Do what you mean to do
IMAGE: John Pettie, The Vigil (1884)
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The Death of Marcus Aurelius
Tuesday, June 25, 2024
Seneca, Moral Letters 70.8
You need not think that none but great men have had the strength to burst the bonds of human servitude; you need not believe that this cannot be done except by a Cato—Cato, who with his hand dragged forth the spirit which he had not succeeded in freeing by the sword.
Nay, men of the meanest lot in life have by a mighty impulse escaped to safety, and when they were not allowed to die at their own convenience, or to suit themselves in their choice of the instruments of death, they have snatched up whatever was lying ready to hand, and by sheer strength have turned objects which were by nature harmless into weapons of their own.
For example, there was lately in a training-school for wild-beast gladiators a German, who was making ready for the morning exhibition; he withdrew in order to relieve himself—the only thing which he was allowed to do in secret and without the presence of a guard.
While so engaged, he seized the stick of wood, tipped with a sponge, which was devoted to the vilest uses, and stuffed it, just as it was, down his throat; thus he blocked up his windpipe, and choked the breath from his body. That was truly to insult death!
Yes, indeed; it was not a very elegant or becoming way to die; but what is more foolish than to be over-nice about dying? What a brave fellow! He surely deserved to be allowed to choose his fate! How bravely he would have wielded a sword! With what courage he would have hurled himself into the depths of the sea, or down a precipice!
Cut off from resources on every hand, he yet found a way to furnish himself with death, and with a weapon for death. Hence you can understand that nothing but the will need postpone death. Let each man judge the deed of this most zealous fellow as he likes, provided we agree on this point—that the foulest death is preferable to the fairest slavery.
Nay, men of the meanest lot in life have by a mighty impulse escaped to safety, and when they were not allowed to die at their own convenience, or to suit themselves in their choice of the instruments of death, they have snatched up whatever was lying ready to hand, and by sheer strength have turned objects which were by nature harmless into weapons of their own.
For example, there was lately in a training-school for wild-beast gladiators a German, who was making ready for the morning exhibition; he withdrew in order to relieve himself—the only thing which he was allowed to do in secret and without the presence of a guard.
While so engaged, he seized the stick of wood, tipped with a sponge, which was devoted to the vilest uses, and stuffed it, just as it was, down his throat; thus he blocked up his windpipe, and choked the breath from his body. That was truly to insult death!
Yes, indeed; it was not a very elegant or becoming way to die; but what is more foolish than to be over-nice about dying? What a brave fellow! He surely deserved to be allowed to choose his fate! How bravely he would have wielded a sword! With what courage he would have hurled himself into the depths of the sea, or down a precipice!
Cut off from resources on every hand, he yet found a way to furnish himself with death, and with a weapon for death. Hence you can understand that nothing but the will need postpone death. Let each man judge the deed of this most zealous fellow as he likes, provided we agree on this point—that the foulest death is preferable to the fairest slavery.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 70
You need not have a squeamish disposition to find this tale disturbing, and yet Seneca presents it as a triumph of the highest order. I admit I had to think the matter through for quite some time before I could even begin to appreciate the courage of this nameless gladiator. As always with anything Stoic, it only becomes possible when the priorities are flipped.
The context is important, for the German’s unsung act is meant to contrast with the celebrated martyrdom of Cato. We may gasp with admiration when we hear of “great men” doing extraordinary deeds, but we believe it impossible for the everyman to be so noble, and perhaps even condemn his brutish ways, while still praising the renowned hero. If Cato fills me with awe, why not this barbarian? If any slave can do it, what is keeping me from being extraordinary in all my ordinariness?
Recall that when Cato pierced his own belly, the wound was not fatal, and so he had to rip out his entrails with his hands. The standing of the man should not be the question, though I am not yet convinced that anyone ever needs to take this path of extreme violence. Might it have been better for Cato, or for the German, to endure humiliation as a captive for the sake of the virtues?
It then occurred to me why it is one thing to bear an evil, and then another to cooperate with an evil, however indirectly. If a self-appointed tyrant, by the sheer exercise of force, commands me to surrender my judgment and to engage in base practices, I am fairly certain I should refuse; the liberty of my conscience is at stake, not just the liberty of my body. Assuming no other option remains open to me, I am free to lose my life before I lose my integrity.
I should not assume that a self-sacrifice is the same as a “suicide”, or that it is necessarily a consequence of fear, or of despair, or even of spite—it can also be a final statement of conviction. To do the right thing, it is better to abandon something lesser for the sake of something greater. Both Cato and the German slave affirmed their ultimate mastery over themselves by firmly denying it to their would-be conquerors.
You need not have a squeamish disposition to find this tale disturbing, and yet Seneca presents it as a triumph of the highest order. I admit I had to think the matter through for quite some time before I could even begin to appreciate the courage of this nameless gladiator. As always with anything Stoic, it only becomes possible when the priorities are flipped.
The context is important, for the German’s unsung act is meant to contrast with the celebrated martyrdom of Cato. We may gasp with admiration when we hear of “great men” doing extraordinary deeds, but we believe it impossible for the everyman to be so noble, and perhaps even condemn his brutish ways, while still praising the renowned hero. If Cato fills me with awe, why not this barbarian? If any slave can do it, what is keeping me from being extraordinary in all my ordinariness?
Recall that when Cato pierced his own belly, the wound was not fatal, and so he had to rip out his entrails with his hands. The standing of the man should not be the question, though I am not yet convinced that anyone ever needs to take this path of extreme violence. Might it have been better for Cato, or for the German, to endure humiliation as a captive for the sake of the virtues?
