But the whole question does not turn on this; though the sudden approach of an enemy sometimes occasions more confusion than it would if you had expected him, and a sudden storm at sea throws the sailors into a greater fright than one which they have foreseen; and it is the same in many other cases.
But when you carefully consider the nature of what was expected, you will find nothing more than that all things which come on a sudden appear greater; and this upon two accounts: first of all, because you have not time to consider how great the accident is; and, secondly, because you are probably persuaded that you could have guarded against it had you foreseen if, and therefore the misfortune, having been seemingly encountered by your own fault, makes your grief the greater.
That it is so, time evinces; which, as it advances, brings with it so much mitigation that though the same misfortunes continue, the grief not only becomes the less, but in some cases is entirely removed.
Many Carthaginians were slaves at Rome, and many Macedonians, when Perseus their king was taken prisoner. I saw, too, when I was a young man, some Corinthians in the Peloponnesus. They might all have lamented with Andromache,
“All these I saw . . .”
but they had perhaps given over lamenting themselves, for by their countenances, and speech, and other gestures you might have taken them for Argives or Sicyonians. And I myself was more concerned at the ruined walls of Corinth than the Corinthians themselves were, whose minds by frequent reflection and time had become callous to such sights.
I have read a book of Clitomachus, which he sent to his fellow-citizens who were prisoners, to comfort them after the destruction of Carthage. There is in it a treatise written by Carneades, which, as Clitomachus says, he had inserted into his book; the subject was, “That it appeared probable that a wise man would grieve at the state of subjection of his country,” and all the arguments which Carneades used against this proposition are set down in the book.
There the philosopher applies such a strong medicine to a fresh grief as would be quite unnecessary in one of any continuance; nor, if this very book had been sent to the captives some years after, would it have found any wounds to cure, but only scars; for grief, by a gentle progress and slow degrees, wears away imperceptibly.
Not that the circumstances which gave rise to it are altered, or can be, but that custom teaches what reason should—that those things which before seemed to be of some consequence are of no such great importance, after all.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.22
While the Epicureans believed they could avoid grief by diverting the focus from one passion to another, the Cyrenaics were convinced that the stress was on being well-prepared for any possible unexpected grief, since they claimed this was the worst sort of mental suffering. It seems to feel worst of all when you don’t see it coming, and there is much to be said for remaining watchful and digging in your heels.
I am well familiar with the terror of a sudden blow, and the bitter sense of self-reproach that I somehow let it slip my guard. As a child, I recall the moment of shock after some unanticipated injury, and then the tears that finally followed were all the more profuse. As an adult, I beat myself over the head when a betrayal came out of left field, and then the shame of having let myself be played was like salt in the wound.
Even as a write this, I recognize how the degree of the hurt has far less to do with the circumstance itself, and far more to do with my own attitude. I did not foresee it, so I blame myself. Remove the surprise, and remove the second-guessing, and it no longer looks so overwhelming.
Just the other day, a fellow suddenly accused me of being henpecked because I was going home to see my wife. As I was trying to fall asleep, I brooded over the comment. Why was I so troubled? The man is, bluntly put, an ass, and my concern was simply about how the insult came out of the blue, and about my own sensitivity to the opinions of loudmouths. The grief was from my disordered thinking, and from my lack of fortitude, not from his abrupt malice.
On a far more serious note, would the agony be greater if one of my children were to die without warning? How would this be different from awaiting it after a lengthy illness? Whichever you may find the more disturbing, note how the event remains completely the same, while the thinking about the context of the event is the deciding factor.
Though I understand why the Cyrenaics were anxious about preparing themselves for surprises, I can imagine how the total awareness of some impending doom could be just as frightful. I can think of many instances when I was knocked off my feet by a bolt from the blue, and yet there were probably just as many instances where I saw it coming for miles, and instead of a sting it was more of an ache. Once again, the mindset is the source of the grief, whatever the quality or the degree.
In any case, the passage of time, and the incredible power of habituation, can make most anything bearable, and I suspect this is partly a function of having the opportunity to calmly reflect upon the intensity of our passions. If the process of becoming familiar with a state of affairs is a form of relief, then this is just another sign of how my judgments are behind the distress.
I usually don’t control what is going to happen to me, but even if I could have done so, there is no point, as they say, in crying over spilt milk. Once the genie is out the bottle, I will need to come to terms with whatever he brings me, and no amount of hand-wringing is going to alter that responsibility. It will become as big, or as small, as I choose to make it. That isn’t being cold or heartless—it’s called being patient and mindful.
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