When a man desires to burst forth and take his departure, nothing stands in his way. It is an open space in which Nature guards us. When our plight is such as to permit it, we may look about us for an easy exit.
If you have many opportunities ready to hand, by means of which you may liberate yourself, you may make a selection and think over the best way of gaining freedom; but if a chance is hard to find, instead of the best, snatch the next best, even though it be something unheard of, something new. If you do not lack the courage, you will not lack the cleverness, to die.
See how even the lowest class of slave, when suffering goads him on, is aroused and discovers a way to deceive even the most watchful guards! He is truly great who not only has given himself the order to die, but has also found the means.
I have promised you, however, some more illustrations drawn from the same games. During the second event in a sham sea-fight one of the barbarians sank deep into his own throat a spear which had been given him for use against his foe.
"Why, oh why," he said, "have I not long ago escaped from all this torture and all this mockery? Why should I be armed and yet wait for death to come?"
This exhibition was all the more striking because of the lesson men learn from it that dying is more honorable than killing.
If you have many opportunities ready to hand, by means of which you may liberate yourself, you may make a selection and think over the best way of gaining freedom; but if a chance is hard to find, instead of the best, snatch the next best, even though it be something unheard of, something new. If you do not lack the courage, you will not lack the cleverness, to die.
See how even the lowest class of slave, when suffering goads him on, is aroused and discovers a way to deceive even the most watchful guards! He is truly great who not only has given himself the order to die, but has also found the means.
I have promised you, however, some more illustrations drawn from the same games. During the second event in a sham sea-fight one of the barbarians sank deep into his own throat a spear which had been given him for use against his foe.
"Why, oh why," he said, "have I not long ago escaped from all this torture and all this mockery? Why should I be armed and yet wait for death to come?"
This exhibition was all the more striking because of the lesson men learn from it that dying is more honorable than killing.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 70
I am honestly uncomfortable with this letter, not on account of the subject matter itself, but because I have far too many painful memories about suicide. I lost dear friends to it, and I chastise myself for not being there when I could have been. I struggled with the bitter temptation myself, and only failed to follow through out of cowardice, not out of any virtue.
Each and every person I lost was a case born out of despair, and so the noble deed Seneca describes is far beyond my direct experience. My total compassion for the victims does not erase the dictate of my conscience, that each and every life has dignity, and that even the darkest melancholy can be defeated.
I must not permit my passions to sweep me away, however powerful they may be. Let me work with them, pass through them, transform them into a vehicle for meaning and purpose. At the same time, I am aware how there will be times when laying down one’s life will be a consequence of fully living that life. It all revolves around the nature of the intention, the question of why I pass on, whether by my own hand or by that of another.
Because I write daily, some people assume I am a verbose fellow, yet in real life I am actually quite silent. So that I will not muddy my thoughts by adding further technical distinctions, of which there are already enough in any of the Scholastic handbooks, I turn my attention to an old Roman sculpture, The Ludovisi Gaul, sometimes called The Galatian Suicide.
It depicts a Gallic tribesman holding his dying wife in one arm, and preparing to thrust his sword into his neck with the other. When I look at it, I am filled with both sadness and admiration—I am moved by the loss, and I am inspired by the conviction. This man cannot speak to me, though I feel certain he is not acting out of hopelessness: his refusal to surrender to his foes is a final victory, a testament to his freedom. I believe it represents precisely that strength of character which Seneca applauds.
I am honestly uncomfortable with this letter, not on account of the subject matter itself, but because I have far too many painful memories about suicide. I lost dear friends to it, and I chastise myself for not being there when I could have been. I struggled with the bitter temptation myself, and only failed to follow through out of cowardice, not out of any virtue.
Each and every person I lost was a case born out of despair, and so the noble deed Seneca describes is far beyond my direct experience. My total compassion for the victims does not erase the dictate of my conscience, that each and every life has dignity, and that even the darkest melancholy can be defeated.
I must not permit my passions to sweep me away, however powerful they may be. Let me work with them, pass through them, transform them into a vehicle for meaning and purpose. At the same time, I am aware how there will be times when laying down one’s life will be a consequence of fully living that life. It all revolves around the nature of the intention, the question of why I pass on, whether by my own hand or by that of another.
Because I write daily, some people assume I am a verbose fellow, yet in real life I am actually quite silent. So that I will not muddy my thoughts by adding further technical distinctions, of which there are already enough in any of the Scholastic handbooks, I turn my attention to an old Roman sculpture, The Ludovisi Gaul, sometimes called The Galatian Suicide.
It depicts a Gallic tribesman holding his dying wife in one arm, and preparing to thrust his sword into his neck with the other. When I look at it, I am filled with both sadness and admiration—I am moved by the loss, and I am inspired by the conviction. This man cannot speak to me, though I feel certain he is not acting out of hopelessness: his refusal to surrender to his foes is a final victory, a testament to his freedom. I believe it represents precisely that strength of character which Seneca applauds.
—Reflection written in 8/2013
IMAGE: Roman, The Ludovisi Gaul (2nd century AD)
No comments:
Post a Comment