It then occurred to me why it is one thing to bear an evil, and then another to cooperate with an evil, however indirectly. If a self-appointed tyrant, by the sheer exercise of force, commands me to surrender my judgment and to engage in base practices, I am fairly certain I should refuse; the liberty of my conscience is at stake, not just the liberty of my body. Assuming no other option remains open to me, I am free to lose my life before I lose my integrity.
I should not assume that a self-sacrifice is the same as a “suicide”, or that it is necessarily a consequence of fear, or of despair, or even of spite—it can also be a final statement of conviction. To do the right thing, it is better to abandon something lesser for the sake of something greater. Both Cato and the German slave affirmed their ultimate mastery over themselves by firmly denying it to their would-be conquerors.
—Reflection written in 8/2013
Monday, June 24, 2024
Sayings of Ramakrishna 246
The iron must be heated several times and hammered before it becomes good steel. Then only it becomes fit to be made into a sharp sword, and can be bent any way you like.
So a man must be heated several times in the furnace of tribulations, and hammered with the persecutions of the world, before he becomes pure and humble.
Tidbits from Montaigne 64
—Michel de Montaigne, Essays 3.13
IMAGE: Carl Schleicher, An Argument over the Talmud (c. 1860)
Seneca, Moral Letters 70.7
What, then, is it which makes us lazy and sluggish? None of us reflects that someday he must depart from this house of life; just so old tenants are kept from moving by fondness for a particular place and by custom, even in spite of ill-treatment.
Would you be free from the restraint of your body? Live in it as if you were about to leave it. Keep thinking of the fact that someday you will be deprived of this tenure; then you will be more brave against the necessity of departing.
But how will a man take thought of his own end, if he craves all things without end? And yet there is nothing so essential for us to consider. For our training in other things is perhaps superfluous.
Our souls have been made ready to meet poverty; but our riches have held out. We have armed ourselves to scorn pain; but we have had the good fortune to possess sound and healthy bodies, and so have never been forced to put this virtue to the test. We have taught ourselves to endure bravely the loss of those we love; but Fortune has preserved to us all whom we loved.
It is in this one matter only that the day will come which will require us to test our training.
Would you be free from the restraint of your body? Live in it as if you were about to leave it. Keep thinking of the fact that someday you will be deprived of this tenure; then you will be more brave against the necessity of departing.
But how will a man take thought of his own end, if he craves all things without end? And yet there is nothing so essential for us to consider. For our training in other things is perhaps superfluous.
Our souls have been made ready to meet poverty; but our riches have held out. We have armed ourselves to scorn pain; but we have had the good fortune to possess sound and healthy bodies, and so have never been forced to put this virtue to the test. We have taught ourselves to endure bravely the loss of those we love; but Fortune has preserved to us all whom we loved.
It is in this one matter only that the day will come which will require us to test our training.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 70
For all of our intellectual ruminations, I have a hunch that we are really approaching death with our feelings first, gripped by fear and panic. In clinging so desperately to mere existence, we ignore how Nature delights in change, and so we neglect to embrace our true essence—that this life must end is a very condition for learning to thrive in the virtues.
In other words, we don’t want to go, because we haven’t yet figured out why we are even here. Once we do discover our purpose, however, the prospect of dying is no longer so dreadful. Indeed, it can even become a sort of relief from the trials of Fortune, in the knowledge that the job was well done.
If I have already achieved what I was put here to do, why be terrified of moving on? More time will not make me any better, and I can choose to become a good man right now, at this very instant. I am the only obstacle. What I was will be reformed into something new, and the cycle will continue, in all of its beauty.
When I wish to be liberated from the burden of pain, I can remember how tenuous my hold on this life really is, not in a morbid way, but as a challenge to rise to the occasion. My problem is that I am still longing to receive more, when what I already have within me is enough. Everything else I do is quite secondary to the task of taking a hold of my responsibility to be genuinely human.
Once you have given me too much money, I run the grave risk of forgetting what it means to be poor. Once you have granted me constant health, I become weaker in the face of disease. Once I receive all the things I desire, I no longer know how to do without them. Prosperity of any sort can quickly become a curse, not a blessing.
By reflecting upon my mortality, and by my willingness to surrender this life at any moment, I am simply preparing myself to do without the trivial diversions, to walk without the crutches. Dying to vain expectations is finally living in serenity.
For all of our intellectual ruminations, I have a hunch that we are really approaching death with our feelings first, gripped by fear and panic. In clinging so desperately to mere existence, we ignore how Nature delights in change, and so we neglect to embrace our true essence—that this life must end is a very condition for learning to thrive in the virtues.
In other words, we don’t want to go, because we haven’t yet figured out why we are even here. Once we do discover our purpose, however, the prospect of dying is no longer so dreadful. Indeed, it can even become a sort of relief from the trials of Fortune, in the knowledge that the job was well done.
If I have already achieved what I was put here to do, why be terrified of moving on? More time will not make me any better, and I can choose to become a good man right now, at this very instant. I am the only obstacle. What I was will be reformed into something new, and the cycle will continue, in all of its beauty.
When I wish to be liberated from the burden of pain, I can remember how tenuous my hold on this life really is, not in a morbid way, but as a challenge to rise to the occasion. My problem is that I am still longing to receive more, when what I already have within me is enough. Everything else I do is quite secondary to the task of taking a hold of my responsibility to be genuinely human.
Once you have given me too much money, I run the grave risk of forgetting what it means to be poor. Once you have granted me constant health, I become weaker in the face of disease. Once I receive all the things I desire, I no longer know how to do without them. Prosperity of any sort can quickly become a curse, not a blessing.
By reflecting upon my mortality, and by my willingness to surrender this life at any moment, I am simply preparing myself to do without the trivial diversions, to walk without the crutches. Dying to vain expectations is finally living in serenity.
