M. That descendant of Tantalus, how does he appear to you—he who sprung from Pelops, who formerly stole Hippodamia from her father-in-law, King Oenomaus, and married her by force?—he who was descended from Jupiter himself, how broken-hearted and dispirited does he not seem!
“Stand off, my friends, nor come within my shade,
That no pollutions your sound hearts pervade,
So foul a stain my body doth partake.”
Will you condemn yourself, Thyestes, and deprive yourself of life, on account of the greatness of another’s crime?
What do you think of that son of Phoebus? Do you not look upon him as unworthy of his own father’s light?
“Hollow his eyes, his body worn away,
His furrow’d cheeks his frequent tears betray;
His beard neglected, and his hoary hairs
Rough and uncomb’d, bespeak his bitter cares.”
O foolish Aeetes! These are evils which you yourself have been the cause of, and are not occasioned by any accidents with which chance has visited you; and you behaved as you did, even after you had been inured to your distress, and after the first swelling of the mind had subsided!—whereas grief consists (as I shall show) in the notion of some recent evil—but your grief, it is very plain, proceeded from the loss of your kingdom, not of your daughter, for you hated her, and perhaps with reason, but you could not calmly bear to part with your kingdom.
But surely it is an impudent grief which preys upon a man for not being able to command those that are free. Dionysius, it is true, the tyrant of Syracuse, when driven from his country, taught a school at Corinth; so incapable was he of living without some authority.
But what could be more impudent than Tarquin, who made war upon those who could not bear his tyranny; and, when he could not recover his kingdom by the aid of the forces of the Veientians and the Latins, is said to have betaken himself to Cuma, and to have died in that city of old age and grief!
“Stand off, my friends, nor come within my shade,
That no pollutions your sound hearts pervade,
So foul a stain my body doth partake.”
Will you condemn yourself, Thyestes, and deprive yourself of life, on account of the greatness of another’s crime?
What do you think of that son of Phoebus? Do you not look upon him as unworthy of his own father’s light?
“Hollow his eyes, his body worn away,
His furrow’d cheeks his frequent tears betray;
His beard neglected, and his hoary hairs
Rough and uncomb’d, bespeak his bitter cares.”
O foolish Aeetes! These are evils which you yourself have been the cause of, and are not occasioned by any accidents with which chance has visited you; and you behaved as you did, even after you had been inured to your distress, and after the first swelling of the mind had subsided!—whereas grief consists (as I shall show) in the notion of some recent evil—but your grief, it is very plain, proceeded from the loss of your kingdom, not of your daughter, for you hated her, and perhaps with reason, but you could not calmly bear to part with your kingdom.
But surely it is an impudent grief which preys upon a man for not being able to command those that are free. Dionysius, it is true, the tyrant of Syracuse, when driven from his country, taught a school at Corinth; so incapable was he of living without some authority.
But what could be more impudent than Tarquin, who made war upon those who could not bear his tyranny; and, when he could not recover his kingdom by the aid of the forces of the Veientians and the Latins, is said to have betaken himself to Cuma, and to have died in that city of old age and grief!
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.12
Not too many years ago, I would be annoyed if a writer strayed from a direct explanation to offer some elaborate story as an illustration. Why waste time, I thought, with winding narratives when it’s so much easier to get straight to the point?
I no longer think that way, because I have learned a little about why the principle is best observed in practice, and how vivid impressions can serve to strengthen our convictions. You may preach to me about avoiding anger or pride, for example, but reading about someone like Achilles or Oedipus does a much better job at scaring me straight.
This chapter got me diverted on a rabbit trail, and I ended up being extremely grateful for it. It inspired me to refresh my memory on Thyestes, and before I knew it, I had drawn out an involved family tree, complete with little doodles to remind me of all the schemes, betrayals, and murders bound to their twisted exploits.
The chain of misery spans five generations: Tantalus, Pelops, Thyestes and Atreus, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, Orestes and Electra. Even a summary of their misdeeds would be like a book in itself.
Now how could this be helpful? It warns me, with explicit details, why grief is always the consequence of an unhealthy attitude, of a confused mind, in which the opinions of right and wrong have been distorted. Thyestes was just as wicked as his brother, yet notice how his despair is not about what he did, but is a reaction to what Atreus did to his children.
This tale would hardly be so tragic if people took responsibility for themselves, instead of playing the victims. Everything hinges upon the truth or the falsehood of the underlying judgements of meaning and value.
If the “curse” of the Atreidae isn’t enough, I can find further confirmation in how the sadness of Aeetes is really just a consequence of his own greed, or the way Dionysius of Syracuse couldn’t let go of his power, or why the downfall of Tarquin, and the end of the Roman kings, is a symptom of his vast arrogance.
These many accounts are painful to read, and that’s the whole point to them. Sometimes I need a ghastly story to knock some sense back into me.
Not too many years ago, I would be annoyed if a writer strayed from a direct explanation to offer some elaborate story as an illustration. Why waste time, I thought, with winding narratives when it’s so much easier to get straight to the point?
I no longer think that way, because I have learned a little about why the principle is best observed in practice, and how vivid impressions can serve to strengthen our convictions. You may preach to me about avoiding anger or pride, for example, but reading about someone like Achilles or Oedipus does a much better job at scaring me straight.
This chapter got me diverted on a rabbit trail, and I ended up being extremely grateful for it. It inspired me to refresh my memory on Thyestes, and before I knew it, I had drawn out an involved family tree, complete with little doodles to remind me of all the schemes, betrayals, and murders bound to their twisted exploits.
The chain of misery spans five generations: Tantalus, Pelops, Thyestes and Atreus, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, Orestes and Electra. Even a summary of their misdeeds would be like a book in itself.
Now how could this be helpful? It warns me, with explicit details, why grief is always the consequence of an unhealthy attitude, of a confused mind, in which the opinions of right and wrong have been distorted. Thyestes was just as wicked as his brother, yet notice how his despair is not about what he did, but is a reaction to what Atreus did to his children.
This tale would hardly be so tragic if people took responsibility for themselves, instead of playing the victims. Everything hinges upon the truth or the falsehood of the underlying judgements of meaning and value.
If the “curse” of the Atreidae isn’t enough, I can find further confirmation in how the sadness of Aeetes is really just a consequence of his own greed, or the way Dionysius of Syracuse couldn’t let go of his power, or why the downfall of Tarquin, and the end of the Roman kings, is a symptom of his vast arrogance.
These many accounts are painful to read, and that’s the whole point to them. Sometimes I need a ghastly story to knock some sense back into me.
—Reflection written in 9/1996
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