The same thing holds true, I assure you, concerning goods; you will find one amid circumstances of pure pleasure, another amid sorrow and bitterness. The one controls the favors of fortune; the other overcomes her onslaughts.
Each is equally a good, although the one travels a level and easy road, and the other a rough road. And the end of them all is the same: they are goods, they are worthy of praise, they accompany virtue and reason. Virtue makes all the things that it acknowledges equal to one another.
You need not wonder that this is one of our principles; we find mentioned in the works of Epicurus two goods, of which his Supreme Good, or blessedness, is composed, namely, a body free from pain and a soul free from disturbance.
These goods, if they are complete, do not increase; for how can that which is complete increase? The body is, let us suppose, free from pain; what increase can there be to this absence of pain? The soul is composed and calm; what increase can there be to this tranquility?
Just as fair weather, purified into the purest brilliancy, does not admit of a still greater degree of clearness; so, when a man takes care of his body and of his soul, weaving the texture of his good from both, his condition is perfect, and he has found the consummation of his prayers, if there is no commotion in his soul or pain in his body.
Whatever delights fall to his lot over and above these two things do not increase his Supreme Good; they merely season it, so to speak, and add spice to it. For the absolute good of man's nature is satisfied with peace in the body and peace in the soul.
I can show you at this moment in the writings of Epicurus a graded list of goods just like that of our own school. For there are some things, he declares, which he prefers should fall to his lot, such as bodily rest free from all inconvenience, and relaxation of the soul as it takes delight in the contemplation of its own goods.
And there are other things which, though he would prefer that they did not happen, he nevertheless praises and approves—for example, the kind of resignation, in times of ill-health and serious suffering, to which I alluded a moment ago, and which Epicurus displayed on that last and most blessed day of his life.
For he tells us that he had to endure excruciating agony from a diseased bladder and from an ulcerated stomach—so acute that it permitted no increase of pain; "and yet," he says, "that day was none the less happy." And no man can spend such a day in happiness unless he possesses the Supreme Good.
Each is equally a good, although the one travels a level and easy road, and the other a rough road. And the end of them all is the same: they are goods, they are worthy of praise, they accompany virtue and reason. Virtue makes all the things that it acknowledges equal to one another.
You need not wonder that this is one of our principles; we find mentioned in the works of Epicurus two goods, of which his Supreme Good, or blessedness, is composed, namely, a body free from pain and a soul free from disturbance.
These goods, if they are complete, do not increase; for how can that which is complete increase? The body is, let us suppose, free from pain; what increase can there be to this absence of pain? The soul is composed and calm; what increase can there be to this tranquility?
Just as fair weather, purified into the purest brilliancy, does not admit of a still greater degree of clearness; so, when a man takes care of his body and of his soul, weaving the texture of his good from both, his condition is perfect, and he has found the consummation of his prayers, if there is no commotion in his soul or pain in his body.
Whatever delights fall to his lot over and above these two things do not increase his Supreme Good; they merely season it, so to speak, and add spice to it. For the absolute good of man's nature is satisfied with peace in the body and peace in the soul.
I can show you at this moment in the writings of Epicurus a graded list of goods just like that of our own school. For there are some things, he declares, which he prefers should fall to his lot, such as bodily rest free from all inconvenience, and relaxation of the soul as it takes delight in the contemplation of its own goods.
And there are other things which, though he would prefer that they did not happen, he nevertheless praises and approves—for example, the kind of resignation, in times of ill-health and serious suffering, to which I alluded a moment ago, and which Epicurus displayed on that last and most blessed day of his life.
For he tells us that he had to endure excruciating agony from a diseased bladder and from an ulcerated stomach—so acute that it permitted no increase of pain; "and yet," he says, "that day was none the less happy." And no man can spend such a day in happiness unless he possesses the Supreme Good.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 66
I can distinguish the degrees as much as I like, but it remains absolutely the same in kind. Though I am fascinated by the ornate scenery, I must stay focused on the purity of the action.
Just recently, I was making one of my weekly trips to the grocery store, which I actually enjoy as a leisurely time to observe people doing quite ordinary things. I passed by an elderly lady, who was hunched over a cane and walking with great difficulty. I smiled and nodded at her, only to be met with the sort of glare that only the aged can muster. I then spent the next five minutes struggling not to feel any bitterness toward her. Yes, my moods are often that precarious.