—Reflection written in 8/2013
IMAGE: Hippolyt Sobeslav Pinkas, The Old Man and Death (1863)
Sunday, June 23, 2024
Stoic Snippets 243
As those who try to stand in your way when you are proceeding according to right reason will not be able to turn you aside from your proper action, so neither let them drive you from your benevolent feelings toward them, but be on your guard equally in both matters, not only in the matter of steady judgment and action, but also in the matter of gentleness to those who try to hinder or otherwise trouble you.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 11.9
IMAGE: Charles Spencelayh, That Damned Cat (c. 1920)
Saturday, June 22, 2024
Netherlandish Proverbs 1
Obstinacy overcomes everything.
Seneca, Moral Letters 70.6
You can find men who have gone so far as to profess wisdom and yet maintain that one should not offer violence to one's own life, and hold it accursed for a man to be the means of his own destruction; we should wait, say they, for the end decreed by Nature.
But one who says this does not see that he is shutting off the path to freedom. The best thing which eternal law ever ordained was that it allowed to us one entrance into life, but many exits.
Must I await the cruelty either of disease or of man, when I can depart through the midst of torture, and shake off my troubles? This is the one reason why we cannot complain of life: it keeps no one against his will.
Humanity is well situated, because no man is unhappy except by his own fault. Live, if you so desire; if not, you may return to the place whence you came.
You have often been cupped in order to relieve headaches. You have had veins cut for the purpose of reducing your weight. If you would pierce your heart, a gaping wound is not necessary; a lancet will open the way to that great freedom, and tranquility can be purchased at the cost of a pinprick.
But one who says this does not see that he is shutting off the path to freedom. The best thing which eternal law ever ordained was that it allowed to us one entrance into life, but many exits.
Must I await the cruelty either of disease or of man, when I can depart through the midst of torture, and shake off my troubles? This is the one reason why we cannot complain of life: it keeps no one against his will.
Humanity is well situated, because no man is unhappy except by his own fault. Live, if you so desire; if not, you may return to the place whence you came.
You have often been cupped in order to relieve headaches. You have had veins cut for the purpose of reducing your weight. If you would pierce your heart, a gaping wound is not necessary; a lancet will open the way to that great freedom, and tranquility can be purchased at the cost of a pinprick.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 70
I travel in academic circles where a strict intolerance for anything that even vaguely smacks of suicide is the norm, and these folks do not at all take kindly to my claim that Christ freely chose to die, even as he did not desire that death for its own sake. Socrates, and countless other fine souls, did much the same.
I would suggest we be clear on how we define “taking” our own lives, being careful to measure the act within the context of the intention. I do not believe that Seneca is proposing we treat life as cheap or disposable, but rather that we be fully responsible for leaving this world in whatever way will best increase our virtues.
First, remember that from the Stoic perspective, life or death are, strictly speaking, neither good nor bad in themselves, and are instead things to be treated with indifference. I must only ask which state will best serve the content of my character, at which point I will no longer fret over the other advantages or disadvantages of staying or going.
Second, I should not assume that Universal Nature is somehow forbidding me to exercise my human nature as a creature of reason and will. Was I not given these powers precisely so that I might serve the whole, to make my own way as best I see fit? Freedom is not in conflict with Providence, but a very expression of that Providence; my conscience has the capacity to make the most fitting use of my circumstances.
How I make my exit is a very part of how I fulfill my purpose. If reason prohibits it, I am called to refrain. If reason permits it, the option remains open. All other things being equal, to depart with dignity is my prerogative. For better or for worse, I can engage or disengage from this life, and I ultimately have no one to blame for my happiness or my misery but myself.
Cato chose to cut the cord, just as Seneca himself would do within a short time of writing this letter. While Cicero did not do the deed himself, he stretched out his neck to invite the fatal blow. There is a certain streak of “death before dishonor” among the Romans, sharing something in common with the precepts of bushido, which may now feel alien to our more delicate cultural sensibilities.
I honestly do not know if I would die by my own hand before submitting to an injustice from another, though I do know I would never question the integrity and courage of those who do. Where I might still see the possibility to do a bit more good, another might be convinced that this is the final test.
I travel in academic circles where a strict intolerance for anything that even vaguely smacks of suicide is the norm, and these folks do not at all take kindly to my claim that Christ freely chose to die, even as he did not desire that death for its own sake. Socrates, and countless other fine souls, did much the same.
I would suggest we be clear on how we define “taking” our own lives, being careful to measure the act within the context of the intention. I do not believe that Seneca is proposing we treat life as cheap or disposable, but rather that we be fully responsible for leaving this world in whatever way will best increase our virtues.
First, remember that from the Stoic perspective, life or death are, strictly speaking, neither good nor bad in themselves, and are instead things to be treated with indifference. I must only ask which state will best serve the content of my character, at which point I will no longer fret over the other advantages or disadvantages of staying or going.
Second, I should not assume that Universal Nature is somehow forbidding me to exercise my human nature as a creature of reason and will. Was I not given these powers precisely so that I might serve the whole, to make my own way as best I see fit? Freedom is not in conflict with Providence, but a very expression of that Providence; my conscience has the capacity to make the most fitting use of my circumstances.
How I make my exit is a very part of how I fulfill my purpose. If reason prohibits it, I am called to refrain. If reason permits it, the option remains open. All other things being equal, to depart with dignity is my prerogative. For better or for worse, I can engage or disengage from this life, and I ultimately have no one to blame for my happiness or my misery but myself.
Cato chose to cut the cord, just as Seneca himself would do within a short time of writing this letter. While Cicero did not do the deed himself, he stretched out his neck to invite the fatal blow. There is a certain streak of “death before dishonor” among the Romans, sharing something in common with the precepts of bushido, which may now feel alien to our more delicate cultural sensibilities.
