Letter 35: On the friendship of kindred minds
When I urge you so strongly to your studies, it is my own interest which I am consulting; I want your friendship, and it cannot fall to my lot unless you proceed, as you have begun, with the task of developing yourself. For now, although you love me, you are not yet my friend.
"But," you reply, "are these words of different meaning?"
Nay, more, they are totally unlike in meaning. A friend loves you, of course; but one who loves you is not in every case your friend.
Friendship, accordingly, is always helpful, but love sometimes even does harm. Try to perfect yourself, if for no other reason, in order that you may learn how to love.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 35
This letter connects nicely with the previous one, and it reminds me to be more careful about whom I am calling a friend.
In line with the common custom, I tend to use the term “friend” rather broadly, and the term “love” more narrowly. We speak casually about having many friends, though we are very selective about saying we love people, as if the latter is a far more exclusive category than the former.
Part of this may have to do with the further association between love and romance, but it ultimately reflects how often we use words without giving them much thought.
Now while my dabbling in academic philosophy has taught me something about the importance of precision, I have also learned that lesson far more harshly from cold, hard experience. Sloppy words often betray sloppy thoughts, and then we pay a high price for them.
What if I have my concepts flipped?
I have different relationships with many people, to varying degrees, yet all of them require cooperation for the sake of a shared goal. In that we are working for one another’s good, in however humble a way, should they not all rightly be expressions of love?
I am, of course, called to love my neighbor, any neighbor, not merely to tolerate him.
I am also granted the opportunity for far closer relationships, fittingly both rarer and more demanding, where, as Aristotle put it, the other becomes like a second self. These go far beyond any utility or pleasure, and as unconditional acts of self-giving, they stand out as the most perfect examples of human love.
Such total friendships do not come to us spontaneously, since they call for a heroic effort at committing ourselves with consideration and constancy. Accordingly, I can only become a better friend by increasing in my own virtues. Where my character suffers, so too must my capacity for goodwill diminish.
Note how often we say we love, even as we do not always understand what the act entails, or we have a grave misapprehension about what we are loving, or why we should love it. Hence love can certainly be blind, and thereby do us harm, while the sight of wisdom allows friendship to mature into the pinnacle of love.
Lucilius should not take offense when Seneca says they are becoming friends, though they are not yet fully friends. Growth is a process, and it would instead be an insult against solidarity to treat it lightly.
Yes, it is quite impossible for me to be a proper friend if I cannot first get my own house in order. By extension, I must not foolishly put my trust in those who are unwilling to stand by their promises.
This letter connects nicely with the previous one, and it reminds me to be more careful about whom I am calling a friend.
In line with the common custom, I tend to use the term “friend” rather broadly, and the term “love” more narrowly. We speak casually about having many friends, though we are very selective about saying we love people, as if the latter is a far more exclusive category than the former.
Part of this may have to do with the further association between love and romance, but it ultimately reflects how often we use words without giving them much thought.
Now while my dabbling in academic philosophy has taught me something about the importance of precision, I have also learned that lesson far more harshly from cold, hard experience. Sloppy words often betray sloppy thoughts, and then we pay a high price for them.
What if I have my concepts flipped?
I have different relationships with many people, to varying degrees, yet all of them require cooperation for the sake of a shared goal. In that we are working for one another’s good, in however humble a way, should they not all rightly be expressions of love?
I am, of course, called to love my neighbor, any neighbor, not merely to tolerate him.
I am also granted the opportunity for far closer relationships, fittingly both rarer and more demanding, where, as Aristotle put it, the other becomes like a second self. These go far beyond any utility or pleasure, and as unconditional acts of self-giving, they stand out as the most perfect examples of human love.
Such total friendships do not come to us spontaneously, since they call for a heroic effort at committing ourselves with consideration and constancy. Accordingly, I can only become a better friend by increasing in my own virtues. Where my character suffers, so too must my capacity for goodwill diminish.
Note how often we say we love, even as we do not always understand what the act entails, or we have a grave misapprehension about what we are loving, or why we should love it. Hence love can certainly be blind, and thereby do us harm, while the sight of wisdom allows friendship to mature into the pinnacle of love.
Lucilius should not take offense when Seneca says they are becoming friends, though they are not yet fully friends. Growth is a process, and it would instead be an insult against solidarity to treat it lightly.
Yes, it is quite impossible for me to be a proper friend if I cannot first get my own house in order. By extension, I must not foolishly put my trust in those who are unwilling to stand by their promises.
—Reflection written in 12/2012
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