Later, at the checkout counter, she was straining to remove items from her cart, and the cane slipped out from under her. In a flash, a young fellow seemingly came out of nowhere to grab her arm. He then helped with her bags. She glared at him the whole time, yet he patiently stood by her.
If I had glanced at him casually, I might have made all sorts of assumptions about how he lived in his parents’ basement, and that he surely smoked pot and played video games all day. I would be mistaken to be so shallow. Human decency is to be found everywhere, and it doesn’t need to have any bells and whistles attached.
To do the right thing, for the right reasons, is the height of the human condition, and there can be nothing higher. Fame and fortune may be present, or they may be absent, and it doesn’t matter one bit. The setting may be sensational, or it may be tiresome, and the virtue remains identical. It is enough, because the vessel is now filled to the brim.
As much as the Stoic likes to bicker with the Epicurean, it should say something that even the “hedonist”, understood broadly and without any malice, has a reverence for the highest good. One school relates it to virtue and vice, and the other school relates it to pleasure and pain, yet both are aiming for the ultimate, and they realize how it may be found under any conditions.
As my health has gradually declined over the last year, I have mightily resisted the temptation—you guessed it—to use this as another occasion for resentment. If Epicurus could find his happiness in the midst of agony, what is holding me back? It is only my fixation with petty diversions, my vanity in believing that my dignity is somehow bound to receiving convenience, esteem, and prosperity. I am reworking my definition of what it means to be rich.
All too often, it turns out that what I prefer is not necessarily what I need. Did the Good Samaritan curse his misfortune in stumbling across a hapless victim? Did he worry about how this would affect his finances or alter his social standing? I’m glad Jesus told that story, though it didn’t need to be told in order for it to already be perfect in itself.
I can distinguish the degrees as much as I like, but it remains absolutely the same in kind. Though I am fascinated by the ornate scenery, I must stay focused on the purity of the action.
Just recently, I was making one of my weekly trips to the grocery store, which I actually enjoy as a leisurely time to observe people doing quite ordinary things. I passed by an elderly lady, who was hunched over a cane and walking with great difficulty. I smiled and nodded at her, only to be met with the sort of glare that only the aged can muster. I then spent the next five minutes struggling not to feel any bitterness toward her. Yes, my moods are often that precarious.
Later, at the checkout counter, she was straining to remove items from her cart, and the cane slipped out from under her. In a flash, a young fellow seemingly came out of nowhere to grab her arm. He then helped with her bags. She glared at him the whole time, yet he patiently stood by her.
If I had glanced at him casually, I might have made all sorts of assumptions about how he lived in his parents’ basement, and that he surely smoked pot and played video games all day. I would be mistaken to be so shallow. Human decency is to be found everywhere, and it doesn’t need to have any bells and whistles attached.
To do the right thing, for the right reasons, is the height of the human condition, and there can be nothing higher. Fame and fortune may be present, or they may be absent, and it doesn’t matter one bit. The setting may be sensational, or it may be tiresome, and the virtue remains identical. It is enough, because the vessel is now filled to the brim.
As much as the Stoic likes to bicker with the Epicurean, it should say something that even the “hedonist”, understood broadly and without any malice, has a reverence for the highest good. One school relates it to virtue and vice, and the other school relates it to pleasure and pain, yet both are aiming for the ultimate, and they realize how it may be found under any conditions.
As my health has gradually declined over the last year, I have mightily resisted the temptation—you guessed it—to use this as another occasion for resentment. If Epicurus could find his happiness in the midst of agony, what is holding me back? It is only my fixation with petty diversions, my vanity in believing that my dignity is somehow bound to receiving convenience, esteem, and prosperity. I am reworking my definition of what it means to be rich.
All too often, it turns out that what I prefer is not necessarily what I need. Did the Good Samaritan curse his misfortune in stumbling across a hapless victim? Did he worry about how this would affect his finances or alter his social standing? I’m glad Jesus told that story, though it didn’t need to be told in order for it to already be perfect in itself.
—Reflection written in 7/2013
IMAGE: Balthasar van Cortbemde, The Good Samaritan (1647)
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