I honestly do not know if I would die by my own hand before submitting to an injustice from another, though I do know I would never question the integrity and courage of those who do. Where I might still see the possibility to do a bit more good, another might be convinced that this is the final test.
—Reflection written in 8/2013
IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, The Death of Seneca (1773)
Friday, June 21, 2024
Epictetus, Golden Sayings 178
At feasts, remember that you are entertaining two guests, body and soul.
What you give to the body, you presently lose; what you give to the soul, you keep forever.
IMAGE: Gerard David, The Marriage at Cana (c. 1500)
Thursday, June 20, 2024
Sayings of Publilius Syrus 148
IMAGE by Jim Blanchard
Seneca, Moral Letters 70.5
No general statement can be made, therefore, with regard to the question whether, when a power beyond our control threatens us with death, we should anticipate death, or await it. For there are many arguments to pull us in either direction.
If one death is accompanied by torture, and the other is simple and easy, why not snatch the latter? Just as I shall select my ship when I am about to go on a voyage or my house when I propose to take a residence, so I shall choose my death when I am about to depart from life.
Moreover, just as a long-drawn out life does not necessarily mean a better one, so a long-drawn-out death necessarily means a worse one. There is no occasion when the soul should be humored more than at the moment of death. Let the soul depart as it feels itself impelled to go; whether it seeks the sword, or the halter, or some draught that attacks the veins, let it proceed and burst the bonds of its slavery.
Every man ought to make his life acceptable to others besides himself, but his death to himself alone. The best form of death is the one we like.
Men are foolish who reflect thus: "One person will say that my conduct was not brave enough; another, that I was too headstrong; a third, that a particular kind of death would have betokened more spirit."
What you should really reflect is: "I have under consideration a purpose with which the talk of men has no concern!"
Your sole aim should be to escape from Fortune as speedily as possible; otherwise, there will be no lack of persons who will think ill of what you have done.
If one death is accompanied by torture, and the other is simple and easy, why not snatch the latter? Just as I shall select my ship when I am about to go on a voyage or my house when I propose to take a residence, so I shall choose my death when I am about to depart from life.
Moreover, just as a long-drawn out life does not necessarily mean a better one, so a long-drawn-out death necessarily means a worse one. There is no occasion when the soul should be humored more than at the moment of death. Let the soul depart as it feels itself impelled to go; whether it seeks the sword, or the halter, or some draught that attacks the veins, let it proceed and burst the bonds of its slavery.
Every man ought to make his life acceptable to others besides himself, but his death to himself alone. The best form of death is the one we like.
Men are foolish who reflect thus: "One person will say that my conduct was not brave enough; another, that I was too headstrong; a third, that a particular kind of death would have betokened more spirit."
What you should really reflect is: "I have under consideration a purpose with which the talk of men has no concern!"
Your sole aim should be to escape from Fortune as speedily as possible; otherwise, there will be no lack of persons who will think ill of what you have done.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 70
I may wish to be given a simple rule to follow, and yet it really ceases to be a rule in the fullest sense if I merely obey out of conformity, instead of understanding through the power of my own reason. If a quick summary is called for, I tell myself that I am only free to depart this world when the choice of dying would do more good for my soul than to continue with living.
And since I know full well, despite all the excuses I might be tempted to make, that the human good is never measured by convenience or gratification, this does not reduce staying or leaving to just haggling about fear or pain. What will come will come, and what remains for me to decide is whether I care more for virtue than I do for survival.
I am hesitant to speak about dying “on my own terms”, since that could be too easily confused with seeking to dictate the circumstances. Nevertheless, if my end is already inevitable, I see no shame in preferring to relieve the agony, or if I am called to stand up for what is right, I am content to be cut down before my time, as a fitting result of such a commitment. Once again, a longer life is not necessarily the same thing as a better life.
Three examples immediately come to mind that may offend my more conservative friends, but I can only ask them to carefully think about the principles before hastily condemning any practices:
In many “primitive” societies, the old who can be of no further service to the young will quietly take a one-way trip into the wilderness. They do so out of love, not out of misery.
In the modern world, a terminal patient who faces intense suffering may ask his doctor for drugs that will both ease his anguish and speed his passing. If judgment remains sound, I would neither refuse to ask nor to grant this.
A pilot sees that he can best do his duty by crashing his plane into the enemy ship, and though he knows he will die, he also knows he will die with dignity. I respect the call he makes, and I honor him, even if he happens to be my foe.
All these instances have their own peculiarities, but they all generally fall into what the Catholic intellectual tradition calls Double Effect Theory, where an unintended effect is necessarily bound to an intended purpose.
While I suspect that some of the examples provided by Seneca seriously push the envelope of such a model, I believe they share in a common spirit: there is no good in desiring death for its own sake, though there can be great good in accepting death for the sake of character.
If my biggest worry is about what other people might think or say about my decision, I am confusing the cause and the consequence. Fortune is to be borne for as long as my own conscience bids, not for as long as she blindly demands.
I may wish to be given a simple rule to follow, and yet it really ceases to be a rule in the fullest sense if I merely obey out of conformity, instead of understanding through the power of my own reason. If a quick summary is called for, I tell myself that I am only free to depart this world when the choice of dying would do more good for my soul than to continue with living.
And since I know full well, despite all the excuses I might be tempted to make, that the human good is never measured by convenience or gratification, this does not reduce staying or leaving to just haggling about fear or pain. What will come will come, and what remains for me to decide is whether I care more for virtue than I do for survival.
