M. It may be said, what occasion is there to apply to reason, or to any sort of consolation such as we generally make use of, to mitigate the grief of the afflicted? For we have this argument always at hand, that nothing ought to appear unexpected.
But how will anyone be enabled to bear his misfortunes the better by knowing that it is unavoidable that such things should happen to man? Saying this subtracts nothing from the sum of the grief: it only asserts that nothing has fallen out but what might have been anticipated; and yet this manner of speaking has some little consolation in it, though I apprehend not a great deal.
Therefore, those unlooked-for things have not so much force as to give rise to all our grief; the blow perhaps may fall the heavier, but whatever happens does not appear the greater on that account. No, it is the fact of its having happened lately, and not of its having befallen us unexpectedly, that makes it seem the greater.
There are two ways, then, of discerning the truth, not only of things that seem evil, but of those that have the appearance of good.
For we either inquire into the nature of the thing, of what description, and magnitude, and importance it is—as sometimes with regard to poverty, the burden of which we may lighten when by our disputations we show how few things nature requires, and of what a trifling kind they are—or, without any subtle arguing, we refer them to examples, as here we instance a Socrates, there a Diogenes, and then again that line in Caecilius,
“Wisdom is oft conceal’d in mean attire.”
For as poverty is of equal weight with all, what reason can be given why what was borne by Fabricius should be spoken of by anyone else as unsupportable when it falls upon themselves?
Of a piece with this is that other way of comforting, which consists in pointing out that nothing has happened but what is common to human nature; for this argument does not only inform us what human nature is, but implies that all things are tolerable which others have borne and are bearing.
But how will anyone be enabled to bear his misfortunes the better by knowing that it is unavoidable that such things should happen to man? Saying this subtracts nothing from the sum of the grief: it only asserts that nothing has fallen out but what might have been anticipated; and yet this manner of speaking has some little consolation in it, though I apprehend not a great deal.
Therefore, those unlooked-for things have not so much force as to give rise to all our grief; the blow perhaps may fall the heavier, but whatever happens does not appear the greater on that account. No, it is the fact of its having happened lately, and not of its having befallen us unexpectedly, that makes it seem the greater.
There are two ways, then, of discerning the truth, not only of things that seem evil, but of those that have the appearance of good.
For we either inquire into the nature of the thing, of what description, and magnitude, and importance it is—as sometimes with regard to poverty, the burden of which we may lighten when by our disputations we show how few things nature requires, and of what a trifling kind they are—or, without any subtle arguing, we refer them to examples, as here we instance a Socrates, there a Diogenes, and then again that line in Caecilius,
“Wisdom is oft conceal’d in mean attire.”
For as poverty is of equal weight with all, what reason can be given why what was borne by Fabricius should be spoken of by anyone else as unsupportable when it falls upon themselves?
Of a piece with this is that other way of comforting, which consists in pointing out that nothing has happened but what is common to human nature; for this argument does not only inform us what human nature is, but implies that all things are tolerable which others have borne and are bearing.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.23
I had a colleague a few years back, of whom I was very fond, though I sometime struggled to be patient with a few of his eccentricities. He proclaimed himself a survivalist, and he would regularly warn me about all the terrible events that were sure to occur in the near future. As he was so certain he knew what was coming, he felt confident enough to lord it over the rest of us.
Now I could see how a generator and a well-stocked pantry would help when the power grid failed and the economy collapsed, but I did once ask him how his prophecies of doom were going to keep him from being vaporized when the ICBM’s fell on downtown Boston.
Even if he somehow had advance warning of their arrival, running to the forest in Maine wasn’t going to spare his life. In fact, his death would just be more prolonged and painful.
“Well, at least I’ll waste away with my eyes wide open!”
I’m not sure how he found much comfort in that. If it is inevitable, as suffering in this life, whatever the specific form, must surely be, no amount of foresight will remove it. I may steel my resolve, but I will not excise the pain.
