M. Do you, then, think that it can befall a wise man to be oppressed with grief, that is to say, with misery? For, as all perturbation is misery, grief is the rack itself.
Lust is attended with heat, exulting joy with levity, fear with meanness, but grief with something greater than these; it consumes, torments, afflicts, and disgraces a man; it tears him, preys upon his mind, and utterly destroys him: if we do not so divest ourselves of it as to throw it completely off, we cannot be free from misery.
And it is clear that there must be grief where anything has the appearance of a present sore and oppressing evil.
Epicurus is of opinion that grief arises naturally from the imagination of any evil; so that whosoever is eyewitness of any great misfortune, if he conceives that the like may possibly befall himself, becomes sad instantly from such an idea.
The Cyrenaics think that grief is not engendered by every kind of evil, but only by unexpected, unforeseen evil; and that circumstance is, indeed, of no small effect on the heightening of grief; for whatsoever comes of a sudden appears more formidable. Hence these lines are deservedly commended:
“I knew my son, when first he drew his breath,
Destined by fate to an untimely death;
And when I sent him to defend the Greeks,
War was his business, not your sportive freaks."
Lust is attended with heat, exulting joy with levity, fear with meanness, but grief with something greater than these; it consumes, torments, afflicts, and disgraces a man; it tears him, preys upon his mind, and utterly destroys him: if we do not so divest ourselves of it as to throw it completely off, we cannot be free from misery.
And it is clear that there must be grief where anything has the appearance of a present sore and oppressing evil.
Epicurus is of opinion that grief arises naturally from the imagination of any evil; so that whosoever is eyewitness of any great misfortune, if he conceives that the like may possibly befall himself, becomes sad instantly from such an idea.
The Cyrenaics think that grief is not engendered by every kind of evil, but only by unexpected, unforeseen evil; and that circumstance is, indeed, of no small effect on the heightening of grief; for whatsoever comes of a sudden appears more formidable. Hence these lines are deservedly commended:
“I knew my son, when first he drew his breath,
Destined by fate to an untimely death;
And when I sent him to defend the Greeks,
War was his business, not your sportive freaks."
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.13
When you catch me in a particularly romantic and melancholic mood, I will not only agree with the Auditor that a wise man must suffer grief, but I will even insist that those who cling to the true, the good, and the beautiful are inevitably all the more prone to misery, because the sensitivity that comes from reflection simply highlights the many miseries of the world.
This is the sort of tendency that has brought me years and years of trouble, and I stand no chance of recovering my sanity until I nip it in the bud. My sadness is a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, where an assumption that wickedness lurks everywhere is the actual origin of my sorrow. If I chose to consider with greater clarity, and to recognize the true source of good and evil, I would cease to blame my circumstances.
It is my attitude, and not the world, that breeds my misery. Cicero is hardly on board with everything the Stoics have to say, but he does understand how sick thinking brings about sick feelings.
As I read along, I begin to see how I’ve gotten my wires crossed. If understanding is the essential property of human nature, and should therefore be the key to happiness, it makes little sense for me to say that greater understanding brings greater sadness. Indeed, I shouldn’t even say that it can bring sadness, since a healthy mind is incompatible with unhealthy passions.
This is true of any disordered or imbalanced emotions, though it is especially true of grief, which consumes us to the very core. Other perturbations of the soul can be accompanied by certain satisfying qualities, while grief has absolutely no redeeming features. At least lust has its longing, gratification has its frenzy, and fear has its resentment.
What excitement does the pain of loss bring to the table? As much as I wish to say self-pity, that is really little more than a desperate attempt to find meaning in despair—there is absolutely no pleasure in it.
I will feel grief whenever I perceive the presence of something bad, and so the question then becomes if I am judging my standards of benefit or harm correctly. Whereas fear is an expectation, grief is about the here and now, and so I might believe that such a gloom depends upon the events as they occur.
The Stoics turn this around by pointing out that the situation is never an evil, but rather an indifferent, leaving my own estimation as the cause of the grief. My thoughts, however, are within my power, which is why the Stoics argue that there can be no such thing as rational despair: if I don’t wish to feel it, I can still decide to modify my habits of opinion.
For the Epicureans, grief would seem to arise instinctively from thinking about bad things in relation to ourselves. The Cyrenaics at least had a greater stress on how we have a conscious control over the pain that comes to us, by preparing ourselves for future hardships. This is why, for example, Telamon’s sorrow at the death of his son, Ajax, was lightened by his foresight.
When you catch me in a particularly romantic and melancholic mood, I will not only agree with the Auditor that a wise man must suffer grief, but I will even insist that those who cling to the true, the good, and the beautiful are inevitably all the more prone to misery, because the sensitivity that comes from reflection simply highlights the many miseries of the world.
This is the sort of tendency that has brought me years and years of trouble, and I stand no chance of recovering my sanity until I nip it in the bud. My sadness is a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, where an assumption that wickedness lurks everywhere is the actual origin of my sorrow. If I chose to consider with greater clarity, and to recognize the true source of good and evil, I would cease to blame my circumstances.
It is my attitude, and not the world, that breeds my misery. Cicero is hardly on board with everything the Stoics have to say, but he does understand how sick thinking brings about sick feelings.
As I read along, I begin to see how I’ve gotten my wires crossed. If understanding is the essential property of human nature, and should therefore be the key to happiness, it makes little sense for me to say that greater understanding brings greater sadness. Indeed, I shouldn’t even say that it can bring sadness, since a healthy mind is incompatible with unhealthy passions.
This is true of any disordered or imbalanced emotions, though it is especially true of grief, which consumes us to the very core. Other perturbations of the soul can be accompanied by certain satisfying qualities, while grief has absolutely no redeeming features. At least lust has its longing, gratification has its frenzy, and fear has its resentment.
What excitement does the pain of loss bring to the table? As much as I wish to say self-pity, that is really little more than a desperate attempt to find meaning in despair—there is absolutely no pleasure in it.
I will feel grief whenever I perceive the presence of something bad, and so the question then becomes if I am judging my standards of benefit or harm correctly. Whereas fear is an expectation, grief is about the here and now, and so I might believe that such a gloom depends upon the events as they occur.
The Stoics turn this around by pointing out that the situation is never an evil, but rather an indifferent, leaving my own estimation as the cause of the grief. My thoughts, however, are within my power, which is why the Stoics argue that there can be no such thing as rational despair: if I don’t wish to feel it, I can still decide to modify my habits of opinion.
For the Epicureans, grief would seem to arise instinctively from thinking about bad things in relation to ourselves. The Cyrenaics at least had a greater stress on how we have a conscious control over the pain that comes to us, by preparing ourselves for future hardships. This is why, for example, Telamon’s sorrow at the death of his son, Ajax, was lightened by his foresight.
In any case, the philosophy of so many schools is always reminding me why heartache is less a consequence of the circumstances, and more from the form of my response to the circumstances.
—Reflection written in 10/1996
IMAGE: The suicide of Ajax
No comments:
Post a Comment