I am hesitant to speak about dying “on my own terms”, since that could be too easily confused with seeking to dictate the circumstances. Nevertheless, if my end is already inevitable, I see no shame in preferring to relieve the agony, or if I am called to stand up for what is right, I am content to be cut down before my time, as a fitting result of such a commitment. Once again, a longer life is not necessarily the same thing as a better life.
Three examples immediately come to mind that may offend my more conservative friends, but I can only ask them to carefully think about the principles before hastily condemning any practices:
In many “primitive” societies, the old who can be of no further service to the young will quietly take a one-way trip into the wilderness. They do so out of love, not out of misery.
In the modern world, a terminal patient who faces intense suffering may ask his doctor for drugs that will both ease his anguish and speed his passing. If judgment remains sound, I would neither refuse to ask nor to grant this.
A pilot sees that he can best do his duty by crashing his plane into the enemy ship, and though he knows he will die, he also knows he will die with dignity. I respect the call he makes, and I honor him, even if he happens to be my foe.
All these instances have their own peculiarities, but they all generally fall into what the Catholic intellectual tradition calls Double Effect Theory, where an unintended effect is necessarily bound to an intended purpose.
While I suspect that some of the examples provided by Seneca seriously push the envelope of such a model, I believe they share in a common spirit: there is no good in desiring death for its own sake, though there can be great good in accepting death for the sake of character.
If my biggest worry is about what other people might think or say about my decision, I am confusing the cause and the consequence. Fortune is to be borne for as long as my own conscience bids, not for as long as she blindly demands.
—Reflection written in 8/2013
Wednesday, June 19, 2024
Netherlandish Proverbs
Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Netherlandish Proverbs (1559)
Also called The Folly of the World, this large and detailed painting illustrates over a hundred different traditional Dutch sayings,
I return to it regularly so I might both laugh and cry at the vanity and the silliness of the human condition. As with all proverbs, the comedy and the tragedy help to teach me valuable lessons about life.
The specific listing of proverbs in this series is taken from Rainer and Rose-Marie Hagen.
Here are also two links to online interactive versions:
Tuesday, June 18, 2024
Maxims of Goethe 46
Every man has enough power left to carry out that of which he is convinced.
IMAGE: Richard Caton Woodville Jr, The Charge of the Light Brigade (1894)
Aesop's Fables 76
The Cat-Maiden
The gods were once disputing whether it was possible for a living being to change its nature.
Jupiter said "Yes," but Venus said "No."
So, to try the question, Jupiter turned a Cat into a Maiden, and gave her to a young man for a wife. The wedding was duly performed and the young couple sat down to the wedding-feast.
"See," said Jupiter to Venus, "how becomingly she behaves. Who could tell that yesterday she was but a Cat? Surely her nature is changed?"
"Wait a minute," replied Venus, and let loose a mouse into the room.
No sooner did the bride see this than she jumped up from her seat and tried to pounce upon the mouse.
"Ah, you see," said Venus,
"Nature will win out."
"Nature will win out."
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The Mother Road 1
I have a strange fascination with the "Mother Road", the old Route 66, both as a monument to our human vitality and as a reminder of our human mortality.
I make it a point to follow the oldest possible track wherever I can, and this involves much cursing over a map, as well as moments of profound joy when I see my country in its most gritty and noble form. It has been a privilege to have these years of exploration: I learn more about myself as I learn more about the hearts and minds of those who made their way along the path.
As long as I can still drag myself into the Jeep, I will continue to make my rounds. . . .
—2/2017
Monday, June 17, 2024
Seneca, Moral Letters 70.4
Scribonia, a woman of the stern old type, was an aunt of Drusus Libo. This young man was as stupid as he was well born, with higher ambitions than anyone could have been expected to entertain in that epoch, or a man like himself in any epoch at all.
When Libo had been carried away ill from the senate-house in his litter, though certainly with a very scanty train of followers—for all his kinsfolk undutifully deserted him, when he was no longer a criminal but a corpse—he began to consider whether he should commit suicide, or await death.
Scribonia said to him: "What pleasure do you find in doing another man's work?"
But he did not follow her advice; he laid violent hands upon himself. And he was right, after all; for when a man is doomed to die in two or three days at his enemy's pleasure, he is really "doing another man's work" if he continues to live.
When Libo had been carried away ill from the senate-house in his litter, though certainly with a very scanty train of followers—for all his kinsfolk undutifully deserted him, when he was no longer a criminal but a corpse—he began to consider whether he should commit suicide, or await death.
Scribonia said to him: "What pleasure do you find in doing another man's work?"
But he did not follow her advice; he laid violent hands upon himself. And he was right, after all; for when a man is doomed to die in two or three days at his enemy's pleasure, he is really "doing another man's work" if he continues to live.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 70
My knowledge of Roman history is sadly not as thorough as I would like it to be, so I had to look up the story of Drusus Libo in the Annals of Tacitus.
At first glance, Seneca may seem to approve of Libo’s decision to take his own life, if for no other reason than he was, at least, redeeming himself of shame and speeding on the inevitable, but when I read the account in Tacitus, I found myself more confused than before. It simply goes to show how our human situation always admits of challenging subtleties, and it is never so easy to unravel a man’s inner motives.
There seems to be a consensus that Libo was neither a thoughtful nor a principled man; he had, after all, permitted himself to be lured by Firmius Catus into flirting with treacherous ambitions against the Emperor, while also falling into a panic when his scheming enemies exposed him. Was it prudence and courage that drove Libo, or was it rather desperation and fear? This makes all the difference, and it is the most important lesson I take away from this letter.
