Boethius, The Consolation 3.12

“Though Nero decked himself proudly

with purple of Tyre and snow-white gems,

nonetheless that man of rage and luxury lived ever hated of all.

Yet would that evil man at times

give his dishonored offices to men who were revered.

Who then could count men blessed,

who to such a villain owed their high estate?”

—from Book 3, Poem 4

It is all too easy to see how the love of money burdens our lives, both for those who receive less than they deserve and for those who receive more than they deserve. This was one of the first things I noticed when I started trying to figure out why the world worked, or didn’t work, as it did.

But right there alongside a greed for possessions, just as prevalent if not even more so, is the desire for status, the groveling for honors and positions, and the privilege to brag about how highly we are held in esteem. After all, our money is of little use if we can’t show it off to impress others with our importance.

Money and honor seem joined at the hip. They are both symptoms of the greater problem Lady Philosophy is trying to teach us about, making the value of our lives dependent on what is outside of us instead of what is inside of us, on what fortune does for us instead of what virtue does for itself.

And just as we can shamefully be quite satisfied to receive riches without questioning where and how we acquired them, we will also accept praises and titles without considering the worth of those who grant them.

A few years back, a few of my colleagues were up for tenure, that Holy Grail of the shallow academic. It seemed that for an entire year they would do anything to impress the committee, even as they would regularly put down those same members when they were out of earshot.

“If you think so very poorly of these terrible people,” I once asked, ‘why do you care so much about the prizes they can bestow on you?”

There was one of those awkward moments of silence. “Well, that’s just how the game is played.”

Exactly. It often does seem much like playing a game, of the sort where we will do anything to win points, without actually wondering who hands them out, or if we deserve to receive them, or if they are even worth winning at all.

Where is the value in being praised by a rake, promoted by a scoundrel, or rewarded by a tyrant? What is given will only be as noble or as base as the giver; an honor from a Nero actually ends up being more of an insult.

It is odd that so many of what we say are the best of people are actually the worst of people, and yet we will still go about trying to impress them. I remind myself that I am better served by finding contentment in the merit of what I do than in the image of what others think of what I do.

Written in 9/2015