M. Epicurus must admit these arguments, or he must take out of his book what I just now said was a literal translation; or, rather, he must destroy his whole book, for it is crammed full of pleasures. We must inquire, then, how we can ease him of his grief who speaks in this manner:
“My present state proceeds from fortune’s stings;
By birth I boast of a descent from kings;
Hence may you see from what a noble height
I’m sunk by fortune to this abject plight.”
What! To ease his grief, must we mix him a cup of sweet wine, or something of that kind? Lo! The same poet presents us with another sentiment somewhere else:
“I, Hector, once so great, now claim your aid.”
We should assist her, for she looks out for help:
“Where shall I now apply, where seek support?
Where hence betake me, or to whom resort?”
No means remain of comfort or of joy,
In flames my palace, and in ruins Troy;
Each wall, so late superb, deformed nods,
And not an altar’s left t’ appease the Gods.”
You know what should follow, and particularly this:
“Of father, country, and of friends bereft,
Not one of all these sumptuous temples left;
Which, while the fortune of our house did stand,
With rich wrought ceilings spoke the artist’s hand.”
O excellent poet! Though despised by those who sing the verses of Euphorion. He is sensible that all things which come on a sudden are harder to be borne. Therefore, when he had set off the riches of Priam to the best advantage, which had the appearance of a long continuance, what does he add?
“Lo! these all perish’d in one blazing pile;
The foe old Priam of his life beguiled,
And with his blood, thy altar, Jove, defiled.”
Admirable poetry! There is something mournful in the subject, as well as in the words and measure.
We must drive away this grief of hers: how is that to be done? Shall we lay her on a bed of down; introduce a singer; shall we burn cedar, or present here with some pleasant liquor, and provide her something to eat? Are these the good things which remove the most afflicting grief?
For you but just now said you knew of no other good. I should agree with Epicurus that we ought to be called off from grief to contemplate good things, if we could only agree upon what was good.
“My present state proceeds from fortune’s stings;
By birth I boast of a descent from kings;
Hence may you see from what a noble height
I’m sunk by fortune to this abject plight.”
What! To ease his grief, must we mix him a cup of sweet wine, or something of that kind? Lo! The same poet presents us with another sentiment somewhere else:
“I, Hector, once so great, now claim your aid.”
We should assist her, for she looks out for help:
“Where shall I now apply, where seek support?
Where hence betake me, or to whom resort?”
No means remain of comfort or of joy,
In flames my palace, and in ruins Troy;
Each wall, so late superb, deformed nods,
And not an altar’s left t’ appease the Gods.”
You know what should follow, and particularly this:
“Of father, country, and of friends bereft,
Not one of all these sumptuous temples left;
Which, while the fortune of our house did stand,
With rich wrought ceilings spoke the artist’s hand.”
O excellent poet! Though despised by those who sing the verses of Euphorion. He is sensible that all things which come on a sudden are harder to be borne. Therefore, when he had set off the riches of Priam to the best advantage, which had the appearance of a long continuance, what does he add?
“Lo! these all perish’d in one blazing pile;
The foe old Priam of his life beguiled,
And with his blood, thy altar, Jove, defiled.”
Admirable poetry! There is something mournful in the subject, as well as in the words and measure.
We must drive away this grief of hers: how is that to be done? Shall we lay her on a bed of down; introduce a singer; shall we burn cedar, or present here with some pleasant liquor, and provide her something to eat? Are these the good things which remove the most afflicting grief?
For you but just now said you knew of no other good. I should agree with Epicurus that we ought to be called off from grief to contemplate good things, if we could only agree upon what was good.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.19
I have sometimes heard it said that the tragic stories from myths and legends are far too exaggerated to have any relevance to our daily lives, and yet I would suggest that it is usually only the settings that are fantastical, for the depths of human suffering they depict are all too real.
Though I may not be King Telamon, whose son, Ajax the Great, took his own life out of wounded pride, I need only look around me to see the many who mourn the loss of a child, along with the many who are so deeply affected by suicide. One does not have to fall from a royal estate to experience loss, and the son who is taken away need not have been a mighty warrior.
Again, though I am not a prince of Troy, like Hector, and it is improbable that I will ever be fated by the gods to fall in some grand conflict, I have known too many families whose men did not return from war, and I have met too many wives and mothers, like Andromache, who literally lost everyone and everything they loved.
