How
many after being celebrated by fame have been given up to oblivion, and how
many who have celebrated the fame of others have long been dead.
—Marcus
Aurelius, Meditations, Book 7 (tr
Long)
Marcus Aurelius has a handful of
themes he returns to time and time again, and though I haven’t done a formal
count, I imagine this is one of the most common. Now some people have told me that
repetition is a sign of sloppy thinking and poor writing, but all questions of
theory and style aside, reiteration serves a very powerful practical purpose.
It helps us to remember. It builds a strength of habit. It guides us back when
we are diverted.
Stoicism has always been something
more to me than just a philosophy of profound reflection. I may turn to Plato,
or Aristotle, or Aquinas if I wish to contemplate principles. But I turn to
Seneca, Epictetus, or Marcus Aurelius when I need very concrete help in my
daily living. And whenever I feel that tug of reputation or status, I remind
myself, time and time again, just how shallow and fleeting such a life truly
is.
I do not even need to be an old man
to see it. Most of what was praised and revered even a few years ago is now
almost completely forgotten. When I was a teenager, girls would swoon at the
sight of Duran Duran. Now they don’t even recognize the name. Great political
heroes have risen, and they have fallen, and they have slipped into obscurity.
Perhaps when they pass away, they will be briefly venerated for a moment on the
evening news, only to be forgotten again. Each year, children have a new toy
they want for Christmas, and the favorite from last year is packed up in a box
in the attic.
It works even better closer to home.
Do you remember that fellow who was the most popular, handsome, and charming
one in the whole class, the one everyone thought would always be the king? I
recall his face, but the name seems to escape me. Do you remember that girl who
would strut along so confidently, and how your whole life rose and fell by
whether she paid attention to you? Now you wouldn’t even recognize her.
Even in that stuffy world of
academia, where you’d think time inches along, where the classics are surely
always the classics, where nothing every really seems to change, there is still the
trendy thinker, or an engaging idea, or a clever argument of the moment, and it
is all cast aside when something shinier comes around. I would spend hours and
hours in the stacks of my college library, leafing through books no one had
opened for many years, if not decades. You’d read some great praise on the dust
cover about how this was a text that would change the world. Now it is unknown,
much like the name of the once-important scholar who gave the praise.
As soon as I recall how quickly
everything passes, it helps me to laugh at myself, to see how ridiculous all of
my petty concerns about making my mark, about being important, about being respected
actually are. It all has nothing to do with me, and it won’t last.
It turns me back to what has
everything to do with me. For however short a time I may be here, I am the
master of my own thoughts and deeds. Whether they are admired, or even noticed
at all, makes no difference. There is one great aspect of liberation.
Written in 8/2007
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