“Yes,” she said, “but there is one
thing that can attract minds, which, though by nature excelling, yet are not
led by perfection to the furthest bounds of virtue; and that thing is the love
of fame and reputation for deserving well of one's country.
“Think then thus upon it, and see that
it is but a slight thing of no weight. As you have learned from astronomers'
showing, the whole circumference of the earth is but as a point compared with
the size of the heavens. That is, if you compare the earth with the circle of
the Universe, it must be reckoned as of no size at all.
“And of this tiny portion of the Universe
there is only a fourth part, as you have learnt from the demonstration of Ptolemy,
which is inhabited by living beings known to us. If from this fourth part you
imagine subtracted all that is covered by sea and marsh, and all the vast regions
of thirsty desert, you will find but the narrowest space left for human habitation.
“And do you think of setting forth your
fame and publishing your name in this space, which is but as a point within
another point so closely circumscribed? And what size or magnificence can fame
have which is shut in by such close and narrow bounds?
“Further, this narrow enclosure of
habitation is peopled by many races of men which differ in language, in
customs, and in their whole scheme of living; and owing to difficulty of
travelling, differences of speech, and rareness of any intercourse, the fame of
cities cannot reach them, much less the fame of men.
“Has not Cicero written somewhere that
in his time the fame of Rome had not reached the mountains of the Caucasus,
though the Republic was already well grown and striking awe among the Parthians
and other nations in those parts? Do you see then how narrow and closely bounded
must be that fame which you wish to extend more widely? Can the fame of a Roman
ever reach parts to which the name of Rome cannot come?” . . .
—from
Book 2, Prose 7
Where is
that line between doing right, and wanting to be seen as doing right?
If I had
the chance to practice justice, but with no recognition whatsoever, would I do
so? Would my choice be different if it also leads to praise, and honor, and
glory? What would that say about my character?
Now I
only need to ask myself what all of those external rewards might mean. The
Universe is incredibly vast, and I am incredibly small. Narrow the scope to the
Earth itself, and I am still small. Narrow the scope to my nation, or to my
time, or to my place, and I am still small. Narrow all the scope, yet I become
no bigger, or any more important.
I may
look at a worm, and think how insignificant it is; I am no more significant.
Squash a worm, or squash me. Who will notice, or who might pay attention?
The
concern for noticing or receiving attention is the root of the problem here.
The worm fulfills its nature, in its own way, and it asks for nothing more. Yet
men neglect their own nature, and they ask for far more. Instead of just working
to be good while they are around, they worry about being considered good when
they’re not around.
Even as
they are men, they wish to be gods. They observe their own reason, and seek to
make their reason supreme. They are mortal, but believe they can make
themselves immortal by their plotting and scheming.
By all
means, I could make myself the biggest lawyer, doctor, businessman, academic, or
politician there ever was. I could work my best to be loved by others, or to be
feared by others, or to make my mark.
My mark
may be noticed by a few around me, but it will remain unnoticed by most
everyone else. Each of us is just one very tiny fish in a very big sea. I’m not
thinking of a few goldfish in a bowl, or a few trout in a lake, but rather an
image of a vast school of millions and millions of herring, itself just another
one of countless other schools across a vast ocean.
My mark
will also fade, and it will pass. If I think that I will be remembered and
revered, a time will come, for most of us just around the corner, where each of
us is completely forgotten. If I think my fame defines me, I will cease to
exist quite soon. Very soon. There is no immortality there.
One of
my students once nobly argued that great people are known to all, and will never
die. I put that to the test by asking a bunch of blokes at a bar in Vienna if
they knew who George Washington was. “Yes, of course!” they said. “He’s that
one who defeated Napoleon!”
At
another time, I asked some students at a very classy college, up on the list of
the supposed best, who Marcus Aurelius was. “Wait, I know, he was that doctor
on a TV show my Mom used to watch!” Jesus wept.
Now recognize how even if we are remembered, for a moment or two, by a few people
here or there, who they might think we are will have little to do with who we
actually are.
And the
fact that any of this may sound disturbing or discouraging tells me how
disordered my sense of priorities has become.
Here is
another, quite radical, alternative. I could define myself by what I do, just
for its own sake, not by how I am seen.
Written in 9/2015
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