The Death of Marcus Aurelius

The Death of Marcus Aurelius

Thursday, March 7, 2019

Boethius, The Consolation 3.16


“How deceitful is fame often, and how base a thing it is! Justly did the tragic poet cry out, ‘O Fame, Fame, how many lives of men of nothing have you puffed up!’

“For many men have gotten a great name from the false opinions of the crowd. And what could be baser than such a thing? For those who are falsely praised, must blush to hear their praises. And if they are justly won by merits, what can they add to the pleasure of a wise man's conscience? For he measures his happiness not by popular talk, but by the truth of his conscience.

“If it attracts a man to make his name widely known, he must equally think it a shame if it not be made known. But I have already said that there must be yet more lands into which the renown of a single man can never come; wherefore it follows that the man, whom you think famous, will seem to have no such fame in the next quarter of the earth.

“Popular favor seems to me to be unworthy even of mention under this head, for it comes not by any judgment, and is never constant.

“Again, who can but see how empty a name, and how futile, is noble birth? For if its glory is due to renown, it belongs not to the man. For the glory of noble birth seems to be praise for the merits of a man's forefathers. But if praise creates the renown, it is the renowned who are praised.

“Wherefore, if you have no renown of your own, that of others cannot glorify you. But if there is any good in noble birth, I conceive it to be this, and this alone, that the highborn seem to be bound in honor not to show any degeneracy from their fathers' virtue.”

—from Book 3, Prose 6

One particular variation of the life measured by honor, a dependence upon respect, is the glory of fame. It asks not only for the respect of some, but rather of the many, seeking out reverence from far and wide. It’s one thing to be praised by another, but something so much more if one is adored and cheered by a whole crowd.

I have experienced the sense of excitement that comes from being part of a throng, but I can only imagine the feeling of power that must come from being its object of esteem. If everyone else thinks I’m that big, then surely I must be that big?

Yet notice how fame proceeds from the worship of the admirers, and may have little to do with the merit of the person who is being admired. I observe the sort of shallow qualities we are easily impressed with, or the vices that masquerade as virtues, and I wonder if there is actually all that much thinking going on when we pick and choose our heroes. It is a mentality of the herd.

If I were a good man, would it make any difference whether or not anyone praises me? I would be content with the content of my character. If I were not a good man, would I not be ashamed when anyone praises me? I can hardly be content living a lie.

I suspect the desire for more and more fame could be something like an addiction, because one would never be quite satisfied with what one has, always wanting more and more. I was at a concert once where the band, quite enamored of themselves, were met by a mob of howling fans, but cut their set short and stormed off the stage because of a small group of hecklers.

I once knew a girl who would be the attention of almost every man in the room, but would promptly be out of sorts about that single fellow who ignored her. She would then spend the rest of the night trying only to get him to adore her.

Sometimes we are convinced we don’t need to do anything at all to deserve fame, except be born into it. Now we claim that we no longer admire noble birth, but I suggest we have only created a new sort of nobility. Observe the scores of celebrities who are only famous because they are children of others who have been famous. They are now not only once, but twice removed from any true merit.

In the years when I dabbled in the world of music, I would notice those few who honed their skills simply for their own sake, for the joy of creating something beautiful. They would play with all their might, whether or not anyone was there to hear them. Then there were those who were enthralled by the thrill of being seen, heard, and followed. Finally, there were those for whom even being listened to was not enough; they would only be content if they could become the biggest stars, and second-best just wouldn’t do.

I only knew one fellow who ever really “made it”. He had his very brief moment in the sun, with a record in the charts and his face worshiped by teenage girls. The fashions quickly changed, he got hooked on heroin, and now stumbles around dreaming of his glory days, yearning for that comeback.

The whole problem with fame, however, is that you can’t get it back at all, because it was never really yours to begin with.

Written in 9/2015

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