Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.35

M. Mention, therefore, someone, who never knew distress; who never received any blow from fortune. The great Metellus had four distinguished sons, but Priam had fifty, seventeen of whom were born to him by his lawful wife. Fortune had the same power over both, though she exercised it but on one; for Metellus was laid on his funeral pile by a great company of sons and daughters, grandsons, and granddaughters; but Priam fell by the hand of an enemy, after having fled to the altar, and having seen himself deprived of all his numerous progeny. Had he died before the death of his sons and the ruin of his kingdom,

 

“With all his mighty wealth elate, 

Under rich canopies of state;” 

 

would he then have been taken from good or from evil? It would indeed, at that time, have appeared that he was being taken away from good; yet surely it would have turned out advantageous for him, nor should we have had these mournful verses, 

 

“Lo! these all perish’d in one flaming pile; 

The foe old Priam did of life beguile, 

And with his blood, thy altar, Jove, defile.” 

 

As if anything better could have happened to him at that time than to lose his life in that manner; but yet, if it had befallen him sooner, it would have prevented all those consequences; but even as it was, it released him from any further sense of them. 

 

The case of our friend Pompey was something better: once, when he had been very ill at Naples, the Neapolitans, on his recovery, put crowns on their heads, as did those of Puteoli; the people flocked from the country to congratulate him—it is a Grecian custom, and a foolish one; still it is a sign of good fortune. 

 

But the question is, had he died, would he have been taken from good, or from evil? Certainly from evil. He would not have been engaged in a war with his father-in-law; he would not have taken up arms before he was prepared; he would not have left his own house, nor fled from Italy; he would not, after the loss of his army, have fallen unarmed into the hands of slaves, and been put to death by them; his children would not have been destroyed; nor would his whole fortune have come into the possession of the conquerors. 

 

Did not he, then, who, if he had died at that time, would have died in all his glory, owe all the great and terrible misfortunes into which he subsequently fell to the prolongation of his life at that time? 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.35

 

Who’s to say if a life will unfold like that of a Quintus Caecilius Metellus, known to all Romans as an ideal instance of a fortunate man, or like that of a King Priam of Troy, known to every reader of the Iliad and the Aeneid as a markedly unfortunate man? How much of this had to do with their own merits, and how much with the weight of their circumstances? 

 

The philosopher understands, of course, that the virtues of our actions do not always correspond to our worldly rewards. If only Metellus had somehow botched his conquest of Macedonia, or if only Priam had the foresight not to coddle Paris, their roles could easily have been reversed. 

 

Yet one was buried by his sons in glory, while the other lived to see the ruin of everything he held dear. I begin to see what Cicero meant by arguing that there are times when death seems to come too soon, and times when death doesn’t seem to come soon enough. 

 

Some seek after wisdom to immediately provide then with a sense of stability and security, a case of the “warm and fuzzies”, though my own experience tells me it is often necessary to first pass through a stage of violent rebuilding, a case of the “topsy turvies”. 

 

Philosophy in general, and Stoicism in particular, have a way of making me reevaluate all of my priorities, where up and down, right and wrong, true and false, get flipped. So it is when I now reconsider the previously assumed sanctity of survival.

 

In reply to the Auditor’s objections, could it not be that there will come a point in some of our lives, perhaps even in all of our lives, when it’s time to throw in the towel? 

 

Yes, it may have come across as tragic if Metellus had died early in his career, though it may have been a boon if Priam had passed away in his sleep long before Paris abducted Helen. Admittedly, hindsight is 20/20, but think of all the grief Priam could have avoided. 

 

I had never encountered this story about Pompey before reading this text, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. 

 

For all of his grand efforts at making himself the master of Rome, it ended very poorly for him. If Pompey had succumbed to his illness in Naples, at the height of his position, would he have then died as a “miserable” or as a “happy” man? Yes, there were so many more opportunities still open to him, yet the spiral of vanity would end in his eventual doom. Quit while you’re ahead? 

 

I suspect many of us have had moments where we barely escaped death, and for those who are reflective they can offer a moment for profound pause. 

 

I find myself drawn to a memory of being ten years old, waking up in a hospital room hooked up to a mask. Much of it is a blur, though I still have a picture of looking over at my father speaking to a doctor: “It’s good that you brought him in when you did, because he wouldn’t have made it until the morning.” 

 

Apparently, I could no longer breathe while I was sleeping, and only my mother’s usual insistence on keeping my bedroom door open at night made it possible for her to hear me gasping and wheezing. 

 

What if she hadn’t noticed? A few people may have said that the death of a child was a tragedy, and the story might have ended there. My parents would have grieved, but would I have died happy? Would that life, however short, have been worth it? 

 

All sentimentality aside, the answer is an absolute “yes”. I find it interesting that adolescence was when I was increasingly cast out, and so I sadly began to cripple myself. Before that, I have so many fond memories of affection, of joy, and of wonder. To die on that day would not have been a waste; indeed, I have a hunch I was a far better boy then than I am a man now. 

 

Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for the further chances, but, quite honestly, I didn’t really need them, and I have come to understand why more isn’t better—better is better. 

 

There is still a far deeper problem in how the Auditor, by equating happiness with mere gratification, is missing the mark, but Cicero will try to address this before the treatise is complete. All in due time, whether quick or slow. 

—Reflection written in 5/1996 

IMAGE: Jules Lefebvre, The Death of Priam (1861)