M. But as besides this opinion of great evil there is this other added also—that we ought to lament what has happened, that it is right so to do, and part of our duty, then is brought about that terrible disorder of mind, grief.
And it is to this opinion that we owe all those various and horrid kinds of lamentation, that neglect of our persons, that womanish tearing of our cheeks, that striking on our thighs, breasts, and heads. Thus Agamemnon, in Homer and in Accius,
“Tears in his grief his uncomb’d locks;”
from whence comes that pleasant saying of Bion, that the foolish king in his sorrow tore away the hairs of his head, imagining that his grief would be alleviated by baldness.
But men do all these things from being persuaded that they ought to do so. And thus Aeschines inveighs against Demosthenes for sacrificing within seven days after the death of his daughter.
But with what eloquence, with what fluency, does he attack him! What sentiments does he collect! What words does he hurl against him! You may see by this that an orator may do anything; but nobody would approve of such license if it were not that we have an idea innate in our minds that every good man ought to lament the loss of a relation as bitterly as possible.
And it is owing to this that some men, when in sorrow, betake themselves to deserts, as Homer says of Bellerophon:
“Distracted in his mind,
Forsook by heaven, forsaking human kind,
Wide o’er the Aleïan field he chose to stray,
A long, forlorn, uncomfortable way!”
And thus Niobe is feigned to have been turned into stone, from her never speaking, I suppose, in her grief. But they imagine Hecuba to have been converted into a bitch, from her rage and bitterness of mind. There are others who love to converse with solitude itself when in grief, as the nurse in Ennius,
“Fain would I to the heavens find earth relate
Medea’s ceaseless woes and cruel fate."
And it is to this opinion that we owe all those various and horrid kinds of lamentation, that neglect of our persons, that womanish tearing of our cheeks, that striking on our thighs, breasts, and heads. Thus Agamemnon, in Homer and in Accius,
“Tears in his grief his uncomb’d locks;”
from whence comes that pleasant saying of Bion, that the foolish king in his sorrow tore away the hairs of his head, imagining that his grief would be alleviated by baldness.
But men do all these things from being persuaded that they ought to do so. And thus Aeschines inveighs against Demosthenes for sacrificing within seven days after the death of his daughter.
But with what eloquence, with what fluency, does he attack him! What sentiments does he collect! What words does he hurl against him! You may see by this that an orator may do anything; but nobody would approve of such license if it were not that we have an idea innate in our minds that every good man ought to lament the loss of a relation as bitterly as possible.
And it is owing to this that some men, when in sorrow, betake themselves to deserts, as Homer says of Bellerophon:
“Distracted in his mind,
Forsook by heaven, forsaking human kind,
Wide o’er the Aleïan field he chose to stray,
A long, forlorn, uncomfortable way!”
And thus Niobe is feigned to have been turned into stone, from her never speaking, I suppose, in her grief. But they imagine Hecuba to have been converted into a bitch, from her rage and bitterness of mind. There are others who love to converse with solitude itself when in grief, as the nurse in Ennius,
“Fain would I to the heavens find earth relate
Medea’s ceaseless woes and cruel fate."
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.26
It is natural for me to feel pain, and it is natural for me to express that pain in a manner that others can understand, yet I do myself a grave disservice when I dwell upon resentment, and I do others a grave disservice when I take advantage of them to validate my grievances. Whatever form they might take, are my lamentations truly about improving myself or merely about begging for pity?
Whether my grieving is a healthy release or an unhealthy groveling is a question of my intentions, which in turn are a reflection of my deeper values. If I discern the good in my capacity to make the right use of hardship, I am on my way to becoming a better man. If, however, I expect the world to relieve me of my troubles, I have already surrendered to suffering.
My own family were usually very quiet about their losses, such that I learned how the best way to help was offering a sincere but brief encouragement, and then letting time do its work. A kind glance or a gentle touch would often be enough, and I can think of very few instances when more extensive sympathy was required.
I do, understand, however, why this could seem cold to others, who had different ways of managing grief. Some people I knew would weep and cry out, while finding comfort in many words of consolation. I do still have regrets about maintaining a silence I took to be reverence when a more direct compassion may have been more fitting.
Nevertheless, whatever the intensity to the language of mourning, I slowly but surely noticed the contrast between those who were genuinely working it out and those who were putting on an elaborate act. There are times to embrace sadness, and then there are times when the melancholy has become a self-imposed burden.
Even as I was both confused and frustrated by the exaggerated examples of grief from literature, I became far more sensitive to them once the distress hit closer to home. I never tore out my hair, as they did in the Greek myths, though I did once make my knuckles bloody and bruised by repeatedly punching a brick wall. I had an epiphany on that day about the line between sorrow and playing the victim.
Bion wasn’t being mean-spirited when he observed how the loss of hair won’t cure a loss in the soul, and Aeschines wasn’t being noble when he scolded Demosthenes for failing to follow some showy routine. I must be careful not to permit pain to become despair, sadness to be warped into anger, the blues to drift into blackness.
It is natural for me to feel pain, and it is natural for me to express that pain in a manner that others can understand, yet I do myself a grave disservice when I dwell upon resentment, and I do others a grave disservice when I take advantage of them to validate my grievances. Whatever form they might take, are my lamentations truly about improving myself or merely about begging for pity?
Whether my grieving is a healthy release or an unhealthy groveling is a question of my intentions, which in turn are a reflection of my deeper values. If I discern the good in my capacity to make the right use of hardship, I am on my way to becoming a better man. If, however, I expect the world to relieve me of my troubles, I have already surrendered to suffering.
My own family were usually very quiet about their losses, such that I learned how the best way to help was offering a sincere but brief encouragement, and then letting time do its work. A kind glance or a gentle touch would often be enough, and I can think of very few instances when more extensive sympathy was required.
I do, understand, however, why this could seem cold to others, who had different ways of managing grief. Some people I knew would weep and cry out, while finding comfort in many words of consolation. I do still have regrets about maintaining a silence I took to be reverence when a more direct compassion may have been more fitting.
Nevertheless, whatever the intensity to the language of mourning, I slowly but surely noticed the contrast between those who were genuinely working it out and those who were putting on an elaborate act. There are times to embrace sadness, and then there are times when the melancholy has become a self-imposed burden.
Even as I was both confused and frustrated by the exaggerated examples of grief from literature, I became far more sensitive to them once the distress hit closer to home. I never tore out my hair, as they did in the Greek myths, though I did once make my knuckles bloody and bruised by repeatedly punching a brick wall. I had an epiphany on that day about the line between sorrow and playing the victim.
Bion wasn’t being mean-spirited when he observed how the loss of hair won’t cure a loss in the soul, and Aeschines wasn’t being noble when he scolded Demosthenes for failing to follow some showy routine. I must be careful not to permit pain to become despair, sadness to be warped into anger, the blues to drift into blackness.
—Reflection written in 12/1998
IMAGE: Leonaert Bramer, Hecuba's Grief (c. 1630)
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