Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 8.21

Turn the body inside out, and see what kind of thing it is; and when it has grown old, what kind of thing it becomes, and when it is diseased.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 8 (tr Long)

An unexpectedly pleasant side-effect of trying to think and live like a Stoic has been that I find it more and more difficult to think of anything in Nature as ugly; what strikes me as ugly now is the turning away from Nature.

At the same time, I also increasingly recognize how passing, how fragile, and how unassuming so many things are that we usually treat with such great honor. We look at the human body, for example, and are so full of admiration and praise for its glory and beauty, and we are so caught up in all the image and romance, that we forget it is a weak and disposable shell, no more exciting than a bag of giblets.

We speak so often of how much we want to enjoy the body of another, to have all of our desires satisfied in its possession, consumed with an overwhelming lust. Would it still be so attractive if we were looking at the insides instead of the outsides? Is it suddenly a different body?

We describe eyes, or lips, or cheeks, or any number of the curves of the body with such noble language, but only when they are fresh and young. If the very same things are old, we suddenly say they are “gross”. Remember, however, that “gross” can not only mean undesirable or crude, but also more broadly means anything material. All matter is in a state of dying even as it is living.

We may compare the body of the athlete to the body of the sick man, and we will write poems about the strength and power of one, and turn away in disgust from the decay and stench of the other. Yet each body is really not so different from any other at all, and each body could become like any other before we know it. There is no permanence in either health or disease.

What is genuine here, and what is simply provided by my own delusion, from my own imaginings?

I once thought a girl looked like a perfect goddess, until I saw here vomiting in an alley.

I was once intimidated by the chiseled good looks of a fellow, until I saw him crying over a broken arm.

I once unexpectedly caught an image of myself in a mirror, and without that brief moment to make my countenance seem presentable, I saw how worthless and empty I really looked.

What I am usually calling beautiful or ugly, attractive or disgusting, even strong or weak, isn’t about Nature at all, but about my own confusion concerning what is truly good in life. I am letting my sense of the real be swept aside by shallow appearance. 

Written in 3/2008