Did the Emperor Tiberius really mean it when he later said that he would have spared Libo’s life, or was he merely putting on another show? Whatever the wretched man’s ultimate fate, it would not have been pleasant, and this is where anyone in a similar situation must take stock of his priorities. Perhaps Scribonia was just being ornery, and perhaps Libo was just being obtuse, and it goes to show why nothing is as simple as it appears.
Instead of speaking either for Libo or for Seneca’s estimation of him, I can only speak for myself. I wish to say that I would have chosen rather differently than Libo did, and yet I am forced to remember all the times I have acted recklessly out of distress.
From the comfort of my rocking chair, I now propose that facing my trial and taking my punishment, without any pathetic pleading or bitter complaint, would give me the opportunity to finally stop being a spoiled brat: a reform at the last moment is no less of a noble deed. But please get back to me if I actually find myself in such circumstances.
I am misdirecting my attention if I am worried about what another man’s work should be, when my true task is taking responsibility for my own work. I only equivocate when I am trying to pass the buck.
My knowledge of Roman history is sadly not as thorough as I would like it to be, so I had to look up the story of Drusus Libo in the Annals of Tacitus.
At first glance, Seneca may seem to approve of Libo’s decision to take his own life, if for no other reason than he was, at least, redeeming himself of shame and speeding on the inevitable, but when I read the account in Tacitus, I found myself more confused than before. It simply goes to show how our human situation always admits of challenging subtleties, and it is never so easy to unravel a man’s inner motives.
There seems to be a consensus that Libo was neither a thoughtful nor a principled man; he had, after all, permitted himself to be lured by Firmius Catus into flirting with treacherous ambitions against the Emperor, while also falling into a panic when his scheming enemies exposed him. Was it prudence and courage that drove Libo, or was it rather desperation and fear? This makes all the difference, and it is the most important lesson I take away from this letter.
Did the Emperor Tiberius really mean it when he later said that he would have spared Libo’s life, or was he merely putting on another show? Whatever the wretched man’s ultimate fate, it would not have been pleasant, and this is where anyone in a similar situation must take stock of his priorities. Perhaps Scribonia was just being ornery, and perhaps Libo was just being obtuse, and it goes to show why nothing is as simple as it appears.
Instead of speaking either for Libo or for Seneca’s estimation of him, I can only speak for myself. I wish to say that I would have chosen rather differently than Libo did, and yet I am forced to remember all the times I have acted recklessly out of distress.
From the comfort of my rocking chair, I now propose that facing my trial and taking my punishment, without any pathetic pleading or bitter complaint, would give me the opportunity to finally stop being a spoiled brat: a reform at the last moment is no less of a noble deed. But please get back to me if I actually find myself in such circumstances.
I am misdirecting my attention if I am worried about what another man’s work should be, when my true task is taking responsibility for my own work. I only equivocate when I am trying to pass the buck.
—Reflection written in 8/2013
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Sunday, June 16, 2024
Saturday, June 15, 2024
Stockdale on Stoicism 44
One of my best friends, tortured to give names of pilots he knew who had turned in their wings in opposition to the war, said there were only two: Lieutenants Clark Kent and Ben Casey. That went on the front page of the San Diego Union, and somebody sent a copy back to the government in Hanoi.
As a result of that friendly gesture from a fellow American, Nels Tanner went into three successive days of rope torture, followed by 123 days in leg stocks—all while isolated, of course.
So after several of these stunts, which cost the Vietnamese much loss of face, North Vietnam resorted to getting its propaganda from only the relatively few Americans they could trust not to act up—real loners who, for different reasons, never joined the prisoner organization, never wanted to get into the tap-code network, well-known sleazeballs we came to call "finks."
The great mass of the other Americans in Hanoi were, by all standards, "honorable prisoners," but that is not to say that there was anything like a homogeneous prison regime we all shared. People like to think that because we were all in the Hanoi prison system, we had all these common experiences. It's not so.
These differing regimes became marked when our prison organization stultified the propaganda efforts of this two-headed monster called the "Prison Authority." The North Vietnamese turned to vengeance against the leadership of my organization and to an effort to break down the morale of the others baiting them with an amnesty program in which they would compete for early release by being compliant to North Vietnam 's wishes.
—from James B. Stockdale, Master of My Fate: A Stoic Philosopher in a Hanoi Prison
Seneca, Moral Letters 70.3
That is why I regard the words of the well-known Rhodian as most unmanly. This person was thrown into a cage by his tyrant, and fed there like some wild animal. And when a certain man advised him to end his life by fasting, he replied: "A man may hope for anything while he has life."
This may be true; but life is not to be purchased at any price. No matter how great or how well-assured certain rewards may be, I shall not strive to attain them at the price of a shameful confession of weakness. Shall I reflect that Fortune has all power over one who lives, rather than reflect that she has no power over one who knows how to die?
There are times, nevertheless, when a man, even though certain death impends and he knows that torture is in store for him, will refrain from lending a hand to his own punishment, to himself, however, he would lend a hand. It is folly to die through fear of dying. The executioner is upon you; wait for him. Why anticipate him? Why assume the management of a cruel task that belongs to another? Do you grudge your executioner his privilege, or do you merely relieve him of his task?
Socrates might have ended his life by fasting; he might have died by starvation rather than by poison. But instead of this he spent thirty days in prison awaiting death, not with the idea "everything may happen," or "so long an interval has room for many a hope" but in order that he might show himself submissive to the laws and make the last moments of Socrates an edification to his friends. What would have been more foolish than to scorn death, and yet fear poison?
This may be true; but life is not to be purchased at any price. No matter how great or how well-assured certain rewards may be, I shall not strive to attain them at the price of a shameful confession of weakness. Shall I reflect that Fortune has all power over one who lives, rather than reflect that she has no power over one who knows how to die?
