In This World

"In This World" 

Wendell Berry 

The hill pasture, an open place among the trees,
tilts into the valley. The clovers and tall grasses
are in bloom. Along the foot of the hill
dark floodwater moves down the river.
The sun sets. Ahead of nightfall the birds sing.
I have climbed up to water the horses
and now sit and rest, high on the hillside,
letting the day gather and pass. Below me
cattle graze out across the wide fields of the bottomlands,
slow and preoccupied as stars. In this world
men are making plans, wearing themselves out,
spending their lives, in order to kill each other. 

IMAGE: Robert S. Duncanson, Valley Pasture (1857) 

Stoic Snippets 140

Look within. 

Within is the fountain of good, and it will ever bubble up, if you will ever dig. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.59 

The Wisdom of Solomon 12:23-27

[23] Therefore those who in folly of life lived unrighteously

you did torment through their own abominations.
[24] For they went far astray on the paths of error,
accepting as gods those animals which even
their enemies despised;
they were deceived like foolish babes.
[25] Therefore, as to thoughtless children,
you did send your judgment to mock them.
[26] But those who have not heeded the warning of light rebukes
will experience the deserved judgment of God.
[27] For when in their suffering they became incensed
at those creatures which they had thought to
be gods, being punished by means of them,
they saw and recognized as the true God him
whom they had before refused to know.
Therefore the utmost condemnation came upon them. 

IMAGE: J. Luyken, The Fourth Plague of Egypt (1743) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 24.4

I am not now heaping up these illustrations for the purpose of exercising my wit, but for the purpose of encouraging you to face that which is thought to be most terrible. 

 

And I shall encourage you all the more easily by showing that not only resolute men have despised that moment when the soul breathes its last, but that certain persons, who were craven in other respects, have equaled in this regard the courage of the bravest. 

 

Take, for example, Scipio, the father-in-law of Gnaeus Pompeius: he was driven back upon the African coast by a headwind and saw his ship in the power of the enemy. He therefore pierced his body with a sword; and when they asked where the commander was, he replied: "All is well with the commander."

 

These words brought him up to the level of his ancestors and suffered not the glory which fate gave to the Scipios in Africa to lose its continuity. It was a great deed to conquer Carthage, but a greater deed to conquer death. 

 

"All is well with the commander!" Ought a general to die otherwise, especially one of Cato's generals?

 

I shall not refer you to history, or collect examples of those men who throughout the ages have despised death; for they are very many. Consider these times of ours, whose enervation and over-refinement call forth our complaints; they nevertheless will include men of every rank, of every lot in life, and of every age, who have cut short their misfortunes by death. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 24

 

There is, however, a grave danger of twisting a respect for the man we observe doing right into a worship of the man we believe can do no wrong. 

 

As creatures of reason and will, we are ruled by our own judgments, and so it is always within our power either to choose well or to choose poorly. There is good and bad in all of us, where even the sage is not without his vices, and even the scoundrel is not without his virtues. 

 

I search in vain for the flawless hero, and I only diminish myself by condemning another as an irredeemable villain. 

 

So when I am seeking a moral example, I must always appreciate the context, and come to accept how one thing will have diverse aspects, and one person will contain many qualities. For all his greatness, Cato was deficient; for all his weakness, Caesar was strong. Take the good, leave the rest. 

 

The courage to despise death, or to endure any degree of hardship, is hardly a rare occurrence. Sometimes the best of us stumble, and sometimes the worst of us rise to the occasion, but human nature cannot thrive without fortitude. The least likely prospects will often amaze us by suddenly taking a stand, and the most unassuming fellows will prove how bravery has nothing to do with putting on the flashiest show. 

 

Metellus Scipio came from a long line of noble Romans, and yet most accounts paint a very poor picture of him. It seems he was sadly a combination of a crooked politician, an incompetent general, and an intemperate bounder. Upon losing the Battle of Thapsus to Julius Caesar, however, he broke with all his previous habits by taking death before dishonor. 

 

Now he could certainly have turned this into a dramatic effort, as would be fitting for a self-serving schemer, but he instead took a modest and light-hearted turn, suitable to the best of Stoics. 

