M. Now all these things are done in grief, from a persuasion of their truth and propriety and necessity; and it is plain that those who behave thus do so from a conviction of its being their duty; for should these mourners by chance drop their grief, and either act or speak for a moment in a more calm or cheerful manner, they presently check themselves and return to their lamentations again, and blame themselves for having been guilty of any intermissions from their grief.
And parents and masters generally correct children not by words only, but by blows, if they show any levity by either word or deed when the family is under affliction, and, as it were, oblige them to be sorrowful.
What! Does it not appear, when you have ceased to mourn, and have discovered that your grief has been ineffectual, that the whole of that mourning was voluntary on your part?
What does that man say in Terence who punishes himself, the Self-tormentor?
“I think I do my son less harm, O Chremes,
As long as I myself am miserable.”
He determines to be miserable: and can anyone determine on anything against his will?
“I well might think that I deserved all evil.”
He would think he deserved any misfortune were he otherwise than miserable!
Therefore, you see, the evil is in opinion, not in nature. How is it when some things do of themselves prevent your grieving at them? As in Homer, so many died and were buried daily that they had not leisure to grieve: where you find these lines,
“The great, the bold, by thousands daily fall,
And endless were the grief to weep for all.
Eternal sorrows what avails to shed?
Greece honors not with solemn fasts the dead:
Enough when death demands the brave to pay
The tribute of a melancholy day.
One chief with patience to the grave resign’d,
Our care devolves on others left behind.”
Therefore, it is in our own power to lay aside grief upon occasion; and is there any opportunity (seeing the thing is in our own power) that we should let slip of getting rid of care and grief?
It was plain that the friends of Gnaeus Pompeius, when they saw him fainting under his wounds, at the very moment of that most miserable and bitter sight were under great uneasiness how they themselves, surrounded by the enemy as they were, should escape, and were employed in nothing but encouraging the rowers and aiding their escape; but when they reached Tyre, they began to grieve and lament over him.
Therefore, as fear with them, prevailed over grief, cannot reason and true philosophy have the same effect with a wise man?
And parents and masters generally correct children not by words only, but by blows, if they show any levity by either word or deed when the family is under affliction, and, as it were, oblige them to be sorrowful.
What! Does it not appear, when you have ceased to mourn, and have discovered that your grief has been ineffectual, that the whole of that mourning was voluntary on your part?
What does that man say in Terence who punishes himself, the Self-tormentor?
“I think I do my son less harm, O Chremes,
As long as I myself am miserable.”
He determines to be miserable: and can anyone determine on anything against his will?
“I well might think that I deserved all evil.”
He would think he deserved any misfortune were he otherwise than miserable!
Therefore, you see, the evil is in opinion, not in nature. How is it when some things do of themselves prevent your grieving at them? As in Homer, so many died and were buried daily that they had not leisure to grieve: where you find these lines,
“The great, the bold, by thousands daily fall,
And endless were the grief to weep for all.
Eternal sorrows what avails to shed?
Greece honors not with solemn fasts the dead:
Enough when death demands the brave to pay
The tribute of a melancholy day.
One chief with patience to the grave resign’d,
Our care devolves on others left behind.”
Therefore, it is in our own power to lay aside grief upon occasion; and is there any opportunity (seeing the thing is in our own power) that we should let slip of getting rid of care and grief?
It was plain that the friends of Gnaeus Pompeius, when they saw him fainting under his wounds, at the very moment of that most miserable and bitter sight were under great uneasiness how they themselves, surrounded by the enemy as they were, should escape, and were employed in nothing but encouraging the rowers and aiding their escape; but when they reached Tyre, they began to grieve and lament over him.
Therefore, as fear with them, prevailed over grief, cannot reason and true philosophy have the same effect with a wise man?
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.27
If I still believe that I am helpless against the mighty force of grief, and if I feel like all this theory is of no help in practice, let me remember how my concrete response to my loss is my own, and why it is within my power to decide how and when I will mourn, depending upon my estimation of where I place my true good.
However complex or subtle my motives may be, I will choose to do something because I think I ought to do so. Perhaps that judgment is rightly informed, or perhaps it is grounded in ignorance, but I submit to sorrow when it seems to be the best option. In many cases, I will feel it is my responsibility to be in anguish, for my fellows expect me to behave in such a manner.
