M. Therefore compassion and envy are consistent in the same man; for whoever is uneasy at any one’s adversity is also uneasy at another’s prosperity: as Theophrastus, while he laments the death of his companion Callisthenes, is at the same time disturbed at the success of Alexander; and therefore he says that Callisthenes met with man of the greatest power and good fortune, but one who did not know how to make use of his good fortune.
And as pity is an uneasiness which arises from the misfortunes of another, so envy is an uneasiness that proceeds from the good success of another: therefore whoever is capable of pity is capable of envy.
But a wise man is incapable of envy, and consequently incapable of pity. But were a wise man used to grieve, to pity also would be familiar to him; therefore to grieve is a feeling which cannot affect a wise man.
Now, though these reasonings of the Stoics, and their conclusions, are rather strained and distorted, and ought to be expressed in a less stringent and narrow manner, yet great stress is to be laid on the opinions of those men who have a peculiarly bold and manly turn of thought and sentiment.
For our friends the Peripatetics, notwithstanding all their erudition, gravity, and fluency of language, do not satisfy me about the moderation of these disorders and diseases of the soul which they insist upon; for every evil, though moderate, is in its nature great.
But our object is to make out that the wise man is free from all evil; for as the body is unsound if it is ever so slightly affected, so the mind under any moderate disorder loses its soundness; therefore the Romans have, with their usual accuracy of expression, called trouble, and anguish, and vexation, on account of the analogy between a troubled mind and a diseased body, disorders.
The Greeks call all perturbation of mind by pretty nearly the same name; for they name every turbid motion of the soul πάθος, that is to say, a distemper. But we have given them a more proper name; for a disorder of the mind is very like a disease of the body. But lust does not resemble sickness; neither does immoderate joy, which is an elated and exulting pleasure of the mind. Fear, too, is not very like a distemper, though it is akin to grief of mind, but properly, as is also the case with sickness of the body, so too sickness of mind has no name separated from pain.
And therefore I must explain the origin of this pain, that is to say, the cause that occasions this grief in the mind, as if it were a sickness of the body. For as physicians think they have found out the cure when they have discovered the cause of the distemper, so we shall discover the method of curing melancholy when the cause of it is found out.
And as pity is an uneasiness which arises from the misfortunes of another, so envy is an uneasiness that proceeds from the good success of another: therefore whoever is capable of pity is capable of envy.
But a wise man is incapable of envy, and consequently incapable of pity. But were a wise man used to grieve, to pity also would be familiar to him; therefore to grieve is a feeling which cannot affect a wise man.
Now, though these reasonings of the Stoics, and their conclusions, are rather strained and distorted, and ought to be expressed in a less stringent and narrow manner, yet great stress is to be laid on the opinions of those men who have a peculiarly bold and manly turn of thought and sentiment.
For our friends the Peripatetics, notwithstanding all their erudition, gravity, and fluency of language, do not satisfy me about the moderation of these disorders and diseases of the soul which they insist upon; for every evil, though moderate, is in its nature great.
But our object is to make out that the wise man is free from all evil; for as the body is unsound if it is ever so slightly affected, so the mind under any moderate disorder loses its soundness; therefore the Romans have, with their usual accuracy of expression, called trouble, and anguish, and vexation, on account of the analogy between a troubled mind and a diseased body, disorders.
The Greeks call all perturbation of mind by pretty nearly the same name; for they name every turbid motion of the soul πάθος, that is to say, a distemper. But we have given them a more proper name; for a disorder of the mind is very like a disease of the body. But lust does not resemble sickness; neither does immoderate joy, which is an elated and exulting pleasure of the mind. Fear, too, is not very like a distemper, though it is akin to grief of mind, but properly, as is also the case with sickness of the body, so too sickness of mind has no name separated from pain.
And therefore I must explain the origin of this pain, that is to say, the cause that occasions this grief in the mind, as if it were a sickness of the body. For as physicians think they have found out the cure when they have discovered the cause of the distemper, so we shall discover the method of curing melancholy when the cause of it is found out.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.10
Cicero has already explained what he means by “envy”, and I pause here to work out for myself what he means by “pity”. As frustrating as it can be, I am seeing more and more why he spends so much time on the particulars in order to grasp the universal. Once again, remember to put the parts in the service of the whole.
