Dhammapada 392

After a man has once understood the law as taught by the Well- awakened, let him worship it carefully, as the Brahmana worships the sacrificial fire. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 74.1

Letter 74: On virtue as a refuge from worldly distractions 
 
Your letter has given me pleasure, and has roused me from sluggishness. It has also prompted my memory, which has been for some time slack and nerveless. 
 
You are right, of course, my dear Lucilius, in deeming the chief means of attaining the happy life to consist in the belief that the only good lies in that which is honorable. For anyone who deems other things to be good, puts himself in the power of Fortune, and goes under the control of another; but he who has in every case defined the good by the honorable, is happy with an inward happiness. 
 
One man is saddened when his children die; another is anxious when they become ill; a third is embittered when they do something disgraceful, or suffer a taint in their reputation. 
 
One man, you will observe, is tortured by passion for his neighbor’s wife, another by passion for his own. You will find men who are completely upset by failure to win an election, and others who are actually plagued by the offices which they have won. 
 
But the largest throng of unhappy men among the host of mortals are those whom the expectation of death, which threatens them on every hand, drives to despair. For there is no quarter from which death may not approach. 
 
Hence, like soldiers scouting in the enemy's country, they must look about in all directions, and turn their heads at every sound; unless the breast be rid of this fear, one lives with a palpitating heart. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 74 
 
The opening of this letter immediately challenges me to address a recurring problem from my daily life: I get confused about what it means to be honorable. As much as I may work out the theory while sitting at my desk, I am inclined to hesitate once I find myself in the trenches, entangling the true merit of my actions with the way others happen to perceive them. 
 
Though I am far from being a scholar of Latin, I couldn’t resist looking up the original term Seneca uses here. As I suspected, he speaks of honestas, honor in the sense of our internal virtues, as distinct from honos, honor in the sense of our external fame. In an ideal world, the latter would mirror the former, but we all know how easily the appearance can stray from the reality. 
 
As much as I might prefer to win esteem, it is far more important that I stand on the principle of private excellence, regardless of any popular reputation. In this, the Stoic will gladly wander from the herd. 
 
There is no great complexity in understanding why my good will be in my own thoughts, words, and deeds, not in the thoughts, words, and deeds of others—the hindrance is rather in my old habits, and in a lingering feeling of insecurity. Yet I do not need to be pleasing to them, only good enough to be myself, with integrity and conviction. 
 
Once the circumstance becomes the measure, we are enslaved to Fortune, at the mercy of what is beyond our power, and so we will never find a moment of peace. At first glance, from a distance, the grasping man looks glorious, but then a closer examination reveals his crippling anxiety. He is in constant need of gaining more, and he is terrified of losing what he believes he already has. If only he clung to the virtues, he would possess what cannot be taken away. 
 
Behind all of our other fears, from being deprived of our children to being shamed for our secrets, lies the greatest dread of all, the very end of our existence. This should only trouble us, however, if we live in a way where having more is mistaken for being good. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

IMAGE: Pieter van Aelst, Fortune (c. 1520) 

Allegory of Fortune

Anonymous Dutch, Allegory of Fortune (c. 1530) 

Sayings of Publilius Syrus 167

Pecuniary gain first suggested to men to make Fortune a goddess. 

Plutarch, The Life of Cato the Younger 20

Though many invited Cato to become a tribune of the people, he did not think it right to expend the force of a great and power­ful magistracy, any more than that of a strong medicine, on matters that did not require it. 

And at the same time, being at leisure from his public duties, he took books and philosophers with him and set out for Lucania, where he owned lands affording no mean sojourn. 

Then, meeting on the road many beasts of burden with baggage and attendants, and learning that Metellus Nepos was on his way back to Rome prepared to sue for the tribune­ship, he stopped without a word, and after waiting a little while ordered his company to turn back. 

His friends were amazed at this, whereupon he said: "Do you not know that even of himself Metellus is to be feared by reason of his infatuation? And now that he comes by the advice of Pompey he will fall upon the state like a thunderbolt and throw everything into confusion. It is no time, then, for a leisurely sojourn in the country, but we must overpower the man, or die honorably in a struggle for our liberties." 

