Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 2.10

Let us see what Aeschylus says, who was not only a poet but a Pythagorean philosopher also, for that is the account which you have received of him; how does he make Prometheus bear the pain he suffered for the Lemnian theft, when he clandestinely stole away the celestial fire, and bestowed it on men, and was severely punished by Jupiter for the theft. Fastened to Mount Caucasus, he speaks thus:
 
“Thou heav’n-born race of Titans here fast bound,
Behold thy brother! As the sailors sound 
With care the bottom, and their ships confine 
To some safe shore, with anchor and with line; 
So, by Jove’s dread decree, the God of fire 
Confines me here the victim of Jove’s ire. 
With baneful art his dire machine he shapes; 
From such a God what mortal e’er escapes? 
When each third day shall triumph o’er the night, 
Then doth the vulture, with his talons light, 
Seize on my entrails; which, in rav’nous guise, 
He preys on! then with wing extended flies 
Aloft, and brushes with his plumes the gore: 
But when dire Jove my liver doth restore, 
Back he returns impetuous to his prey, 
Clapping his wings, he cuts th’ ethereal way. 
Thus do I nourish with my blood this pest, 
Confined my arms, unable to contest; 
Entreating only that in pity Jove 
Would take my life, and this cursed plague remove. 
But endless ages past unheard my moan, 
Sooner shall drops dissolve this very stone.”
 
And therefore it scarcely seems possible to avoid calling a man who is suffering, miserable; and if he is miserable, then pain is an evil. 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 2.10 
 
Another reason I can relate to Cicero is by how he always seems to foresee my own reactions, and he is then already prepared to offer some sort of resolution to the tension.
 
The death of Hercules has long haunted me, and I catch myself wondering about further examples of horrible suffering from mythology. Dwelling upon such instances may not be too healthy for me, and yet I am nevertheless drawn into it. 
 
Could anything be worse than slowly melting away, and then throwing oneself on a fire to finally make it end? What if there actually was no end to the anguish? Yes, what if there were a torment like that of Prometheus? 
 
Sisyphus knew how the labor of ceaselessly rolling a boulder uphill was in vain, and Tantalus was afflicted by an eternal deprivation of food and drink that was so close at hand, but these punishments can’t top Prometheus having his liver ripped out and eaten by an eagle, only to have it grow back and to be consumed again and again for all time to come. It’s so shockingly merciless, only a god could come up with it. 
 
I notice how thinking this through has riled me up, and something very much like Cicero’s last sentence in this chapter pops into my head: what hope for happiness is there when this happens, or even if there is the prospect of it happening? 
 
It doesn’t get any better when I reflect on the fact that there was a certain heroism in Prometheus, despite his disobedience and recklessness, and I realize how this is true of most tragic figures. 
 
They may mean well, and they may be certain they have it all figured out, and then everything comes crashing down around them. They have succumbed to pride because they have gotten ahead of themselves, rushing to hasty conclusions without the benefit of any calm consideration. 
 
Though it is hardly on as grand in scale, isn’t this still similar to what I am doing when I get so caught up in anxiety and despair? I am letting my imagination run away from me, and my passion has outpaced my judgment. Instead of pretending that the pain isn’t real, I am now hopelessly lost in it. 
 
I am already wondering how Cicero will get me out of this mess, and I have a hunch he will tell me to stop moping over the wrong texts, or to at least to finally stop reading them in the wrong way. 
 
There can be no ordered feelings without an ordered mind. Slow down. 

—Reflection written in 7/1996 

IMAGE: Salvator Rosa, The Torture of Prometheus (c. 1648)