"But," you reply, "I wish to dip first into one book and then into another."
I tell you that it is the sign of an overnice appetite to toy with many dishes; for when they are manifold and varied, they cloy but do not nourish.
So you should always read standard authors; and when you crave a change, fall back upon those whom you read before.
Each day acquire something that will fortify you against poverty, against death, indeed against other misfortunes as well; and after you have run over many thoughts, select one to be thoroughly digested that day. This is my own custom; from the many things which I have read, I claim some one part for myself.
Jumping into every puddle, and yet never going for a swim.
As with books, so too with many other things in life. The trend of my supposedly progressive generation, for example, was that sex was simply something recreational, to be taken lightly, to come and go at a whim. There were never any bad consequences to playing around, and no one ever really got hurt.
If you believe that, someone has already sold you a bridge. There was always someone hurt, because intimacy is not something to be treated lightly, and you may not have realized that the person hurt the most ended up being you.
That “other” person always fell to the wayside, once he or she was disposable. You saw no pain because you showed no further interest.
There is a mighty difference between a freedom to love and “free love”. Nature asks for a bond of unconditional respect, not the utility of lust; it’s only “no big deal” for the person with little sense of justice or compassion.
The art of reading must now seem a bit harmless in comparison, but the principle is one and the same. Some people stick pieces of their bodies anywhere and everywhere, and some people stick pieces of their minds anywhere and everywhere. They change their tunes whenever it is convenient; they do so because they wish to taste everything and digest nothing.
Love the best people, and stick with them like glue, whatever else may happen. Love the best books, and return to them constantly, whatever the circumstances. It is precisely their power to help us become better that makes them irreplaceable.
Who are the best people and what are the best books? We will have to find our own answers to that question, particular to our own dispositions, but there is still a universal standard to guide us.
Am I now stronger in the face of either winning or losing money and fame? Am I now more resilient in confronting my weaknesses and mortality? Am I now caring about my character more than I am about my luck? Am I now more capable of commitment, instead of casting aside whatever causes me trouble?
I should love a very few people who help me with that, and I should read a very few books that help me with that.
It was actually this very text from Seneca that finally sent me on my long journey of reading a short passage of Stoic thought every day, and then writing a brief reflection on it. I always somehow knew I should do it, but Seneca was the final nudge.
I tell you that it is the sign of an overnice appetite to toy with many dishes; for when they are manifold and varied, they cloy but do not nourish.
So you should always read standard authors; and when you crave a change, fall back upon those whom you read before.
Each day acquire something that will fortify you against poverty, against death, indeed against other misfortunes as well; and after you have run over many thoughts, select one to be thoroughly digested that day. This is my own custom; from the many things which I have read, I claim some one part for myself.
Jumping into every puddle, and yet never going for a swim.
As with books, so too with many other things in life. The trend of my supposedly progressive generation, for example, was that sex was simply something recreational, to be taken lightly, to come and go at a whim. There were never any bad consequences to playing around, and no one ever really got hurt.
If you believe that, someone has already sold you a bridge. There was always someone hurt, because intimacy is not something to be treated lightly, and you may not have realized that the person hurt the most ended up being you.
That “other” person always fell to the wayside, once he or she was disposable. You saw no pain because you showed no further interest.
There is a mighty difference between a freedom to love and “free love”. Nature asks for a bond of unconditional respect, not the utility of lust; it’s only “no big deal” for the person with little sense of justice or compassion.
The art of reading must now seem a bit harmless in comparison, but the principle is one and the same. Some people stick pieces of their bodies anywhere and everywhere, and some people stick pieces of their minds anywhere and everywhere. They change their tunes whenever it is convenient; they do so because they wish to taste everything and digest nothing.
Love the best people, and stick with them like glue, whatever else may happen. Love the best books, and return to them constantly, whatever the circumstances. It is precisely their power to help us become better that makes them irreplaceable.
Who are the best people and what are the best books? We will have to find our own answers to that question, particular to our own dispositions, but there is still a universal standard to guide us.
Am I now stronger in the face of either winning or losing money and fame? Am I now more resilient in confronting my weaknesses and mortality? Am I now caring about my character more than I am about my luck? Am I now more capable of commitment, instead of casting aside whatever causes me trouble?
I should love a very few people who help me with that, and I should read a very few books that help me with that.
It was actually this very text from Seneca that finally sent me on my long journey of reading a short passage of Stoic thought every day, and then writing a brief reflection on it. I always somehow knew I should do it, but Seneca was the final nudge.
The merit then lay in using the message, not merely in reading the words. Love is to be lived, not merely pondered. Following Seneca, I claim that part for myself.
Written in 2/2012
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