Nevertheless, on the advice of his friends, he went first to his estates and tarried there a short time, and then returned to the city.​ It was evening when he arrived, and as soon as day dawned he went down into the forum to sue for a tribune­ship, that he might array himself against Metellus. 

For the strength of that office is negative rather than positive; and if all the tribunes save one should vote for a measure, the power lies with the one who will not give his consent or permission. 

Maxims of Goethe 59

Truth belongs to the man, error to his age. 

This is why it has been said that, while the misfortune of the age caused his error, the force of his soul made him emerge from the error with glory. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 73.6

The gods are not disdainful or envious; they open the door to you; they lend a hand as you climb. 
 
Do you marvel that man goes to the gods? God comes to men; nay, he comes nearer—he comes into men. 
 
No mind that has not God, is good. 
 
Divine seeds are scattered throughout our mortal bodies; if a good husbandman receives them, they spring up in the likeness of their source and of a parity with those from which they came. 
 
If, however, the husbandman be bad, like a barren or marshy soil, he kills the seeds, and causes tares to grow up instead of wheat. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 73 
 
In assuming a vast chasm between the human and the Divine, which follows from stressing transcendence at the expense of immanence, we may believe that the work of coming to know God depends entirely upon our own efforts. We are sadly forgetting how the force of the good flows from the higher down to the lower. 
 
As much as a finite creature can strive to approach an infinite Creator, doesn’t it seem like a futile effort? How could we ever rise to such a height? It can only become possible if the Divine is also reaching down to lift us up, to offer us a helping hand. While the lesser can never contain the greater, the greater can always subsume the lesser. 
 
There was once a time when I rolled my eyes at the idea of God “talking” to me, but now I begin to recognize how every aspect of Nature is itself a message. I was only looking within the narrow confines of spoken or written words, when all along the expression was one of the Logos that communicates through a living essence. From this perspective, some of the poets and the mystics are far ahead of the philosophers. 
 
What is the relative without the absolute? How can the part exist separately from the whole? Who am I in the absence of my ultimate beginning and end? Neither the true nor the good are within me when I divorce my being from Being. It has all been given, and now it remains for me to decide if I am willing to make the most of such graces. 
 
When Seneca says that a man cannot be good without God, the secular humanist will have none of it, and a “modern” Stoic will brush such a claim aside, dismissing it as unscientific and outdated. I can only suggest that it is the height of arrogance to make man the measure, and that the principle of causality is about as logical as one can possibly get. 
 
I will, however, grant that a reverence for God is primitive, though I use the term in a somewhat different sense. Rather than being crude, obsolete, or naïve, piety is instead something simple, elementary, and primeval. It is ancient by being perennial, and those who seek wisdom should never have to apologize for their obedience to the supreme authority. 

—Reflection written in 9/2013 

IMAGE: William Blake, Elohim Creating Adam (1795) 

Level 42, "Man"

As a fellow who has a long history with the Black Dog, and as a lifelong lover of music, I have a mixed relationship with songs about melancholy. Sometimes I find strength from experiencing another’s struggle, but more often I just end up feeling sorry for myself. 

I must tread carefully, for the fickle feeling of the moment can quickly sweep me away. Art has a creeping way of magnifying who we already are, for better or for worse. 

Much of the new wave or progressive rock I so adore can dwell too much on the loss and the sadness. Yes, it is necessary to mourn, but then it is even more necessary to heal. 

Why have I found myself in this state? How might I work my way out of it? To cast blame on others is never a solution, and to merely bemoan my fate is an act of surrender. 

Many years ago, I picked up the newest album by Level 42, expecting more of the same funky pop I so enjoyed. Instead, I was surprised to find the band in a state of transition, with two new members, guitarist Alan Murphy and drummer Gary Husband, along with a number of tunes that displayed a far more refined sound. 

I was especially taken with a longer track, simply titled “Man”, which almost seemed to be composed of two separate movements, each with its own mood. I had always known that Boon Gould could write introspective lyrics, but these struck me with their remarkable depth and sincerity. 

It was only much later that I learned about Boon’s own battle with depression—now it all made more sense. 

There isn’t just brooding in these words. There is also an attempt at coming to terms with the causes, and at finding a means to escape from the cycle. 

