Letter 56: On quiet and study
Beshrew me if I think anything more requisite than silence for a man who secludes himself in order to study! Imagine what a variety of noises reverberates about my ears! I have lodgings right over a bathing establishment. So picture to yourself the assortment of sounds, which are strong enough to make me hate my very powers of hearing!
When your strenuous gentleman, for example, is exercising himself by flourishing leaden weights; when he is working hard, or else pretends to be working hard, I can hear him grunt; and whenever he releases his imprisoned breath, I can hear him panting in wheezy and high-pitched tones.
Or perhaps I notice some lazy fellow, content with a cheap rubdown, and hear the crack of the pummeling hand on his shoulder, varying in sound according as the hand is laid on flat or hollow. Then, perhaps, a professional comes along, shouting out the score; that is the finishing touch.
Add to this the arresting of an occasional roysterer or pickpocket, the racket of the man who always likes to hear his own voice in the bathroom, or the enthusiast who plunges into the swimming-tank with unconscionable noise and splashing.
Besides all those whose voices, if nothing else, are good, imagine the hair-plucker with his penetrating, shrill voice—for purposes of advertisement—continually giving it vent and never holding his tongue except when he is plucking the armpits and making his victim yell instead. Then the cake-seller with his varied cries, the sausageman, the confectioner, and all the vendors of food hawking their wares, each with his own distinctive intonation.
Beshrew me if I think anything more requisite than silence for a man who secludes himself in order to study! Imagine what a variety of noises reverberates about my ears! I have lodgings right over a bathing establishment. So picture to yourself the assortment of sounds, which are strong enough to make me hate my very powers of hearing!
When your strenuous gentleman, for example, is exercising himself by flourishing leaden weights; when he is working hard, or else pretends to be working hard, I can hear him grunt; and whenever he releases his imprisoned breath, I can hear him panting in wheezy and high-pitched tones.
Or perhaps I notice some lazy fellow, content with a cheap rubdown, and hear the crack of the pummeling hand on his shoulder, varying in sound according as the hand is laid on flat or hollow. Then, perhaps, a professional comes along, shouting out the score; that is the finishing touch.
Add to this the arresting of an occasional roysterer or pickpocket, the racket of the man who always likes to hear his own voice in the bathroom, or the enthusiast who plunges into the swimming-tank with unconscionable noise and splashing.
Besides all those whose voices, if nothing else, are good, imagine the hair-plucker with his penetrating, shrill voice—for purposes of advertisement—continually giving it vent and never holding his tongue except when he is plucking the armpits and making his victim yell instead. Then the cake-seller with his varied cries, the sausageman, the confectioner, and all the vendors of food hawking their wares, each with his own distinctive intonation.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 56
I grew up in a family that valued its peace and quiet, and to this day I find relief in a calm environment, for it seems to assist me in calming myself.
I suppose being an only child made it far easier for me to rest in silence, but even when a throng of extended family gathered together, I don’t recall there ever being a raucous uproar. There would be the sounds of celebration, of course, and yet it never devolved into mere noise. The distinction came to me when I reflected on whether sounds were thoughtful or thoughtless.
So, when I eventually met a nice girl from Texas, who came packaged with a herd of siblings and countless dogs running about, it took me some time to grow accustomed to more hectic surroundings. The important lesson I had to learn was that my own serenity depended on my state of mind, not on what happened to be going on around me.
The question then becomes where I should be seeking out the stillness I crave. As much as they may frustrate me, the banging, clanging, yelling, or hollering that take place in my world shouldn’t be driving me insane. If I can’t easily move out of earshot, I need to work on my own powers of focus and concentration.
I read the opening lines of this letter with a combination of laughter and commiseration; I believe I know exactly how Seneca felt. I suspect the quirks of our individual personalities have much to do with our immediate responses, and those of us who are more introverted may have greater difficulty with managing a commotion than those of us who are more extroverted. While my wife revels in a clatter, I am inclined to grind my teeth.
Though I have yet to run into a hair-plucker in the neighborhood, Seneca’s list shows me how the little annoyances of life haven’t changed that much. The slightest itch can be more distracting than the most agonizing ache.
I have my own peculiar irritations. Worse than the barking of a dog is its incessant panting. My heart races when a car stereo is so loud that the vibrations of the bass rattle my bones. While I have little difficulty with conversations going on the background, I cannot bear the sort of fellow who bellows so loudly that the whole neighborhood knows exactly what is on his mind. Most vexing of all is a room full of people slurping their coffee in the morning.
One thing I so love about the Stoics is how they never fail to be in touch with our everyday problems.
I grew up in a family that valued its peace and quiet, and to this day I find relief in a calm environment, for it seems to assist me in calming myself.
I suppose being an only child made it far easier for me to rest in silence, but even when a throng of extended family gathered together, I don’t recall there ever being a raucous uproar. There would be the sounds of celebration, of course, and yet it never devolved into mere noise. The distinction came to me when I reflected on whether sounds were thoughtful or thoughtless.
So, when I eventually met a nice girl from Texas, who came packaged with a herd of siblings and countless dogs running about, it took me some time to grow accustomed to more hectic surroundings. The important lesson I had to learn was that my own serenity depended on my state of mind, not on what happened to be going on around me.
The question then becomes where I should be seeking out the stillness I crave. As much as they may frustrate me, the banging, clanging, yelling, or hollering that take place in my world shouldn’t be driving me insane. If I can’t easily move out of earshot, I need to work on my own powers of focus and concentration.
I read the opening lines of this letter with a combination of laughter and commiseration; I believe I know exactly how Seneca felt. I suspect the quirks of our individual personalities have much to do with our immediate responses, and those of us who are more introverted may have greater difficulty with managing a commotion than those of us who are more extroverted. While my wife revels in a clatter, I am inclined to grind my teeth.
Though I have yet to run into a hair-plucker in the neighborhood, Seneca’s list shows me how the little annoyances of life haven’t changed that much. The slightest itch can be more distracting than the most agonizing ache.
I have my own peculiar irritations. Worse than the barking of a dog is its incessant panting. My heart races when a car stereo is so loud that the vibrations of the bass rattle my bones. While I have little difficulty with conversations going on the background, I cannot bear the sort of fellow who bellows so loudly that the whole neighborhood knows exactly what is on his mind. Most vexing of all is a room full of people slurping their coffee in the morning.
One thing I so love about the Stoics is how they never fail to be in touch with our everyday problems.
—Reflection written in 5/2013
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