 

“All is well with the commander!” Indeed it was, perhaps for the first in the man’s life, because he was finally looking to Nature over Fortune! That makes it no less admirable, and perhaps even more so, for there is joy in Heaven over one sinner who repents. 

 

Beyond any of his other failings, I can remember this triumph of Scipio Metellus, and so by his own progress he is now helping me with my own progress, many centuries later. His ancestor, Scipio Africanus, defeated Carthage, while Scipio Metellus eventually defeated himself. 

 

Despite their accidents, the virtues are ultimately alike in their essence. Like many romantics, I may try to convince myself that I live in the worst of times, nostalgically looking back to what I insist were the best of times, though I know that is only my melancholy talking. Any time or place has very many Scipios, and a very few Catos, and all of them have the capacity for excellence. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012 

IMAGE: Andrea Palladio, Scheme of the Battle of Thapsus (1619) 

The Art of Peace 84

Seeing me before him, 
The enemy attacks, 

But by that time
I am already standing 

Safely behind him. 

Dhammapada 202

There is no fire like passion. 

There is no losing throw like hatred. 

There is no pain like this body. 

There is no happiness higher than rest. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 24.3

"Oh," say you, "those stories have been droned to death in all the schools; pretty soon, when you reach the topic 'On Despising Death,' you will be telling me about Cato." 

 

But why should I not tell you about Cato, how he read Plato's book on that last glorious night, with a sword laid at his pillow? He had provided these two requisites for his last moments—the first, that he might have the will to die, and the second, that he might have the means. 

 

So he put his affairs in order—as well as one could put in order that which was ruined and near its end—and thought that he ought to see to it that no one should have the power to slay or the good fortune to save Cato.

 

Drawing the sword—which he had kept unstained from all bloodshed against the final day—he cried: 

 

"Fortune, you have accomplished nothing by resisting all my endeavors. I have fought, till now, for my country's freedom, and not for my own, I did not strive so doggedly to be free, but only to live among the free. Now, since the affairs of mankind are beyond hope, let Cato be withdrawn to safety."

 

So saying, he inflicted a mortal wound upon his body. After the physicians had bound it up, Cato had less blood and less strength, but no less courage; angered now not only at Caesar but also at himself, he rallied his unarmed hands against his wound, and expelled, rather than dismissed, that noble soul which had been so defiant of all worldly power. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 24

 

The student may be tempted to scoff and sneer at the teacher’s stories of heroes, though I have only found myself doing so when I wish to impress others by coming across as edgy and clever. Mockery tends to be a sign of insecurity, and what better remedy for feeling small than finding a better example to follow? 

 

Whenever I begin to doubt that people are capable of such moral greatness, I remind myself how seeing the worst in others is a consequence of my own bitterness, and I reflect upon the fact that the very same power of free judgment is what permits an increase of both the virtues and the vices. 

 

If I can choose to be a cowardly scoundrel, what is stopping me from being a valiant gentleman? Whatever my dispositions or circumstances, my thinking is the sole obstacle. 

 

Cato the Younger is a paragon to many Stoics, and for very good reason. Our modern sensibilities may be offended by the self-inflicted violence of his passing, but none of that has much meaning without the context of his whole life, characterized by a constant struggle to champion justice. He could not bear greed and corruption, and he wasn’t shy about letting his voice be heard. 

 

Like most men of principle, he was therefore often branded a troublemaker—despots have little patience for conviction and integrity. 

 

I am still of the old school, one who believes that a familiarity with the classics can be a great aid in forming character, and so I would always encourage a reading of Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans. The biography of Cato the Younger has a special place for those drawn to Stoicism, and it offers a far more thorough and engaging account than any shallow textbook summary. I turn to it regularly when I feel the weight of the world. 

 

With Julius Caesar having finally won total dominion over Rome, Cato was certain the cause of the Republic was hopeless. I do not know what I would choose in such a situation, but I do understand the reasons behind Cato’s decision: at that moment, he now possessed only himself, and the last thing he would permit is the loss of his own liberty. 

