M You have here a representation of a happy life according to Epicurus, in the words of Zeno, so that there is no room for contradiction in any point. What, then? Can the proposing and thinking of such a life make Thyestes’s grief the less, or Aeetes’s, of whom I spoke above, or Telamon’s, who was driven from his country to penury and banishment? In wonder at whom men exclaimed thus:
“Is this the man surpassing glory raised?
Is this that Telamon so highly praised
By wondering Greece, at whose sight, like the sun,
All others with diminish’d lustre shone?”
Now, should anyone, as the same author says, find his spirits sink with the loss of his fortune, he must apply to those grave philosophers of antiquity for relief, and not to these voluptuaries: for what great abundance of good do they promise?
Suppose that we allow that to be without pain is the chief good? Yet that is not called pleasure. But it is not necessary at present to go through the whole: the question is, to what point are we to advance in order to abate our grief? Grant that to be in pain is the greatest evil: whosoever, then, has proceeded so far as not to be in pain, is he, therefore, in immediate possession of the greatest good?
Why, Epicurus, do we use any evasions, and not allow in our own words the same feeling to be pleasure which you are used to boast of with such assurance? Are these your words or not? This is what you say in that book which contains all the doctrine of your school; for I will perform on this occasion the office of a translator, lest anyone should imagine that I am inventing anything. Thus you speak:
“Nor can I form any notion of the chief good, abstracted from those pleasures which are perceived by taste, or from what depends on hearing music, or abstracted from ideas raised by external objects visible to the eye, or by agreeable motions, or from those other pleasures which are perceived by the whole man by means of any of his senses; nor can it possibly be said that the pleasures of the mind are excited only by what is good, for I have perceived men’s minds to be pleased with the hopes of enjoying those things which I mentioned above, and with the idea that it should enjoy them without any interruption from pain.”
And these are his exact words, so that anyone may understand what were the pleasures with which Epicurus was acquainted. Then he speaks thus, a little lower down:
“I have often inquired of those who have been called wise men what would be the remaining good if they should exclude from consideration all these pleasures, unless they meant to give us nothing but words. I could never learn anything from them; and unless they choose that all virtue and wisdom should vanish and come to nothing, they must say with me that the only road to happiness lies through those pleasures which I mentioned above.”
What follows is much the same, and his whole book on the chief good everywhere abounds with the same opinions. Will you, then, invite Telamon to this kind of life to ease his grief?
And should you observe any one of your friends under affliction, would you rather prescribe him a sturgeon than a treatise of Socrates? Or advise him to listen to the music of a water organ rather than to Plato? Or lay before him the beauty and variety of some garden, put a nosegay to his nose, burn perfumes before him, and bid him crown himself with a garland of roses and woodbines? Should you add one thing more, you would certainly wipe out all his grief.
“Is this the man surpassing glory raised?
Is this that Telamon so highly praised
By wondering Greece, at whose sight, like the sun,
All others with diminish’d lustre shone?”
Now, should anyone, as the same author says, find his spirits sink with the loss of his fortune, he must apply to those grave philosophers of antiquity for relief, and not to these voluptuaries: for what great abundance of good do they promise?
Suppose that we allow that to be without pain is the chief good? Yet that is not called pleasure. But it is not necessary at present to go through the whole: the question is, to what point are we to advance in order to abate our grief? Grant that to be in pain is the greatest evil: whosoever, then, has proceeded so far as not to be in pain, is he, therefore, in immediate possession of the greatest good?
Why, Epicurus, do we use any evasions, and not allow in our own words the same feeling to be pleasure which you are used to boast of with such assurance? Are these your words or not? This is what you say in that book which contains all the doctrine of your school; for I will perform on this occasion the office of a translator, lest anyone should imagine that I am inventing anything. Thus you speak:
“Nor can I form any notion of the chief good, abstracted from those pleasures which are perceived by taste, or from what depends on hearing music, or abstracted from ideas raised by external objects visible to the eye, or by agreeable motions, or from those other pleasures which are perceived by the whole man by means of any of his senses; nor can it possibly be said that the pleasures of the mind are excited only by what is good, for I have perceived men’s minds to be pleased with the hopes of enjoying those things which I mentioned above, and with the idea that it should enjoy them without any interruption from pain.”
And these are his exact words, so that anyone may understand what were the pleasures with which Epicurus was acquainted. Then he speaks thus, a little lower down:
“I have often inquired of those who have been called wise men what would be the remaining good if they should exclude from consideration all these pleasures, unless they meant to give us nothing but words. I could never learn anything from them; and unless they choose that all virtue and wisdom should vanish and come to nothing, they must say with me that the only road to happiness lies through those pleasures which I mentioned above.”
What follows is much the same, and his whole book on the chief good everywhere abounds with the same opinions. Will you, then, invite Telamon to this kind of life to ease his grief?
And should you observe any one of your friends under affliction, would you rather prescribe him a sturgeon than a treatise of Socrates? Or advise him to listen to the music of a water organ rather than to Plato? Or lay before him the beauty and variety of some garden, put a nosegay to his nose, burn perfumes before him, and bid him crown himself with a garland of roses and woodbines? Should you add one thing more, you would certainly wipe out all his grief.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.18
I find myself increasingly uncomfortable with engaging in a polemic against any philosopher, even the likes of a Nietzsche or a Sartre, who I think have done such lasting harm to our age. It isn’t because I lack a drive to defend the truth, but rather because I don’t much like myself when I get caught up in harsh rhetoric.
