M. In the first place, they are wrong in forbidding men to premeditate on futurity and blaming their wish to do so; for there is nothing that breaks the edge of grief and lightens it more than considering, during one’s whole life, that there is nothing which it is impossible should happen, or than, considering what human nature is, on what conditions life was given, and how we may comply with them.
The effect of which is that we are always grieving, but that we never do so; for whoever reflects on the nature of things, the various turns of life, and the weakness of human nature, grieves, indeed, at that reflection; but while so grieving he is, above all other times, behaving as a wise man, for he gains these two things by it:
One, that while he is considering the state of human nature he is performing the special duties of philosophy, and that he is provided with a triple medicine against adversity—in the first place, because he has long reflected that such things might befall him, and this reflection by itself contributes much towards lessening and weakening all misfortunes; and, secondly, because he is persuaded that we should bear all the accidents which can happen to man with the feelings and spirit of a man; and, lastly, because he considers that what is blamable is the only evil.
But it is not your fault that something has happened to you which it was impossible for man to avoid. For that withdrawing of our thoughts which he recommends when he calls us off from contemplating our misfortunes is an imaginary action; for it is not in our power to dissemble or to forget those evils which lie heavy on us; they tear, vex, and sting us—they burn us up, and leave no breathing time.
And do you order us to forget them (for such forgetfulness is contrary to nature), and at the same time deprive us of the only assistance which nature affords, the being accustomed to them? For that, though it is but a slow medicine (I mean that which is brought by lapse of time), is still a very effectual one.
You order me to employ my thoughts on something good, and forget my misfortunes. You would say something worthy of a great philosopher if you thought those things good which are best suited to the dignity of human nature.
The effect of which is that we are always grieving, but that we never do so; for whoever reflects on the nature of things, the various turns of life, and the weakness of human nature, grieves, indeed, at that reflection; but while so grieving he is, above all other times, behaving as a wise man, for he gains these two things by it:
One, that while he is considering the state of human nature he is performing the special duties of philosophy, and that he is provided with a triple medicine against adversity—in the first place, because he has long reflected that such things might befall him, and this reflection by itself contributes much towards lessening and weakening all misfortunes; and, secondly, because he is persuaded that we should bear all the accidents which can happen to man with the feelings and spirit of a man; and, lastly, because he considers that what is blamable is the only evil.
But it is not your fault that something has happened to you which it was impossible for man to avoid. For that withdrawing of our thoughts which he recommends when he calls us off from contemplating our misfortunes is an imaginary action; for it is not in our power to dissemble or to forget those evils which lie heavy on us; they tear, vex, and sting us—they burn us up, and leave no breathing time.
And do you order us to forget them (for such forgetfulness is contrary to nature), and at the same time deprive us of the only assistance which nature affords, the being accustomed to them? For that, though it is but a slow medicine (I mean that which is brought by lapse of time), is still a very effectual one.
You order me to employ my thoughts on something good, and forget my misfortunes. You would say something worthy of a great philosopher if you thought those things good which are best suited to the dignity of human nature.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.16
I do not wish to question the intentions of Epicurus, for I deeply admire his commitment to a peaceful life, but I do, along with Cicero, wonder if he is selling himself short. I feel deeply uncomfortable when people now speak so confidently about “letting it go” or “moving on”, as if the best thing to do is to ignore a difficulty, or even to dismiss a responsibility.
Once I notice people casually waving their hands in a refusal to engage their situations, I see red. I suspect these are the folks who are worried more about convenience than they are about conscience.
Yes, while it is indeed necessary to improve and to grow, that is hardly the same thing as pretending as if it never happened. I have now been on the receiving end of it far too often to find any merit in running away, and that is precisely why I make a deliberate point of never turning my back on anyone or anything that has been an occasion for grief, however severe.
Nothing is ever resolved by suppression or by neglect. For any immediate relief gained by looking away, there is an ultimate loss of integrity and of character. Forcing it aside always makes me a worse man, and so it dooms me to being a miserable man. The fault is them my own, not that of another.
It is never wrong for me to understand who I am, why I am here, and how to manage the reality of my circumstances; what the critics call “overthinking” is actually about disorderly reflection, not about any sound reasoning.
Now that I am more willing to be accountable for myself, there is no better remedy for misfortune than “working it out”. This or that may have happened, and this or that may still happen, yet my capacity to discover meaning and purpose in such events is a true liberation.
With my apologies to the film Lawrence of Arabia, of course it still hurts! The trick is in not minding that it hurts, in that a reference to my sense of right and wrong can make all things both bearable and beneficial. I am assaulted by grief daily, though I now refuse to let it consume me—I strive to make use of it. I both try to do my duty, as I can best judge it, and I then further find my serenity in my best fulfillment of that duty.
I must admit I originally read over this chapter too quickly, and only upon returning to it have I gained a greater resolve:
1) If I expect whatever might come to me, I have trained myself in constancy.
2) If I train myself in constancy, I learn to depend upon what is within me, not upon what lies without.
3) If I depend upon what is within me, I can never blame another man for my grief.
Virtue is formed by the formation of habit, and the formation of habit demands staring a sadness over any loss straight in the face—not coldly, but with a limitless supply of love.
I do not care that Cicero was not an “orthodox” Stoic; he ends up teaching me to be very much like one in practice with these inspiring words.
I do not wish to question the intentions of Epicurus, for I deeply admire his commitment to a peaceful life, but I do, along with Cicero, wonder if he is selling himself short. I feel deeply uncomfortable when people now speak so confidently about “letting it go” or “moving on”, as if the best thing to do is to ignore a difficulty, or even to dismiss a responsibility.
Once I notice people casually waving their hands in a refusal to engage their situations, I see red. I suspect these are the folks who are worried more about convenience than they are about conscience.
Yes, while it is indeed necessary to improve and to grow, that is hardly the same thing as pretending as if it never happened. I have now been on the receiving end of it far too often to find any merit in running away, and that is precisely why I make a deliberate point of never turning my back on anyone or anything that has been an occasion for grief, however severe.
Nothing is ever resolved by suppression or by neglect. For any immediate relief gained by looking away, there is an ultimate loss of integrity and of character. Forcing it aside always makes me a worse man, and so it dooms me to being a miserable man. The fault is them my own, not that of another.
It is never wrong for me to understand who I am, why I am here, and how to manage the reality of my circumstances; what the critics call “overthinking” is actually about disorderly reflection, not about any sound reasoning.
Now that I am more willing to be accountable for myself, there is no better remedy for misfortune than “working it out”. This or that may have happened, and this or that may still happen, yet my capacity to discover meaning and purpose in such events is a true liberation.
With my apologies to the film Lawrence of Arabia, of course it still hurts! The trick is in not minding that it hurts, in that a reference to my sense of right and wrong can make all things both bearable and beneficial. I am assaulted by grief daily, though I now refuse to let it consume me—I strive to make use of it. I both try to do my duty, as I can best judge it, and I then further find my serenity in my best fulfillment of that duty.
I must admit I originally read over this chapter too quickly, and only upon returning to it have I gained a greater resolve:
1) If I expect whatever might come to me, I have trained myself in constancy.
2) If I train myself in constancy, I learn to depend upon what is within me, not upon what lies without.
3) If I depend upon what is within me, I can never blame another man for my grief.
Virtue is formed by the formation of habit, and the formation of habit demands staring a sadness over any loss straight in the face—not coldly, but with a limitless supply of love.
I do not care that Cicero was not an “orthodox” Stoic; he ends up teaching me to be very much like one in practice with these inspiring words.
—Reflection written in 10/1996
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