A. My opinion is, that a wise man is subject to grief.
M. What, and to the other perturbations of mind, as fears, lusts, anger? For these are pretty much like what the Greeks call πάθη.
I might call them diseases, and that would be a literal translation, but it is not agreeable to our way of speaking. For envy, delight, and pleasure are all called by the Greeks diseases, being affections of the mind not in subordination to reason; but we, I think, are right in calling the same motions of a disturbed soul perturbations, and in very seldom using the term diseases; though, perhaps, it appears otherwise to you.
A. I am of your opinion.
M. And do you think a wise man subject to these?
A. Entirely, I think.
M. Then that boasted wisdom is but of small account, if it differs so little from madness?
A. What? does every commotion of the mind seem to you to be madness?
M. Not to me only; but I apprehend, though I have often been surprised at it, that it appeared so to our ancestors many ages before Socrates; from whom is derived all that philosophy which relates to life and morals.
A. How so?
M. Because the name madness implies a sickness of the mind and disease; that is to say, an unsoundness and an unhealthiness of mind, which they call madness.
But the philosophers call all perturbations of the soul diseases, and their opinion is that no fool is ever free from these; but all that are diseased are unsound; and the minds of all fools are diseased; therefore all fools are mad.
For they held that soundness of the mind depends on a certain tranquility and steadiness; and a mind which was destitute of these qualities they called insane, because soundness was inconsistent with a perturbed mind just as much as with a disordered body.
M. What, and to the other perturbations of mind, as fears, lusts, anger? For these are pretty much like what the Greeks call πάθη.
I might call them diseases, and that would be a literal translation, but it is not agreeable to our way of speaking. For envy, delight, and pleasure are all called by the Greeks diseases, being affections of the mind not in subordination to reason; but we, I think, are right in calling the same motions of a disturbed soul perturbations, and in very seldom using the term diseases; though, perhaps, it appears otherwise to you.
A. I am of your opinion.
M. And do you think a wise man subject to these?
A. Entirely, I think.
M. Then that boasted wisdom is but of small account, if it differs so little from madness?
A. What? does every commotion of the mind seem to you to be madness?
M. Not to me only; but I apprehend, though I have often been surprised at it, that it appeared so to our ancestors many ages before Socrates; from whom is derived all that philosophy which relates to life and morals.
A. How so?
M. Because the name madness implies a sickness of the mind and disease; that is to say, an unsoundness and an unhealthiness of mind, which they call madness.
But the philosophers call all perturbations of the soul diseases, and their opinion is that no fool is ever free from these; but all that are diseased are unsound; and the minds of all fools are diseased; therefore all fools are mad.
For they held that soundness of the mind depends on a certain tranquility and steadiness; and a mind which was destitute of these qualities they called insane, because soundness was inconsistent with a perturbed mind just as much as with a disordered body.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.4
Philosophers, and scholars in general, do like to nitpick about the definitions of terms. This can be a very bad thing, when it is about stroking the ego by squabbling over the words themselves, or it can be a very good thing, when it is about working together to clarify the truths those words are meant to signify.
I’ve said it often, much to the annoyance of my students, but I am convinced that the vast majority of disagreements arise because we are either too hasty in forming our conceptions, or too lazy to express them clearly. Oftentimes, we will find we are actually saying much the same thing, or our differences can be resolved with some simple qualifications.
If, for example, I had bothered to understand what someone actually meant by the word “love”, I would have saved myself much anguish!
So is grief a perturbation or a disease? I make a point of pausing before I dismiss the question as frivolous.
Is suffering a source of disruption, however severe, or is it also something that can cripple and kill us? I note how my own take is based on the English words as I have become accustomed to them, and I must look “behind” them, or the words from any other language, to whether mental pain is an accidental or an essential hindrance to our happiness.
Cicero is challenging the Auditor to consider what it means for the soul to suffer, and if a state of disorder in the mind is consistent with wisdom and virtue. He boldly suggests that misery may well be a form of insanity, a prospect that shocks and frightens me.
The Auditor is catching on, for he must now distinguish between what is still ours to control and what sweeps us away, between a surmountable or an insurmountable obstacle. There is feeling down, and then there is being imprisoned by despair.
A basic chain of reasoning can do the trick here. A healthy mind is characterized by peace and self-mastery, yet grief of mind is the absence of peace, and a surrender of the self to the passions. When I succumb to grief, therefore, I am far from healthy—I am downright diseased.
I think of the Twelve Steps, which tell me that I must begin with the humbling acceptance that I have become powerless in the face of my demons. I say I wish to be prudent and principled, though I go wherever the wind blows, which makes me quite the fool.
Philosophers, and scholars in general, do like to nitpick about the definitions of terms. This can be a very bad thing, when it is about stroking the ego by squabbling over the words themselves, or it can be a very good thing, when it is about working together to clarify the truths those words are meant to signify.
I’ve said it often, much to the annoyance of my students, but I am convinced that the vast majority of disagreements arise because we are either too hasty in forming our conceptions, or too lazy to express them clearly. Oftentimes, we will find we are actually saying much the same thing, or our differences can be resolved with some simple qualifications.
If, for example, I had bothered to understand what someone actually meant by the word “love”, I would have saved myself much anguish!
So is grief a perturbation or a disease? I make a point of pausing before I dismiss the question as frivolous.
Is suffering a source of disruption, however severe, or is it also something that can cripple and kill us? I note how my own take is based on the English words as I have become accustomed to them, and I must look “behind” them, or the words from any other language, to whether mental pain is an accidental or an essential hindrance to our happiness.
Cicero is challenging the Auditor to consider what it means for the soul to suffer, and if a state of disorder in the mind is consistent with wisdom and virtue. He boldly suggests that misery may well be a form of insanity, a prospect that shocks and frightens me.
The Auditor is catching on, for he must now distinguish between what is still ours to control and what sweeps us away, between a surmountable or an insurmountable obstacle. There is feeling down, and then there is being imprisoned by despair.
A basic chain of reasoning can do the trick here. A healthy mind is characterized by peace and self-mastery, yet grief of mind is the absence of peace, and a surrender of the self to the passions. When I succumb to grief, therefore, I am far from healthy—I am downright diseased.
I think of the Twelve Steps, which tell me that I must begin with the humbling acceptance that I have become powerless in the face of my demons. I say I wish to be prudent and principled, though I go wherever the wind blows, which makes me quite the fool.
I know my body is sick when I can’t manage to walk straight. As much as I hate to admit it, I also know my soul is sick when I can’t manage to think straight. If my melancholy feels unbearable, I need to go back to the source.
—Reflection written in 9/1996
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