The tale of Hector and Andromache, which Cicero here refers to with lines from Ennius, has always had a special place in my heart, not because I prefer the Trojans to the Greeks, but because the whole series of dreadful events makes me feel such tremendous grief with such incredible force. Only the story of Dido’s despair after the departure of Aeneas can even come close, in my estimation, to describing the horrors of human anguish.
And while I may wonder why Cicero is still scolding the poor Epicureans, I must ask along with him: what could possible give Andromache any comfort at a time like this? Her home has been completely destroyed. Her husband’s body has been desecrated through the rage of Achilles. Her son, Astyanax, has been thrown to his death from the walls, to assure that no one will live to avenge Troy.
Yes, it is indeed quite ridiculous to claim that relief can arise from any smidgeons of sensual satisfaction. If that were the only recourse available to me, I can understand why people choose to abandon all hope, and so willingly abandon life itself, for no number of gentle gratifications or numbing diversions are sufficient to heal such gaping wounds in the soul.
The fact is that, quite remarkably, most accounts of Andromache’s later life tell of how she continued to struggle against hardship, yet she never lost her sense of duty and honor. It wasn’t being spoiled by luxuries that made this possible—it was the strength of her character and conviction.
I’m afraid I have too often resented those who have dismissed my pain, treating it as if it could be appeased by pampering or magically wished away. I note how such anger only made my own agony worse, which in turn proves how reforming my own thoughts and deeds, by clinging to wisdom and virtue, is the key to conquering my grief of mind.
Those myths and legends help me to understand how and why other people suffer, and thereby they enable me to feel compassion for my neighbors, so that I do not become like those thoughtless men who tell us to “just get over it”. I can’t make it better if I am lacking a proper conception of the good to begin with.
I have sometimes heard it said that the tragic stories from myths and legends are far too exaggerated to have any relevance to our daily lives, and yet I would suggest that it is usually only the settings that are fantastical, for the depths of human suffering they depict are all too real.
Though I may not be King Telamon, whose son, Ajax the Great, took his own life out of wounded pride, I need only look around me to see the many who mourn the loss of a child, along with the many who are so deeply affected by suicide. One does not have to fall from a royal estate to experience loss, and the son who is taken away need not have been a mighty warrior.
Again, though I am not a prince of Troy, like Hector, and it is improbable that I will ever be fated by the gods to fall in some grand conflict, I have known too many families whose men did not return from war, and I have met too many wives and mothers, like Andromache, who literally lost everyone and everything they loved.
The tale of Hector and Andromache, which Cicero here refers to with lines from Ennius, has always had a special place in my heart, not because I prefer the Trojans to the Greeks, but because the whole series of dreadful events makes me feel such tremendous grief with such incredible force. Only the story of Dido’s despair after the departure of Aeneas can even come close, in my estimation, to describing the horrors of human anguish.
And while I may wonder why Cicero is still scolding the poor Epicureans, I must ask along with him: what could possible give Andromache any comfort at a time like this? Her home has been completely destroyed. Her husband’s body has been desecrated through the rage of Achilles. Her son, Astyanax, has been thrown to his death from the walls, to assure that no one will live to avenge Troy.
Yes, it is indeed quite ridiculous to claim that relief can arise from any smidgeons of sensual satisfaction. If that were the only recourse available to me, I can understand why people choose to abandon all hope, and so willingly abandon life itself, for no number of gentle gratifications or numbing diversions are sufficient to heal such gaping wounds in the soul.
The fact is that, quite remarkably, most accounts of Andromache’s later life tell of how she continued to struggle against hardship, yet she never lost her sense of duty and honor. It wasn’t being spoiled by luxuries that made this possible—it was the strength of her character and conviction.
I’m afraid I have too often resented those who have dismissed my pain, treating it as if it could be appeased by pampering or magically wished away. I note how such anger only made my own agony worse, which in turn proves how reforming my own thoughts and deeds, by clinging to wisdom and virtue, is the key to conquering my grief of mind.
Those myths and legends help me to understand how and why other people suffer, and thereby they enable me to feel compassion for my neighbors, so that I do not become like those thoughtless men who tell us to “just get over it”. I can’t make it better if I am lacking a proper conception of the good to begin with.
—Reflection written in 10/1996
IMAGE: Frederic Leighton, Captive Andromache (c. 1888)
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