I shall pass over other cruel and inhuman conduct towards them; for we maltreat them, not as if they were men, but as if they were beasts of burden.
When we recline at a banquet, one slave mops up the disgorged food, another crouches beneath the table and gathers up the leftovers of the tipsy guests.
Another carves the priceless game birds; with unerring strokes and skilled hand he cuts choice morsels along the breast or the rump. Hapless fellow, to live only for the purpose of cutting fat capons correctly—unless, indeed, the other man is still more unhappy than he, who teaches this art for pleasure's sake, rather than he who learns it because he must.
Another, who serves the wine, must dress like a woman and wrestle with his advancing years; he cannot get away from his boyhood; he is dragged back to it; and though he has already acquired a soldier's figure, he is kept beardless by having his hair smoothed away or plucked out by the roots, and he must remain awake throughout the night, dividing his time between his master's drunkenness and his lust; in the chamber he must be a man, at the feast a boy.
Another, whose duty it is to put a valuation on the guests, must stick to his task, poor fellow, and watch to see whose flattery and whose immodesty, whether of appetite or of language, is to get them an invitation for tomorrow.
Think also of the poor purveyors of food, who note their masters' tastes with delicate skill, who know what special flavors will sharpen their appetite, what will please their eyes, what new combinations will rouse their cloyed stomachs, what food will excite their loathing through sheer satiety, and what will stir them to hunger on that particular day.
With slaves like these the master cannot bear to dine; he would think it beneath his dignity to associate with his slave at the same table! Heaven forfend!
When we recline at a banquet, one slave mops up the disgorged food, another crouches beneath the table and gathers up the leftovers of the tipsy guests.
Another carves the priceless game birds; with unerring strokes and skilled hand he cuts choice morsels along the breast or the rump. Hapless fellow, to live only for the purpose of cutting fat capons correctly—unless, indeed, the other man is still more unhappy than he, who teaches this art for pleasure's sake, rather than he who learns it because he must.
Another, who serves the wine, must dress like a woman and wrestle with his advancing years; he cannot get away from his boyhood; he is dragged back to it; and though he has already acquired a soldier's figure, he is kept beardless by having his hair smoothed away or plucked out by the roots, and he must remain awake throughout the night, dividing his time between his master's drunkenness and his lust; in the chamber he must be a man, at the feast a boy.
Another, whose duty it is to put a valuation on the guests, must stick to his task, poor fellow, and watch to see whose flattery and whose immodesty, whether of appetite or of language, is to get them an invitation for tomorrow.
Think also of the poor purveyors of food, who note their masters' tastes with delicate skill, who know what special flavors will sharpen their appetite, what will please their eyes, what new combinations will rouse their cloyed stomachs, what food will excite their loathing through sheer satiety, and what will stir them to hunger on that particular day.
With slaves like these the master cannot bear to dine; he would think it beneath his dignity to associate with his slave at the same table! Heaven forfend!
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 47
I appreciate how Seneca says he will not mention the terrible ways masters go about treating their slaves, and yet he can’t resist a litany of their perverse offenses.
I catch myself doing this all the time, and while I wish to avoid pointing fingers and complaining, which will just lead to a greater resentment, there can be something cleansing about getting my troubles off my chest.
As with so many other aspects of life, it’s mainly in the intentions, isn’t it? I should indeed examine a wrongdoing if I wish to learn from it about doing what is right, while I should stay clear of dwelling on the evil if I am inclined to increase the evil within myself.
I know full well which way I am leaning, and I only stumble when I delude myself about my purpose.
I hardly live in an environment of the worst depravity, and I am grateful to be spared so many the horrifying conditions I read about in the news. Nevertheless, a day does not pass where I do not find myself doubting the inherent good of the human condition.
It can have a gradually numbing effect, which, if I’m not careful, will ultimately result in an absolute despair.
How does that man sleep at night after treating his workers like garbage?
Why does that banker continually get away with the most grievous fraud, while the honest family down the street have lost their home?
How much longer must I listen to priests publicly preaching about chastity from the pulpit, while privately groping boys and girls in the confessional?
Those of us who are sensitive, and who attempt to improve themselves, will know that dismal feeling far too well. Those who settle for convenience, by looking the other way, will continue to make the usual excuses.
In order to break out of the cycle, I must reaffirm my commitment to the increase of my character above all else, not merely by brute willpower, but by the subtlety of understanding.
No, I won’t hide away from their vices, nor will I brood over them. I will take note, and I will decide to be a very different sort of person.
That is the calling Providence gave to me. When they do otherwise, Providence still makes use of their failures as opportunities for recovery. Nothing is ever forgotten, and nothing is ever wasted.
The Roman masters wanted their old slaves to look young, and their men to look like women. They wished to be satiated by food and drink at the table, and to be gratified by barren sex in the bedroom. Does that somehow sound familiar?
Whether at the table or in the bedroom, love will be my only law. Who knows, maybe it could catch on . . .
I appreciate how Seneca says he will not mention the terrible ways masters go about treating their slaves, and yet he can’t resist a litany of their perverse offenses.
I catch myself doing this all the time, and while I wish to avoid pointing fingers and complaining, which will just lead to a greater resentment, there can be something cleansing about getting my troubles off my chest.
As with so many other aspects of life, it’s mainly in the intentions, isn’t it? I should indeed examine a wrongdoing if I wish to learn from it about doing what is right, while I should stay clear of dwelling on the evil if I am inclined to increase the evil within myself.
I know full well which way I am leaning, and I only stumble when I delude myself about my purpose.
I hardly live in an environment of the worst depravity, and I am grateful to be spared so many the horrifying conditions I read about in the news. Nevertheless, a day does not pass where I do not find myself doubting the inherent good of the human condition.
It can have a gradually numbing effect, which, if I’m not careful, will ultimately result in an absolute despair.
How does that man sleep at night after treating his workers like garbage?
Why does that banker continually get away with the most grievous fraud, while the honest family down the street have lost their home?
How much longer must I listen to priests publicly preaching about chastity from the pulpit, while privately groping boys and girls in the confessional?
Those of us who are sensitive, and who attempt to improve themselves, will know that dismal feeling far too well. Those who settle for convenience, by looking the other way, will continue to make the usual excuses.
In order to break out of the cycle, I must reaffirm my commitment to the increase of my character above all else, not merely by brute willpower, but by the subtlety of understanding.
No, I won’t hide away from their vices, nor will I brood over them. I will take note, and I will decide to be a very different sort of person.
That is the calling Providence gave to me. When they do otherwise, Providence still makes use of their failures as opportunities for recovery. Nothing is ever forgotten, and nothing is ever wasted.
The Roman masters wanted their old slaves to look young, and their men to look like women. They wished to be satiated by food and drink at the table, and to be gratified by barren sex in the bedroom. Does that somehow sound familiar?
Whether at the table or in the bedroom, love will be my only law. Who knows, maybe it could catch on . . .
—Reflection written in 3/2013
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