Though I know that scathing rebukes and witty rejoinders are much beloved by academics, I am slowly learning to bite my tongue before I besmirch my own character.
Surely a man equally gifted in both the love of wisdom and the art of words, like Cicero, can pull it off while retaining his dignity; I, for one, am merely letting my cleverness and spite run ahead of my understanding and charity.
When it comes to Epicurus, I try to follow the example of Seneca, who in his letters to Lucilius made a regular point of finding something of value from the teachings of his opponents. Accordingly, I appreciate how the Epicureans pursue a life of inner tranquility, and yet, with Cicero and the Stoics, I remain troubled by their first principles on pleasure and pain, and therefore also by their approach to grief.
In theory, how can I define happiness in terms of pleasure and pain, when it is clear to me that the human person is so much more than an appetitive animal? By my very act of reflection upon the question, I show how my judgments are necessary to give meaning and value to any sensation, and through my capacity to discern right from wrong, I show why merit cannot be reduced to subjective feeling.
In practice, how can the Epicurean model assist me to overcome the incredible weight of loss, sadness, and despair? If I am told to simply avoid dwelling on nasty thoughts, and to find comfort in little pleasures, or at least the absence of intense pain, I’m afraid that has less power than any sentimental greeting card. I am grateful for the kind words, though sadly they are little more than words.
Cicero refers to the way the Epicureans could be less than forthcoming about their views, a critique I have also heard elsewhere, but I cannot speak to the integrity of the school. What I do know, however, is that those who cannot be direct and honest about their principles are far too often also trying to play games. Good manners prohibit me from naming names. . . .
When I am consumed by an extreme passion, it does me no good to cling to a totally different passion—the very dependence on any strong emotion, of one sort or another, is the actual root of my problem. If I am to feel, let me feel something informed by a genuine awareness of who I am, not how I happen to feel at this moment or that.
I begin to see how pervasive an Epicurean attitude is, even among those with the best of intentions. The coach tells you to “walk it off.” The therapist tells you listen to some relaxing music. The priest tells you to pray “so hard” that the temptations go away. Though such practices might make it a bit easier, they can’t be enough.
The only recourse is to go straight to the source, to reform my basic thinking about where to find the true, the good, and the beautiful. If the grief I feel seems unbearable, the chances are I am not yet rightly taking advantage of my inner strengths, of my natural capacities to understand and to love.
I was made to be happy, and it would be contradictory to say that anything is created to fail in its inherent purpose. I will cease to feel abandoned and forlorn when I have begun to grasp something more about why acting in the virtues, whatever else the conditions, is the key to my bliss.
I find myself increasingly uncomfortable with engaging in a polemic against any philosopher, even the likes of a Nietzsche or a Sartre, who I think have done such lasting harm to our age. It isn’t because I lack a drive to defend the truth, but rather because I don’t much like myself when I get caught up in harsh rhetoric.
Though I know that scathing rebukes and witty rejoinders are much beloved by academics, I am slowly learning to bite my tongue before I besmirch my own character.
Surely a man equally gifted in both the love of wisdom and the art of words, like Cicero, can pull it off while retaining his dignity; I, for one, am merely letting my cleverness and spite run ahead of my understanding and charity.
When it comes to Epicurus, I try to follow the example of Seneca, who in his letters to Lucilius made a regular point of finding something of value from the teachings of his opponents. Accordingly, I appreciate how the Epicureans pursue a life of inner tranquility, and yet, with Cicero and the Stoics, I remain troubled by their first principles on pleasure and pain, and therefore also by their approach to grief.
In theory, how can I define happiness in terms of pleasure and pain, when it is clear to me that the human person is so much more than an appetitive animal? By my very act of reflection upon the question, I show how my judgments are necessary to give meaning and value to any sensation, and through my capacity to discern right from wrong, I show why merit cannot be reduced to subjective feeling.
In practice, how can the Epicurean model assist me to overcome the incredible weight of loss, sadness, and despair? If I am told to simply avoid dwelling on nasty thoughts, and to find comfort in little pleasures, or at least the absence of intense pain, I’m afraid that has less power than any sentimental greeting card. I am grateful for the kind words, though sadly they are little more than words.
Cicero refers to the way the Epicureans could be less than forthcoming about their views, a critique I have also heard elsewhere, but I cannot speak to the integrity of the school. What I do know, however, is that those who cannot be direct and honest about their principles are far too often also trying to play games. Good manners prohibit me from naming names. . . .
When I am consumed by an extreme passion, it does me no good to cling to a totally different passion—the very dependence on any strong emotion, of one sort or another, is the actual root of my problem. If I am to feel, let me feel something informed by a genuine awareness of who I am, not how I happen to feel at this moment or that.
I begin to see how pervasive an Epicurean attitude is, even among those with the best of intentions. The coach tells you to “walk it off.” The therapist tells you listen to some relaxing music. The priest tells you to pray “so hard” that the temptations go away. Though such practices might make it a bit easier, they can’t be enough.
The only recourse is to go straight to the source, to reform my basic thinking about where to find the true, the good, and the beautiful. If the grief I feel seems unbearable, the chances are I am not yet rightly taking advantage of my inner strengths, of my natural capacities to understand and to love.
I was made to be happy, and it would be contradictory to say that anything is created to fail in its inherent purpose. I will cease to feel abandoned and forlorn when I have begun to grasp something more about why acting in the virtues, whatever else the conditions, is the key to my bliss.
—Reflection written in 10/1996
IMAGE: Epicurus
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