Seneca, Moral Letters 21.1

Letter 21: On the renown which my writings will bring you

 

Do you conclude that you are having difficulties with those men about whom you wrote to me? Your greatest difficulty is with yourself; for you are your own stumbling block. You do not know what you want. You are better at approving the right course than at following it out. You see where the true happiness lies, but you have not the courage to attain it. Let me tell you what it is that hinders you, inasmuch as you do not of yourself discern it.

 

You think that this condition, which you are to abandon, is one of importance, and after resolving upon that ideal state of calm into which you hope to pass, you are held back by the luster of your present life, from which it is your intention to depart, just as if you were about to fall into a state of filth and darkness.

 

This is a mistake, Lucilius; to go from your present life into the other is a promotion. There is the same difference between these two lives as there is between mere brightness and real light; the latter has a definite source within itself, the other borrows its radiance; the one is called forth by an illumination coming from the outside, and anyone who stands between the source and the object immediately turns the latter into a dense shadow; but the other has a glow that comes from within. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 21

Not knowing the full context of this letter, I can’t quite tell if Seneca’s tone here is just a little firmer than usual, or if he is actually giving Lucilius a severe scolding. Whatever the case, there have been many times in my life when I certainly needed to be told that I had no one to blame but myself, why my own ignorance was my greatest enemy, or how I must confront a shameful moral cowardice. 

 

I may have felt horribly offended at first, but I came to be deeply grateful with time. A true friend is being helpful, not malicious, when he tries to knock some sense into you. 

 

A Stoic Turn cannot be superficial, where only the outer image is refined, while the inner priorities remain crude and base. Like any man who has a nagging sense that he is being called to become better, Lucilius struggles with putting the theory into practice. 

 

If I say that I know, even as I hesitate to do, I have not yet allowed the principles to sink in as they should, and I am sheepishly keeping them at arm’s length, contemplating them as mere abstractions. The idea sounds noble, while the exercise of them feels tedious, all because the habits of the mind are still being dragged around by certain unbridled passions. 

 

The change will not take place until the reality of the situation is perceived as immediate and urgent; I would prefer that this doesn’t have to happen painfully, after I hit rock bottom, yet sometimes that is exactly what it takes. 

 

A number of these letters speak of how Lucilius is trying to modify his way of living, and to wean himself from a dependence on fortune and fame. This is not necessarily about discarding all his possessions or withdrawing to the wilderness, but rather about altering his attitude about his circumstances. Will he rise above them, or will he allow them to maintain a mastery over him? 

 

I do not know what it is like to be an important government official, though I do know how difficult it can be to focus on my character over my conditions. Where I still feel a hankering for recognition and gratification, it should be clear that I still must follow through; the thinking remains divorced from the reality. 

 

Do I say that my mind requires clarity, while a bottle of whiskey is calling my name? Do I proclaim virtue, as that shifty woman catches my eye? Do I praise truth for its own sake, though I stubbornly continue to demand further rewards? The principles aren’t at fault, and the world isn’t at fault—the depth of my convictions and my willingness to make sense of the world are incomplete. 

 

Why settle for a light imperfectly reflected off lesser things, when I can go straight to the source? I foolishly squint under the artificial dullness of a computer screen, when I should go outside and bask in the rays of the sun. The innate illumination and warmth of Nature leave nothing to be desired. 

—Reflection written in 9/2012

IMAGE: Edvard Munch, The Sun (1911)