 

Caesar might execute Cato, or send him into exile, but it was for more likely that he would be pardoned; a dictator hopes to strengthen his power through grand gestures of benevolence. Like any good Stoic, Cato prized being his own master, and he would refuse to grovel and beg, perhaps retaining his life but thereby surrendering his conscience. 

 

We all face our own dilemmas, and yet courage always demands that if something is worth living for, it should also be worth dying for. As is so often the case, I believe Socrates said it best: 

 

I would rather die having spoken after my manner, than speak in your manner and live. For neither in war nor yet at law ought any man to use every way of escaping death.

 

For often in battle there is no doubt that if a man will throw away his arms, and fall on his knees before his pursuers, he may escape death; and in other dangers there are other ways of escaping death, if a man is willing to say and do anything. 

 

The difficulty, my friends, is not in avoiding death, but in avoiding unrighteousness; for that runs faster than death. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012 

IMAGE: Pierre Bouillon, The Death of Cato of Utica (1797)

Giotto, The Vices: Envy

Giotto, Envy (1306)

Giotto, The Vices: Desperation

 

Giotto, Desperation (1306)

Giotto, The Vices: Infidelity

 

Giotto, Infidelity (1306)

Giotto, The Vices: Injustice

 

Giotto, Injustice (1306)

Giotto, The Vices: Wrath

 

Giotto, Wrath (1306)

Giotto, The Vices: Inconstancy

Giotto, Inconstancy (1306)

 

Giotto, The Vices: Foolishness

Giotto, Foolishness (1306) 

Giotto, The Virtues: Charity

 

Giotto, Charity (1306)

Giotto, The Virtues: Hope

 

Giotto, Hope (1306)

Giotto, The Virtues: Faith

Giotto, Faith (1306) 

Giotto, The Virtues: Justice

Giotto, Justice (1306)

Giotto, The Virtues: Temperance

Giotto, Temperance (1306)

Giotto, The Virtues: Fortitude

Giotto, Fortitude (1306)

Giotto, The Virtues: Prudence

Giotto, Prudence (1306)

Sayings of Heraclitus 58

Fire is want and surfeit. 

Sayings of Publilius Syrus 55

Gratitude is a spur for your benefactors. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 24.2

If you lose this case, can anything more severe happen to you than being sent into exile or led to prison? 

 

Is there a worse fate that any man may fear than being burned or being killed? 

 

Name such penalties one by one, and mention the men who have scorned them; one does not need to hunt for them—it is simply a matter of selection.

 

Sentence of conviction was borne by Rutilius as if the injustice of the decision were the only thing which annoyed him. 

 

Exile was endured by Metellus with courage, by Rutilius even with gladness; for the former consented to come back only because his country called him; the latter refused to return when Sulla summoned him—and nobody in those days said "No" to Sulla! 

 

Socrates in prison discoursed, and declined to flee when certain persons gave him the opportunity; he remained there, in order to free mankind from the fear of two most grievous things, death and imprisonment.

 

Mucius put his hand into the fire. It is painful to be burned; but how much more painful to inflict such suffering upon oneself! Here was a man of no learning, not primed to face death and pain by any words of wisdom, and equipped only with the courage of a soldier, who punished himself for his fruitless daring; he stood and watched his own right hand falling away piecemeal on the enemy's brazier, nor did he withdraw the dissolving limb, with its uncovered bones, until his foe removed the fire. He might have accomplished something more successful in that camp, but never anything more brave. 

 

See how much keener a brave man is to lay hold of danger than a cruel man is to inflict it: Porsenna was more ready to pardon Mucius for wishing to slay him than Mucius to pardon himself for failing to slay Porsenna! 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 24

 

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

 

I’ve been asked this regularly, by people who mean well, and yet they are only trying to dismiss the intensity of the pain. They are not getting to the root, to the management of the pain. 

 

Seneca is taking a further step here, as he does not try to disregard the suffering at all, describing it quite vividly, but rather encourages us to place it within a context of meaning and purpose. 

 

We can examine how bad it may feel, and then contrast the degree of that loss to what can be gained by acting upon it with moral conviction. The only way fear and pain can be conquered is to place them beneath to the magnificence of wisdom and virtue, the sources of our happiness. 

 

“This will just sting a bit,” the doctors say, and I have learned to no longer believe them. 

