"What," you say, "am I to forget my friend?" It is surely a short-lived memory that you vouchsafe to him, if it is to endure only as long as your grief; presently that brow of yours will be smoothed out in laughter by some circumstance, however casual. It is to a time no more distant than this that I put off the soothing of every regret, the quieting of even the bitterest grief.
As soon as you cease to observe yourself, the picture of sorrow which you have contemplated will fade away; at present you are keeping watch over your own suffering. But even while you keep watch it slips away from you, and the sharper it is, the more speedily it comes to an end.
Let us see to it that the recollection of those whom we have lost becomes a pleasant memory to us. No man reverts with pleasure to any subject which he will not be able to reflect upon without pain. So too it cannot but be that the names of those whom we have loved and lost come back to us with a sort of sting; but there is a pleasure even in this sting.
For, as my friend Attalus used to say: "The remembrance of lost friends is pleasant in the same way that certain fruits have an agreeably acid taste, or as in extremely old wines it is their very bitterness that pleases us. Indeed, after a certain lapse of time, every thought that gave pain is quenched, and the pleasure comes to us unalloyed."
If we take the word of Attalus for it, "to think of friends who are alive and well is like enjoying a meal of cakes and honey; the recollection of friends who have passed away gives a pleasure that is not without a touch of bitterness. Yet who will deny that even these things, which are bitter and contain an element of sourness, do serve to arouse the stomach?"
For my part, I do not agree with him. To me, the thought of my dead friends is sweet and appealing. For I have had them as if I should one day lose them; I have lost them as if I have them still.
As soon as you cease to observe yourself, the picture of sorrow which you have contemplated will fade away; at present you are keeping watch over your own suffering. But even while you keep watch it slips away from you, and the sharper it is, the more speedily it comes to an end.
Let us see to it that the recollection of those whom we have lost becomes a pleasant memory to us. No man reverts with pleasure to any subject which he will not be able to reflect upon without pain. So too it cannot but be that the names of those whom we have loved and lost come back to us with a sort of sting; but there is a pleasure even in this sting.
For, as my friend Attalus used to say: "The remembrance of lost friends is pleasant in the same way that certain fruits have an agreeably acid taste, or as in extremely old wines it is their very bitterness that pleases us. Indeed, after a certain lapse of time, every thought that gave pain is quenched, and the pleasure comes to us unalloyed."
If we take the word of Attalus for it, "to think of friends who are alive and well is like enjoying a meal of cakes and honey; the recollection of friends who have passed away gives a pleasure that is not without a touch of bitterness. Yet who will deny that even these things, which are bitter and contain an element of sourness, do serve to arouse the stomach?"
For my part, I do not agree with him. To me, the thought of my dead friends is sweet and appealing. For I have had them as if I should one day lose them; I have lost them as if I have them still.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 63
When I linger for too long upon a loss, this is not the result of some overwhelming circumstance, but rather of my own hesitation to follow through on the true goods of nature, both my own as well as those of others.
Is it the presence or absence of someone or something that brings me happiness or misery, or should I more properly be looking to my own estimation of persons, places, and things? How it may or may not have happened does not need to determine my peace of mind.
I’m afraid I have become quite adept at such dawdling, such that what should have been a period of shock, succeeded by a healthy pause for inner rebuilding, was foolishly extended into too many years of slow festering. The responsibility was mine, not another’s, though it is hardly necessary to be cruel to myself to make the changes—only sincere conviction is required.
No, Seneca is not asking me to forget my friend who has gone away, and instead offers me a way to remember him in a way that brings me joy through honoring him rightly.
Did he choose to live well, according to the virtues, within the bounds of his own particular time and space? Then that is to his credit. Did I, in turn, choose to live well, inspired by the example of his virtues, in my own particular time and space? Then that is also to my credit, and no more is needed to cement our special human bond. Our friendship, whatever the duration, has served the true, the good, and the beautiful.
A love is no greater for having lasted any longer, and no less deep from being past instead of present. The Stoic prizes a memory for its power to inform the here and now, which is to be treated as if it were the fullness of all time condensed into a single point.
Now Attalus suggested that just as the tongue can learn to enjoy a bitter taste, so the soul can also learn to find pleasure in the absence of the beloved. Indeed, I do know how time has allowed my palate to appreciate what once seemed too harsh, and how reflection has helped me to smile whenever I miss a companion.
Yet I am also willing to rise to Seneca’s further challenge: is it not possible to so refine my judgments that all harshness is finally removed from my feelings? Then only gratitude remains. Where life is loved to the fullest, and without any further conditions, then the passing of a moment contains neither yearning nor regret.
When I linger for too long upon a loss, this is not the result of some overwhelming circumstance, but rather of my own hesitation to follow through on the true goods of nature, both my own as well as those of others.
Is it the presence or absence of someone or something that brings me happiness or misery, or should I more properly be looking to my own estimation of persons, places, and things? How it may or may not have happened does not need to determine my peace of mind.
I’m afraid I have become quite adept at such dawdling, such that what should have been a period of shock, succeeded by a healthy pause for inner rebuilding, was foolishly extended into too many years of slow festering. The responsibility was mine, not another’s, though it is hardly necessary to be cruel to myself to make the changes—only sincere conviction is required.
No, Seneca is not asking me to forget my friend who has gone away, and instead offers me a way to remember him in a way that brings me joy through honoring him rightly.
Did he choose to live well, according to the virtues, within the bounds of his own particular time and space? Then that is to his credit. Did I, in turn, choose to live well, inspired by the example of his virtues, in my own particular time and space? Then that is also to my credit, and no more is needed to cement our special human bond. Our friendship, whatever the duration, has served the true, the good, and the beautiful.
A love is no greater for having lasted any longer, and no less deep from being past instead of present. The Stoic prizes a memory for its power to inform the here and now, which is to be treated as if it were the fullness of all time condensed into a single point.
Now Attalus suggested that just as the tongue can learn to enjoy a bitter taste, so the soul can also learn to find pleasure in the absence of the beloved. Indeed, I do know how time has allowed my palate to appreciate what once seemed too harsh, and how reflection has helped me to smile whenever I miss a companion.
Yet I am also willing to rise to Seneca’s further challenge: is it not possible to so refine my judgments that all harshness is finally removed from my feelings? Then only gratitude remains. Where life is loved to the fullest, and without any further conditions, then the passing of a moment contains neither yearning nor regret.
—Reflection written in 6/2013
IMAGE: Zygmunt Andrychiewicz, Death of An Artist—The Last Friend (1901)
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