There are times, nevertheless, when a man, even though certain death impends and he knows that torture is in store for him, will refrain from lending a hand to his own punishment, to himself, however, he would lend a hand. It is folly to die through fear of dying. The executioner is upon you; wait for him. Why anticipate him? Why assume the management of a cruel task that belongs to another? Do you grudge your executioner his privilege, or do you merely relieve him of his task?
Socrates might have ended his life by fasting; he might have died by starvation rather than by poison. But instead of this he spent thirty days in prison awaiting death, not with the idea "everything may happen," or "so long an interval has room for many a hope" but in order that he might show himself submissive to the laws and make the last moments of Socrates an edification to his friends. What would have been more foolish than to scorn death, and yet fear poison?
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 70
I suppose every time and place has its own version of the classic saying, “Where there’s life, there’s hope!” There is truth to it, of course, in the sense that there may always be a chance for the state of affairs to become more pleasant, and yet what will I need to surrender of myself in order to play such odds?
If I am asked to take on the role of the liar, or the coward, or the traitor for the sake of my continued comfort, it might be better to gracefully fold my hand.
I find myself frustrated when people insist that “things” will surely get better, because sometimes the circumstances, for so many countless souls, will surely grow markedly worse. I still remember, however, why my inner attitude can always embrace the good, even as I do not expect Fortune to magically obey my preferences. Nature triumphs when I do the right thing, whatever the weight of the outer consequences.
Seneca is not going to provide a color-by-numbers or one-size-fits-all set of instructions for living and dying: each conscience, hopefully well-informed, must follow its own judgments. This letter provides vivid examples both of those who stayed and of those who departed, and in each case they did so by applying principles to practice in their own particular dilemmas.
It is not my place to condemn any of them, just as it is not their place to condemn me; only God knows whether our hearts are truly pure.
The general rule, once again, must be to ask if living any longer will violate my power of living with virtue. We will soon see stories of those who chose to cut their lives short, but I think it interesting how Seneca first proceeds with a consideration of Socrates, who thought it best to patiently await his execution rather than attempt an escape or steal the jailer’s thunder.
While I would refer you directly to Plato’s Crito and Phaedo for a more thorough account, I find myself drawn to the common themes of service and obedience. Socrates decided to respect his friends by sharing his wisdom and fellowship with them in those final days, to respect his children by providing them with an example of courage, and to respect the laws of Athens, for even if his sentence was unjust, he would not merely respond to one injustice by committing another.
Finally, Socrates wished to serve Providence, which always knows the right time or place, and as long as he could still do what is good, without being asked to perform any evil, he had not yet been called home to the Divine. The Master asks us to hold fast at our posts, until that point when to remain would itself be a betrayal of his commands.
If Socrates ever feared the effects of the poison, he certainly feared the prospect of vice all the more.
I suppose every time and place has its own version of the classic saying, “Where there’s life, there’s hope!” There is truth to it, of course, in the sense that there may always be a chance for the state of affairs to become more pleasant, and yet what will I need to surrender of myself in order to play such odds?
If I am asked to take on the role of the liar, or the coward, or the traitor for the sake of my continued comfort, it might be better to gracefully fold my hand.
I find myself frustrated when people insist that “things” will surely get better, because sometimes the circumstances, for so many countless souls, will surely grow markedly worse. I still remember, however, why my inner attitude can always embrace the good, even as I do not expect Fortune to magically obey my preferences. Nature triumphs when I do the right thing, whatever the weight of the outer consequences.
Seneca is not going to provide a color-by-numbers or one-size-fits-all set of instructions for living and dying: each conscience, hopefully well-informed, must follow its own judgments. This letter provides vivid examples both of those who stayed and of those who departed, and in each case they did so by applying principles to practice in their own particular dilemmas.
It is not my place to condemn any of them, just as it is not their place to condemn me; only God knows whether our hearts are truly pure.
The general rule, once again, must be to ask if living any longer will violate my power of living with virtue. We will soon see stories of those who chose to cut their lives short, but I think it interesting how Seneca first proceeds with a consideration of Socrates, who thought it best to patiently await his execution rather than attempt an escape or steal the jailer’s thunder.
While I would refer you directly to Plato’s Crito and Phaedo for a more thorough account, I find myself drawn to the common themes of service and obedience. Socrates decided to respect his friends by sharing his wisdom and fellowship with them in those final days, to respect his children by providing them with an example of courage, and to respect the laws of Athens, for even if his sentence was unjust, he would not merely respond to one injustice by committing another.
Finally, Socrates wished to serve Providence, which always knows the right time or place, and as long as he could still do what is good, without being asked to perform any evil, he had not yet been called home to the Divine. The Master asks us to hold fast at our posts, until that point when to remain would itself be a betrayal of his commands.
If Socrates ever feared the effects of the poison, he certainly feared the prospect of vice all the more.
—Reflection written in 8/2013
Friday, June 14, 2024
Seneca, Moral Letters 70.2
Accordingly, the wise man will live as long as he ought, not as long as he can. He will mark in what place, with whom, and how he is to conduct his existence, and what he is about to do.
He always reflects concerning the quality, and not the quantity, of his life. As soon as there are many events in his life that give him trouble and disturb his peace of mind, he sets himself free. And this privilege is his, not only when the crisis is upon him, but as soon as Fortune seems to be playing him false; then he looks about carefully and sees whether he ought, or ought not, to end his life on that account.
He holds that it makes no difference to him whether his taking-off be natural or self-inflicted, whether it comes later or earlier. He does not regard it with fear, as if it were a great loss; for no man can lose very much when but a driblet remains. It is not a question of dying earlier or later, but of dying well or ill. And dying well means escape from the danger of living ill.