 

And then one day I needed to have a broken bone set, and a thoughtful nurse gave it to me straight. “Now this is going to hurt like hell, but just for a moment, and I know you can get through it.”

 

That wasn’t just a good bedside manner, that was brilliant philosophy. 

 

The loneliness of being cast out from home? The despair of being locked away in a cell? The agony of burned flesh? The terror and panic of gasping one’s last breath? If I choose to define myself only by my passions, such strain could be unbearable, for those feelings would be all I have. 

 

Yet whatever the experts of the hour would like to dictate to us, I am not merely an appetitive animal. I am also a rational animal, endowed with an intellect and a will. By those means I am able to rise above the distress, to know what is true and to love what is good. I possess the freedom to transform the many ordeals into joy. 

 

If cynicism creeps in, I just have to look around me, where there is always some neighbor, whatever his background or standing, who proves the resilience of the human spirit by sticking to his principles. Seneca offers some epic heroes as inspiration, though the brave man, who must ultimately be a man of conscience, also thrives in the humblest of conditions. 

 

Rutilius and Metellus were sent into exile by power-hungry politicians, and yet they chose to endure their hardships with dignity, concerned only with a respect for the law and the good of their countrymen. 

 

Socrates refused to run away from his death sentence, and he approached his end with a cheerful spirit, confident that the good man cannot be harmed, either in life or in death. 

 

Mucius set out to kill Rome’s enemy, King Porsenna. He failed, however, and when captured he chastised himself, and denied his foes the first chance to punish him, by thrusting his own hand into a sacrificial fire. It is said he did not even cry out, and Porsenna was so impressed by the young man’s fortitude that he both released Mucius and sued for peace with the Romans. 

 

Wasn’t this letter originally about dealing with anxiety about a lawsuit? Yes, but when it comes to making sense of suffering, we see the whole picture best when we reflect on the most extreme cases. If I can face the inevitability of my own extinction, being at the mercy of lawyers is a walk in the park. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012

IMAGES: 

Matthias Stom, Mucius Scaevola in the Presence of Lars Porsenna (c. 1640)

Louis-Pierre Deseine, Mucius Scaevola (1791)

Tidbits from Montaigne 40

God might grant us riches, honors, life, and even health, to our own hurt; for every thing that is pleasing to us is not always good for us. 

If he sends us death, or an increase of sickness, instead of a cure, Virga tua, et baculus tuus, ipsa me consolata sunt, "Thy rod and thy staff have comforted me," he does it by the rule of his Providence, which better and more certainly discerns what is proper for us than we can do. 

And we ought to take it in good part, as coming from a wise and most friendly hand. 

—Michel de Montaigne, Essays 2.12 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 151

Take the pearl and throw the oyster shell away. 

Follow the mantra given you by your Guru and throw out of consideration the human frailties of your teacher. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 24.1

Letter 24: On despising death 

 

You write me that you are anxious about the result of a lawsuit, with which an angry opponent is threatening you; and you expect me to advise you to picture to yourself a happier issue, and to rest in the allurements of hope. 

 

Why, indeed, is it necessary to summon trouble—which must be endured soon enough when it has once arrived—or to anticipate trouble and ruin the present through fear of the future? It is indeed foolish to be unhappy now because you may be unhappy at some future time.

 

But I shall conduct you to peace of mind by another route: if you would put off all worry, assume that what you fear may happen will certainly happen in any event. Whatever the trouble may be, measure it in your own mind, and estimate the amount of your fear. 

 

You will thus understand that what you fear is either insignificant or short-lived.

 

And you need not spend a long time in gathering illustrations which will strengthen you; every epoch has produced them. Let your thoughts travel into any era of Roman or foreign history, and there will throng before you notable examples of high achievement or of high endeavor.

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 24

 

I shudder at the thought of how many hours I have wasted on worrying about things over which I had absolutely no control. If I were to add them all up, it would certainly come to weeks and months, maybe even to years. 

 

I have often complained about the time lost from my life by having to attend committee meetings, but a meeting still allows for the option of daydreaming. Anxiety permits no such relief, as the mind is trapped in its own cycle of dread. 

