We ought then to turn our confidence towards death, and our caution towards the fear of death: what we really do is just the contrary; we fly from death, yet we pay no heed to forming judgements about death, but are reckless and indifferent.
Socrates called such fears “bogies”, and rightly too. For just as masks seem fearful and terrible to children from want of experience, so we are affected by events for much the same reason as children are affected by “bogies”.
For what makes a child? Want of knowledge. What makes a child? Want of instruction. For so far as a child knows those things, he is no worse off than we are.
What is death? A bogy. Turn it round and see what it is: you see it does not bite. The stuff of the body was bound to be parted from the airy element, either now or hereafter, as it existed apart from it before.
Why then are you vexed if they are parted now? For if not parted now, they will be hereafter. Why so? That the revolution of the Universe may be accomplished, for it has need of things present, things future, and things past and done with.
What is pain? A bogy. Turn it round and see what it is. The poor flesh is subject to rough movement, then again to smooth. If it is not to your profit, the door stands open: if it is to your profit, bear it. For in every event the door must stand open and then we have no trouble.
Socrates called such fears “bogies”, and rightly too. For just as masks seem fearful and terrible to children from want of experience, so we are affected by events for much the same reason as children are affected by “bogies”.
For what makes a child? Want of knowledge. What makes a child? Want of instruction. For so far as a child knows those things, he is no worse off than we are.
What is death? A bogy. Turn it round and see what it is: you see it does not bite. The stuff of the body was bound to be parted from the airy element, either now or hereafter, as it existed apart from it before.
Why then are you vexed if they are parted now? For if not parted now, they will be hereafter. Why so? That the revolution of the Universe may be accomplished, for it has need of things present, things future, and things past and done with.
What is pain? A bogy. Turn it round and see what it is. The poor flesh is subject to rough movement, then again to smooth. If it is not to your profit, the door stands open: if it is to your profit, bear it. For in every event the door must stand open and then we have no trouble.
—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.1
When I am in a poetic mood, I can ponder death in the abstract, and I can even conceive of it as coldly noble. Yet as soon as the practical possibility of my demise jumps into view, I am overcome by an almost paralyzing sense of dread. It looks much fiercer up-close.
The same is true with the prospect of intense pain, and while death would properly involve the cessation of all sensation, I still place them together in my imagination, perhaps because they both involve the disturbing image of watching myself be eaten away by corruption.
As powerful as such feelings may be, I must calmly note what it is I am actually facing—these are impressions, nothing more, and they will possess whatever significance I choose to grant them.
It is not death or pain themselves that are troubling me, but rather my estimation of death and pain. My passions should be in my service, not holding me hostage.
I have often seen crude and heartless men ridicule children for being frightened, and this frustrated me until I realized how their hectoring was itself just another mark of insecurity, as too was my temptation to be angry with them.
I might say that I am scared of something, and yet it is only my ignorance of both its purpose and my own purpose that causes me anxiety.
Once I reflect upon my own nature, I recognize that I was not made to be a permanent fixture, for everything in the whole of Nature is brought forth and passes away. I came to be, and soon I will cease to be, so that something else might come to be.
I know that to be good and beautiful, so I do not need to feel any grief. It turns out that the whole point is not in living longer, but in living better.
This is also true of pain. When it is too much, it may mean it is time to depart, though at this moment it remains within my power to put it to good use. The hardship is offered as the very opportunity for excellence.
When I am in a poetic mood, I can ponder death in the abstract, and I can even conceive of it as coldly noble. Yet as soon as the practical possibility of my demise jumps into view, I am overcome by an almost paralyzing sense of dread. It looks much fiercer up-close.
The same is true with the prospect of intense pain, and while death would properly involve the cessation of all sensation, I still place them together in my imagination, perhaps because they both involve the disturbing image of watching myself be eaten away by corruption.
As powerful as such feelings may be, I must calmly note what it is I am actually facing—these are impressions, nothing more, and they will possess whatever significance I choose to grant them.
It is not death or pain themselves that are troubling me, but rather my estimation of death and pain. My passions should be in my service, not holding me hostage.
I have often seen crude and heartless men ridicule children for being frightened, and this frustrated me until I realized how their hectoring was itself just another mark of insecurity, as too was my temptation to be angry with them.
I might say that I am scared of something, and yet it is only my ignorance of both its purpose and my own purpose that causes me anxiety.
Once I reflect upon my own nature, I recognize that I was not made to be a permanent fixture, for everything in the whole of Nature is brought forth and passes away. I came to be, and soon I will cease to be, so that something else might come to be.
I know that to be good and beautiful, so I do not need to feel any grief. It turns out that the whole point is not in living longer, but in living better.
This is also true of pain. When it is too much, it may mean it is time to depart, though at this moment it remains within my power to put it to good use. The hardship is offered as the very opportunity for excellence.
—Reflection written in 5/2001
IMAGE: Francisco de Goya, Here Comes the Bogey-Man (c. 1798)
_-_Francisco_de_Goya_y_Lucientes_crop.jpg)
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