Letter 36: On the value of retirement
Encourage your friend to despise stout-heartedly those who upbraid him because he has sought the shade of retirement and has abdicated his career of honors, and, though he might have attained more, has preferred tranquility to them all.
Let him prove daily to these detractors how wisely he has looked out for his own interests. Those whom men envy will continue to march past him; some will be pushed out of the ranks, and others will fall. Prosperity is a turbulent thing; it torments itself. It stirs the brain in more ways than one, goading men on to various aims—some to power, and others to high living. Some it puffs up; others it slackens and wholly enervates.
"But," the retort comes, "so-and-so carries his prosperity well."
Yes; just as he carries his liquor. So you need not let this class of men persuade you that one who is besieged by the crowd is happy; they run to him as crowds rush for a pool of water, rendering it muddy while they drain it.
But you say: "Men call our friend a trifler and a sluggard."
There are men, you know, whose speech is awry, who use the contrary terms. They called him happy; what of it? Was he happy?
Encourage your friend to despise stout-heartedly those who upbraid him because he has sought the shade of retirement and has abdicated his career of honors, and, though he might have attained more, has preferred tranquility to them all.
Let him prove daily to these detractors how wisely he has looked out for his own interests. Those whom men envy will continue to march past him; some will be pushed out of the ranks, and others will fall. Prosperity is a turbulent thing; it torments itself. It stirs the brain in more ways than one, goading men on to various aims—some to power, and others to high living. Some it puffs up; others it slackens and wholly enervates.
"But," the retort comes, "so-and-so carries his prosperity well."
Yes; just as he carries his liquor. So you need not let this class of men persuade you that one who is besieged by the crowd is happy; they run to him as crowds rush for a pool of water, rendering it muddy while they drain it.
But you say: "Men call our friend a trifler and a sluggard."
There are men, you know, whose speech is awry, who use the contrary terms. They called him happy; what of it? Was he happy?
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 36
Whatever else their shortcomings, my grandparents’ generation, those who had fought in the war and then thrived in the booming ‘50’s, did still appreciate the goal of a peaceful and quiet retirement. They knew when to gracefully bow out, and how to savor some of the simple comforts. The constant grasping and grappling of my generation stand in sharp contrast.
I try to reflect on the importance of stepping back from the hectic bustle of acquisition and posturing, not just in the professional realm, but in all aspects of life. Once I understand more about the nature of happiness, I now find myself caring less about winning spoils or appearing important in the eyes of others.
When they say I could still have so much more, it becomes clear they aren’t talking about the goods I have in mind. We’re not even in the same book anymore, let alone on the same page.
I look at the combatants, bickering with one another over table scraps, and I wonder how happy they can truly be. They insist that they are ecstatic, of course, and I wouldn’t wish to deny them their dreams, yet I have a nagging hunch they are living in a nightmare.
If they are content, why do their demands increase? If they are at peace, why are they still so angry? If they are confident in themselves, why must they hate one another? Wherever a pursuit of fame and riches holds sway, malice and bitterness seem to follow. Maybe I should count my blessings for the chance to escape from this vicious cycle.
Yes, there is a certain gratification in winning praise and power, though it is not so different from the quick exhilaration that comes from drunkenness; it lasts for a brilliant moment, and then inevitably leads to regret. Many years on college campuses, both as a student and as a teacher, have shown me how the “walk of shame” always leave you a bit less of a person than you were the day before, and the filth never washes off as easily as you would wish.
Yes, the bigwigs and the posers will mock you if you refuse to play the game, and you must then only remember how anything they say is measured by their own convenience. Praise or blame, flattery or ridicule, the tune will change in an instant. If they laugh, you have them worried; if they rage, you’ve really hit a soft spot. Let them go their way, and offer pity instead of stewing with envy.
They know the state of their souls, even as they can’t bear to admit it, and they are deeply uncomfortable when they know that you know.
Whatever else their shortcomings, my grandparents’ generation, those who had fought in the war and then thrived in the booming ‘50’s, did still appreciate the goal of a peaceful and quiet retirement. They knew when to gracefully bow out, and how to savor some of the simple comforts. The constant grasping and grappling of my generation stand in sharp contrast.
I try to reflect on the importance of stepping back from the hectic bustle of acquisition and posturing, not just in the professional realm, but in all aspects of life. Once I understand more about the nature of happiness, I now find myself caring less about winning spoils or appearing important in the eyes of others.
When they say I could still have so much more, it becomes clear they aren’t talking about the goods I have in mind. We’re not even in the same book anymore, let alone on the same page.
I look at the combatants, bickering with one another over table scraps, and I wonder how happy they can truly be. They insist that they are ecstatic, of course, and I wouldn’t wish to deny them their dreams, yet I have a nagging hunch they are living in a nightmare.
If they are content, why do their demands increase? If they are at peace, why are they still so angry? If they are confident in themselves, why must they hate one another? Wherever a pursuit of fame and riches holds sway, malice and bitterness seem to follow. Maybe I should count my blessings for the chance to escape from this vicious cycle.
Yes, there is a certain gratification in winning praise and power, though it is not so different from the quick exhilaration that comes from drunkenness; it lasts for a brilliant moment, and then inevitably leads to regret. Many years on college campuses, both as a student and as a teacher, have shown me how the “walk of shame” always leave you a bit less of a person than you were the day before, and the filth never washes off as easily as you would wish.
Yes, the bigwigs and the posers will mock you if you refuse to play the game, and you must then only remember how anything they say is measured by their own convenience. Praise or blame, flattery or ridicule, the tune will change in an instant. If they laugh, you have them worried; if they rage, you’ve really hit a soft spot. Let them go their way, and offer pity instead of stewing with envy.
They know the state of their souls, even as they can’t bear to admit it, and they are deeply uncomfortable when they know that you know.
—Reflection written in 12/2012
IMAGE: Henryk Siemiradzki, The Patrician's Siesta (1881)
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