In contrast, a friend from high school took an opposite approach, and would tell us how we were blessed if we remained oblivious to the horrors that awaited us. “What you don’t know can’t hurt you!”
I beg to disagree, for there will still be a boatload of hurt; it will just be a bit more startling when it hits. And once again, I find myself acutely aware of how neither the presence nor the absence of a prophecy is going to change what comes my way, though a general formation of my character will grant me the power to cope with both the pleasant and the unpleasant.
If the Cyrenaics meant that a soul already filled with courage can face most any obstacle, however predictable, I am quite sympathetic, and yet no amount of singular prescience can take the place of a mind and a will that are prepared for anything that happens. An awareness of the particular challenge is of far less importance than a disposition of universal acceptance. Is this not a lesson from so many of the Greek tragedies?
And this is why Cicero now explains how human reason has the ability to both understand the identity of something in itself and directly, and to appeal to some example for the sake of revealing a certain likeness. The one is more critical, the other more instinctive.
I can theoretically reflect upon our common human nature, which all of us share in together, and conclude why, if virtue is the highest good, I should never despair in the face of circumstances.
I can also appeal to a vivid illustration, which will then encourage me to feel how, if Socrates or Diogenes could face the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, this is also something that remains within my power.
Either method will do, and it doesn’t have to be fancy to be effective. Behind any of it is the greater recognition that a man is never made by what happens to him, and that the human capacity to find purpose and joy in distress should never be underestimated. Death may be inevitable, but crippling grief doesn’t have to be.
I had a colleague a few years back, of whom I was very fond, though I sometime struggled to be patient with a few of his eccentricities. He proclaimed himself a survivalist, and he would regularly warn me about all the terrible events that were sure to occur in the near future. As he was so certain he knew what was coming, he felt confident enough to lord it over the rest of us.
Now I could see how a generator and a well-stocked pantry would help when the power grid failed and the economy collapsed, but I did once ask him how his prophecies of doom were going to keep him from being vaporized when the ICBM’s fell on downtown Boston.
Even if he somehow had advance warning of their arrival, running to the forest in Maine wasn’t going to spare his life. In fact, his death would just be more prolonged and painful.
“Well, at least I’ll waste away with my eyes wide open!”
I’m not sure how he found much comfort in that. If it is inevitable, as suffering in this life, whatever the specific form, must surely be, no amount of foresight will remove it. I may steel my resolve, but I will not excise the pain.
In contrast, a friend from high school took an opposite approach, and would tell us how we were blessed if we remained oblivious to the horrors that awaited us. “What you don’t know can’t hurt you!”
I beg to disagree, for there will still be a boatload of hurt; it will just be a bit more startling when it hits. And once again, I find myself acutely aware of how neither the presence nor the absence of a prophecy is going to change what comes my way, though a general formation of my character will grant me the power to cope with both the pleasant and the unpleasant.
If the Cyrenaics meant that a soul already filled with courage can face most any obstacle, however predictable, I am quite sympathetic, and yet no amount of singular prescience can take the place of a mind and a will that are prepared for anything that happens. An awareness of the particular challenge is of far less importance than a disposition of universal acceptance. Is this not a lesson from so many of the Greek tragedies?
And this is why Cicero now explains how human reason has the ability to both understand the identity of something in itself and directly, and to appeal to some example for the sake of revealing a certain likeness. The one is more critical, the other more instinctive.
I can theoretically reflect upon our common human nature, which all of us share in together, and conclude why, if virtue is the highest good, I should never despair in the face of circumstances.
I can also appeal to a vivid illustration, which will then encourage me to feel how, if Socrates or Diogenes could face the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, this is also something that remains within my power.
Either method will do, and it doesn’t have to be fancy to be effective. Behind any of it is the greater recognition that a man is never made by what happens to him, and that the human capacity to find purpose and joy in distress should never be underestimated. Death may be inevitable, but crippling grief doesn’t have to be.
—Reflection written in 12/1998
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