There is then that painful moment when I recognize how I have, however unwittingly, brought this upon myself, and that my vanity has fixed me in my stubborn ways. 

Let me stop making excuses and demanding attention. I can choose to be my own man. 

—1/2016 

Level 42, “Man” from Staring at the Sun (1988) 

Hey man where you been? 
You can't run away
From the life you made your own
Now that it's gone and left you down and out
You're not so complete
Now what do you say? 
All the answers you propose
Nobody chose to hear this time around 

Hey man you're so vain
You rise up again
To perform to pressure now
No way to treat that precious heart at all
Calm down you're too proud
Now what do you know? 
You present some facts to face
But nobody chose to look this time around 

Head in the clouds
No silver lining
What could be wrong? 

Hey man why so blue? 
What's come over you? 
Sentimental apathy
Ain't gonna buy no sympathy today
Wide world wearing thin
Wild words deafening
Shout about integrity
And then you go and throw your dignity away 

We're all the same
We're all to blame
What could be wrong, yeah? 

Hey man you got carried away
Carrying on the games that you play
Playing is not the way to win
’cause winning can be a way that you lose
And losing is not the way you would choose
Given the choice you're trying to change
Changing again you're carried away 

Do you remember the day? 
So long ago so far behind 
That history wrought in the fire
That filled your mind with mad desire
Chasing the centuries down
Long roads you cut through flesh and field
Pulling the past as you run
And it's dragged you to your knees
It's time to pray 

It's getting harder to pay
Too many people
For the rent 

Given a number of ways
Is there no way that you can change? 

Fire, the heart of history 

Time marching on . . . 
Face the future 
Fall and fade away 

Hey man sing the blues 

Justus Lipsius, On Constancy 1.7

What and how many things do disturb constancy. That outward good and evil things do it. Evils are of two sorts, public and private. Of these two, public evils seem more grievous and dangerous. 

Langius having uttered these words with a more earnest voice and countenance than accustomed, I was somewhat inflamed with a spark of this good fire. 

"And then, my Father," I said, "let me rightly without dissimulation call you so, lead me and learn me as you list: direct and correct me; I am your patient prepared to admit any kind of curing, be it by razor or fire, to cut or sear." 

"I must use both those means," said Langius, "for that one while the stubble of false opinions is to be burned away, and another while the tender slips of affections to be off by the root. 

"But tell me whether had you rather walk or sit? Sitting would please me best, say I, for I begin to be hot." 

 So then Langius commanded stools to be brought into the porch, and I sitting close by him, he turned himself toward me and began his talk in this manner.

"Hitherto, Lipsius, have I laid the foundation whereupon I might erect the building of my future communication. Now, if it please you, I will come nearer the matter, and inquire the causes of your sorrow, for I must touch the sore with my hand. 

"There are two things that do assault this castle of constancy in us: false goods, and false evils. I define them both to be such things as are not in us but about us, and which properly do not help nor hurt the inner man, that is, the mind. 

"Wherefore I may not call those things good or evil simply in subject and in definition: but I confess they are such in opinion, and by the judgment of the common people. In the first rank of false goods I place riches, honor, authority, health, long life. In the second rank of false evils, poverty, infamy, lack of promotion, sickness, death. And to comprehend all in one word, whatsoever else is accidental and happens outwardly." 

"From these two roots do spring four principal affections which do greatly disquiet the life of man: desire and joy, fear and sorrow. The first two have respect to some supposed or imagined good, the two latter unto some supposed or imagined evil. All of them do hurt and distemper the mind, and without timely prevention do bring it out of all order, yet not each of them in like sort. For whereas the quietness and constancy of the mind rests, as it were, in an even balance, these affections do hinder this upright poise and evenness; some of them by puffing up the mind, others by pressing it down too much. 

"But here I will let pass to speak of false goods, which lift up the mind above measure (because your diseases proceeds from another humor) and will come to false evils, which are of two sorts, public and private. Public are those, the sense and feeling whereof touches many persons at one time. Private do touch some private men. Of the first kind are war, pestilence, famine, tyranny, slaughters, and such like. Of the second are sorrow, poverty, infamy, death and whatsoever else of like nature that may befall any one man. 

