If, however, one should have shared less abundantly in early instruction but should show an eagerness for better things and a capacity for following words well-spoken, he would do well if he sought to hear relevant words from those who have made it their business to know what things are harmful and what helpful to men, and in what way one should avoid the former and obtain the latter, and how one should patiently accept things which befall him that seem to be evils, but are not really so.
If he heard these things and acted upon them (for to hear them without acting upon them would be most unprofitable), he would manage old age very well, and in particular he would rid himself of the fear of death—which more than all else terrifies and oppresses the aged, as though they had forgotten that death is a debt that every man owes. Yet it is certain that that which renders life most miserable for the aged is this very thing, the fear of death, as even the orator Isocrates confessed.
For they tell that when someone asked how he was getting on, he replied that he was doing as well as was reasonable for a man of ninety, but that he considered death the worst of evils. And yet how could there have been any smattering of knowledge or of acquaintance with true good and evil in the man who thought that an evil which is the necessary sequel even to the best life?
Now what if I was denied the right instruction when I was younger, or as is far more likely, I didn’t think it all that important to listen? I have indeed known people who were totally starved of good influences, and their situations can be deeply tragic, but I have known far more people, myself included, who arrogantly assumed they already knew better.
Will I insist that it is too late, sighing all sorts of resigned platitudes, like how it’s impossible to teach an old dog new tricks? When is it really too late, and when am I just making excuses?
I can’t speak for another dog, but I can speak for myself, and as much as I might want to deny it, my own attitude is the only thing stopping me from becoming a new man. Do I still possess a power over my own thoughts? Then I still possess a power over my own character. If I built up the bad habits, bit by bit, I can also remove them and replace them, bit by bit.
This dog will learn nothing new once he is dead, or too deaf and blind, or too lame, but he still has a spark in him if he remains eager and willing.
I can, right here and now, pay attention to wiser voices, and the follow the example of people better than myself. How will I find them, however, having let myself be misled for so long? I must look to the inner meaning of what they say and do, not be entranced by the pretty pictures and the empty promises. I must admit that I have rarely failed to recognize moral decency in others, and that the real problem was always in failing to make a connection, that this would be the best and happiest way for me to live as well.
Good people know who they are, and so they know what they must do, without any fuss, or ostentation, or need to be at the center of attention. Because they understand how their own thoughts and actions are the measure of their worth, they will not make loud demands, or be filled with resentful complaints, or go about blaming others for standing in the way. They will, in fact, not refer to anything that happens to them as good or bad, recognizing that benefit and harm are in the estimation and the use of circumstances.
That admittedly doesn’t sound like the people we usually follow, does it? There lies the depth of the transformation required by a Stoic Turn.
Yet what can hinder me once I follow such simple and humble guidance? Why would old age bother me, if I knew what was worthwhile in life? Why would even death itself trouble me, if I was willing to accept that how long I live has nothing to do with how well I live?
I imagine the good I could have done, if only I had taken all the time and effort I dedicated to avoiding pain, or poverty, or a bad reputation, and instead employed it all in first avoiding wickedness.
Isocrates may well have been one of the greatest rhetoricians of the Greek world, one of the Alexandrian Canon of Ten, and yet he struggled like most everyone else with facing his mortality. I suppose even the best of style is no substitute for genuine substance.
Death is a threat only to those who confuse a quality of existence with a quantity of existence, who look to conveniences instead of virtues, and who are stubborn about accepting an ending as a necessary part of any story.
If he heard these things and acted upon them (for to hear them without acting upon them would be most unprofitable), he would manage old age very well, and in particular he would rid himself of the fear of death—which more than all else terrifies and oppresses the aged, as though they had forgotten that death is a debt that every man owes. Yet it is certain that that which renders life most miserable for the aged is this very thing, the fear of death, as even the orator Isocrates confessed.
For they tell that when someone asked how he was getting on, he replied that he was doing as well as was reasonable for a man of ninety, but that he considered death the worst of evils. And yet how could there have been any smattering of knowledge or of acquaintance with true good and evil in the man who thought that an evil which is the necessary sequel even to the best life?
Now what if I was denied the right instruction when I was younger, or as is far more likely, I didn’t think it all that important to listen? I have indeed known people who were totally starved of good influences, and their situations can be deeply tragic, but I have known far more people, myself included, who arrogantly assumed they already knew better.
Will I insist that it is too late, sighing all sorts of resigned platitudes, like how it’s impossible to teach an old dog new tricks? When is it really too late, and when am I just making excuses?
I can’t speak for another dog, but I can speak for myself, and as much as I might want to deny it, my own attitude is the only thing stopping me from becoming a new man. Do I still possess a power over my own thoughts? Then I still possess a power over my own character. If I built up the bad habits, bit by bit, I can also remove them and replace them, bit by bit.
This dog will learn nothing new once he is dead, or too deaf and blind, or too lame, but he still has a spark in him if he remains eager and willing.
I can, right here and now, pay attention to wiser voices, and the follow the example of people better than myself. How will I find them, however, having let myself be misled for so long? I must look to the inner meaning of what they say and do, not be entranced by the pretty pictures and the empty promises. I must admit that I have rarely failed to recognize moral decency in others, and that the real problem was always in failing to make a connection, that this would be the best and happiest way for me to live as well.
Good people know who they are, and so they know what they must do, without any fuss, or ostentation, or need to be at the center of attention. Because they understand how their own thoughts and actions are the measure of their worth, they will not make loud demands, or be filled with resentful complaints, or go about blaming others for standing in the way. They will, in fact, not refer to anything that happens to them as good or bad, recognizing that benefit and harm are in the estimation and the use of circumstances.
That admittedly doesn’t sound like the people we usually follow, does it? There lies the depth of the transformation required by a Stoic Turn.
Yet what can hinder me once I follow such simple and humble guidance? Why would old age bother me, if I knew what was worthwhile in life? Why would even death itself trouble me, if I was willing to accept that how long I live has nothing to do with how well I live?
I imagine the good I could have done, if only I had taken all the time and effort I dedicated to avoiding pain, or poverty, or a bad reputation, and instead employed it all in first avoiding wickedness.
Isocrates may well have been one of the greatest rhetoricians of the Greek world, one of the Alexandrian Canon of Ten, and yet he struggled like most everyone else with facing his mortality. I suppose even the best of style is no substitute for genuine substance.
Death is a threat only to those who confuse a quality of existence with a quantity of existence, who look to conveniences instead of virtues, and who are stubborn about accepting an ending as a necessary part of any story.
Written in 4/2000
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