A single winter relaxed Hannibal's fiber; his pampering in Campania took the vigor out of that hero who had triumphed over Alpine snows. He conquered with his weapons, but was conquered by his vices.
We too have a war to wage, a type of warfare in which there is allowed no rest or furlough. To be conquered, in the first place, are pleasures, which, as you see, have carried off even the sternest characters.
If a man has once understood how great is the task which he has entered upon, he will see that there must be no dainty or effeminate conduct. What have I to do with those hot baths or with the sweating-room where they shut in the dry steam which is to drain your strength? Perspiration should flow only after toil.
We too have a war to wage, a type of warfare in which there is allowed no rest or furlough. To be conquered, in the first place, are pleasures, which, as you see, have carried off even the sternest characters.
If a man has once understood how great is the task which he has entered upon, he will see that there must be no dainty or effeminate conduct. What have I to do with those hot baths or with the sweating-room where they shut in the dry steam which is to drain your strength? Perspiration should flow only after toil.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 51
I was fascinated by the story of Hannibal from a very young age; one of the first “chapter books” I read was an account of his life, which I all but memorized from the many times I checked it out of the school library. I have, however, foolishly forgotten the author’s name, so I regret I could not find a copy for my son.
I am hardly an expert on the Punic Wars, therefore I don’t really know what to say about Seneca’s explanation for Hannibal’s ultimate loss in Italy. Whether there is some truth to it, or it is merely a Roman legend, it can stand for the deeper realization that all failure, rightly understood as an internal surrender, has its root in a weakness of character.
And what has tripped me up more often than my attachment to gratification? I am encouraged to know that far better men than myself have faced the very same challenge, and duly warned by how some have sadly succumbed. I would like to blame everyone else for my problems, and yet deep down inside I know how my own concupiscence was my undoing.
It isn’t a popular thing to say in a culture that glorifies mindless pleasure, but allowing myself to be surrounded by luxuries has usually ended with me being spoiled rotten. As the alcoholic probably shouldn’t keep a bottle in the house, I am well advised to avoid the temptation of indulgence. Someone of incredible virtues can brush it all off with indifference, though I’m not quite there yet.
The real war is going on in my heart and mind, and peace can only come from bringing my passions into harmony with my reason. As much as we praise a victor on the battlefield, the true hero is the one who is brave enough, and wise enough, to conquer himself.
While some men brag because they are so strong in body, the real man has strength precisely because he has tempered the very callings of the flesh. The power of his conscience permits him to walk away from extravagance, and to thereby elevate himself from lust to love.
I was fascinated by the story of Hannibal from a very young age; one of the first “chapter books” I read was an account of his life, which I all but memorized from the many times I checked it out of the school library. I have, however, foolishly forgotten the author’s name, so I regret I could not find a copy for my son.
I am hardly an expert on the Punic Wars, therefore I don’t really know what to say about Seneca’s explanation for Hannibal’s ultimate loss in Italy. Whether there is some truth to it, or it is merely a Roman legend, it can stand for the deeper realization that all failure, rightly understood as an internal surrender, has its root in a weakness of character.
And what has tripped me up more often than my attachment to gratification? I am encouraged to know that far better men than myself have faced the very same challenge, and duly warned by how some have sadly succumbed. I would like to blame everyone else for my problems, and yet deep down inside I know how my own concupiscence was my undoing.
It isn’t a popular thing to say in a culture that glorifies mindless pleasure, but allowing myself to be surrounded by luxuries has usually ended with me being spoiled rotten. As the alcoholic probably shouldn’t keep a bottle in the house, I am well advised to avoid the temptation of indulgence. Someone of incredible virtues can brush it all off with indifference, though I’m not quite there yet.
The real war is going on in my heart and mind, and peace can only come from bringing my passions into harmony with my reason. As much as we praise a victor on the battlefield, the true hero is the one who is brave enough, and wise enough, to conquer himself.
While some men brag because they are so strong in body, the real man has strength precisely because he has tempered the very callings of the flesh. The power of his conscience permits him to walk away from extravagance, and to thereby elevate himself from lust to love.
—Reflection written in 4/2013
IMAGE: J.M.W. Turner, Hannibal and His Men Crossing the Alps (c. 1812)
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