see my doctor regularly. Yet my heart is still failing, even as the man who follows none of this advice is going strong. I have little choice in the matter. Can I truly know the difference?

My very life itself. I am living at this very moment, and I somehow foolishly think that this will not change. Yet it will, whether I see it coming or not. Some men die in their beds, at a ripe old age, knowing the end is here. Others die in but a moment, in the prime of life, not expecting it at all. I have little choice in the matter. Can I truly know the difference?

As long it comes and goes in a way that has nothing to do with me, it can hardly be the way I can truly be myself. 

Written in 7/2015

IMAGE: Gustave Moreau, Chariot of Phoebus Apollo (c. 1880)

 

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