 

My own concern usually focuses on how to escape a situation, or how to diminish the consequences; I too often overlook how my hope should not be in expecting the world to go my way, but rather in taming my imagination. The fear is something within me that I have made, instead of being found in the circumstances themselves. 

 

Sometimes the writing is already on the wall, and sometimes I am speculating wildly about grotesque possibilities, though either way I am only adding unnecessary frustrations. Some pains must come, and there is no point in getting a head start. Other pains might never come, and then I am simply jumping at shadows. 

 

I have never been involved in a lawsuit, and I suppose I don’t own enough to get caught up in one, yet I shouldn’t put it past someone to take me to court just out of sheer spite.

 

Now the apprehension about such a prospect does me no good, even as a thorough preparation for any unpleasantness is a prudent move. There is quite a difference between being scared of the worst and being ready for the worst: one weakens the will, while the other strengthens it. 

 

No, the Stoic is not a pessimist, or a fatalist, or a Gloomy Gus. It is an act of economic foresight to buy insurance for my car, my home, or my health, and it is an act of philosophical foresight to plan for any grave misfortune. While I can’t necessarily avert it, I can certainly brace myself for it. 

 

So when Seneca advises us to suppose disaster, he is not trying to get us down. No, he is urging us to an exercise of our judgment. Is some approaching event terrifying because of what will actually happen, or is the obstacle in the estimation of what will happen? 

 

What is it about the future that torments me? If I look carefully, without getting ahead of myself, I see why fear is like a sort of filter that magnifies and distorts. In some cases, I must admit how I am making a mountain out a molehill. In other cases, where the danger is certainly real, I realize how even the most extreme suffering is temporary. 

 

I managed to live through a root canal by telling myself it would be over—it is no different on a grander scale. 

 

Who can conquer fear? Anyone can, and so many of us do. Like love, courage is as perennial as the grass. Models of such human excellence are to be found everywhere, and to reflect upon the worst is a means to bringing out the best. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012

Stoic Snippets 139

Consider yourself to be dead, and to have completed your life up to the present time; and live according to Nature the remainder which is allowed you. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.56

IMAGE: Frida Kahlo, Girl with Death Mask (1938) 

Diogenes

Tintoretto, Diogenes (c. 1570) 

A Prophet

Tintoretto, A Prophet (c. 1567) 

A Philosopher

Tintoretto, A Philosopher (1570) 

Aesop's Fables 52

The Four Oxen and the Lion 

A lion used to prowl about a field in which Four Oxen used to dwell. 

Many a time he tried to attack them; but whenever he came near they turned their tails to one another, so that whichever way he approached them he was met by the horns of one of them. 

At last, however, they fell to quarreling among themselves, and each went off to pasture alone in a separate corner of the field. 

Then the Lion attacked them one by one and soon made an end of all four. 

United we stand, divided we fall. 

Dhammapada 201

Victory breeds hatred, for the conquered is unhappy. 

He who has given up both victory and defeat, he, the contented, is happy. 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.42

M. Surely I would rather have had this man’s soul than all the fortunes of those who sat in judgment on him; although that very thing which he says no one except the Gods know, namely, whether life or death is most preferable, he knows himself, for he had previously stated his opinion on it; but he maintained to the last that favorite maxim of his, of affirming nothing.

 

And let us, too, adhere to this rule of not thinking anything an evil which is a general provision of nature; and let us assure ourselves, that if death is an evil, it is an eternal evil, for death seems to be the end of a miserable life; but if death is a misery, there can be no end of that. 

 

But why do I mention Socrates, or Theramenes, men distinguished by the glory of virtue and wisdom? 

 

When a certain Lacedaemomian, whose name is not so much as known, held death in such contempt, that, when led to it by the ephori, he bore a cheerful and pleasant countenance; and, when he was asked by one of his enemies whether he despised the laws of Lycurgus, “On the contrary,” answered he, “I am greatly obliged to him, for he has amerced me in a fine which I can pay without borrowing, or taking up money at interest.” This was a man worthy of Sparta. And I am almost persuaded of his innocence because of the greatness of his soul. 