Cicero is using the verb misereor and the noun misericordia here, which do literally translate as pity, compassion, or mercy, yet to an English reader it will appear odd to ever label these feeling as being disordered. After all, we usually praise such sentiments as noble, and so I initially found myself confused.
I will defer to a scholar of Latin on any specifics, but I can only propose that Cicero intends a pity that is miserable or wretched, as when we permit the suffering of another to drag us into our own despair. It is heartless not to commiserate, though it also reckless to succumb to the very same melancholy.
In this sense, it is clear how both envy and pity, as expressions of dejection, are contrary to the confidence imparted by wisdom. If I become obsessed about what my neighbor has, or I become devastated about what my neighbor lacks, I am allowing grief to get the better of me.
While Cicero is usually quite sympathetic to the Stoics, I find it interesting that he appeals to them so strongly here. I imagine the average Roman found Stoicism to be too severe and demanding, much like the average American is suspicious of any sort of religious enthusiasm, yet Cicero seems to think that such rigor is absolutely necessary when it comes to tackling afflictions of the soul.
We shouldn’t be too lenient with the formation of character, for overlooking a tiny weakness can soon result in a mighty crack. All too often, what we are calling moderation turns out to be vacillation, and compromise drifts into surrender. Too many qualifications may well mean we’re trying to have it both ways.
Who would settle for being slightly sick when the total treatment is right at hand? If I can rid myself of some evil, I can strive further to erase all of it.
Should I righty be speaking of a moral “sickness”, or is it better to term it a “disorder”? Cicero can’t resist a final distinction, since it is important to note that not all disorders of the mind involve the presence of pain we usually associate with illness.
Lust or gluttony, for example, don’t “hurt”, at least not initially, and they are undoubtedly still harmful to us. Nevertheless, the analogy of bodily health is a vivid way to show how just as medicine finds a cure for the disease, so philosophy removes the cause for grief of mind.
Cicero has already explained what he means by “envy”, and I pause here to work out for myself what he means by “pity”. As frustrating as it can be, I am seeing more and more why he spends so much time on the particulars in order to grasp the universal. Once again, remember to put the parts in the service of the whole.
Cicero is using the verb misereor and the noun misericordia here, which do literally translate as pity, compassion, or mercy, yet to an English reader it will appear odd to ever label these feeling as being disordered. After all, we usually praise such sentiments as noble, and so I initially found myself confused.
I will defer to a scholar of Latin on any specifics, but I can only propose that Cicero intends a pity that is miserable or wretched, as when we permit the suffering of another to drag us into our own despair. It is heartless not to commiserate, though it also reckless to succumb to the very same melancholy.
In this sense, it is clear how both envy and pity, as expressions of dejection, are contrary to the confidence imparted by wisdom. If I become obsessed about what my neighbor has, or I become devastated about what my neighbor lacks, I am allowing grief to get the better of me.
While Cicero is usually quite sympathetic to the Stoics, I find it interesting that he appeals to them so strongly here. I imagine the average Roman found Stoicism to be too severe and demanding, much like the average American is suspicious of any sort of religious enthusiasm, yet Cicero seems to think that such rigor is absolutely necessary when it comes to tackling afflictions of the soul.
We shouldn’t be too lenient with the formation of character, for overlooking a tiny weakness can soon result in a mighty crack. All too often, what we are calling moderation turns out to be vacillation, and compromise drifts into surrender. Too many qualifications may well mean we’re trying to have it both ways.
Who would settle for being slightly sick when the total treatment is right at hand? If I can rid myself of some evil, I can strive further to erase all of it.
Should I righty be speaking of a moral “sickness”, or is it better to term it a “disorder”? Cicero can’t resist a final distinction, since it is important to note that not all disorders of the mind involve the presence of pain we usually associate with illness.
Lust or gluttony, for example, don’t “hurt”, at least not initially, and they are undoubtedly still harmful to us. Nevertheless, the analogy of bodily health is a vivid way to show how just as medicine finds a cure for the disease, so philosophy removes the cause for grief of mind.
—Reflection written in 9/1996
IMAGE: Josep Llimona i Bruguera, Grief (1907)
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