"I take it there is good cause for me thus to distinguish them, because we sorrow after another sort at the misery of our country, the banishment and a destruction of a multitude, than of one person alone. Besides that, the griefs that grow of public and private adversities are different, but yet the first sort are more heavy and take deeper root in us. For we are all subject to those common calamities, either for that they come together in heaps, and so with the multitude oppress such as oppose themselves against them, or rather because they beguile us by subtlety, in that we perceive not how our mind is diseased by the apprehension of them. 

"Behold if a man is overcome with any private grief, he must confess therein his frailty and infirmity, especially if he reclaim not himself, then is he without excuse. Contrarily, we are so far from confessing a fault in being disquieted at public calamities, that some will boast thereof, and account it for a praise: for they term it piety and compassion. So that this common contagion is now reckoned among the catalog of virtues, yea and almost honored as a God. 

"Poets and orators do everywhere extol to the skies a fervent affection to our country; neither do I disallow it, but hold and maintain that it ought to be tempered with moderation: otherwise it is a vice, a note of intemperance, a deposing of the mind from his right seat. On the other side I confess it to be a grievous malady, and of great force to move a man, because the sorrow that proceeds thereto is manifold, in respect of yourself and of others. 

"And to make the matter more plain by example: see how your country of Flanders is afflicted with sundry calamities, and swung on every side with the scorching flame of civil wars: the fields are wasted and spoiled, towns are overthrown and burned, men taken captive and murdered, women defiled, virgins deflowered, with such other like miseries as follow after wars. 

"Are you not grieved herewith? Yes I am sure, and grieved diversely, for yourself, for your countrymen, and for your country. Your own losses trouble you; the misery and slaughter of your neighbors; the calamity and overthrow of your country. One where you may cry out with the poet, 'O unhappy wretch, that I am.' Another while, 'O my father, O my country!' And who is not so moved with these matters, nor oppressed with the multitude of so many and manifold miseries must either be very stayed and wise, or else very hardhearted." 

IMAGE: Anonymous Dutch, The Spanish Fury in Antwerp (c. 1585) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 73.5

Sextius used to say that Jupiter had no more power than the good man. 
 
Of course, Jupiter has more gifts which he can offer to mankind; but when you are choosing between two good men, the richer is not necessarily the better, any more than, in the case of two pilots of equal skill in managing the tiller, you would call him the better whose ship is larger and more imposing. 
 
In what respect is Jupiter superior to our good man? His goodness lasts longer; but the wise man does not set a lower value upon himself, just because his virtues are limited by a briefer span. 
 
Or take two wise men; he who has died at a greater age is not happier than he whose virtue has been limited to fewer years: similarly, a god has no advantage over a wise man in point of happiness, even though he has such an advantage in point of years. That virtue is not greater which lasts longer. 
 
Jupiter possesses all things, but he has surely given over the possession of them to others; the only use of them which belongs to him is this: he is the cause of their use to all men. 
 
The wise man surveys and scorns all the possessions of others as calmly as does Jupiter, and regards himself with the greater esteem because, while Jupiter cannot make use of them, he, the wise man, does not wish to do so. 
 
Let us therefore believe Sextius, when he shows us the path of perfect beauty, and cries: "This is 'the way to the stars'; this is the way, by observing thrift, self-restraint, and courage!" 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 73 
 
It is fitting that any discussion on philosophers and kings will ultimately turn to the highest authority of the Divine. Those who choose to make themselves the center can, of course, have no place for God, but those who see themselves as but a part of the whole are always in search of the Absolute. 
 
Sometimes we deny God because we think too much of ourselves, while sometimes we seek a diversion in God because we think too little of ourselves, and in either case the mistake is from assuming some impassable divide between the human and the Divine. 
 
No, the creature should never be confused with the Creator, and yet the human participates directly with the Divine, just as the cause is present in every effect, and the fullness of the One is expressed in the variety of the many. 
 
What is infinite and perfect does not exclude what is finite and imperfect—the former includes the latter. The difference in degree, however vast, still admits of an equivalence in kind, such that there is no vanity or blasphemy in stating that the good in man is like the good in God. 
 
As Sextius observed, a good man has the same power as Jupiter to be the master of himself, even as the breadth of their might cannot be compared. At a level closer to home, I may recognize how wealth, or fame, or any sort of worldly influence do not increase or decrease our moral worth, and so the virtue of a king is no better than the virtue of a pauper. 
 