Note how I have already decided to let others make my decisions for me, though it remains within my control to reclaim that authority at any moment. If I am working from the assumption that my merit lies in popular approval, I will feel ashamed when I am met with censure, and so I return to a state of conformity. Yet could I not go my own way, a way in harmony with nature, not a surrender to opinion?
I am grateful to Cicero for reminding me of all those times when I found myself experiencing joy, and nevertheless forced myself back into the misery that was demanded of me. The proof of my self-sufficiency, and the abuse of that capacity, is right there in the way I commit, but then second-guess myself. It is as if I have realized I don’t need to be sad, and then I revert to the gloom by doubting my own convictions.
In my early teenage years, a whole string of close relatives died within a very few years. Of course I felt their absence deeply, though I still had it within me to find happiness in remembering them fondly, and I was confused by how some people though this wasn’t how it “should be done”.
Certain morbid phrases had to be repeated, certain formal gestures of hand-wringing were required, and certain formalities of trading condolences became the norm. A distant cousin I barely knew complained to my father about how I mentioned my Nana’s love of shortbread cookies after her funeral. It was as if any shred of happiness had to be violently excised.
The fact was that I still had the sense to look for the good, while I felt pressured to dwell upon the bad. It did reveal something, however, about the way melancholy is so often a self-inflicted suffering, and why I need only be more confident in my own conscience to break out of the vicious cycle.
Contrary to the attitude of the naysayers, pain may be a necessity, but continued suffering is never a requirement. I don’t have to be desolate if I choose not to be, and if I understand my duties correctly. Pompey’s companions held off their grief until after they had escaped from danger, just as soldiers in any time or place recognize how the calling of the moment overrides the urge to capitulate to despair.
Though fear of any sort is a potent motivator to snap myself out of grief, the deliberate use of reason is an even more powerful tool to conquer sadness.
If I still believe that I am helpless against the mighty force of grief, and if I feel like all this theory is of no help in practice, let me remember how my concrete response to my loss is my own, and why it is within my power to decide how and when I will mourn, depending upon my estimation of where I place my true good.
However complex or subtle my motives may be, I will choose to do something because I think I ought to do so. Perhaps that judgment is rightly informed, or perhaps it is grounded in ignorance, but I submit to sorrow when it seems to be the best option. In many cases, I will feel it is my responsibility to be in anguish, for my fellows expect me to behave in such a manner.
Note how I have already decided to let others make my decisions for me, though it remains within my control to reclaim that authority at any moment. If I am working from the assumption that my merit lies in popular approval, I will feel ashamed when I am met with censure, and so I return to a state of conformity. Yet could I not go my own way, a way in harmony with nature, not a surrender to opinion?
I am grateful to Cicero for reminding me of all those times when I found myself experiencing joy, and nevertheless forced myself back into the misery that was demanded of me. The proof of my self-sufficiency, and the abuse of that capacity, is right there in the way I commit, but then second-guess myself. It is as if I have realized I don’t need to be sad, and then I revert to the gloom by doubting my own convictions.
In my early teenage years, a whole string of close relatives died within a very few years. Of course I felt their absence deeply, though I still had it within me to find happiness in remembering them fondly, and I was confused by how some people though this wasn’t how it “should be done”.
Certain morbid phrases had to be repeated, certain formal gestures of hand-wringing were required, and certain formalities of trading condolences became the norm. A distant cousin I barely knew complained to my father about how I mentioned my Nana’s love of shortbread cookies after her funeral. It was as if any shred of happiness had to be violently excised.
The fact was that I still had the sense to look for the good, while I felt pressured to dwell upon the bad. It did reveal something, however, about the way melancholy is so often a self-inflicted suffering, and why I need only be more confident in my own conscience to break out of the vicious cycle.
Contrary to the attitude of the naysayers, pain may be a necessity, but continued suffering is never a requirement. I don’t have to be desolate if I choose not to be, and if I understand my duties correctly. Pompey’s companions held off their grief until after they had escaped from danger, just as soldiers in any time or place recognize how the calling of the moment overrides the urge to capitulate to despair.
Though fear of any sort is a potent motivator to snap myself out of grief, the deliberate use of reason is an even more powerful tool to conquer sadness.
—Reflection written in 12/1998
IMAGE: Hans Larwin, Soldier and Death (1917)
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