He always reflects concerning the quality, and not the quantity, of his life. As soon as there are many events in his life that give him trouble and disturb his peace of mind, he sets himself free. And this privilege is his, not only when the crisis is upon him, but as soon as Fortune seems to be playing him false; then he looks about carefully and sees whether he ought, or ought not, to end his life on that account.
He holds that it makes no difference to him whether his taking-off be natural or self-inflicted, whether it comes later or earlier. He does not regard it with fear, as if it were a great loss; for no man can lose very much when but a driblet remains. It is not a question of dying earlier or later, but of dying well or ill. And dying well means escape from the danger of living ill.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 70
Whenever I am already starting out from a bad location, my later steps will inevitably veer me even further off course. If, for example, I say I am following Stoicism, and yet I continue to seek out worldly rewards, my efforts will put me in entirely the wrong place. Likewise, if I set out to live a good life, but I still choose survival over sacrifice, I may gain more years at the expense of my conscience.
As with the angry tribalism now so sadly evident in arguments about abortion or guns, I rarely come across someone who isn’t fanatically bound to either saving lives at all costs or permitting people to end their lives at all costs. For the one faction, suicide is always a grave sin, while for the other faction, a life is only worth living if it continues to feel convenient or gratifying.
I will be disappointed if I expect Seneca to root for either team. Stoicism, like any of the Wisdom Traditions, works from the principle that the only absolute good for man is the exercise of the virtues, such that all other circumstances, however attractive they might appear, are relative in value. I should never begin by looking for pleasure over pain, fame over disgrace, wealth over poverty, or health over sickness—and yes, even life over death.
Will living any longer help me to act with greater character? Then I intend to stay put for another day. Will living any longer be a hindrance to retaining my integrity? Then I may have to bid you farewell. A problem will solely arise when I do not cherish the virtues above all else, and so I try to compromise between the superior and the inferior.
In other words, will increasing the quantity of my time violate the quality of my convictions? I am sure that many will be glad to offer their advice on the matter, though the final decision must be mine alone. If I can manage to be honest and humble, I best know my own intentions, I best know my own strengths and weaknesses, and I best know my own position within the circumstances.
No, this does not mean throwing myself from a cliff because I am melancholy, as my sadness can still serve me to become a better man, nor does it ever mean desiring death for its own sake, as death is rightly to be treated with indifference.
Is the man who hurls himself on the grenade, in order to save his fellows in the trench, a cowardly suicide? Is the woman who casts aside her medicine, in the knowledge that no benefit will come to anyone by dragging out the inevitable, a victim of her fear? No, both are about as brave, and as free, as a person could possibly be.
In one way or another, when Fortune threatens to restrict my moral liberty, Nature then offers the option of departing with a righteous dignity. This seems like nonsense to those who cling to life in desperation, which is the true cowardice, or who allow themselves to be ruled by their passions, which is the true slavery.
Whenever I am already starting out from a bad location, my later steps will inevitably veer me even further off course. If, for example, I say I am following Stoicism, and yet I continue to seek out worldly rewards, my efforts will put me in entirely the wrong place. Likewise, if I set out to live a good life, but I still choose survival over sacrifice, I may gain more years at the expense of my conscience.
As with the angry tribalism now so sadly evident in arguments about abortion or guns, I rarely come across someone who isn’t fanatically bound to either saving lives at all costs or permitting people to end their lives at all costs. For the one faction, suicide is always a grave sin, while for the other faction, a life is only worth living if it continues to feel convenient or gratifying.
I will be disappointed if I expect Seneca to root for either team. Stoicism, like any of the Wisdom Traditions, works from the principle that the only absolute good for man is the exercise of the virtues, such that all other circumstances, however attractive they might appear, are relative in value. I should never begin by looking for pleasure over pain, fame over disgrace, wealth over poverty, or health over sickness—and yes, even life over death.
Will living any longer help me to act with greater character? Then I intend to stay put for another day. Will living any longer be a hindrance to retaining my integrity? Then I may have to bid you farewell. A problem will solely arise when I do not cherish the virtues above all else, and so I try to compromise between the superior and the inferior.
In other words, will increasing the quantity of my time violate the quality of my convictions? I am sure that many will be glad to offer their advice on the matter, though the final decision must be mine alone. If I can manage to be honest and humble, I best know my own intentions, I best know my own strengths and weaknesses, and I best know my own position within the circumstances.
No, this does not mean throwing myself from a cliff because I am melancholy, as my sadness can still serve me to become a better man, nor does it ever mean desiring death for its own sake, as death is rightly to be treated with indifference.
Is the man who hurls himself on the grenade, in order to save his fellows in the trench, a cowardly suicide? Is the woman who casts aside her medicine, in the knowledge that no benefit will come to anyone by dragging out the inevitable, a victim of her fear? No, both are about as brave, and as free, as a person could possibly be.
In one way or another, when Fortune threatens to restrict my moral liberty, Nature then offers the option of departing with a righteous dignity. This seems like nonsense to those who cling to life in desperation, which is the true cowardice, or who allow themselves to be ruled by their passions, which is the true slavery.
—Reflection written in 8/2013
IMAGE: Anonymous French, The Wheel of Fortune (15th century)
Thursday, June 13, 2024
Henry David Thoreau 3
The fate of the country does not depend on how you vote at the polls—the worst man is as strong as the best at that game; it does not depend on what kind of paper you drop into the ballot-box once a year, but on what kind of man you drop from your chamber into the street every morning.
—from Henry David Thoreau, Slavery in Massachusetts
IMAGE: William Powell Frith, Poverty and Wealth (1888)
Ralph Waldo Emerson 8
—from Ralph Waldo Emerson, In Praise of Books
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