“Yes, but I am a scholar and understand Archedemus.”
Well then, understand Archedemus, be an adulterer and a man of broken trust, a wolf or an ape instead of a man; for what is there to hinder you?
Well then, understand Archedemus, be an adulterer and a man of broken trust, a wolf or an ape instead of a man; for what is there to hinder you?
—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.4
I immediately think of when children are given advice or direction, and they angrily respond with cries of “I know! I know!”
Whenever I said that, I was feeling insecure about the fact that I didn’t know at all, and I was ashamed by my inability to make my thinking inform my deeds. The scholar/adulterer insists that he understands so very much, and yet he still manages to live so very poorly. If he truly knew anything about the good, it would reveal itself by his acting for the good.
Instead, he divorces his mind from his will, and he treats the world of his thoughts as a playground for his vanities. There is a perfectly good reason why many people, including some of the best people, are so dismissive of intellectuals. It isn’t that theory itself is useless, but rather that theory isolated from practice is such a complete waste.
I do not believe I could manage it through a single day without the comfort that philosophy grants me, though I must be constantly on my guard against the temptation of using philosophy to put on a self-indulgent show.
If I somehow had the chance to do this all over again, I would find a way to exercise my mind without the ridiculous fantasy of pretending it needs to be a career. I will not deny others their professional pretensions, but I cannot risk becoming a charlatan—too much is at stake.
While I don’t know any experts on Archedemus, I travel in a circle of experts on Aristotle and Aquinas, and I am now quite familiar with the trappings of their image. They grow large beards, often with waxed mustaches, and they wear lots of tweed. They practice an appearance of refined collegiality, and yet it does not take long to discover the depths of their cattiness and shiftiness.
If they actually followed the teachings of their heroes, they could be truly noble men, and yet they are sadly little more than gossipy church ladies. It might be good to be G.K. Chesterton, but it is perverse to pretend at being G.K. Chesterton. I wish to finally move beyond the games.
The simple fact is that others will do what they think is best, and I must do what I think is best. I. for one, will take a breather under that tree instead of registering for the next conference, where the fur will fly, and virtue will be the last thing on anyone’s mind. I have a marriage to nurture and children to raise, and little time to write a book on the academic subtleties of trust and fidelity.
I immediately think of when children are given advice or direction, and they angrily respond with cries of “I know! I know!”
Whenever I said that, I was feeling insecure about the fact that I didn’t know at all, and I was ashamed by my inability to make my thinking inform my deeds. The scholar/adulterer insists that he understands so very much, and yet he still manages to live so very poorly. If he truly knew anything about the good, it would reveal itself by his acting for the good.
Instead, he divorces his mind from his will, and he treats the world of his thoughts as a playground for his vanities. There is a perfectly good reason why many people, including some of the best people, are so dismissive of intellectuals. It isn’t that theory itself is useless, but rather that theory isolated from practice is such a complete waste.
I do not believe I could manage it through a single day without the comfort that philosophy grants me, though I must be constantly on my guard against the temptation of using philosophy to put on a self-indulgent show.
If I somehow had the chance to do this all over again, I would find a way to exercise my mind without the ridiculous fantasy of pretending it needs to be a career. I will not deny others their professional pretensions, but I cannot risk becoming a charlatan—too much is at stake.
While I don’t know any experts on Archedemus, I travel in a circle of experts on Aristotle and Aquinas, and I am now quite familiar with the trappings of their image. They grow large beards, often with waxed mustaches, and they wear lots of tweed. They practice an appearance of refined collegiality, and yet it does not take long to discover the depths of their cattiness and shiftiness.
If they actually followed the teachings of their heroes, they could be truly noble men, and yet they are sadly little more than gossipy church ladies. It might be good to be G.K. Chesterton, but it is perverse to pretend at being G.K. Chesterton. I wish to finally move beyond the games.
The simple fact is that others will do what they think is best, and I must do what I think is best. I. for one, will take a breather under that tree instead of registering for the next conference, where the fur will fly, and virtue will be the last thing on anyone’s mind. I have a marriage to nurture and children to raise, and little time to write a book on the academic subtleties of trust and fidelity.
—Reflection written in 6/2001
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