You know Harpasté, my wife's female clown; she has remained in my house, a burden incurred from a legacy. I particularly disapprove of these freaks; whenever I wish to enjoy the quips of a clown, I am not compelled to hunt far; I can laugh at myself.
Now this clown suddenly became blind. The story sounds incredible, but I assure you that it is true: she does not know that she is blind. She keeps asking her attendant to change her quarters; she says that her apartments are too dark.
You can see clearly that that which makes us smile in the case of Harpasté happens to all the rest of us; nobody understands that he is himself greedy, or that he is covetous.
Yet the blind ask for a guide, while we wander without one, saying: "I am not self-seeking; but one cannot live at Rome in any other way. I am not extravagant, but mere living in the city demands a great outlay. It is not my fault that I have a choleric disposition, or that I have not settled down to any definite scheme of life; it is due to my youth."
Why do we deceive ourselves? The evil that afflicts us is not external, it is within us, situated in our very vitals; for that reason we attain soundness with all the more difficulty, because we do not know that we are diseased.
Now this clown suddenly became blind. The story sounds incredible, but I assure you that it is true: she does not know that she is blind. She keeps asking her attendant to change her quarters; she says that her apartments are too dark.
You can see clearly that that which makes us smile in the case of Harpasté happens to all the rest of us; nobody understands that he is himself greedy, or that he is covetous.
Yet the blind ask for a guide, while we wander without one, saying: "I am not self-seeking; but one cannot live at Rome in any other way. I am not extravagant, but mere living in the city demands a great outlay. It is not my fault that I have a choleric disposition, or that I have not settled down to any definite scheme of life; it is due to my youth."
Why do we deceive ourselves? The evil that afflicts us is not external, it is within us, situated in our very vitals; for that reason we attain soundness with all the more difficulty, because we do not know that we are diseased.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 50
I’m afraid I find any sort of clown, mime, or jester to be unnerving instead of amusing, and so I can’t imagine the discomfort of having one live in my home. Who says the rich have it easier? Even the prospect of a maid or a butler disturbs me, for what becomes of the man who has others doing for him what he is meant to do for himself?
Like Seneca, I am already ridiculous enough on my own, and I do not require anyone to play the fool for my entertainment. Yet I should not let myself grow smug, because I know how easy it is for me to fall into delusion.
As for blindness, I must finally admit how these eyes that were once so sharp are now going cloudy. My wife giggles when I can’t read the fine print, and the dreaded glasses are surely around the corner. If I have difficulty in accepting that I can’t see, in what more serious ways might I also be in denial?
It’s bad enough to lie to another, but lying to oneself is a far deeper form of rot. As much as I insist on how I am trying to be a good man, that isn’t quite the same thing as actually being a good man, and so I am prone to continue making excuses for craving the basest glory and gratification.
The words Seneca uses to describe such alibis ring as true today as they did back then, for the highs and lows of our human nature haven’t really changed. We will say that living in the big city requires following the big city rules, or that our careers allow us no option but to surround ourselves with decadence, or that our shallow interests and ill-tempered personalities are just a result of living in a hectic world.
Hard experience has taught me to be suspicious of any man who claims he “didn’t have a choice.” Don’t trust him, for he doesn’t even trust his own convictions. There is always a choice, however imposing the circumstances.
I’m afraid I find any sort of clown, mime, or jester to be unnerving instead of amusing, and so I can’t imagine the discomfort of having one live in my home. Who says the rich have it easier? Even the prospect of a maid or a butler disturbs me, for what becomes of the man who has others doing for him what he is meant to do for himself?
Like Seneca, I am already ridiculous enough on my own, and I do not require anyone to play the fool for my entertainment. Yet I should not let myself grow smug, because I know how easy it is for me to fall into delusion.
As for blindness, I must finally admit how these eyes that were once so sharp are now going cloudy. My wife giggles when I can’t read the fine print, and the dreaded glasses are surely around the corner. If I have difficulty in accepting that I can’t see, in what more serious ways might I also be in denial?
It’s bad enough to lie to another, but lying to oneself is a far deeper form of rot. As much as I insist on how I am trying to be a good man, that isn’t quite the same thing as actually being a good man, and so I am prone to continue making excuses for craving the basest glory and gratification.
The words Seneca uses to describe such alibis ring as true today as they did back then, for the highs and lows of our human nature haven’t really changed. We will say that living in the big city requires following the big city rules, or that our careers allow us no option but to surround ourselves with decadence, or that our shallow interests and ill-tempered personalities are just a result of living in a hectic world.
Hard experience has taught me to be suspicious of any man who claims he “didn’t have a choice.” Don’t trust him, for he doesn’t even trust his own convictions. There is always a choice, however imposing the circumstances.
—Reflection written in 3/2013
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