Similarly, there is no greater excellence in something being of a longer duration, because the very same excellence, complete in itself, is simply being repeated. I am a mortal, and Jupiter is immortal, and it remains an identical virtue that is present in both of us. They say it is such a shame when someone dies young, though the real shame is when someone dies wicked. 
 
I am especially taken by the further insight that Jupiter might “have” everything, while he has no “need” for any of those things, already being complete in his own nature. What does he then do with them? He passes them on to man, whose nature remains in the process of becoming complete. 
 
I am reminded of an old Thomistic exercise, where the question is “Why would God create the Universe, if it adds nothing to Him?” The answer is then that “God created the Universe for the sake of His creatures.” That is surely the ideal form of love, which we are called to imitate, and it is that sort of self-giving for which we should always be grateful. 

—Reflection written in 9/2013 

IMAGE: Nicolai Abildgaard, Jupiter Weighing the Fate of Man (1793) 

Delphic Maxims 68

Τύχην νόμιζε

Acknowledge fate 

IMAGE: Giorgio Ghisi, The Three Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos (1559) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 73.4

Therefore, the philosopher thinks of the person who makes it possible for him to use and enjoy these things, of the person who exempts him when the state's dire need summons to arms, to sentry duty, to the defense of the walls, and to the manifold exactions of war; and he gives thanks to the helmsman of his state. 
 
This is what philosophy teaches most of all—honorably to avow the debt of benefits received, and honorably to pay them; sometimes, however, the acknowledgment itself constitutes payment. 
 
Our philosopher will therefore acknowledge that he owes a large debt to the ruler who makes it possible, by his management and foresight, for him to enjoy rich leisure, control of his own time, and a tranquility uninterrupted by public employments. 
 
“Shepherd! a god this leisure gave to me,
For he shall be my god eternally.” 
 
And if even such leisure as that of our poet owes a great debt to its author, though its greatest boon is this:  
 
“As thou canst see, 
He let me turn my cattle out to feed, 
And play what fancy pleased on rustic reed;” 
 
how highly are we to value this leisure of the philosopher, which is spent among the gods, and makes us gods? Yes, that is what I mean, Lucilius; and I invite you to heaven by a short cut. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 73 
 
If you still came from a down-to-earth family, you may recall your father telling you to be grateful for the freedoms you possessed, almost as often as your mother told you how there were starving children in other parts of the world. Though you rolled your eyes, you knew that they were right. 
 
It is so easy to confuse a gift with an entitlement, and so to focus on the receiving instead of the giving. The Stoic Turn is a remedy for such a complacency, where angry demands are replaced by sincere thanks, a recognition of how Providence has granted us all the blessings we could ever need, if only we choose to recognize the true source of the human good. 
 
Whatever the degree of the authority, from the cop on the corner up to the Divine Absolute, I always try to be conscious of the opportunities for improvement I am offered on their watch. The wicked master can, of course, also be an occasion for the virtues, by presenting a mighty obstacle to be boldly overcome, but what a soothing boon it is to know that someone has already cleared the path and lightened my load! 
 
In the past, I would have worried about the wolves killing my sheep, or how to irrigate my crops, or the threat of those brigands coming down from the hills. In my own time, I fret over paying my bills, keeping hold of a job, and the restrictions from a crippling bureaucracy. When someone relieves me of these burdens, in however small a way, I am now allowed more room to attend to my soul, in the peace and quiet it so desperately craves. 
 
I may only have my appreciation to offer as a payment, but for a good ruler, that will be enough of a compensation. For the many scoundrels who have bossed me around, I think of a teacher, or a pastor, or a civil servant who went out of his way to rid me of my fears. The best sovereignty is that which protects liberty, the hand that chooses to permit before it restricts. 
 
I am quite aware that my own case is hardly a good example for much of anything, because my temperament and values are so out of the norm. Nevertheless, when I reflect on the sort of profession that would have suited me best, I invariably return to the life of a shepherd. While the work is not easy, I long for the release of a mind without fetters. 