 

Our own city has produced many such. But why should I name generals, and other men of high rank, when Cato could write that legions have marched with alacrity to that place from whence they never expected to return? 

 

With no less greatness of soul fell the Lacedaemonians at Thermopylae, on whom Simonides wrote the following epitaph: 

 

“Go, stranger, tell the Spartans, here we lie,

Who to support their laws dared boldly die.”

 

What was it that Leonidas, their general, said to them? “March on with courage, my Lacedaemonians. Tonight, perhaps, we shall sup in the regions below.” This was a brave nation while the laws of Lycurgus were in force. 

 

One of them, when a Persian had said to him in conversation, “We shall hide the sun from your sight by the number of our arrows and darts,” replied, “We shall fight, then, in the shade.” 

 

Do I talk of their men? How great was that Lacedaemonian woman, who had sent her son to battle, and when she heard that he was slain, said, “I bore him for that purpose, that you might have a man who dared die for his country!” 

 

However, it is a matter of notoriety that the Spartans were bold and hardy, for the discipline of a republic has great influence. 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.42

 

Ultimately, I discover how the outcome of my life is a result of the choices I make, not of the events that may or may not come my way. And behind every small choice, however insignificant it may appear, stands a larger judgment, about the sort of man I wish to be. The tiny bits are but instances of the grander direction. 

 

Do I follow the path of an Anytus or a Socrates? Will I assess myself by the goods of the body or by the goods of the soul? The calculating man might win in the courts, while the wise man can meet his end with serenity, in the knowledge he has done his best to act with virtue. Will something else come after? Perhaps the philosopher has an inkling, though he feels no need to insist upon the matter. 

 

As Cicero continues with further examples of those who did not fear death, precisely because they understood the purpose of life, I must once again remind myself how the strength he describes comes from an inner peace, not from any desire to dominate. The only “toughness” that counts is one of prudent conviction, where hatred has no place. Moral courage may well include physical courage, and yet it is so much more than that. 

 

The Spartans, for example, are often presented as cold and heartless, and while their traditions included the most rigorous of bodily hardships, there was a profound devotion to conscience that drove them on. Yes, I will even call it love, not in a sentimental or romantic sense, but as a complete commitment of the will, a responsibility to duty expressed in unconditional self-giving. 

 

How else, after all, could the accused choose to freely accept his punishment, showing gratitude rather than resentment? In giving his life, he could pay the compensation for a crime and not be bound to any further debt. 

 

How pitiful that even when I know full well that I have done wrong, I still feel angry at getting caught! 

 

Though we usually think of the great differences between the Spartans and the Athenians, I see here a remarkable similarity to Socrates, who in the Crito explains why he refuses to escape from prison. If his fellow citizens have treated him unjustly, Socrates will not act unjustly in return, and his reverence for their bond does not alter out of convenience. 

 

Hollywood has sadly reduced the story of Thermopylae to an archetype of chest-thumping, when what should be most inspiring is how a good man will offer up everything else, including life itself, to do what is right. Some speak of “suffering” death, and here we have the Spartans who consider it an honor. 

 

Meanwhile, I grumble about how unfair it is that I have caught the flu this week! 

 

It’s in the attitude, in deciding whether to see something as a burden or as an opportunity. All of living, and of dying, is like that. 

 

And it isn’t just about some sort of masculine achievement. The Spartan mother was first and foremost proud of her fallen son for living well. 

 

I recall, with a combination of amusement and cringing, how a classmate of mine, on fire with this or that political fad, began to lecture a woman at a local pub about how she was a victim of an oppressive system. 

 

“Your husband didn’t have to die in Vietnam, they made him die for nothing!”

 

For a brief moment, I was sure she would snap his neck. Instead, she offered a few choice words: 

 

“Young man, my husband didn’t die for the government, or for a piece of cloth, or for some big idea the politicians came up with. He died because he thought it best to help his neighbors, especially the ones who couldn’t stand up for themselves. He had this crazy notion that anything worth living for is worth dying for. You should try it sometime.” 

 

How fitting, when a war widow puts a college boy in his place on the significance of sacrifice. 

—Reflection written in 6/1996 

IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, Leonidas at Thermopylae (1814)