—Reflection written in 9/2013 

IMAGE: Frederik Vermehren, A Jutland Shepherd on the Moors (1855) 

Storm on the Sea 22

Theodore Gericault, The Raft of the Medusa (1819) 

Ruins 12

Henry Bright, Hadleigh Castle (c. 1850) 

Memento Mori 5

Anonymous French, Pendant with a Monk and Death (17th century) 

Vanitas 90

Adriaen Coorte, Vanitas Still Life in a Niche (1688) 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 256

The tears of repentance and the tears of happiness flow from the two different corners of the eye. 

The tears of repentance flow from the side near the nose, and the tears of happiness flow from the other extremity. 

IMAGE: Gustave Doré, The Valley of Tears (1883) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 73.3

For there are many of our toga-clad citizens to whom peace brings more trouble than war. Or do those, think you, owe as much as we do for the peace they enjoy, who spend it in drunkenness, or in lust, or in other vices which it were worth even a war to interrupt? 
 
No, not unless you think that the wise man is so unfair as to believe that as an individual he owes nothing in return for the advantages which he enjoys with all the rest. I owe a great debt to the sun and to the moon; and yet they do not rise for me alone. I am personally beholden to the seasons and to the god who controls them, although in no respect have they been apportioned for my benefit. 
 
The foolish greed of mortals makes a distinction between possession and ownership, and believes that it has ownership in nothing in which the general public has a share. But our philosopher considers nothing more truly his own than that which he shares in partnership with all mankind. For these things would not be common property, as indeed they are, unless every individual had his quota; even a joint interest based upon the slightest share makes one a partner. 
 
Again, the great and true goods are not divided in such a manner that each has but a slight interest; they belong in their entirety to each individual. At a distribution of grain men receive only the amount that has been promised to each person; the banquet and the meat-dole, or all else that a man can carry away with him, are divided into parts. 
 
These goods, however, are indivisible—I mean peace and liberty—and they belong in their entirety to all men just as much as they belong to each individual. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 73 
 
Once a king gives me liberty, what am I going to do with it? 
 
If you tell me that we are now too enlightened to have kings, I will only suggest that any worldly authority, by whatever name is fashionable at the moment, assumes the power to permit or to restrict our external circumstances, and therefore either inspires or hampers our personal decision to embrace the good. Does the ruler wish us to be ourselves, or to merely be an extension of himself? 
 
When I am offered the room to live in security, which should never be taken for granted, I may choose to flourish or to flounder. On the one hand is the temptation of idleness and gratification, and on the other hand is the challenge of improving my character: the former wallows in lust, the latter rises to love. 
 
Observe the fellow who thinks himself fortunate for his many creature comforts, and contrast him with the philosopher, who is grateful for simply having a mastery over his own heart and mind—the difference is like night and day. 
 
Virtue is always bound together with solidarity, such that I can now also see how some will insist only upon themselves, while others will understand why no one has an exclusive right to any blessing. If it is something good, we all possess it, and no one man can claim ownership at the expense of another. 
 
Nor is it that each is limited to a separate portion, whether larger or smaller, since the benefit is shared in common. Before I confuse this with some form of Marxism, let me recall that we are speaking of a moral dignity, not of the means of material production. Whatever our preferences, it matters far less who has control over the finances, and far more who has established a priceless peace of mind. 
 
As an introvert, I never much enjoyed that Thanksgiving tradition of being artificially forced to announce what we are all grateful for, though if it must be practiced, I can still learn much from how a person responds. Beyond any concerns about sincerity, distinguish between a shallow list of conveniences and an absolute reverence for Providence. 

—Reflection written in 9/2013 

IMAGE: Henryk Siemiradzki, Roman Orgy at Caesar's Time (1872) 

Three Philosophers 2

Edouard Manet, Beggar with Oysters ( A Philosopher) (1867) 

Edouard Manet, Beggar with a Duffle Coat (A Philosopher) (1867) 

Edouard Manet, The Ragpicker (A Philosopher) (1870) 

Three Philosophers 1

Diego Velazquez, Democritus (c. 1630) 

Diego Velazquez, Aesop (c. 1638) 

Diego Velazquez, Menippus (c. 1638) 

Temptation

Diego Velazquez, The Temptation of St. Thomas Aquinas (1632) 

Chuang Tzu 6.2

What is meant by "the True Man?" 

The True men of old did not reject the views of the few; they did not seek to accomplish their ends like heroes before others; they did not lay plans to attain those ends. 

Being such, though they might make mistakes, they had no occasion for repentance; though they might succeed, they had no self-complacency. 

Being such, they could ascend the loftiest heights without fear; they could pass through water without being made wet by it; they could go into fire without being burnt; so it was that by their knowledge they ascended to and reached the Tâo. 

The True men of old did not dream when they slept, had no anxiety when they awoke, and did not care that their food should be pleasant. 

Their breathing came deep and silently. The breathing of the true man comes even from his heels, while men generally breathe only from their throats. 

When men are defeated in argument, their words come from their gullets as if they were vomiting. Where lusts and desires are deep, the springs of the Heavenly are shallow. 

The True men of old knew nothing of the love of life or of the hatred of death. Entrance into life occasioned them no joy; the exit from it awakened no resistance. Composedly they went and came. 

They did not forget what their beginning bad been, and they did not inquire into what their end would be. They accepted their life and rejoiced in it; they forgot all fear of death, and returned to their state before life. 

Thus there was in them what is called the want of any mind to resist the Tâo, and of all attempts by means of the Human to assist the Heavenly. 

Such were they who are called the True men. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 73.2

But that other man, upright and pure, who has left the senate and the bar and all affairs of state, that he may retire to nobler affairs, cherishes those who have made it possible for him to do this in security; he is the only person who returns spontaneous thanks to them, the only person who owes them a great debt without their knowledge. 
 
Just as a man honors and reveres his teachers, by whose aid he has found release from his early wanderings, so the sage honors these men, also, under whose guardianship he can put his good theories into practice. 
 
But you answer: "Other men too are protected by a king's personal power."
 
Perfectly true. But just as, out of a number of persons who have profited by the same stretch of calm weather, a man deems that his debt to Neptune is greater if his cargo during that voyage has been more extensive and valuable, and just as the vow is paid with more of a will by the merchant than by the passenger, and just as, from among the merchants themselves, heartier thanks are uttered by the dealer in spices, purple fabrics, and objects worth their weight in gold, than by him who has gathered cheap merchandise that will be nothing but ballast for his ship; similarly, the benefits of this peace, which extends to all, are more deeply appreciated by those who make good use of it. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 73 

Whenever the next election cycle rolls around, folks will flock together in their factions to glorify the politicians they believe will bring them the greatest advantages. This one promises more jobs, and that one says he will lower taxes, and a third vows to smite our enemies, whether foreign or domestic. While the faces change, the spectacle remains the same. 
 
And every year, I feel the urge to ask these zealots which of their candidates, whatever the other amenities they promote, might do the most to help us become wiser, to improve our character. I usually keep my silence, however, because I fear that they cannot conceive of trading in the currency of virtue. 
 
The wise man “retires” from the business of courting fame and amassing more money, not in the sense that he is now too old and wishes to finally indulge in comfort, but as a joyful commitment to the good of his soul. Where there is sound judgment, the flesh demands very little for its subsistence, even as the spirit should have the liberty to roam far and wide. 
 
A good leader is one who grasps the fullness of the human condition, and so he always appreciates how physical prosperity must be in the service of moral excellence. No, he will not harshly dictate the rules to his subjects, but he will encourage them to understand for themselves, and to freely discover why they have been made for one another. In this he is much like a good teacher, who inspires self-discovery and self-mastery above all else. 
 
While everyone can benefit from the protection offered by a community, it is the seeker of wisdom who has the most to be thankful for. As much as the merchant may profit from his trade, it is the philosopher who reaps the greatest rewards: he is gifted a chance to pursue the richest of vocations, without the need to constantly be looking over his shoulder. 
 
One man thanks the gods for his vast property, and another man thanks the gods only for his power to know and to love. Seneca reminds us of who is actually getting the best deal, the pearl of great price. 

—Reflection written in 9/2013 

IMAGE: Anonymous Neapolitan, Neptune (late 18th century) 

Stoic Snippets 253

The Lacedaemonians at their public spectacles used to set seats in the shade for strangers, but themselves sat down anywhere. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 11.24